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moments before disaster 💥

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Day 5: chains & collars

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Revolutionary idea I just came up with: imagine [characters I like] engaging in [kink that I have]. Why has no one ever thought of this?

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“and for my next trick, i’m going to rapidly alternate between actual torture, and begging like a dog” said bill after he condescended to the scientist with this gay shit

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Thinking about the photograph Ford had on him the whole time he was in the portal and realized he had it on him beforehand when Stan arrived. Which then made me headcanon Ford would look at it as a means to anchor himself when his paranoia spiked.

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Ford Dress-up Week!

Day 6: Sleepwear

(...but does he even sleep?) LMAO I cannot imagine him wearing pjs 😭 The only possible effort that Ford would wear "pajamas" is probably taking off his pants.

And this only happens occasionally 😭😂😭

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[...]

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I love them so much they are my world and comfort

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Day 1 - Dreams, Worship

For 10 Years of Billford

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Forgetting to refill your zoloft will have a guy kinning Stanford pines

Hmm relating to ford too hard today that’s a bad sign

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Hmm relating to ford too hard today that’s a bad sign

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Day 2 - Body Sharing

Bill responds, and Ford realizes Bill has laced their fingers together behind Ford’s back. It’s subtle enough he supposes no one would recognize it, might think he’s just got a strange way of pondering. A strange way of rubbing circles into the palm of his own hand, giving a gentle squeeze, and.

Ford sucks in his lips, feels the heat rise behind his ears. Hopes that it spreading to his cheeks doesn’t come through the dim light.

This is. It’s fine. No one will notice.

A day late it was a long day yesterday; but heeeeee I think about this scene from @stump-not-found Theseus' Guide 6th chapter all the damn time. WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS ;w;

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sorry i will never be normal about the stanford pines pipeline of implied lifelong passive suicidality (a longing since boyhood to mysteriously disappear somewhere, like the bermuda triangle) -> getting into meditation/trying to access higher powers -> meeting bill and looking forward to his visits (that occur when ford is asleep aka free from the expectations and responsibilities of conscious reality but also the closest to death/not existing an alive person can be) -> the implication that he initially liked bill possessing him (getting to enjoy that peaceful nonexistence while still fulfilling those expectations and responsibilities) -> "sixer it would eat you alive" -> ford falling into the mouth of the triangular portal, the animation showing him struggling as it sucks him in like a prey animal thrashing in the jaws of a beast -> resigning himself pretty early to never getting out + probably dying and focusing on making sure he takes out the monster who "ate" him along with him -> being angry that he was saved and struggling to find identity + purpose back in the living world. the thanatos of it all.

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Ford's presence is demanded at Bill's big party. Aggravatingly for him, he has no idea what the party is for. All he knows is that it's very… classy.

A little gift for @stump-not-found set in Theseus' Guide <3

and coincidentally, the @billfordecade prompt today is bodysharing, which this has!

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on deference and belonging (ficlet)

my: possessive pronoun indicating

1. a subject's ownership of an object (my journal, my house, my time)

2. an object's belonging to a subject (my boss, my teacher, my owner) or

3. a subject sharing commonality with another subject (my kin, my friend, my lover)

Which do a muse and his inspired devotee fall into?

(ao3)

for @billfordecade day 1: dreams/worship. 895 words. under the cut.

Eyelids heavy, Stanford's writing stills, black ink leeching from between the spread nib of his fountain pen onto the page before him.

Is he...bored? Theoretical challenges like this used to energize him in his college days. Then again, he supposes he had his roommate and professors as a sounding board for ideas back then. Now he must work out the unexplainable gaps in his Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness all by himself if he wants to secure a scientific legacy.

Though lately, he has been more artistically inclined, even inspired to branch out into new mediums. Ford's gaze flickers to the newly acquired loom on the other end of his study, partially-woven tapestry beckoning him. His heart aches to return to it...

No! That will be his reward for completing his work. His grant funding depends on this...

The subject of his recent creative endeavors manifests out of thin air, bathing the monochrome room in his triangular visage's golden glow.

"Heya Sixer! Hard at work or hardly working?” Bill Cipher nudges Ford with his elbow, like he's letting him in on some killer inside joke. “That one's gonna be a real groan-inducer once I introduce it to the managerial class."

Ford jolts up at his desk from the contact. "Ah, Bill, hello! I'm just stuck on some inconsistencies with my theory of where Gravity Falls’ weirdness originates."

"And you're working through it in that diary of yours? Cute." Bill angles himself nosily towards the open page.

Ford hunches himself over it out of protective instinct. "It's a field journal," he mutters, coming off less like an assertive professional than an insecure schoolboy. When he lifts his arms the journal is gone, swiftly swept into Bill's sneaky hands.

"I've actually been wondering something about it!" Bill kicks his legs in the air with glee and thumbs through the pages with the speed and certainty of someone intimately familiar with its contents. As the owner of many a well-loved tome, Ford recognizes the gesture.

"You've...read through it?" he dares to ask.

"Not on purpose!" Bill lies, because it's fun and he can. "And just the stuff about me. Whenever I'm visually depicted, I gain a new eye into your world, so of course I can see what you write next to your pretty pictures of me!"

(This is technically possible, it just happens not to be true. Why let the nerd know how much time Bill spent going through his personal effects? He'd let it go to his head, or worse, hem and haw about his "right to privacy".)

"Ah." Ford accepts the explanation and decides to abandon his concepts for triangular shower tiles. Perhaps they were a tad gauche anyway.

"Anyway," Bill continues, pointing to a certain passage. "'My muse', huh? Pretty presumptuous of you to write, Sixer."

Ford tilts his head in confusion. “Pardon my question, but I don't understand the issue? I thought referring to you that way would be respectful, since you told me you were a muse, and that you chose me. I'm– I'm sorry if I was mistaken on that front." He stumbles over his words lamely.

"It's the 'my' part. Possessive indicator. No one owns me. You think you're the only one I bestow my knowledge upon? It's an exclusive list, but there's more than one name on it."

Ford pushes down his irrational jealousy. It would be preposterous to demand Bill's sole attention. "English grammar is rather tricky like that, isn't it? My deepest apologies. I can revise it, perhaps 'the muse'? 'His Holiness'? 'Spirit of Providence'?"

Bill scans Ford's words for any trace of sarcasm – he knows the otherwise socially inept scientist to be occasionally capable of delivering utter verbal devastation with his dry, barbed wit – but he finds none. He's turned this man of science into one of absolute, earnest faith, deathly afraid of offending him. He should be honored. And yet, the distance feels...wrong.

"Whoa whoa whoa, 'my muse' is fine. Really. Just make sure you remember who belongs to who. Because you're 'my author', right?"

Ford blushes and nods. He's starting to see Bill's point about the implications of ownership. He doesn't think he minds it.

"'My devotee', building shrines and writing sonnets to my beauty. So loyal," Bill continues his verbal lavishing and rests a hand on Ford's shoulder, a barely perceptible pressure.

Yeah. He definitely doesn't mind.

Ford waits with bated breath and confused, swirling thoughts for an elaboration that doesn't come. Bill's eye bores into him hungrily.

"My ṕ̵͍͔͍̞̞̜ͅe̵̤̜͈͖͓͂̈́̅̓̎́t̷̥̩̹͚̹̂̓̆̊̐ͅ."

Bill's voice becomes distorted on the last word, and he traces his fingers up to Ford's Adam's apple.

An uncomfortable silence passes between the two until its unwitting instigator breaks it, pointing and cackling, "I'm JOKING, genius! HAHAHAHA, the LOOK on your FACE!"

Ford slumps his shoulders and crosses his arms, ignoring how he already misses being touched. "I think my response was proportionate," he huffs.

After recovering from his laughing fit, Bill loops an impossibly long rubberhose arm around Ford's entire torso several times and pulls him flush against himself. "C'mon, kid, lighten up and roll with the punches! I'll even give you a hint for that problem that's been stumping you."

Ford's soured expression softens from being held close once again and offered knowledge. "Really?"

Bill leans in to whisper in his pawn's ear, and grants him enlightenment.