Hi! I Hope This Is Okay But I Felt So Inspired By This That I Have To Write Something!

I just finished playing this dating sim, this was my favorite part god look at this fine specimen of a nerd

A Stanford Pine in his natural habitat. Exhibiting one of his luxurious branches

I know I posted that I might not write anything for today and I truly do not have a lot of time today but I simply could not resist.

Kindness, truly a trivial thing in Bill's world full of hatred and destruction. Are you kind? Or evil? We may think we are the heroes, but are we really?

Bill accepts that he is evil, that he is a bad person, that he can be terrifying to everyone he knows. Perhaps it disturbs him, perhaps not, but he seems to not exactly give that much thought into it though as he just does what he wants at times, and attains what he needs by all means.

When he met you, he just wonders why do you even strive to be a better person? What's happening in your mind? Why are you so kind to him?

He'll try his best to break you. He wants to see you in pieces, he wants to know just how far you can withstand his awful nature.

If you do manage to keep being kind, to keep responding in a polite and kind manner, to keep being his 'friend' no matter what, and to still be there when he goes to you, it will rattle his brain and would also most likely amuse him as well.

Of course, he will try to manipulate you, realizing that you might be someone he can just ask to do something truly awful in the name of the relationship you have with him. But if you are quick to stand your ground, and you still manage to be gentle while doing so, it should knock some sense that you may not be as much of a pushover as he thought.

His little outbursts and mixed mood swings may be hard to deal with from time to time, but if you do manage to do your best to be patient, you may get heartfelt moments that no one will ever get to experience.

You both won't notice but he might slowly but surely adapt the little tidbits of the things you do.

Psychology says that people mirror the ones that they like, and well, he would never admit it but if you and Bill have been interacting for a long time, he'll most indefinitely grow fond of you.

The way you sometimes cover your mouth when you smile, the way you tap your feet slightly as you listen to music, the way you nod every once in a while as he rambles on about something...the little tidbits you do slowly manages to latch on to him and soon he may not exactly notice how you are eventually changing him.

All the while as he tries to manipulate you, he does end up somewhat shooting himself by the foot because of the numerous times he has tried to trick you.

Each of your surprised, horrified, but still genuine reactions that show compassion and kindness towards situations and certain asks may slowly influence him to subconsciously gain the ability to become a slightly bit more compassionate after a long while.

If you notice though, do not mention it, nor should you even think about it, around him. If he manages to understand what may be happening then it will make him extremely aware of the little things he do and it might hinder the effect you have on him so far.

Though truth be told, perhaps he would find out sooner as time passes by. He is no fool, in fact he is a good observer. But his ego may hold somewhat as a blindfold to himself as he would most likely convince himself that he would never change because of someone like you.

After an extremely long while, he will expect you to want something from him. What are you getting out of this? What's the endgame? Keep being kind to him and perhaps he'll soon think that you are just as insane as he is.

In a clear, breezy day. You sit under the beautiful clouds that drift the sky like wet paint on a canvas. Taking a sip from the cup of tea that Bill brewed, the wind gently graces your shoulders.

Bill sits beside you, rambling on about the numerous number of tea he has discovered by himself. You nod slightly, encouraging him to continue.

As he continues to speak, he slowly gazes back at you. Smiling, you gaze back at him as well and hummed, nodding slightly once more to let him know you're listening, and so, he continues to speak, rambling on any subject his mind manages to think of, as both of you enjoy the afternoon with a cup of tea on one of each other's hands.

HAHAHAHAAH

Bill Redraw

A Gentler Soul [Stanford Pines X Reader] Spicy Blurb

Tags: NSFW, Suggestive, Minors DO NOT Interact

Just a poetic way of saying I want him lol

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

Stanford Pines used to be a gentler soul. He could spend hours reading about cryptids and mycelium. He could name every moth in Gravity Falls in their Latin and numerous nicknames. On Wednesdays, he'd step out of his home and eagerly watch the sky turn dark- because that's when the local pixies came out to play and dance in a glittering display of light.

Now, he was a sharpened knife. All cuts and bruises, running through the dimensions without taking a second to admire oddities around him. He was  a man on the run, he had no time to marvel at how suns imploded and stars seemed to wink at him, in this vast, nonsensical hellscape called the Nightmare Realm.

He can't stop, he can't catch his breath, lest he stops breathing altogether.

You followed him wherever he ran.

It was survival, you told yourself.

It was science, sticking together was something humans did, Ford told you.

The silences in between the running and fighting told you otherwise.

When it grew dark and quit, in wherever ruins he deemed safe enough, that's when the air shifted.

Stanford Pines moved as if he was always running out of time.

But here, under the shade of a forgotten building, away from prying eyes and bounty hunters, he took his time. He looked at you like you were a new book he'd yet to read. His attention was like fire, burning through the layers of your clothes and the fragile. And like a candle, you melted for the flame of his gaze.

Six fingered hands dragged languidly over the flesh of your ribs, dipping low and stopping just at your abdomen. His knee slowly nudges your inner thigh, spreading your leg outward for access.

He'd worship the scars littering your chest and neck with his tongue, warm and wet as it devoured the salt of your skin.

But it would be kissing you that would truly undo him.

Feeling your soft lips was a different kind of rapture, your moans were poetry he intended to burn into his mind forever. He could worship you this way for several lifetimes, if he could.

At every moan, he'd whisper praises and reassurances- safety, in this desolate world made to consume humans like you. Ford wouldn't let that happen to you, not when he could taste you instead, damn the cruel world outside this room. He had you to himself, at least in this one, small eternity.

If you slipped a hand under his greying locks and whispered any sort of praise to him, he'd cave in and give you anything you want.

Trailing your fingers over the lines of his tattoos would earn you more of that pleasure. Like toppling a candle and letting the flames grow, he'll worship you and burn down your altar, until all that was left was him. He'd growl and grow rougher in his ministrations. Drag those nails from his wrist, to his biceps, then to his chest, and see what happens when a composed man cracks. Every desperate cry would be your only confession of his feelings, in a place unfit for sentimentality.

Come morning, he's reminded of how fragile you are. You'd be covered in circular bruises- counting six in each set.

His eyes would soften at the bashful look in your eye, hiding his marking underneath your clothes as you two prepare to venture out again. Time rests for no one, here. He needed to find a way home and bring you with him.

So he pulls up his mask, covers his silvery hair under a cowl. He wraps a warm hand over yours and makes sure you're never separated for too long.

Stanford Pines used to be a gentler soul, and he longed for the day he could be one again, with you.

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.” 

I ACCEPT ANY AND EVERY HUMAN UNDER CIPHERTOLOGY BY THE WAY IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING

I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR GENDER, SEXUALITY, RACE, AGE, RELATIONSHIPS, OPINIONS, ANYTHING! AT THE END OF THE DAY YOU’LL ALL TASTE THE SAME

cutest tyrant in the psych ward

original

Stanford Pines is the nastiest skank bitch I’ve ever met. Do NOT trust him. He is a fugly slut!

Talking about a single bill book page under here

The thing about this page is, for something that was supposedly ripped out, it doesn't really contain anything that strikes me as needing.... to have been... ripped out.

Sure, he talks about being lonely here and maybe that could be embarrassing to him, but it's not like he hasn't talked about being an outcast before, his entire about page has a section dedicated to his trials and tribulations with his peers when he was younger.

Additionally, there's many times in the journal where he seems to have written something he feels he shouldn't have. Though ripping that thing out isnt usually his method of choice. He much prefers to scratch things out.

Why couldn't the page have existed like this? Or even, if the entire thing truly is too embarrassing to have in your journal, why did you write it there in the first place?

It seems to me that the only reason this page was included with the other Bill pages was to set up the narrative of Ford's loneliness. (That within Journal 3 proper isn't really needed, because one can already ascertain that...). Doyalist reason? Sure, Alex is trying to set up his story. Watsonian reason? Naturally you turn it around and see it as Bill trying to set up his own story.

This page's existence in general isn't the only beef I have with it though. While we're meant to accept it on the basis that he ripped this out, Ford engaging with personal feelings, especially negative ones like this in such a blatant way is... unusual. I'd say he's much more prone to distracting himself away from that sort of thing with his work.

For the journal especially, this page would have to take place pretty early, as it's supposed to be pre-Bill. Which is weird, considering a later page in the original J3...

Of course, like I said, we the audience can understand Ford is lonely. And I'm not trying to say he doesn't know it himself, but he does not engage with it.

The thing about this page though, is that it's much more than just a single spot where Ford's own loneliness is mentioned. It's a turning point for the way Ford writes. Prior to Fiddlefords arrival, Stanford takes a few pages to introduce himself, then everything following is either an anomaly page or the occasional muse page. Like I said before, it's all very work-focused.

After Fiddleford comes to town, Ford is forced to feel the full extent how lonely he's truly been, and he starts to write a lot of pages of his and Fiddleford's adventures together, including his feelings during. (insert everyones favorite lines here:)

But he also starts to write about something else...

Over

and over

and over

again...

Fiddleford's renewed presence in his life really opened some mental-block floodgates in Ford's mind. From experience, sometimes you really aren't faced with how truly lonely you are until you are provided with some respite from it.

Again, I would like to say, it's not that I think he wasn't lonely before. He definitely was, and it's certainly part of why Bill was able to target him. But would he have written it out like that at that point in time? In the journal no less?

I dont really think so. I think he was doing everything in his power not to think or feel it.

And writing it down isn't really what I'd call conducive to that.