Bill Cipher Drawn In Animal Jam! (My User Is Dragonfoxx678)

🔺FOR SCIENCE AND REGRET!🔺

I made these cursed pages for Chapter 5 of Till Weirdmageddon Do Us Part [Bill Cipher x Female Reader], a totally normal(!) rom-com where you "accidentally" marry a triangle and now your life is held together with sarcasm, eldritch glitter, and emotional damage lasagna.

Font by: ~ Chloe ~ !!!

Check out the fic here: Till Weirdmageddon Do Us Part

Featuring: Poor decision-making, interdimensional marriage drama, passive-aggressive eggplants(?), Ford Pines experiencing seventeen emotions and repressing eighteen, Bill making inappropriate jokes, a reader with morals (not good ones), *cough cough* probably some smut along the way + ROMANCE (questionable)

glad you’re feeling better!

would you be comfortable sharing a sneak peek of the next chapter 👀

if not I totally understand please prioritize your well being!

Listen, I don't have a chapter sneak peak for you BUT..... because I'm making you all wait so long for this next chapter and I feel bad, I'm gonna give you a small snack.

This is an unpublished thingy that I posted on a little discord server that I'm in and people liked it there so I figured you might enjoy it here. It is just a very short warm-up drabble that I did ages ago and never used again. It's a bit messy and stuff, but whatever. It's set during MtB but it isn't really anything to do with the series. Just a little snippet of life within it:

I Got It Bad (and that ain't good) Rating: NSFW (only slightly) Type: Drabble Tags: Kissing, implied sexual stuff. Very, very tiny inference to muses but meant in no certain way. No pronouns/body described. Word count: 1233

When he's feeling contemplative, Ford likes to play the piano.

He is, like so many other things he turns his attention to, wonderful at it. 

Ford likes jazz. He pretends he's a classical purist but you've found the record sleeves on the shelves near his desk, you’ve done a little snooping, and you know they rarely correspond to the vinyl inside. They're just for show. He plays it mainly in the evenings when he's treating himself to a glass of scotch; he'll listen to a particular artist (this week it's been an awful lot of Duke Ellington) and then recreate it on his own instrument. 

He'll start small. Just a slow, leisurely tinkling of the ivories as he finds his rhythm, and then he'll settle into his groove and flex yet another of his many skills as you listen from another room while you tidy up.

If you're especially lucky, he'll ask you to join him and give him feedback on it. 

He doesn't care about the feedback, of course, because he knows he's good and so does everyone else, and you're sure he's just using it as an opportunity to show off but you never mind. 

He has, in typical Ford fashion, always refuted your accusation: “I assure you, I certainly am not,” he'd said one evening with a knowing smile, as you'd watched from your seat beside him. “I merely know that you like jazz and I play because you listen,” and you'd felt such an intensely affectionate warmth bloom in your chest that you'd dropped the point immediately.

(And when he had added on a quiet: “Plus, I like the way you look at me when I do it,” and you'd made him hit a bum note when you’d leant up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then, well, who can blame you?) 

Your favourite thing to do, beyond simply enjoying the melodies, is to watch his hands and fingers as he works. 

He'd been a little apprehensive at first, once he had noticed, but you had been quick to reassure him that your interest was appreciative, if perhaps salacious, and not even close to judgemental. 

“Would you be uncomfortable if I took a video?” You ask one dark winter's evening, leaning against the piano’s top while you observe him. “Just for myself, I mean.” 

“Whatever for?” Ford responds without missing a beat of his metronome. 

He's going away soon. He and Stan set sail in two days time and it’s a long trip this time, which means for four months, four long, agonising months, you’ll be without him. It’s almost too much to bear and your heart feels like lead at the thought. 

“Because I’m going to miss you and I’d like to have something to remind me of you when I feel like shit,” you say. 

The corner of Ford’s mouth curls upward a fraction and he spares you a thinly veiled, heated glance, his cheeks turning pink. “I thought our plan was to give you plenty of reminders the night before….?” 

Your stomach flutters. 

“I’d like more than bruises, if you wouldn’t mind,” you say, biting down on a smile. 

Ford laughs under his breath and after a moment, says: “And it’s just for you? The video?” 

“Of course,” you reassure him. “I don’t have to, I just…. Your hands are my favourite part of you and I think about them, often.” 

Too often, some might say. 

Ford laughs again, a little louder this time. “Not my dashing good looks?” he teases. “Or my dazzling personality? You wound me, my dear.” 

You grin. “All of the above,” you say with a shrug. “But especially your hands.” 

“Is that so?” Ford says, taking one hand from the keys to pat the empty space beside him. “And what, pray tell, do you think about them?” 

You go where he asks, taking up a seat at his side obediently. “Lots of things.” 

“Such as….?” 

He’s fishing for compliments, you both know it, but does sound genuinely curious, too. 

“I think they’re the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen,” you say, giving him exactly what he wants. “And I think about how they fit in mine. I think about how they feel, how your thumb rubs over my knuckles when we hold hands and how your little finger does the same on the sides, you know, just because you can do that….”

“Anything else?” Ford asks, voice warm. 

You smile, eyes transfixed on the way his fingers tick across the ivory. “And…. I like to think about how you hold my thighs when you have your head between them. The way you hold onto my hips. How your fingers taste when you put them in my mouth.” 

Ford makes a soft sound, somewhere between a contented sigh and an aroused groan, and his hands falter momentarily before he restarts his playing. 

“Is that so?” he says, hoarse. 

“Mm,” you hum absentmindedly. Your head is full of those same thoughts right now, your mind’s eye blurred with the memories of Ford’s fingers climbing underneath your jeans and inching past your underwear. Of touching you so intimately that you have to press your thighs together slightly to sate the longing. 

Ford catches it. 

“You’re thinking about it right now,” he mutters, and his tone holds no question.

He’s stopped playing. His hands are frozen over the keys. 

“Aren’t you?” you answer, eyes still on them. 

Ford exhales slowly through his nose, shaky,  restrained. “I’m always thinking of you,” he says simply. 

You tear your eyes away to look up at him, only to find that his gaze is already on you. 

Ford’s eyes are molten, half-lidded and hot, and they flick down to your mouth and back up to your own. 

“You’re terrible,” he says, in such a way that it’s obvious he means it in the most complimentary context possible. “A terrible, terrible influence on an old man like me.” 

A smirk creeps onto your face. It’s always satisfying to see the effect you have on him. “I can leave, if you’d like me to. I have plenty to do and I-!” 

Ford pushes the stool back with one leg, your combined weights little more than a minor  inconvenience to him, and he hauls you into his lap before you can even finish the thought. 

You laugh, loud and bright, and fling your arms around his neck to hold on tightly to him and avoid sending you both to the floor in a heap. “Or not,” you concede. 

“Never,” agrees Ford, and then he’s kissing you. 

It’s slow and tender and white hot as always. 

You can feel his arousal press between your legs and it’s enough to make you smile against his mouth. 

“What a dirty old man you’ve become,” you say dramatically, nudging your nose against his. 

“I'm only what my muse makes of me,” Ford says raggedly. “And you are an awfully seductive force, you know….” 

“So I've been told,” you smile, one hand wandering below to palm him gently through his slacks. 

Ford groans, low and deep, and tilts his head back. “I'll make a deal with you,” he says quietly. “I swore off them a long time ago but just for you, just this once: if you keep doing that, I'll let you take footage of any fucking thing you like….” 

You grin. 

“Deal.” 

He's so silly 💔💔

Until the End of Time - a billford zine

Conceived long before The Book of Bill was announced, this zine nevertheless heralds a billford renaissance in 2024, featuring creators from around the world. Some of us grew up with Gravity Falls. Some of us arrived after the series finished airing. Many of us have our own beloved alternate universes and longfics; yet we have all put hearts, minds and souls into bringing this project to life.

Presenting a surreal dreamworld of cherry-red shadows and six-fingered caresses, our artists and writers have set out on an interdimensional quest to find the delight in monstrous queerness and queer monstrosity.

Join us, through the sweet yearning of pre-betrayal; to the bitterness of a monster-muse revealed; through thirty years in the portal and the chaos of Weirdmageddon; and finally, to post-canon, where Bill and Ford might meet again...

This digital-only zine travels to dimensions meant for older readers, and is free to download... well, until the end of time.

download here

with thanks to @ckret2 @foxieskullz @godsfavoritescientist @billford-dump @krillford @nn-oe @santapinguinica @shadeartstuff @skyheartstar13 @strawberry-smog @triclopsrabbit @sleepsentry @vasilisk-vp & all our wonderful creators!

To Sonder, Part 1 [Stanford Pines x Reader]

Tags: Fluff, Nerds in love, Strangers to lovers, Two idiots in love, Eventual Smut, Mutual Pining, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn

Premise: You're a curious librarian. You think Stanford hates you but he really doesn't, Stanford thinks you're friends but you secretly hate (and like) him.

*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──✧*

You've never wanted to spend time with a man so, so badly that you decided to learn complicated studies like quantum physics, cryptozoology, lepidopterology- and a bunch of different other -ologies you didn’t know even existed before meeting Stanford Filbrick Pines. Your brain is burning from the sudden onslaught of information.

So here you were, back aching from hours of crouching over your notebooks in the library. You ran out of paper a while ago, so you settled for writing on the back of your book- your boss would kill you if he ever found out. But who cares? Not like anyone buys anything from the forgotten cooking section of the Gravity Falls public library.  Black splotches peppered your hairline from where you stressfully combed through your hair with ink stained fingers. 

God, why did you have to have a crush on someone with a stupid, big brain? 

You learned very quickly that Stanford Pines doesn't care for small talk. All your "hello"s and "whatcha up to?"s were greeted with a stern echo of a greeting or a short response before silence draped between you like a heavy, wet blanket. Then, he'd walk away, leaving nothing but the faint scent of his cologne, which endearingly matched his surname. 

He always hugged a leather bound book close to his chest, you were sure he was the type to fall asleep thinking- cuddling papers of his own nonsensical (at least to you) ramblings and equations.

Stanford visited the library often, and you practically lived here. Like clockwork, he'd head straight to the science fiction section, then browse all the sciencey aisles the Gravity Falls public library had. 

Eventually, the universe had to lovingly pick on you for enjoying your quiet work in the library. 

It was late in the afternoon, summer was in full swing and everyone abandoned the library to go out camping or for barbecue. The front bell chimed pleasantly as it signaled your impending doom (read as: a socially embarrassing event with a hot nerdy guy that will keep you up for nights to come.) 

Of course, you were none the wiser to his presence, definitely, as you stalked through the magazine section. Reading a rousing volume of "Lawn-mowers and heart movers weekly digest". You needed to tidy up here, anyways.

The guy took a ridiculously long amount of time mumbling about two books. Should he get the one labelled 'Help! My boyfriend's an alien overlord with a colossal, cosmic, world ending ego' or pick up a special edition hard cover of Lord of the Rings? He mutters something about how book titles were getting stranger by the day. You thought the titles were gripping. 

His eyes were a dark brown, matching his tousled hair. He wore a tan coat that draped over broad shoulders, there was dirt and ink staining his sleeves. He glared at the synopsis written in the back of another book, as if it personally slighted him. The picture of a scholar, inquisitive and sharp-minded.

Finally, he decided to pick up all three books as he hastily fished for his wallet. As he left the aisles, you noticed a torn up piece of paper falling from his pocket. 

Without really thinking about it you picked it up.

A decision that would drastically change what the next few weeks of your life would look like.

This small, ink stained piece of paper would eventually lead you to a spiral of wondering what a 'gobblewonker' was and why you should worry about it when you hardly even make eye contact with regular people in the first place. Eye contact was for extroverts. 

This life-changing piece of paper was something Stanford scribbled down so hastily. Something that would eventually derail the path he was walking on. 

The universe smiled that day. Because this time, you entered the narrative and he was getting a happier story from now on. 

On the piece of paper was a simple sentence.

"Don't forget The Jellybeans."

It made you snort. 

His handwriting was loopy and pretty. There was a circle looping around the words, as if the fate of the world hinged on whether or not he’d remember The Jellybeans. The capitalization on 'The'  and 'Jellybeans' did you in, you giggled.

"Excuse me, you dropped this." You schooled your expression to something more neutral.

The man turned around, clutching his books tighter as he regarded you with a confused expression. Like a raccoon caught eating hot garbage at 4 in the morning. He had dark circles under his wide eyes.

His cheeks were flushed, his jawline was strong, and he smelled of aftershave, old books, pine, and something you can’t quite place.

"You smell mysterious." You mumbled, your thoughts escaped you and settled in the air between the two of you.

.... REALLY? BRAIN??

"Oh. Thank you..?" He said, with a voice so deep and smooth it rivalled the empty void in your brain where small talk and social charm usually resided.

"Ignore thaaaat, sorry. Here,"

You hastily waved the piece of paper at Stanford, who seemed abashed at the little note he wrote. He carefully folded it before tucking it deep into his pockets. You offered him a grin, he offered nothing back in response. Oookay..

"All good! I lost a few things here. So many aisles to lose your stuff in, y'know?"

You rambled, cheeks flushing as the man stared at you. The only response was his blinking and the way he glanced between you and the window to your right. Ah. He wanted to leave. You should probably peel your lips off your face and throw it in the nearest garbage compactor now.

"I didn't want you to lose something important too. I've ah... "Bean" there, done that."

The pun sealed your fate, the silence grew ever heavier at your fading, strained chuckle. The universe grimaced at your subpar sense of humor. 

You wished you had even a sliver of  literary grace that you saw in "Silver chains for silver foxes weekly" magazine you pretended to read earlier. You hoped that the ground underneath you opened up and decided to save you from the absolute nothing-burger of a reaction the man gave you. 

But then, he chuckled. 

It was like the world around you came into focus again after that small sound. 

You bit down on your traitorous tongue. Too flustered from the string of words that left your mouth to respond. 

The man chuckled into the palm of his six-fingered hand- six fingers? God, now even your eyes were betraying you. You decided not to comment on that and let the poor man go.

"Ah, yes. I suppose it is your job to pick up after guests. My apologies for littering, even if it was unintentional."

Damn. He spoke like a gothic horror novelist and sounded smoother than the surface of your brain. 

"Haha! Yeah. Um, are you ready to go?"

"Yes, I'll take these."

The check out was fast and quiet. You tried not to look too interested in his selections.

"Mothman, Man, Myth, or Modern MLM Legend?"

"Trigonometry: A Mathematical Tango for Try-hards in their Thirties!"

"Quintessential Quotes for the Quantum Quizzical Individual"

And a bunch of what seems to be heavy books on engineering. Is he a professor of some kind? 

You tell him his total and force yourself to move on from the moment. So, Mr. Mystery handed you his money and left with a stiff nod and a strained smile.

The night was a blur as you closed up, you really just wanted to check in with a guest, do your job, and maybe make some small talk. No one ever visits the library this time of the year. Plus, he seemed nice. 

You spent your day off wallowing and being especially nice to the raccoons that tried to sneak a bite out of your garbage bin.

Then, the next day came and you clocked in for work. Your boss is officially on vacation starting today and that already threw you off. 

Something about the world felt off today. 

You woke up from a nightmare about a triangle with limbs tap-dancing through a field of weird flowers. You shoveled stale, lumpy oatmeal into your mouth. You could have sworn your food was trying to spell out your doom. But you ate the ‘M’ so all it spelled was ‘DOO’ 

You somehow slammed your finger in between the till drawers this morning, you had to clean dried pitt cola in the children's aisle, and Manly Dan came in asking about books for Lumberjacks. 

"I NEED BOOKS THAT HAVE A HARD-WOOD, MASCULINE COVER," he then proceeded to yell about how these books were definitely real. 

They were, in fact, not real and you had to narrowly dodge the splinters from the chair he threw over his shoulder in a rage. 

You could understand his passion, in a way. The pages of a book were once trees after all. He was but a simple lumberjack looking for something he can cut down with the enthusiasm of a chainsaw.

But worst of all, Lazy Susan gave you decaf today and you didn't realize 'til you walked all the way back to work.

So yes, Murphy's law is in full swing today and you were its (un)lucky victim!

Halfway through your shift, you saw him again. 

Mr. Mystery. 

Everyone knew who he was, the only guy who didn't grow up in Gravity Falls. The weirdo who only came up to buy groceries every couple months and to collect his mail. You were half-convinced he survived off wild mushrooms and pure academia. 

Today, however, he didn't come to browse or buy a new book. 

Instead, you watched as he ascended the spiral steps to the second floor and disappeared to a familiar part of the building. He grinned at the ornate wooden table sitting in the nicest corner of the library, pulling up a plush chair to sit on.

Oh no.

He slung a messenger bag over a chair and started unpacking papers, old tomes, and a worn out journal onto the space. 

No.

That was YOUR space.

For years, no one really bothered to spend time in the library. Hell, no one even noticed the second floor. It was just you, your boss, and the annoying family of moths that made a home in the dusty philosophy section. 

Alright, he may be cute and polite, but that was YOUR spot for years now. 

You looked forward to taking your break and fixing your dissociated gaze at the window overlooking the beautifully boring sight of Gleeful's Auto Sale. 

But today, everything about your routine changed. Even this. 

An irrational fury simmered in you. You fumbled being friendly with him the other day and he didn't even TRY to talk to you. Now, he took your favorite dissociation spot!

But you were too tired to kick him out. 

Instead, you settled for second best. Nodding shortly at him when he caught your stare. You crossed the room and settled onto an armchair adjacent to his- your- alcove. 

And for a time, things were... okay-ish.

Gravity Falls was quiet, with only birdsong and the occasional turn of a page filling the air. For a moment, you could relax. 

But then, came the scritch-scratching.

You glanced over at the man, past your book. He was leaning over his journal, pen scribbling away at a suddenly maddened pace- as if he was going to die if he didn't jot his thoughts down at that very second. 

A new wave of irritation washed over you. 

But then, he stopped. A satisfied little grin bloomed on his face. When he didn't look so severe, he looked... handsome. You could admit that much.

You thought you could forgive the man for his annoying habits. But then, the furious, loud writing would start up and end so suddenly. You can never predict when he'd be stricken with a feverish sort of inspiration for whatever it was he was writing. 

You breathed a sigh of relief as he stood up to go to the bathroom. 

You were sure you'd hear the sounds of his pen scratching at paper in your dreams tonight. 

You got up to fix yourself a drink from the breakroom, but your eyes wandered over the scattered papers on the table.

A mess of equations, half-finished sentences, and... drawings. 

Your eyes widened at the detailed and beautiful sketches laying on the table.  You can't help but look at one page in particular. On a torn up piece of paper was a drawing of a moth. It looked fantastical in nature, swirly patterns painted its forewings and at the edges were flames. Every scale on its wings was sketched with precision and care. You eagerly admired its details like a moth to a flame. Maybe it was something from a book he read.

A few minutes later, you came up with tea.

Feeling a little bad for snooping, you decided to fix the man a cup of tea. You didn't know if he even liked tea, but you did feel bad for being irrationally annoyed at the clueless man. 

He was back in his chair when you went up. You carefully set down the warm beverage in front of him, he startled at your quiet presence. 

"Oh, sorry! I just wanted to ask if you wanted a drink? It's just lavender tea." 

One of your favorite tea strains, he should be thankful you let him sit at your spot and drink your tea. Gods, why was he cute? Why can't you be more rude to him and scare him away?

"No."

The word came out clipped and fast. The man was in the middle of a hastily scribbled equation, barely registering your words. You could hear a pin drop- you HOPED a pin dropped and it would be sharp, in the middle of the piece of paper he was glaring at.

"Oh, okay." came your light, totally un-hurt answer.

"Wait, sorry. That's not what I mean- I'm tackling a particular... difficult study right now."

You smiled tightly and moved to take away the cup. But he stops you with a vigorous wave of his hand.

"Please, forgive me. I actually DO want tea. I'm out of sorts today, I... I appreciate your gesture of goodwill."

"Oh," you breathed. 

Curse this man and his eloquent words. The absolute nerve of him! You tried to do something nice dammit, you're paid to do that for good business. Why can't he make this easy on you?

"It's okay! I get it. You look like you're reading something really complicated." You offer him a small smile.

Once again, he answers your words with a strained smile of his own before mumbling a thank you. He took the tea into his six-fingered hands - hey, so you weren't seeing wrong last time! 

Unwilling to let the conversation die just yet, you decide to try and pick his brain. 

"I like your drawing." 

A warm rosy red colored his cheeks and ears. 

“Oh.. I’m sorry…? I didn’t mean for you to see my mess-”

You laughed.

“Sorry? What are you talking about? That’s a really cool moth sketch.” 

His eyes guiltily turned to the paper you pointed at. He almost sagged in relief as he pulled it forward. 

"Ah... the Igneous Tinea."

"Igni-what?"

"A fire moth!" 

His eyes brightened as he turned the page towards you. In the small amount of time you went to make tea, it seemed that the man filled the  rest of the paper with writing and notes. 

Upon closer inspection, the creature looked a lot like the local moths. Having grown up in Gravity Falls, you'd definitely recognize it. They only ever show up in the deepest parts of the forest. 

You wondered why he drew them on fire. “They’re indigenous only to Gravity Falls, I happened upon them while I was out looking for singing mycelium- or as I like to call them, my-sing-iums-” 

Your lips quirked upwards at his words. Wow, he could talk a mile a minute. All you needed to do was talk about moths, it seems. Too bad he was so excited and fond of scientific jargon that your brain couldn’t quite catch up to his pace. 

"Huh. That's awesome, are you a writer?" 

At this, the man's expression dimmed, he looked away. A lonely smile slipped into his face as he drummed his fingers over his journal.

"Ah, I am somewhat of a writer, yes. I am... looking for new material, per se, in Gravity Falls."

Dead silence once again enveloped the two of you. You wondered what the right question was so that you wouldn't kill the conversation with him somehow.

You took a deep breath and flashed him a deceptively easy grin.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, Mr. Writer-"

"Stanford."

You raised a brow at his interruption. The man- Stanford, fidgeted with his fingers. You’d have to ask him about his hands one day, but you didn’t wanna scare him off. He was the only regular the library had now. 

"It's Stanford. Stanford Pines. I... I meant to introduce myself the other day. I'm new in town."

Your eyes practically sparkled. Finally! Something other than silence. You try not to be too eager when you tell him your name.

"Haha, I wouldn't say you're new anymore. Stanford. It's been a year hasn't it?"

"How'd you know that?" He narrowed his eyes at you slightly.

"Dude, you've been coming by for months and it's Gravity Falls. Everyone knows everyone." 

"Ah... That is true." He mumbled. 

Welp, looks like the conversation’s run dry. But now, you had a name to the face so you cheered internally. 

"Well, I have some work I need to go back to. Enjoy your time here, Mr. Pines."

You didn't get a response, which was normal for the elusive and aloof Mr. Mystery- Pines, now. You breathed a sigh of relief after disappearing from his line of sight.

God, why was customer service difficult? Why is talking to people worth only 15 bucks an hour?

You spent the next hour or so organizing the moth-filled Philosophy section. 

You tried to be gentle with the little creatures and you wondered if they too, ignited into a small fire ball like Stanford Pines' drawing.

*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──*✧･ﾟ: ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──✧*

Thank you for reading! <3

Title is a work in progress~

for what

Oh no! He's falling apart

Stanley knows his brother more then even himself.

Coffee and Conclusions [Stanford Pines x Reader] FLUFF

Tags: Fluff, Young!Stanford Pines, Pre-Portal incident, just Ford being a sleep deprived nerd

When you went to check on Ford, the laboratory down stairs was in a state of disarray- even more so than usual.

Papers filled with hurriedly scribbled scientific notations, equations, graphs, and triangles(?) Littered the floors. All sorts of machinery bits laid scattered from an unpturned basket of them. And Ford? He was paced around wildly, six fingers clutching a crumple stack of papers while mumbling to himself.

You called his name, and he stopped his pacing to shoot you a grin that could rival the sun in it's brilliance.

"Ah, Starling, there you are! What time is it? Did you get the parts I asked you to fetch for me?"

"I did, but, Stanford, what is all this?"

You strode closer to the chaos, the eye of the storm- Stanford Pines who gratefully took the box of parts you fetched from town.

"I am close to cracking the code- well, one of them. I can feel it! I'm drawing close to an astounding conclusion!"

"And probably a heart attack." You drawled, eying the empty cups of coffee stacked high on his work table.

"So long as it comes after the portal test run!" Ford joked.

You fix him a glare and he smiles abashedly.

"By next week, we should be able to initiate test runs and optimization checks for the portal!"

"Incredible," you whispered.

Your eyes drifted to the triangular structure that towered over the two of you. It was dim in the lab, but in less than a week, it would be lit up with otherworldly light, buzzing with energy- if what Ford was saying was true.

"This could be the answer to all our problems!" Ford beamed, fist balled up in the air triumpanthly.

A hand gently yet firmly snaked around your shoulders, you were pressed against Ford's chest. You're screaming internally as you caught the scent of fresh pine, coffee, and ink on him.

"That's great, but are you alright?" 

Now that you were closer to him, you noticed Ford's unruly appreance. His chocolate brown hair was tousled and sticking up in places, as if someone took a vacuum, tried- and failed- to tame it. There was a coffee stain on the untucked hem of his button-up, revealing a bit of the soft skin hiding underneath. There were even more ink stains on the cuffs of his sleeves. His eyes were blown wide with delight, a contrast to the dark shadows forming under them.

His smile was easy and wide as he looked at you, eagerly waiting for any sign of your approval. You swear you saw goddamn sparkles in his eyes just now.

Somehow, his haggard appearance made your heart quicken. Damn this fool for not taking care of himself and somehow manages to STILL be attractive!

"Oh noooo, you've drank to much coffee," you groaned, stepping back from him.

A part of you mourned the warmth of his body, but it was getting hard to think being that close to him. Besides, you needed to set him straight- he's running on fumes!

"Oh yes! Yes I have, but that's besides the point, my dear. I needed to chase a certain equation that's been puzzling me and Fidds for a while now. I simply can't sleep, not when the solution's at the tip of my tongue!"

His words were hurried, you barely registered them as the sound of his velvety smooth voice called you "My Dear".

Your cheeks flush and you sighed, running a hand through your warm face.

"Stanford Pines, you need to sleep, it's been two days!"

"Sleep? Perish the thought! I need at least 34 more hours, if we're being generous, to figure out a way to stabilize the anti-gravity compression cogs of the portal-"

Ford was about to launch into another rant when he ran into you with his pacing. He wasn't the most coordinated and self-aware whenever he was sleep deprived. So your face bumped his chest, making you stumble back.

"Oh! Sorry, starling, I am feeling... a little  indisposed right now."

The nickname made you melt. But that wouldn't do, you needed to put your foot down and make him rest.

You quirk a brow as Ford chuckled wearily, clearing his throat and stepping back. When he wasn't busy talking your ear off, you can see the lines of sleepiness painting his face.

And here it comes, the wave of exhaustion- the crash that often followed days and nights of drinking coffee like water. Ford yawned, a hand covered his mouth. You sighed, shaking your head fondly at your friend.

"Man, you were always like this. Even in college. Come up, you fool. Rest up, new ideas will come when you wake."

Without waiting for his usual protests, you grabbed your hand. It was always effective in silencing him. You grinned at him over your shoulder before dragging him up the stairs.

Stanford was always weak to when you held his hand- especially in college. It seems that trait survived years after graduation. Six fingers curled gently against your small hand as he finally surrendered to your nagging.

"I have jelly beans waiting for you upstairs, IF, you promise to eat something filling."

Ford beamed, the apples of his cheeks turning pink at your promise and touch.