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The first thing Fiddleford really noticed about Stanley is he drank. A lot. There were a great deal of other differences but it’s the first one that he could remember in his fragmented mind. It didn’t really seem to matter what it was. Straight or mixed, fermented or distilled, with or without chaser. The vagabond seemed to pay no mind to the type or consumption method, just that it had an ABV percentage.
Stan has stumbled his way home from the only bar in town. It frightens the young inventor, he’d almost forgotten that Stan had gone out, though he’s quick to settle. The smell of alcohol is overbearing, mixing with the stale air of the solitary cabin. Fiddleford’s on another cup of coffee, he’d lost count but that’s not really saying anything, and there’s papers strewn across the floor and equations written on a blackboard. It’d hit the point it just didn’t mean anything to him anymore, the numbers and symbols are dissolving into dark patterns of nonsense in his mind. This was a welcomed distraction.
The stench gets stronger as his current companion trips his way across the floor, kicking up and disrupting papers with very little regard for what may be on them. He stops in front of the slightly shorter man, who has to extend his arms to catch him as he slumps over.
“Fun night?” Fiddleford asks, his tone amused. Stanley mumbles something incoherent before shoving his cold hands up the poor guy’s shirt in what must surely be a failed murder attempt. Fiddleford yelps. “Stanley!”
That would be the other thing he’d noticed. Stanley, well, liked him. It’s not to say Stanford didn’t, though he wasn’t still entirely certain of that, it’s just. Stanley liked him how he liked Stanford, so to say. It’d been slow going at first, given the situation it couldn’t have been anything else, but something snapped. The details were a blur, it felt a lot like the current situation, and they blundered their way to a point things like this were casual. Besides, it’s not like any of Stanley’s tour groups were sticking around for long after the show and it’s not like Fiddleford could really be out in this cruel world anymore. They’re young, they have needs. And…something. Something in fragments.
Stan’s hands have made their way from Fiddleford’s hips, up his sides, to either of his shoulder blades. He’s also been leaning into him in a way that’s caused the two to end up against the wall via an unsure path. The conman breaths in deep, taking in the smell and the warmth, before pulling back. It’s just to stand up right, his hand on the wall to accomplish such a feat, the other man is still pressed firmly against him. He uses his free hand to unzip his ragged red jacket, fishing out an equally ragged red metal flask from the pocket before shrugging it off into a pile on the floor.
“Help me out here.” He says, his voice is deep and rough. It’s a little broken, like he’d been yelling. Fiddleford’s face is deeply flushed as the flask is held to him. He looks at Stan in that tight fitting white t-shirt he’s always wearing. It’s somehow more revealing than if he was actually shirtless, at least it feels that way in how it hugs the swells of his chest, stomach, and arms. Fiddleford’s dick gives its opinion on that as it starts to stir. “Thanks, McGucket.”
“I-uh…No problem.” The poor scientist can’t help the way his eyes track the motion of the container to Stan’s mouth as he takes a large drink. He notices that he’s being watched in turn, it’s not helping his whole boner situation, and neither is the way Stan leans forward to kiss him. His eyes wrench shut as their lips meet, his mouth almost immediately opens. His reward is a mouthful of amber liquor, which he swallows back the burn of as it’s followed by tongue.
There they are again. Those pieces. The fragments. They form together behind his eyelids, the completed jigsaw. Stan looks a hell of a lot like Ford. Of course he does, they’re twins, but it’s in their eyes. That shared tiredness, contempt for the world, burning ambition. The yearning to be something more. The thought shouldn’t make his cock jump, nor should it result in the deep muffled groan he lets out.
Stan breaks the sloppy kiss to take another deep swig, moving his hand from the wall to the nape of Fiddleford’s neck. Fiddleford’s hands shoot to his hips as he kisses him again. It’s the same as the first, and he can feel the heat follow the alcohol down from his mouth into his belly to fuel the growing flames. One pushes against another, it’s not exactly clear how it started, but either way their crotches rub firmly against one another.
The friction is nice, though the rhythm is lazy and uncoordinated. McGucket pulls back to moan in a drawn out way. Stan uses the opportunity to take another sip, though he actually swallows this one. He reaches down to unbuckle his belt, it’s not going well on account of the fact he is holding something and drunk. Out of the kindness of his heart, Fiddleford undoes the buckle and pops the button on his own pants to release some of the less desired pressure. Stan doesn’t wait for the same courtesy before rolling his hips again.
It’s hard to really work out something that’s consistent, so eventually Fiddleford simply relents and matches the odd pace that’s being set. It’s far from bad, even with all their clothes still in the way he can feel the heat. It’s making his head spin, he runs his hands up Stan’s back to grab his shoulders to pull him closer. The dark chuckle the action results in must make steam come out of his ears.
It’s too much, it’s not enough, he can’t take it and he needs more. His eyes fall shut again. It's nice how their clothed dicks slide together, hot and heavy and desperate. The rough, calloused hand in the base of his hair squeezes in rolling waves, it’s just how he would imagine Ford’s to be. The warm weight that’s holding him up is how Ford’s would be. It moves back again.
He opens his eyes to Mr.Mystery himself, taking another drink unsurprisingly. He’s just as flushed, and looking down…yeah. They’re at about the same spot. Fiddleford can see the outline of his dick, straining against the denim. There’s a wet spot near the tip, and lord knows that’s a deeply appreciated sight.
They can’t go like this for much longer, Stan’s drunkenness and Fiddleford’s internal push/pull isn’t ideal for stamina. The flask is emptied in one last pull, then discarded so the once occupied hand can slip beneath the doomed man's shirt to press flat against his stomach. Eager, his response is to wrap his leg around the other's hips to bring them closer yet again.
It's almost shameful, how they're dry humping like sexually repressed college students. But on the other hand it feels very, very good. Fiddleford's eyes drift closed again, he buries his face in Stan's neck and pants heavily. His dick twitches, throbbing, begging to be touched but settling for this.
"God, Fiddleford, I'm so close- just-" That grumbling voice rattles his ears. He digs his blunt nails into the skin of the back of whoever's on top of him. Too many wires are getting crossed, it's getting hard to keep track of this fantasy in his head verses the reality of what's happening. He moans wordlessly, it's broken and low. He squeezes his eyes shut harder. "Shit!"
It is the fact he can FEEL the twitching of Stan's cock as he cums that brings about his own orgasm.
"Ffffuuuuhhh-haaah-" Fiddleford bites his own lip before gasping a bit. "Fuck! Pines!"
And like that it is done. They stand, breathing heavily. Their bodies relax and endorphins are burning off and they are both left to deal with the fact they have, in fact, both creamed their pants.