#Stanford Pines x Reader
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Awwwww đĽšđĽšđĽš
Dad!ford head canons plzzz
Who Knows How Long I Loved You
Stanford Pines x child/teen!reader
⧠stanford raising you from baby to teen!
⧠takes place in the 80's so its young stanford
⧠gender neutral reader!
⧠3,1k words
⧠i got so carried away with writing that i deviated from hc and made it to a full blown story so i had to cut it
⧠there will be a part2 and it's gonna be angsty!!
⧠requests are still open!
â¤ď¸ Rapid eager knocks resounded in his shack. Ford jolted awake, completely lost in a sleepy haze. He looked around hurriedly as he slowly woke up, eyes blinking slowly. He let out a low groan as he ran a hand down his face. His hand stopped halfway to get caught in a piece of paper that stuck to his cheek. He grimaced in disgust. He was probably drooling in his sleep and made the mistake to fall asleep on his paperwork. Ripping off the paper off his cheek, he leans back in his chair. With sleep still clouding his mind, he forgot about the knocks on his door. That was until another chorus of knocks rang out. Throwing his head back, he sighed a long sigh. Standing up from his chair, he stumbled out of his office while adjusting his glasses that were lopsided on his face.
â¤ď¸ Approaching the front door, he swung it open. The harsh cold wind of December swooped in the shack. A chill ran down Fordâs body as he hugged himself for warmth. âHello?â He called out, looking out into the white beyond in search of the person who was knocking on his door. To his surprise, there was no one there. Only footprints that were deeply embedded into the snow that lead out into the woods. Shrugging, Ford began to close the door. A quiet coo of a baby reached Fordâs ear and he abruptly stopped moving. Peeking his head out of the door, his eyes trailed down to his porch and there laid a little baby wrapped in a thin cloth. His mouth hung open in shock. Who would leave a baby out in the middle of a snowstorm? Taking another look around the shack, he couldnât find or see anyone near. Kneeling down to the floor, he pushed the door to open it a little more. He reached out for the baby slowly. He was so unsure of whatever was happening to him. What is going on? Where is the mother of this child? Who would dare to abandon a baby? Nonetheless, this deep into the woods!
â¤ď¸ His grabs onto the baby and awkwardly shuffles them around his arms. For one last final time, he looks around to again find no one. Closing the door, he looked down to the baby that was cradled in his arms. The baby gave a toothless smile to Ford and his heart melted right then and there. Shaking his head, he told himself he wasnât going to get attached to you. He had no time to take care of a child and with his line of work, it would be too dangerous as well.
â¤ď¸ That night, he spent his time scanning a book that was filled with every residentâs of Gravity Falls phone number, dialing each number. He asked around, wondering if anyone was in search of a missing baby. Each call led him nowhere. Everyone either had no clue on what he was talking about or didnât even bother to answer his call. He slammed the phone back down on the receiver, cursing under his breath. Taking care of a child, especially a baby is tough work and Ford wasnât going to leave this baby on another personâs porch. Rubbing his temples with his thumbs, he could feel the starting aches of a headache brew inside his skull. This is going to stunt his research. Walking over to his room, he saw the baby sleeping peacefully on his bed. âAre babies even allowed to sleep on a bed like this?â He asks himself. Seeds of doubt and concern began to grow in his head and before he knew it, he was researching absolutely everything about taking care of a child.
â¤ď¸ Ultimately, he made the decision to keep you. He trusted no one to take care of you and the only person who was suited to take care of you was your mother and she abandoned you on his doorstep, which practically left him no other choice but to take you in as his own. The first few months were extremely taxing on him. He thought heâd be able to leave and finally take his research outside of the shack once the winter bled into spring, but it was like you knew when he left, because the moment he stepped out of the shack; you were bursting into tears. Your heartbroken sobs could be heard all around the woods! And feeding you was another task, he didnât know what foods to properly feed you since he had no baby food stocked up in his shelves. He wouldâve gone out to get some if it wasnât for the horrid snowstorm that encased him inside. He resorted to feeding you bland mash potatoes, which took you awhile to warm up to. There many times where you slapped away his hand, splattering potato goo all over the walls. But once the spoon entered your mouth, you were suddenly crazy about the potatoes. Even seeing Ford making the potatoes made you babble excitedly. That held you over and once the winter was over, he was able to go out and get you baby food. Although, he had to get a baby carrier and hoist you on his chest once he learned you hated being left alone.
â¤ď¸ Thereâd be nights where he would lie awake in his bed, thoughtlessly staring up at the ceiling. The only noise that was heard in his room was the soft deep breaths you took in your sleep and the occasional creek of your crib that Ford rocked with his hand. He laid there, basking in the comforting feeling that blanketed his body. Heâs never felt so much peace before. How could a baby change so much in his life in only a matter of a few months? His head turned over to you, eyes landing on you. He felt his heart clench in adoration for you, something heâd never thought he would feel in over a million of years. Kids were never in the equation for him, but the sudden addition of you in his life made the grueling journey of his a little more worthwhile.
â¤ď¸ Teaching you how to speak was such a delightful experience for him. Heâd start his lessons by sitting you up on his bed with a few pillows behind you to support you. Then, with a pile of flashcards he made himself, he would point at the object, fruit, ect and sound it out. At first, youâd cock your head to the side curiously, babbling about something before falling to your knees and crawling towards Ford. No matter how many times youâd look at him with a blank confused expression on your face, he would still laugh equally as hard as he did the first time. When you started catching on and attempting to sound the words out with him, Ford would beam so brightly and swoop you in his arms and babble on how youâre so smart.
â¤ď¸ âOkay, kiddo. What does the cow say?â Ford asks. You clapped your chubby little hands together, mouth opening and closing as you stared at Ford with a smile. Ford laughs, motioning to the picture of a cow in hand. âDonât look at me,â using his pointer finger, he moved your head toward the index card. âLook at the card.â He points at it. âWhat is that on the card, kiddo?â You look at the card. âC-Cow!â You said. Ford erupted in a gleeful cheer. âYes! Good job.â He has such a proud dad smile on his face. âYouâre such a smart kid, you know that?â
â¤ď¸ He never thought heâd enjoy looking for baby clothes. The prospect of buying kids clothes sounded boring and mundane. He thought he would buy a few articles of clothing and call it a day, but itâs been over an hour since he entered the baby store and heâs been looking at cute clothes and throwing them in the cart. âWhat do you think, kid? You like the shoes?â He placed the baby shoes on top of your little feet. You mindlessly babbled in response and he took that as a yes. âGreat! I like them too.â He put the shoes inside the growing cart full of clothes, shoes and accessories. He would stand in front of a mirror and hold out a onesie and put it in front of you, ask if you liked it and if you responded with incoherent babbles that was a yes, but if you just stared at him that was a no. So far, youâve been saying yes to everything he showed you. Once the cart started to get overloaded with baby items, he decided to purchase his findings. While putting the clothes down for the worker to scan, they sprouted a conversation with Ford. âFirst time being a dad?â Ford froze in his tracks, the word Dad circling around his head. Was he a Dad? Does this make him a Dad? He looked down at you and you looked up at him with a smile. He looked over to the cashier. With a hesitant nod, he said, âY-Yeah. Iâm a first time Dad.â The cashier smiled at him. âEnjoy the baby phase while it lasts, they grow up too fast.â
â¤ď¸ And grow up you did. You were no longer a baby who yelled random gibberish. You were now a well renowned 5 year old! Speeding down the halls and causing trouble wherever your child's heart chose to wreak havoc. Ford had to swoop in and take you away from whatever device you were messing with before you broke it. âWhat did I tell you about messing with things that arenât yours?â He said, placing you down on the sofa where all your toys and crayons reside. âNot to touch,â You said, grumpily crossing your arms over your chest. âRight, so why do you keep doing the opposite of that?â He crossed his arms over his chest as well, raising a curious brow. âBecause I want to be like you! I want to play with them.â You puffed out your cheeks, staring down your shoes with a glare. âBut those arenât toys, kiddo. Theyâre very dangerous.â He tells you, ruffling your hair. âWhen youâre older Iâll let you touch my devices,â He says. âAnd maybeâŚyou can build one of your own?â That piqued your interest and your attitude melted away and turned into happiness. âReally?!â You looked at him with stars in your eyes. âYes, really.â
â¤ď¸ Adventures out in the forests are way more entertaining now that youâre older. Back then, all you did was sit in a strap on a baby carrier and ogle at the pretty little things. Now, you can comment on things and show off your findings to Ford. âDad!â You called out, picking up a flower from the ground. âLook at this!â You run towards him, waving the flower up in the air. He smiles, kneeling down to your height. No matter how many times you say it, he could never get used to you calling him Dad. âWhat is it?â He has his book flipped open to a new page, pencil ready in hand to draw the new discovery and its properties. âItâs a flower that makes you sparkly, look!â You shook the flower over your arm and little twinkling specs of glitter floated down to your arm. âForever glitter!â You cheered, spinning around in a glittery tornado. Ford laughed at your silly antics, drawing you in the mess of sparkly glitter in his book.
â¤ď¸ Thereâs books filled with drawings of you and little entries of things you did that Ford thought was worthy to write down to remember. Various cute little photos were plastered on the pages and on nights where heâs busy in the lab, for a quick break, heâd open the books and revisit the memories and photos of baby you to ground himself.
â¤ď¸ The fridge is stamped with many drawings you've scribbled down on a paper with crayons. Even though they're not the best, in his eyes they are masterpieces. Especially the crudely drawn version of you and him holding hands with the words 'Happy Father's Day' messily written on top. He finds your messy writing so cute and he has a small little debate with himself whether he should help you practice your handwriting or keep it the way as it is.
â¤ď¸ Since you were homeschooled, you didnât have friends really. At first, Ford wanted to build you little robot friends. He was seriously on board with the whole idea but what stopped him was the idea of you going out one day, for whatever reason and being incapable of talking to humans because you were so used to talking to robots. That sent an uneasy chill down his spine. So whenever heâd have the time, he would take you and him out to parks where you were able to socialize with kids. Ford feared youâd be bullied like how he was for being so shy and quiet, but you were carefree and talking to so many kids Ford couldnât believe it. At the end of it, you made a few friends that stuck around for a quiet long time.
â¤ď¸ "Dad, what is that?" You point to the gnome that stood perfectly still on top of the table. Ford jumps in surprise. He was so wrapped up in his drawing of the gnome, he failed to realize you were creeping up to him. "Hey, sweetie." He greets. "Do you want a closer look?" He looks over to you, jerking his head to the gnome. "Yes!" You cheered. Setting his book and pencil aside, he picks you up and sits you down on the table. "This is a gnome." He tells you. "His name is Schmebulock." You reach your hand out towards gnome. "Can we keep it?!" You eagerly ask, grabbing the gnomes hat. "No can do, kiddo." He flicks your hand away from the gnome. "And be gentle." He softly scolds you. "Can he talk?" You poke the gnome. "Can you talk gnome!" The gnome turns over to you and blurts out. "Schmebulock!" Your head jolts back in shock. "Is he supposed to say that?"
â¤ď¸ Ford never knew when exactly you were born so he decided to celebrate your birthday one the day you appeared on his doorstep. You knew that Ford wasnât biologically your Dad, but you didnât have to be related to him by blood to be called your father. Your birthdayâs were spent doing whatever you wanted. Heâd wake you up in the morning with your favorite breakfast and blast one of your favorite songs. While scarfing down your breakfast, he would ask you what you wanted to do for your birthday and whatever you replied back with was what you and he did. An adventure in the woods? Done! Spending the day rotting away watching TV together? Done! Anything you wanted, heâd grant you. He never truly took account of what that cashier said all those years ago until you turned 17. He would never admit it to you, but he cried a lot more than heâd like to say. In a flurry of tears, he wrote in his journal on how heartbroken he was. The page was stained with a bunch of tears. But who could blame him? His baby was all grown up! If only he cherished those days a little more.
â¤ď¸ Trips to the mall was a frequent outing you an him partook on days off. "What am I spending all my money on today?" Ford may act like he dreads the times where you strip him dry of all his money, but in actuality, he loves surprising you with the things he told you no to. "Dad, can I get this?" And it's a cute little plushie you found while venturing into the store. Ford does his best to play up a very stern Dad act. Pursing his lips into a thin line, he shakes his head no. Defeated and ultimately disappointed you walk back to the shelf with your head hung low. It's not when you come back that you see the very exact same plush in his hands. "Oh!" He feigns shock. "How did that get here?"
â¤ď¸ Another thing he'll never admit is that he doesn't like when you go off with your friends for hours. Up until you reached your mid teenage years, you and him were glued to the hip. Partners in crime if you asked him! And being alone in the shack is so reality shifting that he can't bring himself to do anything but lock himself in the lab until you come back. Anything reminds him of you and all he could do is stare somberly at them before burying his head in a book of his. "Dad?" You enter the shack, closing the door behind you. It's quiet, too quiet. Heading down the shack you found him asleep on a book. You couldn't see much since his head was laying on it, obscuring most of the text but what you were able to see was a drawing of baby you wearing his glasses. "Oh, Dad..." Your hand lays on his back and his body visibly relaxes. Since that day, you vowed to yourself to never stay out for long with your friends.
â¤ď¸ âBeing your father has been one of the best things that has happened to me.â Ford randomly admits on one summer evening. âYouâre so sappy.â You reply, stretching yourself on the couch youâve conquered as your own since this morning. Ford grabs you by the ankles and lifts them up, allowing himself to sit down on the couch. âHey! Who said we were sharing.â You jokingly protested. He gets himself comfortable on the couch and rests your legs on his lap. âI said,â He looks over to you, just like how he always did when you were a baby and were sleeping soundly in your crib. Only this time you were no longer a sleeping baby. âBut I mean it, kiddo. Youâre one of my greatest achievements.â He says, patting your legs. A wobbly smile pulls to your face. You never truly say it out loud, but everyday you thank whatever force that pulled him to take you in. âNow whatâs on TV?â He asks himself, turning his attention to the TV. âWhere did you put the remote?â Before he could begin fully searching for the remote, he gets attacked by a hug. âI love you, Dad.â You whisper, hugging him tightly. âI love you more, kiddo.â
#stanford pines x reader#stanford pines x daughter!reader#stanford pines x child!reader#gravity falls x reader#gravity falls#stanford pines#ford pines#ford pines x reader#ford pines x daughter#ford pines x daughter!reader
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stanford pines x reader
Holidays
âI shouldâve had kids with you.â
summary: in which ford reminisces and thinks about what couldâve been and what once was
warnings: gender neutral reader mostly but thereâs a line about you having his kids so take that as you will
word count: 1.2k
notes: halloween is over which means some festive ish things like this are coming!!
The words fell from his lips as if they held less weight than his usual late night words he shared with you.
âI shouldâve had kids with you.â
He breathed the sentence into your neck as he got comfortable in the bed you share. It was a warm sigh that made your eyes widen as his arms moved around your waist.
You snap out of the tired trance you were in as you look at him. Heâs an older version of the man you fell in love with at nineteen. The wrinkles by his eyes and slight signs of aging almost make you happy because he just looks so cute growing old with you.
After everything with the portal, you never thought your husband would come back to you. When Stan took over his identity, you were fake married to Stan. You didnât kiss or do anything married people do other than taxes so it obviously didnât fill the Ford-shaped hole in your heart.
When Ford came back, you were a wreck. Things hadnât exactly ended well. You snapped just days before the portal incident. He had pushed you away and you saw him less and less so seeing him again brought back all the feelings of neglect and abandonment. But he slowly crept his way back into your heart, how could he not?
He still has that same sweet smile and the same eyes. So you worked it out. And now he spends more time with you because being away from you proved to him even more than before that he loved you. God, he loved you. His heart beats for you. He married you, for fucks sake.
He never thought heâd ever even get married. When his father gave him his suit for his wedding, he assumed heâd wear it to accept a nobel prize. Then there he was in that suit, promising you forever in front of all of your friends and family.
He missed you so badly while he was gone and he swore he would find his way back to you. To your arms, your lips, that smile that could kill him. He loves you.
âI shouldâve settled down with you instead of going along with Bill. I shouldâve given you babies and built you a bigger house. I wish I gave my life to you in more apparent ways.â He says, pressing a soft and quick kiss to your neck to really feel your presence. Your skin is soft and he breathes in again, feeling like his heart is completely and utterly safe with you.
You donât know what to say. Your fingers freeze in his hair as you think about his words. His soft and quiet confession about what he wishes happened. And then you both begin silently thinking about what did happen. And that leads to mourning what could have been.
âI know it might be dumb but I think about it a lot. You know, what it wouldâve been like to settle down with you. I think about picket fences and kids and holidays. I like Mabelâs philosophy on holidays. I like to think thatâs how things would be at our house. We celebrate all holidays. Winter wouldâve been especially fun for our kids, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, every holiday.â He muses.
Youâre silent for a moment, just listening to him talk, feeling his words wrap around you like a warm blanket. His voice is softer than youâre used to, almost reverent, as he talks about the life you could have had together. And with each word, you feel that old ache start to surface, the one that you thought youâd buried years ago.
Being completely honest, there was a point in your life where the baby-fever overtook you. You wanted a baby with your husband. You wanted the life he described. But then you came to your senses. Ford isnât that kind of man and you didnât want him to be. You loved the man he was. You still do. And your heart was never swayed completely one way or the other. So you let it go and you never came back to it because you were happy.
Even now, thereâs no bitterness. Just that quiet sadness, a gentle ache thatâs soothed by the feeling of his arms around you, his hand gently rubbing your back as he continues.
âI can picture it so clearly, a little girl with your eyes and my stubborn streak,â He says, his voice catching on the thought. âOr maybe a boy whoâd want to be just like you. Whoâd look at you the way I doâlike youâre the whole world.â
You canât help but wonder if he thinks about this often, if he lets these thoughts creep in late at night, the way you sometimes do. Thereâs something both comforting and heartbreaking about knowing youâre not alone in that.
After a moment, you brush a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence beside you, grounding you.
âFord,â You whisper, gently tracing the lines on his face, âYou donât mean that. Itâs a nice thought. It really is. I wouldâve loved to have that life with you. Kids, Christmas, fences. I wouldâve had your kids in an instant if you wanted that. But you didnât because you love your job and thatâs enough for you. And you being happy was enough for me.â
He leans into your touch, eyes closing as if heâs absorbing the truth of your words.
âI know,â He murmurs. âI justâŚI wanted to give you so much more. More than this little cottage, more than my late-night ramblings and scars and regrets. You deserved a quieter life, one withoutâŚall the running, the danger. You deserved a less flighty husband who finds god in a cave and causes the end of the world.â
âBut this is the life we have,â You remind him, gently tilting his chin up so he has to look at you. âAnd youâre here. Thatâs all I ever wanted. All those things youâre talking aboutâthe picket fences, the holidaysâtheyâre nice. But this is what we have, and itâs enough for me.â
His hand finds yours, fingers threading through with a familiar warmth. He looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening, as if seeing you for the first time all over again. And he feels it again going through his heart that heâs so in love with you. His heart is always gonna belong to you.
âYouâre enough for me too,â He says, his voice barely above a whisper.
For a while, you both lay there in a comfortable silence, each lost in your thoughts, holding onto each other as if to prove that youâre here, that you found your way back from everything that tried to tear you apart.
âYou know, maybe itâs not too late to have some of that. Maybe we donât need the picket fence, but we could still make our own traditions. We couldâŚwe could still have holidays like Mabel would. Just you and me, celebrating everything.â He speaks up.
âWell, then, Happy Holidays, my love.â You press a quick kiss to his nose and everything in him warms for you.
âHappy Holidays, my darling.â
#ford pines#stanford pines x reader#gravity falls ford#gravity falls#grunkle ford#ford x reader#ford pines x reader
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Try to be kind to yourself today if your feeling everything thatâs happened today very deeply, do some self care today, donât doom scroll social media and try an do something to take care for yourself ~
Think about getting a hug from your comfort characters~
Watch your favorite show or movie, listen to music or a audiobook, eat your favorite food and just know, You are kind and smart and worth being here~
You are safe here. We will fight like weâve always had to and get through this together.
#gravity falls#gravity falls is a beautiful thing!#grunkle stan#grunkle ford#my art#self love#self insert#stan and ford#stanley pines#stanford pines#stanford pines x reader#stanford x reader#gravity falls stanley#stanley pines x reader#ford pines x reader#comfort characters#be kind to yourself#gravity falls fanart#gravity falls fandom#election 2024#gravity falls stan pines#grunkle stan x reader#hunkle stan x reader#hunkle stan#hunkle ford#stan twins#sea grunks#swooning over stans#gravity falls stanford#womenâs rights
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obsessed with the way I drew Stanford in this part of the comic lol
#he looks so cute and confused Iâm sorry#gravity falls#ford pines#stanford pines#stanford pines x reader#gravity falls ford#character art#doodle#silly
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PLEASE READ THIS MASTERPIECE OH MY GOD
Rating: NSFW (kissing) Type: Long form, Stanford Pines x Reader Tags: Enemies to lovers, Academic rivals to lovers, arguing that turns into making out, bullying, no pronouns used, minor injuries, making up, injury care, art student!Reader Word count: 19,567 (yikes!) My other works: here on tumblr and here on Ao3!
You're forced to work with Ford, your sworn rival, for a college project. Things quickly get out of control.
@sleeplessdreamer14 asked for this so I hope it's okay dude!
Right in the centre of the list, glaring up at you in black and white, reads the worst thing you could possibly imagine: your name and directly across from it, Stanford fucking Pinesâ, joined together by a backslash and grouped snugly under the heading âMID TERM, PARTNERSHIP PROJECT.â
Your heart feels like it might be ejected through your mouth. You re-read the list, and then re-re-read it again, but the text doesnât miraculously change. It still states the unholy student matrimony between you and the biggest asshole in Backupsmore.
Oh no no no no no.
There is never, and will never, be anything wrong with a little bit of friendly competition.
Competition drives innovation, innovation drives achievement and achievement drives happiness. A harmless rivalry can benefit just about anybody, provided it stays as just that: harmless.
Whatever you have going on with Stanford Pines, however, is decidedly not that.
Naturally it's all his fault, of course.
You've shared a space with the man for only a couple of months now, since the beginning of the second college semester of Backupsmore, and you're absolutely positive that you've never met such a stuck up asshole in all your life.
Pines had joined your Fine Art class late. Significantly so, in fact. The course had already been halfway through its first year when he had darkened the doorstep of Studio 1B with his stupid tweed jackets and his fluffy hair, and even at the time you can recall how taken aback you'd been when Professor Stonepoor had announced his joining.
Stonepoor, a surly old chap with bright silver hair and a penchant for chain smoking indoors (one which youâre not sure you can begrudge him, honestly, because if you had to work in a place like Backupsmore, youâre sure cigarettes would be the mildest form of distraction at your disposal), had announced Pinesâ unorthodox arrival to the studio one wet September afternoon.
Before any of you had had the chance to take your usual seats for the afternoon, Professor Stonepoor had clapped his hands together from behind his cheap desk and caught everyoneâs attention the moment you had all filed inside. Standing at his side, Stanford had shifted uncomfortably from one loafered foot to the other under the abrupt attention of the room.
âKids,â Stonepoor had said, in his bored, trademark voice akin to gravel being dragged across concrete. âThis is Stanford Pines. I trust youâre familiar, yes?â
And of course, the entire class had nodded their affirmation, yourself included.
Barely six months into the year and Pines had already left quite the impression upon his fellow student body, a far less complimentary achievement than it might sound. Stanford had garnered a reputation of sorts, almost from his first day of term, and unlike most other rumours that run alongside young men of fraternity age, Stanford had become known for being the exact opposite of the trope: Extremely intelligent and extraordinarily lame.
Stanford Pines was, as the kids say these days, a Square. As strait-laced as they came: He never attended parties, not even when he managed to garner pity invites from some of the nicer students on campus.
He didn't take drugs, he didnât skip classes, and he didn't drink. All Pines ever did was flex his abnormally large brain on every other student at the school. Everyone on campus knew Stanford Pines was a genius, but no one knew it more than Pines himself. Belligerently and exceptionally intelligent, and utterly obnoxious about it, Stanford never cared to let others forget it.
Professor Stonepoor had nodded at the collective hum of acknowledgement from the other students and gestured vaguely to Stanford. âWell, fortunately for you lucky people, Mr Pines will be joining the class for the remainder of the term.â
With little care for the rudeness of the action, youâd scoffed aloud and questioned exactly why a student with no artistic inclination would join a fucking fine art class halfway through term. Everybody knew Pines was a die-hard scientist wannabe, what on earth would he be doing here?
You can still recall how Stanford had frowned down his aquiline nose at your comment, despite the disinterested air heâd displayed suggesting he felt similarly.
Youâd scowled right back and held defiant eye contact with him for as long as he dared.
Mr Stonepoor had rolled his eyes and replied, very simply: âFord hasâŚ. Run out of classes to take.â
âWhat?â Youâd laughed, disbelieving and mildly confused.
âHeâs completed significantly more of his major ahead of schedule and the dean thought it might be good for him to, and I quote, âsoak up as much education as possibleâ during his time with us.â
Which was, of course, utter bullshit. The dean had probably panicked about not receiving a full yearâs worth of tuition and tried to drag out his stay in this desperately underfunded shit hole for as long as possible.
You hadnât offered more than a sceptical arch of your brow and Mr Stonepoor had met you with a disinterested shrug before simply ushering Pines towards the free desks.
At first, you'd tried to play nice despite your initial annoyance at being disturbed. Perhaps Pines would be willing to take a back seat in a class that wasn't his forte? You'd approached him as he'd stood awkwardly by an empty desk on the far left of the room, a hand outstretched in a stiff welcome and your name on the tip of your tongue.
Stanford had regarded your hand like it was covered in bees, his big, brown eyes flicking from your fingertips to your eyes, before turning away to rifle through his briefcase (and honestly, who carried a briefcase in college?) as though you'd never even said a word. âA pleasure, Iâm sure.â
In spite of his lack of manners, you can recall how surprised youâd been at the sound of his voice. Youâd never crossed paths with him before and certainly never held a conversation with him, and it had come as a mild shock that such a voice belonged to somebody soâŚ.
Well, somebody so like him.
Youâd expected a nasally tone, something more fitting of such a nerdy exterior, but instead Stanford soundedâŚ. Strong. So completely at odds with his unimpressive stature and awkward aura, that for half a second you had been too surprised to respond.
And then his snarky address had caught up with you and youâd found your tongue well enough.
Teeth gritted, you'd applied your best faux smile and steamrolled over his rudeness. âYou know, you'll need to catch up on last semester's work. I'm the highest ranking student in this class, I'd be happy to show you some of my-!â
âNo need,â Pines had dismissed you without looking up. âI completed it last night. Professor Stonepoor has my folder.â
You'd laughed, until it had become clear that he wasn't actually attempting a bad joke. âYouâŚ. Are you telling me you completed an entire semester's worth of work over the summer?â
It had been Stanford's turn to laugh then and finally he'd faced you. âOh, no,â Heâd scoffed. âI did it in two weeks.â
âSorry, you what?â
âNo need to apologise,â Stanford had said before giving you the kind of smirk that screamed just how much he knew his words were intended to provoke.
Your teeth had been ground further down.
âThe dean asked me to join the class a few days after we returned for term and well, as much as I consider it a waste of my time, he said it might benefit me, so I figured why not.â Stanford had shrugged.
ââA waste of your timeâ?â You'd frowned.
âOf course,â Stanford scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. âI mean, who pays thousands of dollars to study something as menial as art? College should be used for education, not for daydreaming and doodling.â
It had taken every ounce of decorum you owned not to punch his lights out, and from there, things had only gotten worse.
The next time you'd attended class, motivated to simply ignore Pines (and maybe to show off your extensive knowledge of your chosen subject to him to ensure he knew who he was sharing the floor with), you'd made a beeline for your usual desk only to find the object of your ire already sitting in it.
The seat by the East window of the studio was yours. Nobody elseâs. Youâd had a claim over it for the better part of the school year and nobody in class had attempted to challenge it. Not until Pinesâ arrival, anyway.
At your insistence that he find somewhere else, Stanford has brushed you off yet again: âYour name isnât on it. Canât you take the one in front?â
Somewhere behind you, a classmate had hissed through clenched teeth and another had choked on a poorly stifled laugh; your exchange with one another was apparently entertaining enough to warrant a minor audience.
âNo,â youâd snipped. âThe light here is best, thatâs why I sit in this one.â
Pines had hummed thoughtfully before finally meeting your eyes. âWell, now Iâm definitely not giving it up.â
And so, he had commandeered your own seat from you in front of the entire fucking class.
But he hadnât stopped there, oh no.
Your top student status had been more or less demolished in the space of a week.
Youâve always prided yourself on your work, on being number one amongst your classmates. You work hard and it has always paid off, as evidenced by your grades and your standing. Except, Stanford had practically appeared out of thin air and blown you out of the water immediately.
He raised his hand faster, he was quicker with his answers, more precise with his art history timelines and to make matters even more utterly miserable: heâd turned out to be an exceptionally talented artist.
His work was near-photorealistic in its detail, his anatomy was excellent and heâd picked up his colour theory in less than two classes on the subject. A significant improvement on the time it had taken you.
Stanford Pines absolutely dominated the classroom. Your classroom.
Your passion, your talent, your achievement. All of it had been bulldozed by the guy.
Of course, never having been one for going down without a fight, you had bitten back hard: pulling all nighters and skipping parties to ensure youâd still topped the charts in your scores. Youâd even beaten him a couple of times, and the tangible frustration youâd felt from him had been enough to encourage you to keep at it.
Thatâs how the entire thing had started: You and Stanford Pines vying for top dog status of Studio 1B, horns locked and grievances held, no matter the day, no matter the project, no matter the reason. You absolutely had to beat him.
Today has been no different.
Class is coming to a close for the evening and you've spent most of it battling with Stanford, as per usual, over answers. The two of you have been going back and forth together for the better part of forty minutes before Mr Stonepoor manages to cut in whilst Stanford is taking a breath.
âWhile I appreciate your passion for Winckelmann, Mr Pines,â Stonepoor says, with little enthusiasm to match his words. âWe really ought to be finishing up. I need to discuss the upcoming projects with all of you.â
Stanford's mouth shuts with an audible click! and you shoot him a smug look, pleased to have gotten the final word in class.
Stanford rolls his eyes.
âAs you all know, in the next week youâll be beginning work on your mid-term projects. Alongside your mini-exhibition, youâll be expected to complete a short presentation on your chosen topic and explain the sense of meaning behind your themes.â Professor Stonepoor continues, oblivious to your exchange. âExcept, this time things will be a little different.â
Stonepoorâs words are enough to get you to halt in your gloating and pay abrupt attention again.
âThis wonât be a solo project, as the others have been. This time, youâll be partnered up and expected to work together with a classmate to show how well you can collaborate with your peers.â Professor Stonepoor takes a seat in his creaky chair and procures a lighter from the top pocket of his suit jacket. Heâs clearly preparing to deal with the stress that will inevitably come his way.
You raise your hand. âWill we get to pick our partners, Professor?â You ask, cautiously hopeful. Youâve only a few friends in Backupsmore: Jennifer, who you sit beside currently, and Melissa, who attends opposing classes to you but who technically counts as a peer. If youâre going to have to work with anybody, itâll be them.
Stonepoor lights his cigarette and fixes you with a look that makes something cold settle in your stomach. âNo,â he says simply, and the amusement in his voice fills you with uncomfortable concern.
Before anybody can question him, the shrill sound of the bell rings out and the rest of the students dutifully begin to pack their things away. As much as youâd like to question Stonepoor further, for now youâll have to hope he does himself a favour and sticks you with somebody youâll get along with.
Itâs not like heâd partner you up with Pines of all people anyway. Itâs unlikely heâll want to cause himself more stress, right?
Right?
Youâre lounging on the Quad later that evening, killing time with a couple of classmates and sheltering from the bright sun under the shade of an ancient oak tree, when the topic comes up again.
Thumbing through the battered copy of Pride and Prejudice on your lap, you listen to your friends complain back and forth about the strife in their lives until their annoyances invoke you directly.
âI canât take another day of you two arguing like that, yâknow,â says Jennifer, your fellow artist in 1B.
âI donât know what you mean,â you mutter, picking at the corner of the novel and only barely paying attention.
âYou and Stanford Pines,â she clarifies, and you can practically hear her rolling her eyes. âYouâre driving everybody nuts.â
âItâs his fault,â You shrug one shoulder. âIf he wasnât such an asshole about, like, everything, I wouldnât-â
âBe such an asshole back?â Jennifer finishes. âGod, why donât you two just fuck it out already?â
Her comment is enough to get you to snap your head up, attention on your novel shattered instantly. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?!â You exclaim, almost choking on your tongue.
âOh, come on,â Melissa snorts. âThereâs enough tension between you two to kill the Professor ten times over.â
âAnd the rest of us,â Jennifer adds, high fiving the other girl. âPoor Stonepoor always looks on the verge of a breakdown when you guys start fighting.â
Melissa laughs. âYeah, and besides, everybodyâs noticed it. Youâd win me ten bucks if you jumped his bones.â
âWhat do you- Are you taking bets on my non-existent sexual chemistry?!â You ask, appalled. âYouâre not even in the same class as us, youâve got no idea about myâŚ. Thing, with Pines.â
Perhaps that isnât the most ideal choice of words, but still.
As though she can read your mind, Melissa shoots Jennifer an amused look.
You scoff, shaking your head vehemently. âYouâre wrong. I canât stand him and he definitely canât stand me. Iâd rather puke in my hands and clap than touch that guy.â
Thereâs absolutely no way youâd consider anything of the sort with Stanford Pines. Sure, objectively he isnât too bad to look at: Heâs tall and broad shouldered, with a stocky form in spite of his lack of sporting ability, and heâs got a nice enough face, but heâs nothing special. Puppy dog eyes and strong features are ten a penny, arenât they?
âAnyway, I think heâs kind of cute,â Melissa says, bumping shoulders with you. âYâknow, in a loser type of way.â
âYeah, well, thatâs why youâre dating Jamie,â you grumble under your breath. The less said about her blockheaded jock boyfriend, the betterâŚ. âYou like losers a little too much.â
Melissa opens her mouth to defend her pet idiot, but sheâs cut off by someone shouting your name.
You glance up just as someone skids to a halt in front of your group, their trainers sliding on the poorly maintained lawn. You can vaguely recognise him as a kid from the studioâŚ. Danny? You think. Darryl? âOh, hey, uhâŚ.â
âDamian,â says Damian, looking a little annoyed. âWeâre in Studio 1B together. Have been for a while now.â
âRightâŚ.â You give him an apologetic smile. âWhatâs up?â
Damian pauses, like he hadnât expected to actually have to voice his reason for catching your attention. He looks uncomfortable and it sets your teeth on edge.
âIs everything okay?â You ask, shifting to stand up. âHas something hap-â
âHave you, uhâŚ.â He clears throat stiffly. âHave you seen the partner listing for the mid-term project yet?â
You frown. âNo, I didnât even know it was up.â
Damian flinches again and rubs the back of his neck. âYeah. It went up like twenty minutes agoâŚ.You might wanna take a look. Figured youâd want to know..â
Youâre not sure youâve ever moved so fast in your life. Without more than a thanks to Damian, you toss your paperback into your bag and leap to your feet, barely hearing the annoyed shout of your friends as you scramble past them to head straight for the arts building. You take the stairs two at a time, weaving between crowds of other students, your heart beating so hard you think it might burst right through your shirt.
Why would Damian bother to alert you? Youâre fairly certain youâve only ever exchanged niceties with the guy over the paintbrush station, heâd have no reason to bother you about something like this unprovoked. Not unlessâŚ.
âYouâre driving everybody nutsâŚ.â
As you round the landing of the stairs, you spot the old stained door that leads to Studio 1B, along with the bulletin board thatâs positioned right at its side. There's a small gathering of students around it, all talking amongst themselves, and you slip right through them to get up close to the A4 pieces of paper that's tacked to the cork surface.
Your eyes scan it, desperately searching for confirmation that you're overreacting and that Damian is probably just being helpful, right? Not forewarning of an incoming storm like you fear he might be, untilâŚ.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Right in the centre of the list, glaring up at you in black and white, reads the worst thing you could possibly imagine: your name, and directly across from it, Stanford fucking Pinesâ. Joined together by a backslash and grouped snugly under the heading âMID TERM, PARTNERSHIP PROJECT.â
Your heart feels like it might be ejected through your mouth. You re-read the list, and then re-re-read it again, but the text doesnât miraculously change. It still states the unholy student matrimony between you and the biggest asshole in Backupsmore.
Oh no no no no no.
You can feel the eyes of other students of 1B burning into your back. Clearly your predicament is common knowledge already. You feel a warmth burn on the base of your neck and very carefully, you avoid meeting their gaze.
Perhaps there's still time to talk your professor out of it. It's not even 5PM yet, he'll still be knocking about in the classroom for a while and if youâre quick, it might be your best and only opportunity to talk him into reconsidering. Surely he'll be easily convinced to change his mind? It's not a secret that he's more than a little fed up with your bickering; you're certain that the only reason he allows you and Stanford to go back and forth so often is because it means he can put less effort into teaching the rest of the class. He practically owes you both one!
Ditching the throng of students, you press your ear to the door of the studio. It sounds like somebody is already talking to Stonepoor , but whoever it is will have to wait. Right now, you're on a mission to ensure your sanity stays intact.
You hammer a quick series of knocks on the door before wrenching it open and ducking inside without even bothering to wait for a welcome, your protests already loaded in your mouth: âProfessor Stonepoor , there's some kind of mistake on the-!â
Your words die a quick death on your tongue when you realise who it is that's currently talking to him.
Stanford Pines looks over at you from where he's standing, arms crossed and brows furrowed, in front of your teacher's desk, evidently as equally as annoyed as you are. He's wearing a blue button down shirt and brown corduroy pants, and his hair looks messier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it in distress.
You know how he feels.
Stonepoor leans sideways slightly in his chair, another cigarette in his mouth (he really must be stressed), and peers around Stanford's broad form at you. He doesn't seem very pleased to have you here.
âA mistake?â Asks Stonepoor, tiredly.
âYes,â you say assuredly, ignoring the way Stanford watches you approach. âOn the partner list. You put me andâŚ. Him,â you struggle to keep the disdain from your voice and Stanford scoffs. âTogether.â
Stonepoor laughs and for once he sounds genuinely amused. âNo mistake there. You'll both be working together on this project.â
Instead of vomiting your heart, it drops out through your ass and a cold dread settles in its place. âWhat?!â
âPrecisely my sentiment,â says Stanford, nodding. âWhy on Earth are we being paired up? I could do far better work alone, I don't need someone dragging me along-â
ââDragging you alongâ?!â You snap, scowling over at him. âI'm perfectly competent, thank you. I don't even see why we'd need to work together out of everyone else in the class! If Stanford wants to work alone, why can't he-â
âBecause this is a paired assignment,â says Professor Stonepoor slowly, like he's talking to an idiot. âAnd you two are top of the class. I'd like to see what you can come up with when you put your heads together willingly, instead of butting them back and forth.â
Stanford huffs, petulant. âBut I-â
âBut nothing, Mr Pines,â Stonepoor sighs, exhaling a long cloud of smoke and sitting back in his chair. âYou're an excellent student, Stanford, truly-â
Stanford puffs out his chest at the acknowledgement and you have to force yourself not to pull a face to illustrate your disgust.
â-But you're still a student,â Stonepoor goes on. âAnd I'm your professor. It's my call, and I say you two need to learn how to work cooperatively for once. You won't get anywhere if all you do is piss each other off, so the decision stands. Work together.â
You want to argue more and you can tell that Stanford does too, but Stonepoor isn't having it. It quickly becomes clear that you'd each have better luck arguing with the stack of still-drying canvases in the corner rack of the room.
The moment you open your mouth, he holds a hand up to silence you. âIf you can't get along and you can't produce something worth my time, I'll give you both the lowest grade and you can fight it out over who gets to hang that on their wall. Do I make myself clear?â
And just like that, your fate is sealed.
You're going to have to work with the one person you like least, whether it destroys your sanity or not.
Stanford sighs, long suffering and put upon, and once you've accepted your situation, he follows you from the classroom and out into the hallway. Thankfully it appears most of the people who had been lingering around initially have moved on, leaving the corridor uncomfortably quiet and the perfect place to lay down some organisation.
Taking a deep breath, you turn to Stanford.
âSo, here's the deal-â
âWhy don't we just-â
You both speak at the same time, words rushing out in a hurry to beat one another to the point, and Stanford sighs.
âLook, I'm as apprehensive about this whole thing as you are, believe me,â he says. âI'd be perfectly happy to work alone but it seems as though we're just going to have to get along for this whether we want to or not.â
As much as it pains you to admit it, he's right. Stonepoor has made that perfectly clear. Youâre not going to let this fucker leave a blemish on your record and youâre sure he feels similarly.
âFine,â you murmur, leaning against the classroom door. The stress of all this has already exhausted you and you haven't even had one on one time with him yet. God, this is going to suck. âLet's justâŚ. Agree a truce for now, right? We get through the next few weeks, get our heads down and then we can go right back to how things are supposed to be. Deal?â
Stanford nods. âDeal.â
You mirror him and yank your bag up your shoulder. âStarting tomorrow, meet me in the library. The art history section. We can work out what we want to do and build from there. Sound good?â
It doesnât look like it sounds good to him, but to his credit, Stanford nods stiffly. âBe there at six.â
âDone.â
..
As expected, Stanford is utterly unbearable to work with. If, that is, what youâre doing can even be compared to working together.
From the moment your ass touches the seat opposite him at the library table, he rubs you the wrong way. For one thing, he doesnât even greet you. He doesnât even so much as look up at your arrival, for godâs sake. Instead, he keeps his big nose buried in a dusty book heâs reading and says: âYouâre late.â
You cast a glance at the wall clock to see that you are, technically, about four minutes behind when you said you'd be here for. That doesnât mean youâre going to take the heat for it though.
âBarely,â you mutter, dumping your bag onto the table and making his thermos wobble.
Thatâs enough to get him to look up.
Stanford frowns and catches it before it can fully tip over, avoiding a spill. âIf we set a meeting time, Iâd appreciate it if you kept to it,â he says snippily.
You nod, but youâre not really taking his chastisement on board. Youâre too busy checking out the array of books he has splayed open in front of him like a weathered old cheeseboard for his perusal. Youâre expecting them to be books on the Renaissance or maybe some old masters biographies (he seems like the type to enjoy the classics), but when you peer closer youâre surprised to see that theyâre predominantly all physics books. Even the yellow legal pad at his elbow is full of mathematical equations.
âNot interrupting something, am I?â You ask, raising an eyebrow at his work.
Stanford clears his throat and snaps his book shut before you can gawp much more. âOf course you are,â he murmurs, beginning to clear them away. âArt is hardly my most prominent area of work, you know. Some of us are studying for more than one thing, hence the importance of time management.â
âAnd just how many things are you studying for, Stanford?â You say, amused by how easily you can get under his skin. âI hope they wonât get in the way of this project.â
Stanford furrows his impressive brows at you. âJust because I donât care about art, that doesnât mean Iâd let my work slip,â he says as he piles the textbooks up. âAnd Iâm taking five degrees, thank you.â
âFive?!â You say, a little bit louder than is appropriate for the setting.
Stanford shushes you, as do a few more students at other tables, and you offer them an apologetic wave before repeating yourself at a more suitable stage whisper: âFive degrees? How the fuck are you managing that?â
Stanford scoffs, sitting forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the table. âWith a great deal of talent and commitment, of course,â he says, as though itâs obvious.
Holy shit, you think. Thatâs insane. As much as you want to fire off a snappy comment about big headedness, you have to admit that perhaps some of it is warranted if the man can manage five fucking degrees in one go.
âI intend to take more but Iâm focusing on those for now. I plan to make it to PhD as quickly as possible so I need to concentrate and manage my efforts accordingly. Iâd hate to throw off my groove by picking up random, useless classes that Iâll never use again.â He pauses to bark a laugh. âNot that this isnât exactly that, mind youâŚ. No offence.â
You roll your eyes. âEvery offence taken. Art might not be as academically lauded as science or maths, but itâs just as important.â
Ford snorts as he shoves his books into his briefcase, mildly amused by your comment.
âIâm serious, Stanford,â you say, defensive. âHow do you think you get those illustrations in your anatomy textbooks, for example?â
âThose are different,â Stanford says, waving you off. âThey serve a purpose.â
Jesus.... This guyâs grandiosity knows no bounds. âAll art serves a purpose for somebody. Just because it doesnât serve your every purpose, doesnât make it useless,â you scoff. âArt informs science just as much as science does art.â
Stanford opens his mouth to answer back but he seems to fall short of actually finding the words to fire off at you. Behind his eyes, you can practically see the gears whirring and ticking as he weighs up your statement in his mind, and after a moment, he exhales the air heâd saved to fight back with through his nose, sharp and short. The tips of his ears are a little pink and he looks decidedly annoyed.
It strikes you suddenly that you might have just accidentally bested your sworn rival over a ridiculously simple concept. Your skin prickles with righteous pride and you fix him with an assured smirk, absurdly pleased to have beaten him so casually.
Rather than apologise, Stanford simply ignores your statement and flips through his yellow legal pad, settling on a clean page and placing it between you both. âIf you're done debating me,â he says, clearing his throat. âI suppose we ought to figure out our roles, yes?â
âIâm not debating you, Stanford,â you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. Sure, technically you won your point, but youâre not actually trying to beat him in this discussion any more than you are just bringing the truth to his attention. He really can be a misanthrope sometimes. âWeâre socialising. Normal people do it all the time, so Iâve heard.â
He looks a little taken aback at that, and you can't help but think the owlish way he blinks at you suits him quite nicely in comparison to usual scrutinising stare. âOh,â he says. âRight.â He nods quickly and averts his gaze downward to the pad.
It's painfully clear he isn't used to being spoken to on such a level. You almost feel a little bad for him. It must be hard to make friends when you're all work and no play, and especially when someone has the aura of a person who'd rather be laying on train tracks than holding menial conversationâŚ.
Mentally, you yank on the reins of that line of thought: you are absolutely not going to feel bad for someone that's always such a jerk to you, and to everybody else. No way.
Stanford taps the pad of paper between you both. âI can do most of the work. Youâll just follow along and Iâll write in some speaking parts for you, so that way youâll still be included in the grade,â he says, rolling his shoulders and slipping back into the usual aura of asshole-ness.
There goes that empathy.
âWhat?â You stare at him like heâs gone mad, the smile sliding off your face. âAbsolutely not. This is as much my project as it is yours! We can go fifty-fifty, that way itâs totally fair.â
âNo disrespect,â says Stanford, and you can tell heâs about to say something that intends fully to illustrate how much he doesnât mean that caveat. âBut your history and research is lacking, and you tend to focus more on the intricacies of the piece than on the entirety of the project. Iâd be happy to shoulder most of the work. That way weâll have fewer weak points.â
You grip the edge of the table, hard. Weak points? Who does this guy think he is?!
âI want to earn my grade, Stanford,â you say, quite admirably keeping the anger from your tone. âMaybe youâre used to working with people who are happy to sit in for the ride and get top marks for doing fuck all, but Iâm not that kind of person. Iâd appreciate it if you didnât treat me as such.â
He regards you for a moment, seemingly nonplussed by your adamant refusal to accept the easiest option, and for a moment you think youâre going to have to fight it out with him.
Youâd rather not get banned from the only library Backupsmore owns for beating him to death with his own physics books, but youâre not going to just let him take control like he so clearly wants to.
However, much to your surprise, once heâs finished turning over your words in that big brain of his again, he nods. âFine. If you think you can do it, have at it.â
Youâre astounded heâs given in so easily until he adds:
âBut if you start to drag me down then I wonât hesitate to scrap whatever youâve come up with and do it all again from scratch myself.â
There it is.
As an afterthought, he tacks on: âAnd if we're going to be partners, you might as well call me Ford. I prefer it.â
A nickname? That's awfully familiar of himâŚ. But you suppose if he prefers it then you'll bite.
âFine,â you say. âThen letâs do this, Ford.â
And if youâre not mistaken, he might even smile a little at that.
This is going to be a weird couple of weeksâŚ.
Nothing much changes in the classroom.
The two of you still go back and forth like your lives depend on it, much to the visible chagrin of your professor and peers.
At first, your pairing with Ford had been the talk of the studio. The other students had made offhand comments about it all behind your back, but none had brought it up to your face.
Melissa and Jennifer had been as amused as they were apprehensive about it all, both of them begging you to at least try and get along for everybodyâs sake, but of course all youâd manage to do for the first week or two was complain and lament to them about the entire situation.
âHeâs a total nightmare! A complete control freak and a perfectionist. I canât survive another day with him, I swear,â you froth to the girls over lunch one afternoon, after yet another frustrating session spent with Ford.
The entirety of the study time had been spent arguing back and forth about painting techniques, and you had had to leave before youâd throttled him with a cleaning rag.
Every complaint fell on deaf ears, of course. Both Jennifer and Melissa only ever exchanged mutual looks of exasperation with one another any time you moaned about him and neither seemed to offer much more than a conciliatory âthat sucksâ with each grievance you bring them.
Eventually, you and Ford had come to the agreement of using âuniquenessâ as the basis of your project.
The idea had been brought up at the start of the third meeting, once everything had been arranged for responsibilities and chores, when Ford had dropped into conversation that he held a penchant for the strange and unusual.
Although your initial reaction had been to disagree simply on principle, the idea had been interesting enough that youâd caved without much argument.
When you questioned why his interest lay in things like cryptids and paraphenomena when he clearly lauded himself as a serious scientist, heâd given you a strange look that you had struggled to decipher.
âIsnât it obvious?â heâd asked toward the end of your second week together, watching as youâd painted fine details onto the fur of thylacine one rainy Tuesday evening.
Youâd shrugged. âBecause youâre a nerd?â
That was the most obvious answer, wasnât it? Excluded by his peers and his own intelligence, he probably felt a kind of kinship with things that others didnât accept. Perfectly understandable, you supposed.
Whilst youâre no genius, youâve never been immune to exclusion. You can recognise traits in monsters that you might share with them, in the ways that nobody ever believes in them.
His interest made sense and for some reason, it had even made you feel a little moreâŚ. Connected to him. And while youâd rather die than admit that aloud to anyone, a secret awareness of empathy for the guy wouldnât hurt anyone.
âNo,â Ford had replied, coming to stand behind you. âItâs because IâŚâ
Youâd lifted your head from your work, glancing over your shoulder and craning your neck to stare up at him expectantly.
Ford had paused as heâd met your eyes, unsure of an answer for only the second time in your presence, before heâd cleared his throat and looked away again. âIt hardly matters. I suppose youâre right.â
He had stood so close behind you after that, silently observing; the scent of his cologne, all spice and musk, filling your nose and making your mouth water.
You had struggled to concentrate then, but youâre sure it had been for no specific reason, of course. Just a simple case of being uncomfortable with having someone in your personal space. That was all. Nothing more.
Still, Ford pushed harder for results than any other project partner you can recall having. Possibly even harder than any teacher you'd ever had, too.
Despite giving you the grace to put your own touch on the project, it had become clear very quickly that Ford was decidedly not very good at collaborations.
He worked at a break-neck speed and with laser precision in everything he did, whether he was passionate about the subject or not, and if you couldnât keep up? Well, that was a personal failing on your part, obviously.
His intensity had built up very quickly and it hadn't taken long to feel less like you were partnering equally on a job and more like you were being dragged along in the dirt by an unruly workhorse.
Long hours in the studio werenât unheard of for you, but pouring over your canvases until the wee hours of the early morning every night? Less so. Arguments over techniques and methods weren't uncommon, and unrequested criticism from Ford quickly became the norm.
Lack of sleep and total dedication to the project combined with all your other classes had begun to take a toll on you. For Ford, it seemed he barely needed sleep or lunch breaks, but for your much more average ability, you couldn't quite say the same.
Even your arguments in class had become less and less heated as you'd lost the free energy to fight it out with him.
The first time you'd almost dozed off during a study session in the library for background research, Ford had clicked his fingers in front of your closed eyes with the loudest snap known to man, jerking you awake and almost causing you to fall out of your seat.
âIf you can't keep up, just say so,â Ford had quipped, going back to his elegant cursive-filled page of notes. âI told you I'd be happy to take over.â
Of course, you'd told him to fuck off. No way would you be seen dead giving him what he wanted. No matter how exhausted you got, regardless of the pressure on yourself, you absolutely would not give inâŚ..
Which is why today, you find yourself slumped before your half finished canvas, vision blurring at the edges from lack of rest and head throbbing painfully.
There's only one week left of prep time for the project and you're not even sure you'll live to see the fruits of your labour at this point. Your back aches from sitting at awkward angles and leaning over your work for one too many hours a day, your hand is painfully stiff from gripping pencils and paintbrushes 24/7, and alongside the pressures of this project, you've still got to contend with your other classes too.
Fine Arts degrees aren't all about painting nice pictures and using free time to kick back and slack off, despite what some people may think. Your grades are important to you and you're pushing yourself in every other class you have too: history, sculpting, printmaking and more. You're spread as thin as you can be and it's taking its toll.
At this rate, you'll fail in several of those. Even a few of your teacher's have pulled you aside to ask about the abrupt decline in your attendance (late nights lead to oversleeping, who knew?) and you're not sure you can bear another âare you taking this seriously?â scolding from them again.
You've arrived early today. Typically you meet in the spare studio with Ford at six o'clock sharp, but today you'd decided to try and come in sooner in order to get a head start.
You've fallen behind with some of the work; the oil piece currently propped up in front of you is still only in its early stages and it'll take you a while to get it finished to the standard you hold yourself to, plus you still need to draft your speeches for each painting and write your cue cards out too.
If you can push yourself to complete the best part of this painting today, though, then it will be one less thing to worry about. Not to mention that you haven't even started on your presentation rehearsal yet.
Miserably, you dump your paintbrush in the glass of murky water on the trolley beside it and sit back with a groan, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. You're so fucking stressed you want to cry.
Your eyes burn when you lower your hands and distantly, you realise that you already are crying. Wetness trails down your cheeks and you can feel the tips of your ears burn with embarrassment. Crying over a fucking presentation. Pathetic.
You cast a glance over to the corner of the room where Ford has left out one of his own pieces of work to dry, and it only makes you feel worse. He's so precise with his brush strokes and colours, and so effortless with what he does.
It's enough to encourage more tears; his skill is admirable, even if you'll only ever concede that through brutally gritted teeth, and knowing that he's so talented even in a subject he doesn't care about only makes you feel worse.
âThis is ridiculous,â you groan aloud, voice thick with distress.
Why hadn't you just taken Ford up on his offer? Stupid fucking pride, always getting in the way of an easy ride and making things harder than it needs to beâŚ.
You sniffle and heave a great, shuddery sigh. Could be worse, you think miserably. Ford could be here to see me be all pathetic and snotty.
And because the universe is a cruel and unforgiving mistress with a sick sense of humour, the door to the studio opens at that exact moment and the man himself barrels in with an arm full of textbooks. âI hope you're here early because you plan to make back the time on those diagra-!â
Ford stops mid sentence, eyes going wide at the sight of you. The door bounces off the wall behind him and slams shut as he stares in your direction, taking in your downtrodden appearance.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
You feel your entire face go red, and roughly, you wipe at your eyes. You attempt to duck back behind the safety of your canvas and hide your tear stained face from the exact person you'd hoped to avoid, but Ford has already seen the state of you. There's not much you can do to hide it.
You clear your throat, head ducked to conceal your face. âI'll get them done,â you say, only slightly croaky. âRelax.â
Ford stands rooted to the spot, his textbooks hugged to his broad chest. He's silent for a minute, only staring right at you with wide eyes, and then he mirrors your awkward throat-clearing. âAre youâŚ. Okay?â He asks, stiffly. âDid something happen?â
âNo. I'm fine.â
âYou don't look fine,â Ford says, finally wandering over. âAnd people don't tend to cry when they're just âfineâ.... Something must have-â
âI'm stressed, Ford,â you cut in, a little sharper than is necessary. You're not really in the mood to explain everything to him like he's your therapist, but maybe he'll back off a bit if you give him something to sate his (evidently unstoppable) curiosity. âI have other classes as well as the one we share, you realise? Other projects. It's- It can be a lot. I'm tired and I'm stressed.â
Ford frowns, his confusion palpable. âStressed?â He repeats, putting down his armful of textbooks on a nearby desk. âAbout art?â He sounds so baffled, like it's impossible to imagine someone might struggle with such a âlesserâ pursuit than his own.
Itâs enough to get your back up so high that you instantly forget to measure your response before you open your mouth. Maybe it's the tiredness, or the mounting pressure, or maybe just a combination of all of it, but you just can't take his obnoxious way of addressing you anymore.
âFord, give it a fucking rest would you?â You snap, standing up from your chair in anger and finally meeting his gaze. He already knows you're upset, there's little point in hiding it anymore.
âSee, this is exactly why I didn't want to tell you! You just don't get it! You're so fucking intense about all of this,â You gesture vaguely towards your canvas and the rest of the room, confident that he'll pick up what you mean. The entire fucking project. âI'm not used to it! I've never worked with somebody so- so like you, before.â
Ford flinches and somewhere within you, you feel a little guilty at your choice of phrasing. It's probably not the first time he's had someone say such a thing, judging by his reaction.
Undeterred, you push on, unable to stop the exhausted word vomit: âStaying up every night, pushing me on everything I do, it's relentless! You're relentless! I'm not like that, Ford, I can't just burn my candle at both ends when there's nothing left to burn.â
Ford seems surprised by your outburst. It's hardly the first time you've yelled at him, but it is the first time he looks out of his depth about it. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Instead of answering, he runs a hand through his messy chestnut hair, forcing the strands to stick up, and blinks back at you, deer-like.
Under any other circumstances, you'd find it funny how blatantly nervous he is at your display of emotion. Ford is the sort of person who runs solely on logic, on equations and science, and definitive answers.
He's never once given you the impression that his IQ extends to EQ and seeing him try to figure out how he ought to approach such a difficult problem would be comical if you weren't so upset right now.
After a moment of silence, filled only with you sniffling, Ford finally finds his voice again. âI told you, I can handle the workload alone if you can't-â
âOh, sure!â You scoff, before he can finish his stupid sentence. âYou'd love that, wouldn't you? Then you can totally win this stupid thing by yourself and leave me in the mud.â
You shake your head and turn away, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. âI knew I shouldn't have said anything, you're just gonna use this against me now, aren't you?â You mutter.
Ford, unexpectedly, looks a bit hurt by your unfounded accusation, and guilt nibbles at your gut again the moment you've said it, even if it is a genuine concern of yours.
âI would never do that,â he says defensively. âWe're partners, aren't we? It wouldnât beâŚ. Fair for me to use your emotional state against you like that.â
He sounds so genuinely certain in his words that you find yourself unable to answer him. You'd expected him to laugh and snatch the project out from underneath you instantly, with little care for your wellbeing.
Not necessarily out of spite, but out of indifference. The way he rejects your assertion so defensively is enough to make your eyes water all over again.
âI'm not a robot, despite what some people may think. I know how it feels to work under pressure,â Ford says, and you suppose he must, what with the extortionate number of degrees heâs currently juggling. âMaybe not from art,â he admits. âBut Iâm not immune.â
âI told you, I can take on what you struggle with,â Ford continues on, and at your attempt to interrupt, he steamrolls on. âAnd before you say anything, no, I don't mean that because I think you're not good enough. I just mean that I can help.â
You raise your brows, surprised, and turn to face him. âI thought you thought my work was shit,â you say, picking up on his comment instantly.
Ford frowns. He takes a deep breath and comes to your side, a bit hesitant to get closer than within arm's length of where you stand at your station.
âI don't think that at all,â he says, like it should be obvious to you. âWhy would you-â
âFord, all you do is criticise the stuff I create,â you say, exasperated. âYou spent forty minutes telling me my shading was bad on that fucking sketch last week alone.â
Forty minutes is conservative. The drawing hadnât even been part of the mid-term line up. It had been a warm up piece before youâd started on your actual project work, and yet heâd still gone off about how your light source had been inconsistent, that the still-life had lacked depth et cetera et cetera.
Youâd seethed in the corner and attempted to burn holes through the back of his head with your venomous gaze for the rest of the evening, but he hadnât noticed a thing. He rarely does.
To his credit, Ford looks embarrassed now that youâve brought it up. He adjusts his glasses nervously. âThat's not- I don't do that because I think you're bad,â he assures you. âI do it because I can see where you'd be even greater. I just⌠Thought it might help.â
You stare at him. Out of all the reasons for him to be so pushy, he thought he was helping? âWe hate each other, Ford, why would you even want to help me get better?â
ââHate each otherâ?â Ford says, only growing more confused. âI don't hate you. On the contrary, I thought we were having funâŚ. Are youâŚ. Not having fun?â
You stare at him as though he's just sprouted a third eye. âBut, in class- all we do is fight and argue, and-â
âThat's just good debate, isn't it?â Ford says with an awkward laugh. âDid you- Don't tell me you thought I hated you?â
Well, now you feel like a total fucking idiot. âI mean, can you blame me?â You say defensively. âYouâre hard to get a read on. Iâm not exactly a telepath.â
Ford gives you a shy, lopsided grin and rubs the back of his neck, bashful. âRight, right. Sorry,â he says, the first apology youâve ever heard from his mouth. âI suppose I assumed you could handle the way I am sometimes, what with the way you work in class,â he admits.
âFiddleford, my roommate,â he explains, âHe says I can be⌠What was the word he used?.... âDifficultâ,â Here, Ford puts dramatic air quotes around his roommate's statement and itâs enough to make you smile a bit, watery and weak.
âHow very diplomatic of him,â you hiccup a laugh and Ford smiles again, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkling. There's a compliment hidden in his words when you turn them over in your mind:Â I thought you could handle the way I am.
âHeâs much better at being tactful than I am,â Ford admits, looking a bit sad about the fact. âIâm afraid Iâm not the best at all this social stuff. If I gave you the wrong idea about it all thenâŚ.. That wasn't my intention.â
He's looking at you strangely, his eyes searching yours in the silence. He almost looks guilty. It's as though something has flicked a switch inside of him and for a moment, the impossibly high walls with which he surrounds himself have lowered fractionally. Only a little, but enough for you to catch a glimpse of somethingâŚ. Softer.
Up this close, you can read the minute changes of his expression far easier than when he's across the classroom or buried behind a book. Youâre not sure youâve ever been so near to him before, not face to face like this, anyway, and you can see all the shades of brown in his eyes.
Heâs got wonderfully long lashes, thick and curved in a way that would make even a beauty queen weep with envy, and a smattering of very light freckles across his strong nose. The bridge of it is curved and convex, a Roman-esque quality that only adds to the subtly strong features of his face and balances out the harsher lines of his face.
You worry your lower lip between your teeth, brain caught in a loop of cataloguing his features. He really isnât all that bad looking up closeâŚ.
Fordâs gaze drops to your mouth. The movement barely lasts point-five of a second, hardly long enough to even really take note of before he aborts it in motion, the two of you sharing a slightly awkward laugh. A redness tints the tops of his cheeks.
The familiar scent of his subtle aftershave wafts towards you again, and youâre reminded of when heâd stood behind you during that studio session a week or so ago.
You swallow thickly and look away to quell the funny feeling that makes your stomach flutter nervously. Youâll blame your vulnerable state for that.
Desperate to find something to distract yourself with, you look down to where he's nervously toying with the brown leather band of his wristwatch. The sleeves of his chequered shirt are rolled up today, exposing his forearms and showing off the threads of veins that stand out under the skin, and you follow them down to his hands in the hopes of finding a way to avoid examining from whatever dangerous territory your thoughts are trying to wander into.
And boy, do you find one.
Momentarily, you wonder if the tears in your eyes are blurring your vision too much to see straight. You've no idea how youâve never noticed it before. Youâve seen him painting, seen him gesticulating wildly when heâs gotten passionate about something youâve challenged him with, and yet somehow, the realisation has completely slipped past you.
When you react, you donât think about what youâre doing. You're too caught up in your desperation and your shock to really consider that the move might be unwelcome or rude: You just do it.
âOh, my god,â you murmur, reaching out for him. âYou do have six fingers.â
Rumours about Fordâs hands have always floated around school, but youâve never given them much credence. Youâre not one to care about physical features like that; life isnât a freak show and youâre not part of a baying townsfolk who want to point and laugh at someone else, so youâve always glossed over them. But when the realisation takes you by surprise so suddenly, you act without considering the consequences.
Like your touch has scolded him, Ford yanks his hands back and steps back, away from you. He looks panicked, as though youâve just announced his worst fears aloud, and you watch in real time as those castle walls come crashing down all over again.
The redness on his face burns brighter than ever before, a deep rouge that soaks across his cheeks and ears like watercolours on paper, and youâre not sure youâve ever seen him look so humiliated. His eye contact drops and his expression shifts from panic to anger.
âLook, hate me if you must but Iâd rather you not make a big deal about that,â he says stiffly.
âWhat? What are you talking about?â You frown, shaking your head. His demeanour has changed so suddenly that it makes your head spin more than the smell of white spirit does after cleaning your oil palettes. âI wouldn't-â
Ford bumps into your abandoned chair in his haste to retreat, sending it skittering backward until it rocks onto its side with a clatter. He hurriedly snatches up the textbooks he'd left on a nearby desk earlier and shoves his glasses up his nose again, righting them from where they've slipped down in his hurry.
âIf you need time to catch up on your end of the project, then just- Just say the word and I'll finish it alone,â he snaps.
And then he's scrambling from the room, shoulders up around his ears and posture slumped as he wrenches the door open and exits as quickly as he'd entered, leaving you to stare after him in utter disbelief.
What the fuck?
..
Ford doesn't show up to the next study session. He leaves a note on your desk that reads âcaught up in physics, will see you next timeâ, which really makes no sense because he'd have to come all the way across campus from the science labs to deliver it. If he was that busy, surely he'd have just left you to it?
Alas, he doesn't make an appearance at the session and he doesn't approach you afterwards to check on your progress, either.
You can see that he's finished his paintings, however. They sit at the back of the spare studio, right near where you work after hours, and you've been admiring them all week.
He has a nice little collection of pieces now, including a moody looking wendigo oil painting and a very pretty study in watercolour of a type of flower that you're not botanically inclined enough to know the name of, but you've a sneaking suspicion it's the gross one that smells like corpses.
You're even mildly disappointed that you haven't had the chance to ask him about it and then watch him passionately lecture you on its ins and outs and whatever else he might find fascinating about unusual flora.
Itâs not like you miss him, though. Obviously not. If he was here, heâd just be insufferable about it all, of course, and throw off your creative vibe with all his science talk. At the start of the project, after youâd seen all the physics books he carried on his person so often, youâd made the mistake of politely asking about his lab work and then been subjected to a full hour of listening to him harp on about topics that might as well have been in a foreign language to you.
But then the way heâd just sort ofâŚ.Lit up about it all had been strangely breathtaking. He had practically burst into fucking flames of passion about molecules and dimensions and all sorts of things the moment youâd shown even the most tepid bit of interest that you hadnât had the heart to stop him.
Heâd looked so alive, so much more animated than youâd ever seen him, and something about it had been horribly endearing.
Still, you totally donât miss that. Not his wild gesticulating, not the way he would run his hands through his hair in concentration and leave it all fluffy and stupid right after. The way he would chew his lip as he watched you paint.
Definitely not. Too annoying and far too distracting, for reasons youâd rather not study too closely.
In class, Ford barely looks at you. He doesnât say hello, he doesn't bring up the project, he doesnât even acknowledge your presence when you attempt to talk to him on the way out of class, either.
It feels awful.
You try to tempt him into debate a few times but shockingly, he doesn't rise to it. Instead, he looks everywhere but at you, jaw tight and head bowed, and he even pretends not to notice when you purposely get a history fact wrong in the hopes he might feel compelled to correct you. Thatâs the moment you realise that something is seriously wrong.
You hate to admit it, but the lack of challenge and his avoidance is making you so fucking miserable that even the other students have begun to pick up on it.
Youâve been moping about so much recently that Melissa and Jennifer have dragged you along to a party under the guise of getting you so insanely drunk that you might either admit whatâs pissing you off or forget about it altogether.
As far as youâre aware, none of them know the real reason for your melancholy and theyâre putting it down to academic stress. Theyâre not entirely wrong in that vein anyway, and you suppose it might be good to focus on something else (and chug free booze), so you agree.
Which is why you find yourself standing about on the quad this evening, dressed up as nicely as you can be bothered to be, and milling around while you wait for the others to get their act together and head over to the East Wing dormitories where the party is taking place.
The group is made up of yourself, Jennifer, Melissa, and Melissa's boyfriend Jamie, plus one of his idiot friends that you're too annoyed by to ask their name.
The others are already drunk enough that it's been a challenge in and of itself to herd them downstairs and out into the open night air, and getting them to actually follow you across campus is proving equally as hard.
You're only slightly buzzed; barely a couple of clear-liquor drinks in so far and not at all as wasted as you'd like to be if this is going to set the tone for the evening.
Frustrated, you roll your eyes at where Jamie and his buddies are attempting to show the other girls how many people they can lift with just one arm, and step away. âAre we planning on actually making it to this dumb party, or do I have to watch you guys try and put your backs out all night?â You ask, not even attempting to hide the annoyance in your voice.
Melissa laughs and shakes her head. âOh come on, you're no fun!â She says, coming to your side to hang off your arm. âLive a little!â
The bag on your shoulder, the one you carry with you everywhere, slips down a little at her insistent touch and you huff, pulling away to correct it. It's less filled than it usually is tonight, only holding your purse, your keys, and the small, reliable, battered sketchbook that you always keep close just in case inspiration hits.
âI'm living vicariously through you,â you tell her dryly. âBut right now I'm cold and I want a fucking drink, so can we please just get a move on already?â The night air is cool enough to prickle gooseflesh on your bare arms and you rub at them insistently.
âTake my jacket, babe,â says the other jock, lumbering over in the hopes of winning favour.
âThanks, but Iâm good,â you refuse, wrinkling your nose a little. You really donât want to give him the wrong idea and let him think heâs got an in with you. You know how these types are, after all.
âGod, lighten up already!â Jamie scoffs, swaggering along with one arm thrown around Melissa. âYou're being such a bitch tonight.â
You open your mouth to inform him that you're most assuredly not being a bitch but that you'd be very happy to show him what you're like when you are, when Jennifer cuts you off.
âWorking with Stanford Pines for whoever-the-fuck knows how long will do that to a person,â she snorts. âThat's enough to turn anyone into a dick.â
Jamie and his buddy gawp at you. âNo kiddinâ?â The jock says, a broad, blonde spectacle with unsettling blue eyes. âYouâre in with that fuckinâ loser? Bummer, dude.â
âOh yeah,â Melissa giggles. âAll we hear these days is how much he sucks. Says he's a real assholeâŚ.â
âWhat's he doing in an art class?â He asks. You think his name might be Riley. âIsn't he like, a total math geek or whatever?â
Before you can interrupt, Jamie laughs, obnoxious and scathing. âOh yeah, totally. I bet he only gets hard for science, right?â He says, grinning nastily toward you. âOr have you been- What's that guy calledâŚ. Purlow? Pavlov? That's it, Pavlov!â He snaps his fingers together, clearly pleased at the chance to flex some of his psychology minor in front of the girls. âYou been Pavlov-inâ him to get hard another way?â
âEw!â The girls collapse into giggles.
You grit your teeth. âWow, Jamie, it's so cool that you know such a big word!â You grind out, jaw flexing. âI didn't know they taught Psych 101 in Kindergarten.â
âHey, fuck you-â
âAnd,â you keep going, temper rising not least because of the topic. âFor your information, we've just been doing a project together. It wasn't exactly by choice and anyway, he won't even talk to me anymore so problem solved, I guess.â
âWait, is that why you two stopped fighting in class all the time?â Asks Jen, suddenly intrigued. âDid something happen?â Her intonation is suggestive and you know she's probably coming up with wild theories in her mind already.
Melissa squeals. âOh my god, did you finally fuck him?!â
âNo!â You say immediately, shaking your head. âNothing like that!â
The boys guffaw and shove each other around, jeering and laughing. âThat's fuckinâ gross,â says Riley, âWho would wanna screw him?â
âHey, I heard heâs got six fingers,â sniggers Jennifer. âI bet that makes a difference, huh?â
âGod, shut up,â you mutter, rolling your eyes. âI told you, itâs not-â
âWhat a fucking freak,â laughs Jamie.
âHeâs a loser, babe,â scoffs Riley, attempting to put an arm around your shoulders again. âYou need a real man, not a fuckinâ dork like that. I bet he-!â
âLook, heâs not that bad!â You interrupt, raising your voice a bit and shucking the boyâs arm off of you. âHeâs not- He isnât a total asshole all the time, okay? And heâs not a freak, thatâs not cool. Donât talk about him like that.â
Truthfully, you say it accidentally. You donât mean to defend him and especially not to this particular group of people, but theyâre being so mean spirited and these jocks are such dickheads that you feel dirty even allowing them to say as much as they have.
Allâs fair in love and war between you and Ford; going back and forth with one another is purely business. It never reduces to calling the other person names or taking low blows like this, and it feels weird to let other people outright bully him. Especially over his hands.
You think that might be the cause of his whole meltdown earlier this week, and even the thought of him overhearing such cruelty makes you feel sicker than any amount of alcohol could.
The others stare at you like youâve announced you intend to swan dive from the campus clocktower and momentarily, all of them are silent. That is, until Jamie opens his big mouth again: âWhat are you, like, in love with him or something?â
You feel your face suddenly begin to get very warm. âWhat?â You laugh, trying to sound dismissive. âNo! God, no! Of course Iâm not! I just-â
âHoly shit,â Jennifer says, a slow grin spreading on her face as she puts the puzzle pieces together. âYouâre totally into him, arenât you? Thatâs why youâve been so lame recently! Youâre all sad that he wonât talk to you!â
âNo!â You refute, holding your hands up defensively. âNo! Itâs nothing like that!â
Your bag slips down your shoulder again and Jennifer grabs it without warning, dragging it off of your person and procuring your sketching journal.
âYouâre such a liar,â she says, laughing, âLook, here,â She opens the journal to the page that your pencil is lodged into and flaunts it to the others. âI saw you drawing these last free seshâ when he wasnât in class! Makes total sense nowâŚ.â
You instantly know exactly what sheâs showing them: In free sessions, youâre given time to practise areas you might need to improve upon, and Ford had mentioned your anatomy a while ago. Youâd taken it on board, however testily, and found yourself sketching away that afternoon.
Only, what youâd been drawing had been Fordâs anatomy. Nothing lewd, obviously, but something still intimate: his hands.
Ever since noticing them, youâve been intrigued. Call it fate from the theme of your project, but something about them has drawn you in and youâve struggled to forget them. Theyâre fascinating and beautiful and very weirdly him, and maybe yes okay you've been having some complicated feelings about him recently but does everybody need to know?!
Jamie laughs at you, snatching the book from Jen and inspecting the sketches up close. âHoly shit,â he says. âYouâre made for each other, pair of freaks!â
âFuck off, Jamie!â you snap, face burning. You try to snatch the book back and he holds it aloft, out of your reach. âGive it back!â
âNo way!â He jeers, and then he glances off above your head and his ugly grin grows even wider. âHey, check it outâŚ. Thereâs your boyfriend now! Why donât we ask Fordsy what he thinks of these?â
Much to your utter horror and absolute distress, when you turn to see where Jamie is pointing, you spot Ford striding across campus. Heâs wearing an argyle sweater and brown slacks (and bless him, he really does look like a nerd), and he seems to be heading towards his own dorm.
He hasnât spotted your group yet and silently, you pray that Jamie is just trying to rile you up.
Except, Jamie gives less of a fuck about your prayers than the universe itself does. He raises one shovel sized hand and yells out to him: âYo, Stanford! Hold up a minute there, buddy!â
Ford freezes on the spot and turns your way, eyes wide like a rabbit in headlights. He looks confused.
âJamie, donât you dare!â You hiss, attempting to kick at the bigger manâs shins as he strides past you. It does nothing to stop him and instead, you turn to Jennifer. âDo something!â You say, and you hate how much it sounds like begging.
âTake a chill pill already,â Jennifer laughs. âHeâs just kidding around.â
It takes great self control not to tear your own (or her) hair out as the rest of the group trot after Jamie.
Petrified, you jog along to catch up with them and by the time you reach them again, theyâre already collaring Stanford.
Jamie slings a heavy handed arm around Fordâs shoulders, knocking his glasses askew, and he jerks him about a bit. âHowâs it hanginâ, buddy?â He asks, grinning. âUp to no good?â
âWhat?â Ford says, both annoyed at being stopped by such a group and awkward about how to deal with the interaction.
Jamie rolls his eyes and shakes his head, dramatically playing it up for the sake of the others. âWhat are you up to tonight, man?â
âOh,â Ford shrugs. âI just finished at the library, I was going home. Thatâs all.â
Jamie laughs and the others join in. âOn a Friday night, dude?â
âIsâŚ. Is there a more suitable night to do it on?â Ford asks, sounding genuinely curious, and oh god your heart breaks for him.
The boys share a look of incredulity and laugh amongst themselves as you elbow your way through them. They part after a second, with some sharp elbow pokes to persuade them to move, and you stop in front of Ford and Jamie, hoping you don't look as distressed as you feel.
Ford's expression hardens the moment he notices you. It's obvious he's about as pleased to see you as he is to see the others and although, admittedly, that stings more than it has any right to, you half hope it might work in your favour to get him to leave.
âHi, Ford,â you say, hoping you sound both casual and suggestive enough to let him know he should run for the hills. âWhy donât you get outta here and weâll just-â
âWoah, woah,â says Jamie, cutting in before you can finish your sentence. âNot so fast, man. I have a question!â
Ford's frown deepens and he looks over at Jamie. Although the jock is tall, Ford matches his height well enough that, other than his lack of muscle, means that he doesnât seem to be quite as intimidated as somebody of a smaller stature might be. That being said, he still looks decidedly uncomfortable with the whole affair.
âUh, sureâŚ?â Ford says, shrugging one shoulder. âWhat can I do for you?â
Jamie stifles a laugh and looks to the others, who similarly struggle to keep their laughter contained.
You know where heâs taking this topic. Heâs still holding your sketchbook, waving it around to punctuate his words. âJamie, leave it alone, stop being-â
âCome on, don't be such a square!â Melissa laughs, and Jamie is quick to agree.
âIs it true you've got extra fingers, Fordsy?â Asks Jamie, through the most horrible shit-eating grin you've ever seen. âAccording to certain sources,â He winks dramatically at you, implicating you in his plan. âYou're rockinâ six on each hand, right? Thatâs far out, man. â
Ford pales and simultaneously turns a deep shade of crimson, and his gaze snaps immediately to you. âWhat?â He says, his usually deep voice suddenly weak.
âYou heard me, check it out,â Jamie flips open your sketchbook and you know he's showing Ford the pages of your sketching study.
Ford's brows knit upwards as he realises what he's looking at, distress and anger clear on his handsome face, and your blood turns to ice.
He looks devastated, eyes scanning back and forth over your work like he can't believe what he's seeing. Rather than seize the book for a closer look, you watch as he slips his hands into the pockets of his pants, hiding them from the view of everyone else, and your heart squeezes unpleasantly in your chest.
The subtle way that he does it makes you realise this is probably not the first time he's pulled such a move.
âYouâŚ. You drew these? Of me?â He asks in a small voice, glancing up at you. There's such a dejected sadness in his eyes that you almost want to be sick.
âNo!â You say immediately. âI mean- Yes, I did, but not- I didn't draw them like tha-!â
âSome people must dig freaks, man, you're all over this shit!â Jamie chokes out through his laughter and the others follow suit.
âShut up!â You snap at him before turning your attention back to Ford. âYou don't understand! Yes, I drew them, but not because-!â
âI understand perfectly,â says Ford stiffly, and something steely and cold flashes in his gaze. He presses his mouth into a thin line and you can tell he's not just upset, but furious.
âYeah,â Riley grins, stepping forward for his turn in the ring. âIf you weren't doing it because you thought they were fuckinâ weird then why were you drawing them?â
âIâŚ.â Your voice dries up. What are you supposed to say? Because I think they're really stellar and unique, and I think you are too? Jamie and the others will eat you alive. The words just won't come and all you can do is stare back at Ford, equally as red faced and humiliated.
Jamie is still harping on about the sketches, pointing things out to Ford who isn't looking at anything he's being shown. He's justâŚ. Staring right back at you with a mixture of genuine sadness and utter betrayal on his face.
You have to look away after a moment. It's too much to bear and you feel so awful that meeting his eye feels shameful. Although you know you haven't done anything with the intention of hurting him, you know how it must look.
When you tune back in, Jamie is still going: â-should be grateful you got to work with her, buddy. What other chance would a guy like you have to be friends with-â
You're not sure what makes you react, whether it's the combination of guilt and embarrassment, or whether it's simply because you've had enough of all this, but almost automatically, you step forward and shove Jamie away from Ford.
âJamie, shut the fuck up,â you snap, pushing him as hard as you can manage in his stupidly broad chest. âDon't talk to him like that, asshole, it's not fucking cool. You're a piece of shit, man.â
Thankfully, the push is just about strong enough to get Jamie to stagger back a couple of paces and relinquish his grip from around Ford's shoulders. He stumbles and his laughter dies, along with the others.
âHey!â He growls, stepping toward you and puffing out his chest. âWhat did you just say to me?â
This is exactly the reason you hate his type. They're loud and braggadocious and cruel, and they absolutely cannot take the heat themselves.
You square your shoulders back. You're nowhere near his size and if he decides to hit you then it'll be a permanent lights out for sure, but you're hoping he might at least realise his girlfriend would be upset if he knocked out her classmate. Desperately hoping, in factâŚ.
âI said, stop. You're acting like a loser, leave him alone,â you say, admirably firm in spite of your nerves.
Jamie stomps over to you, teeth bared in a grotesque grimace. âYou fuckinâ bitch, who are you callinâ a loser?!â He stretches out one hand as if to grab you and you brace yourself for the final nail in your coffin, when Ford abruptly steps between you both.
âThat's enough,â he says firmly, sounding more fierce than you've ever heard him. âIf you want to act like a child and bully me, do it. I don't care.â Ford glances back at you. âBut don't drag other people into it just because you're a fucking drunken manchild who can't take it.â
For half a second, everything goes deathly silent. No one says a single word. All you do is gape at Ford in utter disbelief at his cutting words, as do the others. Even Jamie looks completely blindsided by it.
Clearly not finished, Ford keeps going, and this time it seems heâs talking more to you than to everyone else. âI don't need anyone to stick up for me, I'm not a child anymore. Iâm perfectly capable of arguing against idiots like y-!â
Unfortunately for Ford, no matter how much you deserve his ire, with his attention on you instead of the threat, he completely misses Jamie reeling one of his big fists back and you watch in horror as he swings it in Fordâs direction.
You barely get the chance to let out an aborted shout of warning before Jamieâs knuckles collide solidly with Fordâs nose and send him stumbling back past you. They make a sickening crack! as the hit lands perfectly across his face, and Ford is sent sprawling on his ass in a lightning quick second.
Jamie moves as though he intends to follow Ford to the floor and keep hitting, but one of the other boys thankfully catches his fist and prevents him from going through with it. The group shout amongst themselves about it, evidently surprised by the sudden turn.
Instantly, you drop to your knees in the damp grass beside Ford and hover anxiously around him. Blood gushes out of his nose as soon as he hits the floor, cascading down over his lips and smattering onto the wool of his sweater, and his glasses are thrown from his face with the force. He groans in pain, his once hidden hands flying up to cradle his injury and to stem the bleeding. It does little to help.
âOh, my god!â Your hands hover around his face helplessly, unsure where to touch him. âFuck, Ford, are you-!â
âHeâs fine,â says Jamie, waving away the concerns of the others. âForget about him, weâre leaving.â He leans down to grab you by the arm but you smack him away angrily.
âFuck off!â You shout, voice wavering. âYou hit him!â
âSo? He shouldnât have mouthed off like that,â Jamie says, like itâs obvious. âWhatever, you wanna stay with him? Fine. Be two fuckinâ freaks together for all I care.â
He gestures for the others to follow him as he begins to walk towards the party dorm, carelessly tossing your sketchbook into the dirt beside Ford. You look up to the others for help, yet they only spare you a half-hearted sympathetic look before following the ringleader.
You want to yell after them, to tell them how pathetic they are laughing along, but for now youâll have to save your anger. Instead, you root around in your bag for some spare tissues and quickly hold them up to Fordâs bloody face. âShit,â you breathe, noticing just how much blood there is. âIâm taking you to the medical office, Ford.â
You grab his glasses and attempt to help him to his feet, however he shrugs you away. âGet lost,â he says thickly through the wall of blood on his mouth, snatching his glasses from your hands and shoving them into his pocket.
âWhat?â you say, confused as though youâre the one whoâs just had your shit rocked. âFord, you're hurt, let me help you!â
âI don't need your help!â he snaps, struggling to his feet.
Youâre taken aback by his reaction, however heâs a little shaky, clearly discombobulated by the hit and the entire event, and even though he doesn't seem open to your touch, you catch him by the elbows to steady him.
He wipes his lips with the sleeve of his already-ruined sweater, dark blood swiping across the wool. Itâs a fruitless effort; the gore is simply further smeared around his face. It does little to reduce the mess and everything to spread it, and Ford turns his head away from you to spit out the blood that's gathering in his mouth.
As soon it's clear that he can stand unassisted, Ford shakes off your tentative touch as though you're some kind of leper. He meets your eyes and the look he fixes you with is so searing that it's enough to turn your insides to liquid ice. He shoulders you aside and takes off across the lawn, ignoring a few curious onlookers and striding towards his dorm.
Momentarily, youâre too stunned to follow him. Heâs never looked at you like that before and frankly, it fucking hurts. After all this time, after all of your disagreements and squabbles, Ford has never been quite soâŚ. Disgusted with you.
As much as you might like to crawl under a rock in your ashamed state, you just canât leave things like this. Besides, he might be seriously hurt beyond what you can see; that punch was solid and Ford isnât much of a fighter, not to your knowledge anyway. If he dropped dead of a brain bleed or something equally as awful and dramatic, youâd never forgive yourself.
Frankly, youâre not sure you ever will anyway.
You shove your sketchbook back into your bag and take off after him, jogging across the damp grass to try and catch up with his purposeful movements.
âFord!â You call out to his retreating back. âWait up!â
He does no such thing. His stride doesnât even falter at your request.
You push onwards, trying to tamp down the frustration you feel and speeding up just enough to reach his side as he swings open the door to his building, leaving a smear of blood across the handle. âStanford!â
âStop following me!â Ford snaps over his shoulder. He lets it fall heavily back onto you without even glancing in your direction.
You ignore him, chasing after his back. The building is surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening; there are usually at least a few students milling about in the halls, whether theyâre looking to party or just avoid studying for a few hours, most of the time thereâs someone about.
Not tonight though, it seems. Perhaps theyâre all off to the party youâre supposed to be attendingâŚ..
As you follow Ford down the North hallway, past the walls of pigeon hole letterboxes and glass cases of alumni photos, you try again to stop him. âFord, come on, youâre bleeding everywhere. Just stop a second, please,â you cajole. âWhat if you have a concussion?â
Ford still doesnât answer. He keeps power walking down the corridor, taking a sharp right and barrelling into what seems to be a common area.
There are couches and chairs pushed towards the corners of the room, arranged around mismatched tables and strewn with remnants of earlier life: styrofoam coffee cups and screwed up pieces of paper, and even a couple of crumpled beer cans.
As he passes through, Ford shows no signs of slowing and your frustration rises. âLook, you can be mad at me all you want but please just let me take you to the nurseâs office!â
âIâm fine,â Ford says, voice strained in a way that betrays how much he definitely is not fine. Itâs a sick parody of your last conversation in the studio.
He starts to speed up again, nearly jogging now in his determination to escape you as he approaches the farthest side of the room, and despite the way your breath is already burning in your lungs, you force yourself to match his stride.
The shaky way he dismisses your worry only upsets you more and in your unfit desperation, before he can reach for the exit, you jerk out a hand and grab the sleeve of his sweater, snatching him back by the fabric at his elbow. âNo, youâre-!â
âLet go of me!â Ford rounds on you, shoulders squared and chin jutted upward like he expects you to be the next person to fight him. He halts so suddenly that you almost crash into him, stepping into your space and causing you to stumble back a few paces.
Heâs tall enough to be intimidating when he draws himself up fully like this but you refuse to let him make you back off.
âNo!â you shout back, keeping a firm hold of his sweater as best you can. âLet me help you, Ford, I can explain-!â
âDid you all have a good laugh?!â Ford asks bitterly, cutting you off. He seizes your wrist, his grip tight over where youâre clutching onto him. âAbout my hands? About me?! When you showed them those sketches, did it feel good to win their stupid approval?â
He squeezes your wrist tightly and you grit your teeth, acquiescing your hold on him and releasing his sweater. The blood on his fingers smears across your skin, cool and coagulated, and he uses a strength you didnât know he possessed to hold you still.
âIt's not like that!â You say, breath hitching. âI didn't draw those for anybody but myself.â
âBullshit!â Ford snarls, jerking your wrist back and forth. âI know you're lying!â
âIt's the truth!â You snap, hackles rising at his roughness and his accusations.
Tonight has been full of mistakes on your part, sure, but if Ford won't even let you explain then how are you supposed to even try and fix all this?! âJamie and the others grabbed my sketchbook off of me, Ford. I didn't give it to them! That stuff was private!â
âThen why would you even have things like that in there?!â Ford yells back, scowling.
âBecause I- It wasnât supposed to be-â You stumble over your words as you shout back at him, anger and humiliation lodging them in your throat, and Ford seizes the opportunity to scold you further.
âExactly! Stop lying to me!â
âIâm not lying to you, Ford!â You wrench your hand from his grip, fed up with his claims. For all your guilt, youâre not going to let him just shout and scream at you in a public hallway until he deigns you with the opportunity to explain yourself. âI wouldnât do something like that, no matter how little you think of me!â You say, jabbing him in the chest with your finger a few times.
You rock up on your toes to try and draw your faces level as you bark back and forth at each other. âThey were the ones who brought it up, not me! I was telling them to stop!â
Fordâs jaw flexes with each jab of your finger, lip twitching with anger. âYeah, right.â He laughs, scathing. âYou think I missed how you reacted in the studio earlier this week? I mean, was that even the first time you realised or was it just the first time you saw me up so close that you couldnât help yourself? I know you think I'm a freak, just like everyone else does! That's why you drew those- those fucking caricatures of my hands and you laughed it up with your stupid little friends about me!â
âNo, I-!â idiot
Ford jabs a finger into your chest, right above your heart, mirroring your pose to him and pressing down hard as he shouts in your face, like a haughty parent telling off their unruly child. âYou know, I hate to admit this, really I do, but I'm actually disappointed in you! I had hoped it wasnât like that between us! I enjoyed that you disliked me because Iâm smarter than you, because Iâm a better artist than you are, and not because of my hands. Everybody else goes straight for the obvious bait because they can never compare to the rest of me, but I suppose you must be just like your asshat, jock buddies afterall!â
âI am not-!â You attempt to shout over him, to interrupt his tirade, but Ford keeps going, poking you hard again.
âAnd do you want to know the worst part about all of this?â He demands, looking borderline insane with wide eyes and blood all over his face. âThe worst part is that your sketches were fucking terrible! Your anatomy is just as shitty as it was the day we met!â
Like a dam, your limited composure breaks. The insult is small in comparison to all his other harsh words, some of which you can even admit you might deserve, but his obnoxiousness has grown steadily like a snowball careening down a slippery slope and gathering mass, and thatâs the final nail in the coffin for you.
âYou know what, Ford? Fuck you!â You shout, driving your own finger back into his broad chest as hard as you can and poking him with every word. Your breath comes in short, sharp pants as you lay into him, your noses almost touching as neither of you back down to the other.
âFuck you! You fucking idiot! You donât know anything about how I feel. Do I think you're an asshole with a god complex? Absolutely! Do other people say all kinds of shit about your hands? Of course they do! But I never cared enough to actually check how many fingers you have! The other day in the studio, that was the first time I ever even noticed it! ! I never thought that you were a freak, Stanford, not even once!â
Something strange falters in Ford's expression but you barrel onward, refusing to give him the chance to come back at you.
âOur entire project is about uniqueness, you stupid fucking idiot!â You continue, desperately fighting the thick lump that rises in your throat and the burning that prickles the corners of your eyes. You're so exhausted and worked up, so humiliated and angry, and this is the fallout of everything at once. There's no stopping it now.
âI mean, for god's sake, we talked about how much we both like unusual things! That's why we picked that fucking topic, Ford! I like odd shit! I wasn't drawing your hands so that I could show my so-called friends and laugh about it with them, you moron! I was drawing your hands because I can't stop fucking thinking about them or how pretty they are, or how fucking pretty you are and if you just listened to me for once in your stupid-!â
You don't even get to finish your sentence before Ford's mouth is on yours, hot and determined, in the fiercest kiss you think youâve ever experienced.
You're not sure who moves first.
With barely a whisper between the two of you it's hard to tell, but in a flash the distance is closed and your hands are twisted in the front of his dirty sweater, leveraging him down as he backs you up into the closest wall.
Ford makes a guttural sound, the kind that rumbles in your chest, and one of his hands gropes blindly at your waist as he returns the kiss whilst the other plants itself beside your head on the wall.
Heâs clumsy and unskilled, and youâre pretty certain you can feel wet blood smearing across your own face as he presses into you, yet heâs so enthusiastic that you canât bring yourself to care much about any of that right now. It just feels so fucking good.
He tastes like coffee and copper, and his musky aftershave overwhelms your senses again, enveloping you as he presses even closer along your front. Ford's broad form is warm against your exposed skin where his weight pins you up against the wall. He's clearly been tipped off of balance by the motion and without his quick thinking of walking you back to the surface, you're sure you'd have bowled over by now.
Your hands slip up from the front of his sweater to tangle in his thick, curly hair, fingers catching in amongst the strands to pull him in until he's melting against you, pliant under your touch. It's evident that he doesn't have much practice at this and that, combined with the fervour of the motion, makes the kiss sloppy.
As foggy as your brain is right now, you manage to conjure just one silly thought as you coax his tongue with your own: Finally. Something I am better than him at.
Ford gives another groan at the sensation and almost instinctively, he slides a leg between yours. It's not clear if he knows how arousing it is or whether he's simply trying to balance himself better, but it does wonders for you all the same.
Warmth burns in the pit of your stomach, a molten hot interest that takes you by such surprise it practically has stars blooming behind your closed eyelids.
It feels like this is the catalyst: the final moment thatâs been building and building between you both ever since Ford arrived in Studio 1B. Rivalries and arguments that on the surface, had appeared to everyone but the two of you as a sign of more than just academic passion and the desperate need to be right. Everything has led to this and god, does it feel spectacular.
The tangy flavour of blood begins to overwhelm Ford's spit and just as you tilt your head to up the ante, sighing happily against his mouth, your nose catches his in the motion and Ford rips himself away with a yelp of pain.
âFuck!â He cries, letting go of your waist and pushing off the wall to cradle his nose.
You start, completely having forgotten about his injury, and rush to his aide. âShit! Iâm so sorry, I didnât even think-â
More blood trickles out from his nostrils, though thankfully not quite as much as on the initial hit, and winces. âProbably not the wisest of ideas in this state,â Ford mutters thickly, but he's giving you a lopsided smile that's big enough that you can tell he doesn't seem to mind too much. You can even see the blood that's settled in the gaps of his teeth.
A similar expression crosses your own face: a shy, stupid grin tugging at your mouth as you both share the same pleasantly surprised, if disbelieving, look. A few moments of silence follow the halting of the kiss and your situational awareness creeps back in.
The abrupt reminder of his injuries and the fact that you're likely equally now covered in blood, coupled with the fact that you're both still in a public space is enough to kick the sensible part of your brain into action.
You clear your throat and push up off the wall, straightening your clothing where Ford has left it rumpled with his wandering hands. âWe should probably get you cleaned up before weâŚ.�� You trail off, unsure of exactly where you mean for your train of thought to go.
Ford nods, understanding. âRight. Of course.â
âIâll walk you to your room,â you say, gesturing for him to show you the way. âIf you wonât go to the nurse then at least let me fix you up a bit.â
Ford nods again, cheeks flushed, and takes you through the double doors youâd stood by barely five minutes ago, leading you deeper into the building. Heâs only living on the second floor with his roommate and thankfully, it doesnât take too long for you to reach his dorm.
There still arenât many students hanging around up here and the ones that are are far too preoccupied with their own business to even spare a glance at you both. You suppose that without engaging in a screaming match, you can pass by covered in whatever substance you like without drawing attention.
âF is out visiting his parents this weekend,â Ford explains as he unlocks the door to his room and lets you inside. âItâll just be us.â
ââFâ?â You ask, stepping into the darkness.
âFiddleford, my diplomatic roommate,â Ford says, and even in the dark you can hear the smile in his voice.
âAh, I remember,â you grin.
Ford fumbles around until he finds his desk lamp, flicking it on and filling the room with a soft, warm glow. It makes the mess on his face look an otherworldly black. He busies himself with rummaging around in the bottom drawer of what you presume to be his personal desk that sits at the side of his bed, and you take the opportunity to absorb his living space.
All the dorms in Backupsmore are built the same: cheaply and efficiently with the bare minimum added, and Fordâs is no different. The far wall is exposed brick, with a broad window in its centre, while the other walls are covered in drab, ochre wallpaper.
Above Fordâs half-made bed is the navy BMU flag along with a few posters that are, frankly, quite adorable. Thereâs one of Tesla posed before his famous coils and another of Sagan, with what you can only describe as an alarmingly seductive look on his face. Admittedly, Sagan is quite the looker, as is Tesla when you really consider it, so you can hardly blame Ford for his choices.
Nestled around the posters are books. Lots of books. All packed in tightly on cheap shelves and those that wonât fit with their partners are stacked up around the room in untidy piles. You can count at least six different stacks by his bed alone, most of which seem to vary from physics to astronomy to advanced mathematics.
Ford must catch you taking it all in because he clears his throat awkwardly and you break away from your staring to look at him directly. âSorry,â he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. âI donât really get any company in here besides Fidds, so itâs a little messy.â
You laugh quietly. If only he could see the state of your roomâŚ. âDonât worry about it,â you assure him. âNobody comes to college to be tidy.â
Careful not to disturb their precarious resting places, you pick your way around the book piles and take a seat on the edge of his bed.
Ford joins you after he adjusts the desk lamp to shine directly over you, carrying a small white plastic box and setting it between you both. He retrieves his glasses from his pocket and puts them beside the box so he can sit comfortably.
You realise itâs a proper medical kit. âDo you just happen to carry around a first aid box with you all the time?â
Ford huffs a laugh as he clicks it open and roots through it to find what he needs. âWhen you get bullied enough as a kid, you start to learn that carrying around things like first aid come in pretty handy sooner or later.â
He says it so casually that your heart squeezes in your chest. âFordâŚ.â You say, soft and slightly pained. âThatâs awful, you know that, right?â
Ford shrugs one shoulder, procuring some sterile wipes and plasters from the kit. âYou get used to it.â
You want to tell him that that's ludicrous, that he shouldn't have to do any such thing, but you know how cruel people can be. It's not like he can do much to stop them anyway; Ford fights back intellectually, not physically, and talking back to someone in the way he has done tonight has only worked out poorly for him. Rather than reply, you put your hand on his knee and he pauses in his motion of opening the wipes.
âIf anyone gives you trouble again, tell me,â you say with a smile. âI'll put white spirit in their coffee.â
âThanks,â Ford laughs and you can see the upset tension leave his shoulders a bit. âIâd rather not kill anyone over it, but thatâs very kind of youâŚ. In a weird, unethical sort of way.â
He goes to use the wipes on his face but you stop him, taking the packet from his hands and plucking a couple out. Ford lets you do it without any quarrel, watching you closely.
The blood isn't too thick when you begin to wipe it away, although it has begun to oxidise into a more congealed state, and carefully you start to swipe it away underneath his nose.
For a few minutes, Ford observes you in silence before finally speaking up again: "Did you really draw my hands because you like them?" He asks, voice quiet.
You don't meet his eyes as you take hold of his chin, gently tilting his head towards the light a little more. "Yes," is all you reply, praying he doesn't pick up on your embarrassment.
The area you're working on is close enough to his mouth that you catch him bite down on a smile, and you try to fight your own grin by doubling your focus on your work. Neither of you press the matter.
You clean up over his philtrum and his lips, covering your thumb with the wipe and swiping it across his closed mouth slowly. You swear you do it only to ensure that youâre being gentle, but you can hear Fordâs breath catch in his throat with the movement and youâre not immune to the intimacy of the act.
Despite not looking directly at him, you can feel his gaze boring into you. You imagine this must be how his science experiments feel, pinned down under his watchful eye and dissected by observation. Admittedly, itâs not the worst feeling in the worldâŚ.
Once the blood is gone from his face, you turn your attention to the rest of his injury. The hit must have been solid; a strong blow square on the nose. Thereâs a fairly clean cut across the bridge, probably from both the force and the metal of his glasses biting into the thin skin there. The edges are raw and reddened, and already you can see a purplish bruise beginning to spread from the cut outwards towards his left eye.
âI donât think itâs broken, thank god,â you murmur, dabbing the cut gently. âBut youâre gonna have one hell of a bruise for a while.â
Ford winces slightly. âThatâll be humiliating to explain.â
âPeople will think Jamie is the embarrassment, Ford, trust me,â you assure him. âAll you did was stand up for yourselfâŚ. And for me. Thank you for that, by the way. You really didnât need to-â
âHe was going to hit you.â Ford interrupts. âI didnât want that, no matter how upset I was.â
âMaybe, but itâs not like I didnât deserve it.â
Ford catches you by the wrist where youâre finishing with his nose, lowering your hand, and you meet his gaze. He's looking at you like you've said the stupidest thing imaginable. âNo, you didn't,â he says, so firmly that you find yourself unable to argue.
âI still should have done something sooner, Ford. This whole thing is my fault,â you say, shaking your head. âI swear that I didn't draw those sketches of you because I wanted to show the others, and definitely not because I think you're weird. I'm sorry that I didn't just admit everything before things got so out of control, but I meant what I said earlier.â
âI think it's fairly clear that we both misunderstood each other, wouldn't you agree?â Ford says with a tiny smile. âI overreacted in the studio without thinking and I didn't want to bring it up in case you really did think I was a freak. I'm not sure I could've taken it, to be honest.â
âIs that why you've been avoiding me all this time? Skipping sessions and stuff?â You frown.
Ford's cheeks stain red, visible even in the low light, and he looks away with a nod, abashed.
âWhy not just talk to me, you idiot?â You say, not unkindly.
It's evident that he's embarrassed to go further into detail, but he's piqued your interest now. It's too late to play coy and he probably knows it.
âIâŚ.â Ford huffs, still not meeting your eye. âFidds is my only friend here and, wellâŚ. Even when you and I argued in class you were never cruel about it. You held your own and I respected that. I still do. That's why I assumed we were having fun,â he says, recalling your discussion in the studio last week.
âAnd then we started working together. I suppose I expected it to be terrible but you talked to me like I was just another normal person. You asked me about myself. No one ever does thatâŚ.â Ford says, looking so wistful that your heart threatens to break further. âUsually itâs about my hands or my brain, or âFord, can you do my essay for me?â, âFord, can I copy your test?â, and it was just so different that I suppose I hoped we might eventually become friends. When you saw my hands and reacted out of nowhere, I worried that you'd wind up being just like the others, so I avoided asking so I didn't have to have my fears confirmed.â
You struggle to form the words that you desperately want to say. Not out of humiliation or fear this time, but because the lump in your throat is so big that nothing seems to be able to get past it beyond a weak sounding: âFordâŚ.â
âThat was wrong of me, I know,â he continues. âOld habits die hard and all thatâŚ. Plus, I can't say my intentions were wholly pure, but that is mostly your fault.â
That's enough to startle a laugh from you. âOh?â
Ford smiles to himself and takes a deep breath, like he's finally admitting to a deep secret. âYou're very attractive, I couldn't really help itâŚ. Why do you think I kept standing so close to you in the studio?â
You can feel your cheeks burn and you smile, stupid and shy. Slipping free of his grip, you take his hand in your own and lace your fingers together. The fit is unusual with his extra appendage but you find that it's quite nice to have your palm so entirely encompassed.
Ford is surprised by the action, staring down at where you're holding him.
âLook at me, Stanford,â you command, and he does exactly as you ask without hesitation.
You use your free hand to grab his glasses from the bed and, mindful to avoid irritating the cut, you slide them onto his face gently so that he can see you properly.
âYou almost drove me mad with that, you know?â You smile and Ford does too, hope dawning on his handsome features. âI admit that I thought you were a total asshole at first. You made me look like an idiot as soon as you started in class and I hated it. You didn't even want to be there but you were better than everyone else, and I took it personally. I mean, you were also kind of a jerk about art and that did get under my skinâŚ.â
Ford winces, looking suitably guilty, but you smile.
âThe more we spent time together, though, the more I realised that youâre not so badâŚ. Still a bit of an ass but itâs not like Iâm always an innocent party either,â You grin. âAnd for what itâs worth, in the studio that day? I only noticed your hands while I was looking for something to distract myself with because you were so close to me. I was worried Iâd make an idiot of myself and do something stupid that I couldnât take back.â
âOhâŚ.â Fordâs brows raise. âAndâŚ. Do you want to take back the- Our- I mean, what happened earlier?â
Itâs sweet that he canât quite say it. âYou mean when you kissed me?â
âTechnically, you kissed me,â he argues back without hesitation.
âI donât think thatâs how it went down,â you smirk. âFairly certain you were the one who started it.â
âI'm afraid I only work with cold, hard facts.â Ford grins. âYou'll have to prove it.â
âMake me.â
Ford takes a sharp breath in, gaze dropping to your mouth. âYou have no idea how much I want to, butâŚ. You're still covered in my blood.â
Oh, right. Youâd forgotten about that.
âShit,â you mutter, grabbing one of the wipes and blindly smearing it over your mouth. You must look crazy.
Ford laughs under his breath and takes it from you, making quick work of the spots you've missed. After a moment, he speaks again: âThat was my first kiss, you know,â he admits.
You're too polite to voice your lack of shock, but you had suspected it might be. Ford is hardly the type to get about in such a way if his behaviour at Backupsmore is anything to go by.
Even in the flurry of action it had been easy to pinpoint a certain lack of grace. Not that it's an issue for you, of course, it certainly feels nice to possess a skill that he doesnât for once. âAnd how was it?â You ask, tactfully avoiding any insecurity he might have over it.
âBesides hurting my nose?â Ford says, tossing the wipe onto the soiled pile. âBetter than correctly calculating a hypothesis before anyone else has even started the experiment.â
You stare at him blankly.
âThrilling,â Ford clarifies with a grin, and then he's kissing you again. It's gentle and nervous, yet hungry enough that you can feel how desperate he is to return right back to that earlier moment.
You make a soft, happy sound, your eyes falling closed and hands reaching up to cup his face. Again, Ford takes a hold of your waist and leans into you, exhaling heavily through his sore nose. You'll have to remind him to take some painkillers before he loses himself completely for the eveningâŚ.
The rest of the night passes just like that: Exchanging slow, delicate kisses with barely restrained heat and talking about life. Ford (just about) apologises for his anatomy comments ("They're better than the other ones, at least....") and you take it in gracious stride; a lot of things have been said (or not said, as the case may be) tonight that neither of you mean.
It won't do to hold them against one another now and anyway, you can pick a better time to help him work on his constructive criticism delivery than right this minute.
Things don't progress further than that, though. You're too concerned that his brain might still be rattled from the punch and even he confesses he's a little nervous about bleeding all over you again.
You stick to chatting, punctuated by measured makeouts and hesitant touches, and somehow itâs impossibly more arousing than jumping into bed with him immediately.
Hours go by before you can bring yourself to leave, and when you do Ford is polite enough not to beg you to stay even though it's blatant that he wants to. Youâre both completely rumpled, hot from toe to tip and wound tighter than a drum, but Ford doesn't pressure or guilt you to come back in the way others have before.
He offers to walk you home again, but the temptation to bring him inside your own dorm would be too much; you decline and assure him that for both of your sakes itâll be better that he stays here, and Ford, being the smart cookie that he is, understands immediately.
âWould you like to come over after our next study session? We could practise our presentation, hang out for a bit,â He suggests when you're standing on the threshold of his door, ready to leave. âMaybe listen to some recordsâŚ.?â
You hope that's code for âfuck each other's brains outâ.
âThat sounds groovy,â you say, smirking. âAre you bringing the vinyl's or should I?â
Ford flushes pink from his throat to the roots of his hair at the heavy innuendo in your question, but he keeps it together admirably, leaning on the doorframe as casually as he can. âWell, youâll be my guest,â he says, trying not to grin. âIt would be awfully rude of me to make you bring them yourself, would it not?â
Oh, that is so definitely code for âfuck each otherâs brains outâ.... This is going to be fun.
The two of you share a long, charged look, all barely restrained smiles and electric hope, before the slamming of a door down the hallway is enough to spur you back onto your original course of action.
âIâll see you in class, Ford,â you say, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.
âSweet dreams,â he murmurs, and then heâs closing the door and leaving you out in the hallway alone.
That night, your dreams really are the sweetest theyâve ever been.
In the end, your mid-term presentation with Ford is a resounding success. Professor Stonepoor seems pleasantly surprised by your cooperation, though he gloats a little about it being his plan all along, and all your hard work pays off when he awards you both top marks. He does also pull you aside to ensure that you arenât the one responsible for giving Ford his black eye, but Ford is quick to assure him that itâs quite the opposite.
Everything else between you both stays a secret, at least for now. Not because youâre ashamed or because Ford is unsure, but because itâs just too much fun to play along with the rivalry narrative. The back-and-forths stay the same in class, though now they serve closer to full on foreplay than academic fighting, and despite the fact that youâre sure a few people might have caught the little glances you throw at each other, nobody pulls you up on it. If theyâre still placing bets on your chemistry, youâll be damned if you give them the satisfaction of knowing for sure.
When Stonepoor catches the two of you making out in the spare studio after hours one evening, however, said plan falls apart. He declares, very jovially, that at least two other faculty members are going to owe him twenty bucks before he shuts the door on you, and as much as you want to complain about his lack of professionalism, the moment you meet Fordâs eyes neither of you can keep it together for long enough to form the words.
Allâs well that ends well, you suppose.
A/N: and yes, Stonepoor's name is a play on Rockwell, a famous artist from the 70's (man standing up meme!). I thought it was funny and I'm not sorry.
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Ford Pines â Gunplay
(nsfw drabble, minors dni!!!)
Ford Pines x GN!Reader
Summary: Youâre a freaky, like REAL freaky one and it just so happens that Ford carries a gun around all the damn time⌠and you just canât help yourself.
â đ
You had to beg Ford to try anything new in bed.
You were a little too freaky for your own good, you always knew that. Youâd been high off your ass a couple of times when having sex and you barely remembered what happened the morning after, only having marks and mysterious fluids on your body as evidence of your adventures. Now you were a little more settled, being that you were in a stable relationship with Stanford, but that risky side of you wasnât gone, obviously. You had noticed how Ford was pretty vanilla, very gentle and loving when it came to sex, and to anything in general really. You wouldnât have it any other way, but there was still that something⌠some spark you were missing. And apparently, your partner was a gun kinda guy, he had many types of cool alien guns heâd brought from the years heâd spent hopping dimensions, as heâd told you, and some others heâd modified himself. The fantasy of Ford defending you by aiming his gun at any threat already had you dripping, your dirtiest side taking over some nights when you just had to touch yourself at the thought.
Eventually, you resolved to try and ask him if heâd be willing to do some gunplay in the bedroom, because god damn did you need it badly. It was a hard task, a lot of kissing and begging involved before Ford finally gave in to your request.
âPlease, my loveâŚâ you made your best pleading voice as you sucked a sensual kiss to Fordâs neck, rutting your hips down on his lap to try and work him up. But of course, such an unusual ask had left him a little shocked.
âS-Stardust, I-â his breath hitched with another kiss you left, this one turning to a hickey as you nipped at the skin of his neck. But Fordâs hands found your hips, stopping your motion so he could actually concentrate. You pulled your face away from his neck with your brows slightly furrowed and your best pleading, needy eyes. Fuck, werenât you a sight for sore eyes.
âThatâs too dangerous, my loveâŚâ Fordâs eyes trailed over your face, as if silently asking what was wrong with you for you to want such a thing. But his hand was gentle and soft when he cupped your face on it, his gaze with a flicker of worry. âI wouldnât bear the pain of hurting you in the slightestâŚâ was all he could manage to try and discourage you.
But you turned your face to kiss his palm, your lips lingering there for a millisecond longer than needed, and you slowly fluttered your eyes open after that gentle peck. âPleaseâŚâ you begged with a whisper, then one of your hands gently held Fordâs in place as your lips trailed down his wrist, slowly and teasingly. Along the way, you muttered some more pleads, whimsical and needy. Then your lips moved back to his hand, his fingers more specifically, and you kissed each one of them, gently sucking at the tips. Each time youâd finish kissing one of them, youâd look right into Fordâs eyes and whimper a âpleaseâ again. When you got to his sixth finger, your lips lingered a little longer, this time sucking the finger as if it were his cock. He knew that feeling all too well, how youâd do exactly the things you knew would drive him crazy. But you staring right into his eyes while absolutely worshipping him to try and get him to fulfill your sick fantasy, that was what did it.
Ford let out a defeated groan, rolling his desk chair closer to a drawer that seemed to be locked. It wasnât unusual for him to have dangerous things locked down at the basement anyway, it was his lab and he experimented with anything he found, so many dangerous chemicals and objects could be found down there. But he turned the key and opened the drawer only to reveal a handgun that had a futuristic look, most likely a product of alien technology you had little to no knowledge of. Your eyes widened slightly with expectation and a bit of surprise because, apparently Ford gave in, just like that.
âOn your knees. Now.â Fordâs voice was different when he said this, darker, and his eyes had a lustful edge to them as well. You could only answer with a grateful whimper and immediately got off his lap and on your knees in front of him, expectant to anything heâd tell you to do. You werenât only down bad, but also absolutely infatuated with this man, and the need you felt only made you more submissive to Stanford. You didnât know what to expect, you werenât expecting anything in specific when he actually accepted. But it took you off guard when he put the gun at level with his hips, right in front of where his cock strained his slacks, pointed at you. He mustâve noticed when you licked your lips, because he gave a nod and commanded firmly again. âGo on. Suck.â
Your eyes looked up at him, at how he seemed to both want this and absolutely despise it at the same time. Stanford adored you, his one and only and the love of his life, but when you begged to be submitted and threatened so eagerly⌠if there was something harder than to keep you away from harm and keep you safe, it was to resist you. He watched intently as you gingerly kitten-licked the muzzle, a little moan escaping you as you felt the cold, odd-tasting metal. If one lick got you so worked up, Ford couldnât wait to see what you would look like with the whole barrel in your mouth. You slowly started to take more and more deeper into your mouth, lips slightly trembling along the cold surface and making you gag with your own saliva. Because yes, you are salivating more than usual; a result of the arousal, excitement, and nervousness of encountering yourself sucking on a gun that you have no idea if itâs loaded or not. You trust your lover, of course you do, and he would never even dare hurting you. But the gun still makes you shake and tears prick at your eyes, the thrill is too good to stop, the slight fear only heightens your arousal. Before you know it, youâre drooling all over the gun, sloppily taking what you can, whimpering at the sensation. Fordâs breath had already become more labored, just the show you were putting on was enough to make him painfully hard. You only noticed when he abruptly pulled the gun away from you, a trail of saliva still connecting your tongue with the muzzle, and you looked up at Fordâs flushed face. Only then you noticed his hands were quite literally shaking, either with anticipation, need, or fear of accidentally hurting you. When you caught your breath a bit more, you slowly started to move your hands up to his belt to undo it. He didnât stop you, and that meant he wanted this, just couldnât even register why, so he couldnât ask for it properly. Your dear love, although much older and presumably wiser than you, was already and overstimulated mess in your hands, and the least you could do for him right now was taking his painfully hard cock in your hand, pumping it a few times, and then gently wrapping your lips at the tip.
It was a gentle gesture, yet enough to make Stanford shudder and let your name out of his mouth with a choked gasp. His free hand found its way to your hair, shakily stroking. But your gaze wandered towards his right hand which still held the gun. You reached for it, carefully not to startle Ford, and brought it closer to your face. The only thing Ford could do was stare, and later whimper when your lips left the tip of his cock to suck on the gunâs muzzle again, your hand still attending to Fordâs needs. Then you did the opposite, moving your mouth back to Fordâs aching cock while you stroked the gun. You were a vision, way too erotic for him to hold on any longer. You could see it in the grimace of pleasure and also shame that was plastered on Fordâs face, he was so painfully close and you could feel his cock throbbing in your hand. With your flushed face and reddened lips from sucking, you looked up at Ford, your glazed eyes couldâve made him faint right then and there.
âPlease⌠cum on my mouth⌠wanna taste you, babyâŚâ you breathlessly pleaded, still erotically and eagerly stroking both his dick and his gun, alternating with your mouth on either. Your plead wasnât unheard, it was about a minute or two before Fordâs muscles stiffened and relaxed again a few times, his hot cum spilling on your tongue and a little bit spilling out from your mouth, making the edges of it dirty. So messy, but you always enjoyed to be messy and Ford was clear on that. He couldnât help staring, even if heâd already cum, the way you eagerly cleaned him up with your tongue was impossible to ignore.
After you tucked him back into his boxers, you nuzzled closer to the warm bulge, leaving light affectionate kisses on him, as if it didnât affect him nearly as much as it actually did. Then your gaze turned to the gun, and your curiosity made you ask.
âIs it actually loaded?â You nodded towards the gun so Ford knew what you referred to, the aftershocks of his orgasm still blurred his mind.
âAlways is.â Ford breathed, and you felt another shock of arousal go straight to the lower half of your body at the knowledge that you just lived through the real deal, and it was hot as fuck.
#stanford pines x reader#gravity falls x reader#gravity falls#ford pines x reader#ford pines smut#stanford pines smut
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for requests. . . how about an x reader where reader pegs Ford đ? Is he open to the idea?
Oh I think we can arrange such a thing! >:) Hope you enjoy!
Ford x F!Reader | In Theory and in Practice
Notes/tags: Ford and reader have some limited past experiences, but tried to keep it a little vague. That said though, I do allude to them to be both bi/had experiences with someone of the same sex as them. Anal smut, some Dom/sub dynamics and switching.
NSFW 18+ below cut, so MDNI!
The subject comes up from you, the conversations you get into around pleasure with Ford often end up in the logical sphere, starting lightly before anything more heated can arise. It was something to enjoy about your partnership, comforting in the pragmatic and somewhat direct, open way in which Ford spoke about such things. It reduced both of your anxieties and any reservations that you had about bringing up anything that you wanted.
Your partner still got flustered, however, and you were a little tentative in how you brought up this next subject.
"I never got to try it in any of my other relationships with men, some seem to think it's not important to involve the prostate in sex."
"The prostate when stimulated gives men pleasure, so I see no reason why it should not be, um, paid attention to. I certainly haven't had any reservations when I have been on my own, in the past."
"And with others?"
Ford did blush a little at this. "In relationships with other men, yes. And with you."
"Yes, but technically it was you who was doing it, Ford." You paused to take a breath before asking your next question. "What if I did?"
Your partner looked stunned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess I'd never thought about it before?"
You ask him if he ever heard of pegging, he hadn't and you did your best to lay out what it meant, slowly, despite your eagerness at Ford's receptiveness, so far.
"But how would you...?" Was one of his questions and you couldn't help but giggle. You knew he didn't like to be on the backfoot or feel that you were laughing at his expense, but how could you not help but be amused by his perplexed expression, his innocence when it came to the gaps in his knowledge?
"Oh Ford, have I not told you yet about the wonders of silicone?!"
Ford didn't take long to mull over the decision on whether he would like to explore it, in fact, you knew him to be as eager as you were, despite never knowing about pegging before bringing it up, though none of this should have surprised you, you thought, looking back on it. Ford wasn't a stereotypical man and did not have many qualms when it came to experiencing new things. All the more reason you were excited! Though you knew that he was going to take his time with researching it, but you could wait.
As the days passed he added his small questions about what you had planned, one here, one there. He would hum and nod and maybe ask for more clarification or an adjustment. In fact, he inisted that you practice putting the strap on you ordered, once it came.
"Can I see it?"
"I think the straps are too tight, how do I-?" You were glancing around for the instructions, to see Ford already had them to hand.
"Here, like this." He gently tugs on the threads and it loosens, relieving the indents that were already appearing over your skin.
Self consciousness ate at you, unable to hide that you felt so clueless you let out a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry! This is... it just feels silly!"
"It is a little bizarre!" Ford joins in with your laughter. "But preparation makes all the difference, my dear."
Once it came to the moment, however, Ford had forgotten what a disparity there was between theory and practice! It had been so long since he had ever been in this position (metaphorically, rather than physically in the same position... but, you get the idea!) and he was starting to remember how vulnerable it can feel...
You've been working him open steadily, using plenty of lube that you kept beside you, Ford encouraging you and helping direct your movements to what he found most pleasurable, voice strained already.
He could feel that pressure and heat from how you slide in, one of your hands coming to soothingly rub at his back, reminding him to relax into it, to adjust. When he gives you encouragement to move, he can feel your form pressing into his. Your hold on him was so gentle, the tenderness made him feel like he was adrift.
He cried out as you set a firmer pace and you stilled for a moment.
"Ford?"
He groaned. "Keep... keep going, baby."
Ford reaches round to find your hand and you let him intertwine your fingers together, placing your hand further forward so the hold would be comfortable.
"You're doing so well. You know that?" You placed kisses over his shoulder before resuming your steady pace. " So good for me, Ford."
The toy that you had gotten was one that had an end that sat just inside your entrance, the pressure of it working you up. Arousal pooling in your belly as you thrust your hips into him.
He looked so beautiful underneath you, his back arched. God, he was a sight to behold. And so you told him, words spoken as you caught your breath. Knowing the words were affecting him from experience if not from the way his breathing changed, those little noises he made that you so desperately wanted to hear, the ones that went straight to your core.
You were taking your time though and Ford began to rock back into your touch, impatient.
Ford whined your name, turning his head, pupils blown wide. "Don't hold back."
It was somewhat rare that he ever got into an impatient mood, the man was unflappable most of the time. A wicked smile started to spread across your face as you tapped at his side, getting to move upwards, into more of a sitting position before grabbing a fistful of his hair, pulling him back into your chest, an arm coming to rest across his broad chest as he squirmed.
"What was that, hm?"
"Ah, please! Please, I want you to touch me, please."
"So polite." You said teasingly.
Adjusting your grip on his hair your pace became firmer, hand roaming down his chest to touch his achingly hard cock.
"That's it." Ford's moans were rising into a delicious background orchestra and you prided yourself on the knowledge that you had worked him up so much.
"W-wait! I want to see you when I- want to touch you, please?" His voice wavered, unsure of his own wants when he was so close to the edge.
"This is about you, Ford." You considered for a moment. "But you can turn around, if you wish."
It was a more awkward shuffle compared to the last, but the break in the tension didn't last long; the heat rising to your face as you saw how wrecked Ford looked, hair stuck up at different angles. Legs rising to wrap around you, the muscles there flexing against your hips. You wondered what you must've looked like to him in such a position, when the roles were reversed. Was this why he liked it?
Ford was practically melting into the mattress by the time your hands were on him again. That first rate brain of his switching off thoughts and transferring to focus on pleasure. He pulled you in so that he could kiss you, in between your praises and moans.
"So good for me, darling."
"Such a good boy."
"Fuck, cum for me!"
Eyes focused on your angelic face above him, he came. His release coating his stomach, and your hand, still firm on his cock as he rode his orgasm out with a shuddering moan.
Pulling out, you collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, letting Ford take over. First wiping you both down, then releasing you from the strap, soon replacing the end of the toy with his fingers, his mouth grazing your breast hungrily as he laid beside you.
He cursed under his breath. "Oh, sweetheart, you're soaked."
Hot kisses trailed across your skin. "You don't have to. T-this, mmn, was about you."
He tutted, a glint entering his eyes. "But I thought I was your good boy. Don't you want me to make you cum? You've gotten so wet for me."
You whimpered, answering with a nod as you carded hand through his hair, gently, this time.
#stanford pines x reader#stanford pines x you#ford pines x reader#ford pines x you#ford pines smut#gravity falls fanfiction#celebration request#pix replies
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[CHEEK KISS]
Ford x Reader
words: 287
tags: sfw, adventuring with Ford
The night had been awfully long out in the forest on some sort of expedition with Ford. You two had been friends for a while and you really wanted to get closer to him so you were glad he finally took you along on his adventures but dear lord, were you not cut out for this. You two had been wandering for hours looking for some creature that was said to be really shy towards humans.
In the middle of a clearing, under the pale moonlight, Ford stopped in his tracks and put his arm out in front of you. He was watching the woods intently for something that had fully escaped your notice.
Then, all at once a little man in a pointy red hat jumped out of the bushes and landed right in Fordâs face. He tried to shake the Gnome off of him but to no avail. At the sight of that you sprang into action. You swiftly grabbed the butterfly net from his backpack and swung it across Fordâs face, capturing the Gnome in one elegant movement.
You put the net down on the ground and stood on the handle, so the Gnome couldnât escape, before you looked up at Ford again. His hair was a mess and he had little scratches all over his face which looked at you in shock. After a second of gathering himself he burst into a wide grin.
Ford raised his arms in triumph. âThat- You were amazing!â He took one large step towards you and pressed a messy kiss on your cheek. You were too stunned to speak when Ford, oblivious as always, took the net from under your foot to get rid of the Gnome.
#gravity falls#gravity falls x reader#zigreth writes#stanford pines#stanford pines x reader#ford pines x reader
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Tolerate it
when you were out building other worlds, where was I?
Here is this one!! @chillinglyadventurous
Tags: SFW, falling out of love, i actually think this is sad
I greet you with a battle hero's welcome
There was nothing better than going to the shack after a shopping trip with Mabel. She strides inside the house with her millions of bags. It was like she was gleaming with the dust of a million stars. There was nothing that could hurt her or stop her from her excitement.Â
When you two walked inside the shack, everything was in its place. It seemed as if nothing was touched. Made sense; Dipper was out with Stan doing some grunkle, nephew bonding, and Ford? Well, he hasnât seen the light of day in a week. It was starting to worry you. Usually he at least makes an effort to come see you before bed or come up for dinner, but lately it hasnât even been anything. Long nights waiting and hoping that your boyfriend would come and sleep next to you. Waiting to feel another person next to you was excruciating.Â
You got snapped out of your thoughts when you heard Mabel say, âThat was so fun, y/n! Thank you for taking me!â She gives you a hug and runs off to the attic to drop off her stuff. She was like a younger sister to you. Maybe even a daughter in some sense? Your own feelings were conflicted.Â
You walk down to the lab to see your boyfriend. He was slouched over his desk, papers everywhere. He was drowning in his work. You surmise that he had just found a new discovery. Perhaps a new equation or a new creature found here in the Falls. You knew that just recently Ford had gone deeper in the woods than he had ever felt comfortable. Unsurprisingly, he took Dipper with him. They came home with cuts and bruises. Neither of them unscathed.
âDear, Iâm fine,â he had said.
So you believed him.Â
âHey, love.â You walk up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He doesnât move, still surrounded by the pages and pages of math and science. You knew you had an affinity toward the man, but sometimes you couldnât pinpoint why. He wasnât involved in your relationship often; he never came to bed; hell, you canât remember the last time you two had sex!
I take your indiscretions all in good fun
It took him a bit to notice you.Â
âHello, my dear.â He turned to look at you. His chair squeaking as he moved as if he hadnât moved in hours. âYou look like you havenât slept in days.â
You give him an incredulous look. Actually, you hadnât slept in days. Ford had been so engulfed in his work that he hadnât gone to bed with you in days. He sleeps on his desk, waiting for some sort of answer to just pop out of his work. You press your lips together, not wanting to disturb the peace. Deciding to keep your mouth shut about your feelings, you say, âYeah, itâs been a rough couple nights, but Iâve been okay.â You turn around to leave, âThere will be dinner in about an hour if youâre hungry.â
âThanks, but no thanks,â
âIf thatâs what you wish.â You tearfully look away and walk back upstairs. Your movements were saturnine. Everything hurt; nothing felt real. The love you had once in the past almost feels obsolete now. There was almost a remorseful feeling inside you for him. He has gone through so much; you should just let him be. But if your needs weren't being met, why should you stay?
I sit and listĐľn
As you set up your new art station that you had bought at the store, you open the paints. They were an expensive set of oil paints that you were so desperate to try out. Painting wasnât a new hobby, just one that had gone dormant over the last couple years. Now that you have a rather inadequate boyfriend, you were ready to take on this hobby once again.Â
âHey, kid.â You see Stan approach you with a weary look on his face. He must have just gotten back with Dipper, but you hadnât seen Dipper yet. âI know that you and Ford are going through hard times right now." He leans on the doorframe with a phlegmatic disposition. âJust know that he does still love you and is just having a hard time. Just give him some time, kid. Heâll come around.â
âStan, I donât know how much longer I can wait.â You said with an indigent look across your face. âI love him, but I canât feel so empty anymore.â
âLook, kid, I can talk to him for you if youâd like. Heâd better listen to me. I wouldnât want to lose a family member over some stupid math equations.â He sighs. "You know how heâs an opportunist. He knows what he wants, and he takes it.â
âPlease talk to him for me; he doesnât seem to listen to me.â You gulp. âI know how he is. I just want my Stanford back.âÂ
âIâll be back, then. Hang tight.â
You watch as he goes out of the room. You were stationed in the kitchen with your supplies, so it was easy access to the lab from there. Your mind starts to wander. What if you really were just a bother and in the way? What if there was really nothing there?Â
You take a deep breath and lather a thin coat of white paint on the canvas. You werenât quite sure what would come of this painting, but you knew you were emotional, and this was one healthy way to get it out. At least that's what your therapist had said at one point. Instead of taking it out on other people, taking it out of a piece of canvas was healthier. Or something.Â
You started with hues of grey and blue. For some reason there was something compelling you to use those colors. Maybe they stated how you felt. Grey and empty. Blue and sad. Or maybe you just liked them.Â
Below you, you could hear fighting. It was the two men that you had trusted more than anything in the world. You couldnât quite make out what they were yelling to each other. It was loud. It shook the house. There was a negative tone flowing through the shack. It was dizzying.
âCâmon Poindexter⌠shes⌠kid! Don'tâŚcare... her?â You heard most of Stanâs words. But what hurt the most is what his brother said after.Â
âYes, I care, Stanley! Itâs all just become too much, and my work is far too important! I don't understand why none of you can see that!â You heard that one clear as day. It was perfectly clear why he didnât want to see you. You were too much.Â
âWhy the fuck would you say that?â You could hear Stan getting louder with each word. âAt least talk to her! Have dinner with her. Once. Before you decide to throw this away.â He had an ardent tone.Â
âWhat are you trying to imply?â
âThat youâre being a selfish idiot and throwing away the best thing thatâs ever happened to you!â
I polish plates until they gleam and glistĐľn
You got up from your spot at the table. Your mind is whizzing and whirring from the fighting in the basement. You try to think of something, anything, to keep your mind off of what Ford had just said. Too Much? You walk over to the sink and start doing the dishes. You were staring off, out the window, trying not to completely break apart.Â
Was Stan talking to Ford a good idea? Or did it really cause more issues than what was worth? Maybe Ford is just saying shit because heâs sleep deprived. He does tend to get more annoyed than usual when he hasnât had a good rest. Doesnât everyone?
âHey, y/n. Everything good?â You jump, seeing Dipper behind you. When did you start crying?
You wipe your face with your sleeve and put on a fake smile. He definitely could tell. âYeah, why whatâs up?âÂ
âIâm not stupid, y/n. I hear Grunkle Stan and Ford fighting.â He gave you a judgmental look. You knew he wasnât stupid, but it wasn't fair that he had to listen to his Grunkles fighting.Â
âI know youâre not stupid. Iâm genuinely okay; I am just a little overwhelmed.â You took in a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay.
He gently nods and walks away.
You're so much older and wiser, and I
You think about the age gap between you two while you sit down to continue to paint again. The age gap was significant enough that you were 30 years younger than him. It was hard for him, yet it seemed like he thoroughly enjoyed the relationship.Â
You two had met at the library while checking out a book. Then on from there, Ford invited you to go on adventures with him and invited you to play D, D, and more D with him. You two were really bonding. Giggling and blushing as your two characters in the RPG were flirting and Dipper being grossed out the whole time. Mabel was way too excited about her Grunkleâs newfound crush.Â
Then you lost your house. The landlord decided that he wasnât going to rent out his house anymore, and it left you homeless. You couldnât afford to just move spontaneously. This had left you to live out of your car for about a week. It was horrible. Worse than you had originally imagined. It was overcrowded, messy, and humiliating.Â
The Pines family had heard what happened. Stan was the first to offer you a room to stay in.Â
âKid, times are tough. I know what itâs like to be homeless. So Iâm offering you a space, free of charge.â
âAre you sure?â Â You had said, worried about overstepping bounds.
âI wouldnât be offering it to ya if I wasnât sure.â
That was that. You were now an honorary member of the Pines family.Â
With that came more time spent with Stanford. This led to stolen kisses in the lab and sleepovers in your bedroom. It became routine to see him often. One day you had asked him out formally. It was just to a diner. Nothing fancy, but it meant something to you.Â
After that, you and Ford were inseparable. Constantly going on adventures; hanging out. Life was great. Until now.Â
Ford stands before you, arms crossed. You could tell he was upset.Â
âI know I havenât talked to you in a bit, but I would like to know if you were okay with going out for dinner.â It seemed like it took a lot out of him just to get that out.Â
âYeah, sure.â You tried to not let it be known that it upset you that he was being this way. âI think I have an idea. Iâll come grab you in thirty minutes, okay?â
âAlright.â
I wait by the door like I'm just a kid
You decide to stand in his lab doorway. He had agreed to dinner. Hopefully things will not go to shit and everything will go to plan.Â
âYou ready?â You held out your hand, and he hesitantly put his hand in yours. It didnât feel right, but you kept it cool.
âYes.â He had said rather coldly. Oh boy.
Use my best colors for your portrait
You stare at the portrait you had made as it sits in your tote bag. This was a gift to him. It was of you two stargazing. The colors were magnificent. It has ranges of blues, violets, and reds. You hoped that he would like it and see it as a means to start over.Â
Maybe not.
Lay the table with the fancy shit
You led him outside to the place you had set up. It was a picnic on a hill. Just like you two had once had a date there months ago. There were plates of food, fake candles, flowers, just about anything you could imagine.Â
âIt looks... nice.â Ford had said as he forced a smile.Â
âIâm glad you like it.â You pop open the wine bottle and pour yourself a big glass.Â
Throughout the whole dinner, he was not attentive. He really was in another world. There was nothing that could make him want to be at this dinner that you had planned. Yet here he was.Â
And the portrait stayed in your bag.Â
And watch you tolerate it
#stanford pines#gravity falls#ford pines#bill cipher#stanley pines#ford pines x reader#chillinglyadventurous and ford pines lover#stanford pines x reader#ford pines lover fics#ford pines x you
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Omg girl what the fuck did you say about ford thats- me too.
Iâd jump on that man like a FNAF character
#gravity falls#stanford pines#ford pines#stanford pines x you#stanford pines x reader#ford pines x you#ford pines x reader#grunkle ford#grunkle ford x reader#grunkle ford x you
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Hey guys, sorry for the lack of updates- but have been overtaken by the urge to ART and RP with @gftimelord and @gftimelordstwin, I'll likely get back to whatever requests I've got(drawing or writing) or just anything in general-
If you wanna chill out with me and some friends, or just catch up to the things I'm doing- head over to this discord server or this magma I'm perpetually doodling on. Can't wait to see you guys there!
I think I'll be focused on heavily gravity falls stuff, but I don't mind gathering requests for some VoxxReader content on here again since I miss writing for the blockhead. I'll likely also write for Stan, Ford and Bill with the XReaders if anyone's interested. Also, here's a bonus journal entry from Doc(Ford) and Lee(Stan) for my time lord twins AU- I'll be posting a Google doc for the AU soon with some comics.
#gravity falls#stanford pines#gravity falls stanford#gravity falls ford#grunkle ford#ford pines#gf stanford#ford#stanford#gravity falls au#timelord au#time lord twins Au#stan#gravity falls stanley#stanely pines#stanly pines#stan pines#grunkle stan#stan and ford#stan twins#stanford pines fanart#stanley pines#stan pines x reader#stan pines x you#stanford pines x reader#stanford x reader#stanley pines x reader#stanford gravity falls#stanford fanart#vox x reader
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yummm soft fordâŚ.. sure, kinky sex is cool and all, but perhaps I want to make sweet sweet love to stanford pines. murmuring sweet nothings to him but they arenât really nothing. soft and slow, praising him, kissing his cheeks and forehead, knuckles, fingers, palms, telling how loved and precious he is, how much he deserves to be taken care of etcâŚâŚ.
Oh and you just KNOW he loves that most of all.
Minors đŤľđťđŁď¸ youâre outta here! dni
Iâm a firm believer that Ford doesnât fuck. Ford is an old fashioned romantic, a thorough lover and absolutely a love maker.
I usually hate that term because itâs so corny but you just know thatâs the only way he refers to/does it. Sure, he can switch it up to whatever you fancy and get a little adventurous, but he loves the luxury of taking his time now that he isnât on the run.
Long, slow, painfully drawn out makeout/heavy petting sessions that last for hours and eventually turn into slow, sweet sex that feels more like heâs trying to merge souls with you than anything else. He gets so into it that he almost forgets that the objective is to cum; he just enjoys the sensations and attention too much to bring things to an end so soon.
Also, he was a young adult in the swinging 70âs, like hello?? If I have any fellow 70s music enthusiasts in here (the whole era in general is top tier frankly, itâs my fav) then you know how those songs go. Listen to those sexy bass lines and free love lyrics and tell me it didnât at least give him a few ideas about how to treat a lover, if he was so inclinedâŚ..
#like i view canon ford as ace but fanon ford is my little american girl doll to dress up and play house with#asks#anon#ford asks#stanford pines x reader#ford pines x reader
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stanford pines x reader
Look Me in the Eye
summary: based on a daisy jones and the six scene! a one shot in which ford comes home from a crazy night with bill, pushing you to your limit
warnings: a slap from reader to ford. gender neutral reader! this one shot came from a chapter of my actual oc story about ford but i made it gender neutral x reader because iâm so proud of this scene.
word count: 4.4k
With Fiddleford back home for Thanksgiving and the portal on a brief hiatus, youâd think Ford would take that chance to be home. But he doesnât; he keeps working. So, you decide to try and get some work done too. Writing hasnât come easy, though.
Ford is God knows where, and youâre sitting at your piano, staring at the keys, waiting for the words to come. At this point, a part of you has accepted that the Ford you married is somewhere deep in the back of his brain. He said he would do better, but he hasnât. You think back to your cousin and how you swore that you wouldnât let yourself end up like thatâin a small town with a deadbeat partner and a baby.
The only thing you donât have out of those things is a baby, which you donât want. When you were younger, you always saw yourself having kids. But when you marry a human, itâs a little strange to think about. Itâs unknown if you could even have kids together. There were legends back home about two humans in the demon realm, and one of them married and had a baby with a witch.
You do a mini birth control spell that youâre not even sure works. Well, itâs worked so farâyou havenât gotten pregnant yet. Ford wouldnât give a damn about a baby anyway, so why even put it at the forefront of your mind? And youâre fine without kids. Youâre not one of those people who craved kids their whole life and dreamed about what life with children would look like.
You always assumed it would happen if it happened. And with Ford, itâs not happening. These past few months have proven that more than ever because heâs rarely home. The way most couples go out to dinner at the end of a long day, you and Ford go out to breakfast two or three times a week. But heâs usually trying to hide the fact that heâs rushing to get back to work.
His attempt at spending time with you is noted but not necessarily accepted.
The door creaks open, and you hear the unsteady shuffle of Fordâs footsteps before you see him. He stumbles into the room, shirtless, his hair a tangled mess, eyes glassy, and reeking of alcohol. He stands there in the doorway, looking at you with a mix of shame and regret, unable to meet your gaze for long. He tries to speak, but the words fumble out, barely coherent.
âFord,â you breathe, your voice wavering between anger and concern. You step closer to him, looking at how droopy and tired his eyes look. âWhat happened to you?â
âI⌠I know Bill took it too far this time, but it doesnât⌠it doesnât mean anything. Itâs notââ Heâs almost nonverbal, his normally sharp mind dulled by the alcohol and Billâs lingering influence. When you see new tattoos on his body, you lose it.
âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doing, Ford? What the fuck is wrong with you?â You demand. He doesnât even look at you; his mind is completely somewhere else. Itâs as if Ford isnât even in there right now.
Before he can respond, you close the distance between you, and your hand connects with his face in a swift, stinging slap. Given that youâre smaller than him, it doesnât do much other than make him look at you. Ford looks at you, stunned, his hand moving slowly to his cheek where your slap left its mark and a slight stinging pain.
âYou come home like this,â you say, your voice breaking as tears well up in your eyes. âAfter everything, you think you can just brush it off? You think you can say it doesnât mean anything and thatâs supposed to be enough?â
Fordâs lips tremble, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and sorrow. He wants to tell you how sorry he is, how much he hates himself for what heâs become, but the words wonât come.
âWhat happened to the man I married?â you continue, your voice softer now, though no less pained. âWhereâs the Ford who would move mountains for me, who promised weâd get through anything together? Because thisâŚâ You gesture at him, tears finally spilling over. âThis isnât the man I fell in love with.â
Fordâs eyes fill with tears, his heart breaking at the sight of your pain. He knows heâs the cause, knows that heâs pushed you to the edge, but he still canât let go of the work, of the promises he made to Bill. But none of that matters nowânot when he sees how much heâs hurting you.
âIâm so sorry,â he whispers, his voice raw with emotion. âI⌠itâs Bill, but Iââ
âSo, who do I blame?â you ask, and he doesnât have an answer. âWho the fuck do you think you are, acting like this? You come home from doing God knows what, God knows where, and have the nerve to try to defend Bill? After all of this bullshit, you still think heâs someone worth putting up with?â
You look at him, your anger slowly giving way to a deep, aching sadness. You still love himâGod, you love him so muchâbut this version of Ford, the one whoâs been consumed by his work and Billâs influence, is breaking your heart piece by piece.
âI love you, Ford. I love you so much it hurts, but I canât keep doing this. I canât keep watching you destroy yourself⌠and us.â Your voice trembles as you take a step back, the space between you feeling like a chasm.
âPlease⌠I donât want to lose you. I love you more than anything. Iâm sorry.â Ford reaches out to you, desperation in his eyes.
You hesitate, looking at the man you married, the one youâve been trying to hold on to, but you canât shake the fear that heâs already slipping away.
âYouâre losing me, Stanford.â You shake your head as another tear falls, and itâs like everything comes bubbling over all at once.
Ford reaches out, desperate to close the distance between you, but you step back, gently pushing him away. Your hands, though soft against his chest, carry the weight of all the anger and hurt youâve been holding in.
âGo take a shower, Ford,â you say, your voice trembling but firm. âIâm not going to talk to you again until you do.â
Your words hit him like a cold splash of reality. He can see the resolve in your eyes, the line youâre drawing in the sand. Youâre not just angry; youâre doneâat least for now. Ford hesitates, wanting to say something, anything to make this right, but the look on your face tells him that words wonât fix this. Not this time.
He nods, defeated, and turns away, heading for the bathroom. The sound of the door closing behind him feels like a finality heâs not ready to face. He lingers for a moment, his hand resting on the doorknob, hoping youâll say somethingâanythingâto stop him from leaving the room. But you donât.
As he steps into the shower, the hot water cascades over him, washing away the grime and sweat from the night, but it does nothing to ease the weight on his chest. He leans against the tiled wall, water mingling with the tears heâs been holding back.
His heart breaks. He knew after every other little crack in your relationship that this was coming. But nothing couldâve made him ready for the day you finally snapped. And he knows you donât believe he loves you as much as he does, which kills him.
Meanwhile, you watch him disappear into the bathroom, your heart heavy with the love you still feel for him, mixed with the deep-seated pain of watching him spiral. You turn on your heel, walking away, needing the space to gather yourself before you can even think about facing him again. As you move through your home, every room feels colder and emptier, and you canât shake the fear that the warmth you once shared might be slipping away for good.
After all that, you feel like you need a shower too. You canât believe you said all that and exploded. It felt like it was a long time coming and this was the final straw. His coming home like that, completely shameless, made you feel an anger you hadnât felt before. Anger because you always said you could do better than your family, but heâs making you feel the same as they did.
When Ford finally emerges, clean but still burdened, he heads into your bedroom. He notices you sitting there with red, puffy eyes. He doesnât know what to do; he doesnât know how to fix this.
âIâm sorry for how I reacted, but you have to know how pissed I am,â you speak first as he takes a seat beside you on the bed. âIf you donât love me anymore, just say it. Youâre never around anymore, and when you are, it seems like you just want to get away from me. Itâs fine if you donât love me anymore; Iâd be heartbroken, but Iâd be okay. Iâd be even more heartbroken if you kept me hanging around here when itâs just me who still loves you.â
Ford feels his throat tighten at your words, guilt and sorrow gnawing at him. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words catch in his throat. How can he make you understand that his distance has never been about a lack of love? How can he convince you that despite everything, youâre still the most important part of his life?
âI always promised myself I wouldnât be this,â you start. âSitting around as if I need someone. I never wanted to be the person stuck at home, trotting around at the geniusâ heels. Especially not with someone who doesnâtâwho might notââ your voice trembles, and he quickly jumps in.
âI do love you,â he finally whispers, his voice hoarse. âI love you more than anything. Iâm just⌠lost. This work, everything Iâve been doingâitâs consumed me, and I know Iâve let it come between us. But please, donât ever think that I donât love you. Thatâs the furthest thing from the truth.â
You listen, your eyes searching his face for sincerity. You can see the regret there, the deep sadness in his eyes, but youâve heard apologies before. You need more than just words. Ford reaches out, taking your hand in his, holding it like a lifeline. He can feel your fingers trembling, and it breaks his heart all over again.
âI know Iâve been terrible,â he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. âIâve been so wrapped up in my work that Iâve neglected you, neglected us. But I donât want to lose you. I canât lose you. Iâll do betterâI promise Iâll do better.â
âHow many times have we had this conversation, Ford? IâIâm getting tired,â you breathe out.
âI mean, what do you want me to tell you here? Do you want me to say Iâm never gonna work with Bill again? Because I canât! I need him.â Ford tries.
âNo, you donât!â you slightly raise your voice before sighing.
âDo you want me to just stop working so you can be making money and supporting me while I do nothing? I mean, fuck, youâre not exactly writing or anything right now,â he breathes out.
âIâm trying,â you say firmly.
âI canât⌠I canât lose so youâre comfortable! I canât lose because you canât win,â he raises his voice.
And then itâs quiet for a moment. Neither of you speaks, but Ford instantly regrets it.
âI donât know how much longer I can do this,â your voice breaks.
Heâs failed you in so many ways, and heâs terrified that it might be too late to fix things. But as he looks into your eyes, he knows he has to try.
âIâm sorry, Iâm so sorry. Iâll do whatever it takes to make this right,â he says, his voice trembling with conviction. âJust⌠please donât give up on me. Donât give up on us.â
âI donât believe you,â you cry, and he slightly stiffens. âI mean, did you hear what you just said? I need to go for a drive or something.â
âWait, please,â he starts, but youâre already standing up and trying to leave. âIâm so in love with you it feels like I canât breathe when Iâm not with you!â
As you try to walk out as quickly as possible to hide your tears, he sees your hand come up to wipe them.
âPlease donât go,â he begs, finally catching up with you and placing his hands on your shoulders. âPlease, just hear me out.â
âIâll hear you out later, I just need a minute. I donât want to give up on this, but I just⌠I need a coffee or something,â you look him in the eyes, and everything in him softens.
âOkay,â he breathes out. âJust⌠please, come home to me.â
âI will. Iâll be back soon,â you nod.
Ford watches helplessly as you leave. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. His heart aches with a pain he canât describe, but he doesnât have the time to wallow. The moment youâre gone, something snaps inside him, and he storms back into his office.
Once inside, Ford slams the door shut and collapses into his chair, his body shaking as the tears finally break free. He buries his face in his hands, the sobs wracking his body with a force he hasnât felt in years. All of the pain, the regret, the self-loathingâit all comes pouring out in a way that feels like it could tear him apart.
But before he can even begin to regain control, he senses a familiar presence. The air in the room changes, becoming thick with an ominous energy that Ford knows all too well.
"Why the long face, Sixer?" Billâs voice cuts through the silence. "Having a little loverâs quarrel?"
Ford lifts his head, his bloodshot eyes meeting Billâs glowing form. Rage surges through him, raw and untamed.
"This is your fault," he yells. "Youâve ruined everything!"
"Me? Ruin? Oh, come on, Fordsy. You know this was bound to happen. Youâre the one whoâs been pushing them away, not me." Bill laughs, the sound echoing eerily off the walls. Fordâs fists clench at his sides, the anger building to a boiling point.
"I wouldnât be in this mess if it werenât for you!" he shouts, his voice cracking with the weight of his emotions. "My marriage is falling apart because of you!"
"Oh, donât be so dramatic," Bill taunts, his voice dripping with condescension. "You think I made you neglect them? Do you think I made you ignore all those signs? Thatâs all you, pal. I see everything, and theyâve been telling you how they feel like every day. Itâs not my fault you donât care enough to do anything about it."
"I- why did you have to go so crazy in my body? I respect you, and Iâm still finishing the portal, but what the hell? At the end of the day, I wouldnât be in this situation if it werenât for you." Ford glares.
"You think finishing that portal is going to fix your problems? Oh, Fordsy, youâre in way over your head. Stop blaming me. Itâs not my fault you want to see me more than your own spouse." Bill laughs.
"Maybe you canât process emotions like this, but theyâre the love of my life. Before them, I hadnât really dated anyone, and I wasnât even sleeping around or anything; I was a loser. The only reason I ended up with someone as incredible as them without ruining it, like usual, is because I saw them as an anomaly at first. I didnât think I was flirting or anything. I donât know what Iâd do if they left me. I wouldnât even know what love is without them. You need to think about what your actions can mean for other people, Bill." Ford turns back to Bill.
"Clearly, youâre the one that needs to think about your actions. Isnât it crazy that if you neglect someoneâs feelings, they wonât want to be with you anymore? Even I can understand that!" Bill laughs, and Ford just stands up.
Ford sits there for a moment before he decides he canât take it anymore. He stands up and heads to the music room. Bill yells things as he walks away, but Ford doesnât hear it. He heads straight for a notebook full of songs theyâve written. His heart is racing as he opens it and sees so many that he hasnât even heard yet.
In fact, this is a new notebook almost full of songs he hasnât heard except for a few at the beginning. Have they not tried to show him, or has he not tried to listen? He reads the sad lyrics of almost every song, lyrics about feeling lonely when with someone you love and waking up alone. Songs about how they try to convince themselves that theyâre a part of his life but not feeling like it. When did he start pulling away from them?
You sit in your car with a to-go cup of coffee, unsure if you should drive home yet or simmer for a little while longer. Your fingers tap on the warm cup as you try to think clearly. Your love for Ford is swarming every inch of your mind. But you know you shouldnât accept what you donât deserve, and you know you havenât done anything to deserve this.
The version of you before Ford wouldâve threatened a divorce already to try and scare him. You donât want to do that now, but you want him to realize that you canât keep living like this. You canât keep following in his stride instead of walking beside him. Youâve won ten Grammys; itâs not as if youâre unaccomplished with no other options but to stay with him.
But you want to stay with him. Ford is so loving and warm. No one has ever loved you the way he has. Hell, no one other than Ford has seen you as more than a one-night thing. And you love him so much. You canât help but wonder if maybe thereâs something here for you to try to understand that you donât already.
You look at the ring on your fingerâhis ring. And you donât feel like other people have described, like itâs a handcuff or a jail cell thatâs keeping you locked to him. You love being married to Ford. Saying you donât and never did would be a complete lie. You just donât love being mostly ignored by the man you love.
For someone so smart, he can be such an idiot sometimes. Letting some kind of entity possess his body whenever it pleases is a new low. Is that my problem? Bill? you think. Itâs not right to you that his weakest self gets to decide how your life is going to turn out; you get to decide that. And what you want is a lifeâa beautiful marriage, a homeâwith him. With the man you know he truly is. And youâre going to get it, hell or high water.
You take a deep breath, your eyes still fixed on the ring as you turn it around your finger. The thought of a future without Ford makes your heart ache, but you know you deserve better, and you know Ford is capable of giving it to youâif he just realized how much you mean to him, how much you mean to each other.
You sip your coffee, the warmth grounding you, giving you the clarity you need. You know you have limits. If Ford canât see the toll his actions are taking on your marriage, then you have to make him see it. You have to stand up for yourself, for what you want, and for the life you could have together.
You start the car, the decision made. Youâre going to drive home and talk to himânot in anger or frustration, but with the love thatâs still there, burning so fiercely in your heart. Youâre going to make him understand whatâs at stakeânot just your marriage, but everything youâve built together.
As you drive, the road blurs slightly through your unshed tears, but you blink them away. You canât afford to lose focus now. Ford needs to know that youâre serious, that this isnât just another fight that will blow over. This is your future, and you wonât let it slip away without a fight.
When you pull up to the house, your resolve only strengthens. You take a deep breath before stepping out of the car, the ring on your finger feeling like a lifeline rather than a chain. You walk into the house, finding Ford sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. He looks up as you enter, and the relief in his eyes is almost overwhelming.
âFordâŚâ you begin, your voice thick with emotion, but you hold up a hand to stop him as he tries to respond.
âFord, I need you to listen to me,â you say firmly, though your voice trembles slightly. You sit down beside him, taking his hands in yours. âI love you more than anything in this world, but I canât keep living like this. I canât keep being the one whoâs always trying to catch up to you, to your work, to everything else that seems to matter more than me or my feelings.â
His eyes widen in panic, and he starts to speak, but you squeeze his hands, stopping him again.
âNo, Ford. Let me finish,â you continue, your voice soft but steady. âYouâve always been so loving, so warm, and Iâve never felt like this with anyone else. But you know me, and you know Iâm not the type to ignore the fact that Iâve felt more like an afterthought lately. And it hurts. It really, really hurts.â
âPlease, Iââ Fordâs face crumples, and you can see the guilt and regret swirling in his eyes.
âI donât want to threaten you with divorce or give you an ultimatum,â you say, your voice breaking slightly. âBut I need you to understand that if weâre going to make this work, you need to start seeing me as your partner again, not just someone whoâs here to support you while you chase after your dreams. We need to be in this together, walking side by sideânot with me always trying to catch up.â
Ford looks at you with such intensity that it nearly takes your breath away. His eyes are red and puffy too, his fingers nervously moving his ring in circles on his finger.
âYouâre right,â he finally says, his voice hoarse. âIâve been an idiot, and Iâve taken you for granted. But I swear to you, Iâll do whatever it takes to fix this. You mean everything to me, and I canât imagine my life without you in it. You make me want to be better, not just for you, but for us. And Iâm going to prove it to you. I donât want to lose this with you, and Iâm so sorry that Iâve hurt you. Just⌠please, donât go. Iâm still yours. My heart is always gonna be yours. You are the one I want.â
âI just want you to see me, Ford. Really see me. Iâm not asking you to give up your work, but I need you to find a balance, to make room for us in your life. Because I canât keep doing this if things donât change.â You nod, tears spilling over your lashes as you squeeze his hands.
âI see you. I promise I see you,â Ford whispers, pulling you into his arms. âAnd Iâm going to show you just how much you mean to me. I wonât let you down again. And those arenât just empty promisesâI mean every word I say to you.â
As you hold each other, the tension begins to melt away, replaced by the hope that you can find your way back to each other. It wonât be easy, but you know itâs possible. And for the first time in a long time, you believe that you can make it work. Ford pulls back slightly, his gaze locking with yours.
âIâve never loved anyone like I love you,â he says, his voice thick with emotion. âI didnât date anyone in high school or collegeâI was too focused on my work. Hell, Iâve only slept with four people in my life, and youâre the only one who wanted me after that. Youâre the only one who stayed the morning after and kissed me and smiled at me. You looked so perfect then, and it wouldâve been impossible not to want more with you. Youâre the reason I want to be better, the reason I want to wake up every morning. And I donât know how I got so lucky to have you in my life, but Iâm not going to take it for granted anymore. I promise you that.â
âOkay.â You nod for a moment before bringing his lips to yours.
He sinks into you, and the next thing he knows, heâs on top of you on the couch. Both of your hands are desperate as your lips talk. And he thinks, while this is happening, that you are worth everything to him. He didnât think any of this would be happening when he first got out of high school and his life was in front of him. He never thought he would even have a spouse, let alone be kissing you with his body between your legs in your home on a quiet November night.
And the further things go, he realizes that he hasnât touched you like this since your most recent talk about him neglecting you before tonight. Seasons changed, months passed, and he was too wrapped up in whatever he was doing to just exist with you, which is what he loved doing when you first met.
#ford pines#gravity falls#gravity falls ford#stanford pines x reader#ford pines x reader#stanford pines#gravity falls stanford#stanford x reader#ford x reader#bill x ford#grunkle ford#Spotify
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Planning some Ford fluff for today because I think everyone needs it after everything this week.
#gravity falls#gravity falls x reader#stanford pines#ford pines#ford pines x reader#stanford pines x reader#stanley pines
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A short fic of mine in progress (also on Ao3)
What a Nerd, Chapter 1
Ford Pines x Reader
Summary:
Ford Pines is an awkward, introverted university guy who doesn't expect to get attention from someone such as you. He's unfamiliar with romance and isn't quite sure what he's doing in general, but he's trying his absolute best.
You two are immediately drawn to eachother and aren't sure why exactly, but you both seem to be incredibly happy to have one another in the end.
---------âĄ
Working at the local library could be incredibly boring and isolating at times, but it had at least given you a quiet place to study while you waited for anyone to approach you to ask for help- which wasn't often.
You'd think that the closest library to your local university, Backupsmore, would be filled with students constantly, but you had to again remind yourself that this university was considered one of the lowest of the lows. 90% of the people would do the absolute bare minimum to pass their classes and get their degrees to move far far away from this town.
All of them, except for one you had noticed.
A man who came in almost every day with a bag that looked like it weighed more than him, and he would stay until closing time. You'd never seen him say a word or come in with anyone else. He'd move to the middle of all the bookshelves at the left of the entrance, and would study for hours like his life depended on it. Weirdly enough, you had never seen him actually check-out any books from the library. You wondered if he knew he was allowed to do that or not.
Some days, it seemed like he was studying for fun, but other times he'd stress himself out so badly, he'd leave looking like he'd got in a nasty cat fight. Brown hair messy, clothes disheveled and sweaty, and looking like he hadn't slept in days. You speculated on how long he'd actually stay in the library every day if there was no closing time.
It was a typical, quiet day as always. You were scanning over your book when you heard the large library doors creak open. Cold winter air rushed in, causing a harsh shiver to climb up your spine. You looked up and saw the same familiar man again. After barely catching a glimpse of his face, you watched him swiftly make his way towards his usual spot. It seemed he had a routine and stuck with it, he seems the type.
You attempted to get back to studying once more, but it seemed practically impossible. The words began to blur together and everything had suddenly become ten times more boring than previously. You weren't sure what it was specifically, but today you were particularly captivated by this quiet, peculiar man.
'I have to know what he's up to every day.'
'Does he study the same thing, or multiple?'
Thoughts swarmed your head.
'Is this even for his classes?'
You stood up and looked around for an excuse to head over there. Your eyes landed on the nearby half-filled book cart. Perfect. Your prayers were being answered today, you thought as you rushed towards the cart and began pushing it around, actually getting a good chance to do your job for once. You knew you couldn't immediately go right towards his little station he had set up; that would be too suspicious.
As you put books away lazily, you kept looking over your shoulder in the aisle to make sure he wasn't leaving for any reason. He seemed so sweet, you didn't want to freak him out accidentally. Maybe he just wanted to be left alone completely and that's why he was so secluded. Thoughts raced through your head, filling you with an overwhelming anxiety. Trying to get you to turn back at all costs and give it up.
You weren't quite sure what drew you to this boy so strongly, but it must be for a good reason.
Finally, after several agonizingly long minutes, you ended up in the same isle as that same man. He glanced up at you for only a moment when he heard the cart approaching and you pretended to be looking at something else. He then immediately went back to his intensive studying, brown eyes inspecting every word carefully, but quickly as well. You weren't sure why, but this made your face heat up slightly. He was always working so hard and was definitely the most nerdy guy you had ever seen, but you meant that in the most endearing sense you could.
You began to put books away and when you had a moment, peered over your shoulder and quickly checked over one of the numerous books he had open. Deciding to be bold for once, you took a deep breath and turned towards him.
"I take it you major in physics?" You softly spoke, you didn't want to startle him. "But I can't imagine you'd come in here every day for hours to study only that."
Ford was snapped out of his focus and looked around, completely caught off guard. "I- uh- pardon?" His eyes finally landed on you, looking right down at him. "Oh, uhm, yes- I mean- no," He nervously fiddled with his hands under the desk and took a moment to collect himself.
"I mean I DO major in physics, but I also study hyper-advanced engineering, fifth-dimensional calculus," he began counting on his fingers. You were absolutely shocked at how many things he was taking on in this simple university. "-Applied quantum phase theory, but that's just for fun, of course." He then got to his sixth finger and once he realized, immediately hid his hands under the table once more. Lucky for him, you barely noticed this detail. You assumed he was just nervous.
"Wow, I can't believe you're at Backupsmore doing all this." The surprise on your face was visible, though you were smiling still. "Why not attend some elite college or something? I'm sure you'd be able to get a scholarship or something."
He immediately cringed thinking about his past highschool incident with West Coast Tech and his brother. He wasn't quite sure what you wanted or why you were talking to him. In his eyes, you didn't seem the type to speak to people like him with kindness. He felt a pit in his stomach assuming that you were probably just making fun of him.
"Yeah, well, I'm here now." He spoke, bluntly.
You were a little taken aback by his sudden change in tone. Had you upset him somehow? That same exact feeling in your stomach was now present, almost as if it were mirroring his.
"I'm sorry if I interrupted," you began. "Or if I said something wrong... It's just that I noticed you work quite hard here about every single day and I'm impressed!" You gave him another soft smile, hoping to lighten the tone.
'About every single day?' He wondered how you knew that at first. It then hit him that you actually WORKED here as assistant librarian. He passed by you every time he came in here and he was just now realizing you were the same person? He started to feel a bit bad that he hadn't ever actually spoken to you before this at all.
"Oh, yes! I uhm," he was attempting to quickly think of something to say. Maybe you weren't as bad as he thought you were after all, and that you were genuinely interested in having a conversation with him. This made him feel even worse knowing that he was the one to always be judged by the other kids in school for how he looked on the outside considering his extra fingers, and now he believed he was doing practically the same to another in his own head. He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking up once more,
"I apologize if I was a bit short with you, it's just that I assumed you were here to tease me," he nervously rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "-but, I shouldn't have assumed that; it was rude of me."
You wondered what would've made him think that you were going to tease him. Was this a common problem with him? You started to feel for him and looked down at him kindly. "It's alright. I promise, I'm genuinely interested right now."
He lightly tugged at the back of his own hair at your response. He was so anxious right now and didn't know how to contain it, but he appreciated your genuine words and gave a small smile back. Your gaze was practically killing him.
"Well, I'll let you be," you placed your last book back on the shelf for this section. Taking the cart handle in your gentle grasp, you began to leave, not not before looking over your shoulder one last time at the man. "By the way, the library closes in about twenty minutes."
The man watched you leave and once you turned the corner, he let go of the piercing air in his lungs that he didn't know he was holding in. He wiped the excessive sweat off of his hands onto his jeans before trying to get back to work.
If it wasn't clear, he wasn't exactly the most social type. People didn't typically approach him to converse with friendly intentions, so you caught him off guard. He felt a bit out of practice with talking to new people... which he had felt like all his life, but especially now since all the people he pretty much talked to these days were his dorm mate and his mother on the phone.
It's not to say that he disliked talking to you, it was just a very different and uncommon interaction for him. He almost wanted you to talk to him more.
He then noticed that two rows of bookshelves down, you were returning the rest of the books on the cart back to their original places. He leaned back on his chair carefully to get another look at you, attempting to make it as least obvious as possible. He couldn't deny that you were very pretty to him, which is part of the reason why he was confused that you were talking to him. He wondered what someone like you was doing in a dusty old library, as you came off as more of the average outgoing partying type.
He quickly re-adjusted his chair back to normal when you turned back towards his way. He had just met you and was worried he was going to freak you out unintentionally. He obviously wasn't trying to, he was just incredibly awkward, though also curious.
Curious about you.
The last couple minutes of closing, he stayed staring right down at his watch, completely zoning out. The man was completely caught up in his work one moment, and then felt his brain turning to mush the next. He didn't quite understand what was happening, but before he knew it, both hands struck eight on the clock and he had to leave. He swiftly gathered up his belongings and shoved the rest of his books in his large backpack. After struggling with closing his bag for a moment, he eventually was able to zip it up like normaland head out.
He was worried about staying to late as he didn't want to be an inconvenience for you- something which he never took into account before today apparently it seemed.
He began to leave and as he passed by your desk where you were gathering up your own items, he swallowed thickly and spoke,
"Well, uhm, see you tomorrow, I presume?" He begins to sweat again. 'Oh god,' he thought. Was he making a big mistake?
You look up at him. "Hm? Oh, oh! Yes, definitely!" You say, a little too enthusiastically for your own liking.
He gives a relieved smile at your response and can leave comfortably knowing his interaction with you went well.
Before he was officially out the door, you shouted out one last thing before he left, "Be safe walking around campus tomorrow, I heard it's going to be icy out!"
"Thank you, will do!" He waved back without turning around.
When the door shut and the cold air subsided, you both thought the same thing to yourself,
'I never got their name.â
#gravity falls#ford pines#stanford pines#ford pines x reader#stanford pines x reader#ford pines x you#stanford pines x you#gravity falls fanfiction#backupsmore#backupsmore university#college ford#college ford pines
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Shitshitshit
Prologue: Distress Call
The End is Near (Gravity Falls x Reader)
Masterlist | Chapter 1 â
Word count: 1.2 k.
WARNING: Violence, monsters and blood.
Note: thank you for stopping by and reading! Comments, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! For those who come from my profile and are waiting for Chapter 6 of OSYGM, it's on its way!
ââââââââââââââââââ
ROADKILL COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
Transcript of 911 distress call
10/2/1980 - 1:13 A.M.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
RW: Rita Woorley, Dispatcher.
CS: Caroline Simmons, Victim.
JS: Jeremy Simmons, Victim (?).
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
RW: 911, whereâs your emergency?
CS: *heavy breathing* *clothing shifting* *distant objects clattering*
RW: Hello? Is anyone there?
CS: *heavy breathing* *distant clatter*
RW: *sighs* For Godâs sake, these kids and their pranks.
CS: Please⌠help meâŚ
RW: Hello? Maâam, whatâs the address of your emergency?
CS: Trantow Fields, house 131 in Gravity Falls. Iâm Caroline Simmons and I-I need police here⌠Just, please, hurry. *distant door banging*Â
RW: *typing* Alright, and whatâs the emergency?
CS: *rapid breathing* Itâs my husband⌠I donât know whatâs happening⌠Oh God- *distant clatter* *a male voice screaming*
RW: Police are on their way, maâam. Tell me whatâs happening.
CS: I-I donât know⌠heâs gone insane⌠he was fine this morninâ, s-sick with a bug but he was his chipper self. But-
JS: *distant shout* CAROLINE! LET ME OUT, SWEETIE!
RW: Maâam, are you in a safe place?
CS: *hyperventilating* Y-Yes! I barricaded the bedroom, where heâs at⌠*heavy breathing* I-I locked myself in the kitchen. *crying*
RW: Ok. Take a deep breath, maâam. Police are around five minutes away from where you are. Keep walking me through what happened.Â
CS: *heavy breathing* S-Sorry⌠I⌠I woke up to him holding a knife⌠h-he⌠he⌠*distant hurried banging* he tried to stab me⌠H-He had crazy eyes⌠his mouth was bleedinâ, I think he bit his lip too hard⌠*loud crash*
RW: Maâam?
JS: Â CAROLINE! *door falling* *distant hurried footsteps*
CS: Oh my God⌠h-he broke the door⌠HE BROKE THE DOOR! SOMEBODY! SAVE ME!
RW: Maâam, you need to calm down. Take a deep breath. Is your husband still armed?
CS: No⌠I took the knife from him. Oh my God⌠what happened to my Jeremy? *crying*
RW: Maâam, take a deep breath. Police are close.
CS: *whispering* *hyperventilating* I think heâs downstairs⌠I-I can hear him⌠*footsteps grow louder*
RW: Maâam, remain calm.
CS: *heavy breathing* *loud distant footsteps*
CS: *soft knocking* *muffled bizarre breathing*
JS: Caroline? Honey, itâs me⌠Thereâs something wrong⌠I donât know whatâs happening to meâŚ
CS: *crying* Jeremy⌠Please donât hurt meâŚ
JS: Sweetie, I need you to open the door, pleaseâŚ
RW: Maâam, do not open the door. Police are close.
CS: *hysterical crying* YOUâRE NOT MY JEREMY!
JS: Caroline, I know youâre scared, but please, I need you to open the door.Â
CS: *hysterical crying*
JS: Darling? Do you remember our wedding vows where I promised to always protect you?
CS: *crying* Y-Yes, I-I remember.
JS: I canât protect you if the doorâs closed⌠So please, open it. I want to see you.
CS: *sniffling* *heavy breathing* *phone clatters on the floor*
RW: Maâam, do not open the door⌠Hello?
CS: Please⌠Jeremy, love, donât hurt me. *kitchen door opens*
JS: Iâm so sorry for scaring you, darling. *distorted breathing*
CS: âŚ
RW: Maâam? Are you there? Hello?
*Call is abruptly disconnected*
ââââââââââââââââââ
ROADKILL COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
Transcript of 911 distress call
10/2/1980 - 1:27 A.M.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
EK: Elmer Kain, Dispatcher.
DM: Dylan Moss, Victim.
LW: Lawrence Woodworth, Victim.
KB: Kyle Baker, Victim.
UM: Unidentified Male.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
EK: 911, whatâs your emergency?
DM: HOLY SHIT! FINALLY! WE NEED AN AMBULANCE! HURRY!
EK: Sir, remain calm, whatâs your location?
DM: W-W-We are at a⌠*heavy breathing* fuck, sorry, at Gravity Falls High School! Please hurry, somebodyâs bleeding to death!
LW: *distant* Kyle, do not fall asleep!
EK: *typing*Â An ambulance is on its way. Walk me through whatâs happening.
DM: W-We were working on a f-final project and was g-getting late so we went to drop our friend Kyle at his house! B-But this fucking thing... it just- *crying*
LW: *distant* S-Something came out of the forest and tore K-Kyleâs stomach out!
EK: Were you able to catch sight of what it was?
DM: *crying* We donât know! I-It was too f-fucking dark⌠I⌠we⌠Iâm so fucking scared!
LW: *distant* I-It looked human, but it⌠it wasnât human? I-I donât know! It had huge claws!
KB: *coughing* * groaning in pain*
EK: Whatâs the current state of your friend?
DM: *crying* H-Heâs breathing but his stomach is just⌠gone⌠itâs like a⌠*retches*... pile of mush o-on the floor. *retches*
EK: Take a deep breath⌠are you applying pressure to the wound?
DM: *crying* I-Iâm so scaredâŚ
LW: *distant* W-We are! We tied m-my hoodie and I-Imâ pressing on it but heâs getting paler!
KB: *coughing* I want my momâŚ
DM: *crying* H-Hold on, man. H-Help is on the wayâŚ
EK: The ambulance is five minutes away, keep applying pressure. Do not hang up the phone.
DM: *branches and leaves snapping* *distant footsteps* ⌠what the fuck?
LW: *distant* DYLAN! LOOK AT THE FUCKING FOREST!
DM: ⌠Kyle? But⌠heâs right here⌠what?
EK: Whatâs happening?
KB: *distant coughing* *crying* MomâŚ
LW: *distant* GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM US!
EK: Hello? Whatâs going on?
DM: *distant footsteps* Holy shit⌠itâs⌠I⌠itâs Kyle, but⌠Kyleâs also⌠bleeding on the floor.
EK: What? I donât quite understand.
UM: *distorted crying* MomâŚ
LW: *distant* FUCK! WHAT DO WE DO!?
DM: I DONâT KNOW! HELP⌠PLEASE!
UM: *distorted crying* I want my momâŚ
EK: Whatâs happening? Dylan?
DM: *incoherent screams* *distorted roar*
*Call is abruptly disconnected*
ââââââââââââââââââ
ROADKILL COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
Transcript of 911 distress call
10/2/1980 - 1:33 A.M.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
KJ: Keneth Jarvis, Dispatcher.
TB: Tabitha Roberts, Victim.
UF: Unidentified Female.
ââââââââââââââââââââââââ
KJ: 911, whereâs your emergency?
TB: *distant glass tapping* Hello? My name is Tabitha Roberts, I live on Oakley Road, house 28 in Gravity Falls. I need the cops.
KJ: Alright miss, whatâs the emergency?
TB: *distant glass tapping* Someone⌠no, scratch that, something is trying to break into my house.
KJ: *typing* Uh, sorry⌠Iâm a bit confused by your statement. âSomethingâ is trying to break in?
TB: *distant glass tapping* I⌠I just donât even know how to describe it. I got home from work about twenty minutes ago when I heard something banging on my backyard door.
KJ: Uh-huh.
TB: *distant glass tapping* I opened the curtains and⌠well⌠youâre definitely not going to believe this but⌠something that looks like me is trying to smash the glass and come in.
KJ: ⌠Pardon?
TB: *distant glass tapping* I know it sounds insane but you have to believe! The weird part is that it looks like me but at the same time, thereâs something wrong⌠I canât place it⌠I think itâs the eyes⌠the skin looks looseâŚ
KJ: Uh⌠O-Ok miss, a unit has been dispatched to your place, please stay on the line. Are you in a safe place?
TB: *distant glass tapping* No, Iâm in the living room, itâs the only place where I have a landline. Iâm staring at the⌠thing⌠Jesus Christ, it doesnât even fucking blink!
TB: *distant glass banging* *sound of glass cracking* Oh God⌠the glass⌠it has a crackâŚ
KJ: Miss?Â
TB: *distant glass banging*Â FUCK! ITâS BREAKING THE GLASS!Â
KJ: Miss, remain calm. Do you have a place where you can hide?
TB: *glass breaks* FUCK! HELP ME! PLEASE! ITâS COMING AT ME!
KJ: Miss, find a place to hide, police are on their way.
TB: *incoherent screams* *glass and furniture breaking* GET OFF ME!
KJ: Miss, whatâs going on?
TB: *something is smashed against the ground* âŚ
KJ: Miss Tabitha? Is everything alright?
TB: ⌠*footsteps*
KJ: Hello? Miss Tabitha?
UF: *distorted* Hello? My name is Tabitha Roberts, I live on Oakley Road, house 28 in Gravity Falls. I need the cops.
*Call is abruptly disconnected*
ââââââââââââââââââ
Tag list:
@rotknox
#holyfvck y#y'all have to read this#i wasnt expecting that#this is fucking insane#gravity falls#stanford pines x reader#ford pines x reader
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