Day 11! Symbols! … I Did More Codes But We Digress!

so how about that comic we all know and love by @stump-not-found

Stanley knows his brother more then even himself.

May or may not finish this.

BUT YA KNOW WHO ELSE IS FINISHING TONIGHT-?

An artpiece for @candycatfalls ' Pin the Old Man Down Day- My new favorite holiday!

man of science?

A commission for @beccadrawsstuff!! Bill and little baby Stella! SHE'S SO FRIGGIN CUTE!!!!! They're on a napkin having a little picnic moment, with Bill showing her the stars.... Little baby nacho cheese dorito with her cool ranch dad...... cut to me dead on the floor, killed by cuteness

Me @ Dr Stanford Pines Ph.Ds

HAPPY EASTER HUMANS. REMEMBER TO BREAK INTO YOUR LOCAL CAFETERIA AND PELT AS MANY PEOPLE YOU SEE WITH EGGS SCREAMING YOUR FAVORITE UNHOLY TUNE AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS UNTIL THE GUARDS COME TACKLE YOU TO THE GROUND.

This blurb is back up! I didn't really like how it turned out at first, this is my first ever smut I hope it's alright ;;

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.

What I mean when I do not control the hyperfixation.