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Assumptions are a common problem when the two of you are out and about together– not many people will look at an older man and his significantly younger companion and immediately assume that they’re lovers. No, their thoughts go to father and child, or, worse for Ford’s self-esteem, grandfather and grandchild. It’s one of those things that you can’t casually correct someone on– it’s easy enough to say you’re not related, but it’s an entirely different matter to say, “this isn’t my grandfather, this is my boyfriend.”
The judgement doesn’t particularly bother you– you know that you’re both consenting adults who acknowledge the potential power imbalance between the two of you, and work to make sure that dynamic isn’t the focus of your relationships, to keep it built on mutual trust and understanding rather than a conflict of interest. If a stranger can’t understand that, that’s hardly your problem– your energy is better spent on something actually worth it.
Ford, on the other hand? Well, as the main victim of their judgement, he finds himself with a different outlook on the situation.
He frequently finds himself anxious when out in public with you, holding hands as you walk, waiting for the inevitable moment someone recognizes the context of your affection and sends that disgusted glare his way, like they know exactly what he is, what his motives must be to date someone so young– or send a nervous, sympathetic look towards you, attempting to let you know that if you need help, they’re willing to give it. On multiple occasions, Ford has found himself afraid that someone is about to step in, rescue you from him. Which makes him laugh when the moment is past and he’s not actively in danger of being assaulted by a misguided good samaritan– because if they knew who was really in charge between the two of you, they probably wouldn’t even be looking your way in the first place.
It doesn’t help when you’re pulling him into deep on-the-mouth kisses in semi-crowded public spaces, subjecting him to your witness’ stares and whispers– which are fair, he would probably feel the same way if he were to see the same thing as an outsider, but being blamed for some imaginary crime these strangers come up with has him indignant. Why don’t they ever look towards you, the one kissing him in the first place (he knows the answer– he’s not stupid– and again, it’s fair, but that doesn’t make him any less salty)?
He could always ask you to stop, to tone down the PDA. He knows that you would comply without question or complaint—well, serious complaint, anyway– but something stops him every time. That something being the spark of arousal that lights up in his stomach whenever you do it.
It’s not the misconception that arouses him, he tells himself, it’s the judgement. You’ve played around with embarrassment and humiliation in the bedroom enough for him to know that it gets him off. All his life, he’s been a freak, but only during college did he finally embrace it, become proud of his weirdness. There’s a certain thrill that comes with shocking people, challenging their assumptions and comfortable but limited worldview, and it’s only natural that feeling would excite him sexually as well. You can tease him all you want, but he knows it doesn’t mean anything he isn’t already aware of.
Or so he thought.
The Gravity Mall, which you refuse to stop calling it ever since you heard Wendy call it that and claimed her a genius (when, really, it’s the obvious nickname), doesn’t host a lot of people on an average weekday, so the chance of judgemental looks being thrown at you two is lessened. You’re there to buy you a new phone at the tech store, since the old one Stan managed to crap out on you in ways not even Ford and Fiddleford could fix, not for lack of trying– you only got them to agree to stop trying if you let them add their own improvements to the new one after you bought it. After browsing while complaining about the store still selling mainly flip-phones, you settled upon a simple, mostly up-to-date version of the same brand touchscreen phone you’d had before, one that Ford confirmed as a piece of cake to modify. You also threw in a plain phone case that you’d get Mabel to decorate for you, and a cute flip-phone charm for her as an incentive, though you both knew she’d do it regardless.
The young cashier rings your purchase up without any fanfare or recommendation of another product you don’t need, likely not paid enough to care about their numbers. As she scans the box the phone comes in, she glances up between you two and smiles, turning to you to ask, “This a gift for your dad here?”
Ford’s face flushes and he looks away, pretending the Bath and Body Works storefront across the way is incredibly interesting. Typically, this is where you tell her that Ford isn’t your father and leave it at that.
“Nah, he doesn’t understand modern technology,” you say instead. Ford picks up on it immediately, the lack of a correction, and turns back to look at you, throw a confused raise of the eyebrow your way, but you’re busy pulling Stan’s credit card out of your wallet (which he let you borrow after being the reason your phone was so broken in the first place). “I still have to show him how to full-screen a YouTube video.” You continue with another little laugh, still not cluing the cashier into the fact that he’s not your father.
The cashier laughs herself and says something about her own father being the same way, but Ford isn’t listening, too busy wondering as she hands over the bag of your items with a wish for a nice day. You thank her and take the bag with one hand, taking his in your other and leading him out of the store. You stop before you both step past the entrance and tug on his hand, motioning him to lean down, to which you plant a kiss on his cheek– more like the corner of his lips, toeing the line of romantic, but far enough that the cashier could reasonably view it as familial, especially after the interaction she’d just had with you.
When you pull away, there’s a smile on your face, the one that Ford knows by now means trouble. Before he can prepare, or even imagine the possibilities of what you’re about to do, you lean back in to whisper in his ear, “Let’s go, dad.”
Perhaps Ford is more of a freak than he originally thought because he immediately begins to sway in place as all the blood in his brain rushes downwards. He can’t even hear your evil cackle over the blood pumping through the veins in his ears. Before you can pull on Ford's hand to guide him wherever you want to go next on your little shopping spree at his brother's expense, he does the honors and drags you, laughing at him the whole way, off to the nearest bathroom– which, luckily, ends up being at the other end of the mall from the food court where everybody else gathers, so nobody sees him pull you both into the single-stall.
You crowd him with his back against the door the second he flips the lock, gathering his wrists in your hands and pinning them on either side of his head as you push him into a filthy-deep kiss. He predictably melts, knees almost giving out beneath him as your teeth sink into his bottom lip and he moans into your mouth. You’re both gasping for air by the time you pull away and trail your “kisses” – which, by this point, are just smears of lips, hard sucking of flesh between your teeth that leads to bites– down his jawline and the sliver of his throat not covered by his turtleneck. If he had any higher brain function, he might be concerned with marks left behind, but he can’t find it in himself to care when one of your hands comes down to grope him through his slacks, ripping a gasp from his throat that makes you laugh.
“P-please–” He doesn’t even need to speak what he wants, what he needs, because you’re already dropping to your knees in front of him, a sight that steals his breath away every time. You undo his belt with a swiftness that can only be attributed to practice, and he digs his own teeth into his lip, slotting them into the indents you left there as you pull his pants and briefs down to expose his already-hard cock, springing to a half-mast right in front of your face. Your breath ghosts over the sensitive tip, sending a shiver down his spine and his hips jerking forward. One of your hands comes to hold his hip against the door while the other traces the length of his cock– as much as he wants to grab you by the head and pull you closer to his cock, encourage you to take it in your mouth, you didn’t tell him he could move his hands, so he keeps them right where you put them, curling them into fists as he waits for you to do something substantial. “Please,” he repeats breathlessly.
You lick your hand and wrap it around his shaft, but despite his pleas, your hand moves agonizingly slowly, up and down, the pad of your thumb dragging over his frenum with cruel purpose. He throws his head back and groans at the sensation, relying on your hold on him to keep him from moving his hips further into your touch without permission– you’re by no means stronger than him, not even his hips alone, but the mere feeling of a hand on him helps, more of a mental restraint than physical.
“You really liked that, huh?” You ask after a moment. Ford manages a confused sound through the heavy breathing and pained whimpers because you haven’t done anything out of the ordinary for the two of you that you would need to check if he liked yet. He looks down to see you smiling like a little devil. “That cashier thinking you were my dad.”
Ford whines desperately. “N-no,” he tries. “It was–”
“No,” you decide for him, interrupting his explanation with a single circle of your thumb around his tip, smearing his precum, leaving him choking on his breath. “It was me calling you dad, wasn’t it?” Ford shakes his head frantically and bites his lip hard to keep any incriminating sounds from leaving his lips and contradicting the movement. You scoff a laugh. “Yeah, right. You loved it.”
“I– I–” Even if Ford had an excuse, he can’t get it out when you’re squeezing his cock like that, like you’re trying to coax more precum out of his already leaking tip. He gives up after far too many attempts to stutter out a coherent thought, letting out a long pathetic whine, his face flushing as hard as it can manage when all the blood in his body is busy filling out his shaft. You laugh at him, and that unfortunately has his pelvic floor clenching, around nothing.
“That’s what gets you going these days?” You click your tongue disapprovingly. “Dirty old man,” you say, picking up the pace of your hand and making him squirm– he resents the way it makes you look right.
“‘M sorry–” he mutters, ashamed.
You quickly shush him, and the way it puffs against his cock, wet with his own fluids, almost hurts. “It’s okay,” you say, softly but with a mischievous undertone– he knows he has to prepare himself for whatever comes next, but nothing could possibly prepare him for you leaning in close, your lips almost touching the tip of his cock, and whispering, “I won’t tell anyone, daddy.”
His orgasm takes him by surprise– his stomach flips with a choked gasp, unable to warn you before he’s cumming. You flinch, but come back from the shock quickly enough to stick your tongue out and prevent his cum from getting on your clothes. You continue to stroke him through it, pulling every last drop out of him until he’s empty, letting out a series of overstimulated whimpers before you finally have mercy on him and pull away with a swallow and a gentle kiss to the head. He collapses into the door behind him, catching his breath as you wet some paper towel to wipe him down with and tuck him back into his briefs. He recovers enough by then to pull his pants back up on his own, pointedly avoiding your gaze as he does, clarity hitting him harder than his orgasm did– but when you place your hand on his jaw and lift his head yourself, he has no choice but to meet your knowing smile.
“I–” You interrupt him by pulling him into a kiss– a soft one, much more gentle than your previous foreplay-snogging. He happily reciprocates, reaching out to hold you by the waist and bring you even closer. You’re still smiling when you pull back, but much more kindly than before, no longer with a sadistic undertone to it. He smiles back and you smooth out his sweater for him before opening the door behind him and gesturing for him to go first, excited to get on with your revenge-fueled spending spree.
He’s not sure why he expected you to drop the subject– you’re not that nice. It shouldn’t be a surprise when you pull a little number off of the rack in Edgy on Purpose, hold it up to yourself to help him imagine how you’d look in it, and ask, “Daddy, will you buy this for me?”
Ford can’t even bring himself to nod, just has this intense look in his eyes that tells you that you two need to get home immediately.