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Summary
Stanford Pines was a patient man. He had to be.
Patience was a virtue in Ford’s book; there wasn’t much he couldn’t handle nowadays. But kept on his knees, softened by a cushion, with his hands bound behind his back and eyes obscured with a blindfold, Ford’s infinite composure was teetering the edge of shattering into millions of pieces by your hand. His faith in your actions and respect for your words are what kept him grounded. But for how much longer, he couldn’t say.
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This is… so incredibly self-indulgent I have no words. No apologies. I will be seeing a priest in a confessional booth.
No gender specified, gender-neutral pronouns, and unspecified genitalia for reader.
Anyways, ENJOY!!
{written in Australian English}