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xwubzxbubzx · 7 years ago

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Summer of Stancest - AU or Canon Divergence

Thread

Stan has seen a red string extend from his wrist and wrap around his brother for as long as he can remember. Every year, they get more and more tangled in each other.

sfw. angst. 1.2k. Soulmate AU.

When Stan is four he makes an intricate pattern with the thread that links him and his twin. He gets his fingers stuck in it and it’s tight enough that it hurts, but it doesn’t matter because it hurts the same way a good hug does, crushing but full of love. He doesn’t mind. He tries showing it to Ma but she can’t see it, even though she’s a psychic and she can see more than everyone else – at least that’s what she says on the phone to all those people who call and call and call – but she does smile and say they were born like that: bright red and tangled into one another. Stan never thought to bring it up with Pops. He knows it wouldn’t end well.

It’s weird but Ford can’t see it either. That’s okay, they may be identical but they’re still different. Maybe it’s like Ford’s hands or smarts, only one of them’s got it so together they’re two of a kind. Together they’re Stan-Ford and Stan-Lee, tied halves of a whole.

When he is 14 in school they teach them about reproduction. He’s flushing to his ears and doesn’t dare let out a giggle but then the teacher starts talking about twins, specifically twins like them and he focuses – M-O-N-O-Z-Y-G-O-T-I-C – he makes a point to ask the spelling. Apparently, they used to be one single cell and then they split. He likes knowing that. He likes knowing he was a part of Ford.

The thread sort of extends out of his right wrist and it reminds him of Spiderman a little and that makes him feel cool although he doesn’t ever admit it because comic books are for nerds, even when they’re about half-insect superheroes. And if Ford finds his collection of Spiderman comics he will never let it go. He’ll probably try to make him read about the asshole elastic man in Fantastic 4, who is Ford’s favourite character but who Stan hates with fiery, burning passion.

Maybe the thread is like a vein and that’s kind of creepy and gross but it makes sense because they are woven from the same things, they share the same blood.

He can’t help but it but he has always been fond of the colour red. His shirts are striped with red, his boxing gloves are red, his car is red, sunsets are red, his bruises are red, and Ford’s lips are red. His favourite shade is a deep, warm burgundy that is rich and soft like velvet. He loves it especially because of what it always reminds him of.

Stan likes it best when they hold hands. Ford’s hands are always smooth, warm and big, and his hold is tight and their fingers intertwine just right. Palm against palm, all tied up with string. He likes the Stan-o-War too because it is covered with red lines, crisscrossing its broken wooden edges and making it – them, him – whole.

When he’s thrown out he doesn’t feel whole anymore.

He’s been torn to pieces, shredded. He’s been worn ragged and threadbare. He is alone and he’s never felt like that before. When he drives into the night (in his red car and he’s wearing red socks but he doesn’t think about it) the string is drawn tense and taut, like someone is always tugging at his hand and he looks at it extending into the dark distance back home and fuck, does it hurt. Come here, come here, come back, it says. But Stan knows better. He does, he really does.

He drives for a very, very long time.

He tries to forget. He wears long sleeves. Sometimes, he wears knock-off watches and sometimes, more regularly than he would like, handcuffs. His wrists are never bare. At least, not for long.

The desert is burnt orange and ceaseless. He has stopped being Stanley Pines, ten states and many years ago. Everywhere he turns he is hated. Banned. He understands why Ford doesn’t want him back. He has always been a broken thing, he must stick to something whole and drain it of everything because he will die if he doesn’t. Parasite. Parasite. Leach.

He is always doing something, most of the time it is not good, but he does it because he must. He is hungry and tired and empty – no matter what he does he is always empty. In the trunk of Rico’s car he is biting his way through wires and metal. His gums are raw and there is dark red, red, red all over his face and hands. He doesn’t know how but the string is twisted around his throat and it’s choking him and he almost lets it but he feels it shift faintly, like someone is trying to loosen it so he can breathe. And he does. In and out. And he bites.

He survives, but just barely. And he lives, if this is what living is

When he sees the postcard the pull on his wrist is stronger, leading him from the sandy, wasteland heat to towering forests of snow. He sleeps intermittently but his dreams are plagued with half-forgotten images of things he doesn’t understand, triangles and painfully bright yellow. He’s never liked yellow, it reminds him too much of the sun. For comfort, he wears a thick, red jacket.

He’s lucky, in a way, that he was born knotted down because no one he meets knows where Gravity Falls is. He just follows the string across the winding, twisting roads to the middle of nowhere, to a cabin in the woods. He knows this is his destination because the thread is loose and lax for the first time in a decade, curling up on the floor as he knocks at the door. His right hand feels oddly slack and free, like he’s stopped straining against something.

The door opens and it is his brother, manic and holding aloft a fucking crossbow. It is a punch in the gut, he’s still not trusted and it gets worse and worse because he’s told to leave. He’s still not needed, not really. He’s useful in the same way a knife is useful, serves a purpose and makes the job easier. A means to an end but never a person. Where can he go? Across the ocean far away and even further than that.

He’s wanted to tear the thread: he’s taken lighters to it and tried to burn it, he’s held wicked, sharp scissors and tried to cut, he’s used his teeth when he was drunk and he didn’t have anything else. Nothing has ever worked. It never breaks nor does it even fray, but he thinks hearing those words just might do it.

He’s angry. It hurts. Blood is bubbling out of him, hot and wet fury, and he wants to scream. They fight and he’s not thinking straight and he pushes him and Oh, God no—

The portal is a white so vivid it is blue, and the string that leads into it is broken and red.

on AO3

(this wasn’t what i was originally going to do for SOS but my other fic got destroyed by my computer)

#stancest #summer of stancest #summerofstancest #4 #5 #stanley pines #stanford pines #incest tw #my fic #gr/av/ity f//alls wb

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xwubzxbubzx · 7 years ago

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Summer of Stancest - Mindscape

Well this thing got away from me. Warning for memory manipulation, dark Ford, unreliable narrator and blood magic. (approx 3k and sfw-ish)

Structural Integrity

i. Cangiante

The Renaissance art style Cangiante is characterized by the painter's changing to a different, lighter, hue when the original hue cannot be made light enough or, on the converse, changing to a darker hue when the original hue cannot be made dark enough.

The fall is endless. The swooping sensation of a hypnic jerk stretched out into eternity. He lands gracelessly, knees shaking as he falls forward with a soft splash. His arms are stretched out before him, fingers digging into the soft sand; water slithers over the back of his hands. His eyes are clenched shut. He heaves: once, twice. Nausea pulses in his skull and sinuses before he takes a deep breath and reorients himself. He feels loose and untethered; a floating phantasm. The water is a boon, salty and cool, dribbling off his clothes and palms leaving him completely dry as he pushes himself up gingerly.

Stan's mindscape is slowly healing devastation — the remnants of a seaside town after a hurricane. A ghost grey ocean laps at his boots, tugging him forward into its depths. Even the salt in the air is heavy with something he cannot identify, thick and cloying like hopelessness. It reminds him of Glass Shard Beach.

He shouldn’t be here. This is an invasion of the most intimate and primal form. But Ford has always been a little selfish, he’s self-aware enough to admit that, and this — this is for both of them really, this is for the best. He's wanted Stan to himself since he was young, has wanted him helplessly devoted to him alone.

Joy bubbles in his chest, making him feel lighter. Finally after all these years—

He's had this spell in the corner of his mind for a very long time, it's a refinement of the possession curse he'd documented so long ago, when he wandered the forests of Gravity with naive temerity, when he was still a wet behind the ears boy purporting himself as a scientist. He's rather proud of what he's created, it is an elegant marriage of sorcery and science — and is it bad that he's proud? He had to worked for hours, amalgamating neuroscience with the occult until he'd finally found a way to alter a mindscape permanently. He feels almost like Bill, but no, that is not a line of thinking he wishes to follow and even so, Bill couldn't change you from the inside, couldn't reform you into the image he wanted. What Bill Cipher did Stanford Pines did better.

And it is different. He loves Stan, he always has and he has dreamed of this for decades. He's entitled to this. Surely after 30 years of suffering on the other side of the portal he deserves this? It shouldn’t even be a question. It was Stan, after all, who had pushed him into a literal hellscape and Ford has forgiven him. He truly has, but only an idiot would ignore the pattern of behaviour Stan was exhibiting. His brother was always so stubborn and bullheaded, so destructive. He has always needed a guiding hand. He has always needed Ford.

The others wouldn't understand, they hadn't seen what Ford had. They hadn't lived the way Ford had. And though he loves the twins, they are burdened with a very planetary mindset. They fail to see the bigger picture, which is unfortunate; yet he cannot find it within himself begrudge them their youthful innocence. No matter, they would never know anyway.

He can see the vague shape of the Mystery Shack, twisted and broken. He walks to it, wet sand crunching underneath him, it shimmers slightly, a mirage that solidifies and gains detail as he moves towards it. There are gaping caverns in its side as though it was the gouged out corpse of some broken creature, corridors lead off into the dark abyss of the sea — nothingness, the roof and walls bend and sag under an unknown yet ever present weight.

What is more corporeal is the boat he can see off into the distance behind the shack. Shrouded in fog as it may be, the dimensions of the Stan-o-War are perfect. Their relationship made physical in the gnarls of old wood and red paint. Even the fluttering sail is patched up in the same exact places he remembers from his youth. This pleases Ford on a fundamental level, he enjoys being the singular point of his brother's existence, his true and unwavering north. The only thing worth remembering.

He thinks for a moment that perhaps the relative tangibility of the Stan-o-War may be due to their constant contact and interaction before dismissing the idea. It is more romantic this way.

Ford had considered using some bastardized form of the memory gun. The technology is all there, merely requiring fine tuning and tweaking, but he can't; he can still feel his fingers shaking as he presses the trigger, white light engulfing his kneeling brother's downturned head, the picture of a man facing a firing squad. He can't do that to Stan again and isn't that such a testament to his love?

And if he is grateful to the machine, it is only because amnesia makes his brother the perfect canvas. He could not do this when Stan's memories were firm and worn smooth and hard, but now they are malleable little things that mold beneath the pressure of his hands. Besides, technology was so clinical, so cold. Magic had a certain charm to it — an attitude, an aftertaste. It would allow him to embed his signature into the very depths of Stan's psyche, carve his name into the building blocks of his brother. He cares so deeply for Stan, and he's only ensuring the right kind of reciprocity.

He goes inside the Shack first. The door swings open with a pained creak and just like in a dream, its external construction play no role in its inner dimensions. The inside is not as dilapidated as he'd imagined. Dark and dusty perhaps, mired in years of futility and anger but there is a certain lustre in the wood, a gleam in the burnished metal of the door handles, the faint scent of tenacity and success and hope. His brother is such a resilient man.

He knows where he must go, down the corridor into a room that is littered with glass, broken snow globes everywhere — the gift shop. He bends and picks up a glass shard, placing it in his pocket. The shelves have all tilted to the side, angry slashes on the wall; the souvenirs form an indiscernible heap on the floor. Crossed out words, question marks are strewn across the room, remnants of 30 years of half-remembered oddities and curios. The vending machine is silent and empty, looming up in front of him. It is impossibly large, and reaching it takes an unimaginably long time as though each of his strides are an inch long.

He taps out the code, muscle memory causing his fingers to dart across the pad, and it slowly shifts to the side, a jarring screech echoing across the room as it moves. The stairs are old and rickety, but they have always been so. It is the elevator that different, it is smaller than he remembers but he does not care. The ride down fills him with an unfathomable excitement; he begins making his final preparations — he is so close.

When the door opens again, it is 1982 and Stan and Ford are fighting, his brother is gripping the burnt skin of his shoulder. He watches, just for a moment, and admires the smoothness of Stan’s skin under the sickly glow of the portal, the heart rending desperation of his sobs after he pushes Ford into oblivion.

Stanford presses his palms against the border of the memory, sigils carved and bleeding on his hand, and everything rewinds, changing ever so slightly as the original memory is rewritten and remade. Ford’s demand for Stan to sail away is more poignant — a rejection of the highest form. The way they grapple is now mired in a sultry, erotic tension; each move a subtle caress lost in anger. Even his fall through the portal is different, their eyes meet and what passes between them is a lover’s farewell. He does not need to alter the desolation Stan feels when he realises he is alone, that is deep enough.

A small rivulet of blood traces its way down his finger, collecting at the tip before wobbling faintly and dropping to the floor. His job here is done.

The next place he visits is Stan’s safe. The iron monstrosity trembles as the light from the hall way is cast on it. It is barely tangible, shivering and unlocking as he touches it, falling open in rapturous recognition. He does not expect to see the deed with his name lying inside, the ink in his name still fresh and spreading. He tries to move it to the side but his hand falls through. The bottom of the safe has disappeared and he has an eagle’s eye view of his return home.

Stan looks so hopeful, his arms spread out to welcome him. He wants to step inside and gather him in against his chest, hold him close but he can’t. His past self walks through and their meeting is as painful as he remembers.

This time as the drop of blood falls, the world below him reforms into something softer. When he holds Stan’s hands behind his back, the tremble Stan had repressed now shudders through him, electric with something that was not there before. His lips graze Stan's ears longer than they should, whispering I was scared for you. And when Stan falls forward, Ford’s knee heavy on his back, his brother doesn’t struggle against him but melts, putty in his hands. His eyelashes fan against his cheeks as he revels in the sensation of Ford against him in the space between heartbeats.

Ford feels like a voyeur, just watching this, but this was the reunion they both deserved. He closes the safe again, the numbers etched into the dial glow a livid scarlet before darkening back to black.

His hands in his pockets he turns his back to the Shack and leaves without a second thought, the Stan-o-War awaits.

The walk is colder than he imagined it would be, the wind is sharp and unyielding. His trench coats whips behind him. The Stan-o-War is large and it looks almost faded from up close, as though the sun and sea air have bleached it. He traces the wood with his fingertips, searching for an opening, leaving strokes of red in his wake.

He’s adding a special touch to all of Stan’s childhood memories by doing this and in some ways he thinks this is fitting; Stan was him for so long that perhaps it was time for Stan to truly be something in his image. It’s only a faint trace of a charm, a spice in the air; the kind that would have one close their eyes, just to focus on the aroma, to try and grasp the delicate strings of a long forgotten but exquisite memory. He breathes out, magic permeates the air in front of him before disappearing, absorbing into the ship. The wood is darker now, richer and toned with burgundy, his brother is redesigned before his eyes.

As he moves to the other side of the boat, he sees it. A small rocky outcropping. He scrabbles up it, careful to keep his bloody hand inside in his coat, close to his beating heart. From there it is child’s play to reach the deck.

He observes his surrounding quietly, nostalgia curling a loose grip around his heart. The sail catches a gust of wind and flutters, there is no darkness in its shadow: it is him and Stanley, shimmering like they are in a painting, unbearably young. He presses the fabric into his palm and the summer days he’s observing from 40 years in the future are hotter. Sweat drips down Ford’s back and Stan is watching him, his face unreadable but hunger in his eyes.

It is easy too, Stan was always the tactile one, who sought physical comfort as a refuge from his fears. There are hundreds of moments that he can recall, Stan’s warm body pressed close to his. His larger frame trembling like a leaf as he cried about their father or, if he remembers correctly, when they were very young and still foolish enough to fear nature more than man, thunder. The memories are sweeter this way, syrupy with the heat between them.

He’s wanted Stan for so long it feels like he was born like this, that his desire was written into his DNA, into his genes. It stands to reason, then, as identical twins, Stan should feel this way too.

In each plank of wood, there is a story but he focuses on only the most important ones. The ones where he barely has to change a thing, so that the light falling on Ford is just this shade of warm and romantic, so that their hands brush against each other for a shade longer than brothers do, so that blushes bloom across Stan’s skin as often as bruises. So that the ache in Stan’s chest is not just overwhelming fondness and protectiveness but unrequited love. He edits a thousand days like this, dribbling blood all over them. He edits a thousand nights too, making them laden with fear, hope and bone-deep yearning.

Even though it does not seem like any time has passed, there is a rising expectation in the air; the sky is still covered by dark, brooding clouds but they look closer, burdened down by something. It will rain soon.

He is tired but he is almost done. There is only one more place he must visit — the swing set. He has only the barest inkling of where it could be, but Ford trusts himself, trusts in the knowledge he has of his brother.

He walks far into the land, until he can no longer see the crest of the sea against the horizon. Until the Mystery Shack is a dark smudge against the grey scale. But he knows where he must go.

When he finally sees the metal outline of the swing set glinting in the half-light, he runs. It is broken and rusted but that means nothing. His hand has stained the inner lining of his coat, the blood is thick and congealing. His fingers are stained red.

A drop falls. It is not red.

It has begun to rain. Ford knows he must hurry.

He places his bloodied hand on the metal, relishing its coolness. Each bump drags against the barely formed scabs on his palm, drawing fresh blood in its wake. In between the chains that hold the seat up Ford can see Stan sitting, his head bowed. He is translucent, water falling through him onto the seat, or perhaps those are tears.

It is the day Stan was kicked out, Ford is sure of it. He looks pitifully small, curled up in the swing like that, shoulders racked with heaving sobs as he cries. His arms can barely support his weight and he is slumped against the chains, needing them to stay upright. He is borne down by the events that have transpired. Ford moves closer, seeking to comfort him, and places his hand on Stan’s shoulder; the boy looks up at him, face swollen with unshed tears. Reflected in his eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions: the panic Stan must have felt when he realised Ford's project was broken, the plea for Ford to forgive him, the betrayal as Ford turned away from him and closed the curtains.

The blood seeps into his clothes, it mixes with rainwater and clings to his skin; it is now so much worse. The self-hatred that Stan has always felt is rawer, a barely healed wound. Stan believes he has been cast out by the only person he could ever love fully. And Ford feels guilt, a hollowness in his chest; it hurts to put Stan through this, but he feels relief as well, as though he can finally breathe after 60 long years. Stan has now suffered with him, the same way he has since they were children.

He is done here, done with mess of Stan’s mindscape. His brother is made anew.

He’s never thought to imagine that perhaps Stan has loved him all along, and while not exactly in the way that Ford wants; Stan would try for him, he would follow him to the end of the earths if he was asked. That he was broken enough to accept whatever Ford requires and enjoy giving it to him — for any scrap of affection — because he has been tearing apart at the seams without his brother and he needs Ford too much. Far more than Ford needs him.

Ford comes back to himself with a choked gasp. He is dizzy and his heartbeat hammers in his ears, hummingbird fast; his body protests upon his return, preferring the lax comfort of being soul-void. He feels heavy and wooden, his head is slumped back and his neck aches. He is damp. He clenches his fingers and they twinge painfully before he pushes himself to sit upright, his coat shifting around him.

There was Stan, just as he’d left him; lying soft and supine in the darkness, safely nestled under the thick duvet. His face is slack and his brow is unlined. Little huffing breaths escape from his mouth, condensing in the cold winter air.

Ford shifts, a draught passes through the house, ruffling Stan’s grey hair, which is spun silver in the winter moonlight. A shiver of anticipation sparks through him, but he quells himself. He must be patient. He rises from the couch next to his brother’s bed with some effort, the chill leeches the elasticity from his tendons. An audible crack rings through the air as his knees straighten. Stan stirs slightly.

Ford watches him, breath caught in his throat.

Stan opens his eyes. “Sixer?” His voice is heavy with confusion and sleep and something deeper.

A pale shaft of moonlight trickles across his face, highlighting his features in haut-relief; he seems dreamy and warm, a light blush staining his cheeks. He turns to looks at Ford, his pupils dilating, ink spreading in water.

Ford smiles.

it’s also on my ao3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11618865/chapters/26123268

part 2

#summer of stancest #summerofstancest #stancest #3 #4 #5 #tw:memory manpiulation #tw:incest #dark!ford #stanford pines #stanley pines #my fic #gr/av/ity f//alls wb

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fishingboatblues · 7 years ago

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SUMMER OF STANCEST, SECOND PROMPT TIME!

Our current prompt is Mindscape and that lasts from July 15th – July 28th!

Have fun guys! The tag is #summerofstancest.

Look here for more information about the event if you don’t know about it already!

#summerofstancest #stancest #incest tw

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fishingboatblues · 7 years ago

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SUMMER OF STANCEST HAS BEGUN!

Our current prompt is Mykonos and that lasts from July 1st to July 14th!

Have fun guys! The tag is #summerofstancest.

Look here for more information about the event if you don’t know about it already!

#stancest #incest tw #summerofstancest

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xwubzxbubzx · 7 years ago

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Summer of Stancest - Mykonos

My fic for the Summer of stancest thing... it’s sfw with some teen!stans and stangst

His Favourite M-words

Stan hunches his shoulders, cold fingers jammed deep into his pockets. His white t-shirt offers minimal protection against the biting chill of the autumn wind.

He sighs, pain coalescing in his sides as his chest expands. Boxing practice was never pleasant, but somehow the aftermath was worse, the constellation of bruises on his skin only seemed to shift and twist but never fade.

He hates boxing too, in a way. Not good enough to go professional and get out of here and yet the force in his fists was the only thing he really had. What had his teacher's used to write in his report cards? M-something. Mediocre. Mediocre performance, needs to work harder. But he did work hard, it just didn't help -- nothing seemed to. That's what he was at his best, not even smart enough to understand the words people used about him. Christ.

He pushes these thoughts away, focusing instead on cataloguing the various scrapes and bruises on his body. Grounding his mind within his body and thankfully, the soreness was no worse than usual.

He walks quickly, buildings lengthened and grew clustered, blocking the red smear of the setting sun, casting long, dark shadows on the streets below. The sultry saltiness of the air was weaker, less cloying. The thick scent of smoke and dirt overpowered it, he was home.

The door for Pines Pawns looms before him, old, rough wood, the glass cut-out fogged up so that he can’t see inside. He pushes his way in and grunts at his father in greeting moving across the store, neither waiting nor expecting a response. Stan runs up the stairs, taking two a time, hearing them creak under his weight, barely muffling the hypnotic croon of his mother as she swindles another client.

He wants to collapse into his bed and hide himself away until this was over. He wants to run far far away. His hands shake as he fiddled open the sticky door handle, he is so close.

When it finally opens, he staggers through the room to his bed and throws himself down. Ford barely notices him, his head is hidden behind a book on the top bunk. He closes his eyes, relishing the softness of the sheets on his face before turning around, his bandaged hands resting soft on his stomach.

"Sixer."

Ford hums in response.

"Do you ever wish you were older or different or just --"

He can feel Ford look up from his book, stroke his finger down the page before shutting it, as though he were loath to look away from it. He always does that when someone disturbed him while he was reading.

"Sometimes, Stan."

He hears a soft exhalation, the creak of the bed as Ford lays down, and Stanley knows in the very marrow of his bones that their positions are identical.

"I just wanna get out of here, you know?" He sounds plaintive, whining.

"We will, one day." Ford is so sure.

Stan doesn’t know if that makes him scared or happy. And for Ford it is easy, Ford is the smart one, the one with all the gifts and promise and future. Everyone knew he was meant for bigger and better things and...Then there was Stan.

He remains silent.

"What brought this on?"

His brother’s voice is right above him yet miles and miles away.

"Just thinking was all." Stan knows he sounds tired.

"You? Thinking? That's new." Ford snorts. There is no malice in his voice.

Because it is true.

Stan curls in on himself. Tucking his face into his pillow.

"Stan?" Ford is worried.

"M'fine, just sleepy." Stan mumbles, letting exhaustion bleed into his voice.

Ford doesn't seem to believe him. He hadn’t quite expected him to.

Ford slips off the top bunk, and he can feel the tremor in the old wood as he moves, the thud as he lands on the floor of the bedroom, his knees bent, toes probably wiggling in the thick carpet. Stan knows his brother. He can feel his scrutiny, can see the cogs in his mind whirling, his glasses flashing—

Ford settles down next to him, rubbing at his shoulder. His fingers are a warm and soothing weight.

"You're cold, did you not take your jacket?" Stan knows that he is frowning.

He only cuddles into the sheets further.

"Stan, do you want me to tell you what I'm reading about?"

At this Stan has to turn around to glare at his brother.

Sixer smiles, his hands out spread in front of him in a placating gesture, entirely unself-conscious.

"You'll like it, I swear."

He looks so excited and Stan shifts to the side, making space for his brother.

"If it's about fancy physics mumbo jumbo I’m gonna clock you."

“It’s a zoological study of islands in the Aegean sea with a focus on geography and evolutionary—“

Stan stares at him uncomprehendingly.

“Perhaps it’s better if I showed you.” Ford darts upwards to grab the book.

It was thick, dusty and entirely unappealing to Stan’s eye but he can see thick, white photo-paper sandwiched between yellowing pages. That was promising. Ford reverentially opens it and Stan watches as he peruses through dozens of photographs of miscellaneous animals and plants before –

“Shit, Sixer that place is beautiful.”

And it was, the picture was fuzzy and old but the water looked crystal clear, the sand was startlingly white. It was a far cry from Glass Shard beach’s iron dark sea and rocky shoreline. Pain and fear forgotten, Stanley just stares.

“It’s- It’s called Mykonos. It’s a small island and I’ve always wanted to travel and well it is quite pretty and we’ll go there one day, on the Stan-O-War.” Ford takes a deep breathe; his eyes dark, piercing and quietly resolute. “Together, I promise.”

Ford knits their hands together, his thumb tracing delicate patterns, almost like letters, over Stan’s knuckles where the bandaging has torn slightly. Stan stares at their intertwined fingers, infinitely grateful in ways he cannot possibly verbalize, and squeezes.

(Ford wrote mine on Stan’s hands pass it on)

#summerofstancest #stancest #3 #4 #5 #my fanfic #gr/av/ity f//alls wb

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