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Stanford Pines was, in the simplest of terms, eccentric.
Fairly rough around the edges. Hyper-vigilant. Stubborn as a mule. Had at least one undiagnosed mental disorder.
And a real goober once he let you past his cold exterior— like a house-cat turned feral, only to be re-inaugurated into the ways of a house-cat.
On top of his ego and surprising inclination towards strong language (albeit outside of this dimension) he’s also one of the few instructors you’ve had who’s genuinely a morning person. A rarity in the science field.
He’s been licking his lips a lot recently. A totally innocuous observation you’ve made over the past week.
Definitely not because it was distracting.
A subconscious behavior wrought by stress, you presume, given that his studious expression tended to sour shortly afterwards.
That or he would glance at you.
At first, you thought nothing of it. Honestly flattered by the attention, small as it was.
That, you learnt, was just the kind of person Stanford was. Awkward, but displayed his affections in subtle, ever-so meaningful ways; usually by taking over your duties so you could get some decent shut-eye, or orienting himself near the treeline during your escapades on the off-chance something were to rush out.
It’s been ages since you had a consistent sleep, you feel like.
The work of an apprentice always depended on the job but you’d think one this physically taxing would put you out more than keep you up?
Ford understood, chuckling a bit at your vehement complaining, and even attempted to placate you in his dorky little way by mentioning his own experiences with the mind— as well as some vaguely morbid discoveries he’d made as a result— something that would normally come off as pretentious or facetious.
However, his approach to story-telling and signature mannerisms, be it his hands flailing about whenever he got locked on a particularly grating subject, pacing back and forth, never letting your eyes go idle, made for an enjoyable experience.
You mentally checked out when he patted your back an inch too low, raffishly stating it was “just the start”.
You’re not sure when it started. The random bouts of drowsiness, precluding a restless slumber. Blips in time lost to the hazy edges of your mind.
It was worse than your junior year at university. All those late nights and groggy mornings, hunched over your mattress with a hand in your thigh and the other, clutching a pencil, twitching atop the half-blank paper as your mind ached from nutrient deprivation and hanger.
Like a broken rendition of sleeping beauty.
Some days were great! Any morning spent without feeling like you downed a twelve pack of twisted tea was a win in your book.
Others, you could only hope for a storm of some kind to knock the power out or the type of paperwork that took way more time than it was worth to complete.
Now, while nowhere near the most unscrupulous superior you’ve had, it still shook you how accommodating he was towards your unexplained ailment. Not once did he imply disbelief, nor insinuate you were exaggerating to get out of work.
In fact, one incident in particular had been painted across the cave of your skull. Forever immortalized in your memory bank.
A moment where he actually put down the pen and left his chair, neglecting his studies despite your (polite) insistence that you were still plenty capable, shushing your bashful blubbers the whole trip upstairs.
You remembered like it was yesterday. Standing there fidgeting in the kitchen doorway, your nervous eyes tailing him like a kid with an upset stomach while he danced about with a domestic sort of efficiency.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want his help, but he was still your boss— Mister “jack-of-all-trades”, well-seasoned outdoorsman toting not one, not two, but twelve goddamn phd’s Pines.
That’s all you thought about whenever you faulted with a device, looking over your shoulder for his instruction, or had to crane your neck up to meet his gaze. When your frustrated whines ricocheted off the walls of his study and back to your ears, having accidentally smudged your topographical sketch.
The man hadn’t appeared upset by the circumstance, his body language radiating placidity.
But you weren’t easily fooled, having witnessed his pokerface firsthand, and remained shamefaced as he rooted through random cabinets and drawers.
Eventually, he pulled out a sandwich bag of who-knows-what. For an earnest second, you thought it was reefer.
Dried herbs. Harvested from his own backyard.
Chamomile, to be exact.
. . he was bad for your health, honestly.
Then again, you couldn’t be a shit boss and have people willing to risk their fingers for a couple gnome hair samples.
Ford was a lot of things. Inquisitive, self-contained, neurotic depending on the occasion; as well as a dependable, goofy family man who purportedly managed to fill his grandniece’s swear jar (she wanted an allowance) in one week.
You’d drop dead before telling him the full extent of your symptoms.
That you have to practically waddle to the corner of your room, legs shaky, shamefully tossing your sodden panties in the hamper because god forbid you forget them on the bathroom floor in your groggy stupor. At one point, it was so bad, you mistook it for bedwetting.
So as usual, you did your research.
Surfing the web, scouring forums, scrolling through countless articles about wet dreams, eyeing a headline on the “Hidden Indicators of Sexual Abuse”. Staved off certain fluids, did brain exercises, minded your bedtime— all of that.
Nothing changed.
The only constant was Ford, who continued to hold your hand through this curious case, in spite of the obvious stress it had on you both.
There were many moments you thought to ask him about it but he could be rather hard-headed at times, especially when it came to receiving aid. You’d have better luck wrangling a heartfelt apology from your parents.
Truly indicative of the men of his generation.
It wouldn’t be a stretch to say you fancied the older man. Even if the depth of his care put you off sometimes.
Hell, he lent you a whole ass room. Not only to make sure your commute would be safer, but to “keep a close eye on your condition.”
And that he did.
He was always watching, you felt like. From his desk or his peripherals when he thought you weren’t looking.
Though that could be your guilt talking.
Ford, to the best of your knowledge, wasn’t the type to court or pursue others romantically. His interests consisting mostly of what humanity understood as “abnormal”.
And not only were you a coward, you also weren’t foolish enough to think you had a chance with someone so blatantly out of your league.
You didn’t want to be that person. Couldn’t be that naive little girl pulling at his coattails, dragging him behind his dreams because he couldn’t be arsed to pay the right amount of attention to you. Selfishly expecting him to change his light, the things that made him Him, all because you came into the picture.
Then, in your eyes, there were the smaller things— take your respective tastes in music.
The radio in the shack barely picked up enough signal to play the news, much less Kiss FM, but he never pulled a face if you used your phone to fill the silence.
Maybe grumble a bit about your generation’s “codependent relationship with technology” and “social relapse” but you’d just laugh it off, biting back an “ok boomer”, knowing he was one to talk about poor social skills.
It’s not as bad as it was when you’d first met but, shamefully, you also took steps to refrain from perpetuating stereotypes around him. Whether from minding your tone and certain mannerisms, fluffing up your lexicon with sanitized and academic language, dressing as “modestly” as you comfortably could.
Preconceived notions of how you should present in the world resurfacing twofold thanks to a mix of his somewhat paradoxical personality and, on occasion, browbeating tendencies— overshadowing his lighter, non-domineering qualities. The last thing you wanted was to drive him away or cause resentment with your childish antics.
All this, you’d come to find, was unnecessary. As for all his poise, posturing as a gentleman of grand intellect and reason, Stanford Pines had the mouth of a sailor and the heart of a diva when need be.
Not to mention, priors in several different dimensions— he’s more ghetto than you’ll ever be.
That didn’t make your chest feel any less smaller when the scent of old books and sawdust would creep into your nostrils, exposing his presence before you could turn and confirm it yourself. When a steaming cup got placed in your unsuspecting hands, warming your palms and throat under his careful eye as he patiently guided you to the couch.
Why, one time; you’d chosen to stay up for a change, neck deep in a novel you never quite got around to reading. One recommended by Ford himself.
Curiosity didn’t come as natural to you, having been raised in an environment where it was better to mind the business that hardly paid you as opposed to venturing out and wasting your time, making your parents sick, so the usual genre of nonfiction was pushed aside for an old fantasy he’d read back in the day.
Because you were lazy, you used the flashlight from your phone instead of the beside. Your eyes would scream at you later but whatever.
You already had glasses.
For the first time in a while, you lost track of the time, lost in a mediocre yet compelling story about the plights of (elf) man.
You’d just started a passage delving into the antagonist’s psyche when the door opened without warning—
Glancing up, the distinct silhouette of your boss standing in the shadow of your doorway had scared the goddamn daylights out of you.
Privacy was another must. One hammered into you so many times, you could recite certain phrases by heart.
You couldn’t tell what he was going through his head on a normal day, and with his lenses alit by the hallway light overhead, it was next to impossible.
But you had caught movement above the rim of his glasses. If only for a second.
And when the awkwardness of the moment came and went, the two of you staring at one another in silence, his exit was swift as his entrance. Coughing into his fist, muttering something about subconscious worry and getting lost in thought, asking some brusque questions in regard to your health before turning and taking his leave with a quiet “goodnight.”
There was however, a slight sway in his gait, and you couldn’t help but speculate if he had anticipated you’d be awake.
And if not, why?
Not only that— you always locked that door before bed. Moreso out of habit than distrust.
You woke up with a nervous stomach the following morning, nerves on high alert.
The day went as normal for the most part, if not a little stilted. Though you weren’t sure how much of that was projection; doing paperwork, cartography, planning for future expeditions.
The only thing that stuck out to you was his newfound habit, how frequent it was compared to the other day.
He never brought it up.
Neither had you.
You shake your head and go back to righting your bonnet, fiddling with the wide, black brim. Feet dangling inches from the floor as you sat perched at the edge of the bed in a baggy long-sleeve.
Once satisfied, you hook your thumbs into your panties and begin to shuffle out of them— having gotten into the habit after ruining your tenth pair within a month.
Though, after the other night . . .
You slide them back over your hips.
With a twist of a knob, the protrusion of your shoulder all but vanishes before your eyes.
You drape yourself in the thick, neutral-toned comforter, wasting precious time scrolling through your socials, trying your hardest to ward off the anxious thoughts.
They continue to fester, an infestation, evolving from plausible hypotheticals to obscure, convoluted scenarios. Twisted by your own desires and loss of control.
Just when it became more of a hassle to keep your eyes open, your ears perk up at the soft groan of wood— drowning out the white noise of angry crickets and frogs in an instant.
In spite of the dark, you stare fixedly in the direction of the door.
Blood pumping fervently in your ears blocks out most of your surroundings, yet, for a split second, you catch it.
Click!
The foreboding thud of footsteps soon flit throughout the room. A practiced kind of song and dance, you suspect, given how fast they close in. These suspicions are further affirmed when the floorboards don’t creak once, as if the intruder already knew the layout of your room.
They stop in front of your bed.
You play dead, channeling your inner child. Praying they can’t hear fear.
Eons trickle by when gravity tugs you towards the center of the sheets— a foreign mass creeping onto the foot of your bed.
You struggle to keep your breath in check. Swallowing your spit in small increments.
This can’t be happening.
The mattress shuffles as the dips trail up beside your waist, heat seeping into the sheets, and your pupils go wild as your brain begins to register the scent of abandoned libraries and smoke.
Quiet breaths skim your nape like a phantom hand, smoothing over the dozens of tiny hackles erected there and you feel the covers draw back inch by inch, slowly exposing your prone form.
Two large hands snake beneath your tummy. Grabbing, palpating the fat almost reverently, making you want to squirm, sleuthing over the minute depressions in your hips to clutch your thighs.
Disquiet sits on your skin like static when you note the familiarity of the grip, how expansive it was, often nestled near your tail.
They push away, parting you, and you carefully shift your neck to bury your face into the pillow. Muffling a hitch in your breath when those warm puffs hit the gusset of your panties.
They rack up quickly, a balmy hailstorm beating down on your crotch.
You feel something graze the thin veil and are left mortified by a prolonged, audible sniff.
A low growl ratchets up your spine.
“Fuck, yes.”
You melt at the gravel in your boss’s voice.
When he hazards to speak again, drawing in a deep and ragged breath, it’s softer. Dulcet in a way you’ve never heard before— towards humans at least.
“Hello, my dear.”
It churns your stomach something fierce; the tender, sort of, reverence in his gestures.
He rubs small circles where your hipbones would be. Grazing down, palming your thighs, to knead at your calves.
”It’s been so long,” he confesses at the altar between your legs.
His voice begins to distort, shrinking, the sheets squeaking from friction— and it all comes to a head when you feel something dot the back of your ankle.
“Too long.”
Your walls clench on reflex, sporadically so as his lips work their way up your legs with intent. Unbothered by the texture.
”I tried to restrain myself but I couldn’t— couldn’t taste you anymore and everything’s just-“
This poignant desperation sounds so unbecoming from Ford’s mouth, leaving you speechless.
The kisses land harder the closer they near your entrance and, embarrassingly, you note you’re drooling on each end; your body reacting off instinct, recalling those quiet moments spent in his study, surrounded by boundless wisdom and loaded stares.
Every instance of “misplaced” hands and soft-spoken criticism.
By the time he gets to your ass, stamping one on each cheek, the cotton melds with you, tugging deliciously on the sensitive flesh.
A drop or two oozes past, giving him a glossy finish as he eagerly nuzzles into the cradle of your thighs— wasting no time, planting his lips to the damp spot with a loud smack.
He takes a strong swipe.
Then another, just deep enough to taste you. Drenching the cloth even further.
Followed by another, reaching all the way to your perineum before drawing back towards the top.
He then shifts gears. Flicking, nudging the sensitive inner folds, sprinkling suckling kisses wherever he feels fit, that dexterous tongue mapping out the outline of your pussy. Occasionally teasing your outer lips by pushing the tip past the wrinkled edge of your panties.
Fuck, he’s greedy. Showcasing that self-absorbed nature with his incendiary mannerisms. Indifferent to the likelihood of his unquenchable thirst disturbing your rest as he tucks into you like a man starved.
Wet, popping noises burn the rim of your ears. A small whine taking root when stubbled lips wrap around your nub and suck—
You can’t fight a twitch then, bucking into him just a bit.
His laughter rustles your insides just right, shit. “Missed me too, yeah?”
Without warning, you’re being hoisted by the crest of your hips. One hand moving below, pushing up into your stomach, the other pressing into your lower back, propping your ass into the air. Pussy pooching out.
You don’t fight it.
Yanking the fabric aside, he dives back in. Bracing his hands on your ass, pawing, grabbing them by the handful to squeeze and play with. His last tether to reality.
Sonorous groans tickle your walls as the man loses himself in your essence and you drip, prompting him to lap at your twitchy hole insistently. All too eager to clean up his mess.
You sink your fangs into the pillow, “sleepy” composure slipping through quivering fingers.
At one point, amidst his descent, his well-embowed nose brushes that tender ring of muscle and your mind goes blank. The audacity of the circumstance making it so the only thing you can hope to process is, o-oh my god, he’s really— god- feels so good, yes, please, like that-
A particularly grating moan filters out before you stifle it. Ice pooling in your veins because shitshitshit, you’re supposed to be asleep, he’s gonna—
But that rubbery prehensile remains undeterred. If anything, it speeds up; going deeper, trying to mold itself to your walls. Aggressive slurping making your head feel fuzzy as he drinks from the fountain of your neediness with a vigor he, in truth, shouldn’t have for his age.
The angle makes it all too easy to wriggle his way in, the tip of his tongue penetrating the screen of slick now pooling over the edges of his mouth—
Pop!
He pulls back with a resounding groan, “God, this is what I needed.”
The sound of his voice, hoarse with want, regressing into a throaty, intelligible mess from the simple act of indulging in you is emboldening as it is embarrassing.
You feel those heavy pants waft closer, scorching your puffy labia as he rambles.
“. . missed my pussy.”
Your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding into his touch little by little. Weak, bitten moans leaking through your swollen lips.
Why were you like this? Christ, how is he so damn good at this? He plays you like a fiddle, like he’s—
His hands return with a vengeance, gliding up the hills of your ass to clutch your supple waist and pull you further onto his face.
Clawing at the sheets, you hamper down a keen, whimpering softly. Drunk on the way he manhandles your body so naturally, like you weigh next to nothing. Self-assertiveness gleaming through each gesture.
Thick whiskers feather your fuzzy outer lips, contrasting greatly with the scratchy feel of his stubble, fanning the flames with every drag along your vulva.
Two fingers skim your wet curls, causing you to tense minutely, rough calluses bumping into your nub when they split apart, exposing your fleshy depths to his probing tongue.
He extends his jaw to cup you in his mouth, delicate folds flush against his tastebuds. Your eyes snap open when he puckers his lips and begins to suckle the length of your womanhood, hips stuttering as the indecorous clamor saturates the space between your quivering legs.
Affirmative noises bellow from your chest, unleashed, iron fist rusted by his wicked tongue. Wilted, sultry moans muffled by polyester and eroding willpower. You want to scream. Praises, obscenities, anything to get your mind off the fact that your employer of four months, who’ve you more or less seen as a mysterious, albeit minacious nerd crafted by cupid himself, is about to make you cum.
Whether you knew it or not.
In the moment, you curse the lack of light. Yearning to see the absolute mess you’ve made of him.
Gossamer rivulets sticking to flushed cheeks, finding the cosmos in his pupils, blown out and glazed over like stardust. Bliss fixed firmly upon his normally stolid features. A sloven hybrid of spittle and precum dripping off that strapping jawline, mucking his craggy, square-toed appearance into something wickedly unrecognizable as he gorges himself.
That tight, almost painful sensation crests it’s head. Unrefined gestures splashing the swelling surface, creating pleasurable ripples that fan out throughout your crumbling frame. You can feel it in the way your muscles tense, toes crimping, spine sprung like paper to a flame, the threat of implosion drawing closer by the second.
Tactically, Ford envelopes your lower back, sturdy biceps resting on your tail like an anvil, offering you no place to hide as his lips tease along your silken skin— tilting his neck an inch to muscle through the sloppy thicket of folds, pursuing your clit in a voracious seize.
You smack the planes of his face with your thighs and he chuckles, a deep, melodious thing that rings your core like a gong as he pummels the poor thing with rapid, forceful flicks of his tongue. Shaking his head, smothering himself in it for good measure.
Not long after a particularly persistent suckling session, your mouth falls open but no sound comes out. Heavy eyes squinting through the darkness as the tension erupts in a pathetic display of writhing limbs and photopsias, technicolor lights blazing behind your lids.
You jerk helplessly atop the sweat-dampened sheets, ultimately going nowhere thanks to his strength.
Head swimming with endorphins, you let out a feeble, drawn-out whimper. A pitiful attempt at a lifeline whilst you lie in the smoldering remains of your naïveté.
One he’s eager to retrieve.
He runs his fingers up and down your hindquarters, reveling in your pleasure before going for your sides. Textured fingertips and wiry grays tickling the undulating softness, massaging the newly formed knots embedded there.
Tamed lips trail down the arch of your spine, allowing you to drift for a while until they reach your slit.
He chortles every time you flinch, oversensitivity tinging his slow and gentle kisses like an uncomfortable aftertaste. That rich timbre, weathered down like sea glass, pulling you back into his clutches.
“Sweet girl.”
“Made me feel so good . .”
“What would I do without you, hm?”
You continue to drown in raspy sweet nothings. A variety pack of questions and emotions brimming at the surface of your mind, waiting to be unleashed.
You don’t linger much after that, conscience lain to rest by the smooth undulations of his voice.
Hours later, you woke up as you had many mornings; bleary, crusty-eyed, and wet between the legs.
It doesn’t settle in until you searched for your panties and wound up empty handed. You’d checked the closet, underneath the bed, and the hamper. Twice.
Still nothing.
The day played out just as the one before it: uneventful.
Throughout that time, Mr. Pines met your gaze head on. Clinical profile offering nothing as to the wretch from last night. His measured, authoritative air unwavering.
Unlike your stomach, which pretzeled whenever you had to share dialogue.
You honestly would’ve thought you had hallucinated the whole thing. Even his latest habit seemed gone with the wind.
What to do? What should you do? What to say, if anything?
There was no manuscript for this situation.
The logical side of you says to pack your things and book it into the night, never to be seen again, while the other thinks that’s . . well, a bit much.
All in all, you moved as normal. Pondering your options, not one for direct confrontation.
As did he.
So when those broad claws weave through your thighs in the thick of midnight, wet kisses on your tummy stoking the pit in your belly in the best way, you will your muscles to relax. Yielding to his guidance.
You settle onto your back, following his unspoken command and splaying yourself for his viewing, excitement soaking through your panties.
If he’s bothered by your wheeze when the bristle on his chin nicks you through the fabric, he doesn’t show it outside of laying a hand over your mound— pushing just a bit to lift that sensitive hood, pinning your aching nub in a stern kiss.