Work Text:
Ford had been throwing himself at his work nonstop for two whole weeks. No breaks, no air, no nonsense.
At first you were okay with it. You obeyed him when he asked simply for a cup of coffee and toast for “breakfast”, despite it being nearly 3:00 P.M. You were docile when he dismissed you with nothing but a general glance in your direction and a small grumble as thanks. You tried to be a good wife. You really did.
But then that second Friday came, and your patience had ran thin. Dangerously thin.
You had gone out to buy coffee beans for the sixth time within those two weeks alone—and by the time you finished your seventh trip, you were at your wits end. Ford had you buying the most expensive coffee beans in the small 7/11 you frequented (when you bought a cheaper one, he refused to drink the coffee because it “wasn’t the same”) And because Ford wasn’t exactly working, you had to pick up a few shifts at the local library—which did not pay enough because no one bought anything. Who even reads in Gravity Falls, anyway?
On that second Friday, you got home from your shift and—lo and behold—Stanford hunkered before the fridge, scavenging for something—you didn’t particularly care to know. You were just glad he’d finally come up for air. Before he noticed your presence, you genuinely had hope; was he going to eat something other than whole wheat toast? Was he going to cook something on his own? Did he finally, finally get a good few hours of rest so that he could safely handle flammable substances?
And then he noticed you. His head snapped in your direction—your grocery bags full of literally only coffee beans and whole wheat toast in hand. You wished you could say he looked disheveled, but that would be putting it lightly. He looked undead.
His eye-bags were large and dark, like a raccoon (and he’d dug through the fridge like a raccoon, too, as if they didn’t have enough in common already). His usually trimmed and thoroughly groomed stubble had grown into a near fully-grown hobo-like beard, scraggly, prickly, and untamed. His glasses were, as always, askew—so askew that he needed to fix their position on his face. But he didn’t care. With or without his specs, he wasn’t seeing straight anyhow. Another jarring aspect about his appearance was his lack of temperature appropriate clothing. It was near 60°F in the house, and he wore nothing but a wifebeater--and those damn green booty shorts. He hadn’t done his laundry in quite a while, so he’d resorted to wearing whatever was in the bottom of his drawer that didn’t smell rancid—this included clothes that barely fit him. All of the work-weight he’d gained over the last few months was finally showing up. The elastic of the shorts clung to his thighs, creating a small bump that made him visibly uncomfortable—every few minutes he’d attempt to pull down the pant legs in vain.
“Where have—” He began before coughing roughly to clear his throat. This was the first time he’d spoken with you—and spoken at all—since last month. “Where have you been?”
“I stopped by the corner store to get you some more food.” You walked past him and set the paper bags (bags of coffee beans, plural) onto the kitchen counter. You nearly went to his side to rub his shoulder and ask how he was feeling—softly, sweetly, in a tone often reserved for sleepy toddlers up past their bedtime.
But Ford is a grown-ass man. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” He asked you with all the audacity his voice could hold.
'Do you?’ You nearly retorted—but you held your tongue. Your eyes glanced toward the cuckoo clock in the corner, and then back to Ford’s mummified self. “It’s about…four in the afternoon. Why? What’s wrong, honey?”
“Well,” he huffed as if about to give a long list of complaints, “I burned myself trying to make coffee this morning.” He lifted up a hand and wiggled his fingers—it was definitely burnt. You could see scars from beneath the haphazardly wrapped bandages. “So, since you’re having trouble understanding my plight, I’ll ask you again, and with more specificity.” He closed the fridge door and leaned on it. “Where were you?”
You immediately dropped the caring tone you were using before. You rested against the kitchen counter—mimicking him—as you fold your arms against your chest. “I was at the library, Ford.”
“Doing what?”
“Working? Like I told you I would last night?” You answered—which was true, you did tell him that. Of course, he clearly did not hear you, nor did he have the mental strength to hear anything from anyone.
“Why are you working, you—you don’t need to work! We have funds!”
“No, Ford, we don’t. In fact, we are very quickly running out of them—especially since you keep plowing through the food that I’ve been buying.”
Ford scoffed. “That can’t possibly be where all of those funds are going.”
“Oh, of course it isn’t, Ford. We have bills to pay,” you said, “and speaking of bills—which I have been paying nearly out of fucking pocket—have you seen the water bill? The heating bill? The mother-fucking electrical bill?”
“You and your crass language—”
“If I am paying the bills for this house, then it’s my house. And I will use the language that I want to use in my house.”
“In what quantum dimension is this your property if I’m the one that built it in the first place?”
“Oh, I’m sorry—Built? You didn’t build shit!”
Ford sensed that the argument wasn’t going his way, so he moved it back in the direction he planned it to go. “Whatever, that’s not—whatever. What matters is that you weren’t here to make my coffee this morning, and now my hands are burnt, and I couldn’t get my work done because I couldn’t stay awake.”
You sat there, dumbfounded for a bit. “…You’re upset because of morning coffee?”
His disgruntled expression stayed unwavering. You nearly started laughing. “Dr. Stanford Pines is yelling at me over coffee!?”
“What, is that hard for you to comprehend, too?”
“Ford, I wish I didn’t have the mental capacity to comprehend all of the bullshit you’re hurling in my direction, but here we are.”
“This isn’t B.S., you ruined my routine, and now I have to suffer the consequences of your actions!”
As soon as that sentence goes into the air, you grab a bag of coffee beans that you bought fifteen minutes ago from out of the grocery bag. You tear the bag open, then you lean over the kitchen sink, and unplug the drain.
“Y’know, I’m really glad we got this garbage disposal for my sink, Ford. Because you’re about to suffer some more consequences due to my actions.”
“Stop that—”
You flip the open bag of coffee beans over the sink and pour the black beans down the drain. You initially had a split second thought that it might be better for your handy kitchen appliance to have those beans thrown in the trash instead—but that would make for easy retrieval on Ford’s end. He’d dig through a landfill for some Folgers if desperate enough. So if the garbage disposal had to die for your dignity, then so be it.
“Start counting, Ford, I bought more than one.”
You reached for a second bag and wondered why Ford hadn’t moved to stop you yet. He was frozen in place; his mouth opening and closing, his hands reaching forward and shrinking back. He hesitated like an old computer trying to process multiple input commands. But no matter—you flipped the second bag of coffee beans over the drain. This time, after you dumped it all out, you flipped the switch to turn the garbage disposal on. You stared directly into Ford’s bloodshot eyes as the sink whirred with the sounds of sliced-and-diced coffee beans. Once the crunching noises cleared up, you flipped the switch off, reached for a new bag, and looked back at Ford as you cracked it open. Your eyes trailed down his figure, stiff as a statue—or maybe that’s just what was in his pants. You think you see something under his green shorts for a split second, but you’re too angry to dwell on it. You’d exploit him with that little detail later.
Or at least, you thought it would be later.
“Third bag—I’ve got one more, Ford.” You hissed. You tore open the next bag with your teeth and a small groan escaped Ford’s throat—made you even more angry. Was he seriously getting off to this? Was your anger still not getting through his thick, sick, and stupid skull? You spat out the excess paper from the bag onto the kitchen floor. As you moved over to dump out the coffee beans again, you saw Stanford’s left hand absentmindedly move towards his inner thigh—your eye twitched. Stanford wasn’t thinking straight, obviously—but this was wildly out of character for him.
“Oh my god—fucking loser,” you snarled, “you’re so braindead that you won’t even stop me from dumping this shit.”
Stanford’s mouth opened and closed again. He sucked air in through his teeth as his eyes followed where the plush of your ass met the kitchen countertop—and he’s just feeling it down there, he can’t help it. He can’t stop himself anymore—he’d gotten at least five hours of sleep in total over the last few days. Ford’s superego was dead. Not to mention that the only part of his body that hadn’t gone completely numb was his raging hard-on.
“So you’re just gonna stand there and jerk off like a perv?” You sneered, “you’re not even gonna stop me? Not even gonna try?”
“I’m—Uh—” Stanford whimpered—his hand palming his clothed crotch. You threw the empty paper bag in his direction—as if that would do anything—and he didn’t even flinch. His eyes were so focused on your body that he didn’t even kick the bag away as it floated down on top of his feet.
“Stanford,” you growled. You took out the last coffee bag. “Come here and stop me.” You tore it open.
“I...”
“Come here. And stop—”
And he tried to. You saw him try. He lunged forward, his legs moving him—for at least the first two steps—towards the tipped coffee bean bag in your hand, hovering over the open drain of the kitchen sink that was overflowing with beans.
And then he pivoted.
It was all he could’ve done. Just lunge towards you—because what the hell would coffee do for him in a situation like this? His lips crashed against yours in a hasty, sloppy mess. His hands flew to cup your face despite your alarm. You barely got out a scalding hiss of his name—Stanford!—as he tugged you closer to him and let out the most dogged, guttural, predatorial growl that you’d ever heard from him. The hand he previously used to palm his crotch then had a stinging grip on the curve of your ass. He pushed your hips into his own, and feverishly rubbed his groin against your thigh. He dry-humped you against the kitchen counter as if his cock would fall right off if he didn’t.
“Stanford—shit—” You managed to pant once his lips left yours, now trailing their way down your neck, “the fuck are you—”
“Quiet.” Stanford demanded, one hand firmly gripping your chin, the other now on the zipper of your jacket—or, technically his jacket—which he hastily tugged down. As soon as your coat was open, he lunged forward to bite and suck whatever skin he could find beneath your sweater.
You couldn’t get him off of you. But if we’re being honest, you weren’t even trying. You made a half-assed attempt at pushing him away at least once, but after that, nothing. All you could get yourself to do in retaliation was berate him. But the more you insulted him, the more you seemed to egg him on. The more obvious that poking feeling got, by your inner thigh.
Stanford shucked your coat off, pushed your sweater up to your neck, and practically bent you backwards to pull a tit out of your bra and suck on it. His hips rutted into you with no restraint, even twitching slightly when your hand came down to squeeze the plush of his ass which made him whine against your skin like a kicked mutt. And then his tongue left your nipple and he kissed, and kissed, and kissed your tummy. And then he was kneeling before you. You spat at him as his hands fumbled at your belt buckle and tugged down your jeans and panties, guarding your undeniably wet pussy.
”Fucking loser…Fucking loser, fu—Ohh—”
Your head reeled back against the cupboards as Ford shoved his tongue in between your folds and let out a pathetically needy groan. The levels of absolute goonery Ford was reaching in his sleep-deprived and sex-deprived state were almost worth laughing at. As he lapped like a dog against your clit, he mentally scolded himself. He was supposed to fight back—he was supposed to take over and get rid of your bratty attitude. He was supposed to make you shut up, and he had, in a way—but not like this. He was supposed to be on top. Fucking loser—God, he loved this feeling.
While he shamelessly humped his clothed crotch against your calf, he moaned in pure delight. ‘Thank you,’ he thought, ‘Thank you for coming back home to me.”
You soon came to your senses on what was happening. Your hand slid into Ford’s brown curls and tugged his head back, forcing him to look at you through his fogged up glasses. He whimpered at the menacing glare you shot down at him. Wetness had accumulated on his forehead—was he sweating?
”No—nonono please, let me taste you, please—” Ford whined. Oh, how he missed you. Seven hours without you turned him into a tortured soul.
“Oh, you lost that privilege, Ford,” you scold him, “this ends now.”
Ford did not like that.
In a sudden surge of energy, he lunged forward and hoisted you over his shoulder. You yelped in surprise as he powered up the shack stairs and into your shared bedroom—which neither of you had slept in simultaneously for about a month. He kicked the door open and closed with his foot and slammed you down on the bed. He clambered over your rattled form, his body practically burning (like the hot water he’d burnt himself with while making coffee).
Even through all of this, your sailors mouth wouldn’t stop spitting. So Ford decided to plug it with two of his fingers. ”Language,” he grunted. “Your mouth is so…filthy—it makes me sick. Shut up.”
You pulled his hand away and struggled to keep his fingers out of your mouth so you could get the last word in.
“Fuck you.” You spat in his face.
Saliva landed against his glasses. He pulled them off his face, threw them somewhere across the room and—Christ, you’d never seen him this livid. His brows furrowed and deepened the wrinkles on his forehead. His nose scrunched up and his nostrils flared like a bull. His lips curled down into a nasty frown. You felt a shiver race down your spine (and some more wetness trail down your thigh) as you inched backward in an attempt to make a run for it, but Ford’s massive hands dragged you back beneath him by your hips. He pinned you down with the weight of his own body.
“Cut it out,” Ford seethed. His eyes burned holes into yours. He began to fully undress you rather than haphazardly tug the cloth out of the way. You were so paralyzed with fear, lust…fearful lust or lustful fear—whatever you want to call it—that you couldn’t dare to fight him then. All of the anger within you vanished at the sight of his towering over you.
“I have spent the day doing nothing but fight to stay awake.” Ford yanked your sweater up and off of you. “I have burned my own hands,” he unclasped your bra, “and drank that repulsive, left over, cheap brand of decaffeinated coffee,” he lifted up your legs and yanked your pants off. Ford paused so he could take off his own wife-beater and tug down his shorts. His cock sprang up and slapped against his hairy stomach.
“I have done nothing of substance for my own project,” he panted, “so if I’m going to do anything else today,” he angled himself and slowly pushed into your slick. He let out a shaky whine upon feeling your warmth—he forgot all about what he was saying earlier. His brows softened, his lips twitched upwards. He couldn’t stay angry at his beloved for that long, he just couldn’t, “I… Oh, it needs to be you, it has to be.”
He leaned forward and captured your lips once more. His tongue slid against yours, and you helplessly moaned into his mouth as his hips moved against your core. He gave you barely more than seconds to breath. He then propped himself up on his elbows, and with the last of his anger left ruminating in his body, he growled. “Look at me.”
You looked at him, and he crumbled.
His head fell into the crook of your neck, and the sleepiness of the day weighed at least the top half of his body down. He gripped the sheets with hands that trembled from the insomnia. His breath hitched from the pleasure. His eyes reeled back into his head as he thrusted deeper, deeper—but you never see that. You loosely hooked your legs around Ford’s waist in an attempt to pull him close, but all your senses kept pointing down. You groaned out as Ford’s hips moved faster, faster, trying to run away from his exhaustion. Fuck away his exhaustion.
He lazily drawled and heaved into your ear, “I missed you…I missed you…Oh, my darling…” and let out whimpers so needy that not even puppies could compete. He lazily kissed and licked at your earlobe while feverishly fucking into your tightening pussy.
You hissed, and squeezed around him, which made him moan, “Oh, cum— I…need to cum, my love, I’m sorry— I’m sorry,” and he feels so warm, and you’re so warm, and wet, and…hot. “Can I—cum, can I… c-can you…oh, fuck—”
“Mmm—language, Ford,” you chuckled, which strangely elicited a high-pitched whimper from Ford’s lips. He thrusted sharply into you, once, twice, “oh, fuck—it’s okay, baby,” you console him, a hand running through his hair, “cum inside me—I forgive you.”
As soon as you finished talking, Ford broke down on top of you. He let out a gut-wrenching groan, and with a new burst of energy, ruthlessly pounded into you. You shivered around him, your orgasm ripping through your body. Ford grunted and snarled into your ear and came inside you without any intelligible warning. His spend seeped into your wetness. His hips slowed down drastically. He stilled.
He was heavy. “Fuck—Ford,” you grunted. You pushed your hand up against his shoulders in an attempt to move him.
You hear a small snore come from your partner. Ford is out cold.
You shimmied upward on the mattress so you could at least breathe properly. You moved so his head rested comfortably on your stomach. You threw a nearby blanket over the two of you.
Ford conked out for nearly fourteen blissful hours.
Fucking loser.