Work Text:
Stanford is entertained by his work down in the lab, so entertained in fact that he barely even replied to your questions about what he's doing.
Your work was done - you've pulled the research and old newspaper articles from the library for him, and printed some information from the internet since this isn't the old times and no one goes to the library to get information anymore, and he's currently fumbling through them as if he was looking for the meaning of life in these completely unrelated paper scraps. He looks like he knows what he's doing, and you're frankly not interested in helping out after the hard week you've just gone through, so you left him to do his bidding.
You rarely get a moment to to yourself like this, a one during which nothing is happening for a few hours at least. It's not like you overwork yourself daily, but it's very common for both you and Ford to be pre-occupied, not necessarily with desk work, but also with expeditions into the woods, and into spooky caves and the mountains, all of which can leave you exhausted beyond belief.
Even since you've found yourself in Gravity Falls and ended up having to stay here due to a series of unfortunate coincidences, you've been having a busy few days, and this trip to the library was the tipping point of your tiredness, and your legs have started aching. Despite that though, your mind was racing, desperate to keep you awake.
You decide to fill your time by lying down onto your bed and resting a little. You thought about pulling out a book to read, but the sole thought of putting your brain to work right now is making you sick. So you just relaxed, rolling over a couple times in search for the right position to try and take a nap in.
You're aware that your attempts might be spoiled any moment now by Ford suddenly barging in and deciding that he needs you for something, but oh well, it might sound crazy, but that seems unlikely to you - he looked focused on his work, even more than usual you'd say, and there was very little possibility that he'd come upstairs to surprise you, so that's a point to rational thinking, and a penalty to your anxiety.
You technically have the whole house to yourself, since the lab is so far below that you simply don't count it in, and you can do anything you want in the silence of the evening that's slowly creeping in through the window in the form of an orange-ish light.
You should be able to sleep, but there's very little space for peace in your head - you're still thinking too much, going over the articles you've taken out of newspapers again and again, having had read through them so many times that they're engraved into your brain.
Goddamn work, taking over your leisure time!
You flipped onto your back, propping you shoulder blades up at the pillows, and you longingly stare at the television that's on the cabinet opposite your bed. Your gaze drops down onto the remote that sits next to it. Well, you're not getting up to grab it, so it looks like you're trapped here with your thoughts.
You closed your eyes, and hummed, trying to not think too hard about it. The last thing you need is to think hard about something right now.
Settled back into your pillows, you find yourself way too tense to sleep, or even rest. No shit.
You rarely get a moment like this to yourself. You can do just about anything to ease off the stiffness in your shoulders, anything you put your mind to.
The perfect activity for today pops into your head right away, and while normally you'd save this sort of thing for when it's dark, it really seems like the best course of action at the moment. Who knows when you'll have as much free time as you have today, and who knows where you'll be after dark - you spread your legs a bit further apart, trying to seem casual, pretending that you were simply stretching. You know there's no one here to pretend for, but it felt right to take it as slow as possible, so that's what you did.
When you're in the right position on the bed, you slide a hand down your stomach and start picking at the hem of your pants, trying to get yourself worked up before you actually touch yourself.
You glance at the door, making sure that it's closed - there's a lot of draft in the house, and sometimes the doors pop open just wide enough for any sudden breeze to swing them open when you least expect it, but thankfully, they held in place. Then you turn to the only window in the room, which was opposite the doors, and you see that the blinds are open - you choose to not bother with closing them, considering the drawn curtains to be sufficient in providing privacy.
When you're done scoping your surroundings, you close your eyes and melt back into your pillows. The button on your pants slipps out with a single push, and you drag down the zipper, sliding your pants down and throwing them to the other end of your bed.
You kept your underwear on, sneaking a hand underneath in and you start to rub yourself, just gently for the time being. Your touch was dry, and it wouldn't be wise to go fast right away. You're not in hurry, after all, you have all the time in the world - or at least it feels like that.
It feels nice to have a while to just touch yourself, with no goal in mind and just for the purpose of letting the pleasure of the gentle fondling drive you desperate.
When you've had enough of teasing, you reach for your bedside drawer with your free hand, and open it. You spend a second fumbling through the mess in there to find some lube.
You take your hand out of your underwear and squirt a little bit of lube onto your fingers and palm, leaving a stain on your underwear when you slip your hand down below again. You sigh in pleasure, stifling a hiss that started pushing itself through your throat as a response to how chilly the lube was.
It warmed up against you soon though, and your strokes got faster in anticipation of release - you want to enjoy this for as long as you can, but you also want to come as soon as possible, and it's a real dilemma that ended up keeping your hand's motions sloppy. Through some strange coincidence, it actually perfectly balanced out your need for quick pleasure and your desire to spend as much time milking this moment for what it's worth.
You're definitely not going to come soon enough to ruin your moment, but the touch is amazing enough to have you squirming and panting already - you're not analyzing your situation this thoroughly though, since it seems that for just a moment you've managed to empty your mind, and fill it up with plenty of dirty thoughts to last you the whole evening.
You hope to go through every fantasy in your mind today, hell, you'll go twice, maybe three times if you have to - it's an ambition that you know you'll find appalling when you've finished, but it seems more than desirable right now.
There's many things you want to think about, some involving people, some involving just you, some involving some really perverted stuff. You've seen a lot of things during your stay, including slimy tentacles that seemed like they were only seconds away from doing something very bad and very R-Rated, and you've seen monsters that looked more than attractive - you'd even call them sexy, and you've helped Stanford contain plants which serve as the strongest aphrodisiac in the world, you've also helped Stanford with capturing a stray alien drone and even assisted in Stanford's lab.
The latter few examples didn't have that much sexuality in them, and the only constant they had seemed to be Stanford. Stanford and his sturdy shoulders, and his strong arms and veiny hands covered in thin hair that drags all the way to his the middle knuckles of his fingers. Stanford and his stupid smile and his upbeat personality and his neverending supply of cool facts to share.
Ah.
Just as you feared.
You really have a strange taste in men, you gotta admit, but oh well, you have no reason to huddle up in shame, so you better suck it up and let the fantasies run wild.
What would you like him to do to you? Many things - you want him to make love to you sweetly and you fantasize about him taking you from behind in the laboratory and doing you against the desk, you want him to throw you against a tree and fuck you so hard you lose all your vision, and the goddamn irises of your eyes turn into red little hearts.
Stanford was pre-occupied, that's true, but it also didn't go past his attention that you haven't shown up to check up on him for a while now.
Not that he would need to be checked up on, he's not a child, in fact he's a grown man, elderly even, but it's been a common occurance for you to pop by every once in a while, but ever since he's gotten the newspaper articles, and the printed out, what's that, wiki-pedia? Ever since then, he's been left alone down in the lab.
He understands that this kind of work can be a little bit overwhelming, mainly to someone who doesn't have as much experience with these sort of things - he doesn't suppose that many people throw themselves in immediate danger for a living. Hell, he's not even doing this for a living, he's just researching for fun, which might be worse in retrospect.
He understands that you don't have an obligation to be here with him, not after the long week that you've had - well, it's pretty much been a few very long weeks, several of them, ever since you've found your way into his life through a series of coincidences. And believe it, Ford did a lot of testing to make sure that it was just coincidences.
Stanford decided to not dwell on it, since there didn't seem to be a sense of paranoia to your sudden 'dissapearance' and he was in fact positive that you were still in the house, he had no problem staying pre-occupied for an another while or two.
During the third while, he made the decision to go upstairs and find you, but not due to any feeling of longing pushing him to do so, but rather out of excitement - he's found something important and borderline fascinating in one of those wiki-pedia articles, and since the house was empty and you were the only person that actually listened to him for the longest before tuning him out, he set off to tell you.
It doesn't immediately come to his mind that he might interrupt you in the middle of something - Ford has a habit of not understanding things, such as that barging through doors is usually not welcome, in this dimension at least.
But he's been learning how to behave appropriately - he's walked in on way too many inappropriate things when he lived with his brother on their boat, and while sometimes he might slip up and swing the door open right as you're sleeping, he's been getting better at knocking and waiting outside, even when his excitement basically plummeted him through the hallways up to that point.
He was just approaching your door, unfortunately not understanding why he shouldn't interrupt someone's rest - that's a lesson that you can't bring yourself to teach him, since he always looks so passionate to talk that you let him and his stupid, adorable face get away with it.
You can't blame him - a die-hard insomniac like Ford finds it hard to understand that some people need to sleep, and he tends to apologize and leave if he sees that the person he's just walked in on was sleeping. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn't realize that the said person, usually you or his brother, was in bed at two in the morning because they were sleeping. Really depends on how important the thing he wanted to talk about is.
As important as he considers this thing, he still doesn't want to disrespect the small speck of privacy you've got in that tiny room they've moved you into by barging in unannounced.
Stanford stopped his hand on the handle, having had grabbed it out of the force of habit, and he lifted said hand up to knock first.
Then he heard a strange sound that made him freeze.
It didn't sound like anyone was sleeping on the other side of the door, the breathing was too rugged and hitched for that, even if you were having a nightmare, it wouldn't sound like this.
This was softer, there wasn't any wheezing or nervous shakiness in your voice, it sounded relaxed even despite the occasional grunt that was sprinkled in every now and then.
Stanford doesn't think about it for too long before he finds the answer to the question of what's happening behind these doors - he'd like to take all the credit and say that he figured it out all by himself, but he has to thank the moan he heard for clearing out the situation.
Ford's face began to burn. He looks down at his shoes, and notices that he's been pacing in one spot, switching weigh from one leg to another in hopes of easing off his embarrassment.
There's a lot of things which's inappropriateness varies from dimension to dimension, but he's sure that masturbation is something that is kept private and should not be listened to from the other side of door, no matter where in the multiverse you find yourself.
Yet, he can't move away - Ford was tight in place, unable to move a muscle. He felt heat rise up in his chest, flames turning and twisting and when he finally brings himself to exhale, they fall and rest in his belly, starting to eat him alive from within.
In other words, he was getting turned on, and to such parameters that he already felt a slight stirring down in his pants. He knew he should leave, give you a moment of solitude, but he wanted to listen, and the line between 'should' and 'shouldn't' gets blurry when it comes to what Ford wants.
Ford reached down and tugged at the fabric of his slacks, trying to cut off any access to stimulation from his cock, which was waking up fast, even faster than usual. Damn his busy schedule, he hasn't had a chance to have a moment to himself in ages, and this is how it ends.
Before he knew it, he's been standing in front of your door for a while, and was basking in every single sound he could catch. There weren't many moans, but the heavy panting was enough to drive him crazy, the thrill of the situation refusing to settle in his brain and making him see sense, instead it was down in his stomach along with the arousal, forcing a strange jolt of pleasure to rock through him suddenly, and he was rock-hard in his slacks.
His cock was chaffing against the tight fabric of his pants, and he grits his teeth, putting all his will into not reaching down to stroke himself.
Ford pressed his ear against the door to hear better, to find the satisfaction that he's seeking without having to touch himself like some sort of a disgusting pervert.
This makes him a pervert, doesn't it? Listening in on someone masturbating, it makes him gross, and yet he's finding it hard to feel as ashamed as he should be. He bites down into his lip, and closes his eyes, trying to enhance his hearing by shutting off every other sense, including common sense as well.
He was leaning too hard onto the door, if it opened, then he would fall through and into the room, right on his nose probably, so he decides to gently brace himself against the doors a one last time, and he leans back, putting his weight back onto his legs. His eyes opened to the sound of his foot hitting a loud floorboard, pulling a creak out of it.
He freezes, and waits, expecting the worst while hoping for the best.
It wasn't until you heard a little creak that you've looked at the door again, getting unreasonably bothered by the sound - you need everything to be perfect, you need the whole house to be quiet and peaceful so that you can inverse yourself in fantasy, so that you can have the most satisfying experience. A creaky floorboard or a draft cranking your door open is the last thing you need right now.
You shot upright into a sitting position as soon as you saw the shadow under the door, the worst part of it all being that all you can think about now is how much you want to continue even despite this interruption. You didn't notice that someone had walked up to your door, which is a bad thing as in on itself, but just the sole fact that you were interrupted during a private moment like this is making your blood boil.
Maybe if you don't respond, maybe if you put your foot down and tell Ford to leave then you could buy yourself some more time!
There's no doubt that it's Ford behind your door, just about to knock. You won't pretend that you don't have the sounds of his steps memorized, and the little bit of pacing he gave behind the door clearly suggested it was the soles of his leather boots touching the wooden floor.
An another 'worst of it all' fact was that as you're slowly pulled out of your crazed frenzy, it starts to feel like you've somehow, through some magical miracle managed to summon him by fantasizing about him, and the humiliation washes over you immediately. You shouldn't be embarrassed by simply feeling attracted to him in a moment of weakness as such this one, but you can't shake off the feeling that you might have done something wrong.
You realize that you've been waiting for the knock for way too long now and he was still outside, having had not announced his presence yet - you wonder if he had heard you let out a particularly loud moan, or was simply able to deduce that you're touching yourself through intuition, and was now unsure whether he should knock or leave, or maybe even was considering waiting until you're done.
It's always a guessing game with Ford and his weird habits, but now, you can't really pick your guess. What the hell is he doing behind your door?
As you went through the possibilities, you sighed, realizing you've been holding your breath in anticipation - right when that exhale left you and filled the room, the shadow under the door moved. It looked like it moved forwards somehow, as if Ford stepped closer to the door.
It was peculiar to say the least, and in a moment of curiosity, you sighed again - it wasn't as genuine or heart-felt as the one before, but it seemed to cause the shadow to be rowdy again. It moved around a little as Stanford's feet began to pace behind the door again.
The shadow only fell still after a few long seconds of complete silence, and it almost seemed like he was getting uneasy, worried possibly.
He was listening.
God, he knew exactly what you're doing and he's listening.
Not just that, but he's also got a hunch that he's been discovered.
Should you tell him that you know he's spying and make him leave you alone? After all, it's bad, it's disgusting, it's creepy, it makes him a - makes him a creep, and for some reason, the moment you said that word in your head, you realized that it turns you on.
Should you ... should you just continue?
Judging from how your chest heats up with the possibility of continuing in mind, you know which path you're about to choose. You can't help it, you're too goddamn horny to care about your voyeur, and if he wants to listen, you'll let him listen.
Your hand stayed in your underwear the whole time you were waiting for the knock - you were ready to yank it out whenever, keeping your knuckles peeking from below the hem, and you entertained your fingers, which were still set to inflict pleasure, by playing with the hair down there, tugging at it just to keep yourself in an awake state of mind and not slip down the rabbit hole. Of course, now it doesn't matter. You can slide your unruly hand back down and carry on without a worry.
You graze over the junction where your hips meet your pelvis, wanting to tease not only yourself, but Stanford as well.
It's much harder to get into the zone when you know someone else is watching. It's not exactly discomfort, and it's not a problem of whether your showmanship is sufficient enough, it's just the reality of the situation that's forcing this block onto your thoughts.
Your body is hot and wired, but your mind is elsewhere, trying to reevaluate the situation from a moral standpoint and you don't know how to explain it to your own brain that you don't care about the fact that Stanford is listening.
It makes you feel desired.
It makes you feel like you're a part of something disgusting, it makes you feel like you're participating in his antics - you're an enabler at the very least, a bad, bad person that allows a creep to spy on you, and you even get off to it.
That's right, that's it, that's all you have to think about. There's a man listening to you, and it's making your stomach burn so hot you might think you've got a pile of cackling wood stuffed in your abdomen. You knew Stanford wasn't as sweet and innocent as he made himself out to be.
It didn't take long for you to reverse back into a panting mess. Your eyes were unfocused and kept closing on their own, but you made sure to watch Ford's shadow under the door for as long as the question lingered - is he also touching himself?
You admit, the following moan that you let out was a little theatrical, but that didn't mean that it wasn't genuine - it seemed to stir up the shadow, and you felt an insane amount of pride in your ability to turn Stanford on.
You wonder how many times he's walked behind you and ever so innocently stared down at your ass, how many times all those touches that he pretends he thinks aren't inappropriate have had an agenda behind them, you wonder whether he has done this before, whether he's listened to you and you just didn't notice. How many times has this happened and you didn't know? How many times have you walked out of your room afterwards and talked to him like normal?
No, that doesn't sound like Ford.
Ford is a strange man for sure, but he's not confident in that. He's just sneaking around, and you're sure he's blushing behind that door like a teenager peeping into the girls' locker rooms through a hole in the wall, repressed and ashamed of not being ashamed enough.
Stanford was almost afraid he spooked you, that he has given away his presence and ruined the 'friendship' you shared. You two are friends, right?
It doesn't seem like that's all he thinks about you, and the evidence is right down between his legs, and fuck - the evidence is starting to bother him.
When he panting came back, he was reassured that his secret is safe, and for celebration, he grabbed his hard cock through his pants, stroking it once. A hiss passed by the barrier he made by gritting his teeth, and he stroked himself a second time.
He had to be careful, though, he can hear as little as a small change in your breath, and the moans basically ring through his ears, even if they're muffled by the doors, and since that's the case, you might as well hear him back.
He stopped his hand as soon as he got a hold of himself, but he did leave it pressed against his crotch, fingers gently pressing down until his hand was just about to wrap around his hard cock, and then he unfurled them, pretending this doesn't count as masturbation. He's just fondling himself, that's not that bad.
It wasn't, anyways.
But he can't resist - his hips start rocking against his hand, and it seemed like his body was trying to take the matter into its own hands.
Stanford gets horny. It's not something he's happy about - you know, when Stanford gets horny, it's like everything rational was crushed under the weight of his carnal desires and is sprinkled around in his empty skull for the sake of decoration, bearing nothing practical to his life.
He might be frustrated because of all the work he does all day - surely, weeks of restless research could leave a toll on a man like Ford as well. He tends to neglect his needs a lot too, and considering the fact that his libido is certainly a high one, even at this age, which frankly, is admirable, such a stunt can leave him aching when his body decides that it has had enough.
Stanford keeps quiet as he starts stroking himself through his pants properly, growing hot in places which he thought that this kind of fire cannot reach anymore.
You listened back - you think you have a right to do so, after all. He's the one that creeped up on your door and decided to peep, you have a right to peep too.
You're sure you caught a hiss coming from behind the door, a small sound that was undoubtedly Ford's - you've heard him make that sound many times before, but never like this, you have never heard it uttered out of pleasure. It was heated and short, and Ford must have bit his tongue hard to stifle it as fast as he did.
You can hear a faint echo of heavy panting, and it sounded rushed, as if his desperation has peaked and all he could think about is how sweet his own touch feels, possibly imagining someone else's hands on him, pretending, yearning.
Your hand was moving quickly between your legs, twisting and turning in any way that feels right with no pace or logic to it. You listened to your instinct. And your instinct, that little rascal is far in the deep end and it's focused on one thing, and one thing only - your body, and its needs. And you've got a lot of needs right now.
Maybe that's why you took your hand out of your underwear and put your feet down on the floor, wasting no time to rest and ensure you can walk, and started stumbling clumsily to the door. You could see the shadow underneath react to the sound of your steps and the intensity of them, and you know that you've startled your voyeur.
It doesn't matter, though - you're about to make him more than a voyeur, and you cannot do that without actually confronting him face to face.
Ford was standing right in front of you. He must have had his ear pressed against the door, since your faces were only a few inches apart when you opened the door. Stanford looked just like what you imagined he would if you had decided to catch him. He was red in the face, it almost seemed like all the hair on the top of his head floated up in fear.
,,I - I was just -" Stanford jumps back when the door swings open, heard sinking down into his stomach. His hard cock throbs - it's not just the thrill of the possibility of being caught that drove him crazy, it's being caught itself that seems to be a source of pure arousal for him. A terrible feeling coils down in his gut.
,,Here's my dear voyeur," you grin, eyes flickering down to take a look at his hard cock, which he tries to cover up with his hand
,,Wha - w - wait!" He was discovered and honestly, he has a hunch that he might have been discovered a while ago now. Ford tried to dodge you, stepping back with every step you take forwards. You manage to wrap your hands around his shoulders before he can run off to the other side of the hallway ,,I can explain -"
He expected the worst upon seeing a malicious look flare up in your eyes.
He didn't expect to be pulled into a kiss.
You smash your lips against his mouth, grunting at the uncomfortable feeling of your teeth clanking against his. You stay like that for a while, kissing and sucking and nibbling on his lips, pushing your body closer to his until you can feel his hard cock poking against your thigh - you give this newly discovered phenomenon a teasing rub
with your palm, and Ford groans into the kiss.
You pulled away when he put his hands on your waist, hoping that he has gotten the memo and understood what the kiss meant, but he just started to sputter out snippets of 'sorry' and 'I didn't' and the like.
You glare at him, and it makes him so nervous that he shuts up. How dare he? He interrupted you, he made you so horny that you've enabled his fucked-up behaviour, and now he's got the nerve to point his big eyes at you and pretend to be innocent?
,,You fucking creep," you snap at him, grabbing the sleeves of his sweater and pulling with all your might, leaving him no choice but to follow after you blindly.
Stanford can't believe himself. He shouldn't have allowed his desires to get the best of him like this - and the funniest part is that the thing he's most mad about is that he got caught, not that he's done this in the first place ,,That's not -"
You shush him, pressing a finger against his lips and then, you start playing with them, surprised at how soft they're to the touch - you've gotten way too carried away during the kiss to have noticed. You pull him into your room ,,C'mere,"
Ford attempted to catch himself at the doorframe, yanking himself out of your grip. He doesn't know what's happening to him - is this some sort of a power play you want to indulge in before you kill him or something? He doesn't get this, and he doesn't take it well when he's told that he doesn't need to get anything.
You don't let this little snag stop you - he might have gotten out of your hands, but you still have many things up your sleeve that'll help you ground him, preferably into your bed. You don't waste time, because it's not like you can afford such a thing, and you put your hands on his stomach ,,Don't be shy now,"
You pull his sweater up, and he stands there uselessly, not fighting.
,,You were spying on me, weren't you?"
Ford froze. Up until now, he was looking at your face, trying to see something on it that would clear out your motive, but he was never the one who was good at reading faces. He averts his eyes, and huffs, not wanting to admit it opnely ,,I wasn't - I didn't mean to -"
You pull him into an another kiss, sneaking a hand around his head and gripping a handful of his hair at the nape. Your other hand pulls his undershirt out of his slacks and then you start rubbing circles across his stomach, playing with the hair of his happy trail.
He groaned into the kiss, and leaned into it. Ford stretches out a hand behind himself and flails it around in search of the door, grabbing it without bothering to find the handle and he pushes hard enough to shut it closed. Not that a closed door really means anything in this goddamn household anymore.
You take a step back, and he follows obediently, chasing after your lips. The backs of your knees hit the bed and you trip, falling down onto the mattress with a slight bounce. It derailed the kiss, and Ford broke away, panting.
You adjust under him, locking your legs around one of his meaty thighs, and you squirm against his body, forcing his softening cock to fill up with blood again. You give a satisfied hum ,,You're such a disgusting fucking pervert,"
His face returned to that cherry red colour in an instant, and he gave you this mortified look. His bulge was dragging across your thigh, and he was met with this feeling of longing that was clouding his mind. He didn't even have the energy to keep defending himself ,,I'm sorry! I was -"
You shake your head, the sheets crinkling below the motion ,,Shut up," you pull at his sweater, and he ducks his head and loosens up his shoulders so that it's easy to undress him. You took off his sweater along with the gray undershirt, and then marveled at his naked chest. You ran your fingers across his nipples, giving each a flick, and then you startled circling your palms across his pecs, feeling him up.
You rub yourself against his thigh, humping it with very little restraint, and the only reason the motions went unnoticed until now was because your speed was low. You were looking for the exactly correct spot for you to move against, rolling your hips experimentally every few seconds, and he noticed at last.
You bite down into your lip ,,Can't believe you were peeping and don't even have the balls to admit it,"
Ford gasps, looking down between your bodies to catch you just as you've found the right angle to hump against him. Coincidentally, the angle ensured that his own hard cock was rubbing against your thigh. He pretends he tried to pull away and was stopped, but you know for a fact that you weren't holding him in place, you know that he was just trying to make up an excuse to hump you back.
Stanford shouldn't lie. He spied on the most private moment of them all, he let himself listen and he even touched himself to it. What he did was an unacceptable, outrageous thing. And he doesn't regret it. Fuck, it took him this far, he might as well own it, because he sure as hell wouldn't do anything different had he travelled back in time.
,,I was - I was 'peeping', okay?" Ford's hips stagger, and he firmly squeezes your thigh between his legs, hard cock throbbing in his pants. He didn't even think about stopping, not even for a second long enough to take out his cock. It hurt to leave it straining, but he simply couldn't slow down.
You hum, and quicken your pace, fucking into his thigh faster and harder. You kiss him on the lips for every word you say: ,,I knew you're a creep,"
He opens his mouth, but the only thing that leaves him is a gasp so loud that his heart fluttered in embarrassment, and he purses his lips, saving his excuses for later.
,,I bet you were touching yourself," you chuckle at how flustered he looked even while you're grinding against one another.
Frankly, you're not sure what you're doing. You seized your chance, and made your move, and it so far it's been working - Stanford is in bed with you, and he's hard against your thigh, and he's hot. Fuck, his body is scorching hot above you, and you feel like you're burning up too when he leans lower and presses his chest against yours. Despite all this, you have no ides what or why you're doing this.
He manages to find his words after a while, trying to sputter out something, but he cuts himself off with a moan before he can finish ,,But I -"
Stanford was rocking against you, thrusting his hips into your thigh, stimulating you in return. It felt like the heat was rising from within his muscles rather than settling on top of him, and everything was burning. The fabric of his slacks was scratching against your bare legs, soon getting wet with the lube that soaked through your underwear and a slick sound emerged from between your bodies. You don't know how you've found yourself in this moment, but you wouldn't have given it up for anything.
,,I knew it," you think about all that makes Ford attractive in your eyes, and rememher that vaguely strange something in him that made you find him sexy, and realize that now you know what it is ,,I knew you were a - fuck - a creep," you repeat, running your hand through his hair, your other one gripping his shoulder as if he should float away any time now ,,I knew you were gross - shit,"
You could sense that he was about to defend himself, so you interrupted him even before he's made the decision to open his mouth ,,It makes you - fuck, fuck, fuck! Makes you hot -"
You didn't know so many moans could possibly come out of you in such a short time span, but it seemed like your body was refusing to cooperate with your brain yet again, and you could stop moving even if it meant that your words staggered.
Ford lets out a happy little grunt, changing the direction to which he rolls his hips, clearly close to coming. His cock was pulsating, and he was having trouble with finding enough pleasure to erase the pain. Everything was so rough and painful, but he couldn't bring himself to bring a halt to it - he needed to come.
Your stomach was contracting, clenching down around nothing, and you felt a quivering down in your underwear. You come with a gasp, arching your back and driving your hips closer to him. Your shoulders slump as if all the muscles in your body had gone numb, and you realize that it's all that you need.
Stanford knows it's impossible for every atom in his body to shake, but it sure as hell felt like that's what was happening. He didn't know he needed it this bad until now, and with every fiber of his body trembling and aching, he feels this pleasant, exhilarating exhaustion creep up on him, and he just wants to lie down and sleep.
You come back to yourself when panting through the aftershocks of your orgasms finally starts to bore you, and you lift yourself up on your elbows, trying to force Stanford to rise up and give you a moment to breathe - he fell right on top of you when he came, groaning a one last time, purely out of satisfaction
,,Ford?" you call out, trying to make sure that this wasn't just a pigment of your imagination, that he's actually around.
,,I'm sorry," he mutters, and flips onto his back, lying down on the bed. His slacks had a large, dark stain on them, and your underwear was sopping wet.
You laugh. You just made love to him, and it wasn't even that hard to get to it. All you needed was a small push.
,,You're such a pervert," you say between short lasting inhales and exhales.
He clings to the last of his dignity ,,But I wasn't - I'm not -"
,,You were -" you sit up, and look down at him, feeling fond of him all of a sudden. He looked wrung out and his cheeks were still red.
,,You were spying on me," you remind him.
,,I - I didn't mean to -" truth is that Stanford really didn't mean to - it was a mistake, it was just something be's done on a whim. Had he been in a clear state of mind, he wouldn't have done this.
,,But you liked it, right?"
,,I -" Ford closes his mouth. He doesn't know what to say. Of course he liked it - it was thrilling and adventurous, it was shameless like nothing else he had done before in his life. He enjoyed listening from behind the door, he enjoying being pulled into your bed.
That doesn't make it any less disgusting.
You put your hand down on his naked chest. You've never been this close to Ford before, or at least not that you know, but it just felt natural to touch him ,,Can you promise that you would never, ever, ever do something like that again? Can you?"
He tilts his head to your direction, blushing when his eyes lock with yours. Maybe he shouldn't be looking at you after all ,,No ..."
Your hand swiftly sneaks down and you grab the bulge in his pants, forcing his limp cock to rub against the cum stain on the front ,,I know, you old pervert,"
,,I said I didn't mean to listen!" he sputters, looking down where your hand fondled him.
You grin ,,Oh, but you were jacking off, weren't you?"
,,I - I - uh -"
,,No excuses, huh?" you climb on top of him, stuffing your leg back between his thighs, and you push your hand harder against his groin with your knee.
Stanford sighs in defeat, and separates his legs for you. He huffs and crosses his arms, coming to accept the title you've given him without much fuss ,,So I'm a creep,"
You cannot settle dowm - even after all that happened, you cannot stop writhing against him in search for more pleasure ,,I like it. I think it's really hot,"
He clears his throat. It's not often that someone desires this kind of behaviour from his. To be honest, this kind of thing should have people running away screaming curses after him. It's good that you don't mind.
,,I like creeps," you say dreamily.
Ford rolled his eyes playfully - maybe those accusations you're putting on him aren't that bad. He didn't think, and cracked a joke ,,Oh, lucky me,"
You give him a drunken giggle ,,Lucky you,"
You lean in and kiss him. You probably never would have intended to tell him that you think he's hot, that you feel a little something down in your pants whenever he gently runs a hand across your waist to notify you of his presence, that you stare at his him when he's not looking, but it seems like you have no way of worming out of your attraction to him now.
Well, at least you don't have to confess anything to him. You don't have to tell him that you like him, you don't have to beat around the bush trying to tell him that you want to fuck him. You've already got all that covered.