Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1
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“Closing shift"

You wiped the sweat from your brow and poured the coffee into the dark cup. The loud hum of coffee machines and your coworkers trying to shout over each other was the only thing drowning out the immense stress you were under. Considering the time, the number of people crammed inside the little coffee shop you worked at was astonishing, but of course, a rush just had to hit before you were supposed to clock out. You clenched your jaw and snuck a look at the dinky brown clock. Annoyingly, it was just enough time for you to get home late once again.

“Who even orders coffee this late?” you thought bitterly as you passed the finished drink to the customer. If this job hadn’t been the only thing paying for your tuition plus rent in a shabby little apartment, you would've thrown your apron in the manager's face long ago. Not to mention your cat, Friday, who would not be happy for too long without food. You felt your heart twitch with longing at the thought of your poor little kitty waiting at home for you as the next customer approached your register.

After taking many more orders, you finally found an empty lobby. With a sigh, you prop the back door open with your hip and pull a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. You look over your shoulder at your coworker, dutifully mopping. You feel yourself chuckling and shake your head at her.

“Come on, Jordan, you know we’re gonna get out of here late anyway,” you point out flatly, shaking the box of cigarettes in her direction. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, and she resembled a soldier who had just been through war. You smirked as she dropped the mop to the side and shuffled over to you to accept a cigarette. You offered your lighter to her and she gratefully accepted it.

“Dude, im so fucking sick of the managers leaving early,” Jordyn huffed out a cloud of smoke. “Like they can expect two of us to close the store with this many customers completely.” The irritation was thick in her tone.

“I know dude, I have way too much homework to deal with this bullshit-” you took a long drag from your cigarette and threw your hands up. “-but I dont have time to do any of it. I'm so stressed,” you groaned.

Jordyn was the type of girl you could always throw your troubles at, and she would catch them with a smile. Being in your twenties makes it hard enough to make friends, so you were very thankful you had someone like her, even if you had met in this hellhole of a job. You looked forward to seeing her newest hair color as she bobbed around work, like a bubble floating in the breeze. Her latest color was pink, and it flicked around wildly as she spoke exasperatedly.

“That sucks y/n/n. I couldn’t imagine being a student right now,” She sympathized. Her hand was cold when it rested on your shoulder comfortingly.

“I couldn’t imagine being a mom right now!” you awed as she giggled. “I mean, seriously, how the hell do you do it? I can barely get through a six-hour shift without wanting to punch someone,” you confessed, which made her laugh harder.

She was about to respond when the dreaded alarm for the doorbell rang. You grit your teeth so the customer wouldn't hear your angry groan. Jordyn's cigarette was only halfway done while yours was toast, which of course meant you were up to bat. She gave you a shit eating grin as you stomped out your cigarette and walked inside to fight the urge to flip her off.

“Hey there, sir, how are you doing tonight?” You asked in your chirpy customer service tone to mask your annoyance. You had glanced at the clock as you passed, five minutes before closing.

“I’m doing well tonight, thank you.”

The man's voice alone was enough to make you snap out of your usual customer service haze.

It was deep and gruff as the sentence rumbled out of his chest. His eyes looked incredibly tired, and his expression matched. His face was worn in with age, and his hair was dusted powdery silver as well. Suddenly, you felt like kind of an asshole for thinking he was a jackass.

“What can I get you, sir?” you asked, pulling open the registers screen. You had noticed Jordyn poke her head slightly in the back door to get a look at the smooth-talking stranger. You rolled your eyes slightly at her antics, biting back a smile.

“I’ll just have a flat black coffee, young lady,” he replied, sliding the exact amount of cash over to you. As you were about to accept the money from him, your line of sight was automatically drawn to his hand. You blinked once, twice. What? You couldn’t be THAT tired, surely. As you recounted his number of fingers in your head for the second time, his hand recoiled from the bills and disappeared into his pocket.

You snapped out of your confusion and met his eyes. They were a deep brown, the kind where you can only see their pupils in a bright room. There was shame laced within his expression for a few seconds, and you could see his face turn a darker shade. Oh fuck- you had just been staring at this poor mans hands. You bit your lip and mentally cursed yourself for taking the bills silently. The awkwardness was palpable, and it felt like it was going to fry your eyebrows off. You had to say something, anything really, to break the embarrassment you felt stabbing into your tongue.

“You know…six fingers are a sign of good luck and blessings in a lot of religions.” You want to smack yourself as soon as the words come out of your mouth. You can't bring yourself to look at him, but you can see the man visibly stiffen before his chest bounces slightly. Your brain fights with your body to get you to look him in the eyes, but you're glad you did.
The stranger is grinning, stroking his knuckles while he chuckles sheepishly. The awkwardness has dissipated a bit, yet your body is still very much on guard. Deciding not to waste any more of his time, you turn to the coffee prep station to get started on his simple order. Something feels…weird. Like a buzzing behind the back of your eyes. It almost feels electric. You blink a couple of times, trying to shake the feeling and focus.

After you pop the lid on with a satisfied smile, you turn and slide it to the man across the counter. He hesitantly reaches for the cup, and his fingers brush against yours for a few moments. His entire being is nothing short of intimidating as his aura invades your personal space. For one, he was outstandingly tall, enough to turn some heads for sure. His shoulders were squared straight, and stubble poked out of his masculine chin. You could spot some scaring across his chapped lips- the kind of scaring you only see on a man that has been through some shit. One scar leads from the bottom of his jawline, then disappears underneath his turtleneck. Your eyes trail down his chest for a moment, you really can’t help it. I mean, the guy was jacked. It was almost shocking seeing how defined his muscles were underneath his dark red sweater. He had to be at least- what- 60?

As you continued to stare at him, dumbfounded, he finally slid the cup into his hands, finishing off the motion by leaning just slightly closer to you. You could almost see your idiotic expression in the reflection of his glasses as his lips curled up into a small smile.

“Thank you,” he finally said. The way the sentence ran from his mouth was unnatural, like he was forcing himself to say something. You hardly had time to process this before he quickly turned with his coffee and practically jogged out the door. A few silent moments passed before you felt smaller hands on your shoulders.

“Well, y/n, that was painful to watch,” Jordyn exclaimed matter-of-factly, fishing the keys out of your work shirt pocket.

“Wha- Jordyn, what? What are you talking about?” She pushed past you to the front door, flicking off the open sign and locking the doors.

“I mean, I knew you had a problem talking to hot guys, but Jesus,” she laughed. You felt your face shrink in on itself, and you stammered.

“Hot? Jordy, that guy was like three billion years old,” you scoffed, his image still burned into your head. I mean…he wasn’t that bad looking, but hot? He was definitely out of both yours and Jordyn's age range. You paused, stewing in your embarrassment. The rings balanced delicately on your hands, twisted as you fought with them for some kind of comfort.

“He had six fingers.” Jordyn paused from locking the door and turned to look at you. You nodded at her incredulous expression. “Yeah, dude. I was totally staring, I feel so bad.” That much was true. The other things you were thinking about, the stranger's hands, did not need to be vocalized.

“Woahh freaky. His wife is a lucky lady,” she giggled, earning a scoff and eye roll from you. You bit your lip, though. You had no idea why, but you had checked his fingers when you looked. Surprisingly, there was no ring- just scarring. All over the back of his hand. Honestly, that part was more interesting to you than the fact that he had six fingers. As if hearing your inner dialogue, Jordyn spoke, “I think it's freakier that he came in five minutes before we closed. Go wash that coffee pot you got dirty.”

As you continued your closing shift, your mind kept wandering to your classes the next day. It was already so late, and god knows you were NOT the type of woman to go to bed before sunrise. So when your schedule advisor told you you would have to tack on a late-night class to your already packed schedule, you felt like crying.

Stupid biology…cell studies…what the hell would I need science for anyway? Your art major brain thought bitterly as you angrily threw the mop at the ground. Screw Professor Pines, whoever the hell he was. Just seeing his name at the bottom of your new schedule was enough to make you foam at the mouth in rage.

On the bright side, a late-night class meant no more closing shifts. You silently cheered in your head for that. No more customers coming in five minutes before close like that guy. It meant that you and Jordyn would have to hang out mostly outside of work now, though, which was a major bummer. She had been the first person you’d called when you learned about your new mandatory class. She even brought you some edibles she had baked at home the next day because she felt bad (and they were the best things you’ve ever tasted- seriously!)

“I can hear you worrying from over here,” Jordyn chirped, looking up from the blender she was cleaning in the sink. You sighed and set the mop down in the bucket.

“It’s just that stupid biology class,” you admit, leaning against the counter. “I’ve always been shit at biology, and math.”

“And English, and history, and gym class, and-”

She was quickly silenced by your poking attack into her sides.
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The next night, you sat up in your bed in a groggy, fever-like state. You had never slept. Instead, you had just been lying on your phone for the few precious hours you had to yourself. Leaving your fuzzy black comforter felt like being led to a guillotine, but another glance at the time confirmed you were indeed about to be late for your new class.

With an annoyed huff, you shoved the comforter off and got to your feet. You examined your outfit in the mirror to conclude that you could get away with your gym shorts and hoodie as an outfit for class. You definitely could not get away with this ratty hair, though. You yank a brush through it and quickly pull your beat-up sneakers on.

At least you already knew where the class was. You were an extremely anxious person, and didn't want to be late because you didn't know where the building was. At least your mom had the sense to point out you could just find the class a few days before. You stepped out of your little car and glared at the college building as if your gaze could light it on fire somehow. You noticed a couple of other disheveled-looking people getting out of their cars and making their way to the building, so you assumed they also had to be students of this class.
You sigh and begin to drudge alongside the others. Your watch reads 11:00 pm when you enter the classroom, and you pick a random seat somewhere in the middle and sink into it, letting your bag fall onto the ground beside you. As other students file in, there are hardly any sounds of talking from any individual. Just the shuffling of bags, coats, and books. The sound is almost enough to soothe you into a slumber when your head sinks into your arms on the desk.

“Yes…yes, welcome in everyone.” The professor no doubt speaks. His voice is soothing as well. God, they should’ve renamed this class to the sleep study class. “Give me just a moment, and we can begin.”

The way he speaks is…familiar to you. Like you had heard that tone before. Curiously, you peek your head up. The man sitting behind the desk is thumbing through a textbook in his hand and scribbling in it. You squint for a moment, pursing your lips. He seemed so familiar…where had you seen him before? Students began to settle into their seats, and a quietness arose. There was a tired energy that touched every single soul in the room except one…the professor.

He seemed to be completely unaffected by what time it was or the fact that his students looked extremely sleep-deprived. In fact, he had a small smile on his lips as he wrote down a couple more things into his workbook. It was like he was surrounded by some kind of cloud, and you did your best to ignore the hairs that rose on the back of your neck. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, twisting your gaze away from the familiar-looking man. Other students tapped their pens on desks, played with their jewelry, hair, whatever, to avoid facing the atmosphere.

“Good evening, students. I hope you’re all doing well,” he greeted, adjusting his black tie slightly.
“Welcome to my biology class. I know this is a little late in the year for some of you.” The pen he had been using to scribble his notes was tucked behind his ear as he shut his notebook and got to his feet.

Good lord, was this man tall. He had to be at least six feet- if not taller. You blinked in surprise, eyeing his shoes for some kind of heel. He had black dress shoes on- not that heeled. Ok, so this guy was just a giant. You felt your stomach jerk oddly when he turned to face the large whiteboard. It was like every movement this man made was calculated, down to the very minute details. Almost robotic. You glanced around to see if any other students seemed to notice.

“My name is Stanford Pines, please refer to me as Professor when in class,” he requested, reaching for a whiteboard marker. “However, if we are outside of class, you can call me whatever you want. Except ma’am, I suppose.”

There were a couple of low chuckles at the pun by the time he turned back around to face the class. His name was now scrawled across the whiteboard in a neat cursive.

“Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, we can begin the fine work.” His voice had a low hum to it, it reminded you of a Nirvana song’s baseline. You watched as he began to walk throughout the rows of desks, eyeing some of the students through his glasses.

“Some of you may feel some…apathy. Or annoyance at the timing of this class. I do apologize for that.” His shoulders were stiff, and his arms were laced strictly behind his back. “Every year, I get a handful of students who fill in this late-night class towards the middle of the semester. Lots of art majors, architects. Aka, students who have little to no interest in this subject.” His deep voice pointed out. Every student was drawn in by his demeanor immediately- there wasn’t a single eye not on him as he paced through the aisles, looking down on different students from his high perspective. “However, I guarantee you will all leave this class with the belief that your lack of interest was foolish. I don’t like a boring lecture any more than you all would.” He paused when he reached the side of your desk, and you couldn’t help but stare up at the man.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when his dark eyes suddenly locked onto yours.

“You will find this class to be entertaining at the very least.” His poised manner, the eloquent way he spoke- it slipped. For just a moment.

The way the word entertaining growled out of his chest was such a tone that you felt embarrassed for the way you perceived it, but you couldn’t help it. He made it sound vulgar. He made it sound…wrong.

It was so subtle-so incredibly subtle, but you had noticed it. His eyes were almost a charcoal black, and they burned into yours with such intensity for just a moment, maybe two. There was an emotion you couldn’t place within his eyes. It was something that made you feel like you were being shoved underwater. A look that could only be described as belonging to a predator. Without thinking, your eyes trailed down to his fingers that he had grazed against the top of your desk.

A quick count, once, twice. Your eyes narrowed for a second, before peering back up, but he was already looking somewhere else and making his way further down the row. You blinked a few times in raw shock. Six.

Six fingers.

More words were being thrown around the room, but they might as well have been white noise to you at that point. There was no doubt about it, that had to have been the customer from last night. You cringed at the memory of staring at his hands while he handed you the money. His energy was completely different now, though. Last night it was like talking to a normal person. But…right now it was different. He felt like a blind spot lurking in your vision that was always just out of sight. The way he had looked at you was seriously doing something to your psyche.

You were jolted out of your spiraling thoughts by the vibration of your phone in your pocket. It was a bad habit you had to get on your phone in the middle of lectures, but you really couldn’t help it. I mean, what would be so interesting about listening to the class rules anyway? You opened the message and skimmed it.

Jordyyy :3
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I miss u on nighshift girl. I’m stuck with the GM :p

You grinned.

You
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Im sorrryyy :’( at least your customer isnt your prof lol

Jordyyy :3
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Bruhhh das crazy. Which customer? The fat old guy?

You
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No, the hot old guy actually. Frm last night.

You debated tacking on the fact that he was seriously creeping you out, but decided against it. Jordy was not the type of girl you wanted to sic on this poor teacher if she thought he was being a creep. As you continued texting, you bit your nail deep in thought. Sure, this Stanford guy was very good-looking for his age; that was obvious to anyone with a working pair of eyes. But the way his gaze burned through yours was the only image in your mind, and it kept replaying over and over again. The way his voice growled out his sentence ran in your ears, and you could feel your face grow hot.

There was something dark in his demeanor- the way he leaned slightly closer to put his hand on your desk. You recalled the smell of his woody cologne flooding your senses, and the way your stomach churned. The most embarrassing fact, though, was the thought that you didn’t want him to stop looking at you. The yearning ache that bloomed in your chest when you locked eyes with you was nothing short of intense, especially because it ran alongside a heavy sense of unease. Surely it was just a little spell of enamorment. It’s not often a hot guy looks at you up close, after all.

“-and that brings me to my next topic. Phones.” Your eyes shot up to the front of the room guiltily, where Pines had settled back into his desk.

“I know a lot of you, like Miss Y/N, have a habit of using phones in class. Please refrain from doing so while I'm teaching; it just helps not to distract me.” You feel your cheeks burn as some of the class turns to look at you.

“Right, um…sorry,” you mutter sheepishly, quickly shutting your phone off and flipping it face-down onto the desk. His eyes linger on yours again, for just a moment too long. You watch, feeling a part of you crumble into yourself as he lightly bites the inside of his lower lip. In this moment of intensity, you feel a question dawn on your lips.

Before you can ask, he turns away from you again quickly. You sit there with your mouth hanging agape for a moment. He continues with whatever he had been talking about before, while you are left embarrassed and slightly confused. Every time he looked at you, it felt like he was force-feeding you that potion that made Alice shrink. You felt small. You felt like you were under a microscope. You felt like you were being studied.

How the hell did he already know my name?

You couldn’t get yourself quite comfortable for the rest of the class. How could you relax? You were swept up in your overthinking hurricane at this point, and there was no coming down any time soon. Why had he looked at you with such emotion? Had it even been purposeful? You did tend to accidentally stare…and being on your phone while he’s teaching is pretty disrespectful.

“Shit,” you thought. “He was just death glaring me cause I was being an asshole. Nothing else to it.”

That thought did little to calm your nerves, though. It was true that the teachers no doubt had files for the students who would be attending their class, but that wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was the way your name was like a prayer on his lips. He said with such a tone that you couldn’t help but think it was something he had already said many times before. But that thought was just simply ridiculous, right? It dawned on you that your work uniform did make you wear a nametag, and you felt your tense body relax just a little. That had to be it, right? He had just seen your name and remembered your face. You fidgeted with your fingers anxiously.

When the class was finally dismissed, you swore you almost tripped over your own feet trying to escape the awkwardness you felt suffocating you. You began to wade through the sea of students crowding out of the classroom. There was slight chatter from friends as you all left the dim lighting and stepped into the hallway. You felt your mood immediately shift from the previous anxiety to a lesser sense of unease. Seems like that classroom was seriously giving you the willies. You wanted nothing more than to be snuggled up in your bed again, maybe with a bag of popcorn to soothe your nerves.

“Yeah, he was kinda cool- did you notice he had six fingers?”

You pushed past the two boys conversing in front of you.

“I know, dude. I saw when he was writing that homework assignment for us,” the other boy responded. You felt a lump form in your throat, and you turned to face the two.

“He gave us homework?” The pair looked at you for a moment. Had you been that lost in your head? You thanked the boys after they explained the assignment to you and took off on your trek to your car in the parking lot.

As you briskly walked through the cold night air, there was only one thing plaguing your racing mind. The way that Stanford had looked at you was seared into your vision as you entered your car and slammed the door shut, making sure you locked the doors immediately. You didn't feel any kind of security from this action, though. In fact, you felt the most vulnerable and exposed you had ever been. It felt like the entire universe was peering directly through your soul, and a thought dawned on you that you discarded roughly to spare yourself any more anxiety.

Nametags don’t have last names on them.
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A deep sigh echoed through the now-empty classroom like a song of exhaustion. The only other sounds besides the methodical ticking of the clock were the scratching of a pen on paper and, of course, Ford's ragged breathing as he poured over a document. Whoever had written this absolute piece of garbage needed to be thrown into a bottomless pit- immediately. How the hell was he supposed to make lesson plans when his higher-ups were giving him nothing but practically elementary school toys to work with? It’s not like adults this age were the most excitable bunch in the first place.

His calloused hand rubbed through his hair with fever as he bit his lip, trying to figure out how he could stretch this so-called “budget” for one semester. (And this was just one semester! How on earth would next year's budget look?!) It seemed that each year he taught this class, the less and less money went into it. Which was an absolute disgrace, in Ford's opinion. How could an individual not want to fund the noble sciences? He shook his head disapprovingly.

This whole teaching gig was gonna make his back give out. He felt his entire spine pop in a painful symphony that reminded him he was getting old as he stretched his arms above his head. He would either die before he could retire or give himself a heart attack from caffeine. Excellent options. As he took a sip from his mug (a very notable nerdy mug- it had a pun about cells on it-), he allowed his eyes to settle on one desk. Just that one desk, in the rows and rows of them in the large classroom. Your desk.

He drummed his fingers against his thigh, jaw clenched into a tight line. It was almost like she had never left the room in the first place. He could still picture her leaning into the hard table, staring up at him with an intensity that burned like a cigarette. He had noticed the way her hands fluttered anxiously, the way her breath caught in her throat. He had even noticed the goosebumps that spread across her beautifully delicate legs and arms. It was so alien to him, he had pictured you like some kind of porcelain doll. Seeing you display such human emotion unintentionally was a knee-jerker.

His fists clenched into a tight ball like he was holding the memory in his hand, desperate not to let go. His bruised and scabbed-over knuckles peered out from under his silvery hair that adorned not only his arms, but his hands as well. It was clear that old age was making itself very comfortable in Ford's body, much to his dismay. He fought it the best he could, though, taking extra time to follow a clinically proven diet and exercise to help his overall health. He still had things to do, after all. Important things. He couldn’t let his body get in the way of anything. He took a sip of his coffee, his one and only “cheat meal” as some would call it.

The taste of black coffee in his mouth gave him a pleasant reminder of yesterday's coffee shop visit. He gazed into the cup thoughtfully, running his finger against the rim of it, lost in thought. He always looked like he had a lot on his mind, because he did. A brain as brilliant as his was something like a train stuck on a track that only stops when you die. A cup can only hold so much before it overflows. Ford knew that better than anyone. That was the reason he had taken this teaching job in the first place; who else better to listen to him than those who didn’t have a choice? The silence never helped soothe his horse-race of a brain, though. There was nothing that calmed his racing thoughts anymore, none of the old tricks that a shrink would teach you worked for him after what he’d seen- what he'd been through. There was only one thing that stopped the train.

Ford's gaze trailed slowly from his mug to your desk once again. His lips pressed into a tight line at the memory of how absolutely tired you had looked. It was no secret that college students didn’t have great sleep schedules, but this bothered Ford immensely. He knew his class was late, but he didn’t have a choice- he had to put you in his class, there was no getting around that anymore. He wore a frown like a familiar pair of sweatpants as he remembered your exhausted, blank stare.

The image of your embarrassed face flashed through his mind, which raced alongside his heart. Ford was an ass for calling you out specifically like that, he knew it. But the way your eyes widened in surprise, and the way your lips parted and closed a couple of times as an apology whined from your mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world. Ford bit the inside of his lip. He didn’t even give a shit about phones in class, not until that very moment at least. Every eye in the room had been on him- except hers. And that was completely unacceptable.

He eyed the desk with an intense stare. Something like pride swelled in him at the sight, the way that you had unintentionally leaned closer to him when he approached. He pictured the pink of your lips and the way your eyes shot down to his fingers. His gaze had slipped down your face to your beautifully structured collarbones, and his mouth watered at the memory. He could picture how soft you would be underneath his calloused touch, and he found himself morbidly wondering about what magic must lie underneath that pretty skin of yours. He wanted to see the electricity that buzzed inside your organs and very soul.

There was a small flash of light that garnered his attention away from the somewhat graphic imagery in his mind. He heard a small buzzing sound that was no doubt someone's phone, sitting near your desk on the floor. He grunted as he got to his feet begrudgingly, upset at the notion of interrupting his red-tinted daydreams. As he approached your desk, his eyes fluttered shut, and he deeply inhaled. The scent of your vanilla perfume invaded his lungs like a disease. His fist clenched tightly, acting as an invisible leash to keep him tethered to whatever shred of decency he had left. He peered onto the ground.

A phone lay face up on the floor, buzzing with missed calls. Ford curiously bent down to pick it up. He flipped it over in his hands to examine the case.

It was a dark red phone case adorned with an incredible amount of stickers from all sorts of different media, from books to cartoons. He grinned at the few he recognized. He had to admit he wasn’t the most up-to-date on the latest movies and such, which was just another reminder of his age, which made him cringe.

When he flipped the phone over, it was lighting up with several alerts. His eyes narrowed as he scanned them, reading over each one. Most were missed calls from a person called…Jordyn. Ford's lips twitched, and he sat with the phone in his hand for a good few moments. The phone must have fallen out of someone's pocket when they were leaving class, but he saw no signs of a name.

Curiously, he slid up on the screen. To his surprise, it opened with no password required. He stared at the lockscreen and apps, his thumb hesitating over the message icon.

No-no. This was wrong.

Ford cursed himself in his head as he shut the phone off hastily, walking back to his desk and shoving it into a drawer before slamming it closed. Of course, he wouldn’t look through a student's phone; that would be incredibly uncouth. He scoffed at himself for even considering such a ridiculous notion in the first place. Whoever had dropped it could simply retrieve the phone when the weekend was over. No need for him to worry. He just needed to focus on his work, that's all.

But was he continuing to work on his budgeting and lesson plans? The sound of the buzzing in the drawer was starting to grate on him. Each alert was like a desperate cry, begging to be heard. Ford bit the inside of his lower lip and death glared at the drawer. Whoever this Jordyn person was…they were certainly persistent.

He tapped his pen erratically against his notebook. It shouldn’t concern him. He knew that. People had left their phones in his class plenty of times, and they had always claimed them within the following few days; this time would be no different. But something was clawing at his chest. There was something in the pit of his stomach that bore an ugly snarl as it tore at his insides with relentlessness. The phone was sitting next to your desk, and the stickers matched a lot of the ones on your laptop, which meant this was probably your phone. He felt his teeth grind together unintentionally. His fingers danced along the drawer handle as he fought with himself silently, in a war over what would be deemed “invading privacy.”

But privacy could go to hell in that moment, because Ford's mind was only focused on one thing. Who the hell was Jordyn? His nails dug unpleasantly into his palms. “Could they be a brother?” he wondered. That couldn’t be possible, though, since Ford knew you had no siblings. His brain raced with hypotheses about who this person was and how they were possibly connected to you. Though it was the last thing he wanted to consider, the term “boyfriend” whispered across his mind like a ripple in water. His racing thoughts never stopped as he pulled at his hair in frustration. He didn’t want to see something that he shouldn’t. What if she had sensitive information in her messages? What if she had work from another class that he shouldn’t tab out of? What if…she had compromising photographs of herself on display for whoever was calling her over and over again?

He bit the inside of his lip so roughly, he tasted copper. His finger hovered over the screen, which taunted him with message alerts.

It would be the right thing to return the phone immediately. He couldn’t keep this “Jordyn” fellow worried, now could he?

He flung open his desk and retrieved the phone with haste. He did not hesitate when he unlocked the phone with ease, and he certainly didn't hesitate to open the messaging app this time. There, pinned to the top, was the thread of Jordyn's messages. He clicked on it anxiously, and he began to scan the texts.

Jordyyy :3: Are you still coming over 2nite?

Jordyyy :3: Helloooo?

Jordyyy :3: Where did you goo? Dont leave me hangin :’(

Jordyyy :3: Did that professor kill you or what?

Ford's eyebrow raised at that last message. The thread told him a couple of things, like the fact that this phone did, in fact, belong to you. That you had been texting this ‘Jordy’ person about him. It also brought up the fact that you were supposed to be visiting this person tonight. Ford felt a pang in his stomach like a mission bell-loud and inescapable. Any voice of reason, angel or devil on the shoulder, whatever, nothing was telling him to stop looking. He scrolled up further in the conversation. It was mostly teenage nonsense, talking about some frat party they had gotten an invite to.

Ford scoffed at the notion. A frat party, really? He was shocked that any woman would willingly go to those cockroach colonies, always infested with disturbing young men and women. Whoever this Jordyn person was clearly had to be forcing you to go to this party, no doubt about it.

“Why would someone as delicate as y/n want to go to a party?” he thought bitterly. He held a stern expression as he scrolled through the messages further. After reading more nonsense about where the party would be located and what she should wear, his eyes jumped over a message that made him pause for a moment before scrolling back down to re-read.

Y/n: Im sorrryyy :’( at least your customer isnt your prof lol

Jordyyy :3: Bruhh das crazy. The fat Old guy?

Y/n: No, the hot old guy actually. Frm last night.

He scanned the text once, twice, even a third time. He felt his hands tremble as he continued to scan the messages breathlessly. His eyes were glued to the screen with such an intense focus, like a detective on the trail of a killer, no distractions. You could probably count the man's pulse if you looked at his neck for long enough. He could hardly contain the electrifying buzz that hummed through his skull and body, and it seemed like he could run a marathon if he desired. The information he had just received- it made complete sense. It was like reading that one simple text was the final clue he needed to connect himself to her, to the killer. His manhunt was over. It was over. Over.

This was how it was always supposed to be, and he knew he had been right all along. He was always right.

The high that this realization gave him was palpable, comparable to that of a straight line of coke or jumping from an aircraft. He felt like the world was in his fingers, and he did not have plans to let go any time soon. He tilted the phone to his line of sight again, curiously as it rang once again. His heart raced with pride, and he felt no qualms as he pressed the accept call button.

“Ah! Uhm- hello?” The voice on the other end wasn’t y/ns. Ford frowned. But it wasn't a boy either. He frowned slightly less.

“Good evening. I believe this phone belongs to a miss y/n?” Ford greeted- her name melting on his tongue like a sour candy. He could hear a small voice in the background, followed by some shuffling of the phone being passed before another voice spoke.

“This is y/n, who is this?” Her tone sent a ripple through Ford's chest. She was trying hard to sound intimidating, and Ford had to clear his throat to clear his mind as well.

“It's Pines, your chemistry professor. Seems I might have something of yours,” he purred. There was a short pause.

“You didn't look through it, did you?” she asked after a moment. A lump jumped into Ford's throat, and he suddenly felt like he was being called out in a court of law. He swallowed quietly. It was like she had known. Like she had wanted him to find those texts. He suddenly felt very aware of his breathing and the fact that a suspicious amount of time had passed.

“Of course not, y/n. I just figured I’d be kind and figure out who to return the phone to,” he explained, biting the inside of his lip as he did so. There was another unsure silence, and Ford drummed his fingers against the desk.

“Right, right…stupid question,” she murmured over the line. After a brief pause and quiet voices talking in the background, she spoke again. “There's uhh. Is there any way you’d be able to bring it to me?”

Ford felt his stomach somersault. The way she was speaking, it was clear she was inebriated in some way, and so was the other girl she was with. He felt his leg shake and his head spin at the imagery of you that danced in his head like a drunken angel.

“Sure thing, y/n. What's the address?” Asking the question felt like asking her to reveal some kind of secret. Something Ford was not supposed to know about. Because it had been exactly that: something that Ford kept off limits no matter how hard he tried to justify it, he could not seek her out.

But he wasn’t seeking. She was asking. She was inviting.

His usually neat handwriting was a shaky mess as he took down the fraternity house's address, trying to ignore the way her laugh sounded in the background. He knew he would play that sound over and over again in his head, though.

“Give me about 20 minutes and I’ll be there,” he gruffed into the receiver. He needed to end this conversation before he said something stupid.

“Ok, thank you, Professor.” The way she slurred his title felt like something from an adult film. It clouded Ford's mind immediately with images of her in scenarios he had imagined a thousand times over. It was the fact that he had pictured her calling him that so so many times. He quickly bit his knuckle to escape the noise that bubbled in his throat.

“Any time, y/n,” he quickly spat, before ending the call. He sat with her phone clenched tightly in one hand and a small sticky note with her address on it in the other. He looked down at the small bright slip of paper intensely.

He could feel the arousal clawing at his throat and groin as the word “professor” panged around in his head like a stray bullet. Surely, her tone was purposeful. Surely she meant something by it. The way she mumbled into the receiver…it had to be for him. He could feel the heat rising through his body and sting his ears and cheeks aggressively. She invited him over. She wanted him to come over. She wanted to see him.

He wasted no time fumbling for his car keys.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Y/n, you look so hot right now.”

Your gaze shot up wildly, and you locked eyes with Jordyn, cup in hand, who stumbled over to your seat on the couch.

“Says the one, I’d get up in there right now, baby,” you smirk, flashing her a crooked grin. She took a seat on your lap in a giggling fit, making sure to pull up her shorts higher as she took a seat. You snaked your arm around her shoulder and cackled.

“What are you drinking?” Jordyn asked, reaching for your cup. “It looks pink and I like pink. Is it strawberry flavoured?” Before you could stop her, she took a large swig and promptly started choking.

“Fuck Jordy- this is why you dont steal drinks,” you scolded playfully, patting her on the back and lifting your cup from her hand which was now flipping you off.

“Fuck- oh god- fuck you, who the hell drinks the jungle juice at a frat party?” She gasped out in between gagging.

“Uhh broke ass college students who don’t have alcohol money?” you slurred back, taking another sip.

As you fixed the strap of your tank top, you felt Jordyn's phone vibrate in her back pocket. Since she was still in her coughing fit, you fished the phone out of her back pocket. You gave it a playful smack as you answered, and she laughed in a beautiful tone.

“Hello?” You answered, trying to lean away from Jordyn and her loud ass laugh-cough.

“I’m here with the phone,” Professor Pines' voice answered. “Are you seriously at a frat party? I gave you homework,” He said sternly.

“Ok-ok whatever. I’m coming outside,” you quipped, ending the call. You pat Jordyn's back lightly. “Alright, fat-butt, get off me,” you grinned. She groaned but eventually rolled off you onto a free space on the couch next to another girl. You shot her a glance, and she nodded, like a silent girl pact to keep each other safe. Feeling good about the security, you got to your feet and began to shove your way through the crowd of drunk students.

Music blasted in your ears as you navigated the house through stoned eyes. The flashing strobe lights danced across all the people when you finally reached the front door. Your hand was extremely uncoordinated, which made it a bit hard to get the door to open for a second. You debated whether or not you should let your professor you had just met, see you crossfaded. But ultimately decided you didn't care.

You didn't even think about your outfit as you stepped into the cold air, and goosebumps erupted across your skin. The fact that it was February should have been a no-brainer to at least put a jacket on, but that was a thought you had too late. The tight hot pants clinging to your body did little to raise your body temperature, and you eagerly yearned to go back inside. You scanned lazily for a moment before spotting the 1970s Ford 5150 parked close by. It stood out from the other cars somehow, like the universe knew it was out of place at a college party. You wrapped your arms around your chilly torso and stumbled your way to his truck.

“Hey Professor, sorry to make you drive all this way,” you apologized, peering into the open window. He peered back, but it was too dark to make out any expression.

“That's quite alright, y/n. I wouldn’t want one of my students driving drunk,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “I was finished with my paperwork anyway.” You watched as he leaned out of the driver's side window slightly to hand you your phone.

As he drew closer, you felt something odd bloom in your stomach and chest. It was a strange sensation, and you couldn’t quite place your finger on what it was. But it was heavy. Like a large gust of wind that threatened to knock you back. In your drunken-high state, you felt nearly paralysed when his eyes met yours again. The dim porch light was the only thing reflecting his face, and it made him appear like a shadowy figure in the dark. His gaze was something like a spell, sinking its hooks into you violently. No matter how much you struggled and thrashed, you couldn’t look away or even move, for that matter. Your brain had only one thing screaming at you.

Run. Get away from this car.

NOW!

“Yooo, is that Mister Pines?”

The sudden voice behind you made you snap out of your prey-like trance and peel your eyes off the older man. A small group of frat boys was moving in a herd towards the car, and you felt your growing anxiety spike.

“Thank you, professor,” you quickly spat, taking the phone from his hand. You were eager to rush away and get back to the safety of your girlfriends, but this was disrupted by the feeling of a strong grip on your wrist.

It was in slow motion when you turned to look at him. The peak of your intoxication was hitting, and it was making everything spin violently. He was looking at you with that expression again. The same one from class.

“Please, y/n. Be careful,” He grunted lowly. You could've sworn his eyes trailed to the group of boys approaching, but he quickly let go of your wrist. You stumbled back a bit and watched in a blurred awe as his demeanor immediately shifted from just seconds ago. His serious manner had evaporated, that look in his eyes gone away like it was all in your head, and you blinked in shock.

Had you imagined it?

You turned back to the house as the boys swarmed the truck. The nausea bubbling in your stomach was something fierce, and you could only think about finding Jordyn. The back of your throat stung with bile as you stumbled recklessly into the house, pushing carelessly past others. You heard someone shout at you over the loud bass in the speakers, and you turned to look at them. It was some jackass frat boy, and he was clearly pissed about something you had done, though you couldnt hear his bitching over the music. After a moment of watching him flail angrily in your general direction, your eyes widened in horror.

You were gonna throw up number one. And number two, there was no way you could aim anywhere else.

In a drunken flash, you felt your entire body retch as it emptied itself of all the alcohol and food of the night onto the boy's shoes.

Chaos ensued quickly after that, though you couldn’t tell what was going on if you tried. You heard shouting, something like a girl screaming, maybe? Your vision blurred in and out as you felt your body being shoved around by what had to be a couple of people at once. Your eyes shot open at the sensation of pain running through your cheek.

You found yourself trying to focus on a girl in front of you with throw-up partially on her purse and shoes. She wore a furious expression, and it was now apparent she must have hit you. You mumbled some kind of insult with “stupid bitch” in it, and attempted to lunge at her.

Your drunken antics were stopped short by a pair of arms wrapping around your waist and a stern voice in your ear. The last thing you remember was the cold night air hitting your stinging cheek and the grass as you felt your knees get dragged half-hazardously through the lawn.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh fuck…my face hurts…and my legs…and my arms…jesus.

The small beam of light from the window managed to find its way directly into your eyeballs, beaming a headache directly into your skull. With a small groan, you shifted to move your arm over your face.

“What the-” you flinched hard as your hand landed on something soft but firm. You pried your eyes open that had been crusted shut by mascara, and peered beside you.

Relief washed over you as you realized you were not in a random man's house, and were in fact, just in Jordyn's bedroom. You sighed, rubbing your face.

Your panic must have stirred your bedmate, as you heard a low groan and long, drawn-out sigh. Jordyn blinked her eyes open and glanced at you over her shoulder. You realized the softness you felt was you holding her shoulder, so you awkwardly stroked her skin.

“Mornin’ princess. Have a good night?” You jokingly asked in a low, manly voice.

“Ha. Ha. Hilarious,” Jordyn groaned. “My head feels like bees.” You chuckled at this, but quickly hissed at your head pain.

“Same dude. I didn’t know it was possible to get this hungover,” you flopped down into the pillow tiredly, smushing it into the fabric in a futile attempt to find some relief. “How much did we drink?” You asked. Jordyn turned to look at you with wide eyes.

“You were fucking smashed,” she laughed weakly, wincing at the pain. “The only thing I remember is getting home and…” she trailed off quietly. You paused, examining her facial expression. Your grin quickly twisted into a worried line. You knew that look. That was the look of a friend who loves you deeply, but is about to drop some information on you.

“And? And what?” You asked nervously. “What happened?” you prodded. She covered her mouth, trying to keep her laughter from escaping. You continued pestering her for answers as she chuckled and hee-hawed. “Dude, I'm serious! Why do I hurt so bad??”

“I think you got in a fight last night, y/n/n,” she admitted finally. You felt your mouth fall agape. You groaned, covering your face with your hands. So maybe the dream about trying to fistfight that short white chick wasn't just a dream after all… and the vomit probably happened too. You threw the covers off and stepped onto the cold wooden floor. You hissed at the sensation; everything that touched your skin felt like acid. You felt like an elderly woman as you shuffled over to Jordyn's vanity and peered in the mirror.

You gasped in horror at the ripe bruise blooming across your cheek, along with the various cuts and scrapes etched into your arms. Your bloodshot eyes glared back at you, and you could feel their disconnected urge to water at the state you were in. Your hair was also notably- EXTREMELY purple. It was a deep, rich violet, dyed from its previous color, no doubt during last night's events. You were dressed in a large Winnie the Pooh shirt and your underwear, which made you grateful the shirt was so long.

“What. Help. Jordyn.” You stammered, looking over to her exasperatedly. She was too busy laughing to hear your plight.

“I think I remember a Waffle House, a Walmart trip, and some box dye,” she commented as she scanned a small box of empty hair dye she held in her hands. You groaned, putting your face in your hands.

“What am I gonna do? What is the boss gonna say?” You fussed, plucking at the hair and examining it in the mirror. You could hear Jordyn get to her feet behind you, and you turned as she tied her robe on.

“Oh please, that moron does coke in front of the cameras. If he says anything, you come tell me,” she growled, putting her hands on your shoulders. “It suits you, y/n/n. I love it,” she smiled. You couldn't help but smile back at her.

“Well, thanks for babysitting my drunk ass. Let's go get some breakfast, on me.” Jordyn nodded and clutched her head.

“Yeah, right after I get us some Advil. I know your head is killing you right now.” As if on cue, you felt a sharp twinge of pain spread through your brain, and you groaned and nodded, squeezing your eyes shut.

“You're the best, Jordy.” As she disappeared out of the room, you trudged over to the nightstand where your phone sat charging. You smiled lightly as you picked it up. Even when she was plastered as fuck, she always made sure to take care of you.

You unplugged it from the charger and examined it for a moment. A flash of memory slowly poured into your head from the night before. It was small snippets, but you recalled walking up to a pickup truck and retrieving your phone from…somebody. Why did a stranger have your phone? You racked your brain trying to remember where you had seen that pickup truck before, if it belonged to a friend or something. You shrugged and opened your phone, checking any text messages.

You tenderly rubbed the bruise on your cheek, the pain stinging. Whoever that girl was had some hands on her. You just hoped you won, but based on the state you were in, it was not something you’d bet on. After scrolling through your phone for what seemed like forever, you got a notification from one of your friends. It was a video that was a couple of seconds long, and you knew it might give you some answers. You opened the video curiously.

The camera panned around the frat party you were at last night. The friend who had sent the video was dancing along to the music, grinding on some random guy on the dance floor. You heard the front door swing open in the video, and the camera was flipped to face the other way. Lo and behold, there you stood in the doorway, drunkenly trying to push past people. The shaky camera captured the moment you threw up on that guy's shoes, and the moment everyone began yelling in disgust. You watched in horror as the events of last night's fiasco unfolded so quickly in front of you. The video ended with a girl from the crowd walking up and slapping you in the face.

You groan in agony from the pain in your head and the social suicide you had just committed. The video replayed tauntingly in your fingers, the gross sound of vomit echoing in your ears that were flushed red. As you motioned to turn your phone off, something you saw made you pause. It was that truck you remembered. It was only for a couple of seconds, but it was just in frame behind you as you came inside.

You squinted as you zoomed in on the video, eyeing the truck like it held some kind of answer. It wasn’t one you recognized, and it definitely wasn’t the type of car one of your friends would drive. There was a dark figure in the car, but it was impossible to make out. You were torn away from your sleuthing by the sound of the bedroom door opening.

“Here, to cover your buns.” You looked up just in time to catch the pajama pants thrown in your direction.

“Thanks. My buns are quite cold,” you commented, eyeing the small pajama pants adorned with cats. They would fit- but not well. You also took the Advil she offered and swallowed it desperately. The sound of small thumping footsteps echoed through the hallway outside the bedroom door, and you looked up curiously.

“Ma! When are we going to Denny's!?”

Your eyes trailed to the door where a small voice whined on the other side. Right, Jordyn had kids. You almost forgot.

“Give Auntie y/n a second, honey, she's gotta get dressed!” Jordyn shouted back. You chuckled as you got to your feet to get dressed.

“I guess that means Lilly decided we’re going to Denny’s?” You hiss as the fabric scrapes against your open cuts and bruised legs.

“Yep. And she insists she has to sit next to her auntie,” Jordyn smirks. You smile back and shake your head as you slip into a pair of Jordyn's slippers.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Denny's feels like a fever dream as you enter and take a seat with Jordyn and Lilli. The harsh yellow lights beam directly into your eyes. You pick at the strange plate you’ve gathered; you’ve never been the type to go for a normal-looking plate at buffets. You're so hungry that it feels like you haven’t eaten in days. You practically inhale your eggs as Lilly excitedly chatters.

“It’s called a cootie catcher, auntie y/n,” she explained, holding up a small folded piece of paper. You gently plucked it out of her hands to examine it, and she beamed proudly. “It’s supposed to predict the future. Ain’t that cool?!”

“Can it predict that your breakfast is gonna get cold?” Jordyn joked, pointing to her plate with her fork. Lilly huffed and began to pick at her plate. “You gotta eat, girl. Or you won't have muscles like me,” she joked, flashing her built bicep.

“Aw come on Jordy, you dont remember cootie catchers?” You exclaimed. “I hear they can predict your love life,” you raised your eyebrows at Lilly mischievously, and she giggled as you sipped your coffee.

“Aye, she dudn’t need no love life,” Jordyn drawled. “You can't even spell the word romance.”
She wiggled a playful finger at Lilly, who giggled and shooed her away with a tiny hand. You bit down hungrily into your chocolate-covered strawberries and passed the origami back.

“Wanna try it, auntie?” Lilly questioned. You swallowed your bite and smiled at her.

“Of course, sweet girl.” You nod, turning your full attention to her.

She brings up her little folded paper below you. There are a couple of colours dotted onto the four edges, and she looks up at you expectantly. You pause for a moment, scanning your options, before choosing the mighty but humble Dark red. She maneuvers the paper to the other side.

After picking a variety of colors and numbers, you land on the last round of questioning. It's a couple of hand-drawn symbols, four to be exact. There's a poorly drawn camera on one. Another one has a bird. The other two are a car and a book. You ponder a moment, poring over the symbols and their possible meanings.

“I like…this one.” You point to the car. Lilly nods and unfolds a flap of the paper to read the poorly spelled prediction hidden beneath.

“You will find something that surprises you soon,” she reads out. Jordyn laughs.

“What, the vomit video wasn’t surprising enough?” She joked lowly at you, and you groan and throw a wad of a straw cover at her.

“Something surprising, huh?” You repeat. “That could mean a lot, like, a good surprise, or a bad surprise?” You debate out loud. “What if a piano falls on my head when I'm walking down the street?” you worry, half joking.

“What if you find a penny on the ground?” Lilly interrupts.

“Yeah, or you get cursed,” Jordyn predicted, waving her hands like a wizard.

As breakfast continued, you found yourself contemplating the so called ‘cootie catcher’ when you looked out of the window. A surprise, huh? What could possibly surprise you at this point? You're a twenty-something college student; nothing really interesting happens to those kinds of people. You take a bite of your food contemplatively. Your mind eventually wanders to the broken memories of last night. You hadn’t drunk that much in quite some time, and you certainly hadn’t blacked out in a longer time. It was odd to you, the fact that you remembered being totally fine one second, then sick to your stomach the next. What had happened in between? You thought back to the video your friend had sent to you. You were coming back inside from doing something…was that when you got your phone from the guy in the truck?

You rubbed your achy head and sighed quietly. You really needed to stop drinking, but Christ, it's like school was invented to make you an alcoholic drug addict. Sure, being a painting major wasn’t the most stressful major to have, but it was stressful nonetheless. You had three paintings sitting in your apartment, screaming to be finished before the deadline. You felt stress weigh heavily on your shoulders. You had the time to finish them, usually- that wasn’t the problem. The problem was the complete lack of inspiration you felt. Every time you stared at the unfinished painting, it just made you want to throw the entire thing away. None of the others in your class seemed to be struggling as badly as you did, and it made you feel like a huge screw up. You eyed the dried paint under your fingernails with intensity. Sometimes it felt as if you’d picked the wrong major.

You glanced at Lilly and Jordyn talking happily while they chowed down on their breakfast. Lilly looked so much like Jordyn, it was insane. Right down to the curly brown locks and plump, rosy cheeks. It was like the dad's genetics just quit the competition halfway through, but that was a good thing in your opinion. He could eat lead for all you cared. Besides, it was clear Jordyn was doing just fine without him, seeing as she was only two years older than you, and she was much more put together than you ever were. Owning her own house, raising a kid, and working a steady job. You knew better, though. You knew that Jordyn struggled just like everybody else, but it just didn’t seem like it.

Jordyn had already graduated from college while you were stuck taking an extra class to boost your GPA enough to graduate. What a joke. You worked at the coffee shop to pay your tuition; Jordyn worked at the coffee shop to pay her mortgage. You always babysat when she needed it, whenever you weren't at school, that is. Between those awful closing shifts and your ten billion unfinished paintings, you and Lilly were pretty close in the time you did get to spend with her. She was like a butterfly gracing your presence when she wasn’t screaming over her fruit snacks tasting too “fruity.” She had even started to draw, saying that she wanted to be just like auntie y/n. You beamed at the memory, laughing ironically in your head about the fact that you were practically an honorary dad.

“Hey, did you hear me?” Jordyn's voice cut through your internal monologue, and you turned to face her. “There you go, felt like I was talking to a sack of rocks for a sec. Me and Lilly were gonna go to the park after this, did you wanna come with?” she questioned. You thought about the unfinished paintings in your apartment and sighed dejectedly, shaking your head. “Whatt? Come on, dude, you can’t be that hungover,” Jordyn argued.

“Yeah, who’s gonna push me on the swings?” Lilly asked, pulling her classic pouty face. You smiled apologetically at the pair.

“Sorry, guys. I have way too much homework to get done this weekend. We should go get some dinner sometime, though,” You grinned, standing from your chair and slipping your phone into your pocket. Jordyn hummed in agreement as she also stood, gathering Lilly's many belongings, which she insisted on bringing with her (why would a kid need a toy shark at breakfast anyway?) As you left the restaurant in your little group, you pondered over each of Llillys toys, and of course the cootie catcher she had clutched in her little hand.

“Alright, y/n/n, we’ll catch you later. You drive safe, ok? Lots of crazies out today,” You nodded dutifully and bent in to give her a tight hug.

“Y’all drive safe, too. Look out for weirdos at the park,” you waved at Lilly, who nodded back.

After kissing your goodbyes, you pulled your keys out of your pocket and began to make your way to your car across the lot. It was a beautiful morning, you were almost regretful that you had slept through most of it, since it was now almost five in the afternoon. The dark clouds overhead threatened to spill at any moment, but you didn’t mind that. It was why you had moved to Oregon in the first place- the beautiful rainy weather. You took in a deep breath of that pre-rain smell as you opened your small car door and stepped inside, when the raindrops began to spatter across your head.

You felt a dampness on the seat, which made you slightly jump in surprise. Your eyes scanned the cupholder, dismayed to find the coffee in your cupholder was now open sideways over your seat.

“Ugh, great.” You thought bitterly, hovering above the damp grossness. “How the hell did that even happen?”

You threw open your glove box, where you had stashed away many, many drive-through napkins just in case. You awkwardly shimmied the little papers underneath you to create a barrier so your butt wouldn’t get all soggy on the drive home. You sighed, tossing the empty cup into the back seat where it joined the rest of the trash shoved there beside your backpack. As you glanced over your shoulder, you took notice of the raindrops that were invading your car through the cracked back window. Looks like you forgot to roll it back up when you parked.

You shoved your phone into the cupholder and plugged your keys into the ignition to start the warm air and soothe your shivering. The street in front of you was lined with cars passing at speeds way above the limit, typical for five o'clock traffic. There was no way you could pull out of the parking lot without getting a VIP pass to hell, so you boredly pulled your visor down to inspect your face in the small mirror.

You sucked a breath in through your teeth at the sight. Getting a closer look at the bruise was a bit of a blow to your self-esteem. The ugly purple and yellow spread across your cheek was glaringly obvious from miles away. Looks like the girl had rings on too, because upon closer inspection, you could see a deep, short cut in your cheek fat. You flipped open your center console, which contained your travel makeup kit. After cleaning the dried blood with a crusty Q-tip at the bottom of the bag, you gently tapped in concealer around the wound.

You couldn’t help but feel embarrassment creep into your stomach as you dabbed at the bruise. It wasn’t the fact that the injury was painful, or the fact that you had thrown up all over a stranger's shoes, that made you hiss. Your pride was bruised, too. You reflected on the days of your high school angry-at-everything phase. You weren’t exactly proud of the behavior you had in the past, but at least you could defend yourself. This was just straight up humiliating. Did the girl even have a scratch on her? You frowned hard, throwing the makeup back into the center console and flipping the visor back up hastily.

It shouldn’t matter to you as much as it did; you knew that. But it hurt nonetheless. Your mind aimlessly danced around the cars that had dissipated a bit, and decided it was a good idea to get home before you threw yourself into a self-loathing spiral. You clicked your seatbelt into place and looked up into the slightly askew rearview mirror. You adjusted it absentmindedly and rested your hand on the stick. Your eyes combed through the passing cars behind you, scanning for anyone you could accidentally hit. After checking thoroughly, you turned back around to begin to pull out.

Your line of vision felt obscured momentarily when there was a sensation that suddenly pierced into your skull like angry knives. You paused for a moment, tapping your foot on the breaks and sucking in a deep breath that felt like breathing in murky pond water. The atmosphere around you grew darker as the rain pattered aggressively against the windshield now. You flicked on your windshield wipers to distract yourself from the creeping feeling that whispered against your skin. Something felt incredibly wrong, and your stomach knotted with a desperate urge to leave the parking lot immediately. You broke into a cold sweat, looking through each window like a madman to spot the source of discomfort, but ultimately found nothing of note. Just passing cars, and people leaving the restaurant.

Your soul nearly separated from your body when the sudden jarring sound of a car horn blared in your ear. You turned and waved apologetically at the car beside you, whose driver was waving road ragey hand gestures at you. You forced your arm to throw the car into reverse, and you backed out in a small flurry of embarrassing stops-and-starts. This day was sucking majorly. It was going so poorly that you were too engulfed in your thoughts, and you almost missed two exits to get to your house. You were so distracted, you didn’t notice that you hadn’t bothered to roll your back window up. Your mind was like a chasm of passing thoughts, flying by you like a train that couldn't be stopped, and you struggled to still your mind as the rain aggressively poured over your vision.

You were so distracted that you didn't even notice the six-fingered handprint smudged into the back window.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2
—--------------
“Zombie boy”

The intensely loud sound of an old analog alarm clock rang through the silent house, causing a loud meow-yawn from the hairless cat curled up into a tight ball a the foot of the bed. Bundled under the covers a few inches away was Ford, squeezing his eyes tightly and letting out a loud, strangled groan. His eyes opened blearily into the dark room, only illuminated by the flashing red of the alarm clock numbers. Ford squinted into the blurry numbers and made out the time of five o’clock am. Right, school. He had a whole day of teaching to look forward to.

His bed creaked noisily when he sat up slowly, hissing in pain as he took in a deep breath. He felt a small form crawl towards him in the darkness, and he reached his hand out to pet his animal companion. She meowed at him tiredly, but still demanding nonetheless. A yawn ripped from Ford's chest as he moved the small lump off his lap to turn off his alarm and turn on the bedside lamp. The light illuminated the master bedroom, causing Ford to squint at the uncomfortable sensation. His hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead like he had been running a marathon in his sleep, and his bare chest was also notably covered in beads of sweat.

Imagery of the dream he had been stuck in flashed through his mind in a haze. He couldn’t remember all the details- he never did- but he could remember a familiar-looking pyramid, a red sky, and the screams of his beloved niece and nephew. He shakily placed a hand on his forehead and sighed, glancing at the photo of his little family perched on his nightstand. They weren’t how his mind recalled them in his night terrors anymore, but instead a blossoming young man and woman, respectively. Mabel's dark eyes and bright eyeshadow looked at the camera happily, and her teeth flashed in a straight smile. Dipper awkwardly stood beside her, holding two thumbs up in front of their high school's front doors. Ford smiled fondly to himself. If he looked long enough, some days he could pick out which exact traits they had inherited from their parents, and which came from him and stan.

A louder, more persistent meow interrupted the quietness, which meant it was time for the two to have breakfast. The lack of neighbors was a huge bonus for how loud Ford and his kitty usually were in the mornings, and he was grateful for this as he knocked over several energy drinks and beer cans, trying to grab his glasses from the nightstand. The isolation was great, of course, but the silence, not so much. Naturally, this meant he decided that adopting a little anomaly would surely help quell this nasty feeling, and he was stunned at the difference Byte had made in his daily routine. Their mornings never strayed from the usual: wake up from a nightmare or two, eat breakfast together, shower, and then get ready. He pet her fleshy skin, then reached for his glasses groggily.

He peered around his room with his now-adjusted eyes. It looked like a tornado had blown through it, to put it bluntly. Ungraded and graded papers were scattered around the room carelessly, and several pieces of clothing made hazardous piles all over the carpeted floor. Mugs and cups with various drinks, ranging from coffee to whiskey, were arranged on his floor in a perfect maze. It wasn’t that Ford was intentionally messy, but his headspace didn’t allow for much outside of teaching. He slipped his feet into his beat-up slippers beside his bed and slowly got to his feet. Byte jumped down from the bed as well and was now rubbing against the bottom of Ford's sweatpants that hung loosely around his waist. Affection tugged at his heart, and he smiled warmly.

Ford shuffled his way into the dark kitchen like a car trying to get its engine started. Byte cooed happily as he took the small tin of cat food and opened it for her, before setting it in her bowl to eat. The sound of his coffee maker filled the air as he brought down a mug from his cupboard and poured the dark liquid to the brim. He leaned against the kitchen counter while the train that was his mind began to kick into full gear, inevitably. He blinked his tired eyes, turning to get his breakfast started.

His fridge was adorned with several different magnets, stickers, postcards, and pictures. He smiled faintly as his eyes scanned the variety of magnets he and Stanley had collected from their trip around the world on the Stan O’ War. There was everything from a hibiscus flower magnet from Hawaii to a margarita magnet from Jamaica. There were also, of course, the letters that Mabel had sent him while they were apart. Sparkly gel-penned notes jumped out at him, which were covered in puffy stickers of all kinds of hearts and stars. He picked one off the fridge and read it like he had done so many times before.

Dear Grunkle Ford,

Me and Dip are missing you like crazy! Just yesterday, I was going to my math class when I saw a girl talking to Dipper in the hallway, and I was like, whattt? Turns out he tried one of your nerdy pick-up lines on this girl and it totally worked! You must be a love wizard or something, cause they’re totes making googly eyes at each other now. He told me to tell you thank you for the “incredible dating advice.” (I'm almost offended he took your advice and not mine, but whatever.) Anyways, I was thinking about coming up to visit sometime soon if you’re not busy with teaching junk. If you can figure it out without us, give me or Dipper a call, ok? We’d love to see you soon.

It was a short note, but it meant the world to Ford since Mabel knew he preferred the old ways of communication (who has the time to learn how to use a cellphone properly? Google is the only thing Ford needed it for.) That particular letter had only reached him a week or two ago, and it reminded him he needed to at least try to give them a call, even if it meant fighting with a small electronic rectangle.

After eating a light breakfast of eggs and a possible side of a cigarette, Ford jumped in the shower and began to brush his teeth in the mirror. He peered at his reflection, which stared right back at him. Moments passed of intense eye contact with himself, but Ford knew it wasn't really himself he was looking at. He gently brushed his fingers against the grain of his stubble and turned his head to the side to inspect his gauged ears. It was the one difference that set them apart from each other, but if he looked into the mirror straight on, it was just like looking at his brother. He aggressively finished brushing his teeth before spitting toothpaste and some blood into the sink.

He glared down into the drain and watched as the red washed away when he turned the faucet on. The sound of the water running was like a bombshell dropped in his eardrum, and his heart hammered in his throat, causing him to grip the sink uncomfortably tight. He shut his eyes and breathed in a slow, deliberate breath like he’d been taught to do during an episode like this; it was pretty much second nature to him at this point. It wasn’t something new to him to experience these episodes, but this early in the morning? You had to be joking. Every time he seemed to make progress, he inevitably tripped and fell down the staircase of improvement. If it wasn’t a nightmare, it was the hallucinations. If it wasn’t the hallucinations, it was a PTSD attack. Every day was some new predator waiting for Ford to wake up and start the day so it could swoop in and pounce. He had grown so used to the chaos but never had the strength to fight against it, so he let it consume him from time to time. It was a never-ending pain that encased him like rough stone, keeping him in his bad habits and thoughts.

His eyes darted up to the dreaded reflection once again. He wanted to cover up every single mirror in this house, buff out any shine that could possibly show him his own reflection. Every time he saw himself, he could only be reminded of the melodious sound of Stanley's laughter, and the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he did so, old age wearing into his skin but never stealing any of his personality. Ford clenched his teeth at the memory of the salty smell of the ocean where he and Stan sat on the dock side by side, looking out at the sunset. He stared deeply into the palms of his own hands, examining his fingers and fingerprints.

He couldn’t think about that right now. He couldn’t bear it.

He shut the tap off hastily after realizing how long he’d let it run and turned out of the bathroom. He nearly tripped over a pile of dirty clothes as he kicked off his sweatpants into a corner, and pulled on a “fresh” pair of slacks from his dresser drawer. After smelling a couple of his white button-downs, he pulled on the one that smelled the least like B.O. and cat. His eyes skated around the room, searching for a tie to complete his work attire. His fingers laced around a plain red one discarded casually across his nightstand. He held the tie for a moment, taking a deep breath and biting the inside of his lip harshly.

Finally, after a few long seconds, he turned to his dresser mirror and flung the tie around his neck. He feverishly straightened his tie, once, twice. He meticulously picked at his dusty-grey hair, running his hands through it to get it to stand up exactly how he wanted. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, though, the constant buzz of talking was racing through his mind, and Ford was not alone in his brain. Shadowy motions danced behind him in the mirror, taking on several humanoid shapes and gurgling somewhat human sounds. He watched in a daze through the reflection of the mirror as one of the shadows caressed his cheek tenderly and garbled nonsense into his eardrum.

Ford jerked his head to the side, but of course, no one was there. Just him and the room he stood in. He tugged at his hair and shut his eyes, taking a couple of huffs of air to try and quiet the foreign language being whispered in his mind. It was faint, but he could tell without a doubt that the voices belonged to people who were long gone and out of Ford's life. People who would never be able to come back, ever. He uncomfortably staggered his way to the side of his bed to grab his shoes off the floor and pull on a pair of socks from the ground.

His long body contorted as he slipped into the shoes, and he slowly laced them up. He could feel that same presence that had caressed his cheek earlier, it was sitting directly next to him on the bed. He knew it wouldn’t help, but he ignored the figure creeping in his peripheral vision in favor of grabbing his car keys off the nightstand. The whispering continued to get more intense as Ford got to his feet once more and stepped passed Byte to make his way to the front door. If he ran, maybe his unstable state of mind wouldn’t follow this time.

As his hand connected with the door handle, the presence was unbearably staring knives into his back, and it made every hair on his neck raise. He was used to the hallucinations at this point, it was just something he had to learn to live with. But this feeling was intense, it was real. Whatever was behind him was looking at him.

It was still speaking in that undistinguishable language as Ford slowly turned to look over his shoulder. His heart dropped as his gaze fully met the figure.

Her mouth was twisting into agonizingly long sentences, and her long purple hair hung wildly in front of her face as she reached a hand out to Ford. His heart sank when the whispered nonsense suddenly stilled, leaving nothing but him and his heartbeat. There was a thick tension in the air, like the mugginess of the outdoors after a fresh rain, and she smiled at Ford like he was the best thing she’d ever seen. He knew that he had to be losing his mind. After seconds that felt like hours, the figure's beautiful pink lips parted. She mumbled out three words that made Ford's head spin in the opposite direction of fear.

Your voice was sultry and murky as it spilled from your mouth like a demand from a divine being. He shut his eyes once again, battling with the very human emotion that was running through his blood. The voice repeated the words again, and Ford jumped when he felt a cold breath caress his face.

“I need you.”

When Ford finally managed to steel himself enough to open his eyes, the hallucination had passed, leaving him standing alone in his open front doorway. He pulled in deep breaths, his hand tight on the doorknob.

It was only a hallucination, Ford reminded himself. It’s not real.

The disturbing and dark arousal that took place in his stomach, however, was very real.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pulling into your usual parking spot, you felt that familiar pit in your stomach bloom at the sight of the building and the memory of the familiar classroom. Even though you had been attending the class for a couple of weeks now, something about a night class still felt so unnatural to you.

It was a busy night on campus, with several groups bustling around the roads and sidewalks. As you opened your door and stepped out, the faint thumping of bass filled your ears as a car full of cheering girls drove past with their windows down. You squinted in the direction most of the students were headed, noting the football stadium lights that cast their bright light on the surrounding area.

You shut your car door, vaguely remembering something about a fundraiser event happening on a flyer in the hallway. You pulled your hoodie up over your head to avoid the small raindrops that began to pelt your head, and you looked up at the dim grey clouds that covered the sky. Your teeth chattered despite your pajama pants, and you quickly grabbed your backpack from the car to make your way inside.

The warm heating from the building was like a hug that squeezed you tightly as you entered. You brushed a stray purple hair from your eyes and thanked a classmate when he held the door open for you to enter Professor Pines' classroom. Thunder rumbled in the distance, making the lights flicker for a moment, and it did little to quell the nervous pool in your stomach. You avoided looking towards the front of the room and opted to stare at your feet instead as you made your way to your usual choice of desk. Just as you were about to sit down, though, a cough radiated from the seat.

You glanced up in a bit of surprise, now seeing the girl perched in your seat. She shot you a bit of a glare while you stood dumbfounded beside her. After shaking the sheer shock, your brain rebooted, and you shot her a nasty look right back. It wasn’t unusual for you to be treated this way by others on campus, but it still stung every time someone gave you a nasty glare or insulting comment as you walked by. Having the reputation you did was a major point off your social status in pretty much the entirety of the small town you lived in. From parents to teachers, you were known, whether you liked it or not, and there was no fresh start to be had; just what had already taken place.

You turned your attention away from the girl in anger, scanning the classroom. As your eyes raked over the rows of desks, you felt your mind slowly shift from rage to panic. You flung your head around on a swivel, desperately searching for any seat that was away from the front. They were filling fast, and there was no way you would be able to find a seat near the back in time. In the time that you had been searching, every student had been seated- except for you.

You blinked a few times, finally forcing yourself to look at the desk directly in front of Professor Pines' desk. You gulped, feeling not only the students' eyes on you, but his as well. You wondered how offensive it would be if you just turned and walked out of the class at that point, but you also reminded yourself that momma didn’t raise no bitch.

In a few awkwardly placed steps, you staggered over to the seat, begrudgingly, while your face burned from the embarrassment of being perceived. It wasn’t like Professor Pines had done anything weird to make you feel so avoidant toward him; it was more of a primal instinct. Every day, you tried to force your brain to look at him, or even his general direction, but you couldn’t muster the courage most of the time. Today felt different, though. You set your bag down on the floor, twisting your fingers into a tight ball on your desk.
As he greeted everyone, you were fighting a small war in your brain, like you usually did in this class. Part of you was extremely interested in what this strange man had to offer. He was charismatic and funny, which made it easy to want to listen to whatever science junk he would ramble on about. His demeanor, the way he spoke to his students- it was clear he had been teaching for a long time. Once the initial awkwardness of a new class had worn off, he was a helluva good professor. It was rare that a student had a complaint, and it was rare that a student didn’t pass this class.

You, however, were the only outlier in this case.

You did listen to him- you really did. You took notes and did all the study guides he had provided so far, even asking Jordyn to help quiz you before tests, but it seemed like it meant nothing. Your grade was barely floating above a sixty at this point, and each assignment was only tanking you further and further. Usually, you were the type of person to march up to the professor and seek help, or demand to know how you could possibly fail every single test, however, you didn’t have the desire to do any of that. It was like no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, you couldn’t breach the bubble that was around Stanford Pines. Today changed that invisible fear- now you were mere feet away from him. You were in his bubble, without a choice.

You glanced at the way his slightly yellowed teeth flashed charmingly when he spoke in that deep tone, like a pleasant chemical burn in your ears. You avoided looking in his general direction entirely because whenever you looked at him, it felt like something personal, like something no one else should be looking at. The feeling always made you shiver, and images of the rugged man would flash through your mind without a way to stop. For the first time since the first day of this class, you were allowing yourself to be in his proximity. It felt wrong, deeply wrong for some reason you couldn’t place. Something inside you felt like a lamb, helplessly in a butcher's pen, waiting for the day he pulls on his muddy boots and drags you to the tree stump.

“Alright, homework. Bring it out, I’d like to go over some things,” he requested. The shuffling of papers ensued, also prompting you to bring out your scrunched-up sheet of homework from your backpack. You looked over the answers with a tight line pressed into your lips, suddenly unsure of how correct your answers might be. The diagrams of the muscles were labeled in your messy handwriting, with each tissue and function named.

“Very good, looks like you all completed the assignment,” he smiled, clasping his hands behind his back. “Whether or not you have the correct parts labelled is still up for debate, however,” his smile turned into a slight smirk as he turned for a moment to pick something up off his desk.

You eyed his hands when he picked up a pad of sticky notes and a pen. He scrawled on the top note for a moment before peeling it off and showing it to the class. In dark letters, the word “HEART” was written in his cursive handwriting.

“Now then. Who wants to volunteer?” he asked cheerily. A brief pause- then groups of hands shot up, with some students offering themselves up to whatever shenanigans Ford had planned for them. His eyes scanned the rows of desks and crinkled thoughtfully. You aimlessly allowed your eyes to wander to the window outside, displaying groups of friends walking by and silently laughing with each other. You frowned, suddenly longing to be in their shoes instead of this stuffy classroom. A low cough and a gesture in your direction pull your attention away from your thoughts to the front of the room.

“Miss Y/N, how about you?”

His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely encasing you in a spotlight. You blinked a few times, staring at him dumbly, before gesturing to yourself. He nodded in confirmation, a small trace of a smirk dancing on his lips. In the moment you finally shared eye contact, that same sense of intimacy washed over you like warm flood waters, filling your insides with a pleasantness. You knew sitting in the front row was a bad idea, and now you’d have to pay the consequences. There were a few whispers deep in the classroom behind you that made your eyes burn a bit, but you knew you had no choice. You gave Ford one last look, who just stared back, eerily blank.

You felt your heart leap into your throat while your brain forced your body to get to its feet. Your face burned in embarrassment at your choice of Adventure Time pajamas and slippers that shuffled with each step you took toward the front of the room.

As you approached, you stopped short a few feet away from him. He chuckled and waved you over closer.

“I won’t bite, I promise. Stand beside me, please,” he instructed. His tone was calm and smooth, like a siren song that convinced your wobbly legs to move next to him. It felt like walking into a pit of warmth and being caressed by the sun when you finally took your place next to him. You watched him with breathless intensity as his six-fingered hand raised the sticky note to the class again.

“Y/n here will be our model for today. What I would like for all of you to do is take a sticky note, label it with a muscle, and-” you swore you felt your heart do a backflip as his fingers gently pressed the sticky note onto your hoodie, directly above your sternum. “-Label our guinea pig. For each correct answer I see, I will award the class two bonus points each,” he grinned, shooting you a side glance. You could only helplessly stare back up at him like a beached fish, your cheeks burning a deep red.

He can’t be serious, you thought incredulously, eyeing the students awkwardly. Most of the people in this room didn’t want to be in your general vicinity, let alone touch you. This guy must be some kind of sadist to torture me like this. You shot a glare back at the tall man, mustering up as much attitude as possible.

His eyes snapped down to meet yours, and you nearly stumbled back in surprise, your face twisting in shock.

A dark, deep emotional void stared into you with intensity, and your mind mentally noted the way his chest rose and fell just a touch heavier upon the shared personal space. That feeling you had before- the feeling of shrinking- it was more obvious than ever now as his large frame bent slightly over yours, and you found yourself extremely on edge. As if you were an ant under a child's magnifying glass, helpless to the higher beings' violence and depravity. A shiver rolled silently down your spine at the sight of his worn face, focusing on you so intensely.

Each student filed in from their rows, picking up a sticky note and hesitantly sticking it to different limbs. The different hands on you, plus the buzzing sensation you felt from standing next to the professor, was so intense that you just froze into place, breaking the intense eye contact in favor of shutting your eyes. Every so often, you could hear him hum a “yes, very good” that purred in your ears like a song's melody. Something about simply standing next to him was encasing you in a high, and you fought your own body to keep yourself upright. Hands prodded and poked at your arms and legs, until your entire body was covered in bright yellow sticky notes with various muscles written in different handwriting. You examined your arms, reading a couple of answers- some right, some wrong. Ford smiled and nodded.

Between the cringe you felt from being a guinea pig in front of a room of predators, the pressing fear of being watched, and the shameful eroticism that burned between your thighs, you were sure you were going to die right then.

“Excellent work. Let’s take a look at how well we did, shall we?” He said thoughtfully, turning to face you.

His full attention was on you once again. Your gaze bounced between each other like a game of tag, searching for thoughts in the eyes of the other. You watched as he hesitantly raised his hand for a moment, only a brief pause, before he slowly grabbed your wrist and raised it to extend outwards. You could feel your breath hitching in your throat as he reached up and plucked off one of the sticky notes. Every movement he made felt like it was in slow motion- a careful calculation like when you approach a small nervous animal. Your skin felt like it blossomed with pleasant rose thorns at his touch, like it was something you didn't know you wanted.

“This one is correct, two points,” he cheerily announced to the class, breaking the barrier between the two of you and the outside world. Ford continued to pick sticky notes off of you, noting which ones were correct and which ones weren’t. Your arms were uncovered, then your legs, then your head, leaving only your stomach with a few barren sticky notes.

“Ah, this is a common misconception.” He spoke. His fingers danced just inches above your waistband before they quickly snatched a sticky note from your stomach. You fidgeted with your hands behind your back nervously, feeling completely exposed. “The pyramidialis is actually much lower than most would think. But I'm sure our model is glad you didn’t place it lower,” he joked, earning some laughs from the class. You just looked up at the taller figure, drinking in the smell of his cologne and cigarettes. He met your eyes for a moment, with that same sheer intensity you were beginning to grow accustomed to. Your gaze flicked down to his lips - you aren't entirely sure why. You catch as his tongue slides hungrily across his lip for a fraction of a second, and you shiver at the sight, wondering if you had imagined it. He turns away from you and places a hand on your shoulder.

“Thank you, y/n. That was very good,” he praises. You try to ignore the way your stomach catapults when he says this. “You can go ahead and take your seat now.”

You feel like a robot being ordered to do something as you glide slowly back to your seat and slip down into the chair. He isn't looking at you anymore, but rather at the class as he continued to speak. “Since the test is tomorrow, I want to go over some of the other organs in the body to jog your memory.” He took a seat at his desk, pulling up the projector from his beat-up ancient laptop.

Holy shit.

You pick at your hair in sheer embarrassment at the thoughts running through your mind. Visions of his sharp jawline and snake-ish smile flash in your head like an endless brigade of psychological warfare attacks, and questions with no possible answers cloud your focus. What was it that was making you so worked up? It was almost infuriating. Standing that close to Ford felt like a moth being drawn towards a bright light, droning forward with no rhyme or reason, just desire. Shame bubbled in your throat at that word. Desire. You didn’t want to admit it, but damn was there something about him that made your head swim. Boy crazy was just something you weren’t, ever, so why was it that you felt like throwing up every time he said your name? Maybe it was the fact that you craved that human interaction so desperately, your brain just fixated on the first person in ages who hadn’t given you a look of pure disgust. Or maybe it was the fact that the way he looked at you was just unintentionally skewed to seem romantic in your head.

Your attention is drawn from your piling negative spiral to the diagram of the inner organs now projected onto the screen. A small sigh escapes your lips, knowing you had no choice but to try and pay attention. You pull out a piece of paper and jot down some notes while Ford speaks, gesturing to each organ and talking about their function and other facts. You willed yourself to try and listen to the actual words he was saying, but it was impossible to focus in this state. His praise rang in your ears, and you tried to sneak shy glances in his direction. He wasn’t looking at you, though. He was completely transfixed on the organ diagram in front of him. You watched the way he bit the inside of his lips as he spoke, talking about the large intestine and pancreas like it was the most interesting thing in the world. His eyes were dark and intense, staring at the organs like some kind of animal. It wasn’t off-putting to you, though, it was almost…familiar. Like you had seen that look somewhere before.

Watching Ford teach was something close to watching an astronaut be launched into space in first person. He always got this expression when he spoke about something he found interesting, an expression that just screamed, “ask me about this.” He would talk so wildly and with so many hand gestures, sometimes it felt like a melodrama on display in front of your very eyes for the low price of a tuition fee. It was hard to avoid the infectious curiosity he exuded, that was for sure. Even kids who had never so much as spoken a word had raised their hands before to ask him to elaborate on a point or ask his opinion on something. Confidence and charisma radiated through him, at least that's what everyone saw.

But you saw something else, too. Alongside the quick wit, nerdy humor, and friendly demeanor, there was something else lurking just beneath the surface that you would catch glimpses of. Glimpses of his true face, hidden behind the straight, aged smile he wore. What it was exactly, you had no possible way of knowing, but it’s easier to recognize a fellow soldier when you’re both in uniform. He was hiding something behind the dark black holes of his eyes, and the straight-lipped expression he wore when he turned to you. It was like he wasn’t just looking at you, but looking through you as well. But through didn’t seem like the right word, either. He was…looking inside you.

You had never felt so helpless over a man, except once before.

“That being said, if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me for assistance,” he offered with a polite smile. He rose to his feet and grabbed a stack of paper sitting on his desk. “For this next assignment, I want to give you all a head start.” He set a paper down on your desk first. You couldn’t peel your eyes off him as he continued making his way around the room, passing out the papers. You took a look at the worksheet now in front of you, and immediately felt yourself frown. The words and numbers on the paper might as well have been an alien language to you.

Have we even gone over this yet? You thought, exasperatedly, flipping through the worksheet. Some of the symbols did look like stuff Ford had drawn on the board before…so why did this look so confusing? You sighed quietly, knowing this meant another week of staying up late to try and decipher that nonsense.

“You have a while to finish this assignment, since we do still have the test coming up. Let's call the date…three weeks from now, on Tuesday the 6th.” Ford decided, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “If you’d all please get out your textbooks, and flip to chapter four, please.”

The rest of the class went by in a hazy blur of overthinking and half-heartedly taking notes. Besides the fact that you were definitely going to fail that homework, there was something else nagging at your stomach, making it impossible to focus. Your memory prompted the image of Ford's intense gaze and the way you had reacted to him. It was, well, embarrassing. Sure, you had shared weird glances with Professor Pines here and there, but that was purely accidental.. A thought popped into your head that you desperately wanted to weed out, but it was persistent.

You wanted him to be looking at only you, but at the same time, you hated the way he watched you. It was like an attraction between two magnets- unstoppable and not something you had a say in. Like the universe was playing dolls.

You found yourself wishing he would praise you again and again and again, wondering why the words good job rang in your head like a flashbang, setting off fire in every part of your body. Your head simultaneously begged to be as close to him as possible- or as far away as you could get. Whichever the case may be, you knew this feeling was dangerous. It wasn’t an attraction, it was pure chaos that you didn’t know you craved. You pictured Ford at the coffee shop weeks ago and sighed at the memory of his twinkling eyes when you embarrassed yourself. It was so like you to scare guys away, but the fact that it applied to older men, too, was not promising for your future love life. He had never seemed scared though, just… intrigued. Like the look a scientist gets when they discover a rare type of bug. Was it a good thing for a man to look at you that way? If it wasn’t…then why did you kind of like it?

You bit your lip, feeling a sudden rush of heat spilling into your guts. You wondered how he would look at you if you were underneath him. Would his dirty talk be as eloquent as his regular speech was? Imagery of his exposed back and shoulders flashed in your mind's eye, making you shiver. You pictured what different tattoos or scars he’d have, then pictured where they might be before your mind inevitably wandered a bit more below the belt. You ran a hand through your hair, desperately searching for some kind of distraction from these racing images.

You felt like too much of a creep to even look up from your blank notebook page. This poor guy didn’t even know you were perving him up in your head. You frowned in embarrassment, reminding yourself of the fact that this man was old enough to be your dad. Had it really been so long since you got laid that you’re undressing your professor in your head? You scoffed at yourself quietly. This poor man was just trying to teach, not hook up with his students. Shame crept its way up your throat, and you eyed the time, grateful that class was nearly over.

You had the decency to put the assignment in a folder like a human instead of crumpling it into your bag for once. You looked around the room anxiously, waiting for the sweet words of release so you could go home and cook the box of mac and cheese waiting for you. Ford just continued talking, though, and the clock ticked slowly past the end of class time.

When he finally saw the time, he stuttered in embarrassment. “My apologies, everyone, I guess I lost track of time. Remember that assignment is due on Tuesday, don't forget!” he exclaimed, pointing to the sea of students who began to get up from their seats and make their way to the exit.

You could feel the freedom aching in your chest as you also collected your bag and got to your feet. Just as you turned to begin your trek to your car, a voice made you stop in your tracks.

“Hold on, y/n. I would like to speak with you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

His deep voice purred out the request, and it made goosebumps blossom against your skin. You sucked in a breath, and turned, forcing yourself to behave like a normal person as best as you could.

You shuffled sheepishly over to his desk, one hand clinging onto your backpack strap for dear life and the other wrapped around your phone. You looked at him expectantly, unsure of what to say or do.

“Yes…Sir?” You tacked the sir on the end with a cringe at almost forgetting his title. You see his hands clench for just a moment before he speaks. The air is thick with awkward tension as the last of the students files out of the classroom, leaving only the two of you behind. You wonder if you’re the only one feeling tense as Ford offers you a friendly smile.

“Sorry to hold you late,” he apologizes formally, smoothing his hair back with his hand. “I’m sure you’re a very busy woman,” you feel your eyebrow twitch up at his tone choice. He had almost said it… sarcastically? You decide it’s best to ignore that for now.

“No worries,” you croak out, forcing a smile. “What's up? Am I in trouble?” The anxiety blossoming in your stomach makes you get that throw-up feeling, which only intensifies when Ford laughs.

“Not at all, y/n. Have a seat, please,” he offers, gesturing to the seat sitting beside his desk. You tentatively pull it up in front of him and tuck your hands into your hoodie pockets to fidget with your rings. “I hope your day has been well,” he says- almost robotically. You simply nod at him, unable to get any words out to further the conversation. He coughs slightly before turning to his laptop and pulling up a grade sheet.

“I…tend to monitor my students' grades closely,” he began, folding his knuckles over each other and propping up his chin with them. “I like to know when a student is struggling in my class. Grades aid me in pointing out who could use some extra help.” You stared at him blankly, catching on to what he was trying to say.

“Oh. You’re saying you think I'm a struggling student,” you murmured, face flushed red with embarrassment. Ford eyes you sympathetically. You weren’t sure what was worse- the fact that your genius of a teacher thought that you were a giant idiot, or the fact that you couldn’t even look him in the eyes as you spoke. Shame and feeling of inadequacy reared their ugly heads in your mind. His lips formed into a serious line when he spoke this time.

“Unfortunately, I do. It’s not typical for students to fail my class this early into the semester,” he elaborates, pulling out a worksheet of yours from a few weeks ago. He points to the grade on it that reads an embarrassing 40. The inadequacy anchors in your stomach now as you stare blankly at the grade below his pointer finger. “I wanted to ask…why you’ve been hesitant to reach out for help?” He asks.

This simple question makes your breath catch in your throat. You feel a mixture of shame, embarrassment, and guilt bubble in your stomach.

“I just. Don’t like asking for help,” you admit, bluntly. What else could you have said? He raises his eyebrow at this, and you feel like a child admitting to stealing dessert before dinner. Ford dug his gaze into yours, rubbing his chin deeply in thought, like a hunter looking at a deer through a scope.

“Y/n, I’ve been teaching for seven years now. No student can’t be taught,” Ford offers gently, meeting your gaze. His words are sweet and delicate…but his eyes don't match. He is still wearing that dark, intense stare, and you almost make a face in surprise. His eyebrows curve into an offering smile. “I know you’re smart, y/n. I’ve seen the work you do for your other classes. Your GPA is outstanding,” he remarks, gesturing thoughtfully. You blush at the praise, turning away from his prying gaze in case your eyes would give away your thoughts.

“I try to listen, Professor, I really do. I just have trouble-”

“Focusing?”

Your eyes snap back to his as he smirks and folds his arms. You stare at him in a stunned silence for a second or two before simply nodding. He was right, and he knew it. You just prayed he wouldn’t as easily figure out what you were distracted by.

“I used to be the same way in my lectures,” Ford elaborated, picking up an unsolved Rubik's cube on his desk and fidgeting with it as he spoke. “I found that no matter what I did, I just wasn’t able to still my thoughts and pay attention. My grades may have been excellent, but I was just using knowledge I gathered on my own accord; I wasn't learning.” You watched quietly, listening, as his six fingers maneuvered the cubes' colours around at an increasing speed with seemingly no rhythm. “My math teacher noticed how lost I seemed during the actual lectures, compared to my amazing test scores. Although I was a good student, that professor still took the time to notice I wasn’t learning.” You pondered this for a moment. After a second or two of the clicking sounds, Ford presented the solved Rubik’s cube to you, all the colours lined up in their neat rows.

“It was only when my teacher offered tutoring to me that I began to understand. One great mind is incredible, but two? An even better deal.” You looked up at him from the Rubik's cube to find him smiling, and you couldn’t help but sheepishly grin back.

“Is that a genius's way of telling someone they think they’re an idiot?” you asked. Ford put his hands up defensively, drawing his lips into a guilty smile.

“Maybe. Maybe it's a professor's way of saying that…he doesn’t want to see you struggle,” he commented thoughtfully. You felt heat bloom in your chest over his words, and you found yourself searching in those dark eyes for a shred of anything, but like always, he gave nothing away. “I’m willing to offer you some extra help a couple of days a week. It would be days when you don't have my class, of course,” he offered, eyeing you with an unreadable expression.

Every bone in your body immediately screamed in rejection. You could barely handle a class sitting a safe distance away from this guy, and now he wants to be up close and personal three days out of the week? A part of you was also shocked at the invitation entirely. Surely, as a teacher who had worked in the university for seven years, he would know about what happened to you, what you had done. But there didn't seem to be a trace of hesitance in his voice as he spoke, or a gesture of recoil as his lips curled into that teethy smile. One side of you- the side that recognized that boiling darkness within Ford- did not want to be trapped alone with this man, in a classroom. The other side of you, however, wanted all of that and even more. A silent war plagued your mind, all while staring into those deep pools of black.

You felt yourself break out into a cold sweat for a moment, unable to choke out a response until he raised his eyebrows expectantly at you.

“Yes! Uh- absolutely.” The words shot out of your mouth, and before you could take them back, Ford was smiling that charming grin down at you.

Fuck, why the hell did I say that? You kicked yourself internally.

“Excellent, I'm glad to hear. I can assure you that you will find my assistance worthwhile.” His tone is smooth and forced at the same time, like the voice of AI. You swallow back the lump that builds in your throat, pinned under his gaze.

“Will I…need to pay you?” you questioned nervously, thinking of the last time you checked your bank account (spoiler, it was this morning and there was sixty-five cents to your name). Ford laughed at your obvious plight and shook his head.

“I know most professors require some type of payment for scheduled tutoring sessions, but I’ll cut you a deal since you modeled for me today,” he joked. Although it was just a normal joke on the outside, your brain couldn’t help but pick up on something lower in his tone. The way his eyes skated down your figure when he breathed the word “modeled” was so slight, you almost missed it. Maybe you had imagined it? You felt your cheeks flush. Of course, it must’ve been in your head, wishful thinking.

“When do you want me to come in?” you forced yourself to ask, eyes now glued to your fingers in your lap to avoid meeting Ford's gaze. You hear him hum thoughtfully before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“We can begin tomorrow, there's no time to waste. Let's go for…” he looked at his calendar perched on the side wall of his messy desk. “Seven pm. Will that work for you, y/n?” The way he says your name catches your attention once again, and you snap up to meet his confident and calm expression. You can feel yourself shrinking below him, his poised nature never faltering, unlike you.

“Yeah, uh, yes. That works fine for me,” you stutter out. “I guess I’ll…see you here tomorrow at seven?” you squeak out, slowly searching his expression for answers. He blinks his dark eyes at you, that gentle smile and calm demeanor making your hair stand on end. There was something not right about it, something unnatural about the way he sat so rigidly. His posture was relaxed, sure, but you could tell just by looking at him that this man was incredibly tense. Like the expression he wore was nothing but a mask. This idea solidified in your head when he smiled a large smile at you, but this time it wasn’t charming or sympathetic. It was painful.

“See you at seven,” he repeated back, his voice steady like a pond. You stood in place, feeling an eeriness creeping inside your body that begged you to move. For a moment, that feeling from earlier returned—the feeling that it was only you and he who existed at the moment, for better or worse. An intense unease stabbed between your eyes and chest, making you turn a bit more quickly than necessary towards the exit.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something unusual.

That was the prompt your painting professor had given you for this week's assignment.

You yawned sleepily and peered over at your classmates' paintings, which ranged from aliens to gory battle scenes. These eight a.m. classes must really be getting to your classmates as much as they were getting to you. You took a sip of your coffee you picked up from work on the way to school (yay for employee discounts), and stared at the unfinished painting in front of you.

It wasn’t…bad. But it wasn’t great either. You frowned and tilted your head to get a better look at the image's proportions in front of you, squinting your eyes to search for some kind of obvious problem. You kept coming up empty, however. The painting had started out as an angel ascending from heaven, but now it was looking more like an ogre-faced hag was crawling out of the depths of hell. You sighed heavily, poring over all the different brush strokes to try and pinpoint what about this piece was not sitting right with your eyes. Was it the colors? Was it the brushwork?

Your eyes trailed off to the side, where your art professor sat talking to another student about their painting. He was peering down from his cat-eyed framed glasses and nodding as the student spoke to him. You couldn’t help but take a peek at what the student was painting, and your jaw almost fell open. Next to you must’ve been the next freakin’ van gogh. They were working on a beautifully structured painting of a woman holding a man's severed head. You craned your head to get a better look, when you were caught red-handed staring by your classmate.

“You know you can ask if you want a look y/n,” they laughed.

“Ah, right. Sorry,” you mumbled, scooting your chair in closer to the pair to take a look at the painting. “It's so gorgeous, Vin. What’s it supposed to represent?” you ask curiously.

“Vin here tells me it represents their inner struggle with their own identity,” Professor Damien explained, putting a thoughtful hand on his chin. “Very interesting way of showing that idea,” he nods in approval, and Vin beams.

“What are you working on?” Vin asks, glancing over at your canvas. You sigh and fight the urge to fling your hands over the canvas to cover it up.

“Well, uh, it was supposed to be an angel,” you offer, biting your lip. Your eyes follow your professor as he walks to examine your work. “I think I might’ve overworked the paint, though. I hate it,” you chuckle humorlessly. Professor Damien lets out several “hmm” and “huh” noises that are never good coming from an art teacher.

“I hate to say it, love, but I agree,” Damien nods, still examining the canvas. “It’s not that it’s a bad piece, it's just that…something is missing,” he ponders, eyes squinting. Vin joins his side, also examining your painting. You were used to your work being on display, thankfully, due to mandatory critiques every week, so this didn’t offend you.

“Something is missing,” Vin agrees, motioning to the entirety of the painting. “I can tell you’re not really into this one, like your heart's not set on it,” Vin continued, and Professor Damien hums in agreement.

“Dang, it’s really that obvious?” you sigh, running a paint-stained hand across your forehead and unintentionally dragging a streak of blue across your skin that goes unnoticed. “I guess I haven’t been feeling inspired lately. I’m just too tired,” you admit, and Vin nods sympathetically.

“The due date is getting close,” the professor mumbles, still examining the brush strokes. You frown at that and stare at the floor. “No time to be tired when art must be created, dear,” he smiles at you mischievously, and you sigh at him.

“If you want a piece that's actually well done, I'm gonna have to scrap this whole painting,” you point out, but Vin holds a hand up to stop you.

“Now hold on, man. Just because it's not something you like right now doesn't mean it's not something you can change to be better,” they point out, grabbing your arm and gently pulling you in front of the canvas. “Some parts of this piece are stunning,” they comment, pointing to the few good areas in the piece.

“Vin is right. What is a scrapped canvas if not wasted potential?” Damien questioned, pointing to several components of the piece that failed. “If you do a wash of green over this angel figure, you can repaint her and save this stunning background,” he suggested. You have to admit- painting the clouds in the background did take a ridiculously large amount of time.

“I don’t even know what else I’d add,” you wondered, slowly seeing the vision the two were talking about. Vin tilted their head to look at the canvas while Damien offered you a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Start with another sketch and get some ideas out. You just need to find something that inspires you,” he explained, gesturing to the piece. “Remember, the prompt is ‘something unusual’. Something you might not see every day,” Damien gestured around the room. You grinned at his flamboyant nature and flipped open your sketchbook onto your lap.

You nodded at Vin and Damien, who went back to their respective tasks. You pulled your headphones back on, feeling safe and engulfed in your music. Your fingers trailed lines to create several images across the sketchbook page. Usually, you thought out your sketches and projects ahead of actually drawing them, but this time, you allowed your mind to flow freely as the art spilled from you like it was the most natural thing in the world. The focus you felt- the absolute concentration- this was the one class that required no extra help. This was something you knew you could succeed at, this painting be damned. It was one thing you had that you clutched to your chest like a precious gem; the fact that you could paint was like a blessing gifted to you. The one thing no one could touch.

You continued scribbling in your sketchbook carelessly until Vin shook your shoulder gently to let you know that class was over. As you began to stand to put your painting things away, Vin flipped through the sketches you had been working on.

“These are solid,” they nodded, thumbing through the filled page slowly. You smiled, putting the dirty communal paintbrushes into their equally dirty glass jar. “I really like this one.”

You dumped the paint water into the sink before craning your neck to see which sketch in particular they were pointing at. You wiped your hands on your shirt as you approached, peering at one of the sketches you had done.

“Oh, that one?” You repeat, pointing at it to clarify. Vin nodded, and you analyzed the familiar lines again. The sketch depicted a woman embracing the sun with several handprints burned onto her skin. Vin pointed to one of the handprints and laughed.

“Looks like you gave this handprint an extra finger,” they joked. You peered down into the sketchbook and blinked. Huh.

“Guess I did.”
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

These mid afternoon post church rushes were going to be the death of you, you decided, staring at the line of customers that poured out the door and into the street. Rain pelted the patrons as the door swung open and shut over and over. Today was not going the way you had hoped, and your sour mood was spilling into each coffee you made, stirred with hate. After a sleepless night of being plagued by anxiety, the uninterested and rude manor the customers were speaking to you made you want to kick someone in the throat.

“Y/n, give me that Frappe.” Your eyes glanced back, staring daggers into your coworker.

“Give me a second, Andrew, it’s not done,” you said as plainly as you could, attempting to mask your annoyance. You shook the whipped cream can, picturing it was Andrew's neck you were throttling around with such hostility instead. He shot you a dirty look when you set the drink in front of him for him to take. You simply rolled your eyes and began work on the next order out of many.

Andrew was the type of man you absolutely couldn’t stand to be around. He was the kind of guy who made every woman in a ten-foot radius uncomfortable with only his presence, and this didn’t exclude you. It was as if he were completely oblivious to the way women recoiled when he attempted to speak with them. His acne-ridden face and unhygienic smell made it extremely difficult to work around him, and it was only made worse by the fact that he didn’t seem to know what deodorant even was.

Of course, birds of a feather flock together, though. You feel your lips draw into a tight frown at the sight of your manager walking around the corner.

“Working hard, or hardly working?” he asked the two of you, aimed more towards Andrew than you, of course.

You watched as the pair conversed like a couple of high school buddies, doing your best to mask your stressed nature. The idiocy of your coworkers was the least of your problems right now. You peered at the clock and felt your chest tighten. It was already six, meaning there was only one mere hour left before you would be dangled in front of Professor Pines on a tightrope. Time was running out, and you weren’t prepared to face him in the slightest.

“Hey, do you think I pay you to stand there?” you zoned back in on the coffee you held clutched in front of you, almost completed. You scoffed and turned to put a lid on the drink.

“Looks like that’s what you pay Andrew to do,” you shot back. “I’ve been the only person on the register for like, five hours.” Andrew put his hands up defensively.

“Hey, it’s not my fault that guy got pulled over in our parking lot,” he replied. “I wanted a look at his truck, sue me,” he continued. You sighed, handing the coffee to the customer who awkwardly watched your sibling-like bickering before turning and hurrying out.

“Both of you need to be doing what I pay you to,” your manager huffs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. “Find something to clean, and don’t bother me,” he instructed, before disappearing into his office. You shook your head dismissively, throwing a dirty rag over your shoulder and peering out the glass doors.

It had been admittedly disappointing to miss the guy who got pulled over in the parking lot. Nothing really interesting happened at your job, and of course, you missed the one time something did. The thought occurred to you that if you had stepped outside to oggle, the manager wouldn’t have hesitated to write you up. You tried to distract yourself from the frustration by scrubbing the side of a cooler. Ever since you’d started these afternoon shifts, work had felt more like hell. Instead of gossiping and smoking with Jordyn, you were stuck with the wizard of B.O. and the perviest manager ever. It had been a few weeks since you’d gotten time to even see Jordan between your new schedule, and you felt your heart pang at the realization. You would need to hang out with her again soon, before this job drove you absolutely nuts.

It wasn’t the work itself that bothered you, just the humiliation you felt. People weren’t shy about their true feelings when it came to you, so your shifts were usually filled with sneers, blank stares, and even being ignored completely. You weren’t sure what was worse: everyone hating you, or everyone thinking you were invisible. But what choice did you have? Rent wasn’t cheap, and the scholarship you had was the only shred of hope that led your education further. If you hadn’t made the choices you did, you never would’ve been able to attend university in the first place.

That didn’t mean guilt didn’t eat at you most of the time, though. It was an extension of yourself that you’d grown accustomed to, a helpless stray animal with nowhere else to call its home. The feelings were the most intense during the nighttime, it was when it had happened after all. The sounds of metal on metal would echo in your ears, blossoming into the imagery of freshly decaying corpses right before your eyes. A loud pop sounds off somewhere in between the horrified screams and gurgling noises coming from the passenger's seat. Many of your nights are spent lonely, staring off into the darkness of your room, unable to escape the inevitability of it all.

There was nothing you could’ve done.

Your old therapist's words bounced around your head as you swept the dirty floor in a trance. Maybe that was the case, sure. Every tap on the brakes, every unsure glance at your father to make sure you were doing everything right, every action was just on the timeline of events that you had no control over. But there was a reason she was your old therapist. After all, if you didn’t have control over the events that took place, then why were you the one behind the wheel? You felt your grip tighten on the broom handle in intense contemplation.

Nothing mattered more to you right now than shaking the wings of this terrible town. It didn’t matter who you had to go through or what events you’d possibly face next; escaping this curse was the only way you’d survive, and you knew it. Your birthplace had poisoned your blood with a disease no man could ever cure, and now you were doomed to misery unless you could escape. There was no room for empathy or devotion, only determination; that was your plan, it had been for years, and you had no desire to stray from it. Growing up as a little girl, surrounded by love in every corner, only to lose it in one night, left ghosts in the shadows of the small town you once considered home, and leaving was the only way to cut the infected part of the wound off.

Not to mention the fact, no one would know you, know where you came from. That idea is what appealed to you the most. There would be no more sideways glares or apologetic eyes on you at all times. The scars that everyone could see so clearly would be camouflaged behind anonymity, and you would truly be free. Free to exist, free to be, free to love again. But as for right now, you were stuck on aching knees, scrubbing at the disgusting glass window.

“You should’ve seen it, it was badass,” Andrew suddenly spoke, causing you to raise your head and stare. He scoffed and motioned to the parking lot after an awkward moment of eye contact. “The truck that got pulled over,” he elaborated as if it should’ve been obvious. You scrubbed harder, wanting desperately to avoid conversation.

“Yeah, I'm sure it was awesome,” you say, a bite of sarcasm in your tone. You hear him stutter defensively as he skates into your vision, throwing his hands up dramatically.

“It was, dude! It was a classic Ford from the 70s, real pretty paint job,” he marveled. The model of the car, for some reason, made your ears perk up. You turned from your cleaning task to look at Andrew.

“Was it red?” you asked suddenly, and Andrew thought for a moment before nodding.

“Yeah, pretty sure. Dark cherry red, some black decals. Real smooth ride.” That description…it rang some bells in your head. You squinted, trying to file through your memories of where that truck sounded so familiar.

“Did you see what the driver looked like?” you questioned, feeling disappointment when he shook his head no.

“Nah, windows were too tinted. Bet it’s why he got pulled over in the first place,” he remarked, turning back to the countertop he had been cleaning. “But now that I think about it, I don't think he got pulled over.” You felt your eyebrow raise, curiosity triumphing over the desire not to talk to Andrew.

“What do you mean?” You asked, leaning against the counter. He eyed you suspiciously for a moment, uncertain of your sudden interest in conversation. He hesitantly answered anyway.

“Well…the truck had been parked here for a while before the cop showed up, actually, I guess it was a whole deal,” he explained, putting air quotes around the last two words. “I heard one of the bosses talking to a cop afterwards. Something about the guy loitering. But when I asked the boss, he told me he thinks the guy was taking pictures.” You blinked at him a few times.

“Pictures? Of what?” you asked, and he shrugged. “That’s weird…I think I’ve seen that truck somewhere before,” you admitted, and Andrew nodded excitedly.

“I mean, how could you not notice it? That baby had chrome spokes, and not a scratch on ‘er. The guy who owns it must be pretty OCD or some shit,” he joked. You hummed thoughtfully in response before throwing your dirty rag into a bin.

Another glance at the time told you it was five minutes till seven. You threw your apron into the laundry and gathered your things before poking your head into your managers office. Your face never waivered as the sound of a woman moaning promptly cut off with the switch of his computer tabs.

“You cool if I head out?” you asked dully. He quickly nodded with a hasty yes, allowing you to peel out of there and to your car in the parking lot.

Gloomy, cold wind whipped at your face and hair, and you cursed yourself, putting your hair up into a loose bun after getting into your car. You pulled the strands into place and glanced in the mirror, the bright purple searing into your eyes. The bruise on your cheek was mostly faded now, thank god, and you wiped away some stray mascara that had been smudged out of place during your shift. You took a quick peek at the clock and bit your lip. You were going to be late for the tutoring session if you didn’t leave right then.

The pit that formed in your stomach wouldn’t budge as Andrews' little truck description flashed in your mind. It felt as if there was something you were missing- a puzzle piece you hadn’t connected to make a full picture yet. It nagged its way into your brain, worming its way into your obsessive nature. You did your best to push the thought aside as you put your car into reverse and backed out of the parking lot.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The minutes had ticked by ever so slowly, far too still, but also too quickly all at once. The rhythmic motion of a Zippo lighter being flicked open and shut illuminated the tense expression Ford wore, staring into the flame that died and resurged in his grasp. A feeling lingered in the air, something Ford couldn’t quite place. Anticipation? Excitement? None of the descriptors that came to mind fit the intense stabbing feeling that dug its way into Ford's throat and stomach that afternoon.

The silence was palpable, like a barrier that shielded the room with an intense energy. His leg bounced like an adhd school boy, and he flicked the lighter shut for the last time before frowning. He watched the door with eyes that could probably stun a small child. His fingers were moved to lace tightly together, anticipation in every breath he took. He had to act normal. He had to pretend everything was fine, like he had before so many times.

He read through his small notecard of topics he wanted to go over with you, things he noticed you really struggled with on exams and homework. The most notable one, of course, was the organs and their placement. How you were struggling so badly was beyond him, seeing as organs were one of the topics they went most in-depth over. He sighed in slight annoyance at the notion that maybe you just didn't pay attention after all.

But how could that possibly be the case? His gaze softened as he recalled the past few classes he had with you. You always tried to avoid eye contact with him, but he could tell you were working yourself to the bone between taking notes on both your laptop and notebook simultaneously. The fact that you avoided eye contact was somewhat endearing to him, and he wanted so desperately to know if it was intentional or not. It had to have been, surely. Ford scoffed to himself, picturing your pretty, stunned face when he put his hands on your sternum. He could feel the racing of your heart beneath your clothes and the way your breath hitched when he touched you. He clenched his teeth together. You were so responsive to being in his space, that much was obvious by the way you had looked at him with those glazed-over puppy eyes. He could feel his mouth water at the imagery of your face when he praised you, a stunned and flustered look. He wanted to see it as many times as possible.

He bit his lip aggressively. Though he hadn’t seen it in quite some time, the images of you in your tight work apron flooded his mind. You worked tirelessly through the night, never straying from the tasks being given to you, just like he knew you would. You were obedient to a fault. His lips curled into a sneer at the memory of the male customer who had harassed you weeks ago. He didn't hear him, of course, since he was in the parking lot, but he could sense the discomfort in your eyes…the unease in your heart. It took everything in him to not jump out of his truck and bash that fuckers face into the register for whatever he said to you.

He felt his face twitch in annoyance when a shadowy figure skated past his vision with a cruel laugh. Disembodied voices echoed incoherently in his mind, and he shook his head intensely to try and rid himself of the wicked words being projected into his head. Each sentence spoken by the intense hallucinations was more aggressive than the last.

“He’s gone.”
“They won’t come back for you.”
“You can’t save her.”
“YOU CAN'T SAVE HER.”

Ford clutched his head with a grimace, grunting in pure annoyed agony. Every single day, when he was alone, the voices in his mind would just get more and more intense. He felt a cold chill shoot through his spine at that familiar laugh that rang in his ears. It was always the same- that ugly demonic laugh that would eventually garble and morph into Stanley's laughter. As if the torture of what Bill had put him through wasn’t enough, he was now missing one of the only remedies to his internal plight. And that missing man now joined the choir of angry and angelic voices that attacked him with no way of ever stopping. Stans memory was just an arrow now, perched in the strings of a drawn bow that were constantly aimed directly at Fords heart.

It was times like these that Ford wished he hadn’t put that stupid metal plate into his head in the first place. It did what it needed to, when it was required. But now it was something detrimental to an extreme degree. He was already struggling mentally before Stanley and Bill, but the metal plates screws had come undone after a few rough dimensions, and now he was sure something was amiss with his brain chemistry. Talk about having a couple screws loose. The quiet voices he had grown used to hearing in his mind throughout his adolescence slowly morphed and evolved into full-blown hallucinations, night terrors, paranoia, the works. In vain, he had tried to perform the surgery himself before being talked out of it by Dipper. Ford could still hear his horrified scream that rang through the bathroom as he held a scalpel to his temple, a deep gash pouring dark red blood all over his coat and the floor. He frowned at the memory of Mabel's terrified cries when Dipper led him from the puddle of his blood to his truck.

His fingers ran across the raised scar etched into his temple where stitches had been stapled into his skull for weeks. The doctors had vehemently instructed Ford not to touch the plate, like they had any idea what they were droning on about. The metal wasn’t even able to be picked up on their meek machinery, due to the pure properties of the fine surgical work, but the doctor concluded until it became a problem, they would avoid operation because of how risky it was. Mabel made Ford double pinky promise he wouldn’t try to take it out himself, so of course, Ford had no choice but to comply. That was also the night he remembered it wasn’t usual in this dimension for teenagers to see their uncle sawing into his own head.

Ford glanced at the clock, eager to still his mind. His lips pulled into a line as his eyebrows stitched together into a scowl. It was now 7:05, and she still wasn’t here. He drummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the door with dark eyes. He didn’t like it when people weren’t punctual, and he certainly didn’t like the fact that you weren’t being punctual. What was taking so long? It wasn’t unusual for Ford to get antsy when things didn’t go directly according to plan, but he seemed moments away from some kind of mental break as he scanned the classroom feverishly.

What if she's not coming? He thought bitterly. Had he scared her off already?

No. No, that couldn’t be the case, it just couldn't. He had controlled himself too well up until this point, and there was no way this would be the moment it all fell apart.

She was something that he couldn’t let go of, like he usually did. He couldn’t afford to be careless, and he couldn’t afford to be cocky. He needed to dig his teeth into her flesh and never let go again, until the two mercilessly rotted together under the Earth for eternity. He had to see her, he had to figure out what kind of buttons to press, what sorts of strings he needed to pull. It was all laid out in an elaborate map in his mind, with a red line drawn directly from you to him, and there was no stopping it.

He pictured the soft skin of your stomach when you yawned, stretching your graceful limbs above your head like a swan. There was a sense of shame that swelled within him at the erotic thoughts that began to race through his head. He wanted to feel your flesh underneath him, underneath a blade. He longed to see what was underneath that gorgeous complexion; could your insides possibly be as beautifully different as your outsides? A deep arousal stirred within him at the fantasy of caressing your soft skin while you lay bare on his bed, completely at his mercy. You’d look at him with those tired, smoky eyes and that beautifully twisted expression of pleasureful pain when he dragged his switchblade knife across your skin, just deep enough to draw those delicious red lines that poured holy water. You would listen to him, you would obey, he was sure of it. He would ask you to name which organs he was hovering over with the tip of his knife, and you would answer with a shaky, fear-filled response. He would make sure you knew the answers.

Ford grunted softly, running a hand down his face in a weak attempt to distract himself. His jeans were pulled tightly over his crotch, barely veiling his stirring arousal. He sighed, feeling annoyance rise at the notion he had allowed himself to get carried away in his thoughts of you once again, and he adjusted his jeans uncomfortably. It did little to still the fantasies, though. At first, he tried his best not to think of you in such a way. It was horribly perverted after all, and Ford didn’t want to be some kind of creep to such a young woman. But then, the dreams started. Instead of the usual run-of-the-mill PTSD dream he was used to, you were there. It was nothing uncouth…until the day he saw you in that swimsuit.

He recalled the event like it had just happened minutes ago, down to the way your face had twisted into a beautifully elegant laugh when your friend, Jordyn, splashed you with water. The sun beamed down onto you, reflecting the shimmery light off your sparkly black bikini directly into Ford's line of sight, along with the delightful cleavage you showed. You hadn’t noticed him- but he had certainly noticed you, and the image apparently embedded itself into Ford's brain, since that night he had the first wet dream he could remember in years. He could practically feel the way your nails dug into his back when his larger figure pressed into you. He could hear the way you gasped his name, even the sensation of slick warmth. After that dream, the lines of interest and infatuation blurred, and you joined the melody of voices that taunted him throughout the day.

He allowed a slight smile to form across his lips at the memory, feeling his arousal twitch beneath his jeans. He stared off into space for a second, intensely, before looking around like a spy on the clock. He eyed the empty classroom before trailing to the clock once again. It read a taunting 7:13, much to Ford's dismay. He could feel a bit of anger bite at his throat, and try to claw its way to the forefront of his brain, but he wouldn’t allow it.

y/n has work before this. He reminded himself. She's probably just cleaning up.

His ego was already beginning to rub raw, despite his attempt at self-soothing thoughts. Was his time not important to her? He had offered his help to her out of the kindness of his heart, and she decided to just, what, show up late? He never does this to her. He frowned, his fingers dancing along the edge of his desk nervously. Maybe he really had scared you off after all. Ford had a tight leash on how much contact he’d allow, but yesterday, he admittedly slipped. Just seeing you wasn’t giving him the same effect anymore, and he crumbled, allowing the simple touch of a sticky note to your chest. But that was more than enough to send his mind reeling. Perhaps that simple touch revealed all of Ford's secrets; spilled them out like blood and pus from a disgusting wound.

A quiet knock resonated around the room, pulling Ford from the sea of overthinking he was drowning in. He looked at the door in surprise for a moment before clearing his throat.

“Come in, y/n.” he could feel every muscle in his body tense at his voice.

The door slowly creaked open, and a small silhouette appeared in the doorway. The breath was taken right from Ford's chest at the stunning sight painted in front of him. Your hair was done up today, exposing the tender skin of your long neck and collar bones that showed just above the large T-shirt draped around your figure. Ford did his best not to stare at the graceful way your long legs moved, only exemplified by the black leggings that clung to your curvy thighs and built calves.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said sheepishly, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The small action was enough to make Ford's heart skip a beat.

“That’s quite alright,” he replied, feeling the anger from before melt away. He motioned to the chair beside his desk, slightly scooting it towards you with his foot. “Please, have a seat.”

He folded his hands together on his desk in an invisible pair of handcuffs, damning himself to stay in his own space. He watched you carefully as you leaned down to pull the chair in front of the desk, still avoiding his gaze. He fought back a satisfied smile at your discomfort.

“I hope your day has gone pleasantly,” Ford commented, his eyes curling up into a genuine grin. He could feel himself shiver at the way you swallowed before you spoke.

“Yeah, my day was…good,” you responded, in that melodically quiet tone. Such a beautiful voice shouldn’t be hidden behind such short sentences; that would certainly not do. Ford adjusted his glasses, studying your expression for a moment. He picked out each minor twitch, each small motion, every single minute detail that could give away more than your words would.

“Mine was good as well, though if you wanted to know, I’m sure you would’ve asked already.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as your panicked gaze darted up to his. He could feel his heart melt at the sight of your panicked expression. “Only joking, y/n. No need to be so tense.”

He watched the way your body eased a bit at this, not entirely though, and you let out a small laugh. He bit the tip of his tongue in anticipation, forcing a friendly expression and intertwining his fingers together in thought.

“Sorry, Professor. It’s hard to tell when you’re kidding,” you admit with a dry chuckle. The word professor sends pins and needles through Fords body directly to his dick, and he drums fingers on his desk, forcing a smile.

“Please, call me Ford,” he manages out, ignoring the way his arousal twitches with interest. You both eye each other, and for a moment, Ford feels like you can see right through his charade. He relaxes a bit when you finally pull your eyes away from his and motion to a set of flashcards on the table.

“Ok then, Ford. What’s all this for?” you ask. His eyes light up, the excitement of teaching igniting in his stomach. He clears his throat, aiming his focus on that feeling instead of his depravity. He reaches down and grabs the flashcards, holding them in front of you.

“Well, I figured we’d start with something a little easier,” he explains, motioning to the cards. “Nothing like a well-done stack of flashcards for good old-fashioned studying,” he smiles, and you can’t help but smile back. He hands you the stack and observes as you take it in your smaller hands, flipping through a couple of them. He eyes you curiously when your face slowly falls.

“I don’t know Prof- I mean…Ford,” you corrected, looking at him uncertainly. “I use flashcards all the time, but they never seem to help,” you said, a hint of frustration in your tone. Ford feels his heart break a bit at the defeated look on your face, guilt creeping up in the back of his mind.

“No flashcards then,” he nodded, taking them back from you and setting them on the desk. He notes your slightly shocked expression at his gentleness. “We can always do something else,” he smiles. You both sit in an awkward silence, and your gaze is burning into your shoes. Your face is drawn into a slight frown, and just when Ford is about to break the silence, you beat him to it.

“I don’t think anything will help,” you finally spit, as if admitting some harsh truth. Ford simply looks at you, feeling his fingers twitch. “It doesn’t matter what I do, I just keep failing every assignment you give me. I study, I take notes, I do everything!” you exclaim exasperatedly. Ford can only watch in awe as you unravel in front of him. “All the study guides and every single cheat sheet for tests are useless to me, Ford. It’s like something in my brain just…doesn’t work.” The emotion that stirs within him when you say his name is strong. He wants to reach out and stroke your cheek at the way your face twists into a morbid expression of self-hate. A pang of guilt burdens itself upon Ford's shoulders, and he tries to hide the look it gives him with a sympathetic smile.

“It’s not that your brain doesn’t work, y/n. I think you haven’t allowed yourself to open up to other ways of thinking,” Ford began, watching your eyes slowly peel up from your shoes to meet his. This wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured this event happening, but his meticulous planning was paying off nonetheless. “That’s what I’m here for.” Your fingers twisted into your hair anxiously, eyebrows scrunched up in thought. God, if Ford could frame that look in his mind, he would.

“You’ve seen the work I do on tests,” she began to argue. “So that means you can see that I’m struggling with basically everything,” she sighed. Ford bit his lip and steered his gaze away from her.

“We just have to find a method that works with your learning style,” Ford responded decisively. “I’m certain of it, y/n. I see a lot of potential,” he baited, watching your face carefully. He bit back a smirk of accomplishment when your skin flushed a slight shade of red.

The truth was, you weren’t struggling at all. Your work was some of the most brilliant Ford had seen from a student your age in years, and that fact begrudgingly threw a large dent in his plans. Though Ford didn’t like to acknowledge the side of himself that brute forced its way through whatever obstacles life threw at him, it did come in handy in his endeavors from time to time. With a couple of tweaks to just your scantrons and electronic documents, all of your assignments were doomed to fail from the start.

“Why don’t we start with something easy, something you already know,” Ford suggested, opening his palms to you. “You seemed to have a good grasp of muscle anatomy. How about you show me how much you know?” he asked, pulling out an unlabeled diagram of the muscles. “Just fill in the ones you’re completely sure about, leave the other ones blank,” he instructed, sliding a pen over to you. Your hands nervously skated across the paper, bringing it closer to you.

The way your hands trembled underneath Ford's gaze was enough to make his head spin. Watching you sheepishly scratch out words, he attempted to still his mind of the racier imagery that flashed in his head, but it was all in vain. It was hard not to fantasize when you were directly in front of him, and he could smell the strong vanilla of your perfume that mixed with the coffee scent that drove him wild. His mouth watered at the sight of your exposed shoulder, wanting nothing more than to sink his teeth into that perfect skin and mark you for everyone to see. His desire was pure unhinged ecstasy that came to life every time you crossed his train of thought, like you so often did. He wondered what kind of sounds he could force out of you when the time was right. Would you be vocal? No, you didn’t seem like the type. He gritted his teeth at the thought of pressing your face down into his desk, leaning down until his face was inches away from yours. You would gasp out, incoherent cries of want fleeing your lips. If you didn't want to be loud, he’d make you.

His attention was drawn away from his lewd daydreams back to reality when you flipped the paper around and allowed him to see it. He quickly coughed, adjusting his glasses with slight embarrassment at his uncontrollable mind. He scanned it after a moment, noting the few spaces you had left empty. He reached over, allowing his desire to cloud his judgment enough to invade your personal space and pluck the pen from your hand. He couldn’t help it, though; he was just a dog, helpless, tethered to his master- lust and need.

“This looks very good,” he croaked, praising each answer. “It seems whatever method you’ve chosen to use to study this subject works well for you,” he commented, shifting in his seat. You were beaming when he looked back at you, and he almost combusted at the sight.

“Ah- thank you. I used my friend as a mannequin to help label,” you admitted, laughing at the memory of Jordyn in her moo-moo, covered in penned words of muscle systems. Ford thought about this for a moment, glancing over the paper.

“Looks like you're a hands-on learner then,” He explained. Though it wasn’t obvious, he couldn’t help the double meaning that lay hidden below the sentence. He could’ve sworn that your face had turned red for a moment before he continued. “Activity-based learning would be your strong suit, not listening-based.”

“So what you’re saying is I learn by…like touching shit?” Ford bit back a laugh at your crudeness and nodded.

“Essentially yes. Some people learn by listening, some people learn by seeing, and some learn by doing,” he elaborated, emphasizing the word doing. His eyes didn't miss the way your hands twitched at that.

“Well…what about the ones I missed?” you asked, pointing to the few unlabelled boxes. Ford looked at them curiously for a moment before looking back at you.

“Well, how about we do a hands-on activity to go over them?”
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You felt your eyes squint a bit at his statement.

“What kind of activity?” you asked, picking out the dark mischief glaring behind his eyes. Being this close to him must seriously be doing something to your head, because you couldn’t stop the never-ending flow of butterflies that coursed through your stomach. Nothing he had said was wrong, or even stepping over boundaries, so why was your mind immediately in the gutter? You watched as he rolled up his sleeve and opened his desk drawer. When he handed you a Sharpie, you looked at him curiously.

“Since you were my guinea pig yesterday, I’ll be yours today,” he smiled.

You felt your face grow hot with embarrassment as he flexed his arm, pointing to one of the many, many muscles that popped out of his defined figure.

“Write which muscle goes here,” he instructed, tapping on his skin. You stared in awe for a moment, guilty, drinking in the sight that would be burned into your retinas forever. You stammered for a second.

“W-with the Sharpie? Are you sure?” you asked, hesitantly fiddling with the cap.

“Oh, come on, a little ink never hurt anyone,” he motioned you over with a friendly wave. Your legs felt like jelly when you scooted your chair closer to his side, opening the lid of the marker.
You gave him one more unsure look before trying to wrangle your cat herd of a brain to focus on where he had pointed in the first place. In shaky handwriting, you wrote out the words extensor pollicis brevis. After a pause, Ford nodded with a hum of confirmation, giving you the confidence to continue.

“I know this is the Biceps brachii, that one's obvious,” you commented in a lame attempt to distract yourself from the depraved imagery that was gouging its way into your head. Ford hums thoughtfully with a nod as you scrawl the words onto his large bicep.

“Yes, very good,” he compliments, with a smile. Your eyes burn into his for a moment before you turn away in shame at the arousal that stirs in your stomach. “How about this one?” he points to another area, and you follow his gesture with the marker.

“That's…um…” your mind blanks, and your hand hovers over his skin for a few seconds, before you turn away in shame. “I'm not sure,” you admit, embarrassment deeply pitted in your stomach. Its hard to focus when his arm is the size of your friggin head.

“It's alright,” Ford reassures, before tracing down the muscle with his finger. “This is the palmarus longus, named for its attachment directly to the palm,” he explained, moving his arm so his palm was face up, flexing all the veins in his wrists. You gulped, heat surrounding your face at the sight.

“Right, that would make sense…” You croaked out weakly, writing the words across his arm.

The scenes taking place in your head are downright disgraceful. Your focus blurs somewhere between the thought of his large hands wrapped around your neck in a merciless embrace, and the urge to lick his muscles all at once (creepy, stop that.) A vision of Ford lifting dumbbells at the gym flashes through your mind as you stare at his bicep, trying not to drool everywhere like some kind of dumb animal. The smell of his musk and the way sweat would bead on his forehead was a carnal desire you didn’t know you needed until that very moment. You could feel your arousal ache, causing you to shift uncomfortably in your seat.

You felt your body tense when he finally spoke again, breaking the silence.

“I can tell you’re distracted.”

The sharpie paused mid-word as you gulped, feeling very exposed. It was as if he could read your thoughts just by being close; god, you hoped that wasn’t the case. You hesitantly finished writing the last word before you replied.

“Just a lot on my mind…as usual,” you chuckle dryly, peering at him shyly to monitor if he was believing your bullshit. His bullshit meter, however, seemed to be finely adjusted. His dark eyes peered at you, and he grinned.

“Well, despite that, it seems like you’ve labelled each part correctly,” he remarked, rotating his arm this way and that to read the diagrammed muscles. “I’m fairly certain anyways. Can’t quite make out some of them,” he jokes, pointing to your poor handwriting. You laugh, cheeks heated up in embarrassment. He nods thoughtfully, rolling down his sleeve.

“...You know, you remind me a lot of my nephew,” he remarked slowly, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Sharp, and curious, but anxiety-filled too. He fidgets with his hands just like that,” you freeze in the embarrassment of being called out. “-Not that that’s a bad thing, of course. A busy mind usually reflects in other ways too,” he smiled, motioning to your hands. Each sentence that followed the last left your heart beating faster, aching for more of whatever this was- conversation, pity, or something else entirely.

“What’s his name?” you ask curiously. A moment passes before you accept the small photograph Ford hands you off the side of his desk, and he points to a young boy in the photo.

“That’s Dipper,” he beams, and you raise an eyebrow.

“Dipper? What an…interesting name,” you remark with a giggle, and Ford smirks.

“Oh yeah, got a whole family of odd ducks,” he nods. You examine the picture a bit more closely while he speaks. It looks like a family reunion of some kind, with each member of the ragtag family dressed in matching “Pines” shirts. “He’ll be graduating early this year, I can hardly believe it. Seems like just yesterday his whole head was bigger than his body,” Ford joked, earning a hearty laugh from you.

“He looks a lot like you,” you remark, pointing to the square glasses Dipper was sporting in the picture. “Minus the frames of the glasses, of course.” You glanced back up and hesitated for a moment, seeing a flash of…something dance across Ford's face. You relaxed a bit when he smiled and took the photo back gently.

“I’ll let him know about the compliment, since his devilishly good looks clearly come from me,” he gestures to his face, and you stifle a laugh.

“Oh yes, I can tell,” you shoot back, layering your tone thick with sarcasm. A part of you deep down knows you agree, though.

“Hey, use the sarcasm all you want, miss l/n, it doesn't change the fact that this conversation is a distraction, so you don’t have to study,” he teased, and you gasped incredulously.

“I would never do such a thing,” you turned your nose up jokingly, folding your arms over your chest. He watched you for a moment with a strange look in his eyes, making your relaxed demeanor crumble a bit. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and you sheepishly rubbed your arm.

“In all seriousness,” he began, opening his desk drawer. “This test is coming up rather quickly, only two days left, and it’s worth a good chunk of your grade for this semester,” he said, pulling out a small manila folder and setting it down on the desk in front of him. You eyed it curiously.

“I know…” You mumbled, staring into your shoes. “I’m gonna be honest. I don’t think I’m going to pass,” you admitted.

“You won't.”

Your eyebrows knitted together before shooting up to look at Ford for a sign that that was meant to be some kind of joke, but the flat expression on his face told you he was indeed not joking. He sighed, adjusting his glasses before elaborating.

“I…admittedly reached out to you just a bit too late for this test,” he continued slowly, eyeing you carefully. “I was caught up in…personal matters, but that’s not an excuse, and I apologize for that, y/n,” he frowned, and you scrunched your face up in thought.

“So…what then? Am I just…fucked?” you asked, and Ford tapped his fingers indecisevly on the folder.

“Not…exactly,” he breathed, suddenly being the one to avoid eye contact that you searched for. “I feel terrible. I do,” he sighed, opening the folder and sliding out one of the papers to you. You picked it up in bleak confusion, examining the words. Your eyes narrow, and you peer up at him, who is still guiltily looking off to the side.

“Is this…”

“The answer key to the next test, yes,” he confirmed quietly. You felt your eyes widen slightly, stammering out a few noises before shaking your head and flipping the paper over.

“I can’t accept this,” you hissed quietly, looking from side to side like some FBI agent was about to jump out and tackle you or something. “If- If- anyone finds out, I could lose my scholarship- I could get expelled, Stanford,” you argue quietly, sliding the paper back over to him decisively. You watch as he silently slides the worksheet back into the folder, before pulling out a sticky note from underneath it.

“Yes, that is true,” he agrees, finally meeting your gaze. His guilt has melted, replaced by that blankness that left a feeling of eeriness inside you. His hand reaches out to you with the sticky note, and you eye him suspiciously as you take it from him and read the words scrawled onto it. Well, words and numbers, seeing that one was clearly some kind of passcode, and the other was a website. “But, it is also true that I didn’t give you the physical answer key,” he followed up. You scrunched your face up, unsure of what antics he may be up to.

“It is also true that there is a website that can be accessed on any computer,” he explained, holding his hands up in surrender. “It may or may not be the website I’ve written down on that sticky note. And the password for it may or may not work. It could be a site that makes your screen flash different colors. It could be…information about the topics we’ve gone over in class.” You blink a few times, eyes moving from his back to the sticky note, then back to him again.

“What…why…are you giving me this?” you ask quietly, brows furrowing into confusion. In your peripheral vision, you see Ford put the folder containing the test answers back in his desk drawer.

“Let’s just call it a favor between friends, shall we?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s my fault you weren’t prepared adequately, and I couldn’t bear the thought of a student failing because of me,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. You look at him in pure shock. This was…wrong. It was just blatantly cheating at this point, and not a single thing about this was ethical in the slightest. You had been taught to be honest and to work hard, and this was kind of the complete opposite of that.

You glanced at his expression, a small layer of guilt showing beneath the cracks of his facade that made you reconsider all of the morals that had been instilled in you. He did say that he knew you were going to fail…and if the teacher tells you that, it’s best you believe them. You thought back to the syllabus, hazily recalling the large percentage this test was worth. If you bombed even this one test, you’d fail this semester, and you’d lose your scholarship. Everything would be over in one instant. But this absolute genius was handing you the power to ensure that didn’t happen, because he felt guilt over failing you.

He feels guilty for failing…you?

“Well… let's just say I do happen to put this mysterious sticky note in my bag,” you hypothetically speak. “What guarantees you don’t spin things and rat me out?” you ask, suspicion hard in your glare.

“That's the thing I enjoy about you, y/n,” he smirks, putting his chin in the palm of his hand. “You question everything, even when it’s being spoon-fed to you. You’ve got raw distrust, and I can respect that,” he chuckles. “But I can assure you that I would not like to lose my teaching license either.” His hand extends to you in an attempt to comfort you, and you bite your lip, unsure of which shoulder contains the angel and which contains the devil in this scenario. You glance up at him, locking him into an intense gaze.

“Pinky promise?” you ask in a dead serious tone, raising your pinky finger to him. He smiles and interlocks his two pinkies around yours.

“Double pinky promise. You have my word, y/n,” he nods, and his tone sounds so genuine that you can’t help but believe him. You still eye him suspiciously as you fold the sticky note and shove it into your pocket.

“Thank you,” you say, genuine gratefulness edging your words. His eyes wrinkle as they draw up into a smile, before he winks at you and does the motion of locking his lips and throwing a key away.

“Well, I think this has been quite a productive tutoring session, don't you agree?” he asked, putting his arms behind his head. You can't help but glance at his shoulder muscles as he does so.

“Yeah, it…was?” you say in a questioning tone, causing a chuckle to take hold in Ford.

“In all reality, y/k, I promise our next session will be more learning and less…shady activity,” he says, and you can't help but grin at the way he describes it. “You can go ahead and head out of here,” his hand motions to the door, and he smiles politely. You nod and get to your feet, gathering your untouched backpack from the ground.

“I look forward to it,” you admit, and you can feel your face heat up a bit at the accidental honesty. You swear you see something in Ford's very presence shift when you say this. Something that makes it seem like he's buzzing underneath his skin. “Same time on… Thursday?” you ask, craning your neck to get a look at his calendar. He nods, rubbing his fingers along his jawline contemplatively.

“Of course. I’ll have some activities prepared,” he calls as you make your way towards the front of the classroom. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow, y/k.” You turn to face him with a smile that can’t seem to get off your face.

“See you tomorrow,” you choke out, drinking in the last sight of his large presence before turning to open the door. Halfway through the motion, though, you stop short in the doorway. The guilt that was on his face earlier…you couldn’t stand it. Something inside you felt broken when he looked at you with those horrifically sad eyes, and you couldn’t bear the thought that guilt had been eating at him. You don’t truly know why, but you turned back around to face him fully.

“Hey…Ford?” you call out, and he looks at you curiously.

“Yes, y/n?” he calls back. Your eyes dig into the ground, unable to look him in the face when you speak again.

“Please…don’t feel bad. I should’ve come to you for help sooner,” you admit, fiddling with your rings. There is a silence for a few moments, which causes you to glance at Ford for some measure of a reaction. He has a gentle smile on his lips, and he chuckles to himself.

“Thank you. I’ll try not to,” he hums, waving you off. “Now get out of here. It’s supposed to start storming soon,” he urges with caution. You nod and wave to him as you exit, for real this time.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

Chapter 3
“Smoking Kills”
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If my thong goes any further up my ass, I think ill throw it up.

The words Jordyn was saying to you might as well have been a foreign language, as the discomfort of your tight outfit was beginning to creep through. Either you were gonna get drunk, or you were gonna have an overstimulated meltdown.

Since it was a Friday, that meant it was Jordyn's turn to pick where you hung out, and of course, that landed you in a seedy club on the bad side of town. How your best friend seemed to choose the worst spots to catch up was beyond you, since she was one of the safest people you knew. That meant her presence was comforting, though, as you two sat at the little bar crowded with all kinds of people.

You felt a tad underdressed compared to the other patrons. Everywhere you turned, there seemed to be a sea of skin showing with sparkly sequins and bright eye makeup. You picked at the fabric of your fishnet tights that clung to you from under your black short shorts. Your cropped band tank top fitted loosely over your sports bra, and you wished Jordyn had at least sent you a picture of her outfit before you showed up like some middle school reject.

“Are you gonna drink or what, girl? You goin’ sober on me?” Jordyn asked, with a pout. You zoned into the conversation, struggling to hear over the party music that blasted over the speakers. You peer at your now watered-down glass with a sigh.

“Sorry, I’m just…thinking about a lot,” you admit, raising the glass to your lips and taking a sip of the harsh alcohol inside. It’s blander than when you first bought it, and you set it down along with a groan. “It’s like my brain won’t shut up for two seconds.” You duck to the side as another patron grabs their drink from the bartender.

“Shit man, thats more of a reason to drink than any,” she jokes, motioning to the bartender. “What's on your mind, sweetness?” you frown at her as the bartender pours you both a healthy glass of something alcoholic. For the first time in your life, you weren’t entirely sure if you should tell Jordyn what you were bothered by.

“Just…school stuff,” you say carefully, accepting the drink and raising the new glass to your lips. You monitor her for suspicion, and let out a small sigh of relief when she turns to her own drink after a beat. Technically, it wasn’t a lie; you really were thinking about something school-related, just…not in the typical way. A small part of you feels guilty nonetheless for concealing such a large thing in your life from her, but it was truly for the best. ‘Mama bear’ was the best words you could think of to describe Jordyn, and if she found out you wanted to get down and dirty with a guy three times your age, she would not take it well.

“Ah, right. Did you end up passing that bio test you were worrying about?” she recalls, adjusting the hem of her miniskirt. You nod in confirmation, attempting to steer your mind away from the events of the tutoring session two days ago.

“Yeah. Looks like I’m just barely gonna pass,” you fib, feeling your face heat up. The memory of Ford's face was inescapable, burned into your brain with that intense stare that haunted you even in your mind.

You should have thrown that sticky note away the second you left the classroom. Guilt was carried heavily in your pocket all the way home as you drove, battling with your morality. It was wrong, it was cheating, point blank. Even if he hadn’t handed you the answer key itself, he’d pretty much ensured you would pass anyway, on your own jurisdiction. You should have gone straight to the dean's office and reported that a teacher was attempting to aid a student in cheating, but you didn’t. The new glowing grade on your report was beautiful enough to make you tear up, and you should have felt guilty. But you didn't.

Was it special treatment? That thought had been running through your mind these past few days, taunting you with no answer. One part would argue that it wasn’t special treatment, not really anyway. Ford said it himself; he let you struggle when he should’ve stepped in, but he didn't, and now he was only remedying a mistake on his part. The other side of the coin was the side you didn’t want to face, though. What if it was special treatment? What if he had just given you the answers to give you the answers?

By the time you looked down, most of your drink was empty, and you were tuned in to Jordyn talking about her evil ass baby daddy.

“Its fucking stupid, he makes me want to send him anthrax in the mail,” she huffed in frustration. You choked a bit, erupting in surprised laughter. “I’m serious, y/n, he’s fuckin’ testing me! If I see his skinny ass again, I’m emptying a clip in him,” she motioned a finger gun at you, and mocked pulling the tricker with a few “pew” sound effects to back it up. You giggled, feeling the warm buzz of alcohol behind your eyes.

“Not if I get to him first,” you argued, shaking your head. “Dying from a gun wound is too fast in my humble opinion. You gotta open your mind,” you say, motioning with your hand. “For example: how about I string him up by the neck and you use him like a piñata?” you smile, and she belts out her beautiful laugh, shoving your arm playfully.

“Pinatas are supposed to have good shit in them though,” she roasts and you join her in a laughing fit. “Maybe I could beat his ass with the heels his side bitch left at my house,” she thought out loud, and you nodded, holding your glass out to the bartender for a refill.

“See, now you’re thinking. Straight up murder? That boring. But revenge murder with a side of irony? That's funny,” you raise your eyebrows at her, taking a healthy sip of your vodka cran. “Speaking of shitty men, have you heard from Andrew about switching shifts?” you inquire. Jordyn frowns and glances at her phone.

“Not a word. He’s such a hoe, I’ve swapped so many shifts with him,” she complains, irritation deep in her slightly tipsy tone. “God forbid I want to go to my daughter's concert and have a life outside of making white people coffee,” she sighs in frustration, and you rub her shoulder sympathetically.

“If you don’t hear back from him, I can probably take your shift,” you offer, and she nods.

“I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t want you to miss your tutoring stuff,” she replies. You bite your lip. Right- the tutoring sessions. You had nearly forgotten that it wasn’t a dream you'd experienced. “Let’s not worry about that right now, though. Can we get three rounds of shots over here?”

You aren’t sure if it’s before or after the trip to the bathroom for Jordyn to throw up, but you end up on the dance floor, and you eventually find yourself moving in a symphony of rhythmic moves with her. She was a great dancer in the first place, but give her three lemondrop shots and you’d better back up unless you wanted to catch a limb to the face on accident. Her long curls flicked around wildly, and strobe lights reflected off both of you, making it harder to see. It didn’t matter, though- you were dancing and that's all that you cared about. Your pleasant drunkenness was making your vision dance with vivid colours and outlines, and you spun Jordyn around with a whoop of laughter.

You had always been a party girl at heart, after all. Despite all of the trials and plots from the universe to bring your spirit down, you were always down to let your inhibitions go in favor of a night of blackout drinking and possible substance abuse that you wouldn’t remember the next day anyway. People could stare, people could gawk, people could judge, but when you were swimming with the unhinged feeling of inebriation, nothing mattered anymore; No one could take away the small amount of relief you could get from the glaring wounds of your past. Everyone has demons, and some only go away with the holy water of addiction.

Your legs swayed, a drunk smile plastered across your face as Jordyn flung her arms around you and danced in tandem with you, both your drunk limbs tangling like a mess of yarn.

“I kinda want another drink,” you shouted, attempting to get her to hear you over the music. It’s in vain, though, and Jordyn leans closer as you attempt to motion to the bar a few times. After a second, she follows your motions to the bar and nods, mouthing some garbled nonsense and making a “I'm staying put” motion. You flash her a thumbs up and turn to stumble your way through the sea of drunk dancers.

You swear you feel the sensation of hands all over your body as you shove a path through all the strangers. Maybe it's the buzz, or maybe it's the feeling of being watched that makes your arms break out in goosebumps, but you pointedly decide to ignore it as you finally approach the bar.

The bartender has his back turned to you, talking to another patron, so you lean your unstable body into the table and patiently put your hand on your chin. Your eyes wander slowly through the crowd of faces around the bar, shouting at each other and the poor bartenders. Whoever was in charge of aux seriously needed to turn it down just a notch, you decided, the bass was making your eyes vibrate. The bartender is wearing a stressed scowl when he turns to you like a soldier on a mission.

“What can I get you?” he practically screams. You are unfazed and smile drunkenly. You yell out your drink order back to him, and he huffs slightly with a nod before he turns.

Your pleasant floaty feeling is slowly being replaced by another sensation as you sit and wait at the bar, and you drum your fingers on the countertop, suddenly feeling a bit anxious. Your eyes glance left and right, searching for a sign of something amiss, but there isn’t anything that seems out of place. You hardly notice the bartender when he slides your drink over to you and spills a bit on your hand. You try to thank him, but he’s already turned away from you to take another order.

What a dick, you think, grabbing the glass and taking a small sip so it wouldn’t overflow when you took a step. It was a pretty pointless move, considering the fact that you turned and walked directly into another person, spilling your drink all over both of you. You gasp in surprise at the coldness that pours down the front of your shirt and bra and drips down to your stomach. The liquid is also now stained onto the man's front.

“Oh shit- Im so so sorry,” you slur out, whipping your head upwards. When your eyes are only met with chest, you pause, before craning your neck to look up further. When the deep pits of his eyes meet yours, you feel your stomach blossom with a foreboding and dark wind, like bats in your stomach instead of butterflies.

“Professor?!” you choke out incredulously, after a brief, intense eye contact. He laughs, glancing down the front of his shirt.

“A few too many, huh, y/n?” he jokes, his deep voice booming in your head over the other loud club sounds. “Guess this shirt is pretty tacky after all, I think you’ve improved it,” he smirks, and you feel your face heat up at his defined chest muscles now peeking through the wet garment of clothing.

“God- im- im so sorry!” You exclaim, a few uncertain motions of your hands trying to decide how to proceed. “Let me help you clean that up,” you slur out, attempting to mask how intoxicated you really are. Before he can argue, you turn and wave the bartender over to request some napkins. Out of your peripheral vision, you can see Ford's large figure move into sight to stand beside you.

“In all honesty, I feel worse that you spilled most of your drink,” he pointed to the mostly empty glass you held. “I bet that was at least fifteen bucks,” he guessed, and you nervously tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a laugh. You thanked the bartender when he handed you a large stack of napkins, and you turned to Ford, holding them up. He accepted them gratefully and began to pat himself dry. You do the same, the dampness of your shirt making the skin underneath itch a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you suddenly say. He looks up at you for a moment, that blank expression settled into his slightly squinted eyes.

“Yes, well. Just a long week for the both of us, I suppose,” he replied. You studied him for a moment, the drunken haze creating a lazy ring of blue light around his body. A victim of your intoxicated mind, you allowed your eyes to briefly travel over his body. His large arms were uncovered for the first time you had seen, hugged comfortably tight by his plain black T-shirt. He wore a pair of jeans with a large belt buckle holding it all together, and old, muddy boots peeked from underneath. The scars from his hands extended further up, blending with his healthy amount of arm hair. Your eyes finally traced back up to his eyes, where it was a bit obvious you had been staring based on the smirk and mischievous look Ford wore. You felt your cheeks burn in embarrassment, and you turned away as casually as possible.

“You just don’t seem like the party type,” you admitted, still avoiding his gaze. You see him shrug out of your peripheral vision.

“And you seem like the type that never stops partying,” he bantered back, leaning on the table next to you. You gaze at him, eyes lingering for just a second too long.

Your entire body jumps in surprise at the cold hand on your shoulder, and you spin to the side. You relax a bit when you see Jordyn's goofy grin.

“There you areee, I thought you ditched me,” she whined playfully, before glancing beside you. “Oh, hey- aren’t you the customer from the other day?” Jordyn slurs, and you feel your face heat up for some reason.

“Correct. I’m also y/n’s Biology professor, Stanford,” he introduces. Jordyn looks at him in shock, then at you, before busting out in laughter.

“No way, I can’t believe we go to the same club as your teacher,” Jordyn exclaims, throwing her arm around your neck. “I can’t believe your dinosaur professor goes to the club!” You wince a bit at her unfilteredness, and you glance at Ford for some kind of offensive look.

“Truly, I don’t come here often,” he chuckles, a smile on his face. “Seems like you two frequent here a lot of nights,” he observes, turning to you with that blank expression. A small pit forms in your stomach at the sight, and you find yourself suddenly a bit uneasy.

“Yep, you got it,” Jordyn clicks her tongue at him with a finger gun. “You smoke? I was about to invite y/n outside,” she inquires, shaking her box of cigarettes like a bag of dog treats. Ford rubs his chin, a grin tugging at one side of his lips.

“Such young women, taking up such a nasty habit,” he tsks, pulling a Zippo from his pocket. He motions to Jordyn to lead the way, and she grins, taking your hand in hers. You follow, Ford trailing behind you like the weirdest girls' night companion ever. The three of you step out into the cold night air, where a few others stand outside also smoking.

You sheepishly take a cigarette when Jordyn offers you the pack, and so does Ford after he examines the box for a moment.

“Interesting choice,” he comments, flicking open his lighter and handing it to you. “You know, in some areas they call Marlboros ‘cowboy killers’.” You hesitantly reach out and accept the lighter, holding the flame between you and Jordyn to light both cigarettes at once.

“Well if that’s true then call me the baddest bitch in the wilddd west,” Jordyn jokes in an over-the-top southern drawl and you laugh, taking a deep inhale of the smoke. You hear Ford's chest rumble with a low laughter, which makes your heart skip several beats. You all stand in a small circle, taking drags off your cigarettes and breathing in the cold night air. You feel tension radiating all the way through your body, and you glance over at Jordyn.

Of course, she’s completely relaxed, like always. How could she be so calm right now? Was her heart not racing? And did she not feel the same creeping nausea that always bubbled in your stomach around Ford? Based on the way she loosely huffed on her cigarette without a care in the world, the answer was probably not. Wanting to avoid the implications of that, you steel yourself to turn and face Ford.

“Do you drink?” you asked, feeling awkwardness boiling your skin alive. He takes a contemplative drag off his cigarette before his gaze meets yours, and you feel a shiver shoot up your spine.

“I do, yes,” he confirms with a nod. “I haven’t drunk tonight though, someone got me caught up on the way to the bar,” he says, raising his eyebrow at you in implication. You feel your cheeks glow pink from embarrassment. You feel a heavy body slump onto your shoulder, and you steady your wobbly legs before turning to Jordyn, using you like a crutch.

“Put that cigarette out before you burn y’rself,” you mumble, drunkenly plucking the cigarette from her hands. She whines lowly but does not attempt to stop you as you throw it onto the sidewalk.

“Looks like you two have had quite the night,” Ford smirks, and you laugh a bit with a nod.

“Yeah, we’ve been here since likee…10?” you guess, tone inquisitive. You glance down at your phone, trying to read the blurry numbers the clock reads. If your brain wasn’t completely fried, then it was two in the morning, meaning the bar was now closing. “Honestly, I should probably get us home,” you sighed. Ford hummed in thought.

“Are you sober enough to drive?” he asked casually. You bit your lip, but nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll be alright,” you waved, patting your pockets in search of your keys. You paused after a moment when each pocket came up empty. “Huh, that's weird. I could’ve sworn the keys were in my pocket,” you mumbled, reaching into your bag and beginning to dig inside.

“No offense, y/n, but I don’t think you should be driving in this condition,” Ford said slowly.
“You’re clearly intoxicated.”

You waved him off once more, still digging in your purse in a dizzy haze to try and find your keys, mumbling some “it’s fine”s. After a beat of you digging around in your purse, the feeling of a large hand on your shoulder makes you jump.

Your eyes shot up, locking with Ford's like they had so many times before. His expression was stone cold, his lips drawn into a strict and serious line. Without thinking, you gulped at the sheer intensity in his gaze.

“I won’t allow you to drive home like this,” he rumbled, his deep voice invading your ears. “Please y/n. You could seriously injure yourself or Jordyn,” he said. You felt his hand tense around your shoulder for a second, and his eyes were still completely focused on you. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity before you hesitantly reply.

“Well…I guess I am pretty drunk,” you say slowly, trying to slow the insane pace of your heart. “I can’t find my keys either…But I can’t afford an Uber,” you sigh, nudging Jordyn. She stirs from the slumped lean on you and groans.

“I don’t get paid till tomorrow night,” she mumbles, moving to put her chin on your shoulder. “Why don’t we just ask your professor for a ride?”

You swear you feel yourself die a little on the inside. You jerk your head to the side to see if he had heard, but of course, he had. He looked at both of you, blowing out a lazy ring of smoke.

“If you ladies need it, I wouldn’t mind,” he nods, tossing his cigarette to the ground. You quickly shake your head.

“No, no really, it’s fine,” you protest, hands up in defense. “My house really isn’t that far, we can just walk. Right, Jordy?” you ask, desperately trying to give her a look. To your dismay, she's still buried in your shoulder, unable to receive any girl signals.

“But I’m collddd,” she whined, throwing her arms around you and shivering dramatically. “Besides, he said it would be ok,” she argued, motioning back to Ford. You gulped, slowly turning your gaze to meet Ford's. He smiles at you, but it’s not warm or friendly. It’s empty.

“I promise, it wouldn't bother me,” he confirms, motioning to you. “What kind of man would I be if I let two young ladies walk home inebriated in the dark?” Even in your drunken haze, you don’t miss the way he licks his lips when he says this. Jordyn cheered muffledly into your shoulder.

“What are we waiting for then?” she asks, finally wobbling to her feet and steadying herself on the wall. You shut your eyes for a moment and sigh quietly, before grabbing her arm and gently wrapping it around your shoulder to support her. You silently pray to whatever god is up there that you don’t get kidnapped or something crazy as you turn, dragged down a bit by Jordyn's weight. If something were to happen, you wouldn’t be able to run with her this fucked up.

“My truck is parked in the side lot,” Ford motions with his thumb and pulls his keys out of his pocket. “Think you got her?” he asks, smirking, and gesturing towards your white-girl-wasted friend.

“Oh, definitely. I’ve had to drag her outta this place more times than either of us would like to admit,” you say, attempting to have a polite conversation to distract the growing paranoia in your gut. Ford nods, and the three of you begin to walk (and drunkenly stumble) towards the parking lot on the other side of the building. “You are so getting my car for me tomorrow,” you mumble at Jordyn, glancing longingly at your beat-up little car when you pass it. Walking away from it felt like signing your own death sentence.

The sky is gray and clouded, and you feel the sprinkle of rain beginning on your face when you turn upwards. This, of course, does not help the foreboding voice that nags in your head at an alarm bell volume. You clutch onto Jordyn in fear, glancing beside you at Ford, who doesn’t seem to notice. He walks with no weight on his shoulders, like there’s nothing to possibly be worried about. You, however, are the exact opposite. In your drunken mind, the only possible outcomes of this ended in something horrible, and your gut screamed at you to turn away right then. Your head must have been a few pages behind, because you couldn’t help the way your eyes trailed up his tall frame and paused at his arms, built and muscular. Strong. That meant fighting wasn’t going to be an option.

You blinked when you realized that Ford had come to a stop moments ago, and you still treaded forward. Embarrassingly, you paused and took a few steps back to the red truck Ford stood by. He reached beside you and opened the passenger's side door (of course, the truck had to be a single cab). A strange feeling of familiarity washed over you as you held Jordyn's arm in support for her to climb inside. You glanced back at Ford, who was now looking to the sky, before getting inside. The car thudded gently when he shut the door behind you.

The inside of the car smelled incredible, like Ford's cologne and cigarettes tenfold, and it made your already queasy stomach do backflips. You peered hazily over the dashboard and the floors of the pristine cab to distract yourself, and hoped Jordyn wouldn’t need to throw up in the middle of this car ride. There were pictures clipped to the visors, and you curiously attempted to get a closer look at them. One was a picture of a hairless cat perched on a sofa, looking quite comfortable, while the other one seemed to be a young Ford posed next to somebody. You squinted in an attempt to get a closer look, leaning forward. It was hard to make out, but you think the words scrawled at the bottom of the photo were “Boxing practice.”

Before you could get the chance to get a better look, Ford had appeared on the driver's side door, and you quickly jolted back into the seat, not wanting to seem like a creep. He grunted when he pulled open the door and got inside.

“Bones aren’t quite what they used to be,” he joked, plugging the keys into the ignition. You smile at him, trying to hide your discomfort when your lightweight companion drunkenly leans into your shoulder with a tired sigh. “Alright, y/n, where am I taking you two?”

The way he says your name sends a small shockwave through your body that has you glancing up at him without meaning to. Even in your intoxicated state, you notice the tension behind Ford when he clicks his seatbelt into place and rests his hands on the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched tightly, and you feel the rigidity bleed into you like a virus. In that moment, the discomfort you felt was comparable to that of a cat backed into a corner, and you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted him to know your address. You glanced down at a passed-out Jordyn who was now drooling on your shoulder and felt a pang of guilt. She was the one with a kid, and it didn’t feel right leading Ford to her house either. You bit your lip, knowing there wasn’t any other choice.

“I…live in the Bright Valley apartments on the North side,” you murmur, uncertainty picking through your tone. Ford nods, motioning to your seatbelt, but his eyes never leave where he stared off dead ahead. You grab both your and Jordyn's seatbelts and click them into place. Your hands shake so violently, you worry Ford might notice, so they tangle in your lap, guilty. The silence is palpable when he puts the car into reverse and backs out.

As if sensing your unease, you relax a bit when Ford finally flicks on the old radio in the car. An old song gently plays through the aged speakers that you recognize, which helps to calm your nerves just a bit. The rain had evolved from a drizzle to a steady pour at this point, causing the windshield wipers to be flicked on. The outside world spins dramatically when you glance out the window, swallowing back a lump of anxiety. It’s not like you weren’t used to awkwardness; in fact, it was something you were very accustomed to. No matter how hard you fought it, though, sitting next to Ford just turned you into a jittery ball of nausea and anxiety that made your insides heat up.

When your inhibitions were lowered by alcohol, it was easier to admit things like the fact that you secretly wished that it was just you and Ford in the car at the moment. You didn’t try to stop the thoughts that flooded your mind, not that you were good at that sober. Some part of you was extremely paranoid and fearful, but the other side…it was darker. It was something close to a raw desire that grew by the minutes as you three sat in the quietness of the truck, only accompanied by the low sound of the engine and radio. Wrong, it was wrong. It was wrong the way you tended to stare, and the way you fantasized in your head, depraved scenarios that you would never allow yourself to embrace. But now there was no barrier of sobriety holding the flood waters of your mind back.

“How long have you been friends?” Ford's deep voice rumbles, breaking the silence. You feel a pang of shameful arousal at the sound, and you almost miss the question entirely. You look at him dumbly for a moment before he motions to a passed-out Jordyn.

“Ah, um- well, it’s hard to say,” you stutter out after a beat. “We met when I started working at my job, so that's…like 6 years?” you guess, doing your best to recall. Ford peeks over at you, raising his eyebrows.

“Incredible. She seems like a funny girl,” he smiles that empty smile at you that still sets your heart on fire anyway. “It’s hard to find loyalty like that these days,” he says. Loyalty rolls off his tongue in such an accusatory tone, you blink in surprise. He notices your wide-eyed expression and coughs with an awkward smile. “Sorry- personal prejudice. You know how that goes,” he says, and the words really don’t mean anything, do they? You try to search for a meaning in a haze briefly before deciding to let it go.

“You’re a weird guy, Professor,” you hear yourself say. Your eyes widen in the realization of the words that just tumbled out of your mouth, causing you to clamp your hand over your face. Instead of being offended, though, Ford simply laughs a true, hearty laugh. And it makes your head spin worse than before.

“Would it surprise you if I told you that’s not the first time I’ve heard that?” he chuckles, peering in the rearview mirror when you pull up to a red light. “I mean, a human with six fingers is bound to be an anomaly himself, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked, turning to look at you. Your stomach feels fuzzy upon eye contact, and you nearly lose your already weak composure. You just want to be closer to him; you need it like water. The body squished between the two of you was feeling like a chasm now when you calmed yourself enough to reply.

“I guess…that would make sense,” you agree. “But weird is- good,” you feel your cheeks sting at that last sentence. “Good in the way that, it’s good people are different, you know? Life would be boring if we were all the same,” you say, attempting to broaden the conversation. Ford's eyes crinkle into a genuine smile when you say this, and the action feels like Cupid isn’t just shooting you with arrows, but dismembering you with a machete.

“That’s true,” Ford hums, studying you under a careful gaze. Why was it that every time he spoke, it seemed like a cat circling a mouse? Was he just…what, playing with his food? The way he was looking at you was close to torture at this point. “In that case, I think you’re remarkably strange yourself,” he admits. You blink in surprise when the light turns green. The car lurches forward, continuing on the path to your home. There is a long pause before you can decide what to say.

“Most people do, yeah,” you mumble more to yourself, feeling a frown tug its way at your lips. It’s not that what he’d said had offended you- it was just a harsh reminder that you were an oddity, whether you’d admit it or not. You hear Ford suck in a breath, like he’d stepped on a shard of glass. A tense silence hushed its way over the car, and you felt somewhat guilty, seeing as it was your fault. You knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but your tendency to take things personally was always exaggerated when you had a few too many.

The thing that confused you the most was the fact that Ford didn’t seem to shy away from you, despite the fact that your face had been in headlines for almost three months straight. People who have to bury their own father at sixteen aren’t normal, and that fact taunted you every single day. Nothing you did, no accomplishment or goal you reached, would matter. It was always overshadowed by the history written on your soul that everyone had access to. But none of that, even the fact that it had been your doing, made Ford avoid you like others did. The invisible shield of bad rumors that encased you was penetrated by someone other than Jordyn for once, and you were left feeling like a vulnerable and scared mess all over again. The windows to your soul were foggy, but Ford was on the outside attempting to look in, and that thought scared the hell out of you.

You swear you could feel the relief and joy crash into your body when the sign to your shabby little apartments finally came into view. Freedom was now crawling right outside your window, and you couldn’t wait to book it from the truck to avoid your inner dialogue.

“You can just drop us off here,” you said, pointing to the building on your left. Ford dutifully put the car to a stop and jerked the handle into park.

Jordyn stirred when you nudged her, cooing to wake her up gently. She groaned at you and stretched, clearly not wanting to go anywhere. You sighed, attempting to get her seatbelt off yourself.

“Thank you, professor,” you said, finally gathering Jordyn's limp noodle body in your arms. Before you could turn to make your way out of the car, Ford's face shifted into an expression as if he wanted to say something, so you sat for a moment, looking at him curiously.

“...Can I walk you up to your door?” he finally asked. The tone he had taken was…unusual to say the least. Like he struggled to get the words out. You eyed him for a moment, just longing to be asleep in your bed. Deciding you were too tired to care, you nodded, and his tense body seemed to relax a bit.

Stumbling drunk, hand in hand with your best friend in front of your biology professor was not how you expected to end your Friday night out, but here you were, making your way to your front door. The cold breeze hit your exposed arms and damp shirt, making your skin ignite in goosebumps, and you felt Jordyn's teeth chatter beside you. When you approached your front door, you pat your pants pockets. A beat, and nothing, you check the other pocket. Your eyes widen as the other one turns up empty as well.

“Fuck that’s right…I never found my keys,” you mumbled, and sighed. Ford frowned, running a hand through his hair.

“Shit- is there another way you can get in?” He asked, a bit of anxiety edging his tone. You didn’t have time to question that before Jordyn drunkenly raised her top half to step away from your embrace. You and Ford both stared at her with wild curiosity as she extended her hands out and smirked.

“Stand back, ladies and gents, I've got this,” she slurred. Your curiosity turned into shock as you watched her jiggle at your window with fever. You were about to say something in protest after about a minute of noisily shaking the window, but the sound of a click and slide of glass on metal made your jaw fall open. She turned to you with a wide smile.

“How- why the FUCK did you know that would work?” you asked incredulously, shaking the drunk jordyns shoulders in disbelief. She giggled, swaying with the motion. “I’m serious! How long has my window lock been broken?!” you ask, and she shrugs.

“I dunno, I just noticed it the other week when I needed to charge my vape,” she admitted, and you stared at her in complete shock. She gave you an expression that screamed, “Uhh so?” before motioning to the window.

“Ladies first,” she said. You sighed and turned to Ford, trying to hide your exasperation.

“Thank you for the ride, Prof- I mean…Ford,” you correct. His face is unreadable when your eyes meet, like there's a cloud over his expression. It's frustrating that he never gives anything away, while you constantly stutter over yourself like an idiot, and now you’d have to do a climb of shame into your window. So typical, being a fool in front of a guy.

“Any time y/n,” he says, expression still and hard. “I mean it.”

It might be the drinks, but it also might be your mind that causes your heart to race. You gulp and turn away from him.

“Have a good night,” Jordyn sings out at the receding footsteps of your professor. After swinging both your legs inside the warm house, something inside you nags its way into your brain. As if your body is acting on its own, you whip your head around, and your eyes target in on Ford's back. Your eyes trail to where his truck is parked a few feet away. That sense of familiarity from earlier encases you, and you heavily wrack your brain in an attempt to conjure up any memories. Andrew's description of the truck from the parking lot is the only thing that sticks out in your head.

Red truck. Black decals. Mint condition.

A light shove of your shoulder breaks you away from your thoughts, and your eyes fling back to Jordyn, who’s holding her shivering body and motioning for you to get out of the way, so you do. The sound of a truck's engine firing to life drones in the background when you watch Jordyn tipsily try to swing her leg over into your room, and you rush over to help her.

The sight of the truck pulling out of view makes your stomach churn when you pull Jordyn inside and shut the window.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“If you kids put that through my window, I’m making ya pay for it!”

Stanley's nagging was drowned out by the sound of laughter from Mabel and Dipper, who ran around in the yard of the shack like escaped inmates who had been given yard time.

“Soos’s window, Stanley.” Ford appeared from the backdoor, holding two sodas in each hand and offering one to Stan, who chuckled wryly and accepted it. He watched the hazy fireflies spin around the yard like flamenco dancers with their bright lights as Ford stepped beside Stan and cracked open his drink, leaning onto the railing of the porch to join him in his obversavtion. Crickets sang their loud calls, casting a relaxing aura into the air that was slowly sinking into darkness with the sunset behind the trees.

“Right, right. Hard to remember she’s not my baby anymore,” he smiled in memory, petting the splintered wood of the house's support beam.

“Technically ‘she’ was never yours to begin with,” Ford mumbled under his breath jokingly, causing stan to lightly punch his shoulder with a chuckle. The sound of a thud made both the elder twins turn to the yard, like lifeguards on duty. Mabel was face down in the grass while Dipper stood over her in shock. There was a beat of panic before her arm popped out with a thumbs-up.

“I’m ok!” she sang out. Ford could feel himself and Stanley physically exhale in relief.

“I wonder where she got the clumsiness from,” Ford joked, nudging Stan in the elbow. Stan laughed, taking a sip of his drink. When he looked to the sky again, most of the stars and constellations began to show in the darkness of space, like little pinholes pricked in a dark enclosure. He took in a deep breath, almost forgetting why he ever left Gravity Falls in the first place. When he opened his eyes again, he glanced over at Stanley with a smile.

Their ages may have been the same, but looking between the two, you could tell who time had dug its claws into more ferociously. They still had the same smile, the same facial structure, but now Stanley's smile lines were even deeper than ever, and his bones were starting to show more under his frail skin. Stan raised his eyebrow at Ford with a grin.

“I know I’m pretty, but please, what’s with the death stare, Sixer?” Ford sighed with a smile, running a hand through his hair.

“Just…thinking,” Ford said, looking back out to his niece and nephew chasing each other in the grass like they had when they were still twelve. No matter how much he tried to see them through the lens of two summers ago, it was impossible to ignore the tallness they both sported, and the teenage awkwardness they were both adjusting to. “Do you think they’ll stay like that forever?” he asked quietly. He could feel stans eyes on him for a few seconds.

“What…small?” he asked, motioning, squishing their silhouettes with his fingers. “I sure hope not, at least for Dippers' sake. Fingers crossed he gets your height genes.” Ford laughs a bit at this, leaning on the railing himself. The warm breeze shakes the trees gently, as if they were listening to the conversation and responding, too. Something is nagging at Ford's heart, but he can’t quite place it. Is it longing? Nostalgia? Perhaps a mixture of both.

The memories that came when Ford and Stanley docked in Oregon were always so vivid. Ford would recall his paranoid days holed up in the house, fearing for his life when they rolled into the little town every so often for visits like these. It was always ironic to him that his own personal hell ended up being a warm and inviting place for his family. He was happy that it was the case either way, though. All of the hostilities, the family history, the violence, none of it mattered anymore. Ford had all he needed, right in front of him at that moment, and he wished deep down he could freeze the scene in time and hold it in his hands forever.

His gaze was transfixed on the dim treeline as his mind spiraled deeper like it usually did. There had been so many sleepless nights on this porch where Ford had sat in this exact spot, smoking a cigarette or freaking out about something trivial in the grand scheme of things. Nothing he faced when he was in those woods could prepare him for the day he watched the sky rip open in an ugly red, blurring the lines between reality and absolute chaos. In the blink of an eye, all of those events were just a blip in the small timeline of Ford's life, now far in the background while he continued forward in the march of time, unable to fall out of line or still. And now the fact that his family also marched in time with him was starting to become undeniable.

“Hey, I know that look. That's your ‘deep in thought’ face you always make when yer’ thinking about some socrates shit,” Stan said, pointing a finger at Ford. He turned to him with his eyebrows raised in surprise. “How long have we been stuck on a boat together, seriously. I can tell when somethin''s eating ya,” he continued, taking another sip from his drink. Ford sighed guiltily, slightly upset that he could never escape his brother's knowing gaze.

“Stanley…what are we gonna do after…this?” he asked slowly. He didn’t want to think about it, but the way Stan’s body shook with exhaustion after a day on the boat was starting to become apparent more and more each day. He would never admit it, but Stans body was, well, giving out on him. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Whaddya mean, Stanford?” he asked, turning to look at him. The way his worry lines were permanently etched into his expression nearly made Ford tear up, so he turned away to save face. He bit his lip, trying to decide what to say.

“Of course I would never question your exponential strength,” Ford steered, trying his best to take on a joking tone. “But…what happens when we get too old to take care of the Stan O’ War?” Stan stared back at Ford, a look of understanding spreading deep within his eyes. It wasn’t something either of them wanted to acknowledge, and talking about it felt like playing with fire, but the frown on Stan's face was almost unbearable, and it made Ford’s heart ache with guilt. It was the same face he’s always made- the same face he remembered all those nights ago when he left the safety of their childhood home for good.

“We…we’ll still stick together…right, Poindexter?” he asked quietly, now staring down into the rim of his drink. The guilt echoing through Ford only amplified at the sight and he put a firm hand on Stans shoulder.

“Till the bitter end,” he said, with a mournful smile. Stans eyes slowly met his, and he smiled, too.

“Till the bitter end,” he nodded, holding up his drink, and Ford cheered him before taking a sip.

The sound of a male's voice droning in an unwavering tone slowly ate its way into Ford's dreaming state, and a creeping loneliness snaked its way around his body, and squeezed tight when his eyes slowly adjusted to his ceiling illuminated by the television. The sound of Stanley's voice and the kids’ laughter vanished in almost an instant, and the sweat dripping from Ford's face became very apparent.

He raised his wristwatch and gazed at it blearily through his unfocused vision. His eyes were very much useless without his glasses, though, so judging by the darkness outside, it was safe to assume it was pretty late. When had he even fallen asleep? He groaned, rolling over on the couch to reach for his glasses on the small table next to him.

He wished the feeling of emptiness that followed the memory-based dreams would go away, because then at least it would just be a pleasant visit from his brother, but of course, it was never that simple. His vision came into clarity when he placed his thick-framed glasses on his nose and peered around the dark house. The sweeping coldness was a staggering difference from the warmth he felt from the dream, and he sighed, rubbing his forehead in a bit of overwhelming grief. He was just glad it was still the weekend, and he wouldn’t have school to worry about the next day.

The robotic tone of the news reporter from the TV was starting to grate on Ford's nerves, and he snapped his head up at the screen he had carelessly left on before presumably passing out on the couch. The blonde reporter spoke charmingly, and Ford found himself digging in the couch cushions to look for the remote to silence the insolent chatter. He finally felt his hands wrap around the little piece of plastic, and he fished it out with triumph, pointing it at the TV. Just as he was about to shut it off, though, the photograph in the corner of the broadcast made him pause. Instead of turning it off, after a beat, he turned the volume up.

“...updates will be broadcast when police provide us with any new information regarding the case. The missing man was last seen leaving his job at the local coffee bar, “Grab n’ Go,” still in his work uniform. If you have any information about Andrew Spring’s whereabouts, police urge locals to come forward with-”

A click, then static.

Ford's empty expression stared back at him in the blackness of the powered-down screen.

A few sweat droplets beaded at the back of his neck, and his face never so much as twitched when he reached up robotically to wipe his head. The small familiar whispers started to prod at the back of his mind, holding him captive, causing him to promptly get to his feet, paranoia pitting in his stomach.

A shadow suddenly skates across his hallway out of the corner of his vision, causing him to spin around in surprise. His eyes glanced around, searching for a beat, before he called out his cat's name, quietly. The pit in his stomach dropped when a small fleshy lump stirred on the cat tree a few feet away from where he’d seen the shadow. He turned back to the hallway anxiously.

“Hello?” he breathed, fear edging his tone. There was a long pause before the sound of muffled laughter echoed from the hallway.

That laugh. It made Ford's blood run cold, and his body tremble. No- it wasn’t real. He threw his hands over his ears, shutting his eyes roughly, but the laughter only continued.

“Don’t get cold feet now, Fordsy!”

The echoing voice called from behind him, and he whipped his head around, only to be met with his empty living room. Panicked tears flooded his vision, and he gripped his hair with intensity.

“Stop…please,” he groaned weakly, folding in on himself a bit. The laugh grew louder at his cries, indifferent or amused at his suffering.

“You’re the one who chose this,” the voice sounded like static blasting out his eardrums. He bit his lip in an agonizingly painful cry, and he didn’t flinch when dark red blood splattered from his mouth down onto the carpet. “You decided to play God, and look where it gets you.”

There was an intense surge of silence when Ford forced his eyes shut again, fingers tangled in his hair like he was trying to rip the voices out himself. They overlapped and gurgled disgustingly, like the sounds of tortured animals in a hellish symphony of pain. Flashes of organs, carcasses, and rotting meat passed through his mind, and he felt his copper-filled mouth water. He groaned when he felt a cold hand caress his cheek.

“You look like a stupid mutt.”

Your voice echoing through his ears made Ford peel his eyes open immediately. His jaw and fists tightened at the sight of your naked body, covered in Sharpie marks like a surgical practice dummy, labeled with different organs and arteries. None of his hallucinations had faces- except yours- and you looked at him with intense eyes through stray pieces of your wild hair.

“You like this, don’t you?” you asked, stepping closer. Ford felt his breath hitch, sweat pouring from every inch of his body, but he made no attempt to move as your hand traces down his jawline and to his collarbone. “Fucking creep. Of course, your fantasies are just as depraved as you are,” your voice calls out, and despite the words, it’s in such a sultry tone that it sends Ford's head reeling.

“Y/n…” he groans out weakly, clutching at his head. “Make it stop. Please, make it stop,” he begs like a dog at the foot of their master. Your cruel laughter fills the void of chaos, making Ford's heart go wild.

“You want me to make it stop?”

You step closer, now inches away from Ford. Your intense eyes wildly slash around his face like an escaped asylum patient, and he has no time to react before you roughly grab his wrists and yank them towards you. His hands rest against your ice-cold bare skin, right above your sternum.

“Then give me your body.” Ford feels as you slide something into his palm, and he glances down at it hazily. A small boxcutter glints in the moonlight pouring in from the window- the only other witness to the fucked up one-man play taking place in the quiet night.

“My…body?” Ford repeats, glaring down at the boxcutter. You say nothing, just look at him with an empty expectation. Ford stares back, gripping the blade in his sweaty palm.

Uncertainty grips him like a vice, and moments pass in the cold, intense environment. Before he can decide what he should do, he hisses a bit in surprise when you dig your thumbs into his skin, drawing droplets of blood. He gasps in a drawn-out manner when you yank his limb to your mouth and lick a strip of the liquid from his pale skin.

“Give me your body,” you repeat.

Ford shudders, looking to the small boxcutter in his hand with fever. Rationality is nowhere to be found when Ford flicks open the cutter in one small motion and brings it to his flesh. Any sense of right or wrong or danger was absent in his state of mind, with only the desperate need to be rid of the terrible weight in his chest. His hands shake desperately when he presses the sharp tool into his skin with a hiss, and drags it downwards in a swift surgical manner.

He can't help the groan his body produces when your lips meet his arm again, licking with acute hunger, like an animal. The dark liquid stains your mouth like a morbid lipstick, and a strand of spit tantalizingly connects his blood to your teeth. The sight is horrifically arousing, and he bites back another groan when you grab his shirt collar and yank him closer. Deep emotion drags him into your eyes when you look at him, wild like an untamed creature, and he studies your face closely. The beauty is ever present, even in this hellish hallucination form. At least his mind was accurate in doing you justice, and his heart skipped a beat when you pulled his face closer.
A few hesitant motions, and the sensation of warm blood on Ford's lips flooded his body. He allowed a moan to escape his throat at the deep kiss he was suddenly engulfed in, and it felt like he was floating for a few moments. A cold tongue brushed against his upper lip, and he shuddered, tasting his own blood. He parted his lips, allowing the demonic form to push its way inside. The taste of copper was tangible as the drool and other liquids spilled from your mouth to his.

He desperately snaked a hand through your hair, pushing your mouth harder into his. His large frame encased you in a tight embrace, his other hand possesively moving to grab the soft skin of your ass. He felt his erection stir at the moan you breathed into his mouth at the action, and he rolled your hips into his with a grunt.

“Fuck- y/n,” he panted, seperating for a gasp of air. You stared at him, licking the residual spit and blood from your lips. The sight of it was downright depraved, and he bit his lip. “Please, please, don’t go,” he breathed raggedly. He clung to your body with such a grip that if it were truly your real body, it surely would’ve bruised. This version of you, though, didn't even flinch, just stared at Ford with an intense and empty gaze that could wilt flowers.

“I have to go,” you spoke, your voice shaky and static-filled. Ford yelped in desperation when you stepped backwards, easily untangling from his grasp like a cloud of mist. He lunged forward weakly, feeling dizzy from the blood that spilled from his arm onto the floor. He knew it wasn’t real, knew you weren’t you, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again. He needed you to stay, even if you were merely a fucked up shadow version his mind conjured up under severe distress. But you never did stay, and this time would be no different. His vision spun in and out of darkness, and slowly, you disappeared into the wall behind you like you had been part of it all along.

Ford was left intensely sobbing for relief, and staring accusatorily at his wall and running his hands over the smooth wallpaper. He desperately clawed for a second before sliding down the wall with a small wail, blood trailing down with him. He could fight the feeling of loneliness all he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that he was utterly alone now, left in a small puddle of his blood, staring dejectedly at the boxcutter he’d dropped just a few feet away from him. His breath was ragged and shallow as his chest heaved up and down, miserable sobs slowly breaking their way through his throat. The gash in his arm was screaming for attention as his mind slowly shifted to a more grounded level, and he groaned in pain.

Episodes like this weren’t uncommon, but Ford knew future him wouldn’t be happy to wake up with blood dried all over his arm. There was no escaping the endless labyrinth of his mind, and he was left to shakily get to his feet alone and stumble to his bathroom in the dark. He dampened a washcloth in the sink and dabbed it onto his wound with an exhausted sigh. Nothing he ever did would make him feel better again. There were no shortcuts he could take, no wings of freedom to be had- just a desolate white room where he resided in his mind at all times. No one could enter his chaotic war zone of a brain- except for one.

His racing heart was slowing, but not by much. The rose thorn feeling of your lips on his returned momentarily, and he tenderly ran a finger across his mouth. The sight of your exposed skin made his face twitch, and he huffed, trying to shoo the image away by reaching into his cabinet and pulling out a first aid kit. Of course, the violent hallucinations of you had scared Ford at first, but eventually they started to develop into scenes Ford had already pictured in his head many times over. It was almost like his brain sensed he was about to have a hallucination attack, so it tried to calm him down the best way it knew how. Instead of cruel words from Bill's disembodied voice or the heart-shattering sounds of Stanley's horrible jokes, it would be replaced by you. Ford hissed at the sensation of hydrogen peroxide hitting the wound, and he grunted in annoyance. Were the hallucinations of you really all that better if it made him do stupid shit like this?

“Fucking christ,” he mumbled, wrapping gauze around the padded gash aggressively. The deep corners of his mind were unethical to say the least, but was that truly the way he saw you? Of course not. The real you was, well, real. Your beautiful eyes and the way your face lit up with that youthful glow when you smiled were miles ahead of the pitiful attempts of Ford's mind to replicate you. You weren’t some kind of ugly demon; you were an angel that did your best to shield Ford from worse thoughts.

When he stared in the mirror, his desolate and black eyes stared back, redness from sobbing etched into his skin around his eyes. He wanted to kick his imagination for being able to picture you in such a depraved way- Ford knew that wasn’t you. You were soft and round while his brain was jagged and spiky- like a red flag that screamed, “RUN THE OTHER WAY.” Your bright eyes burned into his memory, and the soft pink glow of your cheeks was enough to make him sigh.

He wanted nothing more than to be in your calming presence at that moment. You would stroke his cheek gently and kiss his earlobe sweetly while mumbling comforting words into his ear. The real you wasn’t cold and frigid; you were warm and inviting like the sun after a long blizzard, and Ford leaned into the wall with the ache of want pitted in his stomach. Memories weren’t enough. He paused, drumming his fingers against his arm indecisively. His mind slowly wandered from the thought of you to the drawer of his desk sitting in his office, tauntingly calling to him.

After a beat, he slowly made his way to his feet and exited the bathroom wearing that familiar blank stare. He coddled his wound gently as he walked, like a puppet under the control of his own desires. He maneuvered his way through the dark house expertly, like he’d done a hundred times, before reaching the door of his study. His mind was riddled with different conflicting thoughts when he turned the handle and cautiously made his way inside.

The familiar sight of his many bookshelves eased him a bit when he shut the door behind him. Numerous PhDs and awards hung on his wall next to his desk, and much like his room, there were also small piles of paper and trash stacked all across the floor. He eased himself into his desk chair, uncertainty biting at his hands as they danced along the hardwood of the table. It wasn’t wrong- it was simply photography. People captured things they found beautiful all the time. How was this any different? His gaze was locked on the variety of pinned moths and butterflies that hung on the wall across from him. A face like yours was meant to be admired, not hidden away from the world. He bit his lip, pulling open the desk drawer and peering inside.

Upon seeing they were all in the places he’d left them, Ford let out a small sigh of relief before grabbing the stack of Polaroid pictures in the drawer and setting them on the desk. He spread them out like some kind of stalkerish tarot deck, glancing at each one, taking in the sights slowly like it was his first time seeing them again. He picked up one of the pictures- his favorite- and examined it.

It was an older picture, seeing as your hair hadn’t been dyed that vibrant shade of purple yet, but you were breathtaking nonetheless. Ford remembered hunching over in the crowd for this picture, bobbing and weaving between the sea of people to get the perfect shot of your long legs when they passed by on your roller skates. The words “SKATE RINK” were scrawled in Ford's cursive handwriting below, and he admired the way your elegant body was so strongly posed. He set that particular photo down and inventoried the rest of them.

They were all perfect. Different snapshots of you in your daily life, doing chores at work or walking around campus, each one was labelled with the location and date hidden on the back. He picked another one up and smiled at it fondly, reading the description as if he hadn’t written it himself. This one had the words “FRESHMAN ORIENTATION” written at the bottom. Your nervous face was glancing into the background, surrounded by other students and teachers, and the memory of almost getting caught taking the picture made Ford laugh wryly despite himself. He flipped over the photo and whistled at the date that indicated the pictured had been taken at least two years ago.

He glanced into the drawer again, before reaching in and digging around the loose papers he had stashed inside haphazardly. He pulled out his one other treasure carefully and held it in front of him like a trophy as he admired it. It wasn’t out of the norm for you to leave some of your items behind, like water bottles or bags, but Ford couldn’t take those, no, he’d always return them to you. They were too noticeable, something you’d miss if he’d been selfish and taken it. But the day he made his usual rounds examining his floor for forgotten items and noticed the small vial of your travel perfume, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity that landed in his lap. He looked at the clear liquid like it were the most interesting thing in the world before he hesitantly popped the cap off.

Any sane person would’ve certainly felt deranged at this point, but Ford was not any person, and he was obviously not sane. The vanilla scent engulfed his nose and sent a pleasant shockwave through his body, and he groaned with a hazy guilt pulling over his eyes. The feeling was incredible, as if he were standing right next to you, and it made his brain feel like he was taking a bath in gold. He clenched the vial tightly in his palm, taking another deep inhale and letting the high spread through his body. Like most addicts, though, eventually, even this depraved act wouldn’t be enough.

Ford frowned, the tingling sensation noticeably weaker than it had been when he first discovered the perfume and brought it home. First, the pictures stopped being enough, and now the perfume too? He sighed in annoyance, spraying the perfume onto his wrist and huffing it like some kind of coke addict. The high was still short-lived despite his best efforts. He growled in frustration, putting the perfume on the desk and wrangling his hand through his hair. What more could his demanding mind possibly want? He picked up a random picture from the pile and examined it with a frown.

You were in your car in this one, leaving work after a night shift. Your hair was still pulled into that messy bun you usually sported for work, and you were looking out the window with a confused expression on your face. Ford did have to admit- he felt pretty terrible for spilling your coffee all over your seat when he was attempting to pick the lock on your car window, but he had no time to try and clean it before your shift ended. He sighed, studying the photograph intensely. If pictures weren’t enough, and even your smell couldn’t satisfy his primal desire…

The memory of you drunkenly stumbling to your apartment with Jordyn briefly flashed in his mind. He shook his head, attempting to shoo the thought, but the exact steps Jordyn took to open the window were seared into his memory the second it happened.

“No, absolutely not,” he mumbled out loud, sternly to himself. It was one thing to watch from a distance- it was a whole other ballpark to break into your home like a psycho. He had promised himself he wouldn’t seek you out, and going to your apartment would be breaking that rule indefinitely.

…wouldn’t it?

He stood from his desk, beginning to pace around his office slowly. He eyed the photographs and perfume on his desk acutely, biting his lip. Technically, he hadn’t found the address himself; you had given it to him willingly. And technically, he hadn’t busted the window lock himself, and Jordyn showed an absolute stranger how to get inside with no problem. If y/n truly in her heart didn’t want him to come to her…why would she allow him to know where she lived? He glanced at the clock that ticked tauntingly on his wall. It was two, which meant you were on the afternoon shift of your job.

If it wasn’t right, then why was the universe perfectly aligned to make this happen? He snaked his six-fingered hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. If you weren’t even there, what harm could it possibly do? He glanced at his desk one more time, slowly making his way back over to it. He hunched over the drawer like a shark about to strike, sucking in a breath. His fingers wrapped around a small set of keys with several nerdy keychains, and he pulled them out of the drawer. Seeing you drive Jordyn's truck around made Ford feel guilty, knowing it was his fault, but he couldn’t risk you leaving the club with some random guy. It was hell to get that tracker into your car in the first place, but seeing you parked in the club parking lot gave him no choice but to intervene. He stared at the keys, coming to a decision.

It wasn’t breaking in if he was simply returning something to you, right?
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The insolent honking of car horns blared in your ears at a decibel perfectly catered to piss you off. You weren’t sure which was worse, the fact that you were stuck in traffic, or the fact that it was making you even later to your scheduled tutoring session. You peered down at the clock on your dash, frowned, and glanced back up to the long line of cars ahead of you.

I even left work early to beat the traffic, you thought, laughing dryly. You sighed, caressing the steering wheel of your beloved vehicle with your thumbs. It was the weirdest thing- you could have sworn that you had lost your keys those few nights ago at the club, but they had turned up on your bedside table to next morning. You accused Jordyn of stashing them away, but of course, she’d never admit to it. Either way, though, you were glad to have your baby back- even if you were stuck behind the brightest colored jeep for three hours in it.

Anxiety crossed your mind with another glance at the clock. Being punctual was something you just couldn't do clearly. Your fingers gripped your phone tensely before you unlocked it and opened it. Should you email him to let him know you were gonna be late? Or was that weird? A frustrated groan escaped your lips in tandem with a louder car honk from directly behind you.

“Someone better be dead,” you grumbled, putting the car into drive when the person ahead of you finally rolled forward cautiously. As the line of vehicles slowly made their way up, small pieces of debris from a car accident were littered across the road. You squinted in an attempt to get a better look. From what you could make out, it seemed like it was pieces of headlights and small scraps of metal.

For some reason, there's a bad feeling that pours into your head, and you tighten your grip on the steering wheel with a hiss. Like your body is acting without your permission, you instinctively roll down the window to look at the scene you approached. It was hard to see since there was a news van parked haphazardly in front of the police tape, and a blonde woman was speaking intensely into the camera. Your gaze shifted from the woman to the sight now directly to your left, impossible to be concealed by even the dozens of police officers and paramedics that flooded the scene.

You felt your eyes widen, and your stomach twist at the disturbing evidence the news van concealed from the camera.

There was a metal lamppost, and then there was the small gray car wrapped around it like it was straight from an anti-drunk driving PSA. You couldn’t even gasp in horror, your eyes never leaving the shards of glass and metal that stuck up in wildly wrong directions.

Most of the gore had been cleaned up, but of course, there were always spots that got missed.

Nausea bubbled in your throat, and you turned back to face forward, your eyebrows knitted into a tight, unwavering scowl of disgust. You had seen crashes before, of course, but something about being that close to the spatters of blood still stained on the lamppost was disturbing in a way you’d never experienced.

Your knuckles were white when the line of cars finally dispersed onto the rest of the road, continuing at their normal speeds. A morbid curiosity was ever present right beside the nausea as you cautiously continued your route to the school. How did someone swerve into a pole like that in broad daylight anyway? Based on the tire marks, the person had been at least two lanes away from it. It was almost like something happened when they were merging lanes, maybe a medical emergency. You frowned at your theories, not wanting to think about the event any longer, but of course, the image of the mangled car was burned into your retinas at this point.

You made sure to check your blind spots triple the amount you usually did when you pulled into the school parking lot. You put the car into park and paused for a moment before rubbing your eyes with a tired sigh. There was no way you were gonna be able to focus now, seeing what you had. Then again, it’s not like you could focus very well in the first place. You felt that familiar knot form in your stomach as you gazed at the white building, your legs unwilling to make any moves to go forward despite the fact that you were now sharply an hour late.

With a swift shake of your head, you finally opened the door and stepped out. A sense of guilt washed over you when you entered the building and approached the classroom door, and you tried to steel your nerves before you could enter the room. You sat like that for a few minutes, attempting to get the disturbing imagery out of your head. It was going to be ok- it’s not like you’d even seen anything that bad. Just a car accident, stuff like that happens all the time. No need for it to interfere with your studies.

Just as you reached for the doorknob, it turned and opened inward, causing you to jump back in shock with a gasp.

“Oh, there you are. I was starting to worry about you,” Ford’s deep voice rumbled out. Your face automatically heated up at the sight of his white button-down with rolled-up sleeves, and you stuttered for a moment.

“Sorry for being late.” You finally managed. Unease started to trickle down your neck when Ford's hard gaze didn’t soften. He merely stepped aside to allow room for you to enter, so you did, sheepishly. The sound of the door clicking closed was deafening, and Ford's presence was ever terrifying when he made his way from behind you to his desk. You stood completely still, sensing some kind of angry energy emanating from him in waves. You nearly jumped out of your skin when he locked his stern eyes onto yours.

“Sit.”

It was a tone he hadn’t taken with you before, and it sent an electric shock through your body like never before. The demand in his tone was like a key to unlock your control panel because before you even realized it, your shaky legs were moving towards the chair that sat in front of his desk. The plastic was cold on your skin when you eased into the seat and glanced up at Ford like a kid about to get chewed out for busting a window.

“You’re late,” he simply stated, peering inside you as he took a heavy seat in his desk chair. You gulped, twisting the rings on your finger nervously.

“Sorry. There was a really bad wreck on the highway-” you began, but he held his hand up to stop you, so you shut your mouth. There was a short pause before he sighed.

“This is the third time you’ve been late, y/n,” he said, that dark emptiness dripping from his tone. “I understand things happen that are out of your control, but I’m willing to wager two out of these three times were of your jurisdiction,” he said, holding up three fingers. You bit your lip and frowned. “If this is about the test answers-”

“No! No. It’s not that.” You were the one to cut him off this time, and he looked at you with a pause. You sighed, gluing your gaze to your lap to avoid his knowing eyes. It wasn’t the fact that he’d given you the test answers; it was the fact that you didn’t know why. He was so transfixed on the idea that he had failed you, but why did it matter to him so much if one student out of all his classes didn’t pass? What made you different? All these questions flooded your head when you raised your eyes to meet his again. His gaze had softened, and he frowned when he spoke.

“Is it that I…make you uncomfortable, y/n?” he asked, and now it was his turn to avoid your eyes. You sat in a stunned silence for a moment, but in all honesty, it was a good question. Did he make you uncomfortable?

“No,” you decided, shaking your head slightly. “No, it’s not that either,” you trailed off, your mind racing with possibilities. A pause hung between you, thick with unspoken words, as both of you stayed locked in place, lost in your own thoughts. It felt like a silent standoff, two overthinkers caught up in an internal battle rather that neither wanted to lose. Ford himself didn’t make you uncomfortable; it was the intensity of his gaze that sent your mind spiraling. It was as if he was watching you like a hawk zeroing in on its prey, and that unsettling feeling stirred something else deep within you. You couldn’t ignore the way your eyes followed the lines of his neck, tracing the stories etched into his face by time, both worries and joys intertwined like the threads of fate. The glint of light bouncing off his glasses concealed more than just his emotions; it hinted at futures full of complexity and connection. Everything swirled around you, and ultimately, you sensed a shift- an undeniable tension signaling that something was about to unfold, pushing you to lose the silent game.

“You make me feel…different.”

The words tumbled out like artillery fire before you could even blink. A wave of panic washed over you as your eyes locked once more. His face was a mask of inscrutability, but the raw emotion in his voice pierced through the usual silence, hitting you like a sudden gust of wind. When he finally exhaled a sentence, the air felt electrified, hanging heavy with unspoken tension.

“Is that a good thing?” he quietly asked, his tone edging just between hope and fear. You gulp, horrified at the notion of being seen, but there wasn’t backing out now; only damage control.

“...yes,” you said, voice barely audible above a whisper. His intense eyes were burning into yours with such emotion that you felt like he was going to combust if you broke the treaty between your gaze. “You…care about me,” you say, slowly, as if approaching a rabid animal. “Why?”

The atmosphere was thick with tension, but this time, the eye contact remained unbroken. Out of the corner of your eye, you noted all six of Ford's fingers drumming against the desk, matching the rhythm of your heartbeat. You had taken a bold stance with your words, and now you were fully aware of the weight of what you were asking. But didn’t you deserve to know? If Ford was concealing some kind of agenda that you couldn't see, wasn’t it only right to demand clarity?.

“You fascinate me, y/n.” His gaze is intense, fixating on your eyes with an unsettling sharpness that feels like a knife cutting through the air between you. The declaration lingers in the space as if it were a tangible force, causing your heart to race and your palms to feel clammy. The smoothness with which he pronounces your name sends a shiver down your spine, and the words themselves swirl in your mind like a tempest, making you want to anxiety-vomit.

What could he possibly mean by that? Your brows knit together in a tight frown, and you find yourself staring back at him, caught in an emotional whirlwind of confusion and shock. The thoughtful pause stretches, and you can almost hear your own heartbeat drumming in your ears, drowning out the ambient sounds around you. A mixture of emotions grapples within you—curiosity, disbelief. What in the world could he see that was so captivating?

“What. What are you talking about?” you squeak out quietly, trying to grip to the shreds of decency and common sense your mind still had. The way Ford presses you down with his gaze, though, is enough to send you back down that short staircase of clarity, and you once again find yourself eager for his answer. You watch as he bites his lip before speaking again.

“My career began with a thorough investigation of the unusual phenomena I discovered in my hometown in Oregon,” he asserted, immediately capturing your focus. “As someone who has always considered themselves an anomaly, I developed a deep fascination with extraordinary occurrences. Throughout my life, I have encountered situations that normal people would find unimaginable. A two-headed calf? For people like us, that’s merely a part of our everyday routine. Life has a way of challenging those who may underestimate it, and some events arise outside our control, whether it be unique physical traits like six fingers or the serious repercussions of a car accident.”

Your breath stops short at that last sentence, and his eyes dig into yours with intensity. Even fully clothed, you feel completely naked under his magnifying glass of a mind. Your jaw is slack in raw emotional shock when he continues.

“It’s not every day a fifteen-year-old girl ends up on the news for the manslaughter of her father. You and I, we were doomed to be different from the start.” Your eyes cut daggers into him, as angry sadness bubbles in your throat and eyes.

“I didn’t murder him.”

You don’t know why that’s the defense you manage to spit out, but it drips venom in Ford's direction, and he receives it with a wry scoff, staring at you intently. There's another silent standoff between the two of you, and you know you should feel incredibly offended by his words. The anger you feel is only exacerbated by the intelligent eyes that pry into yours like crowbars, easily making their way inside your mind. It was like playing chess with an opponent who knew exactly what moves you were going to make, but the worst part of it all was the fact that you didn’t exactly want the game to be over. Even though you knew you were playing a losing match, your pride wouldn’t allow you to call checkmate just yet.

“Murder is a word I would use for someone who had intent. You’re a killer,” he corrected, dangerously skating the border of whatever thin professional boundary had been between you two up until now. “But you’re more than that. You’re a woman first, and a person with wants and desires and needs,” he said, lacing his fingers together. You stared at him in shock, momentarily trying to search for a response.

“What are you trying to say?” you finally manage to ask, piecing together the most suspicious look you can muster in this moment. He stares at his desk, his lips and brows tightly drawn, as if bracing himself for something significant about to strike him down.
“I’m saying…I do care about you,” he admits, his voice trembling slightly, as if the weight of his words is almost too much to bear. “And…I want to help you, y/n. I see myself in you, and I know that you aren’t some kind of evil axe-wielding maniac,” he reassures, a hint of urgency creeping into his tone. “You’re incredibly intelligent, with a mind that sparkles with potential. Don’t throw that away because your thoughts keep dragging you into a pit of self-hatred,” he continues, his voice softening, revealing a glimmer of vulnerability beneath his earlier sternness.

You stare at him, caught off guard, almost missing the way his hand twitches ever so slightly in your direction, as if he’s fighting the urge to reach out and comfort you. The air between you feels charged, thick with unspoken emotions. He lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing his forehead with a hint of frustration, as if he is trying to grapple with the chaos of both his feelings and your plight.

“You want to help me because…you see yourself in me?” you ask, trying to get your mind up to speed. He scoffs, but you can tell it’s more towards himself than it is towards you. He chuckles wryly and runs a hand through his hair a bit exasperatedly.

“Goddamnit. Why. Why do you have to do that?” he exclaims, his voice thick with frustration as he rubs his hands over his face, exacerbating the lines etched by stress. You blink in surprise at the sight of the older man, his graying hair slightly disheveled, revealing just how worn he feels in this moment. “Why do you have to ask the exact questions I don’t want you to?” he mutters under his breath, his tone a low growl that seems to echo in the otherwise quiet room. With a heavy sigh, he finally raises his gaze to meet yours, his eyes momentarily flickering with an unguarded vulnerability.

You hesitate, unsure of what to say, as a chuckle escapes him. He shakes his head with the faintest hint of a smile, the corners of his lips lifting in a way that softens the hardness in his expression. It’s a smile that suggests he’s wrestling with his thoughts, perhaps even finding humor in the absurdity of the moment, yet there’s an underlying tension that lingers in the air, palpable between you.

The word professor slips out of your mouth in a questioning tone when he stands and turns his back to you. He doesn’t respond, though, just stands like an eerie statue in front of you.

“It would be best if we canceled our scheduled tutoring session this evening,” he states in that robotic tone he uses while teaching. “I’m not feeling quite myself.” Your eyes narrow at his back, and you stand up decisively. You can't believe he would bring up old wounds just to shut the door on them again. Anger sharpens your voice as you confront him, fueled by a sense of justice you thought you’d long abandoned.

"When do you feel like yourself, professor?" you began, planting a firm hand on his desk. He didn't flinch or turn around, which only intensified your emotions. "Is it when you point out the fact that I brutally 'killed' my own father? Or is it when you give me that death glare across the classroom?" This comment finally made him turn around, and his expression nearly shattered the stone-cold confidence you had been holding. He looked wide-eyed, like a criminal caught in the headlights. You pressed your lips into a stern frown as you stared him down once again, battling the primal instinct to run that surged in your gut. You wanted answers, and you were determined to get them right now, even if it meant confronting him with hostility.

“I…don’t know what you’re referring to,” He stated simply, in that same teacher-speak. Your body takes a step towards him, fueled purely by your growing anger.

“You’re a liar, Stanford Pines,” you say with a wry grin, punctuating your words by jabbing a finger in his direction. “You’re a liar, and you’re fucking terrible at hiding it.” A low growl escapes you, and you notice his brows furrowing into a deep frown, darkening his expression. “I can see the way you look at other students. It’s different, its- not the same.” He scoffs- a sharp, humiliating sound that reverberates in your ears, sending an unsettling shiver racing down your spine.

“I suggest you leave my classroom right now.” His tone is steady and foreboding. You bite your lip, refusing to give up your ground. “If you keep this behavior up, you may not like the consequences,” he warned. Now it was your turn to scoff at him.

“You think you got a leg up on me just because you’re my professor?” you asked, incredulously. “You might be some smartass scientist to everyone else, but in case you’ve forgotten, this isn’t a high school. You can’t just get up and run to the principal when a student is asking questions you don’t feel like answering,” you barked in an accusatory tone. This made the dark expression shift a bit, and you studied him nervously for a moment. “So tell me then, Stanford. Why do you look at me like im at the top of your shit list?”

He says nothing, and the air crackles with intensity between the two of you. You have him backed into the whiteboard behind him, unable to escape or run away from your accusations. For once, you were the one who had him under a microscope, studying his every small expression and movement for some kind of answer. His jaw fell open and shut a couple of times, like he was sorting through the words he wanted to say in his mind.

“I…” he started, his voice suddenly weak. It was obvious he wasn’t used to being the specimen in this scenario. “Fucks sake…I’m going to hell,” he suddenly groaned to himself, rubbing his face with his hand roughly. You scowled, unsatisfied with his lack of answer. Seeing that you weren’t letting up, Ford sighed.

“Let’s just say that my…interest in anomalies goes a bit further than just observation,” he stated. You felt your eyebrow raise, backing up a bit in sheer confusion. He stares at you, hoping you take the half assed answer and go, but you are not the one, and today was not the day.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, folding your arms, still wearing a scowl. He groans, his arm gripping his other arm instinctively. It's at this point that you finally notice the large amount of gauze wrapped around his forearm. How had you missed that?

“For such a smart young woman, you are incredibly dense,” he hissed, and then put his hands up in defense at the aggressive glare you shot him. “Look, y/n. I am telling you right this moment that I shouldn’t explain myself. I can only offer the assurance that it won't happen in the future, but if I were to tell you, the results would not be favorable for either of us,” he drags on, nervously avoiding eye contact.

Your anger is slowly melting into pure confusion. What was it he had called you…dense? What the hell did that mean? Damn was he good at avoiding questions. How the hell was he such a phenomenal teacher?

“Not favorable for either of us,” you repeat back, slowly. Your eyes rake over his face, and you desperately try to keep them at face height. This is a hard task, though, given the way his broad chest was heaving up and down with such intensity, it felt like one of the buttons on his clean shirt might pop off. A part of you could see how uncomfortable he was, and felt bad. The other part of you was still angry, though. How many times had he held you in his uncomfortable spotlight of a gaze?

“Well. How about this?”

His eyes slowly skate their way to yours, and the emotion behind them surprises you. Instead of the blankness or the intensity you had grown so used to, there was no mask for him to hide behind right then, and pure guilt was etched into his expression. It was so obvious on his face that your stomach twisted in empathy. Your eyes never leave him when you slowly reach to his desk and palm a small stack of sticky notes and a pen.

“Would it be different if you just…wrote down your thoughts?” you said, nervously holding the pen and pad out to him. His fingers anxiously accepted them. “I mean, if someone just so happened to see it on your desk and read it, it wouldn’t be your fault, right?” you asked. Understanding dawned on his face, and he glanced up at you, nervously holding the pen like a vice. You simply stared back before turning away and taking a seat at Ford's desk chair. There were a few moments of silence between you both, and you bit your lip, listening intently as the hesitant scratch of pen on paper began. You were honestly just stunned that his logic worked against him. Some kind of genius, easily defeated by the power of his own irony.

A nervous hand came into your view, shaking, as he set the sticky note down in front of you. You peered up at him, but he was completely focused on avoiding your gaze. You turned back to the sticky note and picked it up with a nod.

“Don’t mind me, just a random student innocently looking for something…else…” You trailed off in an attempt at humor, but that quickly dissolved when your eyes scanned the words scribbled in front of you in that sharp cursive.

You read the words once, twice, even a third time, and felt a jolt of surprise. The walls of professionalism shattered in an instant as you looked down at the simple note. These words would not leave your mind; they were unforgettable. This single sticky note was destined to change the trajectory of your thoughts for the rest of your life. As you read the words aloud, slowly and with disbelief, you were entirely unaware of the profound impact they would have on you.

“I’ve been dreaming about you.”

Chapter Text

The sound of dresses being zipped up and loud 2000s pop music blasted through the shitty speaker in the small bathroom, and you hacked on hairspray that assaulted your every sense. You examined the black and lacy dress in the mirror. At this point, you were only one suspicious hood away from being a nun, and you sighed, eyes trailing to Jordyn, who sat with her mouth agape as she applied thick mascara to her dark lashes.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the relentless sound of rain hitting the roof was driving you mad, especially with everything else happening around you. A dark gloom hung in the air, clinging to your clothes like pet hair that you could never fully wash out. You tried your best to ignore it as you held a curling iron to your hair, twisting a section around the heated barrel. The tension finally broke when you heard Jordyn smacking her lips after applying lipstick.

“So, are you not gonna tell me what happened?” she questioned, turning to you with a bit of a frown. You mirrored her upset expression with a tired sigh. Was she seriously this invested in your life, even when you both prepared for something so grim?

“I told you, nothing's wrong,” you repeated, turning back to the mirror pointedly. You see her frown in the reflection, and she shakes her head, beginning to gather the mess of makeup she had strewn out on her bathroom counter.

It was true, though; nothing was wrong. Instead, everything suddenly made sense, and your mind was still reeling, trying to catapult itself back to reality. You didn’t even have time to recover from the tutoring session before you got that horrible call from your boss today, telling you to come pay your respects with the rest of the crew. Even if it was pissing rain, apparently it was the most important thing in the world the company got promotional pictures for some sympathetic customer points. I mean, sure, a car accident is a terrible way for anyone to go, but it’s not like you were on great terms with Andrew in the first place. You flicked a fresh curl behind your shoulder and went to pick up another piece when you felt tiny hands suddenly cling to your long dress.

“Why isn’t Auntie babysitting me?” the tiny voice of Lilly asked, disappointed. You looked down and gave her a sympathetic smile, knowing it must feel like the end of the world to be stuck with a stranger instead of you.

“I’m sorry, Lills. Your momma and I have to run an errand together,” you explained gently, setting the curling iron down and unplugging it before running an affectionate hand over her head. She huffed, burying her head in your leg.

Jordyn suddenly rounded the corner, putting in a pair of hoops as she walked, and glancing around wildly.

“Don’t worry, baby, the girl watching you is the sweetest. We’ll be back before you know it,” she smiled, reaching down and pinching one of Lilly's cheeks, which made her groan and turn away dramatically. “If I can find my keys before we’re late, that is,” she grumbled under her breath, cutting sharply into her room like a woman on a mission.

The two of you crowded under the large umbrella Jordyn opened as you stepped outside into the pouring rain, which had surprisingly let up from earlier. Cold wind and water whipped at your ankles and cheeks in a stinging assault, causing you and Jordyn to do that awkward speed-walk towards her car parked at the top of her winding driveway. Of course, you would spend all that time on your hair just for it to get rained on, which was really a misjudgment on your part. You irritatingly jerked your arm above your head when the safety of Jordyn's umbrella vanished, to walk over to the passenger's side. You pulled the door open and slammed it shut, your teeth chattering violently against each other in a symphony of sorts.

Jordyn sighed, slamming the door of her old car shut and throwing the dripping wet umbrella carelessly into her backseat, which was trashed already. You two sat in a cold silence for a brief pause before she whipped her keys out and jammed them into the ignition, causing the engine and heaters to blast on. Though the air was cold at first, you hummed in relief when the breeze finally heated up a bit, glazing your face pleasantly. If you didn’t have to go stand in it, this weather would be perfect for you, and you longingly gazed at the house, wishing to be back inside. The quiet sound of Jordyn's seatbelt clicking into place reminded you to put yours on as well.

Driving with a seatbelt in this weather was basically like putting on a bulletproof vest before pulling the pin of a grenade and holding it till it detonates, though. Cars of every make and model fought against the harsh flooded streets as you slowly drove through the neighborhood and onto the main road. In a normal state of mind, you’d probably have started freaking out at this point, gripping onto your seatbelt like you were mid crash even when nothing was happening, but the you present in this moment just stared blankly out of the car window that rain thudded against violently. There was no room in your emotional storage closet to be anxious over that right now. Hell, there was no wiggle room for this memorial either, because let’s face it, your mind wasn’t focused on that at all.

“You’ve been…dreaming of me?”

The expression that gradually appeared on Ford's face was a vivid image etched in your mind the moment your words shattered the façade of indifference he had been hiding behind. There was no going back, no way to rewind the tape, and this realization was sure to haunt you for the rest of your days. All the confidence, the excitement, the eeriness- none of it remained as his fortress of solitude slowly crumbled before your eyes. It was the kind of look someone gives you when they know they’ve been holding back the truth all along, finally pulling back the veil that had obscured your vision. He transformed into such a mess in such a brief time that it almost felt like watching a movie, offering a rare glimpse into a mind you would never fully understand. You squinted, his previous sentences racing through your mind like a bullet train, just as they had done over and over again.

You hardly notice Jordyn flick the radio on over the incessant hum of your inner thoughts, and you feel guilty because of how lost you are in your mind. You hadn’t even bothered to ask Jordyn how she was feeling about all this, but you were admittedly desperate for a distraction on top of caring about your friend. You turned to her nervously.

“Do you feel…sad?” you asked quietly. She blinked, her lips and eyes drawing up into a deep thinking look. There was a beat when she pulled up to a stop sign and flicked her turn signal on, and then her hesitant tone filled the silence.

“I honestly don’t know how to feel,” she sighed, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “I mean, he was a massive douchebag, sure. But getting your brakes cut is…” she trailed off, and you nodded solemnly. “I couldn’t even imagine how his parents feel. He was so young,” She said after a moment, and you frowned at the way she bit her lip when her eyes glanced at the picture of Lilly that always sat on her keychain. Another silence eased into the car, but there really wasn’t anything much to say, so you gently patted her shoulder and gave it a loving squeeze in your awkward attempt at comfort.

While you agreed that getting your brakes cut was a horrible way to die, the part you found the most morbid out of the entire story broadcasted to every local news station was the disturbing fact that his brakes hadn’t just been cut- he had been drugged as well. When the word Rohypnol was mentioned to be found in his system, your curiosity got the better of you, so you googled it. Discovering there are many names for date rape drugs you didn’t know about was an interesting start to your Monday afternoon, that was for sure. The other thing on your mind was admittedly a bit more disrespectful, seeing as Andrew was now deceased, but the question of “what kind of girl would try to rape Andrew and not the other way around” was something you pondered guiltily. Your attention was pulled away from that grim, unanswered question by Jordyn.

“How do you feel about it?” she asked, looking at you with a careful gaze as she maneuvered around the borderline hydroplaning cars.

How did you feel about it? That really was an excellent question. After all, you hadn’t just gotten the news of his death and that was it, no, you had seen the wreck firsthand without even knowing. The blood you saw, the shreds of skin still stuck to the broken glass, it was an inescapable sight that followed you everywhere now because it wasn’t just anyone's blood. It wasn’t a random person you didn’t know, it was someone who you had seen breathing not but a day before, and now, nothing. Whether or not that was something you should bring up to Jordyn was a big decision in your head as you turned to her with uncertainty wrapped around you like an uncomfortable sweater.

“I saw it.” Your voice cracked slightly as you spoke. Jordyn took a tense breath, and you could feel the car sway in response to her surprise. You knew you needed to elaborate, but the words just wouldn’t come. Instead, you both settled into the uncomfortable silence of the car once again.

A part of you wondered if your actions were influenced by the car wreck you had seen before the session. Had it truly affected you that deeply, leading you to do something so idiotic? A wide-eyed Ford entered your view, and you felt your cheeks flush at the memory of how nervously his hands fidgeted when he placed them gently on your shoulders. It was such a tender moment, and a warmth blossomed in your chest, muffled by the confusion and unease that you constantly grappled with. Everything around you was changing, but instead of taking control, you felt strapped to a chair, helplessly watching it unfold. Did Ford feel it too- the way the boundaries of professionalism had finally snapped and collapsed under the weight of his admission? Did he notice how your words were violently torn from you when you read that note and immediately got to your feet?

The light feeling of a cold hand on your arm made you glance towards Jordyn, who was stroking your wrist gently. So lost in thought, you hadn’t even noticed the car had pulled to a stop in the field beside the school. You glanced out the window at the other cars parked in the area with you, and the people dressed in black who exited them. You gave Jordyn a look of uncertainty, and her full dark lips were pointed into an understanding line when your eyes met the lamppost, now welded back together.

Thankfully, the rain had begun to slow to a lighter drizzle when you opened the door of the car and stepped out onto the damp grass. Murmurs were shared between the group of your coworkers who stood in a small circle near the lamppost, their gazes all transfixed on the small cross staked into the ground. Your feet couldn’t move when you felt the weight of the moment in your chest, heavy, like a boulder anchored in a chaotic sea of grief and fear. You tensed a bit when you felt a hand intertwine its fingers with yours, but you quickly relaxed when your gaze met Jordyn's, who had moved to stand beside you. She looked at you before brushing a stray purple hair from your eyes and offering you an understanding smile.

“It’s gonna be ok, y/n/n,” she mumbled quietly. You sucked in a breath, and she gave your hand a loose squeeze before you nodded, and began to walk towards the group.

Instead of quiet stories of Andrew's memories, there was an intense conversation happening that was only apparent as you entered the space. You felt an awkwardness worm its way into your brain when no one in the group acknowledged your presence, but continued as if no one had arrived.

“Are you kiddin' me? What does she mean by disrespectful? It’s a Facebook post for god’s sake,” your manager hissed, pointing accusatorily at your shift lead, who wore a scowl and motioned angrily back at his counterpart.

“That’s his ma for Christ’s sake, Peter! If she doesn’t want us to post about it, then we won’t,” he argued back, pointing to his phone that you couldn't read from your perspective. Jordyn, being Jordyn, didn’t need to hear much else before stepping in, too.
“Hey, hi, what the hell is happening?” she asked, causing the entire group to finally turn and look in your direction. The energy from every face in the crowd was hostile, and it was odd seeing so many happy faces from work wearing such a mean mug.

“Pete’s tryna make us pose with the cross for a snap-a-gram, or whatever,” one coworker sniffed, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Andrews folks don’t want us to, simple as that,” he explained. Your head whipped from the coworker to your manager, Peter, in a flash.

“Are you kidding me?” you hissed, unintentionally clenching your hand around Jordyn's, who promptly joined in on your beratement. The faces of the crowd were stunned as they sat in silence, listening to the two of you drill into him with anger.

“I don’t see what the big deal is, it’s just a picture!” he argued over you, throwing his hands up in anger. You stared at him for a second before scoffing incredulously.

“Someone's baby boy just died, and you want to turn this into some kind of- what- clout moment?” you shot back, your anger rising. “I saw his car wrapped around that pole. You must be the greediest person on the planet if you’re trying to monetize such a horrific thing,” you declared, your tone firm and unwavering. His eyebrows quickly knitted downwards, and everyone subconsciously took a step back when Peter's large frame took a looming step forward, punctuated by a threatening finger jabbed in your direction. Jordyn, of course, was the exception, standing firmly beside you with a dangerous scowl only a mother could give.

“I don’t know where you get off thinking it’s acceptable to speak to me like that, but let me make one thing clear, Miss y/n: if you ever raise your voice to me again, you’ll find yourself out of a job before you can even think to apologize,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous, sending a chill racing down your spine. “I suggest you keep that mouth of yours shut and go pose, or I swear I’ll fire every single one of you for arguing with me,” he threatened, his finger stabbing ominously at each of your coworkers, who looked on in a haunting blend of shock and fear.

You felt Jordyn lightly tug at you to say something, but you gave her hand a firm squeeze, which made her look at you, shaking your head no. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t worth losing a well-paying job, especially since Jordyn had another mouth to feed. You could feel her understanding this slowly as she angrily stepped back into place beside you, shutting her lips with hesitation. It was a grim moment of agreement between the entire staff as you all watched Peter pull a phone from his pocket and begin making his way to the road in front of the pole.

“Everyone, get in here,” he demanded, motioning to the group, then to the cross. Feeling very much like an unwilling army, you marched towards the spot slowly. The tallest of the crew members shuffled to the back while you and Jordyn got front row seats to the shit show that was about to take place. The awkwardness was palpable as the group tried to figure out how the hell they were supposed to pose for something like this. A mess of limbs, undecided hugs, and scooting around was grating on your already shot nerves, and you shook with rage upon seeing the sly smirk that spread across Peter's face when he took the pictures.

You wanted to drag yourself out of the mess of people when he finally flashed the group a thumbs up, and then waved his hand dismissively. You all stood expectantly around the cross, though, looking at Peter curiously, who just stared right back. After about a minute of the awkward group staring contest, someone finally spoke up in the crowd.

“Um…are we gonna say a few words…or?” the voice trailed off, and everyone turned back to Peter expectantly.

A scoff escaped his cigarette ash coloured lips, and he shook his head incredulously. That anger from before slowly began to reheat in your stomach when his mouth curled up into a smile, joined by a short burst of laughter that just seemed cruel to you.

“What, am I supposed to sit here and talk about how he never did his job right? Or maybe you want me to bring up all the times he strolled in late for his afternoon shifts?” he said, his toothy grin rubbing you the wrong way. “Oh, and let's not forget the fact that he was just a fool of a drug addict who got himself into a real mess.” You blinked in disbelief and slowly watched Jordyn take a step back, hands raised like she was surrendering, her head lowered. That was all you needed to turn and stomp right over to Peter.

“What the hell is your problem? I mean, is this really the place to be an absolute dickhead?” You asked, folding your arms in stern defiance. “This is supposed to be a memorial, not a time to shit all over the dead,” you broiled over a bit, anger seeping into your words like a sponge. There was only apallment and unbridled rage when he simply shrugged his shoulders at you far too dismissively.

“Why do you care so much, y/n? What, did he fuck ya in the backroom and now you miss him?” he mocked, his tone similar to one you would use with a small child. Your face contorted violently with a gasp of unparalleled shock. For a moment, you didn’t even know how to respond, and you admittedly felt like a fish caught in a net, floundering around helplessly. Your brain was screaming at you to shut up, to walk away, to de-escalate. But a fiery justice that roared inside wouldn’t allow you to step down.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” you shouted, the words bursting from you like a volcano erupting. The crowd gasped collectively, but you didn’t care; the rage coursing through you was too intense to contain. “Andrew died, Peter! He may not have been a saint, but that doesn’t mean you can just dismiss him like he was- like he was nothing!” Your voice dripped with fury as you let every shred of emotion fuel your attack. “He was just a kid. What if it was your son, mangled and drugged before getting scraped off the asphalt?!” You glared at him, desperate for him to grasp the weight of your words. But of course, your attempt to evoke empathy in a man was a complete failure, especially when he looked at you with that infuriatingly condescending smirk.

“See, that’s the difference. My kids aren’t giant fucking idiots who get high before they drive like Andrew, or like you,” he snapped back.

There was a moment where no one spoke, and even the rain had stopped to hold its breath in anticipation. That smugness still danced in his eyes when your empty gaze met his, slowly looking up with an intense electricity crackling around your soul. No one stopped you when your legs carried your body forward at an alarming speed, approaching him like a pissed off hornet.

The sharp crack of a slap ricocheted through the stillness of the empty field, shattering the quiet and sending gasps and frantic shouts of your name slicing through the air. Tears burned in your eyes, flowing like molten lava down your cheeks, yet you hardly cared about the raccoon-like streaks your running mascara left in its wake. Every inch of vulnerability that you had desperately tried to conceal was thrust into the glaring spotlight before your peers, but there was no way you would allow this serial pervert to bully you- absolutely not.

Just when the crowd anticipated that your episode had come to a finale, an electric hush fell over them as you opened your mouth once more, though this time it was not to utter words of defiance. With a fierce determination, you unleashed a thick, viscous glob of spit that landed squarely on Peter’s cheek, your brows knitting together in satisfaction as a smirk spread across your face- a gleeful acknowledgment of your precise aim.

You didn’t need to look to know it was Jordyn’s cold hands that wrapped around your wrist and frantically pulled you backwards, a feverish, badly concealed laugh leaving her lips. You watched him wipe the spit from his cheek with a sense of justice glowing in your chest brightly, and you allowed the smaller body to drag you away from the scene where other coworkers began to crowd, frantically trying to understand what had just happened.

Your body still hummed with adrenaline when she practically thrust you into the passenger seat of her car, a determined look in her eyes as she slammed the door shut behind her. A pulse of excitement raced through your veins, mingling with disbelief as silence enveloped you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You sat rigid, staring straight ahead like two soldiers caught off guard by the chaotic battlefield they had just escaped. After what felt like an eternity, you sensed her shifting in her seat, her gaze finally breaking the tension as it turned to meet yours, curiosity and intensity swirling in her eyes.

“You are so fired, y/n,” she uttered in disbelief. You blinked and turned away from her again.

“Yeah, probably,” you responded slowly, clicking your seatbelt into place in a haze.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the bright side, time for schoolwork skyrocketed after your outburst. On the horrible side, you had shit like rent and bills you were responsible for. You weren’t completely irresponsible, of course, there was still some rainy day or emergency funds tucked away, but they wouldn’t last forever, especially on top of upcoming student debt payments. Your mind was an endless stream of worries as you sat on your couch, attempting to make some kind of progress on your homework, but it was a pointless task, and you knew it. What was the point of turning this stupid assignment in if you were just gonna get kicked out of college anyway?

When your phone lit up with a sudden glow on the side table, it felt as formidable as a gun aimed at your head, each vibration echoing like a shot in the silence of your cramped apartment. The screen displayed a multitude of potential contacts, but the one you dreaded most was a message from your professor. It was seven o'clock on a Thursday evening- the time you were supposed to be seated across the table from him, struggling to salvage your understanding of the complex material he had laid out in class. A heavy wave of dread washed over you as you realized there was no way you could face him now, especially not after the careless mistake you had made earlier that week. The weight of your foolishness hung heavily on your shoulders, making the thought of attending that tutoring session feel like an insurmountable task.

Another buzz from your phone made you sigh, a small knot of anxiety forming in your stomach. You couldn't shake the worry that it might be Jordyn needing a lift or some last-minute assistance. Against your better judgment, your fingers twitched nervously as you reached for the phone resting on the table, its cold surface a stark contrast to the warmth of your palm. If it had been Ford texting you, you would have simply silenced your phone and carried on with your day, but this was different.

With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, you opened the message, peering at your texts with the wary suspicion of an escaped convict scanning the news for signs of an impending capture. A wave of relief washed over you when you saw it was just Jordyn, eagerly updating you about another job opportunity she was trying to set you up with. However, that relief was swiftly overshadowed by a flash of disappointment that crept across your face like a shadow. The words “not looking for new hires” seemed to jump off the screen, blinking almost mockingly at you. It felt like a cruel twist of fate, taunting your hopes with a reminder of the stagnant job market.

Rain thudded against your window like Mother Nature was upset at Father Time for keeping her in the dark. A crack of thunder ripped across the sky, and you jumped slightly at the explosive sound. Even if you had the balls to show up to the tutoring shit, theres no way you’d willingly drive in this kind of weather to go to something school related. Another clap of thunder made you eye the dim yellow lightbulb above your head that flickered violently. Hopefully, your dinky little fuse box would make it through this assault.

You sighed deeply, pulling up the fuzzy white blanket, soft and warm, further into your lap after shutting your laptop with a decisive click and setting it down on the coffee table. The faint glow of the screen faded, but its screen's lingering presence felt almost accusatory. All attempts at trying to muster any ounce of productivity had proven utterly futile, leaving you with a growing sense of dismay.

Your eyes wandered from the closed laptop to the clutter of unfinished paintings that loomed beside the coffee table—each canvas, an unfulfilled promise, lazily stacked one atop another like forgotten dreams. The vibrant colors of your paints seemed to mock you in their untouched state, amplifying your anxiety as the deadline for your painting midterm loomed unyieldingly closer. Thoughts swirled in your mind; the intricate details and sweeping brushstrokes that still needed attention weighed heavily on your shoulders. With every passing day, the ticking clock only intensified the pressure, and it was undeniable: you felt both overwhelmed and uninspired.

After throwing your blanket to the side and leaning forward, you took the edge of the frame in one of your hands and spun the large canvas around to examine it. Coming back to it after a long time was somewhat of a good thing since it gave you fresher eyes, but the glaring imperfections outmatched any positive ideas you could possibly conjure. It’s not that it was a bad painting per se, you were just unsure of the direction to take with it at this point in the deadline approach.

Deciding it would be a nice distraction, you kicked your easel closer with your foot and set the canvas on it, before rising to your feet and strolling over to a cabinet. You picked out several colors of oil paints and paintbrushes from the drawers before setting them down on the coffee table, and gliding into the kitchen to grab a cup to fill with paint thinner. A tune that rang in your head was hummed as you opened your kitchen cabinet and reached upward, pulling down a cup and filling it, allowing your eyes to wander to the window that led to your backyard. The poor little apple tree planted in the middle of the grass fought against the wild winds and freezing rain, and you winced at the sight of its small branches thrashing around desperately. You were no tree expert, but that little buddy was probably not having a very good time.

The rain had always been something you found beautiful to watch. So, as you made your way back into the living room, you pulled a curtain and window slightly open beside you before sitting down. The pleasant pattering of rain created a lovely background sound as you grabbed your paint palette and squeezed bright colors on top of the messy, dried old paint. You plucked a dirty paintbrush from its paint-splattered cup and stuck it in your mouth to free your hands for another brush. The vibrant red paint revealed its stunning hue as you dragged the brush across the canvas with focused intensity.

The goal of the assignment was to use a monochromatic color scheme, so it was only natural that you chose your favorite color, red. However, what you had created at the moment resembled a blobby, period-stained mess of uncertainty. You bit your lip as you hesitantly dragged the brush across the canvas. What had you really intended to accomplish with this assignment? Because it definitely wasn't being communicated through the abstract splotches currently on display. A small groan of frustration escaped your lips as you grappled with your dwindling motivation. You felt that there was nothing you could do about the lack of ideas swirling in your foggy mind.

When the lights flickered overhead again, you blinked in surprise, glancing up with unease creeping in. The absence of thunder made it feel even stranger, a tension knotting in your stomach. You dipped the bristles into the viscous red liquid, but your hand was unsteady as you splotched it onto the canvas, the uncertainty amplifying your anxiety. Outside, the storm raged, but it was the stillness around you that felt suffocating; goosebumps prickled across your delicate skin. Without meaning to, your eyes darted around the room, scanning the shadows that stretched ominously. The slightly open window let in a chilly draft, while every corner seemed to hold its breath. Your gaze finally landed on the door to your bedroom, ajar just enough to suggest a presence, and a shiver of dread ran down your spine.

There wasn’t any reason for you to be so nervous; it was only you and the loud neighbors who could never keep their voices down present. So why did something feel so utterly out of place in that moment? The darkness of your bedroom made eye contact with you, and you sucked in a breath to try and slow the increasing pace of your heart that drummed in your ears louder now. Before you knew it, you were setting down the paint palette and inching your way closer to your bedroom door with hesitance in every footstep you took. You could hear the rain crackle from inside the room, and your eyes narrowed suspiciously.

With a furious caution, you stuck a guarded hand inside the room to flick the lights on. The brightness flooded your vision, and you squinted around your room, scanning like a lifeguard on the lookout for anything amiss. Everything was right where you had left it, of course, down to the dirty sock pile that sat untouched in the corner, and you sighed, feeling comfortable enough to shuffle inside. Whenever you got anxious like this, it was nearly impossible to escape the feeling, and the vision of the sun setting through the open window didn’t make things any better.
Wait…open window?

Your eyes flashed back to the bedroom window leading to the front of the complex, and you blinked a few times. You weren’t the kind of person to just leave your windows open like that, especially when it was raining so badly like this, but you must have forgotten to shut them after getting home today. You were incredibly exhausted both physically and mentally, so it would make sense for you to do something so careless. You sighed, scooting over to the window and latching your fingertips onto it. You gave a glance outside before sliding it shut, and moving to lock it, but the dumb remembrance of the broken lock was made obvious when your fingers met broken metal. You drew the curtain shut and spun around before that could make you anxious, too.

You moved towards the painting setup you had assembled in the living room, and your fingers twitched, glaring at the back of the canvas. Even though there was nothing out of place, a part of your being felt very off still, and this feeling weighed heavily on you as you sat back on the couch. You knew you were just anxious for mainly one reason, even if the other part of you didn’t want to admit it. Everything you thought about, every action you took, all ended up leading back to thoughts about him.

It was a frustration unlike anything you had ever imagined enduring in your lifetime. You felt like a lovesick teenager, obsessing over a guy to the point where he likely wanted nothing to do with you. Independent was a label that had always defined you; a badge of honor you cherished fiercely. You didn’t need a knight in shining armor to rescue you- after all, you had navigated the trials of life on your own for two decades, thank you very much, and had no intention of changing that now. No one on this planet, least of all a man, could truly understand the depths of your soul as you craved, with perfect clarity. Not even Jordyn, your closest friend, could peer through the intricate layers of your carefully constructed facade.

But Ford was different.

When he looked at you, it did something fundamental to your very soul, like your body was rewiring to connect to his and only his. Every part of you craved him now, in every conceivable way, and it was a disgusting truth to battle against as you scowled to yourself on the couch. Someone your age should certainly not be having these kinds of feelings towards someone in a place of authority, not only age-wise, but status-wise as well. Compared to Ford, you were like a wilting weed next to a beautiful rose in bloom that everyone had the desire to look at. It was a ridiculous idea to even ask the question of “is it a possibility?” Because the harsh truth was that it wasn’t, no matter how badly you craved it. He still had a head attached to his shoulders, while you were left struggling for breath after having the wind knocked out of you.

Intimidating was embarrassingly the only word you could think of in that moment to describe Ford. The way his expression was cool in your presence made a part of you ache that you never anticipated, and the addict inside you wanted more desperately. You bit your lip, twisting a piece of hair between your fingers in a daze of cloudy half-thoughts, half-fantasies. There was a large part of you that yearned for his touch in every way. The feelings of his large, built arms wrapped around your small frame made you hum pleasantly, and you rubbed the bare skin of your arm with the craving for his lips on your tongue. Feeling guilty was barely a consideration at this point, because you had already done the damage, so what was the harm in some wishful thinking? Nothing was holding your raw yearning back anymore, and you struggled with that part, admittedly. He was a hand that was too far out of your reach to grasp onto, miles above you in the food chain in every sense of the word. Of course, someone as straight-laced as he is wouldn’t be interested in your outrageous type.

That's what you had been telling yourself to ease the sting anyway. What you had done was dumb and unprecedented, and now you would face the harsh consequences, including when his class rolled back around on Monday. You hissed at that fact, feeling your teeth clench unwillingly. You hadn’t just embarrassed yourself, no. You had taken the last piece of dignity you had left and run it through a woodchipper right in front of Ford's very eyes, in a way that there was no coming back from. He was the one person in this stupid town that didn’t look at you with disgust, and now you had fucked that up too. The worst part? It was entirely your fault.

Your waterfall of self-doubt and embarrassment came to a sudden halt when every single light in your house flickered in unison, casting fleeting shadows that danced across the walls. You whipped your head around in surprise, heart racing as the familiar hum of your surroundings gave way to an eerie stillness. For a moment, the usual sounds of the evening- distant traffic and the soft rustle of leaves- fell silent, leaving you in a cocoon of unexpected tension. You held your breath, waiting with bated anticipation, every muscle in your body taut as you surveyed the dimly lit living room, the air thick with uncertainty.

THUNK!

The scream that escaped your lips upon the metallic thudding sound was almost humorous, and you cupped a hand over your mouth in shock at yourself. After letting your rapid heartbeat slow just a bit, your eyes followed the direction of the sound to the hallway, and you felt an unease creep under your skin.

“What was that?” you muttered uncertainly, trying to grasp the reality of the moment. The sound echoed in your mind as you slowly pushed yourself to your feet, your legs shaky and unsure. A heavy feeling of unease settled in your neck and back, as if something invisible were pressing down on you. What had once been the safety of your apartment now felt eerily sinister. With a cautious breath, you crept toward the hallway, every instinct telling you to turn back, but curiosity held you in place. Tentatively, you peeked around the corner, heart pounding, eyes straining to make sense of the empty, shadowy space before you.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the coat closet just a few feet away, and your heart raced as your gaze locked onto it. The room was shrouded in an intense silence, the only sound the relentless pounding of rain against the windows and roof, creating a symphony of tension. You focused on the dark oak door, eyes narrowed like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. With deliberate slowness, you pulled the pocket knife from your back jean pocket and flicked it open, determination etched deep into your features. Each step you took felt like thunder, your footsteps echoing in the stillness as you crept closer, knife poised and ready for whatever awaited you behind the door.

Just as your fingers curled tightly around the cold, metallic door handle, a sharp gasp escaped your lips, echoing in the sudden, suffocating pitch darkness that enveloped you. The absence of light was so overwhelming that it blindfolded you, leaving your vision obscured and unfocused. You felt a spike of alarm coursing through your veins, prompting you to scuttle backwards in surprise. The back of your shoulders collided forcefully with the unforgiving texture of the drywall, a jolt of pain shooting through you, accompanied by a startled yelp that broke the silence of the night.

Suddenly, a series of muffled bangs reverberated through the thin walls of your apartment, surely the discontented response of your neighbors. A breathy apology spilled from your mouth involuntarily, a reflex of guilt for disturbing their peace. You sank into a stunned silence, the quiet around you pressing in like a heavy blanket, as you squinted into the abyss, seeking any form of familiarity. But all you could perceive were amorphous shadows, lurking and shifting, serving as a stark reminder of how painfully inadequate your eyesight was in the dark. Each shape, each movement felt foreign, blanketing your surroundings in an unsettling haze.

You found yourself glancing up in an off-guard confusion. You mumbled a “what the fuck” under your breath as you flicked your pocket knife back shut and grabbed your phone from your back pocket to activate the flashlight. You glanced around the darkness of your home with an expression that exuded nothing but pure shock. After the surprise of the power going out had died, that same unease returned from before, and you were desperate to get out of the dark. A deep-seated fear planted itself in your stomach, causing you to walk a bit more quickly than necessary towards your laundry room.

All of the anxiety from before was now multiplied, and it surged heavier when you pulled the door open and peered inside, glancing around for a moment before stepping inside cautiously. The flashlight flicked around the room slowly, before landing on the small grey fuse box attached to the wall, and you eagerly moved closer to it. Realizing the washer and dryers were blocking your path towards light, you bit your lip in desperation and put your shaking hands on the side of the washer. With a harsh shove, it scooted ever so slightly, and you set your phone down on top of it before driving your shoulder into it again. It budged enough to clear a walkway for you, and you stood up straight, huffing in a breath. No amount of speed could soothe the amount of fear that raced in your veins as you pulled the fuse box open harshly and glanced inside, grabbing the flashlight and shining it inside like a madman.

A jolt of panic surged through you as you were yanked from the grip of your thoughts, heart hammering against your chest like a wild animal trying to escape. It may have been a horrifying hallucination born from stress, or perhaps it was another sound, a sinister creak, that sent your head snapping to the side with abandon. Your fingers trembled violently as you fumbled through the breakers, a desperate hunt for the right switch, your mind racing with dread.

Finally, the lights blazed back to life, illuminating the shadows that danced around you like phantoms. But then, the unmistakable sound pierced the air, sharp and chilling, shattering the thin veil of calm. In that electrifying moment, your eyes widened, and a cold shiver gripped your spine as sheer terror seeped into your bones. It was a sound you knew all too well- a sound that echoed in your memory with haunting clarity. This time, there was no denying it. The gravity of the moment crashed over you, leaving you trapped in a primal fight-or-flight response.

It had to have been the sound of your front door opening and slamming shut again.

With a startled yelp of a word similar to “HEY” or “FUCK”, you stumbled out of the laundry room and into the hallway. You skidded around the corner in a blind panic, nearly tripping over your own feet in the process. The determination in your expression was quickly changed to that of shock when you felt your feet lose the ground, and your head began to catapult towards the hardwood floor at mach-fuck speed. With a despairing thud, your skull connected to the earth, sending shockwaves of pain rippling through your head, and you cried out in pain. Between the intense throbbing in your temple and the sensation of dampness seeping into your pajama pants and shirt, you found yourself sitting on the floor staring under your couch in awe.

Whenever you could muster the strength through the blunt pain, you picked up your limp body with a hearty groan to go along with it, and you examined the floor for the culprit of your fall.

“What…the hell?” you groaned out, now feeling the cold damnpness that surrounded your body. It was now obvious you had slipped in a puddle of liquid in the hallway that you hadn’t seen earlier.

You sighed in annoyance, whipping your hand out of the puddle with a look of disgust and wiping it onto your shirt. You glared suspiciously down at the puddle before leaning down to have an extremely hesitant whiff and smelling…nothing. You blinked in surprise. How had you not noticed the giant puddle of water when you came down the hallway earlier? You looked up in a daze, searching for some kind of leak, but your eyes turned up not such thing. You furrowed your brows and looked back down at the front door. The thudding pain was dulling now, only to be replaced by an intense unease that crept behind your eyes, and you slowly staggered to your feet in a very zombie-like motion.

With a shaky hand, you reached out to the deadbolt on your front door that had now been unlatched.

After putting up all of your painting shit, you desperately whipped out your phone to dial Jordyns number and beg her to stay the night.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If he tried hard enough, he was positive he could conjure up some kind of machine to transfer memories to a CD that he could rewind and play over and over again to observe like a child watching reruns of a cartoon. The feelings you had left behind of both arousal and absolute appallment were still fresh in Ford's mind as he sat hunched over his desk, scribbling haphazardly on the test papers he graded. This desk he wrote on- it had been the very desk he’d pushed you against all those days ago, so how on Earth was he supposed to focus enough to grade papers with that thought looming over his neck like a guillotine? A huff escapes his nose as he writes a pointedly aggressive note about AI usage on one of the papers, then a large zero with a strikethrough. It was one thing to call Ford an idiot to his face- it was another to blatantly plagiarize an entire paper and try to hand it in with a smirk.

His fingers itched to have a cigarette between them, and he ran a hand through his ashen hair with a wry chuckle. When he scooted the cheater's paper off the stack and glanced down, the fact that your name was next wasn’t even surprising at this point, just funny to him. Every single small stroke of your pencil made for such a cute handwriting, and Ford admired this when he picked up the page and began to smile like a smitten fool. With a swift motion, he set the paper down and etched a sharp one hundred in the top right corner before moving it to the graded pile. He didn’t need to see your work this time- it would be a reward for you.

Of course, his mind couldn’t help but wander to the session just a few days ago, and the thought of you made him swear he caught a whiff of your perfume just then. He knew it was an insanely huge risk to be vulnerable and show off half of his deck of cards, but there was a reward to be had as well, and Ford so happened to feel like taking the gamble that day. Whenever your wide-eyed expression met his, he was sure the jig was completely up and everything he had been desperately trying to keep hidden was now completely obvious. That fear solidified in his stomach when you immediately rose to your feet after reading his shakily written letters. But instead of marching out of the room and straight to the dean, the cops, what have you, you had just…stared.

Ford sucked in an intense breath from the memory of the way your eyes burned through his, and skated up and down his figure with such a confusion. Your beautiful lips were pulled into this look- it was a look you only got when you were frustrated. He had seen it so many times in class before then, but in that moment, it was like gasping for air after drowning his whole life; someone had finally thrown him a lifesaver. He could practically feel the electricity shot into him when you finally spoke again- What had you asked…?

“What kind of dreams, professor?”

The memory of your unsure but sultry tone ricocheted in his head, turning every sense he had into mush, and he closed his eyes with a gentle groan, running his hands up and down his face. There was no way you could possibly know what looking at him like that did to him, to his instincts. He recalled the feeling of his nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood when he attempted to answer, and his weak vulnerability was the only thing that spilled out. His voice was ragged when he tried to keep his tone steady, eyes fixed on yours to keep you in place where you should be, right next to him.

“The kind that…a professor shouldn’t be having about a student,” he had admitted, quietly.

There should have been regret, or at the very least some kind of embarrassment at the sheer bluntness of the admission, but Ford didn’t find himself with either of those feelings. As he sat in the quiet of his classroom, recalling the memory, a burning arousal was beginning to shoot its way into his veins like steroids. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, adjusting his slowly growing erection with an irritated sigh, and his glance snaked over to the stack of ungraded papers on his desk.

Ford clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus, reminding himself with an almost desperate urgency that he didn’t have time to dwell on the chaos swirling within. He shook his head, attempting to dispel the number of thoughts that tangled in his mind like unruly vines. As he pulled his chair in closer- an instinctive move to shield his lap- his fingers trembled, revealing his growing anxiety. With a sharp inhale, he yanked a fellow student’s paper toward him, the rough edges of the page catching on his fingertips.

He skimmed the text once, then again, but the words felt elusive, slipping through his mental grasp like sand through open fingers. The stark white paper began to blur and twist, the letters swirling into an indecipherable mess before his eyes. A wave of frustration washed over him as he bit down hard on his lip, the familiar taste of iron grounding him momentarily. Yet, deep down, he could feel the gravitational pull of that insatiable rabbit hole- his relentless desire to teach, beckoning him further into the depths of his racing thoughts.

The sheer obsession, the absolute devotion he held for you, was an undercurrent of emotion that you had no inkling of when you took that cautious step forward, resembling a small rabbit in the piercing gaze of a wolf. In that moment, Ford indeed felt like a hunter ready to pounce, but the unsettling truth was that he reveled in it. Deep down, he wrestled with the knowledge that he had lived for decades longer than you and had witnessed the world through the eyes of time and experience.

As you leaned closer, your small frame shattering his personal space, the sickening realization crashed into him like the force of an 18-wheeler barreling down a highway. It wasn't merely the fact that you were his student or that you were young and vulnerable, which stirred a primal urgency within him. It was the knowledge that you remained blissfully unaware of the significance of the items tucked away in his desk- your belongings, artifacts of your life- that heightened the thrill of the moment. When you pulled him into that feverish kiss, laden with a mix of innocence and desperation, it sent a jolt of excitement coursing through him and a primal ache to his groin.

All of his reason, every single shred of decency he had left, vanished instantly when your soft lips cautiously met his. He wanted to act on the fantasies he had harbored for so long right then, but he knew you weren’t completely caught in his web yet, and he couldn’t risk scaring you off. Still, the thought lingered in his mind when he felt your tongue gently graze his upper lip. He wanted to rip that beautiful shirt right off your body and mark your skin with his teeth like an animal driven wild by desire. It took every ounce of willpower he had to stop himself from pulling your skirt down and pushing his fingers inside you, craving to claim you completely. He had admittedly slipped just a bit, but the gasp that escaped your lips when he backed you forcefully into his desk was something truly enticing, and he knew he wanted to hear that sound every single day for the rest of his life. He was a big man compared to you, which made it even harder to be gentle when he let his desperation bleed into the kiss, snaking his six-fingered hand in your hair with fever.

A small grunt passed through Ford's tightly clenched jaw at the sensation of his now rock hard dick strained against the inside of his jeans, pulsing alongside his heart. It almost felt like he was some hormonal teenager all over again, filled to the brim with nothing but pure carnal desire. The desperate, small moans that you spilled into his mouth were at the forefront of his mind when he bucked his hips ever so slightly, chasing some kind of relief. The papers sat long forgotten on his desk, with some even sliding off when he extended his hands forward onto the desk in an attempt to ground himself.

Try as he might, in that moment, there was nothing else on Ford's mind except your body. He needed to know every single inch of it; he had to know which ways to move, what areas to bite to get the best reaction out of you. The way you trembled underneath him was the most addicting thing in the fucking world, and he clenchd his fists tightly to try and remember the sensation of your hips when they snapped towards his so desperately, like it was something you had been waiting for, too. There was no stopping the attack of lewd imagery that danced around his head like stars, and his inner dialogue was no prettier. As he slowly reached down to palm himself through his jeans, his mind, of course, steered into much darker territory.

You had eyed his bandages when you had argued, and the way you yelled at him sent some kind of signal straight to his dick. His eyes were on yours when you berated him, but his mind was far, far away, thinking about what kind of rope he should buy from the hardware store to take you home in. Such a pretty mouth shouldn’t be used for such vulgar language, and Ford was determined to train you like an obedient dog to obey him, whether you were willing to or not. You couldn’t smart off if you were choking on him, after all. The thought of that fuels his fire dramatically, because now there wasn’t any way you could say no to him. Not after what you had done; that kiss was the signature he needed to own you, and he intended on cashing that check as soon as he could. Even if you begged him not to, it was obvious that your mouth needed him pumping loads of his thick spend into it.

There was the innocent facade you hid behind, and then there was truly you, and Ford might have been the only person to see both sides in that moment. He was hungry, but you had been downright carnivorous, biting down onto his lips and tongue like it was the last meal you’d ever eat, and it was one of the most undoing things about the whole adult film-esque scene. Without a second thought or hesitation, you had dug your fingers into his button-down and desperately yanked at his tie like a leash to connect your mouths closer still. The sight of your swollen lips breathing heavily, covered in saliva, was a memory that sent Ford's head reeling even further downwards.

His eyes snapped shut at the pulses of pleasure moving like shockwaves through his head as he feverishly rubbed and frotted against his palm like an animal in heat. The hand that guarded his mouth did little to muffle the ragged groans that slowly shook out of him in a hush, but he truly couldn’t stop himself now, even if he desperately tried. Your hips and beautifully plump ass clouded his reason and with a frustrated grunt, he sighed, desperate to have the real thing instead of his feeble imagination to go off of. He wondered for a moment how much action your ass had seen, if you were still inexpirienced. The possibility of you being a virgin had crossed his mind before, but after seeing you at the club dressed like a whore, he knew there was no way you weren’t desperate for it. He could pound into you with reckless abandon until you begged and screamed for it to stop, and you would be dripping wet for every second of it. He felt a sudden, violent desire to punish you for showing off your gorgeously perfect skin to others, as if the only man for you wasn’t right there.

Your skin was so soft and perfect when he pictured it in his mind that it almost infuriated him. There were no scars, no indication of a past yet, but Ford wanted to change that now. You were so easily damaged, and so easily influenced, that it was almost a crime to keep you so pure. The thought of drugging you just to mark your body up with those bright purple bruises crossed his animalistic mind amid his pleasured frenzy. Every man, woman, fucking alien that had laid their hands on you would never get the chance again because when he was through with you, there would never be a question of who owned you again. It would be something he would beat and etch into your skin, and fuck into your pretty holes until you couldn’t think of anything besides his name.

There was no stopping him when his fingers connected to the zipper of his jeans, gripping it between his fingers harshly. The sound of a fly being undone was nothing but muffled nonsense under the pink lust cloud that had settled over Ford's mind, erasing all sense of right and wrong and he moaned when his thumb lightly slid over the slit of his dick, smearing glistening precum in its wake. If it were your hands instead of his, how much softer would they be? Would you be nervous to try and take it, or would you greedily beg to have it shoved down your throat? A shaky breath followed his slow motion of a pumping fist wrapped around his eager cock that twitched with pleasure. The lewd sounds of slick movement were deafening in the otherwise silent, empty room when Ford spat into his hand and began to pump a bit more pointedly.

It wasn’t a question of “if” now, but a question of “when”, and Ford knew better than anyone that his possessive desire would steer his train of thought around you from now on. That possessiveness already sat in the passenger's seat of his brain, but now it was the conductor, picturing your messy hair curled around Ford's six digits in a sharp tug to bring your head all the way down onto his throbbing cock. The thought of your pretty voice reduced to nothing but disgusting gags sent a pang of fresh arousal through his body, and he could feel the wet warmth of his drool spill down his chin. He knew he was horrible for it- for picturing such an innocent young woman in such vulnerable ways, but that was nothing more than a passing thought as he continued on with his narcissism-charged fantasies.

“Fuck, y/n,” he gasped quietly, jerking his hips up into his hand with an intense, rabid force.

A low growl ripped from his chest at the pure bliss that waterfalled from his lustful thoughts to the rest of his body, and into the twitching head of his dick. The kiss you had shared lasted around ten seconds, maybe longer, but it was more than enough to fuel Ford's ego and stoke the flames of his arousal. He hadn’t kissed you after all- you had kissed him. He could feel the unguarded impulse take over that rational thought in your brain when you pulled back from the kiss, breathing raggedly, and looking at him like he had given you a lit firework. The shock in your eyes was palpable and extremely arousing. Were you shocked that he had returned the kiss, or were you shocked you had kissed him in the first place? He didn’t need to guess, though, because he already knew what you wanted. Your fingers had danced for just a moment, to the buckle of Fords belt, only to be shoved down to your sides, before you anxiously squeaked something about needing to go home, and rushed out the door like your ass was on fire.

You couldn’t say it yet, but there had to be a fire deep within your eyes that yearned for Ford the same way he did for you. While he felt the unyielding need to hunt you down, you felt the unwavering need to run, which just made him want to chase even more. Your unease was only a cigarette held near the already open flames of Ford's absolute carnal desire. The way you avoided his intense eyes, and shook with fear when he came too close to your desk was damning evidence that Ford was a huge fucking pervert, because he enjoyed every single second of basking in it. He scared you, and that was something so incredibly arousing that he couldn’t contain his hellish desires any longer. You were an oddity, one of a kind made for him and only for him, and he was willing to outbid anyone else to have you how he wanted.

If he had his way, no other living soul would be able to put their eyes on your perfect curves when you passed by. Every time he saw a male student glance at your ass or clevage when you walked the halls was a grating reminder that he might have competition, but there was nothing those boys could possibly provide that Ford couldn’t do ten times better. They couldn't want you the way he did- so desperately and violently. The thought of another man being close to you made him hiss in frustration, his hand never slowing from the quick pace he had set. They might be cute, but Ford was grandiose compared to them, intelligence-wise, and experience-wise, not to mention the fact that he knew he was hauling around a pretty hefty package. No one else could come close to pleasing you the way Ford could; he was sure of it.

He knew exactly what he wanted to do to you, what kind of tests he’d subject your willing (or unwilling) body to. Everything about you was a mystery waiting to be peeled open by Ford's unwavering hands; the intention to stop would never cross his mind. Your screams must be as pretty as your moans are, and he intended to find that out through various means. How would your body respond to different drugs, like xanax or Rohypnol? Ford wagered that he could find a perfect dosage to turn you into a perfect little zombie, drooling and eager to receive him. The thought of your barely conscious body still desperately whining underneath his large frame was almost too much for his brain to handle, and he breathed out a groan. Though it would be absolutely fucking wonderful to ravage your unaware heat, the sicker part of Ford wanted you to see what he did to you.

There was no greater desire he felt than the need to crack the glass of your skin. If your outsides were beautiful, he was even more desperate to get inside. He needed to feel the way your muscles would tighten around him if he took a scalpel to your stomach and carved his initials into the soft fat while slowly pumping into you. You were the perfect specimen for his sperm, and he needed to breed you over and over, using your holes until you were nothing but a drooling, cut-up mess. He pictured the way the whitish liquid would pool under you as it spilled out, a physical reminder of his ownership. He wanted to get you so fucked out, that when his lips feverishly connect to your dripping cunt, you can only moan his name in an overwhelmed ecstasy. Your innocent, large doe eyes would look at him with a cloud of insatiable lust in them, desperate for his thick cock back inside for another load.

Volume control didn’t even cross Ford's mind when another drawn-out moan escaped his lips. His dick twitched angrily with need, but Ford wouldn’t allow himself release- not just yet. He stopped his hand motion, desperately breathing and covering the slit with his thumb to dull the sensation of cumming that he edged on. He didn’t want to stop picturing the things he wanted to do to you yet, he had too many ideas, too many depraved thoughts all at once that flew by as he fought with his hips that disconnectedly thrust up into his stilled hand. His heart raced with a fiery passion that he attempted to slow, but new, even more lewd thoughts just kept cropping up that sent his pulse reeling again.

It would hurt- he would hurt. You were so incredibly small compared to him, he could probably palm your head like a basketball if he wanted to, so there was no doubt in Ford's mind that he would be impaling you the second he thrust into you. Tight and warm, just for him. His hand paled in comparison to the undeniable wet pleasure he'd receive from fucking you into his desk. He could practically hear the slapping of skin on skin echo in his mind as he took you through several positions in his mind, landing on picturing you, ass up for him with those desperate moans. He would tear you in half, picking up your smaller body and plunging it back down over his throbbing erection. Ford knew what kind of man he was, and he knew once he had you pinned down, there was no way he’d be able to pull himself out before he came. He wanted to flood your tight insides with every part of him he could manage. The thought of you begging him to pull out was intoxicating, and he pictures himself pinning your arms behind your back and fucking into you even harder.

His cock was red and angry, dripping with precum like a leaking faucet. He panted desperately, ragged grunts pulled from his mouth as he fought against his screaming desire to cum. He needed to finish so badly it almost hurt, but the imagery of your plump ass richochetting off of his hips was innescapable as his hand quickened without his consent. The pressure edged inside his dick with intensity that made him let out a strangled cry. He could feel his edge approaching, and a disappointment surfaced next to the unhinged need to keep going that he fought with, his jerking motion becoming more ragged and unsure. He wanted to feel this way forever, and keep the pleasure trapped in a jar like his other specimens. At the end of the day though, a part of Ford was still human, and that part was violently demanding release as he stood and hunched over the desk to fuck into his hand with such a staggering aggression it sent a few papers flying.

His eyes twisted shut as a deliciously sinful moan ripped from his chest, his hand pumping feverishly with no desire to stop. A gasping stutter was joined by the thick ropes of cum that shot out of him like a bullet train, splattering all over the top of his desk and fingers. His hand guided him through the rest of his violent orgasm, which he gasped and twitched through before collapsing into his desk chair with a huff. There was a moment of aftershock that pulsed through him as he sat, gazing at his own cum in a haze. A perverted disappointment slowly crept into his mind on account that his fantasies had come to a wrecking conclusion that left his chest heaving.

He sat in his mess for a few moments, a desperate attempt to gasp for air being made as if he had been running. When the thick cloud of arousal finally began to dissapate enough for him to think a bit more clearly, he eyed the glistening white cum that pooled on the desk and sighed tiredly. He lazily plucked a tissue from the nearby box to wipe his hand with, then the desk, which, to his dismay, had no defense against his perverted release. His face twitched when he picked up one of the papers, and examined the streak of cum across its page before tossing it in the trash with a sigh.

Fuck it, everybody gets to pass that assignment then.

Chapter Text

Had extra credit classes really gotten all that harder? Ford had been stuck between dimensions for some odd years, but surely, they weren’t possibly assigning students in the eleventh grade homework of this difficulty. As he looked over some of the packets in his hands with a perplexed look, Dipper chattered on excitedly, pointing to different equations and problems, and asking Ford's opinions about them. It’s not like the math was confusing to him, of course, it was elementary level to him at this point, but a part of him felt guilty for doubting Dippers' ability to solve equations like these.

“-I mean, seriously, Grunkle Ford, you wouldn’t believe how great it is to actually be challenged,” Ford finally tuned back in to his nephew's crackly voice, and he blinked after a moment. He had problems with listening without everything else on his mind, but the amount of worries and stresses that railed in his mind were making it incredibly hard to focus. He shook his head slightly in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

“You know, I remember saying the same thing to my father,” Ford chuckled, tapping a finger against one of the equations. “This is excellent work, kid. Definitely would’ve stumped me when I was your age,” he projected, handing the packet back with a grin. Mabel's groan suddenly ripped through the air as she shoved Dippers' face to the side slightly. Ford bit back a laugh at the twin shenanigans that proceeded, followed by several giggles from the pair.

“Come on, dude, it’s time to share the grunk,” Mabel declared matter-of-factly, flicking her long braids to smack Dipper in the face, who exclaimed in surprise. “What have you been up to, Grunkle Ford? We haven’t seen you in forever,” she questioned in a whiny tone at the end. Ford smiled fondly at her bubbly nature that had only grown with her while running a hand through his hair.

It was difficult to talk to the kids now that they were older and more perceptive, that’s for sure. Of course, he loved it when they came to visit or vice versa, but he had to be extremely cautious with the amount of information he revealed to them. They had always been pretty smart kids in the first place, so it was definitely a stressor that the two might find out about Ford’s more…non-uncle side. They did uncover Stans secret identity singlehandedly, so they were a force to be reckoned with. Scaring people was something Ford excelled at since birth, but he was determined to shield his family from the fear he projected onto others. His eyes crinkled thoughtfully as he hummed, leaning on his island counter and pulling out a gallon of chocolate milk from the fridge.

“Well, you know, an old man like myself doesn’t get around much,” he pointed out, grabbing three glasses from his cupboards and sliding two over to the twins. “I’ve been hunting again. It’s rabbit season.” He poured the chocolate milk into the glasses and watched in awe as Mabel took a sip like an alcoholic breaking their sober streak. His eyes were torn from the intense sight by Dipper speaking up after a sip of his own drink.

“Got any bones you’d let me keep?” he asked, with a hopeful shimmer in his eyes. Ford felt a hearty chuckle burst from his chest, and he smiled at the way Dipper glowed when he nodded in confirmation.

“I saved a couple just for you,” he grinned, taking a drink. “I knew you were wantin’ a bird skull, is that right? Saw a raven on a trip and picked it up.” Dipper's wide-eyed smile only grew as Ford fished out a small bird skull from his coat pocket and passed it to him with a hearty smile. Ford had always enjoyed art, especially bone carving, so the fact that Dipper had wanted a skull was a perfect excuse to use his Dremel tool set. He watched as Dipper rotated it thoughtfully between his fingers and examined the intricate designs etched into it. Mabel gasped after chugging the entirety of her glass, and she wiped her lips incredulously.

“Man, why do you always get the cool shit?!” she huffed, and Dipper quickly patronized her for her language. Ford grinned when Mabel began to fire off curses like a loose cannon, and Dipper put his hand over her mouth with a frown.

“Don’t worry my dear, I would never forget my favorite niece,” he chuckled, and Dipper rolled his eyes with a smile.

“Your only niece, Grunkle Ford,” he corrected, before pulling his hand back in a look of pure disgust at Mabel, who grinned wildly and wiped her lips from undoubtedly licking his palm. He grabbed Mabel's empty glass and set it in his sink before turning out of his kitchen and beginning to rummage through one of his drawers. He shoved various junk aside that he wasn’t sure why he owned it before grabbing out a small item and palming it before the curious Mabel could see. She desperately tried to peek around his back, and he turned around with a smile.

“I knew you liked pink, so I looked everywhere for a pink one,” he recalled, opening his hand out to Mabel and revealing a hot pink switchblade knife like the one Ford owned. She gasped in pure awe and took the handle of it delicately with stars in her eyes. The look she had etched into her face made it worth every single painstaking penny.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna backflip,” she announced, bouncing on her toes like a firework getting ready to launch off the ground. Her grin was ear to ear as she carefully ran her finger across the smooth metal hinge and flicked the knife open to examine the expertly sharpened blade. A shooting star was carved into the metal handle, and her body was excitedly buzzing. “This is so freakin’ badass! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squealed, shutting the knife again to pull Ford into a full-body bear hug, which he happily accepted, wrapping both her and Dipper into his large arms. The warmth familiarly blossomed in his chest, and he smiled lovingly down at his remaining family members with a pang in his heart.

“Of course. I’m always thinking about you two,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, and he swore Dipper looked like he was about to bust into tears. Mabel smiled back at Ford, and for a moment, she almost smiled at him the way Stan used to.

“aHEM- ack! Um- so…” Dipper choked out after a brief moment, his voice cracking worse with each line, causing Mabel to erupt into poorly hidden laughter behind her hand. “Did you do any new taxidermy since you’ve been hunting?” Dipper finally asked, after shooting Mabel the scariest death-glare he could muster (Spoiler alert- it wasn’t intimidating in the slightest.) Ford hummed with a nod, tapping his finger against his chin briefly.

“If I recall right, I do believe I haven’t shown off my latest piece,” he smirked to himself. After setting the rest of their empty cups in the sink, Mabel bounded down the hallway as if she owned the place with a sheepish Dipper trailing behind her, and Ford ushering them along.

Don’t get him wrong; Ford was all about preserving nature- the intricate, unstoppable food chain and the delicate balance of life. But beneath that noble facade lurked a darker truth. He didn’t just hunt for sport or food; he hunted for release, an escape from the gnawing chaos within. It was easier, perhaps, to justify the act when it was perfectly legal. Yet, no matter how he rationalized it, he was still a man driven by unsettling needs- needs that had simmered beneath the surface, ignored in favor of his studies and teaching.

But like every fragile mind, Ford was bound to crack under pressure. After the whirlwind of weirdmaggedon and the calamitous end of the Stan O’ War, something in him shifted, unraveling. He was already frayed, stripped bare of any self-kindness, and the day he stood in that funeral home, surrounded by whispers and shadows, it shattered him completely. The final straw that broke the camel's back, perhaps, but what rose from the ashes was no longer just Ford. It was something darker, something that relished the hunt in a way he never fully understood.

The walls were lined with different mounted animal heads, and it twisted on as Ford led the twins towards his trophy room. The variety of moose, deer, and Elk was stunning in their own morbid way when they stared down with the lifeless fake eyes sewn into the fur. The way they sat glowering down at the three brought back a firework crackle of memories in Fords mind about Stans body laying in the casket similarly, motionless, and plastic looking. No life left; just a husk of a soul that used to be, and is now only a shadow. The thing about mounting your kills, though, is that their life form is preserved forever, just for you. It brought Ford some kind of comfort knowing he might still be out there, somewhere, wandering the streets of Vegas or crashing some ghost wedding.

Grief is different for everybody; it’s as unique as your thumbprint, and a common phrase to say to someone is “there's no wrong way to grieve.” Ford, however, was definitely NOT included in that phrase, and he knew it. He was a scientist after all, someone who studies the very reason behind existence, is doomed to hell from the moment they pick up a textbook. Which is why all of the libraries Ford could fill with the books about human anatomy he read were nothing in comparison to experiencing the real thing, actually holding the fresh, warm meat in his hands, like a kill on a hunt. Every creature he dragged back to his home, bear, boar, elk…human. They all met the same fate in the end.

The large wooden door slowly creaked open when Ford turned the brass handle and stepped inside to flick the lights on, the twins on his heels. Inside the dimly lit room was an array of stunningly large paintings with striking imagery balanced on the deep red walls between the several taxidermied beasts that lined the corners and floor. Mabel giggled as she bounced inside and lay on the bear skin rug with a sigh, petting the head.

“Mr. Bearington, you scamp, you thought I forgot about you?” she asked, giving him a noogie. Dipper sighed when he stepped in as well, mumbling something about wishing he had forgotten about Mr. Bearington. Ford stepped around the several empty gallon buckets he had stacked inside the room, and he approached a table to the very left with an almost completed undersculpture. Before either of the kids could approach, Ford hurriedly grabbed a small baggie off the table and shoved it into his coat pocket with a scary subtlety. Mabel eventually got up to join a curious dipper in the so-called “trophy kill.”

“Oh wow,” Dipper gasped out, blinking in surprise, then craning his neck to get a closer look, and Mabel similarly gasped. “What IS that Grunkle Ford?” he asked, the raw curiosity and awe deeply woven into his tone. Ford chuckled and clapped Dipper on the back with a grin.

“That, my boy, is the head of a werewolf,” he announced proudly, beaming down at the twisted wolf-like face. Mabel ooed and aahed, poking the creatures teeth and face with her jaw agape. “Took me two months to track this sucker down, he was elusive,” Ford huffed, clenching his fist at the memory of how difficult it really had been to locate. He had known that forest for years, and somehow still managed to get stumped by the fae that alter your perceived direction like an absolute fool, but he didn’t need to tell them that.

He watched as the pair curiously circled the beast, feeling its wiry hair and sharp fangs. Eventually, Dipper looked to Ford with a disturbed glimmer in his eye.

“A werewolf? Like…this is a..a person?” Dipper hesitantly asked, taking an unconscious step backward. A laugh escaped Ford's lips, and he shook his head at the notion.

“Not to worry, Dipper. I can assure you, this type of werewolf is commonly found here in North America. They aren’t people- simply a local wolf born with the mutated gene from an infected human getting busy while transformed.” the way Dipper was so eager to listen always made Ford go into teacher mode, and he prattled on about how to tell the differences between a human-to-werewolf, and a wolf-to-werewolf while pointing them out on the sculpture. It must’ve been intriguing, since even Mabel peeled her eyes away from it to listen to Ford's drawn-out explanation, too.

It was true, though, that even if it had been a human before, Ford wouldn’t have hesitated to kill it then, either. It was a miserable creature already, he knew that, and it carried its pain from birth, but this particular creature had made a devastating mistake that had to cost it its unfortunate life. It was a mercy to shoot it down, and he knew that because of the way his stomach twisted in disgust when he peered at it through the lens of his sniper rifle from the large tree. Something so imperfect that it was in pain- it made Ford feel empathetic, and he pulled that trigger without an ounce of remorse or even a flinch because of its mistake. It could stay in the woods where it belongs, but it can’t creep out of the treeline near your apartment, where it could put you in danger.

Being a hidden bodyguard in a town like Gravity Falls was exhausting work, to say the least. There were so many dangers, a constant array of terrible creatures that could do unworldly damage to a person, and it was up to Ford to not only keep you safe from those invisible threats but to keep you unaware of them as well. You didn’t need to be worrying about things like being tricked by a God or getting eaten by a werewolf when you had other problems, like rent and bills, and he would be damned if you were to get injured. Whether you were aware of the supernatural didn't matter; you were far too fragile to protect yourself. You needed him.

Every time you left the house was a reminder that he couldn’t be by your side all the time, not yet anyway. He could do his best when he didn’t have outside distractions, but Mabel and Dipper were equally as important in the moment. The notification on his phone was a grim mission bell, and when he opened the tracking app and watched as your car icon moved further and further away. He bit his lip to hide the frown that attempted to etch its way into his expression, and he hastily shoved his phone into his pocket. He bit his lip before ushering his hands towards the kids.

“Are you two hungry? I’m starved,” he suddenly asked, startling the two slightly. Dipper looked to Mabel, who looked back with a grin.

“I’m hearing the words free food, so that’s a yes in my book,” she nodded, nudging her twin, who grinned and nodded as well.

“I could eat. Where did you have in mind, Grunkle Ford?” he asked. Ford hardly looked up from the wall where he was gathering his keys off the hook with a bit of silent focus.

“We’re going to Greasy’s,” he mumbled, before turning back to the twins with a cough and a sheepish smile. “If that’s alright with you guys, of course,” he bluffed. He was getting to that restaurant either way. To his relief, though, Mabel nodded eagerly.

“Lets go, I could eat a whole freakin Horse,” she groaned dramatically, and Dipper poked her side when she lifted her arms to gesture eating a big horse.

The car ride was filled with mostly similar moments in the single cab of Ford's truck, and it was refreshing to be able to roll the windows down after days of rain. The smell of post-thunderstorm was delicious in the car as he drove as slowly as he could manage, but his brain was eager to put the pedal to the floor to reach you. His eyes guiltily shifted to his family beside him, who were discussing something about a vampire movie with a sparkly man. He should have been focused on spending time with them, but all he could think about was whether or not you were in danger, and whether or not you were alone. Was it so bad that he held you in that high regard? Mabel and Dipper were all that remained of Ford's family, and they were such precious pieces of his life that it physically burned him to be in question about his priorities. But it’s not like he was forcing the kids to do something crazy; he was only taking them to a diner, so why would that be bad?

It wasn’t a bad situation- that’s the gist of it. In fact, it would be a win for everyone involved in the end, regardless of the motivations behind it. Ford would get to spend time with the kids while also making sure you were safe and not shacking up with some random person. His feelings became even more complicated when the sign for Greasy’s Diner appeared through the trees. He felt his heart rate quicken at the sight of your little car parked in the lot. The cute stickers on the back were charming, and he took a moment to admire the newest additions as he pulled into a parking space.

“Alright, alright, I gotta ask- what’s your deal with this ‘Edward’ guy?” Ford asked, tuning back into their movie discussion in an attempt to distract his racing heart. “He’s a vampire, but instead of bursting into flames, he sparkles? How perplexing,” he commented, taking the keys out of the ignition and rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“You don’t get it, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel chirped, making a box shape with her hands. “He’s so pale and chiseled, like a Greek statue,” she explained, and Ford couldn’t help the image of your porcelain-skinned face that crept into his mind. “And he’s obsessed with Bella! That’s sooo romantic, I would kill to have a guy obsess over me like that,” she huffed, and Ford felt a wry chuckle leave his lips despite himself.

“It’s not romantic, Mabel- it’s creepy! You want a guy to watch you while you sleep?” Ford slightly winced at Dippers' words, a pang of guilt running through him. “Besides, didn’t he want to like, eat Bella or whatever? How the hell is that romantic?” he asked, and Mabel only sighed dreamily, saying ‘You wouldn’t get it’ as she opened the car door and hopped out. Ford glanced at your car and swallowed hard, before getting out as well.

The three of you were greeted by the familiar scent of burgers and breakfast foods, and of course, Susan's voice crackling through the mostly empty restaurant when you stepped inside the warm diner. The toasty atmosphere felt like a bear hug from the sun when the door swung shut behind them, and Mabel beamed up at Susan, waving excitedly.

“Hey, Susan!” she exclaimed, a grin across her lips.

“Oh, honey, the Pines family! It’s been way too long,” she exclaimed, a big grin stretching across her wrinkled face. “Y’all come have a seat now. I’ll be over as soon as I shoo this bug outta my store,” she said, waving her broom at the floor. Dipper had to stifle a laugh at the sight of the sad, burnt tater tot just sitting there, and Ford led the two of them to a booth, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Nice to see she’s still glowing!” Mabel exclaimed with a hearty smile, and Ford smiled at her pure optimism.

“It sucks she has to work the late shift tonight, theres like, no one here,” Dipper pointed out, motioning to the scarcely populated store. Ford felt a cold sweat break out above his brow, and his eyes began to slightly dance around the room, anxiety deep within them.

He was absolutely right- there wasn’t another soul in the store, and Ford could feel his brows knit together tighter at the rising unease in his stomach. If your car was here, then where the hell were you? His gaze jumped from table to table, desperately searching for a sign of an unfinished meal or a purse, but there was nothing but empty tables and booths to be seen. His worry was quickly overshadowed by the rapid approach of Susan, pen and paper dutifully in hand, with a smile. The pleasantries exchanged were just insolent buzzing in the back of Ford's head underneath the slow roaring rise of panicked voices that began to overlap.

“What can I get started for ya?” Susan asked, looking to Ford, who blinked in a daze, before coming back to reality. He coughed nervously at the awkwardness of his pause, and he motioned to the menu.

“I’m just gonna have a stack of pancakes,” he decided, then thought for a moment, glancing around again. “And a black coffee, please,” he asked, and she nodded, going to work writing on her notepad. After taking the twins' orders (Ford had them memorized at this point- a plain burger with mustard for Dipper and French toast with extra whipped cream for Mabel), Susan disappeared into the back while shouting the order at the chef. After a few moments of staring dazed into nothing, his eyes fell back on his companions, where Mabel stared at him with a glint of suspicion.

“Are you ok, Grunkle Ford? You look like the FBI is out to get you or something,” she commented, with a slight frown.

Ford stammered for a moment, once again caught off guard by how perceptive his kin had the capability of being. Dipper eyes him too, now, glancing down at Ford's nervous hands that were laced together tightly on the table.

“I’m just fine, sweetheart,” he bluffed, giving her his best smile. She smiled back, and it seemed like that was about to end the conversation, but Dipper wasn’t buying it.

“I dunno, you look super nervous to me,” he confirmed, taking a sip of his drink, before his eyes widened slightly, and he looked to Ford with an unsure sincerity. “...IS the FBI out to get you?” he asked, eyeing around the restaurant suspiciously, which made Ford laugh despite his anxiety.

“I assure you both, there is absolutely nothing wrong,” he re-states, and his sentence is punctuated by the sound of the door alarm, followed by someone entering. Mabel raises an eyebrow at this before taking a sip of her drink. It seems Ford's poker face had worked, since Dipper turned to Mabel to start a conversation about a classmate of theirs. As Ford's mind started to wander, so did his eyes to the patron who had entered and stood in front of the bar, wearing a pink work uniform.

“Oh, good, you’re back. Will you run that table their silverware? I forgot to set it down,” Susan's voice echoed from somewhere far into the restaurant. A voice responded in confirmation, and it was such a sweet sound that it almost made Ford's ears perk up. He had no time to prepare himself, or even gather his scattered brain, before a purple-haired waitress approached the table, three sets of silverware in her arms.

“Hey guys, how are you doing tonight?”

Ford watched your delicate hands place two sets of silverware in front of the twins before turning to him, and he was sure his expression matched your deer-in-the-headlights look. Your lips fell open and closed a couple of times before you quickly set the silverware down and leaned out of his personal space. When the strong scent of your perfume lessened, Ford nearly found himself leaning closer, but he rooted himself to the booth seat.

“Professor- I- Ford, what are you doing here?” you stammered out, nervousness edging the false confidence in your tone. His name drips from your tongue, and an angelic feeling runs down his body like a warm shower. He forces his eyes onto yours, locking you in your spot immediately.

“Y/n, what a surprise,” he says pleasantly, taking a sip of his coffee. “Do you have two jobs at the moment?” Ford questioned, and a tone of guilt was buried under his perceived indifference. Were you struggling that badly financially? How had he not noticed before?

“Oh, um- it’s a long story,” you began, with a sigh. “To sum it up, I had to find a new job. I work here now,” you explained, averting your eyes to the floor. Ford felt his heart drop at the shame in your gorgeous eyes that blinked rapidly when your face began to get redder and redder. Ford smirked, knowing just the thing to take your mind off of it.

“Is that why you haven’t been making our scheduled tutoring sessions?” he questioned, and the look in your eyes was a moment he wished he could frame forever. Your face got three shades redder, and you coughed, wiping your palms onto your apron nervously.

“You could…say that, yeah,” you agreed, avoiding Fords cocky gaze. He put his chin in his palm and turned to Dipper and Mabel, who sat watching in awe.

“This is one of my biology students, y/n,” he introduced, motioning to you. “y/n, this is my niece and nephew, Dipper and Mabel,” he smiled fondly at the two, who smiled up at you and waved.

“I love your hair! It looks like a unicorn's mane,” Mabel gasped, excitedly grinning up at you. “You seem nicer than a unicorn though, those guys are assholes,” she huffed, and Ford nervously glanced at your expression when you laughed that off.

“Aww, thank you! You know, one time when I was little, I scratched the unicorn off my notebook cause I hated it,” you joked back easily, smiling at the two. Ford found himself chuckling slightly at the admission, and the way Mabel at least seemed drawn to you. Dipper seemed like he was lost for words, though, blinking up at you in pure awe.

After an awkward silence, Mabel noticed Dippers' grade A gawking and elbowed him roughly in the ribs, causing him to cough out and curse her under his breath before saying something.

“Wow, you look super familiar,” his voice cracked in the middle, and the way his face turned a shade redder had you giggling subtly in a way that only Ford noticed. He appreciated the fact that you considered a teen boy's confidence before you responded sweetly.

“Some people say I look like Grimace, so it’s probably that,” you smile, and the four of you share a giggle that leaves Ford's heart hammering harder than before. Something about the way you effortlessly continue to make conversation with the kids makes Ford’s heart swell with an emotion he can’t quite place. There's such a gentleness in your eyes, like an angel approaching the shepherds in the field, and it really does feel like he’s witnessing a biblical event when you throw your head back to let out another beautiful laugh. His stomach knots together at the motion of your delicate lips when they curve into that perfect smile, and he swears he might die on the spot.

“Just yell if y’all need anything, ok?” you grinned, politely wiping your hands on your apron. “I’m here till close, so stick around for however long you’d like.” The words that leave your lips feel like a personal invitation to Ford, but a glance at his family sitting across from him is a stark reminder that he couldn’t stay all night. When you turn away from the table, he can’t help the way his eyes skate down your figure in that uniform and apron that hug your waist, before you disappear into the kitchen.

His eyes linger on the kitchen door for a few longing seconds, and he hardly notices the prying eyes of Dipper and Mabel as he drums his fingers on the table nervously. How could he pay attention to anything else when you were so clearly showing off your curves just for him? He could feel his face grow a bit hotter at the notion, before his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared.

“What…was that?” Dipper questioned, raising a stern eyebrow at Ford, who blinked back in a dull unawareness. Mabel also looked at Ford, mouth wide and stars in her eyes like she’d seen the Mona Lisa itself.

“What? She’s just one of my students,” Ford questioned, looking up and offering a smile to Susan, who set three drinks down in front of the group. After grabbing hold of her milkshake and eating the cherry off the top, Mabel shook her head.

“Just one of your students? Grunkle Ford, did you see the way she was looking at you?!” Mabel asked a bit too loudly for Ford's liking, causing him to wince and motion for her to keep her voice down. “That girl's got a cru-ushh~ even Dipper noticed it!” she continued in a hushed, whisper shout. Ford turned in shock to Dipper, who solemnly nodded in agreement, taking a sip of his Coke.

“What kind of student calls their professor by his first name?” Dipper questioned, and Ford could feel the heat in his cheeks rise a bit, before stammering and raising a defensive hand as if to shield himself from the attack of observation.

“I told her to call me that outside of class!” he bristled, only to be immediately deflated by a drawn-out “Ooooo” from Mabel. “Not like that! I just…I’m a person outside of teaching, too, ya know?” he argued, gripping the handle of his scalding hot coffee and taking a bruising sip.

“Well duhhh! I’m sure you get pretty ‘personal’ during those tutoring sessions, eh?” Mabel teased, raising her eyebrows, which made even Dipper flush in embarrassment. He flicked her cheek, and she yelped in mock pain, before twisting her index finger inside her mouth and shoving it into his earlobe with a triumphant shout.

“That's…That’s inappropriate, Mabel,” Ford hesitated, trying to mask himself behind his drink. “And quite frankly, I don’t think someone as pleasant as miss y/n would like to shack up with a dinosaur like me,” he finished his sentence with a sip. Dipper blinked at him blankly before pointing an accusing finger at him.

“Oh, Jesus…do you…like her too?” he asked slowly. Ford felt his eyes widen for a second before he smoothed his expression back flat with a slight sigh and shake of his head. Mabel gasped, putting her hands over her mouth.

“Oh, em gee, you do, don't you?! You and Dip get that same look when you lie- I swear!” Mabel accused, gesturing to Ford, then Dipper. Ford stammered in shock, unable to come up with any line of defense from his niece's matchmaking soul. The smile on her face only widened at his inability to form a coherent sentence for a least thirty seconds.

“Ab- absolutely not! She’s my student for Christ’s sake!” The word ‘student’ was shaky when it belted from his lips in a hiss, and he leaned further toward the twins to drop his voice another level lower. “I could very well lose my job if people even hear you two talk like that,” he warned, glancing around the empty restaurant like a paranoid tweaker. Mabel and Dipper looked back at him, unimpressed.

Ford could swear he about jumped out of his seat when you approached once more, carrying three plates balanced on your arms expertly, wearing that damn smile.

“Alright, here you go, guys!” you exclaimed politely, setting down the plates in front of their respective twins, then turning to face Ford. After setting his food down, you nervously tucked a stray hair from your messy bun behind your ear and eyed the ground intensely. “I…I’m sorry I’ve missed the last few sessions, by the way. Life hasn’t been…very easy lately,” you apologized quickly with a slight frown. The sight of your beautiful face in that guilty expression almost made Ford's heart explode with need.

“It’s alright, y/n, I…understand,” he hesitated, fighting the sudden urge to reach out and stroke the delicate skin of your arm. “There’s no pressure to attend, I assure you,” he bluffs, giving you his best masked smile, and you buy it, much to his relief. Your body language shifts to be more relaxed, and you grin at him again, sending his heart ablaze, and his skin on fire.

“I’ll see you in class, then,” you wave, before waving to the twins and sharing similar goodbye sentiments with them. The sight of you leaving his view gives his body a violent shove, and some of the voices from earlier are slowly chattering amongst themselves in the very back of his brain. Ford almost forgets the presence of his food in front of him, and it’s only when Mabel waves a hand in front of his face that he snaps out of his daze.

“Yikes,” she hissed with a grimace, taking a bite of her French toast. Dipper awkwardly took another sip of his drink, and Ford's eyes bounced between the two of them in the silence for a moment.

“What? It’s... It’s better this way,” Ford sighed, his voice heavy with resignation as he stared at his plate like it held the answers to his tangled thoughts. Though his gaze remained fixed downward, he could sense Mabel's piercing eyes boring into him with intense scrutiny, a silent challenge that made his stomach churn. “Even if I... she... It’s too complicated,” he breathed out, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Finally, he lifted his gaze and found Dipper watching him with a sympathetic look, as if trying to bridge the gap of understanding between them. Dipper's expression softened, his lip curling slightly in empathy.

“Look, Grunkle Ford. I don’t know who she is, or what’s going on between you two, but…whatever it is, it seems you guys really need to talk about it,” Dipper urged, taking a bite of his burger. Mabel nodded in sharp agreement, gesturing towards the kitchen doors you had disappeared inside.

“Exactly! It seemed like she wanted to say something else. Maybe she’s nervous?” Mabel offered with downcurved eyebrows and a smile. Ford sighed, picking at his plate and taking a hesitant bite as well. “Girls usually want guys to make the first move, trust me. You just gotta find a good time to get her in a conversation,” Mabel schemed, rubbing her chin with a ponderous look. Ford shook his head sternly, biting the inside of his lip.

“I can’t…I…” he croaked, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just say I am hypothetically…interested…in miss y/n. That age gap is truly a stark difference in brain chemistry, and the studies behind the-”

Fords rambling was cut off by a groan from Mabel, and she sucked down the rest of her milkshake feverishly before turning to Ford with a determined look in her eyes.

“You don’t gotta ask to marry her, dude. You just gotta, you know, clear some of the air,” she advised, waving her fork around. “She’s probably overthinking just as much as you.” She raised her eyebrows and punctuated the sentence by pointing the airborne fork towards Ford. Ford scoffed wryly, looking towards Dipper for some more head-on-shoulders advice, only to be met with a similar expression.

“I mean, Mabel kinda has a point this time, surprisingly. If y/n was creeped out by you, why wouldn’t she make Susan bring out our food?” he contemplated, much to Ford's dismay. “The age gap is super weird- not gonna lie to ya. But at the end of the day, why does it matter if you both like each other?” he questioned. Ford hissed a bit, making some uncertain noises.

“I don’t know kids, I…do you really think I should talk to her?” he pondered, looking down into the dark abyss of his coffee. The sound of Mabel scraping the last of her food off her plate echoed terribly through the restaurant, making Dipper cover his ears with a grimace before turning back to Ford.

“It’s worth a shot. If it doesn’t work, you can just be awkward for a bit, then forget about it,” He offered with a lopsided grin, and Ford couldn’t help but smile at how similar Dipper's thought process was to his twin. He exhaled with a grin, putting his head in his palm, before nodding decisively.

“Alright then. I’ll try and…find the time, I suppose,” he sighed, drumming his fingers against the sticky table, and looking down to his untouched plate, then to Dipper and Mabel's half-eaten plates. While it was true that Ford needed desperately to talk to you, he wasn’t sure if you’d run or not. That irony made him smirk despite himself.

She's the one who kissed me, and yet she's the one running away?

Her sense of danger may be better than I originally anticipated.

He shook his thoughts away after Susan stopped by with their ticket and a to-go box, which Ford shoveled his food into despite never eating the leftovers.

“Enough about my silly endeavors. Would you two like to go back to my house and watch some scary movies?” Ford asked, wiggling his fingers to amplify the spookiness. Dipper's eyes lit up, and he slapped Mabel's arm excitedly.

“Only if we can watch it in a bad-ass blanket fort,” he grinned, looking to Mabel, whose expression matched his exuberant one.

“Of course, of course. What would a zombie film be without the comfort of a cushion?” Ford smirked nobly, fishing his keys out of his pocket and holding them up. “Let’s rock and roll,” he grinned, and watched in delight as the pair visibly cringed.

“I think that was the whitest thing you’ve ever said,” Dipper shuddered, as they all rose from their seats, and made their way up to the register to pay.

As Ford stepped out into the crisp, biting air of the cold night, he found himself clutching the to-go box with an anxious grip as he and the kids meandered their way through the dimly lit parking lot toward his truck. He cast one last, lingering glance at your car, a fleeting twinge of nostalgia washing over him before he redirected his gaze to his own vehicle. The gravel crunched beneath his muddy boots, each step echoing in the stillness of the night, and his eyes were drawn to his back tail-light, where a striking outline of red glowed against the darkness, a beacon in the night.

Once the kids clambered into the truck cab, laughter and chatter filling the space, Ford hastily pulled at the hem of his coat. He rubbed it against the stubborn dark stain on the car paint, desperately trying to erase any trace of his earlier mishap. Satisfied that no visible streaks remained, he finally made his way to the driver's side and pulled the car door open, before stepping inside and slamming it closed.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The librarian's expression made it clear that the library was not hiring at the moment, and you let out a dejected sigh as her red lips formed those familiar words.

“Sorry, sweetie, we don’t need any more people.”

Through the pang of disappointment, you did your best to force a smile.

“That’s alright, ma’am, thank you.”

God damnit.

You should’ve been used to the rejections by now, given how frequently they had piled up like an unwelcome stack of mail, but each time those cold words of disappointing news echoed back at you, you felt a part of yourself wither and fade away. Was the job market really this bleak in a college town, where dreams were supposed to blossom? Your eyes drifted over the other students who meandered around the campus library, their faces etched with a mix of determination and frustration, each of them carrying their own burdens of expectation. You couldn’t help but wonder where all these seemingly carefree students could possibly be working, or if their parents were simply covering all their expenses while they sat in coffee shops sipping overpriced lattes.

With a deep sigh of dejection, you felt the heavy strap of your oversized backpack begin to dig into your shoulder, a painful reminder of the weight of your responsibilities. Searching for a moment of solace, you scanned the library for an empty table. As your gaze landed on a small, unoccupied corner table beneath a flickering fluorescent light, you hurried over and dropped your bag to the ground beside it. The sound resonated in the quiet space, a small act of defiance against the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had settled in your chest.

It was fortunate that you knew Susan, which helped you land that diner job. However, that paycheck was practically pennies compared to what you had been making before, and you could feel stress creep into your shoulders as you dug your laptop out of your bag. The way the screen glitchily flickered to life was yet another reminder of all the bills you had to pay. You scowled to yourself, typing the password into the keyboard with more aggression than necessary. Slipping your headphones over your ears to drown out the noise of student conversations (the loudest sound in the library), you opened a tab for one of your classes.

Staring at the massive amount of homework due made you question why you were even in college in the first place. It wasn’t that you were slacking off on your assignments; you had been keeping up excellently so far. However, it felt like a small pile of work was slowly transforming into an avalanche that you would be buried under. A few desperate clicks showed the due dates for each assignment, and your eyes scanned each one begrudgingly as you tried to figure out which tasks would take the longest to complete.

A couple of essays, some discussion boards, run of the mill shit, made you sigh and bite your thumbnail. Your eyes skated down the page, landing on one of the papers due for your biology class, and you felt your throat tighten a bit at the word. There were a couple of assignments that sat tauntingly, almost pressing into your mind as much as the embarrassment that clung to your brain like static electricity. Every time you tried to even check your grades for the class, it felt like a cinderblock was crushing your hand between it and the mousepad, and you had admittedly skipped out on many of his lectures and tutoring sessions.

It took a lot to catch you off guard, but Ford being in the diner during your night shift was not something you had expected, especially not with his family. You may as well have been a deer caught in the headlights, trapped inside Ford's gaze when you approached their table, unable to run away from his prying eyes this time. Being weird in front of Ford was something you were kind of getting used to, but your discomfort grew in the awkward dance you did to try and talk to the kids. After blinking hard in remembrance to recall the names of the young pair he sat with, you smiled dumbly at the memory despite yourself.

Dipper and Mabel. What interesting twin names.

Your finger unconsciously twisted through a stray piece of hair as your mind raced through events, the glowing screen of assignments in front of you diluted into the background of your thoughts. You felt yourself giggle a bit, the way Dipper awkwardly floundered, and his twin came to the rescue. They almost reminded you of something, something you had seen before in a book or television show somewhere. The thought of two twin siblings getting along in their teen years wasn’t hard to believe, but their closeness was evident through the small interaction, and you nearly found yourself wondering if Ford had any siblings.

Wait what the fuck, that’s weird. Why would I care?

You blinked in surprise before shaking your head and groaning quietly to yourself. It was bad enough that you acted like an idiot in front of Ford, but now his niece and nephew had watched you fumble over your words like an alien. You felt your face burn in a small fury of shame, biting your lip and glaring down at the table. These past few weeks hadn’t been the best, and you were desperately trying to be kind to yourself, but the only solace in the dark was the thought of him. His tall and looming figure brought such a strong embrace around your mind that you hadn’t been able to take your mind off of him, worse than ever. Before it could be called a crush, now you weren’t sure what to call it.

All you knew was you liked the sensation being around him gave you, and you felt guilty as hell for it. It felt like when you bruise a part of your skin and can’t stop pressing into it- it hurts, and it looks bad, but you can’t help it, so you dig your thumb into the flesh over and over. You couldn’t tell if Ford was the bruise in this analogy, or the person, feverishly pushing into the soreness with a masochistic pleasure. You certainly felt like the aggressor in this situation. It’s not like he had said or done anything lewd or uncouth that caused you to rise from your seat and kiss him like some perverted animal; that had all been your impulsiveness. There was just something in the way he spoke to you that was akin to a cheat code in a video game, forcing you, like a puppet on strings, to leap into his arms.

The memory of the kiss burned in your gut, and you shook your head, trying to shield your mind's eye from the daydream, but it bled through the cracks slowly, sending a shiver down your spine. You didn’t remember a lot- just flashes of hazy stubbled lips and the feeling of your skin against his button-down. A jolt of arousal shot through you, followed by something more sincere- something that ached with longing, and you growled at yourself for the emptiness it left in your stomach. You weren’t some lovestruck fool like a teen girl in a young adult novel, but it was getting harder and harder to remind yourself of that when your mind was saturated with ungodly images of him late at night. The previous tutoring sessions were only a match that had been thrown into the gasoline tank that was your perverse mind.

As you glanced down, the glare of your neglected laptop was like a taunt, and you shut it with a sigh, knowing damn well you wouldn’t get anything done this way. You hadn’t talked to Ford since you ran off like that, and the radio silence between the two, being broken the night before, was the only thing on your mind at the moment. Your eyes lazily drifted around the flocks of students roaming, chewing on your lip unintentionally. You couldn’t help but feel like a coward to some degree. None of the people here seemed to struggle with confrontation, so what was your problem? Was there some kind of instruction pamphlet everyone got at birth that you just so happened to miss? It certainly felt that way to you.

There had been strict rules and things to follow for you ever since you were a kid; a set way of doing things that never changed. The anarchy of your hormones in your usually balanced head was like the devil, jabbing a taunting pitchfork right into the eyes of your innocence, blinding you to the love around you. Straight-laced wasn’t exactly the term to describe you (especially after that DUI), but the violent shift in your behavior was jarring in a way you’d never imagined. You were no angel at the end of the day, but the thought of being something else, something more primal…

Your stomach churned at the thought uncomfortably, causing you to lick your lips in a haze, and take a tender sip from your water bottle that did little to quell your thirst. You didn’t regret it, but you felt absolutely terrible, that’s for sure. You’d imagined if it had been a role reversal, if Ford had been the one to wrap your shoulders firmly in his palms before placing a desperate and feverish kiss on your lips. A shiver ran down your spine, despite trying to argue with yourself against it, but each “bad” scenario you could possibly conjure only made your heart race faster. There was something invisible that he had tied around you, tugging you closer and closer to him like a black hole roping in an unsuspecting planet.

As you simmered in your thoughts, the schoolwork fading into oblivion, a sound pierced the air—a laugh so familiar it snagged your attention like a hook in the gut. Your heart dropped, and you felt a chill sweep through you, as if the very air had thickened with tension. Daring to lift your gaze, you searched the dimly lit room, only to find your breath hitch in your throat.

There he stood, a tall figure just a few feet away, engrossed in conversation with the librarian. His back was turned, but the silvery hair was unmistakable, glinting like a beacon of memories you couldn’t shake. Panic surged in your veins, overwhelming your thoughts. You were frozen, caught in a moment that felt suspended in time, a thousand unspoken words swirling in your mind.

Confrontation? The very idea sent a torrent of dread through you. Yet, the instinct to flee battled with an undeniable urge to face the ghost of your past. But now? Right here, right now? Absolutely not! The stakes felt higher than ever, as every instinct screamed for you to remain hidden, clinging to the shadows while danger loomed mere feet away.

The sight must’ve been hilarious as you shoved your laptop into your backpack and somehow tripped upwards when you stood, your eyes never leaving Ford's strong back. Your limbs were not on the same page as your brain, causing you to stumble around like a newborn calf when you tried to throw your heavy ass bag over your shoulder, and you sucked in a breath. Scrambling to the side, you finally regained balance enough to dart behind one of the bookshelves for cover like you were in an active war zone. Your heart raced like a soldier's, and you gripped the strap of your backpack, trying to seem as casual as possible when a couple of students curiously glanced at your debacle.

As you peeked out from behind the towering bookshelf, an unsettling feeling began to settle in your stomach, like a stone sinking low in water. He was nowhere to be seen, as if he had simply vanished into thin air. Panic surged through you as you scanned the dimly lit room, eyes darting from one shadowed corner to another, searching for the large figure that had been haunting you. How could someone so tall move with such unsettling swiftness? You couldn't help but lick your dry lips in nervous anticipation, cautiously stepping further into the aisle.

The musty scent of old paper surrounded you, and you quickly glanced at the section sign looming above. The word “VETERINARY” was etched in deep red letters, each curve and line meticulously crafted, and you raised an eyebrow in curiosity, momentarily forgetting your previous unease. The vibrant array of colored book spines captured your attention, drawing you deeper into this unexpected distraction.

Your fingers grazed a particularly rich, deep red book, its fabric cover worn and inviting. With a gentle tug, you pulled it from the shelf, heart racing slightly at the thrill of discovery. You pursed your lips, feeling a mixture of trepidation and intrigue as you flicked the book open to a random page. Blinking in surprise, your gaze landed on a vivid illustration- an intricate drawing of a majestic animal, its powerful form and piercing eyes capturing a sense of dread and unease that did little to quell your worries.

On the left page was a diagram of a mouse labeled with different symptoms that you skimmed over in morbid curiosity. The labelled text listed different things like “loss of fear” and “general curiosity.” On the right page is a diagram of a cat with the word “TOXOPLASMOSIS” in bold letters at the top. You flipped the page and landed on a few different studies done for mice that had been infected with the disease. You shut that book and shelved it, before grabbing hold of another one- dark purple this time, and flipping it over to examine the cover.

The cover of the book featured an image of a dog's skull next to the dog it belonged to, with bright yellow text that read "VETERINARY ANATOMY." Curious, you decided to open it and landed on the page discussing canine teeth and jaws. A striking image of a snarling Doberman filled the corner of the page, and you found yourself staring at it for a few seconds as you read. There was something unsettling about this particular page that made your stomach drop, prompting you to consider closing the book and shelving it again. As you glanced down at the floor, you noticed a pair of black dress shoes approaching. Instinctively, you stepped aside to let the person pass in the narrow aisle.

“Veterinary anatomy, huh?”

The voice was a gruff growl in your ear, sending a jolt of fear through your veins. You turned in sudden shock, your heart racing as the blood drained from your face. His weathered features loomed over you, his gaze piercing as though he could see straight through your carefully crafted facade. The weight of what you had been desperately hiding crashed down on you like a sledgehammer, each memory hitting you with ruthless force, leaving you trembling and stuttering, a mere puppet caught in a web of your own making. The air thickened with tension, and you could almost taste the bitter dread that gnawed at your insides.

“Oh- prof…Ford. Uh, hi!” you chirped, in the friendliest tone you could, trying to ignore the way your neck hair stood on end, and your jaw tightened in a grip of anxiety. You couldn’t help but be attentive to the way he leaned against one of the bookshelves, reading a couple of the book titles, humming to himself. You felt like Ash Ketchum trapped by a bush in Pokémon- able to go around, but simultaneously not. You sat, dumbstruck, like a nerdy statue, waiting for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke again.

“And here I thought you were a painting major,” he grinned, briefly opening one of the books he had picked up. Your mouth suddenly felt drier than the desert when you went to respond, and your voice was nimble like a quiet breeze.

“I am, I just uh…” You blinked, trying to come up with anything. “I like dogs,” you shrugged, waving the book around briefly, before finally sticking it back in its rightful place. You managed to drag your eyes to meet Ford's, and nearly felt your insides turn to jelly at his thoughtful expression.

“Intriguing. You strike me as a cat person,” he commented, with a grin. “Quiet and reserved, smart too. But ambitious around the right people,” he continued, his eyes moving towards the shelves and scanning the books once again. You blinked at him, a glimmer of delight in your eyes from his compliment that rang through your ears. “Smart.” You took a small breath, trying to calm yourself down enough to act like a human being.

“I like both,” you smiled back, also turning to the books. The silence was tangible, and your growing nervousness was becoming apparent to Ford, since he eventually turned and sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Y/n, I…I…”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him, instead just cringing in preparation for whatever beratement or threat he was about to spew that would spell the end of your school career.

“I want to apologize.”

You paused, turning to him with shards of raw surprise in your glass expression.

“Apologize? For what?” You repeated, a blurry confusion crossing your mind. You were the one who went perv mode on him, not the other way around. You tried to ignore the flashback that politely settled into your brain when you spoke again, in a quieter tone. “You didn’t…do anything wrong,” you sighed slowly, turning away from him. His figure shifted in your peripheral vision, but you still avoided his piercing gaze, unable to withstand the intensity of the man behind them. A jolt of electricity interrupted your thoughts when the feeling of his fingers wrapping tenderly around your wrist bulldozed your self-deprecation. You snapped up to look at the older man.

“I took advantage of you, I feel terrible,” he breathed quietly, now being the one to avoid meeting your gaze. “I should…never have spoken to you like that. It wasn’t right,” he admitted, and you blinked in surprise. “What I admitted to you was inappropriate and…” The guilt that ate away at his expression made your emotional brain jerk in sympathy, and you cut him off in a hushed tone.

“Don’t be sorry.” You replied, your eyes slowly tracing up to his when he loosened his grip on your arm, before sheepishly letting go. “I…I…” There were no words to be found, so Ford simply raised a hand to signal a pause, and you obediently closed your mouth, intently focused. His light demeanor had a shadow cast over it when he leaned in slightly closer, towering over you, and you fidgeted with your rings, suddenly nervous.

“Don’t say anything.”

The words that he purred in your ears felt like they came straight from an adult film, and you bristled in surprise, fighting the shiver that tried to race down your entire body. The erotic tone hidden under the question was so vibrant that it made your head hurt, and your mouth water. You just nodded, following his orders without a second thought.

The thrum of your heartbeat in your eardrums was overwhelming next to the growing desire to sprint like a maniac in the other direction, and your gaze was pulled to Ford's lips that were locked into a…smirk?

He chuckled, running his fingers across his mouth in a tender remembrance that made your stomach flip. “I haven’t had a bruised lip in a while.” The tone he took was casual, like they were having the most normal conversation in the world, and you fought for any sort of grounds in the power imbalance you faced. Your face was hot and sweaty as you furrowed your brows, searching for some witty response.

“Wh- did you come here just to make fun of me?” you hissed, unable to come up with any insult smart sounding enough. Ford blinked in surprise before laughing and shaking his head.

“Of course not, y/n. I’m glad I bumped into you, actually…” he trailed off, and the curiosity that sparked burned a bit brighter than the previous frustration, causing you to look at him with interest. “I wanted to ask you something,” he proposed, adjusting his glasses and showing off his bicep in the process, which made you blush and turn away.

“Um…Yeah? Sure, what's up?” you asked, uncertainty edging your tone, and you eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and a shameful hope. His beautifully dark eyes finally met yours, and he ran his fingers through his powdery hair. He fumbled with his words for a moment, avoiding answering, before finally steeling himself enough to spit a coherent sentence out.

“Look, y/n. I don’t want things to be…tense between you and me,” he began, adjusting his tie. “We both did something we shouldn’t have, and when everything is cut and dried- I didn’t mind it,” he breathed, with a sigh. You stared at him in a stunned silence as he continued rambling on in that hushed tone, like the books themselves were listening. “The bottom line is. I miss you. In the tutoring sessions and class, I mean. It feels nice to teach a student capable of grasping difficult concepts,” he stammered, eyeing the two students who passed by during the conversation. You rocked on your feet a bit, attempting to regulate your spinning thoughts.

“Oh. You…meant it? That you still wanted to tutor me?” you asked, unable to fight the slight disappointment that edged your words, but Ford didn’t take notice anyway when he smiled and nodded.

“Of course. I think that it will be beneficial to both of us,” he noted quietly, and the implications your brain conjured up were enough to make you instinctively squeeze your thighs together subtly. “There had to be a reason that I’ve been dreaming about you, y/n. I intend to figure out why exactly that is,” he mumbled, his husky voice barely audible but still sending a shockwave through you anyway.

The burning desire and hope that grew within you were going to drive you mad if you didn’t get away from this boiling man, but you stayed firmly cemented in place. What exactly did “figuring it out” entail for you? You bit your lip and raised an eyebrow at him, unable to help the whirlpool of innuendos that swept you away like a helpless grain of sand against the tide. After glaring off into space, you sheepishly moved aside to let another student pass, before turning and finding yourself directly next to Ford. His cologne was woody and…coppery? You deeply inhaled before finally gaining the courage to respond.

“It depends. What does that mean, exactly?” you ask, dropping your voice lower and glaring up at him. The way his eyes widen is addicting, and watching the redness spread across his cheeks is a silent reward for your slightly suggestive tone.

“Just…trust me when I assure you that it will be…” he trailed off, his expression pulling into a ponderous one before landing on the right word. “A mutually beneficial system.” The words send a wave of excitement to your core that makes you feel like a firework ready to pop. Still, you feel a small confidence boost in the moment enough to make you fold you arms and cock an eyebrow at him.

“And if I say no?” you ask, leaning your weight to one hip. Ford expression never shifts from that dark, cocky one when he speaks with no hesitation in a masculine huff.

“You won’t.”

The words are ripped from your mouth, and the confidence crumbles under the weight of the arousal his words drive into you, like the final nail in the coffin. You bite your lip in a flustered frenzy, acutely aware of how full the library is at this moment, and you unintentionally find yourself glancing all over in case of any eavesdroppers, but you find none.

After all, everything about this whole interaction was…well, wrong. Even in your core, behind the crashing waves of arousal were islands of uncertainty and waters of unexplored territory. He hadn’t outright said anything sexual would happen- it’s just where your mind had wandered to, but you also weren’t dense. There was something thick in his invitation that made your breath quicken with anticipation, an excitement of the taboo weighed in your stomach. You were torn between the anchors of guilt digging into your ankles and the perverse raw lust that clawed at your upper half, attempting to drag you out of the pool of unease.

It was a quiet eternity where there was nothing else in the entire library besides the two of your breaths, and the drumming of your heartbeats side by side. The distance between your bodies was simultaneously not enough, and too much, trying to blow you back like a shotgun blast, but you stood firm, digging through the tangled web of emotions that trapped you. Your voice came out quiet, but finally, steady, sure of what you wanted to express.

“I’ll do it,” you quipped, and you felt your face deepen at the weight of the words. Truly, it felt like signing your soul away to the devil while your entire family watched, but there was no contract to be had…just a mutual agreement that you didn’t even know the full details of. “Because I want to,” you finished, emphasizing the “I”

He raised a curious eyebrow at you, his gaze never leaving your unsure one, and a wry scoff left his lips, making your eyebrows furrow down just a touch.

“Sure, that’s what we’ll go with,” he said smoothly, and though there was no hint of malice in his voice, you couldn’t help but feel slightly offended anyway. Your nose twitched upwards to scoff right back, and he smiled, shaking his head much to your irritation. “I assume this means you’ll be joining me at seven tomorrow?”

The question is like an arrow shot from a tightly drawn bow straight through your chest, and you have to stammer in a breath, realizing the finality of what he was asking. You could only nod, and he hummed a quiet “good” under his breath, looking down and reaching into his breast pocket. You swallowed hard and watched as he produced a small slip of paper from it and passed it over to you with a smirk. You turned it over in your hands with an odd grin, the number scrawled onto it sending your stomach flipping once again.

“What, you gonna blow my phone up if I don't make it?” you joked with a grin, and he smiled almost flatly, like a sticky note with a smiley face over his actual expression.

“I assure you, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he stated, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and giving it a squeeze. Although the motion itself was endearing on the outside, it left a burning feeling of coldness in its wake, melting the warm aura that had gathered around the two of you. You sucked in a sharp breath, the highness of the moment receding into a frigid unease that coiled in you tightly.

Before you could say anything else, he waved goodbye and turned to exit the aisle.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Every thought that cascaded across your brain's surface was like an attack of thunder, crashing pain, and agony into a throbbing that left you nearly in tears. As if the physical pain of the migraine wasn’t bad enough, the panic of the unfinished assignment blinking on your phone screen was tripling the torture of the whole ordeal. A wet streak spilled down your cheek, and you blinked in surprise, before going to wipe it aggressively to clear the evidence. Even with the state you were in, you had made a promise to Ford to show up, no matter what, which is why you sat in front of his classroom door, half blind in one eye, clutching your head.

It’s not like anyone believes migraines are “that bad” anyway, you thought bitterly. You couldn't count the number of times on one hand that a doctor's note or sick leave request of yours got denied for it not being “serious enough.”

You gripped the cold door handle through the curtains of pain and pushed it open, trying your best to bite back a hiss at the bright LEDs that scooped your eyeballs out.

“Y/n, you made it.”

Your eyes trailed up to the blurry image of the tall man in front of the large whiteboard, scribbling furiously in blue ink. You blinked a few times before waving, even though his back was now facing you again.

“Hey, professor,” you greeted weakly, trying to walk as normally as possible, but ending up looking like a zombie missing a foot. Ford's eyebrow raised inquisitively when you took your usual seat, but didn't bother to move it from beside his desk chair like you habitually did. As if the pain was so intense he could feel it too, he spoke in a quieter tone, like a nurse to a sick patient.

“Jesus, are you alright?” he worried, capping the dry erase marker he’d been using and moving to be closer to your side. You mumbled something incomprehensible, unable to think very clearly under the amount of pain you were in. “Look at me, please, y/n.”

Despite the excruciating ice pick that stabbed into your temple without remorse, those damn puppet strings he attatched to you made your head slowly tilt up to meet his gaze. You could make out about half of his features- the other half gone behind a shimmering display of light and zig-zag patterns. His eyebrows were stone, in a cement expression that was impossible to read in your afflicted head.

“Mn’ fine,” you mumbled, holding up an unsteady hand and waving him off, before running a hand down your forehead with a small wince. “It’s just a headache, I’m ok,” you reassured. Either it was your groggy tone, or the fact that you eyed his trashcan suspiciously, that made him furrow his brows.

“Headaches don’t cause these symptoms,” he argued, subtly snaking the edge of his shoe around the trash can and scooting it closer to you. “Why on earth would you come in this condition? Can you even see to drive?” he fussed, his deep voice laced with worry. You frowned when no justification came to mind, and you hissed when a particularly strong wave of pain rushed over your brain. Your hands felt tingly and numb when you raised one to motion to the case of water sitting beside Ford's desk, which he wasted no time in pulling one out and popping the lid off for you.

“I didn’t want to miss another session…” You admitted quietly, after chugging down nearly half the bottle while Ford watched in shock and concern. “I promised you in the library that I’d make it. I’m not a liar,” you shrugged, capping the water bottle and placing the semi-cool plastic against your temple, though it hardly did anything against the tsunami of discomfort. You could hear Ford sigh before he took a seat in his desk chair beside you, and even though you were delirious with pain, you felt a blush creep across your face and neck anyway.

“There is no way you will retain any information in this…state,” he pointed out slowly and quietly, like his words were nails themselves he was trying not to hammer into your skull. “We should really get you home, or at least lying down,” he advised. You shook your head weakly, furrowing your brows and fighting through the wind blast of nausea.

“No! No… I can work,” you protested, your voice shaky as a wave of nausea surged through you. An uncomfortable sensation of saliva pooled in your mouth, thick and unsettling. “It’s really not ba- hngh- oh, fuck,” The words fell from your lips in a choked gasp as your stomach flipped violently, the queasiness overwhelming your senses. Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, there was a flash of white- Ford, moving with urgency, snatched up the trash can and brought it to you. He positioned it gently in your trembling hands, which were slick with sweat, as your body betrayed you and the world around you seemed to blur.

The entirety of your body writhed and heaved violently, the spit that pooled in your mouth now spilled into the trash can before the waves of vomit. It was an unsightly thing to behold with the sheer force of your body buckling under the intense pain, and it felt like your entire mind went white for a moment when your stomach finally expelled the last of whatever it had left. You heaved once, twice, before gasping for breath and wincing at the soreness in your abdomen, your shirt sticking to your back from the sweat. You blinked, reveling in the temporary pain relief that throwing up had provided, and hazily peeling your eyes from the grossness of the trash can you destroyed.

Your stomach flipped again, but in a more pleasant way this time, when you turned and confusedly found Ford's large frame standing directly behind you. As your mind slowly caught up to speed after the violence, a blush slowly burned its way onto your skin, and you finally felt the sensation of your hair being gently held back in a makeshift ponytail.

“Are you alright?” he cooed softly, gently letting go of your hair that fell to your sides before reaching over you and grabbing a few tissues. You accepted them when he gave them to you, wiping your mouth and nose of the disgusting texture and smell as best you could.

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing,” you groaned, the dull throbbing of the headache starting to ramp up once more, beginning the cycle again. Ford's chuckle did little to ease your discomfort, and you shot him the best glare you could muster.

“Not the first time I’ve seen you throw up,” he pointed out, going to grab more tissues.

This comment made you pause, because even in the deep pits of pain that you were slowly returning to, you could not recall ever throwing up in front of this man before this very second. You blinked and cocked an eyebrow at him.

“What? I’ve never…” You trailed off, and Ford stared at you blankly for a second, which made you all the more confused. “What the hell are you talking about?” you questioned weakly. A moment of silence passed, before Ford sucked in a breath and nodded to himself.

“Ah, I assume you must have blacked out after it happened,” he theorized, and you stared at him incredulously. “When you first started attending class, you left your phone here and asked me to return it to you,” he reminded.

Suddenly, it felt like a piece of the puzzle was finally revealed, a shimmer of an image, and you nodded slowly, the broken up memories of that night being drug up from their graves. You sucked in a breath, and turned to him with wide eyes.

“Jesus Christ, did you see me throw up on those people?!” you barked, quickly hissing in pain from the shockwave the volume set through your head. Ford hid his mouth behind his hand and chuckled softly, trying his best to conceal it. “Yeah, ok, the barrel is in my mouth, I think.” The chuckling from Ford turned into a giddy laughter that he tried to stifle, and he failed miserably.

“I’m just glad I had a trashcan for this time,” he joked, and you groaned, cheeks glowing red as an iron in a flame. “You did give that girl a mean left hook, though. I’m impressed you managed to get dragged off before the cops came,” he commented. The obvious pain you were in crossed your expression, causing him to hiss out a small ‘sorry’ after cutting off his laughter. After a moment, he sighed, and you glanced down with a pleading look.

“Mn…so sorry, Stanford,” you mumbled hazily, stabbing and violent jabs of pain numbing your sense of tone. “Please…I can stay, really. I…” Your pleas were cut short by a firm hand on your shoulder, causing you to jerk your eyes upward. His expression was dark when you dove into his presence once again, and the comforting unease associated with him wrapped around you in a vice. He almost looked like he was…struggling, against some kind of force you didn’t see. Some kind of devil or angel on his shoulder, perhaps.

“Y/n, stop,” he croaked.

You blinked in surprise when his thumb ran across your cheek, wiping away a tear of pain you hadn’t noticed. There was a tenseness you could feel in the motion that made you freeze in place, like he was a landmine seconds away from going off. There was something about the sudden shift in his demeanor that was so jarring, it nearly snapped you out of the hornet's nest of your brain. The care that went behind the action of pulling your hair back was gone now, eerily replaced by something similar, but something emptier. His eyes were pitch black when he spoke again in a ragged breath.

“You need to go home. Now.”

The seriousness that ebbed his tone made your stomach feel completely empty inside, like he had taken a spoon and gouged out your organs. You feel your lip draw into a straight line when a shiver of intimidation races through your body at the sheer darkness of his figure that looms over you like a guillotine.

“I…can’t see,” you finally managed dryly, instinctively clutching onto your left eye. You fight back a strangled cry of pain when another sharp sensation blooms across your temple, and Ford's worried face appears in your view once again, clutching onto your forearms. His arm cascaded across his desk, and you found yourself shaking your head feverishly when the familiar jangling of car keys rang in your ears. “Don’t, please. You’ve given me so many rides.”

“I don’t care. Get your ass up.”

The edge of sincerity in his tone lines up with the words he said, making your jelly-like legs act on their own. You scowled to yourself as you rose to your feet, absolutely astonished at the willingness your body had to listen to him- a direct conflict with your mind that screamed at you to just be fine, act normal, and whip your keys out of your pocket to take your own ‘ass’ home. But the strings were pulled taught, giving your instincts no choice but to rise and lean unsteadily into his arms that he offered.

The only thing your mind registered was the LED lights that ran along the ceiling as Ford guided you through the hallway, a firm hand keeping your body upright. The sensation of his burning palm on your back sent prickles of excitement through you despite the obvious, and you wanted to kick yourself for being so pliable. At the same time, you wished he’d just pick up and throw you over his shoulder or something. There was a pause when Ford pushed the door open for the two of you, and the cold breeze sent a shiver down your spine.

The agonizing pain had dulled just a bit under the cold night air, giving you enough leeway to fold your arms into your torso in an attempt to warm yourself. The thin hoodie and jeans you sported were no match for the February air that stung your cheeks and tore right through your skin, and you clenched your jaw to try and quiet the chatter of your teeth. As the two of you stumbled through the parking lot like a tumbleweed in the wind, your mind couldn’t help but wander a bit when your lazy eyes trailed down his white button-down. The way he carried himself was strong and firm, like a ship against a stormy sea, and you wondered if the confidence was something you imagined. In your opinion, there really couldn’t be another explanation for your unfathomable attraction to him; you simply made up this…romantic version of him that you projected unintentionally.

You watched as he shifted the brown coat he sported off his shoulders and then slung it over you in a swift motion. You opened your mouth in surprise, before shutting it when your senses were overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes, coffee, and cologne. You really couldn’t help it when you hazily lifted the fabric to your nose in a subtle motion, taking a deep inhale.
Even if you told yourself all day it was just a crush, it didn’t change the way your brain was hardwired to react to him, and the desire that settled in your stomach was a grim reminder of that fact.

“Sorry, it uh…might smell like cigarette smoke,” he commented sheepishly, and you blinked, before shaking your head, desperately hoping he hadn’t caught you whiffing his jacket like a perv.

“No, it’s fine…it’s warm,” you mumbled, wrapping the piece of clothing around you tighter. It did feel like a shield of warmth that was protecting you from the coldness of the air. You felt a sigh of relief escape when Ford's truck finally came into your blurry vision.

He wasted no time in opening the passenger's side door and ushering you in, before shutting the door and getting into his seat. The engine roared to life and made you wince in pain, which made Ford belt out a quick apology, before jerking his head around to check for cars behind him. You could tell he was trying his best to be as careful as possible, which you were grateful for as he rolled over the speed bumps like a grandma driving. It was a very strange sensation for someone to be so obvious in the way they cared about you, that it somewhat unsettled you.

The way he would glance over at you ever now and then with that worried look had your heart tearing at the seams. It was something reminiscent of the days you would ride your bike around, before inevitably running home with a new cut or bruise that you would shove into your dad's face, tears streaming down your small face. The look Ford had was so similar to the look in your father's eyes when he would gently set you onto the kitchen counter, applying hydrogen peroxide to the wound. Afterwards, there was always a band-aid and kiss, followed by a sweet treat to “dry the tears.”

You found yourself glancing at Ford yourself the best you could considering your vision. A part of you wanted Ford to be that presence, and the other part recognized how utterly wrong that was. What kind of Frued bullshit was it to wish someone would take advantage of you, and take care of you at the same time? Your lips pulled into a tight line over your plight, and you wrestled with your thoughts and the pain in a losing battle.

You really did feel disgusting for it sometimes.

The dim gray clouds lingered in the dark sky, which painted quite a vivid picture to match your mood. The gentle swaying of the car helped rock you a bit, and you sighed, curling up into a ball in the passenger's seat.

“Almost there,” he said huskily. You felt your heart drop a bit in disappointment at his statement that left you glancing out the window at the familiar indicators that you were indeed very close to home. You gulped, a blade of anxiety slowly beginning to slice through your stomach.

I can take care of myself.

But the pit in your stomach only grew, despite the words you repeated over and over in your head. The thought of your dark apartment all alone when you couldn’t see out of one eye was an extremely unappealing thought that made your mouth dry out instantly. The memory of your dad putting a band-aid over a particularly bad cut flashed through your mind, before you suddenly turned to Ford.

“Will you stay?”

The silence that followed was palpable.

Your heart thrummed in your ears aggressively, the realization of your words like a twisting whirlwind that knocked you flat on your ass. Your desperate embarrassment only grew at Ford's raised eyebrow, and you stuttered out a few times, attempting to come up with something, anything, that would erase what you’d asked. But it was far too late.

“You want me to…stay? At your…apartment?” he asked slowly, like approaching a shark with a desire to pet it and a dream. You flushed, attempting to bark out anything to save the little bit of decorum you had.

“Just-until my sleep meds kick in!” the words all stumbled over each other when you spoke, clutching onto Ford's coat. “It only takes like, fifteen-ish minutes, so you won’t be there long,” you continue, analysing his expression feverishly. When his face turned up incredibly barren, you found yourself disappointed in the lack of clues he tended to provide. You didn’t miss the way he licked his lips before he nodded.

“Yeah. I can do that,” he agreed. You stared at him blankly, completely stunned by his agreement. “The sleep meds…just to sleep off the pain?” he wondered, staring those black eyes into yours, instantly ripping the words out of your throat. You simply swallowed dryly and nodded.

The rest of the ride was fairly quiet, though you weren’t sure if you were happy about that or not. When you finally pulled up to your dinky little apartment complex, you suddenly felt a sense of shame burn inside your stomach that made you bite your lip. You turned to Ford to say something to relieve him of the burden of being your personal nurse, but he was already getting out of the car and slamming the door shut. Your hands twitched anxiously when his figure skated up to your window and opened your side. It’s not that you didn’t want him to come inside…well, no, that was exactly it. Your house was, ahem, shitty. You kept it as clean as possible, but there just weren’t many luxuries you could afford, and some friends had even described it as a ‘trap house’, which made you wince. You frowned and, unsurely, slipped out of the seat into the cold air once again, the pain flaring up at the shifting of your body. Each footstep that brought you closer to your front door felt like another step closer to a public humiliation ritual.

Your hands trembled both from nervousness and the cold when you pulled your keys from your pocket and jammed them into the lock, twisting feverishly. Ford sat patiently behind you until there was a satisfactory click, and you pushed the door open, a crimson creeping over your cheeks.

“It’s…not much,” you weakly croak, stepping inside and allowing him room to come in as well. Ford looks around thoughtfully, removing his shoes and placing them next to yours before taking his coat back from your arms with a tenderness in the motion.

“It’s very cozy,” he grinned, and you swear you felt like you were holding a live hand grenade at the sight of his sincerity. “Definitely suits you, plus, smells like peaches,” he notes, before glancing around on a silent mission. You get the memo, and motion to one of the doors covered in graffiti, trying not to blush at the compliments on your living space. He guides you toward the door and opens it to help you inside like an elderly woman.

Your hands fidget when you flick the small lamp on to illuminate a path, and you hiss in pain, clutching your head. You’re grateful for the strength Ford has, since you’re practically leaning all your weight into him when he walks you around your piles of trash and laundry to your bed. He shoves aside the variety of junk sitting on your bed to make space for you to sit, and you do.

“Sorry it’s so messy in here,” you apologize, suddenly very aware of your goblin cave, you called a bedroom. “Ive uh…been too busy with work to clean,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze.

“A chaotic mind usually means a chaotic room,” he comments, and you cock an eyebrow at him.

“Should I be offended at that?” you grin through the pain. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“I do tend to call myself out as well, don’t I? I should be offended with myself, too,” he offers. You laugh a bit, only to cut yourself off when the throbbing pain cuts into the humor like a knife. Ford's expression shifts to worry, and he leans in closer, hovering a hand over your shoulder. “What can I get for you?” The sincerity in his tone makes your heart flutter.

“Just a glass of water,” you croak, wearily clutching your head. The sound of fabric shuffling and footsteps receding indicates his swift exit, and you sigh, rubbing your temple furiously. The sooner you get the sleeping meds in your system, the sooner you can wake up with just a hangover-level of pain. Your fingers searched blindly beside you for your nightstand, and you felt several cups and pieces of trash being knocked over before your fingers twisted around the familiar bottle. You glanced down quickly to ensure they were the right ones, before going to twist the cap off, and dumping a massive amount, staring at them in debate, then putting most of them back.

The sound of the tap running made your heart race a bit in a small distraction from your inner war. The sight of his ashen hair came back into view after a few moments, and he sported a large cup that you had completely forgotten you’d even owned. He handed you the cup tenderly, and you gratefully accepted.

“Where the hell did you even find this cup?” you giggled slightly, putting the pill on your tongue and taking a healthy sip of the crisp water. Ford stammered for a second, and you grinned.

“Look, I don’t know where your ‘normal’ cups are,” he scoffed, motioning to the bright pink cup you held with a matching crazy straw. “Why the hell do you own that thing anyway?” he questioned, grinning also in spite of himself.

“Some of us like to get competitive at skii ball, ok?” you explained with a shrug, taking another gulp of water. Ford shakes his head with a grin, raking a hand through his hair. “Thank you,” you say quietly. He pauses for a moment before nodding.

“Of course, y/n,” he assures deeply, and the way he says your name makes you feel even sicker. In an attempt to distract yourself, you look down at the uncomfortable jeans that were starting to dig into you. You glance back up at him, nervously tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

“Um…will you…?” you ask, motioning for him to turn around. He stares at you blankly for a moment before his brain catches up to speed. He nods quickly with a “of course” before obeying.

A part of you knew you should have just asked him to leave the room completely. But your mind refused to be in stride with your body once again as you slowly crept off the bed and towards your large black dresser. You pulled open one of the drawers, digging around before pulling out a pair of fuzzy black pajama pants, but your fingers stopped when they reached down to the button of your jeans. You glanced at Ford's back quickly for a slight reassurance, before undoing the button and shimmying the tight fabric down your thighs. If it made you a pervert to change in your own room, then you were, decidedly, a pervert after all.

“What would you…like me to do now?” he asked, turning around cautiously when you signalled it was alright. You shuffled over to your bed, flopping down into it and curling up into the covers like the coziest bug ever.

“I just…need you to stay till I fall asleep,” you mumbled, a hint of embarrassment stinging your cheeks. It was absolutely insane that you were asking him to do this, and it was even more insane that he was playing along for your sake. You felt the bed dip when he sat on the edge of it and reached over to put his keys on your nightstand. There was a moment of silence that befell the two of you as Ford examined the small picture frames that sat close by. He turned to you, gesturing to the photographs.

“Is that your mother?” he questioned. You blinked and moved your gaze towards the image he motioned to. A quiet sadness began to slowly bleed into your stomach that you tried to hide behind a nod. “You look just like her.”

It wasn’t an unusual comment for you to receive. The thick lashes and dusty freckled cheeks were directly copied and pasted, as well as your body type, and you really did just look like a miniature version of her. You felt a disappointed smile weave its way onto your face, and you nodded.

“Yeah…my dad's genetics never stood a chance,” you said, feeling a twinge at the words. “We even have the same laugh. It's scary, like we were twins,” you recalled. You caught the way Ford's face twisted into a grim understanding, before smoothing back out into that masked flatness.

“Seems like you were close,” he observed, and you nodded in confirmation. The slow effects of your sleep medications are starting to trickle into your brain, making everything feel even hazier. The warm red glow of the lamp illuminated Ford's figure, and it almost felt like looking at an eclipse.

“I miss her,” you sigh in admission, looking at the picture and studying your mom's smiling face. The feeling of a hand on your back sends a chill down your spine, and you tear your gaze away from the nightstand to Ford, who looks at you in understanding.

“I’ll bet that wherever she is, she misses you too,” he said gently, a warm smile breaking through his thoughtful demeanor. You feel a rush of emotion as a few tears pool in the corners of your eyes, and you quickly blink them away, trying to regain your composure. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he added, noticing your discomfort. “I didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries.” His genuine apology washed over you, easing the tension in your stomach, and despite the ache in your heart, you couldn’t help but smile at his kindness. In that moment, his figure felt like a soft light, floating in your vision like a jellyfish drifting serenely in the depths of the ocean.
“Don’t worry. If anything, we’ll call it even,” you scoff wryly, leaning your head onto the pillow that feels like it's melting into the cushion. You can feel Ford tense at your words, but you’re becoming too dazed to look up at him again.

“Even. Right,” he breathes to himself quietly.

The heaviness in your eyelids is something you are unable to fight, and the rhythm of your heart echoes in your ears when your eyes slowly flutter shut. You hum softly, the pain slowly dulling behind the immense sleepiness you feel.

“Tell me about cells,” you mumble. Ford pauses before turning to you curiously. You sit, waiting for him to speak, and he eventually does.

“Well…what specifically about them?” he asks, adjusting his glasses.

“Anything.”

There's another thoughtful pause before he clears his throat and nods decisively to himself.

“Alright then…suppose that…one of your cells decides to go against the grain one day,” he begins, and you listen the best you can. “It’s not a choice, though- just something in your genetic coding that makes you different, that makes you wrong. Say you as this defunct cell starts to talk to the other cells in your body, telling them about that exact genetic code…”

The sound of his voice slowly became nothing but slurred nonsense when you finally slipped into a relieving sleep.

He droned on for a few minutes longer before pausing and looking down at your sleeping figure.

“Y/n?” he breathed quietly, but you did not stir. There was another pause before he leaned in exponentially closer and held his fingers out next to your ear, hesitantly snapping a couple of times.

But you did not stir.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

The small group of ballerina dancers on stage shuffled and jumped awkwardly under the pink fluorescent lights, making it difficult to distinguish which clumsy child was Lilly. The ballet seemed to be about fish, but that was about all you could gather, as the dancing resembled more of a series of misplaced stomps. Despite this, it was a nice distraction. Finally, you spotted Lilly in her bright red lobster costume. When she waved to you and Jordyn, you shot her a thumbs up, excited by her big grin that showcased her missing teeth, visible even from the audience.

Seeing Lilly's vibrancy from your spot in the crowd made every single thing this week completely worth it in the end. It's easy to get swept up in the mess of the labyrinth of your mental illness, and your little found family was a guiding compass through that, easing the discomfort. As of late, your body had been about as restless as a child on a sugar high, constantly fidgeting and turning on some hypervigilant settings you couldn't figure out how to switch off. Every single shadow that blurred in your peripheral vision in the crowd drew your gaze away from the stage, further dragging you away from orbit.

It was a miracle you made enough in tips this week to be able to miss a shift, and even though you were meant to be enjoying yourself, the stress of the looming bills still lingered around you, though you did your best to ignore it. Right now wasn’t the time to concern yourself with adult matters. Lilly had begged you for weeks to come, and how could you say no to those adorable brown eyes? It didn’t take much convincing between her and her mother, who presented a wonderfully compelling argument that it would be awesome. Especially with the promise of dinner afterwards and the endless breadsticks that awaited you, a shockwave of hunger rumbled through powerfully alongside the stomach pain.

You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d last eaten, let alone showered, and the stomach pain on top of your greasy hair and skin was starting to make your body feel like a morbid birdcage. You attempted to put some deodorant on to mask the scent, but it ended up making you smell more like B.O. and flowers than anything. There had been massive roadblocks like this in your life, these pockets of depression that seemed to hang over you like a fog, but it had never gotten to this intensity before- ever. You’d have your spells of chronic pain that could take you out some days, but this was something different; it’s like your body wasn’t crying for help this time, but your mind was.

When you sat at Jordyn's kitchen counter earlier, the pain was marginally tolerable. Now, it was growing bit by bit, slowly bursting and twisting its thorny vines into a knot that stabbed at your stomach. Though it wasn't a nauseous feeling, rather a deep-rooted understanding that something horrible had happened - you just didn’t have a clue why, and this was just another thing you tried to ignore. The dark auditorium provided little distraction from your anxious thoughts, and you found yourself dissociated despite your efforts. In the kitchen, Jordyn had studied you with her piercing gaze, and when her dark brown hand reached out to caress your shoulder, you had flinched, hard. The way her eyes narrowed was a bit alarming, like the look your mother used to give you when she knew something was up.

“What’s up, y/n/n? You look sick…” she had pointed out, concern bleeding into every corner of her face. You remember how you had sighed, unable to produce any answer that would satisfy her, because the truth was, there was no answer; you didn’t know what was wrong.

But there wasn’t any way you would miss something after promising Lilly and Jordyn.

As the little dancers lined up in a row close to the audience to wave, you blinked in surprise at the applause from the parents in the crowd before joining in. Jordyn cheered loudly, causing Lilly to blush and hide her face in her hands bashfully. Your mind momentarily lagged, caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts, before you finally rebooted enough to join the applause, which gradually faded as the bright costumes disappeared behind the dark red curtains. It was strange that it had already ended; it felt like you had only just arrived moments ago.

The floor and curtains all seemed to blur together into melting abstract paintings when your eyes finally trailed off from the stage. Your gaze lingered lazily over the other heads of hair that talked to each other in a quiet roaring wave of voices that fell on your deaf ears. Nothing was reaching you through the thick fog that circled your brain like a stormy day, not even the icy hand that met your shoulder and began to shake it around. You felt yourself blink before slowly focusing your eyes back into reality, the quiet wave slowly becoming clearer and louder, as if you were surfacing from deep in a pool.

“Oh my gosh, look at these pictures I got!” A phone screen appears in your sight alongside the gentle touch of Jordyn.

You don’t know why, but you have to fight the urge to flinch at the sensation, and you furrow your brows. Jordyn stares at you silently for a moment, and you finally realize she wants you to say something.

“Ah, those are cute,” you beam, peering down at the images, attempting to seem interested for her sake. You squint your eyes and zoom in on some pictures as you swipe through her gallery, admiring some of the cute photos she managed to get, though you were admittedly not very entertained. When your gaze returns to Jordyn's face, her expression catches you slightly off guard, taking you back. “...What..?” you ask slowly, and there's a pause where she goes to say something before she shakes her head.

“Nothing, you just…are you ok y/n? You seem kinda tired…” She tilts her head to the side and pockets her phone. “Are you still feeling bad? You kinda look pale,” she fussed, going to reach her hand out to your forehead, which made you recoil back instinctively. She paused before pouting, and you sighed, stammering for something to say.

“Yeah, I'm fine, I just… I must have a stomach bug or something,” you finally croak. She looks back at you, worry etched into her young but worn face. “Don’t worry- I’ll be fine to go eat, I swear,” you weakly grin, patting your belly in a motion to try and convince her. She smiled a bit, seeing your face, which made you feel a little bit better.

The sound of a stampede of toddlers being released crashed through the walls of tenderness you and Jordyn had shared, though you didn’t mind too terribly. Even if she had good intentions, sometimes you found yourself wishing Jordyn wouldn’t be so motherly and prying into your personal life, but you couldn’t blame her for it. She was the type of woman to get answers, the type of person you would assume to be some kind of defense attorney or detective, and you weren’t sure if you hated or loved that about her. You knew she already had too much on her plate; there was no way in hell you were about to slop your own problems onto her. As Lilly’s ecstatic body ran up, her oversized lobster costume nearly tripping her, you couldn’t help but wonder if she would be just like Jordyn when she got older- someone who craved justice.

“You did so well, sweetpea!” Jordyn exclaimed excitedly, holding her arms out and allowing Lilly to jump into them. “You were the best lobster up there, my crustaceous cutie,” she grinned, hugging her tightly. She grinned her gapped, missing-toothed smile at you as bright as the sun from over Jordyn's shoulder. You couldn’t help but feel the infectious joy she inevitably spread, and it showed in the irresistible grin that you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

“Did ya’ have fun, Lils?” you asked, endearment reflecting through your eyes as you put a hand on top of the lobster head that covered her mess of afro. She nodded and wiggled around, signaling Jordyn to drop her, so she did gently.

“I had so much fun, oh em gee,” she put her open palms up for dramatic effect, earning a small chuckle from Jordyn, who watched endearingly. “I got to be a freaking lobster, this was the best night ever!” she yelled at a volume just a bit too loud for your poor ears, but the excitement and joy she produced was far more than the annoyance.

“Auntie y/n got you something, baby,” Jordyn grinned, looking over towards you.
There was a pause where you looked around cluelessly, before she motioned with her head over to the auditorium seats you had previously been in. Understanding dawned on your face, and you began to nod.

“...Right, right! These are for you, sweet girl,” you remembered, reaching down into the seat and producing the bouquet of flowers you had picked out on the way here. Her little hands wrapped around the stems, and she smelled them with a grin and an exaggerated exhale. “Lilly's for my Lilly.”

“Those are so pretty, y/n, we’ll have to put them in a vase,” Jordyn decided, peering down at the yellow and white flowers in her daughter's hands. “Say thank you!” she motioned over to you, and you grinned when Lilly bounded over to you, bouquet in tow.

“Thank you, Auntie y/n!” she chirped, wrapping her arms around your waist and squeezing. The crinkling of the flowers against your jeans filled your ears overwhelmingly, and you leaned down to return the hug. After a much-needed moment of Lilly hugs, you watched as Jordyn's fingers tugged a bit at the bright red fabric of the costume.

“You wanna go change in the bathroom before we eat?” she asked, taking her hand in her bigger one. Lilly shook her head feverishly, which made you chuckle.

With your little lobster, you and Jordyn began to make your way through the flowing river current of parents that drained out of the building and into the cold night with air that bit at your skin. You folded your arms over your chest, glancing in a secret jealousy at Lilly, who was wrapped up warm in her mother's arms now, and you scanned the parking lot in search of her bright green minivan. The three of you hurried your way to the vehicle, bursting through the doors in an energetic rush to try and get the heater started. The warm air brought an ease to your frigid skin, but the ugly coldness of your mind was beginning to freeze again.

You gripped onto your jacket feverishly, sighing in content at the heater pointed directly in your face. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the gray clouds in a bask of orange-red light that was quite striking, and you turned to Jordyn as she backed out of her parking space. You studied her features for a moment, taking in the warm darkness of her lips and eyes, as if her very presence was meant to comfort. The buzzing sound of Lilly's excited chatter reverberated from the back seat, easing the discomfort in your stomach ever so slightly.

“Did you guys know the ocean covers 71% of the Earth?” she asked. “And that’s where clownfish and sharks and stuff live,” she recalled, and you watched Jordyn's face in that familiar proud-of-my-child look.

“That is so cool, baby, oh my gosh. What else did you learn?” She asked enthusiastically, glancing in the rearview mirror as she navigated through the post-ballet concert traffic. She muttered a curse word under her breath at the car that cut you off, making you laugh a bit.

The list of ocean facts provided generously by Lilly was an excellent distraction for about 30 seconds. After that, the blurry haze of discomfort began to settle back over your head heavily, attempting to weigh you down like a stone in water. You found yourself staring out the window at the passing trees and cars, drowning in the terrible, heavy weight in your stomach that felt like swallowing shards of glass. You wanted to talk to Jordyn instead- listen to one of Lilly's wild school tales, but the reality was that you couldn’t even if you tried, not in a meaningful way anyhow. It was upsetting, as deeply irritating all at the same time.

Nothing had been amiss, after all, so what was there to be anxious about? You weren’t behind in any classes, and you had actually managed to finish your painting midterm before its due date, so what gives? You tenderly rubbed your stomach before the familiar sensation of pain bloomed across your skin, and you looked down in remembrance of the wound now gashed into you. It wasn’t deep enough to be serious, but it was definitely deep enough to hurt like a son of a bitch if you hit it right.

That very wound might have been the cause for all of your anxiety; it was a possibility you had considered. A person waking up with a giant cut with no discernible reason is not exactly a normal thing to happen, a bruise or scratch, maybe, but not something this extreme. Whatever had happened was violent, precise. And when you woke up from your migraine hangover the next day, the crimson that stained your sheets did little to help the bleary confusion you were already in. You had tried to recall the events from before, the memories going fuzzy after Ford's worried face as he helped walk you inside your house.

You frowned hard.

It wasn’t something you wanted to admit, but a part of you believed it had something to do with Ford, and you felt guilty as fuck for it. After all, you didn’t remember more than half the events leading up to arriving at your apartment, so who the hell were you to try and accuse him of hurting you like that? On the other hand, though.. You furrowed your brows, glaring down the white lines separating the lanes, feeling much like the crushed-up bugs stuck to Jordyn's windshield. He had been nothing but polite and gentlemanly towards you…but that stare he always wore. The stone expression of calculation he wore permanently, like a branding. Well, it scared you.

The worst part of it was though, was the way that your stomach seemed to twist at that very expression. Every time those pitch black holes burned into yours, there was an undeniable shift in the way your brain functioned, and it was a shift you weren’t sure you could ignore for much longer. It made you want to listen to everything he was saying like a sinner, desperate to learn the way out of their doomed spot in hell. Was redemption even possible for you at this point? The unholy territory your mind began to crawl towards made you shake your head at yourself disapprovingly.

You knew from the second you laid eyes on the six-fingered man that you were desperately attracted to him, almost as much as you were scared of him. His dark eyes and clean-cut jawline appeared in your mind's eye wearing a smile, and you bit your lip in a straitjacket of guilt for your stripped morals. There was no question of ‘do you?’, but the question of ‘why do you?’ You needed to be with him in such a magnetic force that you felt you couldn’t keep away for too long before you’d inevitably be in his presence again. But being in his presence felt like trying to enjoy a nice family dinner with a sniper aimed at your brain, and you didn’t know why. Everything that fell from his mouth was charming, something you had always wanted desperately to hear.

The cut must’ve happened while he was getting me to my apartment. I…must’ve fallen into something sharp.

You held onto that sentiment like a pillow clutched to your chest during a bad storm. You were drowning so badly in your own bad thoughts, you almost didn't hear Jordyn when she spoke again.

“I can take you back to your apartment, you know.”

You blinked in surprise and turned from the window you had been staring out of to Jordyn. You glanced in the backseat curiously and were met with the sight of a small sleeping body curled up in bright red fabric. You turn back to her and shake your head, careful to keep your voice down when you protest.

“No, it’s…really, I’m fine,” you reassure. You feel your fingers mindlessly pick at the hem of your skirt. “It’s just a little stomach ache, besides, I’m hungry,” you point out lightly. Jordyn pulls her lip up and sighs.

“Agh, you know, I hate when you do this, y/n,” she says empathetically. You raise a curious eyebrow as she continues. “You get all weird, and clammy and stuff. Then you try to act like you’re fine, but you walk like you have a stick up your ass, and you breathe like a fish on land,” she pointed out. You feel your cheeks heat up at her observation, and you stammer incredulously before finding words for a comeback.

“Wh- No, I don't!” The small body that stirs and grumbles from the back seat makes you cover your mouth a bit, and lower your volume exponentially. “I literally don’t…wha- a fish?!” you hiss, and Jordyn giggles a bit at your quiet exasperation.

“I’m just saying, I can read you a lot better than you think, y/n,” she raised her eyebrows, shooting a glance at you, which made you gulp. “We’ve been best friends for what- seven years? And the fact you think I can’t tell when something’s up is crazy,” she pressed. You felt your mouth open and shut, and you suddenly understood her earlier point of looking like a fish. You ignored the embarrassment that brought you in favor of trying to scrounge up a defense.

“Look, Jordyn. I really don’t know what to tell you,” you sighed. “There's literally nothing I can think of that’s bothering me,” you bluffed, putting on your best poker face. The memory of Ford's lips on yours flashed through your head, cracking that mask nearly instantly, and you watched Jordyn's entire body pause, making you hold your breath.

“Wait a damn minute…” she mumbled, stopping at a red light. She whipped her head to fully face you, making you break out into a cold sweat as she studied you like an interrogator. You felt an intense sensation of suspense at the moments of silence in her shock. “Oh my god, y/n!” she gasped, reeling in her excitement at the little shuffle from the back seat.

“What? What, dude?” you questioned nervously, her hands flapping excitedly as she squealed in a hushed tone.

“It’s a fucking guy, isn't it!” she exclaimed, pointing at you. You felt your eyes widen a bit, and an empty feeling burned through your gut at the vulnerability. She gasped once again, her smile somehow widening even further. “It totally is, you always get that look when it's a guy problem!” The excitement in her tone was as intense as lemon juice, which was humorous in contrast to her quiet volume. You furrowed your brows, shaking your head furiously.

“No! It- well…It’s not-” you tried, but the further you stumbled over your messy vines of sentences, the further you excited your companion in the driver's seat. You groaned in intense frustration, wishing she would just buy your bullshit and shut up, but that, of course, was never Jordyn's style.

“Bruh, I can’t believe you’ve been scared to tell me about a little crush,” she scoffed, continuing to drive. You stammered for a moment, hoping to come up with some brilliant argument that would explain away all of this, but she knew she had you pinned. “I know you got commitment issues, but jeez, you can at least tell me about the dude.” You paused and stared at her incredulously, before surrenduringly pouting.

“I…didn’t want to say anything, because it’s never happening,” you explained cautiously, like you were stepping around a bridesmaid time bomb. “He’s not exactly my type. And besides, I don’t think he's really into me like that...” She frowns and raises an eyebrow.

“Hmm, ok. Well, clearly you like him,” she points out, holding up one finger. “Clearly, something happened that's making you all funky,” she listed, holding up another finger. “And, clearly, you guys shaboinked,” she grinned, wiggling her eyebrows. You raised your eyes incredulously, feeling your already blushing face grow all the more intense.

“Dude, no-! Nothing has even happened between us! Just- weird and awkward tension,” you explain, exasperatedly. She looks at you, and you glance at her blank expression, somewhat regretting allowing her to see inside the depths of your desires. You mess with the hem of your skirt and bite your lip, staring into your lap with intensity. “I…can never tell what he’s feeling…what he's thinking…I misread some of his signals,” you groaned, running a hand over your forehead. A small voice behind you interrupted your conversation, and you paused to keenly listen.

“Momma…how far are we? I’m hungry,” Lilly whined groggily from the backseat. Jordyn took one hand off the wheel to lovingly caress her knee, and she smiled at her in the rearview mirror.

“We’re almost there, hon, I promise,” she reassured in that beautifully soothing tone that could put a screaming baby to sleep. “Just go back to sleep, ok? When you wake up, we’ll be there,” she advised, and a yawn was expelled from Lilly before she turned back over to fall back asleep. Jordyn sighed before turning back to you with an understanding smile.

“Hey. I get it, it’s not something you want to talk about,” she receded. “I just…I want you to know that I’m here for you, too, ok? It’s my job to look out for you, too,” she pointed out. You listened thoughtfully as she continued, gesturing gently to you as she spoke softly. “If you’re embarrassed or somethin’ like that, that’s alright, y/n. I know I poke fun, but I would never make fun of you for something like that,” she reassured. You felt yourself smile a bit at her compassion for your sensitive nature, and you brushed a hair out of your eyes to get a better look at her face.

“Thank you, Jordy,” you mumbled thoughtfully, putting your head on her shoulder and giving it a gentle peck with a smile. “I swear I’ll tell you, just…after it stops,” you say. Her curls bounced around when she shook her head with a chuckle.

“I swear you make no sense sometimes,” she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel with a hum. The comfortable silence that settled over the car was only comfortable for so long, though. Despite all of her comforting words of advice and kindness, it wasn’t a strong enough shield against the nuke that was your anxiety.

The dinner was mostly forgettable, underneath the oceans of thinking you did while staring into your ice water cup, the waitress set down in front of you. The chatter of other patrons was nothing but annoying flies buzzing in your ears, distracting you from what you were really stuck on. It’s not like you had lied to Jordyn, but you did feel guilty for never elaborating on why you felt the weird mood swings you did, especially in this instance. She could know there was a guy, but she could not know anything else, and that was a secret you intended to keep, despite the promise to eventually tell her.

The imagery of a humiliating rejection slowly materialized in your head over the sound of someone's sizzling fajitas across the restaurant. What if you decided to go into the deep end and just tell Jordyn everything, even his age? Even the fact that you’re 40% certain he cut your stomach while you were sleeping? You chewed your food harshly, attempting to play along with the conversation taking place on the outside of your inner monologue.

You were a fierce woman, but something about the notion of your closest friend wanting nothing to do with you made your heart sink. You knew if you told her more, she would point out all of the red flags, and then you couldn’t turn a blind eye to them like you had been doing for the past few months. She wouldn’t allow you to do something like that to yourself because she is an incredible friend and an even better persuader. She wouldn’t let you blatantly put yourself in the hands of a man who clearly has hidden intentions… and that made you frustrated beyond belief. The iron bars of her watchful eye felt like a prison cell, chained to the gaze of a woman who cares deeply for her friends, but perhaps too deeply.

The truth is, deep down, you knew something wasn’t right about Ford. The way he carried himself, the way he spoke, his mannerisms- he might be charming, but he was also incredibly strange, maybe even sinister. And you knew Jordyn would pick up on that immediately, steer you from the path of trouble. She would pick you up and save you from the evil clutches of the dragon like a knight in shining armor, and keep you in the safe castle, fortified with bricked walls and barbed wire. But in this scenario, you didn’t feel like a princess in need of saving. You felt more like the weird donkey from Shrek who wanted that dragon.

Besides, whatever was wrong with him surely couldn’t be that bad. It’s not like he was violent or rude- he was the exact opposite. A part of you just wanted to believe Ford was just not really “people” trained, and he was like a dog who gets nervous around people. You scoffed in a quiet disbelief at your desire to coax him out of that habit, the need you felt to ease him into normalcy. That was utterly ridiculous because number one, what sense of normalcy could you possibly provide? And number two, he was a grown man, not a dog in need of training. Despite the words you told yourself, imagining him with a pair of puppy ears did tug at your heart a little.

Much to your embarrassment, Jordyn turned to you in your fantasy land, popping the bubble and making your cheeks glow, like she could read your mind.

“You listenin’, girl?-” a pause, where she chuckles, “-I swear you aren’t even on the planet right now dude. Do you wanna go or not?” she asks, clearly continuing a question you didn't hear. You stared at her for a second and blinked dumbly.

“Go…do what exactly?” you asked, and Jordyn shook her head.

“Camping, dumb dumb. I was saying that Lilly is going to her grammy’s this Saturday, so we should go do something,” she re-explained, stroking Lilly's cheek gently. “I was thinking a camping trip like we used to,” she grinned, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You felt a smile finally reach through the fog and spread across your face.

“Camping, huh? It has been a while since we’ve been…” You pondered, taking a sip of your drink thoughtfully. “Which site would we go to? The river one? It’s probably frozen over by now,” you commented, and Jordyn nodded in agreement.

“I was thinking the Mantis Camp, since the site is pretty out of town,” she suggested. You cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Oh? Ain’t that the campsite near the cemetery?” You asked, and she replied in confirmation. You twisted a finger through a faded purple streak of hair, trying to decide whether or not you would have the energy and time to go. “Sounds spooky, but I’ll let you know if I have a day off,” you promised, and Jordyn's shoulders slumped a bit, but she ultimately nodded.

You glanced at Jordyn when you all ushered to the front desk to pay for your meals (which you hardly remembered) and wondered if this was how she felt before she and her ex got together. Confused and scared. You opened your mouth to say something to her, but when her eyes met yours, you couldn’t find the courage to say what you wanted to, so instead, you picked up a mint from the large bowl on the counter and popped it into your mouth. Bringing up Jordyn’s ex for your sake was what some would call a bitch move, and you never wanted to open her old wounds.

When you finally made it back to the safe confines of your little apartment, you practically collapsed onto the couch in a pile of exhaustion. The silence was a beautiful bliss in your ears, only broken by the light sound of crickets that rang from outside, singing their nightly songs. Every time you left the house, it felt like it took a thousand years off your lifespan, and the grunt you let out when you pulled your shoes off sounded like an elderly man. You sat still, allowing your body to relax as much as it possibly could, despite the obvious.

When you finally did move just a few inches, you winced a bit in pain, and your hand instinctively shot to your stomach. The sound of your breath was wind in your ears, and your eyes stayed glued to the blank screen of the powered-off TV. Your reflection almost looked ghastly, causing you to nearly gasp in surprise at yourself. Had it really been that long since you'd brushed your hair? Fingers absentmindedly snaked through your hair, the feeling of oil left behind making your face contort in disgust. You glanced towards the hallway that led to your bathroom.

Even though you felt absolutely disgusting, something about taking care of yourself in this moment felt impossible. The plaque on your teeth from days without brushing was starting to show, and you turned away from the TV with a scowl. It was just a shower, but your stupid brain was making it feel like a marathon, a race that you would surely not survive. You wanted to get up from the couch, go shower, and curl up into your comfortable bed, but you couldn’t. You could only sit and stare…

VRRR VRRR VRRR

The strong vibration from your pocket made you gasp, and you nearly dropped it when you fumbled it from your purse beside you and glanced at the name. Your eyes scanned the text and narrowed upon reading it. You took in a breath as the phone was a violent shrieking bomb in your hand, your thumb hovering indecisively over the answer call button.

Finally, you decided to press it.

“This is a prepaid call from Amanda L/N, an inmate at the Saw County Correctional Facility. All phone calls are subject to recording. To decline this call, press nine. To accept this call, press 1.”

When the familiar automated voice droned into your ear, you paused for another moment, taking a deep breath, before pressing 1.

There was a moment where neither of the two parties spoke, until finally, you gathered courage and spoke.

“Hi mom…” You greeted quietly. You could practically feel the smile from behind the phone when she replied quickly, plowing over your words.

“Oh my goodness, y/n! Sweetie, hi! I wasn’t sure if you would answer so late, were you sleeping, pumpkin?” she hums, the receiver crackling her familiar voice into something distorted.

“No, um. Nah, I wasn’t asleep. I just got home…actually,” you confirmed, running a hand over your head. Your mom's voice on the other end was crackling through again with disapproval of your bedtime, which you pointedly ignored.

“I just wanted to check on you, see how ya were,” she finally stated, getting to her eventual point. “I miss you like crazy, baby girl, I really do. When are ya gonna come see me?” she asked, and you felt your heart sink. You cleared your throat away from the receiver, sniffled, and then spoke.

“I’ll…I’ll come soon, Mom, I promise. I’ve just been really busy lately,” you mumbled, like you had so many times before. “Class work had been piling up on me pretty bad and-”

“Y/MN/LN, you better not be failing those classes, young lady,” she scolded suddenly, her southern drawl surfacing through. “Your mawmaw's money is payin’ for those classes; she’d have a fit if she knew you were flunking. Oh dear lord help me,” she mumbled the prayer at the end, making you roll your eyes.

“No, Mom. I’m not failing…uh…most of my classes,” you winced at the slip of information, and you heard more rapid prayers over the receiver, so you cut in again. “It’s just my biology class! And, I- I’m getting tutored!”

There was a moment where nothing was said, before you heard that oh-so familiar sigh.

“That's good, that's good…” she repeated. “You never were a scienc-y gal. That’s what makes you such a damn good painter,” she chuckled softly. You frowned, but not out of anger. “You better be studying, y/n, really. I just…” she trailed off at the end slightly, and you furrowed your brows a bit, waiting for her to continue, but she didn't.

“You just…what?” you asked, unsure if you wanted to know the answer or not. A sigh was heard from her end once more.

“Just worried about ya’ babe,” she croaked. “It would hurt my heart to know you weren’t doin’ well while I'm locked up in here.” Her tone was heavy, making your lip quiver. “Ah, but…anyways. I was calling ya cause I had a question to ask,” she distracted successfully, pulling your attention the way she wanted, like she’d done for years.

“Oh, yeah…uh, what’s up?” you asked, blinking away the slight pool of tears that was beginning to form. The sound of other inmates in the background made it hard to hear, so you pressed your ear harder into the speaker.

“You know I can’t, so…will you visit your daddy for me?”

You blinked, feeling like the eye of a thundering storm. There was a long moment where neither of you spoke, leaving only the sound of background conversations ringing in your ear.

“I can do that. Sure,” you finally responded, biting your nail absentmindedly. “Any…reason why?” you asked curiously. Now it was your mother's turn to pause, and you sat in wait for her answer.

“God’s been telling me he needs to talk to you,” she admitted, and you bit back a groan at her evangelical rhetoric. “Something urgent…I feel like you should see him,” she repeated. You felt your brows furrow just a touch.

“Fine, Mom. I’ll go see him when I get up tomorrow, I promise,” you said quickly, suddenly just dying to be off this phone call. “I really want to go to bed right now, though, I’m super tired,” you mumbled. You felt a pang of guilt at the sadness in your mom's tone.

“Alright, sugar…thank you,” she spoke, her voice trembling in such a slight way that you could easily miss it. “Come see me soon…ok?” she asked. You frowned, wiping away a stray tear with your shirt.

“Ok. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, y/n. Sleep well, angel.”

..click…

You held the phone up still, listening to the deafening sound of the dead line for a couple of seconds, and you found yourself blankly staring at the painting of Jesus leaning against your wall haphazardly. A gift- from your mother, of course. You hadn’t bothered to hang it since you got it last year in the mail, but you found yourself studying it as you sat still, listening to only the sound of your uneven breathing. An uneasiness gripped you like a vice, and you toiled over your own emotions silently and emotionlessly. When you set your phone down on your coffee table and stood, you felt like a robot, finally programmed to do something. As you entered your bedroom and pulled your clothes off, you couldn’t help but glance in the mirror with an absent stare, drawn to the dark crimson of a fresh wound right above your stomach.

You stared at the precise, straight edge carved into your skin for a few hazy seconds, gingerly running your fingertips over it. You were too broke to get Band-Aids or any first aid for that matter till your next paycheck, so you gingerly stumbled over and sat down on your bed, curling up into a very small ball and clutching your covers to your chest. The quiet hum of your heater blowing wasn’t a good distraction from your metaphorical wound that had just been torn open again, but the route to any distraction was a greater distance than you were willing to travel in that moment, so you opted to lie still and stare at the wall.

Time felt like nothing as you sat in your wrapped-up blankets for what could’ve been minutes, or hours, and your eyes began to sag in a dry tiredness. You were thinking about absolutely nothing, and also everything at the same time, but when the birds began to sing their morning songs, you realized that you had eventually fallen asleep- you just didn't know when. Your dreams were nothing but hazy, meaningless garbage, only to be forgotten as soon as you woke to the small light beaming through the window. Beneath your eyelids, your annoyance began to burn as much as your eyes, causing you to finally peel them open all the way.

The darkness of the curtain contrasted harshly against the sunlight, and you groggily made a move to pull yourself upright. Your bones made a hideous cracking sound when you stretched, wincing at the overwhelming sensation of soreness that spread through your body. A quiet groan fell from your lips when your hand reached down to snag your phone from where you had been sleeping on it. It peeled off your sweaty skin before you blinked a few crusties away and checked the time, sighing at the realization that it was only six in the morning, meaning you had slept for at least two hours that felt like zero. When you looked out the curtain and into the street, the memory of last night's phone call surfaced, along with the usual anxieties and stressors.

After halfheartedly pulling on a hoodie and halfway brushing your hair, you grabbed a protein drink from your fridge and chugged it feverishly like you’d been eating sand for years. You stared at your car keys that sat tauntingly on your kitchen counter, beckoning you to make a choice. A glance at the overcast outside would probably deter most from an outing this early, but something about the way the reds and yellows were peeking through the clouds made you want to go outside (for some reason, you never did that). The metal of the keys was cold when you palmed them, and you began to make your way out the front door to your little car in the cold morning air.

SAW COUNTY CEMETERY

You typed the words into your phone hesitantly, even just reading them, making your stomach churn a bit. You glanced up at the front door to your apartment longingly. Maybe it would be best if you went back inside, if you crept back into your cozy mattress and slept the day away once more. The handle clicked indecisively as your hands tugged at it slightly, unsure of what move to make next. Your mom was certainly just on her crazy religious-psychosis shit as usual, so there was truly no reason for you to go in the first place. Even if there was no reason, though…something about her tone of voice had an urgency in it. Like the voice a mom uses when her child is about to undergo a life-saving surgery. You glanced down at the directions one more time before finally pulling your seatbelt on and shoving your keys into the ignition.

The early school morning traffic piled up as usual, giving you plenty more time to stare out the windshield and ponder while stuck. The sun was now a glowing red, showing its shining face even more than before from the clouds, and giving you a bit of warmth on top of the car heater. While you stared at the political stickers of the truck in front of you, you couldn’t help but wonder if you should bring flowers or not. A quiet sigh was exhaled, before you opened your glove box and began to dig around in a search. Even if you weren’t the most religious, a part of you still hoped that maybe your dad appreciated the things you brought him. Unfortunately, though, most of the contents were receipts, pens, and garbage you hadn’t thrown away. When a cold sensation met your fingers from underneath the piles of paper, you wrapped your hand around it curiously and brought it up to your face to study it. When the object met your gaze, however, you found yourself staring at the small metal disk in confusion.

It wasn’t big- roughly the size of your palm, and it was a smooth metal in your hands. It resembled something like an iron coaster, just a small round disk with no markings or brands. You felt your eyebrows twist curiously, and you flipped it over in your hands, trying to recall where you got it, or what the hell it was. After staring for a few more seconds and ultimately drawing a blank, you simply tossed it back in to continue your search. Filing through more papers took a bit longer than you expected, and when the person behind you honked, you flinched in surprise before embarrassingly lurching forward.

By the time you reached the cemetery, you’d gathered up a small handful of coins and a stray 99-cent shot you found rolling around in your floorboard. As you stared at the object in your palm, you couldn’t help but let out a wry laugh at it, nodding in acknowledgment that it’s exactly what your dad would’ve wanted. You shook your head with a dry smile, before opening your car door and looking over the all too familiar plots adorned with headstones. You scanned for a minute, but you know you didn’t need to. Your legs would carry you the same path they had always walked, all the way to the bending willow tree and the bench underneath it.

You stared at the bark, and your initials were carved into the tree like a permanent scar on its body. It was weathered now, not fresh like it used to be. You set the coins down under the tree and awkwardly rub your arm, fiddling with the small bottle in your hand, watching the willow leaves twist in the wind.

You took a breath before setting the shot down next to the coins.

“Hey…dad…” you spoke, your voice cracking from the hours of inactivity. You took a beat to pause, and clear your throat in embarrassment, instinctively glancing over your shoulder for judgemental eyes, but finding none. You turned back to the tree before slowly approaching the bench below it and reading the words engraved onto the black metal.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF BRUCE L/N

A heaviness gripped your heart when your eyes scanned the words, over and over, like you’d never seen them before. You pulled at your sweater with a looming feeling of broken up guilt and pain, and then slowly took a tender seat on the bench.

There was a moment where everything was completely still, and not even the birds or the bugs could be heard in the field. The stillness felt like a parallel to the weekend mornings with your parents, curled up on your huge couch watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating sugary cereal, which your mom despised, so she’d always have plain toast with a coffee instead. You recalled the way he would fill your bowl up with more cereal when she wasn’t looking, and you’d smile at each other in a secret alliance against the evil rule-maker. When you spoke, the tremble in your tone caught you off guard.

“You know it’s funny…mom is the one that told me to come see you,” you said to no one in particular, staring up through the leaves of the sheltering tree. “Ironic, huh? Usually, she hates your guts,” you chuckled softly.

The shifting of the breeze rustled through the tall grass and trees, causing a shiver to run down your spine, so you gripped your jacket tighter to your body and sighed. Your eyes jumped from all of the different statues and headstones that littered the lot, and you blinked down at the bench you sat on, petting it softly.

“She said you wanted to talk to me, whatever that means. You’re probably like…gambling in heaven or something if it’s actually real,” you shook your head sarcastically. You paused before continuing to talk to yourself. “It must be…nice up there. In heaven, I mean. I hope you met Axel up there,” you smiled, fondly remembering your passed-on childhood dog. The silence began to drag on after a few seconds, and you clenched and unclenched your fists. You felt stupid. This was stupid. Your crazy ass mom tells you to do something from jail, and you just do it? You weren’t even sure what to say anymore, since you already felt like you were going nuts.

Because what was there left to say, really? You had sat underneath this same tree in the same spot maybe hundreds of times, all offering different words and protests, begging and crying, screaming or yelling- it didn’t matter. No matter what words you could string together in a beautiful sentence, nothing would have the power to undo the cold grip of death that held him, and you would leave the cemetery alone, every time. So instead, you just sat in a silent movie theater in your mind, replaying the memories that were usually too sad to think about.

Here, that didn’t matter. You could rip yourself open for the whole world to see, and god knows another poor soul will be a few rows down doing the same for their own lost one. These headstones had seen more of your inner turmoil than any human being, so much so that it was almost a comfort at this point to you, and you studied the wings of the angel statue right across from your position. The artwork was gorgeous, carved into a sturdy stone but still able to portray the delicacy of the woman, and her large wings that stretched up to the sky in an attempt to reach the heavens once again. If there truly was a God, you could only hope he was treating your dad well, like it should be.

As you studied the angel statue with your hands in your palms, you listened serenely to the crickets and birds from the forested area near the plot. You took a deep breath and held it, taking in the beauty of the morning, and running a hand over your tangled hair. You weren’t sure why, but it suddenly seemed like you had the energy necessary to finally look after yourself, even just a little bit. You picked at the hem of your pajama pants when you opened your eyes once again, staring into the dirt and the little ants that busily scurried across, unbothered by your presence. You envied them, and somehow related to them at the same time.

You lost track of time as you sat, watching the sunrise from the bench contentedly. The early afternoon had bared its shining teeth, digging a reminder into your pained stomach that you hadn’t eaten breakfast or drunk anything yet, which conjured up a nice picture of a giant pancake stack in your mind. The Earth felt slightly lighter when you got to your feet and inhaled, allowing yourself to feel the energy enter from your nose through your limbs. When you opened your eyes again, you brushed a hair behind your ear and turned to face the willow tree.

When you reached out, you tenderly stroked the bark and your initials, an uncertainty beginning to take place in your mind. Though you were glad you had gotten the balls to visit again, it still felt like there was something…else. A nagging item on your to-do list that hadn’t been crossed out yet was beaming red. Your mom hadn’t asked you to do anything else as far as you remembered, but that didn’t still the feeling. After a few minutes of pondering while staring into the bark, you finally withdrew your hand and shook your head at yourself. You were just tired, and the feeling of two hours of sleep was starting to weigh down on your shoulders, meaning you should probably get home before you fell asleep at the wheel.

Just before you turned back around, however, there was something in your mind that made you stop momentarily, like your brain cancelled its signal to move, and you shockingly stood in place. There was something like a slow impeding blade that pointed at your back, and a wave of paranoia briefly hit you before you spun around in confusion. You blinked a few times, unsurprised to find that nothing was amiss, and no one was around. You listened closely, considering the possibility that another person had just been out of view from you in another area. The longer you listened, though, the harder your heart seemed to thud in your ears. Before, there was the colourful chatter of the woods and critters. Now, as you stood completely still, there was no sound whatsoever, as if you were in a pocket of silence.

You hadn’t realized you’d started holding your breath until the slow crunching of gravel on a path far away echoed through the air, making you gasp quietly in surprise. Like an alert cokehead, you snapped your head to follow the source of the noise, which was coming from the left, just a few plots over. You weren’t sure why, but the urge to hide behind the tree had you in a stone grip, and you felt like your body was out of your control when it swiftly moved to shelter. You eased a bit at the notion of being out of sight from the person, but a looming feeling of anxiety was starting to take place in your belly, and you slowly peeked your head out from behind the tree trunk.

The sight of a tan trench coat immediately caught your attention, and you focused your vision on the figure hunched in front of one of the tombstones. The rest of his features weren’t visible from where you stood, and you strained to see the small motions the man made with his hands. He was speaking, though there was no way you’d be able to hear, even if the sound of your heartbeat in your ears wasn't hammering away.

It’s just another person, y/n. Calm down. You thought to yourself, shaking your head at how ridiculous you’d been.

Despite the embarrassment, though, you still found yourself unable to move, locked into place like a superglued Lego. You were being a weirdo, unsurprisingly, but a part of you felt like if you moved…

When the figure stood, the sheer frame of the person made your eyes widen a bit, like an extended ladder had just been unfolded right in front of you. The familiar striking flare of gray hair caught your eye, and when he turned so you could see his side profile, you felt your heart thud out of time for a second. His broad shoulders were still as he stared off into the forest to the right, completely unmoving. You wondered who he must’ve been visiting, if it was a family member, or someone close, and you felt an empathetic pang fill your heart. Had Professor Pines… lost somebody?

The spell of being a statue was finally broken when you instinctively reached a hand out towards his back that faced you, and your mouth fell open to say something. Before you could yell across the field or do whatever it was you were about to do, he suddenly bent down again, and your face went red at the sight before you shook your head to rid those thoughts. When he sat upright again, he had some kind of strap in his hand, clutched tightly. Wordlessly, he slung something around his shoulder, and his large, muddy boots began to crunch on the gravel off towards the treeline he had been staring at before. After squinting your eyes, you felt your brows naturally furrow, your gaze locked onto the sniper rifle he now sported across his back. There was no chance to say anything or even get his attention before he busily took off into the dense woods.

You stared at the spot he had almost vanished at in awe, blinking in pure shock. Seeing your teacher outside of school was already kind of weird. Seeing them at a cemetery is also pretty uncomfortable, but seeing them with a giant gun piled on top of that was absolutely jarring. Your hand tenderly met your forehead, and you held it for a moment, trying to round up your scattered thoughts. Why on Earth would he own a gun, let alone bring it to a cemetery? There were obvious explanations, yes, but all of them just seemed so…odd. If he were a hunter, that was even stranger because this forest was notorious for its lack of game, and certainly he would know that, right?

There were a million questions that popped up in your head, but there was only one you were capable of figuring out right that second, and you glanced towards the forest one more time. The paranoia of his return was a strong factor, but your curiosity ultimately got the better of you when you let go of the safety of the willow tree and crept forward towards the plot. Your eyes were locked onto the light gray stone Ford had stood in front of minutes ago on a quiet mission. You knew it was kind of inappropriate to want to know, but at the end of the day, you knew it would eat at you if you didn’t take even a peek. Your shoes crunched against the gravel noisily when you approached the small headstone, adorned with fresh flowers, wads of cash encased in some kind of resin, and a bottle of whiskey.
You inventoried the items carefully, suddenly very aware of how personal this really was, and you regretted your decision with a frown. If Ford was grieving, it wasn’t any of your business anyway. Still, though, you began to read the elegantly engraved words in the beautiful stone.

STANLEY CARYN PINES
JUN 15 1952 - OCTOBER 2017
THE WORLD GAVE HIM DESPAIR, AND HE TURNED IT INTO HOPE.

You couldn’t help the small frown that formed on your face in empathy for Ford. Based on the names, you were willing to wager he must have been Ford's close relative, which tugged at your heart even more. Reading the name made the words he had spoken to you on that fateful day ring clearer in your head.

“-Life has a way of challenging those who may underestimate it, and some events arise outside our control, whether it be unique physical traits like six fingers or the serious repercussions of a car accident…”

You glanced back at your father's memorial tree, then back to the headstone you now stood in front of, in a moment of understanding. He hadn’t said that to you to take a dig…he said it because…he knew how you felt. And you had decided to kiss him, like an idiot. Embarrassment bubbled up in your throat, and you hastily turned your head to dig your hands into your pajama pants pockets. The soft feeling was interrupted by cold hardness, and you confusedly dug around before producing a single quarter from the pocket. You studied it for a moment before glancing down and setting it on the headstone.

Wherever dead people ended up…you just hoped it was pleasant.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ford's chest heaved up and down vigorously, and sweat poured from every inch of his skin as he sat bent over his bathtub, shirtless. Dark crimson stained nearly every corner of the porcelain tub, and the sickening sound of gurgling was the only noise to be heard over the sound of Ford's old radio propped up on the sink. A clinking sound echoed through the bathroom when he reached beside him and retrieved the small scalpel, pointing it downwards with a raised eyebrow.

“Delicate skin, but low blood sugar. You bleed quite a lot, don’t you?” he huffed, with a wry smile down into the tub, at the pair of eyes that stared back at him in pure fear. He hummed in thought, watching intently at the way the limbs and body tried to struggle, to no avail. There was a sick sensation of entertainment within him that he decided to indulge in, so he stuck the tip of the blade into the person's chin and tilted it upwards to study the droplets of blood that began to pool.

Joy wasn’t the word to describe what he felt in the moment- it was closer to an unbridled and absolute giddiness. It felt like a satisfying chore to him, like scrubbing the grime from a disgusting floor into pristine perfection. These kinds of people, the kind that ended up in his home, they weren’t really ‘people’ at the end of the day, were they? To him, they more resembled the preserved corpse of a pig or toad on the road to be dissected by some high school students in a lab. He studied the dark red as it ran down to his hand, and the person finally managed to choke out a word through the cries of pain.

“Stop…”

The gasping gurgle that erupted from the man's chest was a symphony of beauty, and Ford couldn’t help but smile down at the blue-eyed man writhing below him.

“I’m sorry, what was that? Did you say you wanted me to stop?” Ford pondered, pausing his humming along with the old ’80s song that played through the radio's busted speaker. “My apologies. That must’ve hurt, huh?” he apologized flatly, removing the scalpel from the man's chin, in favor of staring him in the eyes instead.

“Why…are you doing this?” he slurred out, choking on a glob of his bloody spit mid-sentence, making Ford sigh in boredom. “Please! I’ll do anything!”

Ford said nothing in response, but instead, he grabbed the bottle of gin from beside the tub and stood with a grunt, sighing and twisting the cap off. He took a hearty sip that would probably give the average person alcohol poisoning, before setting the bottle on his sink and wiping his lips. He glanced in the mirror briefly, but there was nothing to be seen but darkness, of course. He took in a deep breath and released it before facing the person in the tub once again.

“Always with the begging, you parasites,” he said matter-of-factly, leaning against the sink and watching his specimen. “One second, you’re just innocently trying to drug a girl at the bar. Next, you end up in some complete psychos' bathtub completely naked. Isn’t it funny how life works out sometimes?” he contemplated, a wry chuckle escaping his lips. Despite the fact that there was no possible defense to be had, Ford still felt himself frown at the lack of answer the man provided. He scowled down at him in decision, thoughtfully drumming his fingers against the sink and smearing blood in their wake.

He observed the wound slowly and erotically, similar to how a man might stare at a woman's breasts. It was a large incision cutting clear from the man's neck, down to just above his groin. It didn’t hit any vital organs, but it didn’t need to. Ford didn’t want to incapacitate him after all; it would ruin half the fun. Besides that, the drugs in his system were enough to ensure he wouldn’t be capable of motion for at least the next forty-eight hours. The deep crimson wound invited him over tauntingly, and he gripped the gin bottle in his fingers before strolling back over to the tub.

“What…are you going to…do to me?” the man gasped out, writhing slightly upon Ford's approach. Ford stared at him for a moment before taking a swig from the bottle and sighing in refreshment. He licked his lips before he turned his gaze back down.
“That’s the fun part, don’t you know?” he explained, towering over. “I’m not sure what you intended to do with miss y/n that night, but I will ensure that it will never be a possibility again,” he stated flatly, his eyes throwing cold darts into his victim, who shook with fear. The thought of anyone laying their hands on you, his perfect specimen, filled him with a blinding rage. Nobody was good enough to have you that way, especially not some little skeezeball trying to get lucky and put his greasy hands all over your perfect skin. The fresh anger was burning hot in Ford when he suddenly tipped the gin bottle and dumped it into the bleeding gash, causing the man to scream out in agonizing pain.

After the last few drops of the bottle had emptied, Ford shook the bottle to ensure he hadn’t wasted a single drop. The man's bare chest heaved up and down in a painful manner, sending glee and dopamine right to Ford's brain, and he smiled, suddenly craving more of that feeling. There was no hesitation when he suddenly set the bottle down, causing a sharp flinch from below him. There was a calculation behind his eyes when he blinked a few times, then grinned politely.

“I hate to have to do this, I had been doing so well the last few weeks,” He sighed, snaking his hands through the man's blonde locks and yanking his head upward aggressively, earning a loud cry of pain which Ford ignored. “I feel bad for killing such a young man. I’ll admit, you made a mistake, so I’d like to show you some kindness,” he explained softly. There was a glimmer of hope in the man's eye at Ford's earnest tone, and he nodded vigorously.

“Anything you want, I promise, I’ll do it. Please, please don’t kill me,” the man begged quickly, stumbling over his own words. Ford smiled cheerily, nodding in approval.

“Oh, excellent, that is indeed excellent news,” he beamed, grabbing the man's hand and bringing it closer to him. “See, I have something for you here. The rest of your body is numb, but if I’m not mistaken, you should have feeling in these fingers by now, yes?” Ford questioned. The man's fingers twitched and wiggled, and he exclaimed eagerly.

“Yes! Yes, they are-yes!” the man cried in joy, finally experiencing just a fraction of sensation again. Ford gently reached into his sweatpants pocket and produced a quarter, before placing it into the shaking and sweaty palm of his prey. The prey in question glanced down at the coin with his eyes only, unable to move his head or face, but slightly able to pull his eyebrows down. “What’s this…?”

“A quarter, Einstein,” Ford joked, and the man only blinked. After mumbling something about needing a better audience, he continued. “I want you to flip the coin and tell me what it lands on, alright?” he instructed, supporting the man's hand enough to keep it level. The eyes went from the coin to Ford, then back to Ford again, before his fingers began to move the coin.

After a few clumsy seconds of Ford watching in silence as the man struggled, there was the small sound of metal as the coin was flicked into the air. The two watched in suspense as it flipped seemingly in slow motion, before barreling back down and into the tub. It bounced a few times before finally deciding fate and coming to a standstill next to the man's chest. He attempted to turn his head to look at it, but of course, his body wouldn’t respond. He eagerly sat in silence for a few seconds before he finally managed to get any words out.

“What…what is it?” he nervously croaked, his eyes rolling around his head like a madman. Ford picked up the quarter and examined the side it landed on, turning to him with a smile.

“Looks like fate decided it was my cheat day,” Ford explained, flashing the quarter over the man's eyes with a chuckle. “Heads. Unfortunate really,” Ford pitied, before standing once again. The fearful panic of the man was only background noise that blurred with the radio when he exited the bathroom and entered the hallway to his room.

The man couldn’t see, but he could hear the variety of clattering and shuffling noises coming from the hallway, which further added to his suspense and fueled his cries. His pleas for help only grew in volume when Ford's towering figure finally steered back into the room, brandishing a cordless circular saw. He said nothing in response to the cries, but instead just turned to the radio and began to flick through the channels.

“I have a family! Please, I have a mother and a father, please don’t kill me, oh my god,” he cried out, his voice straining from the broken sobs that fell from his lips. Ford paused, taking a listen to the current station during the brief pause in crying for help. The familiar song Benny And The Jets hummed through, and Ford nodded approvingly, turning the volume up and covering the sound of the crying completely. The final motion to seal his fate was made when he reached up and removed his glasses, setting them on the sink to avoid dirtying them.

He turned to the bathtub and approached, kneeling over once again and humming along to the music while his prey screamed in terror. The incredible sound of the saw being turned on roared through the bathroom when he switched it on, and he held the rotating blade over a few of the man's body parts in contemplation, deciding which cut to make first. When his hands hovered over the man's flaccid penis, Ford felt a flash of that anger cut through him, and his eyes met the man's, streaming with tears and wide. There was no hesitation when he lowered the saw, staring into his agonized eyes with a depraved sense of justice as he began to scream, ripping at his vocal cords.

The sick sound of flesh on metal was an orchestra alongside the cries and horrific screams underneath. When the saw reached porcelain, Ford smiled, quite pleased with the massive amount of blood that streamed before it began to pool, staining his hands and splattering over his face. The man was in a haze, completely in shock and unable to comprehend the unfixable wound just inflicted on him. After a long moment of staring at the messy incision, Ford began his usual routine of separating the limbs from the torso as he’d done many times before.

By the end of the whole ordeal, Ford was covered in sweat, blood, and other fluids. His method was exact, and he moved with such swiftness that it almost seemed like he was on a mission. Body parts were quickly moved into deer game bags, which would be temporarily stored in the freezer while he worked at the splatters of blood staining his bathroom. Of course, he had long ago conjured up an excellent cleaning agent for blood, capable of erasing any stains. It worked well for female students in need, but it turned out to come in handy for other activities too, so it wasn’t long before Ford was in the shower washing the blood off himself. The dark red circled the drain, and he stared at it, trying to ignore the return of the voices in his mind.

Taking out the garbage like he was about to do would only provide relief for so long, that was clear by the way his head was already starting to race. He hadn’t done anything violent for a few weeks since the tutoring sessions were keeping his ugly thoughts at bay, but that was all ruined the night he followed you to a bar. You weren’t with Jordyn like usual, so Ford was extra cautious to keep an eye on you, which turned out to be good when the man he just murdered slipped something into your drink. Ford couldn’t be spotted, of course, so instead he opted to throw a dart into his hand, causing the man to drop the drink and leave due to the injury. He was lucky to have disappeared into the crowd before being spotted.

When Ford finally managed to scrub the red from his skin, he stepped out of the shower and sighed, ruffling his hair with the towel to dry it and then wrapping it around his waist. He quickly got dressed in his hunting jacket, grabbing both his sniper and the body bag and lifting it with a grunt. He mumbled something about getting too old for this shit before heading out of his front door towards his beat-up truck.

The cold air felt like ice in his lungs when he took a deep breath, and he heaved the bag over the side and into the truck bed alongside boxes of ammo. When he slid into the seat and placed the large weapon onto the gunrest behind him, he plugged his keys into the ignition afterwards with a silent tension. It was low, but there was always the chance of getting pulled over, and that thought nagged at Ford as he pulled out of his driveway and onto the road. He was probably one of the best drivers in town- he had to be if he was hauling around shit like this, but unease still hung in the air. Ford attempted to wave the feeling away, chalking it up to anxiety from not seeing you for a few days.

The streets were dead and silent when he rolled through the town, making his way closer and closer to the outskirts. He turned on the radio and continued to drive.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Food, water, first aid, tents…all of the stuff you should take on a camping trip seemed to be in front of you, so why did it seem like something was still missing? You studied the contents, listing them off in your head one more time before shaking your head when drawing a blank. The sound of Jordyn's front door slamming shut interrupted your OCD-ness, and you looked up to see her locking the door behind her, bundled up in her puffy coat. When she approached carrying her bag, you gently took it from her and set it into the trunk alongside the other supplies.

“You ready to go, y/n?” Jordyn asked, checking the time on her phone, which read seven thirty. You glanced at the contents of the trunk before decisively nodding and reaching up to shut it.
“Yup, I think we’ve got everything,” you said, unsurely. Jordyn nodded and held up her keys with a smile.

“Awesome. Let's go before it gets dark, then.”

The ride was a bit long since the forest was next to the cemetery, which lay on the outskirts of town. It was fueled by excited chatter and singing from both of you, smiling and laughing. The old 2000s grunge CD blasted loudly through Jordyn's shitty minivan speakers that had lost the radio a long time ago, and you sang along cheerily. Jordyn took a hit of her vape from the driver's side and let out a puff of smoke before she rolled the window down. The cemetery headstones were fenced off and replaced by an overgrowth of pine trees that loomed tall and proud, allowing the setting sun to peek through in a beautiful orange. You could feel Jordyn searching for the entrance behind you, so you instinctively turned the music down (to help her see better, of course.)

“I never remember if it's this entrance or that one,” you sighed, eyeing one of the stake signs with writing you were too far away to read. Jordyn hummed in agreement, before snapping and pointing to one of the old rusty signs that read “SAW COUNTY CAMPGROUNDS” with a large arrow.

“Ah, yup. It’s this one,” Jordyn exclaimed in remembrance, slowing the car and turning into the entrance. As the two of you passed the campground office and approached the parking lot, Jordyn rolled her windows back up and nodded towards you. “If you want to go show them our permission to use the site, I’ll start moving stuff over there,” she suggested, and you nodded in agreement before getting out, clutching the two slips of paper in your hands.

When you entered the little building, the elderly woman at the desk turned to look up at you, before frowning upon the sight. You ignored this and set the slips onto the counter.

“Hey, I just wanted to check in and let you know we’re using site 20,” you confirmed, sliding the paper over to the woman. She glared at you for a moment before adjusting her glasses and taking a look.

“Site 20, alrighty,” she droned, turning to her computer and nodding in confirmation. “Please pick up after yourselves, and keep the noise level to a minimum. We do have other campers here, you know,” she explained, her tone condescending. You simply nodded in agreement, allowing her to continue her spiel. “Don’t go off the marked paths, further in is hunting grounds, so you might end up deer meat,” she joked, but it sounded more like a threat to you. You unsurely nodded.

“Um…ok, thank you,” you mumbled, before turning. Just as you were about to exit, though, Jordyn's figure appeared on the other side of the glass, a confused expression plastered on her face. Curiously, you opened the door for her, and she stepped inside, the woman boredly greeting her as well.
“I’m sorry to bug you, ma’am, but it looks like there's some police tape pretty close to our campsite,” Jordyn explained. You cocked an eyebrow curiously.

“Police tape?” You repeated, turning to face the desk attendant. “Are we…still allowed to camp there?” you asked, unsure if you even wanted to sleep next to a crime scene. The woman waved her hand with a nod.

“Yes, yes, we’ve had a chat with the officers. Just routine maintenance, needed to block the area off,” she replied. There was a second of uncertain silence, and then Jordyn nodded.

“Oh, alright then. Guess we should set up,” she said, trying to ignore the air of awkwardness between the three of you. “Come on, y/n. I got a lot of the stuff moved there already,” she grinned, and you nodded, grateful for the excuse to stop talking to the bitchy counter lady.

You grabbed a few of your items from the trunk and began to follow Jordyn through the parking lot and onto the marked path that led to your campsite. It was quite a far walk, and the sky was beginning to shift its hue into that beautiful dark blue, providing just enough light for you to finish setting up the tent and getting everything arranged in their coolers. When you finally managed to stake the tent into the ground after an embarrassing number of times, you huffed for breath, sitting up proudly.

“We still got it, man!” Jordyn cheered, waving her hands in the air. You laughed breathlessly and shook your head.

“Yeah, if you don’t count the three times it collapsed on itself,” you pointed out. Jordyn groaned when she took a seat on one of the benches, leaning into it. “I guess we’re getting old, huh?” you joked, strolling over to her and taking a seat next to her. She chuckled and nodded, bending over and hooking her fingers into the lid of the cooler.

“You can say that again. I haven’t been able to feel my legs since I was like, 19,” she sighed, producing a beer from the cooler and passing it to you, which you happily accepted. After digging through your purse and finding the bottle opener, you opened both bottles. “I’m glad we could both get tonight off. Today's shift sucked,” she complained, and you nodded solemnly, taking a sip of your drink.

“Ugh, tell me about it. If it’s not a Karen, it’s some creep reaching into your apron for a pen,” you shook your head disapprovingly. “Tips were terrible too…I hate it. Feels like I’m not friendly enough,” you admit. Jordyn takes a sip of her drink before patting your leg and turning to you with a sympathetic smile.

“It’s not you, dude, trust me. You’ve got some of the best customer service I’ve seen, I swear,” she points out, and you shake your head with a laugh. “I’m serious, y/n! Everybody who lives here is just some brokie,” she defended. You couldn’t help but smile at her backup. Living in this town had not been easy, but Jordyn had made it much nicer these past few years. Her brown skin glowed in her phone light, and she pulled her jacket closer to her body.

“Here, let’s get the fire started,” you suggested, and Jordyn nodded hastily in agreement, standing up and setting your drinks down. Unlike the tent, thankfully, the fire didn’t have much trouble igniting, and soon there was a toasty fire pit that you and Jordyn sat in front of, talking as you drank like you had when you were teenagers.

Between all of the laughter and drinks, there was a warm buzzing sensation left in your stomach, filling you with joy. You studied Jordyn's dark brown eyes with a smile, admiring the aged face you had watched grow from a child to a woman. It seems like just yesterday she was training you at the coffee shop, showing you all the spots where the cameras didn’t reach. A wise teacher, taking you under her wing, and the two of you flourishing side by side. The night now took over the sky, dotting bright stars against the blackness. A beautiful full moon shone down over the two of you, beaming its beautiful face to illuminate the trees.

You took a healthy sip of what was either your third or fourth beer, feeling the lightweight nature of yourself beginning to take over. You glanced at Jordyn to survey how well she was holding up, and you frowned a bit, seeing that she was perfectly fine, despite having more to drink than you. A part of you wished you weren’t such a lightweight sometimes, maybe then you wouldn’t have the worst hangovers of all time. You were eager for her knowledge, suddenly.

“How are you not drunk right now?” you slurred slightly, blurring the eloquent sentence you had tried to say. Jordyn smiled at you and giggle, nudging your foot with hers.

“Cause these beers have like, no alcohol,” she shook her head. You avoided her gaze, but heard a small chuckle. “You’re already tipsy, aren’t you?” she asked. You sighed and groaned in embarrassment.

“Ugh, maybe,” you admitted, waving a hand at her. “I just don’t get it, man, why can you handle your drinks so much better than me?” The tone in your voice was earnest, and she simply shrugged.

“Well, I am older than you. And bigger,” she pointed out, flexing her muscle with a dumb smirk, which made you laugh and roll your eyes.

“Oh please, you’re only five years older, that’s nothin’,” you argued, taking another sip of your beer. Jordyn was quick in her protest.

“Five years is more than you think,” she rebutts. “There's a big difference in a twenty-five and a thirty-year-old, in maturity and stuff,” she states. You grin and poke her shoulder.

“Right, cause the girl I had to stop from eating a moldy waffle is sooo mature,” you tease. She gasps in mock offense, pursing her lips.
“Looks, dude, that was a while ago,” she says, holding her hands up defensively.

“That was last week!” you exclaimed, earning laughter from both of you. “Besides, isn’t your baby daddy like, ten years older than you?”

As soon as the sentence leaves your mouth, you immediately shut it in regret. A quick survey of Jordyn's face provided no real answers, so you were left to hold your breath in suspense, unsure of whether or not to apologize. You weren’t sure what had caused you to say something like that, and you glowered down at your beer bottle in the silence that dragged on. Just as you were about to say something, though, Jordyn spoke.

“Yeah, that’s true,” she agreed, thoughtfully looking down into her bottle. You bit your lip roughly at the slight sadness in her tone. “But that’s probably why we didn’t work out, right? I mean, a 19-year-old and a 29 year old really have no business being in a relationship,” she points out. You pause for a moment, looking at her in uncertainty, before nodding.

“Um, right. Yeah. That makes sense,” you nod, slowly raising your bottle to your lips again. You can feel her eyes on you as you drink, and you attempt to shift the subject a bit. “How did you two meet anyway?” you asked curiously. Jordyn ran her finger over her rings while she spoke, recalling the events.

“We met in my college study group,” she explained. “We were…both failing the same English class. The group sessions were free after class, so you know,” she shrugged. After staring off into the grass for a moment, she turned to you with a sad smile that pulled at your heartstrings. “He was old enough to know better, and I was young and stupid,” she decided, punctuating the sentence by taking a sip of her beer.

You pondered over her words in your head silently, the pleasant buzz from before turning more into an uncomfortable nausea. You know she didn’t mean anything by it, because how could she? It’s not like she knew the guy you liked was literally in his sixties, but there was still a part of your stomach that dropped, and a shadow of yourself that felt embarrassment and shame. If you had the choice, you would go into your brain and surgically remove Ford from it entirely, since maybe then you wouldn’t feel so tortured and disgusting. You bit your lip, shaking your head with a sigh.

“You weren’t stupid, Jordy. You were in love,” you argued, gesturing to her with your bottle. She let out a wry chuckle at that.

“Yeah, in love with a complete psycho that secretly beats women,” she frowned, shaking her head. For a moment, you were unsure of what to say. You knew she wasn’t seeking comfort, but rather just reflecting in her tone. “Crazy how the most beautiful accomplishment of my life was because of him,” she glanced down at the picture of Lilly in the back of her clear phone case.

“Well, I…I wouldn’t say it’s completely because of him,” you said slowly, trying to find the right words through the drunken waves you waded through. “It certainly takes two, doesn't it?” you grinned, raising your eyebrows. She smirked with an eyeroll, taking another sip of her beer, then setting it down to pick up the long stick next to her lawn chair.

“I guess you've got a point. At least his genetics were as weak as his dick game,” she joked. You laughed heartily and shook your head at her well-earned confidence, admiring the way her dark curls flicked around in the slight breeze. She prodded at the bright glow of the fire pit, sparking a beautiful array of ashes to dance upwards into the sky. “What up with the relationship talk? Is this about that guy?” she pondered, drawing out the word guy. You blinked at her, biting your lip.

The truth was, you craved Jordyn's advice like water. There was never a territory too TMI for the two of you, and it had been that way from practically the moment you became friends, but now, there was a barbed wire barricade around the vault that was Ford. You wanted to tell her, or at the very least ask about what she would do in your situation, pining over a stupid man. Currently, though, there was no possibility in your head to be honest with her…not yet, at least.

“Just curious where you found such human trash,” you smiled, masking the deep thoughts lurking underneath. A slight relief washed over you when she giggled wildly, distracted by the joke. Jordyn threw the stick back down before stretching and turning to you.

“You wanna smoke? I brought my stuff,” she offered, gesturing with her head towards her fanny pack on the table next to you. You swirled your near-empty bottle around for a second in contemplation before nodding decisively. You didn’t often decide to smoke weed, but it was a gorgeous night, and you were far enough into the forest that you were sure no one else would be able to smell it. You picked up the camo coloured bag and passed it to her, the strong scent of marijuana filling your nose briefly.

“You bring your travel pipe?” you questioned.

She nodded as she glanced inside the bag, pulling it open. There was a moment of silence interrupted by the clinking sounds of glass when Jordyn began to dig around in the bag, pulling several items out. You watched curiously as she picked out several items before placing them back in the bag, then she sighed.

“Damnit, I must’ve left it in the car,” she shook her head. “I’m gonna run and go grab it really quick,” she decided, motioning with her thumb to the trail back to the parking lot. You glanced at it and blinked, then looked around at the darkness.

“I’ll come with, it’s pretty dark,” you offered, beginning to get to your feet. Jordyn chuckled. And gently pushed you back down.

“Nuh uh, girl, you had a ten-hour shift on your feet today. Let Mama Jordyn handle it, ok?” she requested softly, looking at you in earnest. When you opened your mouth to protest, you jolted in surprise when Jordyn pinched your lips together to keep them shut. “No buts. Besides, it’s only like 5 minutes away,” she grinned. You pouted through her fingered grip on your lips, squirming underneath her until she finally released.

“Are you sure? The woods are scary,” you warned, putting an overdramatic spooky emphasis on ‘scary’, which Jordyn shook her head and rolled her eyes at with a grin. “You might get eaten by gnomes or something,” you wiggled your fingers for added effect.

“I’ll be fine, y/n, I swear! If I get murdered, I’ll just like, text you, or something,” she waved from halfway inside the tent, before exiting it and holding her car keys up. “I’ll be right back, ok? Keep the fire going,” she asked, and you sighed with a nod.

After all, what are memories without something to hold onto? Imagine flying all over the country, experiencing all sorts of adventures, but coming back home without any photos, no little souvenirs, and no quirky bumper stickers to remind you of where you’ve been. It’s nice to have those experiences, but they can feel so distant without anything tangible to jog your memory. A Polaroid snapshot can instantly transport you back to that moment, letting you breathe in the scent of pine trees and campfires, and hear the laughter and rustling leaves all over again.

Even those quiet, everyday moments that might slip through your mind become special when captured- a silly selfie with Jordyn, a candid shot of her mid-laugh, frozen in time and stored safely in your camera roll. Those images carry the weight of shared laughter, inside jokes, and fleeting glances that you’d never want to forget. Each one feels like a little piece of your history together, making sure that those vibrant memories stay alive and well.

You wondered how a girl like her managed to stay so positive despite the horrible circumstances she had been in for such a long time. Even though she had been dragged, beaten, and hung out to dry, she still stood tall, with her face to the sky to take in the sun. You, on the other hand, were more like a fiery car wreck of a human being, incapable of stability that was truly, well, stable. After she had divorced her ex and given birth to Jordyn, she pulled her shit together and lined all of her ducks in a row so fast it made your head spin. Her progress looked linear from your perspective, a nice incline leading her straight to the top of a healthy and happy life, and you were so ecstatic to see the way she glowed.

From underneath her mountain, though, your progress was a molehill. It had been years, close to a decade, since there was genuine joy in your life that didn’t come from another person. With others, your cup was gorgeously overfilled, bubbling with the smooth liquid of friendship and laughter. When you were alone, and the dark corners of your house seemed to loom over you worse than ever, your cup would shatter completely, rendering your body nearly useless to you. Your emotions felt like a painful, ball-up mess of superglue, razor blades, and syrup. Sticky, confusing, and not something anybody wanted to put their hands on.

The self-loathing was a background movie that played in your mind while you boredly sat, staring into the bright fire. Remembering Jordyn's comment to keep the fire going, you pointedly grabbed the long stick she had used and prodded at the ignited logs and sticks, trying to hold back the stinging tears that suddenly formed when smoke suddenly blew into your eyes. You hissed in pain, wiping at your face with your sleeve and shaking your head rapidly to try and rid the slight burning sensation. After regaining sight from your bleary tears, you grabbed the arms of your chair and scooted it over out of the steady stream of smoke now billowing directly at you.

The sound of glass echoed suddenly, making you jump and jerk your head downwards towards the source of the noise. You blinked at the empty beer bottle of yours that you had kicked over while standing, before sighing at your jumpiness and shaking your head. As you bent down to pick it up, you wrapped your fingers around the cool glass, tipsily trying your best to keep your balance, hunched over. Just as you were about to get to your feet, however, the sound of a sharp crack echoed through the quietness, making you jump and yelp in surprise, landing back on your ass in the dirt.

You looked around wildly, heart beating inside your chest at the jumpscare of the sound that left your senses on high alert. Fear gripped you like a vice as you stared harshly in the direction of the noise, your eyes desperately scanning the area for a source, but ultimately turning up empty. The silence dragged on for about thirty seconds, leaving you to slowly get back to your feet, sheepishly peeking your head around the lawn chair. Your eyes narrow at the realization that the sound had come from the policed off area, which loomed dangerously next to you. You waited for a while, but there were no more loud sounds after that.

There weren’t any quiet noises anymore either, now that you listened closer. The previous chirping of crickets and chittering of bats completely stilled, like the forest itself was holding its breath, causing you to do the same. You kept your eyes glued to the bright yellow police tape, frozen in a haze while clutching onto the lawn chair for some kind of support. The memory slowly surfaced of the desk woman with her bored eyes, telling you about the hunting trails, and you wanted to tag that as the excuse and dismiss it. In a ballsy move, you took a cautious step forward.

The fire crackling noisily in your ears when you walked past it, slowly creeping up on the forbidden area like a cat in the night. The leaves and sticks crunched underneath your shoes, which were coated in mud, and when you finally approached and ran a hand over the tape, you paused. You felt your eyes turn back towards the campsite a few feet away from you, then back into the forest that seemed to go on forever in the darkness. You could see about three trees' length deep, but after that, the void obscured any hopes of spotting anything. You squinted, nervously fiddling with your back pocket.

“Hello?” You called out. The volume of your voice immediately made you wince, and you realized you were totally the stupid white person in a horror movie right then. Per usual, your fear battled with your curiosity in your head, causing a silent statue to be made of you while you decided how to proceed. There was no answer, so you reluctantly pulled your phone out of your back pocket.

It could’ve been your imagination, but when you shined the flashlight into the dense trees, there was a part of you that could swear you heard something close to footsteps. You squinted into the illuminated beam of light, the blurry figures of the twisting trees becoming clearer now. Of course, there was nothing out of the ordinary besides a few holes dug into the ground marked with flags for construction. You frowned at the notion that you allowed yourself to indulge in your paranoia, and you made a hesitant move to turn the flashlight off and shove the phone back into your pocket. You turned and began to silently make your way back to the warm comfort of the fire in a daze. Before you made it far, though, a chilling noise rang out quietly from behind you, making you freeze in your tracks.

“Y/n?...” The deep voice rumbled.

You blinked, unable to turn around when the deep voice purred into your ears from behind you. Now it was for certain you were losing your mind, because you could swear that the tone of that gravelly voice was one you surely recognized. Slowly, you steeled yourself enough to turn back around and face the forest again.

Seeing his dark eyes burning into yours nearly exploded you into a million little pieces.

“Professor?” you breathed in shock. It was dark, but there was no mistaking those six fingers that clutched onto a sniper rifle with fever, a few feet in front of you. The two of you stared at each other in silence, and your eyes slowly dipped down to Ford's position, your brow furrowing. “What are you doing here?”

The amount of time it took for Ford to clear the distance between the two of you was staggering, and when you found yourself inches away from his looming face, you might as well have had your heart ripped out. His eyes had dark purple bags underneath, like he hadn't slept in weeks, and his pale hair stood out wildly against the dark background. Before you could get another word out, his large hands were on both of your shoulders, entirely encasing you.

“What on Earth are you doing here? Do you have any idea what time it is?” he hissed in a tone that was bleeding with…desperation? Besides the confusion, now rose a slight bit of annoyance at his fatherly hovering, and you scowled.

“I’m camping, dude, what does it look like?” You jerked your thumb backward towards the camp a few feet behind the two of you. The smell of his woody cologne was a smell you couldn’t deny yourself when he leaned slightly upwards to look over you and at the camp.

“Ah, uh. Right, right. That…makes sense,” he stuttered out slowly, dragging his gaze away from the tent and back to you. You stared at him for a moment, studying his odd behavior and expression. He now slung the gun behind his back, and you couldn’t deny the way that the tight fabric of his white teeshirt stretched over his chest under his camo jacket was doing something to your brain. You bit your lip and shook your head to try and keep yourself on track.

“I think the better question is, what are you doing here?” you asked, putting emphasis on ‘you’, and pointing a finger in his direction. You felt the way his hands slightly squeezed around your shoulders before he removed them, in an embarrassed, quick motion. “What the hell were you doing behind the police tape?” you cocked an eyebrow.

Ford ran his fingers through his hair before gesturing to the large deer game bag he was dragging behind him. You blinked in surprise, shocked that you hadn’t spotted the large object in the first place.

“Well, it’s usually my shortcut after my hunting trips. That is when the bastards aren’t digging random holes in the ground like cavemen,” he joked with a smile, and you could feel the way your heart flutters at this. His smile is contagious, and his relaxed nature soothes your previous paranoia.

“Ah, ok... You probably already know, but the parking lot is that way,” you stammered dryly, pointing down the path Jordyn had disappeared down minutes ago. Ford nodded before lifting the heavy bag with a slight grunt (that totally got filed in your brain), and he paused to look at you for a second, mouth open in consideration.

“I’ll…see you next Thursday, y/n,” he dismissed, attempting to walk past you.

Normally, you were not the type of lady to make any sort of advance or move. Hell, you weren’t even sure it could be considered a “move” in the first place, given how weird it was. You weren’t sure what common sense detectors in your brain were shot, but you couldn’t stop yourself when you reached out and stroked the outside of the bag he carried. Maybe you should’ve expected it, but the coldness of the deer underneath your hand made you gasp, and Ford turned to you with a wide-eyed expression.

“What in God's name are you doing?!” he barked. The sudden aggression in his tone made your hand immediately reel back from the bag, and you stared back into his hot and intense eyes, mouth falling agape.

“Sorry! I just- Sorry. I…I’ve never seen deer meat before,” you stated, trying to rake up some kind of excuse for your idiotic action. Ford continued to stare through your soul, and the way his gaze burned through your skin scared the hell out of you. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever seen before- not even the staring you had gotten used to in class. The moment dragged on like this until Ford's tense body finally relaxed a bit.

“...Not a hunting girl, huh?” he questioned, significantly softening his tone. Words failed you, so instead you nodded, clamping it shut so it couldn’t betray you any further. Ford's expression softened, and he slowly lowered the bag. “It's…disturbing for someone not used to it. I don’t think you would…It would be best if you didn’t see,” he landed on. You eyed the bag, then Ford again.

He was absolutely right, you weren’t a hunting person in the slightest, and the thought of even opening that bag made you want to puke. Battling directly against that fact, though, was the growing feeling in your stomach, and the desire for Ford to stay, even if he was hauling around a deer carcass. Your interactions had been too far and in between as of late because of your schedule, and you weren’t sure your heart could handle watching him disappear down the trail so soon. You bit your lip at the beginning of a small scheme forming in your head. Guilt was just a quiet undertone over the other emotions that flooded your brain.

“Do you want a cigarette?” You asked, reaching into your pocket and producing the small red and white box of Marlboros.

Ford blinked in surprise, studying you for a second with some kind of sparkle lurking below his expression. His fingers twitched around the bag, and he glanced at your campsite before turning back to you.

“Why not. Always good to catch up with a student,” he smiled politely. To hide the way the word “student” made you wince in disappointment, you nodded and hummed in monotonous agreement, motioning to the two set up lawn chairs and beginning to make your way over to them.

You take your usual seat in the hot pink plastic chair and watch as Ford sets the bag down next to the tent before joining you. The closeness of the two of you sends your mind reeling, and the shakiness of your hands is uncontainable when you peel back the lid of the cigarette box and shake two out into your hand. When you turn to hand Ford his cigarette, he is studying your expression with his cheek in his hand, and a lopsided smile. You blink in surprise, and he takes the cigarette from you.

“What’s with that look?” you ask, secretly loving every second of being under such a gentle gaze. Ford chuckles and shakes his head, putting the cigarette between his chapped lips. The way his stubble is illuminated by the fire makes him look rugged and worn.

“Oh, nothing. I just couldn’t help but notice something,” he explained cooly, producing a Zippo from his pocket and flicking it open. You stared at the lighter in his six fingers, trying to ignore the way your face began to heat when he brought it to the end of his cigarette. He paused to take a drag, let out a swirl of smoke, then spoke again. “You’re quite shaky during our conversations,” he observes.

The horrifying reality of being read bloomed in your stomach, and you opened your mouth in search of some kind of defense, but none came to mind. The warm orange of the campfire reflected off his glasses, leaving you little room to see his expression and making you frustrated beyond belief. He seemed to read you like an open book; meanwhile, he was a prisoner locked up tight. After a few seconds of being unable to speak, he gestured the lighter towards you to take.

“It’s…it’s winter, you know,” you finally shoot back, reluctantly taking the lighter in your fingers. You glance at him before turning to light your cigarette, realizing that he was wearing a smirk like he could read between the lines. He hummed and turned away, leaving you to pout to yourself and take a puff while desperately trying to search for more words. This proved to be an unnecessary task, though, when the next words came from Ford, catching you off guard.

“Mnn, yes. That is true, it can get quite cold here,” he nodded, looking into the fire thoughtfully. The tone he took made it seem like there was more he wanted to say, so you looked at him reluctantly until he finally turned to face you. When his dark black eyes locked onto yours, a sharp sensation of arousal bloomed at the way he licked his lips. “Seems to me that you’re quite warm now, though,” he motions to your heavy jacket and thick pajama pants with his head.

You can’t stop the crimson dusting your cheeks now, and the way the forest seems to still around the two of you makes your breath catch in your chest. The warmth behind Ford's gaze rivaled that of the fire that illuminated the two of you, mere inches away from each other. Your eyes linger over every single vein and scar on the man's rough hands when he brings them up to his lips to pluck the cigarette between them, and blow out another ring of smoke. You swallow thickly, trying to maintain composure.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you question slowly, feeling as though you were walking through a minefield in the pitch dark. You had already misread his tone and body language before, and it was a mistake you didn’t want to make again, but the way he leaned forward closer to you made your fingers twitch.

“I think you understand me perfectly,” he breathed. You blinked, pure shock with a side dish of arousal being served on a beautiful silver platter, sending shockwaves to your groin. He stared at you with those intense eyes, pinning you under a spotlight and stripping you to your bare emotions. You paused to take another puff of your cigarette.

“I…I don’t know what you mean, professor,” you replied, unsurely. His prying questions had you glancing down the trail discreetly, praying for Jordyn's arrival to rescue you from being honest with yourself, but none came. You slowly turned your gaze back to Ford, who had a knowing smile that made your stomach twist violently.

“No? How odd…I could’ve sworn it was just a week ago that you knew exactly what I was talking about,” he pondered passively. You felt your eyes widen at his bluntness, embarrassment blossoming in your body like a rose bush with its thorns. The memory of his lips on yours was inescapable in your mind, though you tried to outrun it to save even a bit of your dignity. Before you could get a word out, he spoke again.

“I can't deny that…I enjoyed it,” he said. You stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Enjoyed…what?” you breathed, the words feeling like an intense whisper when they shot through you. Your eyes didn’t miss the way he bit his lip slightly before explaining.
“The kiss, y/n. Of course, I mean the kiss,” he responded, sighing. He stared intensely into the fire, a scowl etched into his expression that disappeared behind his hands with a groan. You stammered out in shock, feeling your brows furrow.

You both sat side by side in a taut silence, the only sound being the angry crackle of the fire that did little to ease you. You wanted to say something further, offer him words that might make up for it, but you knew there was nothing more to be said. The last bit of his cigarette disappeared with his large inhale, and you frowned to yourself. When he threw the butt into the fire pit, you fully expected him to get to his feet, grab his dead deer, and fuck off. But he didn't.

A confusion ebbed in your mind when he stood still beside you, unwavering. The tenseness was beginning to set in on you, but before you could say something stupid to break the agonizing silence, Ford turned his head to you slowly. The shadows bloomed across his face with an intensity, adding a layer of uncertainty to his already odd expression, and you watched the way he clenched then unclenched his fists.

“You…enjoyed it?” you asked in a small voice. There was a pause from him where he sat with his mouth agape, searching for words, which was an odd sight from such a well-spoken man. His voice was husky and nervous when he finally landed on something to say.

“I…I think there is a problem happening between us,” he spoke slowly. You kept your body still, as if any sudden movements would disrupt his desire to be transparent with you. “You’ve complicated things exponentially for me, you know that?” he sighed. You bit your lip, a feeling of guilt creeping up, and you ashed your cigarette.

“I can never tell what you’re thinking,” you say suddenly. He blinks a few times at you in quietness, giving you the urge to keep the momentum of the admissions. “I wish I knew how you felt about everything,” you frowned, pausing and sighing. “...about me.”

You heard him suck in a sharp breath at the last words you tacked on. From your peripheral vision, you could see him bounce his leg with an intensity, and his jaw was squared tensely.

“I know exactly how I feel about you, y/n,” he finally says. The depth in his tone makes your heart collapse. “I’ve always known. But you…you don’t…” he pauses. You give him a puzzled look.

“I don’t know what?” you press. He turns away from you briefly before replying.

“You don’t know any better, y/n,” he began with a slight growl, though not towards you. “You don’t know the kind of man I am. There are things that…you don’t see. Besides the fact that I could lose my job if anyone ever found out, I might put you in harm's way, too. Your reputation is already six feet under, and if you were seen with me…” he explained. There is a palpable frustration in his tone, as if he were fighting with someone you didn’t see. “...I tried my best. To forget about the kiss. I really did. But it’s…it’s always in my mind now. Your face is in my mind every day,” he hisses, gritting his teeth.

You raise your eyebrows at him as his words begin to resonate in you, and your entire body feels tingly. The scene feels straight out of a movie, and you almost wonder if you might be dreaming, only hearing words you want to hear in that sexy voice. The shock of his confessions rings through your bloodstream, causing you to take a pause to reboot.

“You think about me every day?” you repeated, the words sweet on your tongue like candy. Ford drums his fingers against his thighs when you say this, and he shakes his head disapprovingly to himself.

“It’s ridiculous, I know. I’m the adult in this situation, after all,” he says, running a hand down his tired face. “It’s my job to be mature. To steer you in the correct direction…God damnit, y/n, I…I shouldn’t have said anything,” he adds on, a touch of regret in his words. You furrow your brows at this, feeling your lip curl up ever so slightly.

“Just because you’re older than I am doesn’t mean I can’t make decisions for myself,” you state firmly. “I kissed you because I wanted to. And besides, why the hell would you care about my reputation?” you questioned, embarrassment flushing you from the first admission. Ford's eyes narrowed, and he scoffed a bit at this.

“Sweet Moses, y/n. You truly don’t see it, do you?” he murmured, softening his gaze and turning your previous frustration at his attempt at authority into mush. You swear you could feel the air buzz with electricity when he slowly reached his hand up. He hesitated for a moment, watching you, who was still and wide-eyed, before he finally placed his hand on your cheek, making your skin burn pleasantly. “Because I care about you, in every aspect. Every conceivable way for me to worry, I will,” he finishes.

The words that drip from his mouth leave your head ringing like a mission bell. Nothing in that moment feels real, almost as if you were just a human vessel under control by some godly force that you didn’t stand a chance against. You feel your hands begin to tremble at the slow and methodical way he gazes into your eyes, and the distance between the two of your faces suddenly feels like far too much for either of you to stand.

“Ford…what are you doing?” you ask, but your voice comes out in more of a hushed whisper. You don’t know if it’s intentional, but both of your heads seem to magnetize just a bit closer to each other.

“I think I’m about to do something idiotic,” he breathed. You try to meet his gaze, but feel the last bit of your decency melt when his eyes are locked on your lips.

No more words were left to be shared when he slowly closed the distance between the two of you, connecting your lips gently and cautiously. Fireworks immediately shot off in your head at the sensation of his chapped lips that slightly parted, deepening the kiss and erasing your common sense. You could feel the way his breathing quickened when he slowly moved his hand from your cheek to your hair, gently raking his hand through it to get a grip on you, which you obliged happily, leaning into the touch. When the feeling of Ford's warm tongue brushed against your bottom lip, you fought back the groan that bubbled deep in your throat, fighting the instinct to tear him to pieces. You slightly parted your lips enough for him to access, and the sensation of spit on spit fogged your vision, making you eager for more.

The way he roamed your mouth was something done with such precision that it made you dizzy with desire, instinctively scooting your whole body closer to his frame. Unable to hold back, you bit down gently on his tongue, earning a husky groan from the man that made you shiver with delight. The sound was so sweet in your ears, and the way his fingers slightly gripped onto your hair shot a heavy bullet of arousal right through you. Like two uncontrolled animals, the gentle sweetness of the gesture began to slowly morph into something more desperate and needy, which left the two of you panting.

When you finally parted, both of your chests heaved with desire in time. Ford's hand never moved from your head when he stared deeply into your eyes, his pupils blown wide, and a deep red overlaying his expression. The sight was downright sinful with the way the spit glistened off of his lips, and he heaved for breath, looking at you with a darkness deep within that made you shiver. Before any words or any protests could be exchanged, the sensation of wetness pressed firmly against your neck made you gasp, then moan quietly into your hand when Ford licked a stripe from the base of your neck to your earlobe. His large hands shifted to grab hold of your waist, making you gasp a bit in surprise.

You didn’t argue when he lifted you with a surprising ease, gently setting you down to straddle his lap. The sudden closeness made your head spin with an array of vulgar thoughts that you would ordinarily feel guilty for, but the firmness of his jeans pressed into your groin erased that feeling immediately, and you felt yourself twitch at the notion that kissing you had turned him on. His chest rose and fell, and you studied him for a moment underneath you, the scene feeling unreal still. Your hand slowly snaked up to his chest, and you parked it over his heart to feel the rapid pulse that hammered below his skin. You bit your lip roughly, slightly chuckling.

“You uh…you’re pretty excited, huh?” you teased with a grin, and he groaned in dismay at his own body giving him away so easily.

“My apologies, it’s…been a while,” he admits, making you giggle at his honesty and formal language.

You’re the one to initiate the kiss this time, but it’s more violent and desperate the second your lips intertwine once again. Growing familiar with each other's bodies, there's a slow, rhythmic motion formed of your heads twisting in sync, and you throw your arms around his neck to pull yourself impossibly closer. The smell of his cologne and whiskey overtook your soul, gently cradling you in the lust and excitement of the moment, and when his hands began to slowly skate down your figure, you didn’t protest. You could feel the hesitance in his motion when his palms lingered on your lower back, uncertain of where the line in the sand was, so you gently nodded for permission. With the green light, his hands snaked down to grip your ass, which sent a shockwave through your body and made you shiver. There were no other worries or concerns in your mind when he pulled his lips off of yours and began to trail kisses from your cheek down to your jawline, and you ran a hand up his neck and through his hair.

A husky growl escaped his lips that undeniably made you fidget with need, and he seemed to understand the cue perfectly when he connected his teeth to the skin of your neck. You gasped gently at the sensation of the bite, and his firm grip on your ass simultaneously. The sheer size of his hands compared to your body was jarring, now that you could feel how much area he could grab hold of.

You knew this was incredibly wrong- that you should push him off and tell him to get the hell away from you. The sensation of a hickey being bitten into you was pretty much overtaking that thought, though, and you moaned in delight at the slight amount of pain that began to blossom from the area. You hadn’t even realized you’d started rolling your hips down into Ford's until his slightly twitched upwards, earning a spark of sensation through your heat. You gently tugged at his hair with a giggle, eager to get another look at his eyes, but the sound of crunching footsteps made your eyes widen, and your head shot up towards the trail.

“Y/n? What the fuck is going on?” Jordyn exclaimed, holding a small baggie of weed.

“Oh god- Jordyn!” you gasped out, disconnecting from Ford promptly. His hands shot upwards off of you immediately, and he looked from you to Jordyn with a wide-eyed stare.

“Is that- Is that your professor?!” She furrowed her brows, taking another step closer. “What the fuck is this? You must be fucking with me right now,” she scoffs, tossing the baggie onto the table and folding her arms across her chest.

“I can explain,” you begin, quickly scrambling to get off of Ford's lap and to your feet to face her. The sheer disgust and hurt in her eyes make you flinch, and you feel your eyebrows twitch downward. “We were…we were just…” You tried, but she held up a hand to stop you.

“Just what, necking it with your sixty-year-old professor?!” she exclaimed incredulously, jerking a finger at Ford, who wore no expression whatsoever. “And you! What the hell do you think you’re doing with someone her age?!” she scolded. There were no words for a long moment, and you watched tensely as Ford slowly rose to his feet, unveiling his height, which scared Jordyn absolutely none.

“Sixty-six,” he spoke. Jordyn stared at him with a scowl, urging him to explain. “I’m sixty-six, actually,” he clarified in that same low-tone teacher speak that secretly made you blush.

“I don’t give a damn, you creep. Where do you get off perving on a girl like that?” she hissed, making you wince at the name-calling. Ford said nothing, just stared back with an equal intensity into Jordyn's eyes. “And why the hell do you have a gun? Were you holding her captive or something?” she assumed harshly, gesturing towards the rifle on the ground.

You felt your brows furrow at that specific comment, and you frowned as you marched up to stand in between the titans' staring contest. You loved Jordyn, but her tendency to jump to conclusions was starting to grate against you, especially when it came to Ford.

“He’s not holding me captive, Jordyn, I’m a grown ass woman, not a toddler like Lilly,” you barked. Jordyn's eyes widened in shock, and then narrowed. “I can make my own choices, I don’t need a mom to decide for me,” you spat.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” she questioned. “I’m not just a mom, you know. I'm also your friend, with a perfectly valid concern that…” she trailed off a bit, seeming to remember something. She slowly raised her gaze to meet yours, pointing an accusatory finger at Ford. “You…you’re not telling me…that this is the guy you have feelings for?” she said slowly, her scowl never wavering. You said nothing, just stared at her, but your silence was a guilty admission, and she bit her lip.

The exposed wire of your feelings was now in Ford's gaze, and you couldn’t bring yourself to even spare him a glance. If you saw rejection deep within his eyes as well, you weren’t sure your heart would be able to handle it, and the guilt of yelling at Jordyn was starting to set in harshly. The twisting knife of guilt that dug into your stomach prompted you to finally respond to her question, though the three of you already knew the answer.

“I didn’t want to tell you because…well, because I knew you wouldn’t take it well,” you tried to explain, talking to Jordyn, but also Ford. “I…kissed him first,” you admitted, and the shock on her face made you stare at your shoes in guilt.

There was a moment where no one spoke, and the tenseness in the air could be cut with a knife. Whenever Jordyn finally did speak again, it felt like sharp daggers being thrown into your vulnerable body and degrading you.

“Of course I wouldn’t take it well, he’s…he’s an adult man! I don’t know what the hell is going on between the two of you, but I do know that he’s using you, y/n,” she accused. There was a sharp pause, and you stared at her in hurt.

Now, it was Ford's turn to cut in, his voice like a stone: Hard and unwavering.

“I would never do that to her,” he boomed, shielding a defensive hand over his chest. “You don’t even know me, yet you’re making these levels of assumptions,” he frowned.

Jordyn looked between the two of you in anger, her motion stiff and frustrated. You watched the way her hands trembled when she clenched her fists at her side, turning away from Ford, and desperately looking back at you. You gazed back at her expectantly, trying to ignore the way Ford's words had made your heart blossom with emotion.

“Come on, y/n, have some sense,” she stammered out, motioning between you both, and then angrily to the man beside you. “I know you still have issues from the accident, but this is NOT a healthy way to cope,” she hissed. You felt yourself pause at this, and there was a white pit that burned in your stomach with anger towards your dear friend that erased the usual sense of care you had for her feelings.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You seethed, lurching towards her with passion. She stood firm, never even flinching, which made you all the more upset. “You…You really think that I’m into Ford because I killed my fucking dad?!” you erupted hotly, brimming with offense. In your peripheral you could see the way Ford's face snaps towards yours in surprise at your bluntness, and Jordyn stammers out.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” she returned, and you scoffed wryly with a nod.

“Right, because you were just talking about the other life-altering car accident I was in,” the anger in your voice even surprises you, but you’re a bullet train on its tracks, unable to stop now. “Did you want to bring up the fact that my mom's in jail because of me, too? Or were you done being a total bitch,” you insulted, then gasped, cupping a hand over your mouth. Jordyn stared at you incredulously, like a bull about to charge, and she bows up closer to you with the meanest look you’ve ever seen her give.

“You’re fucking lucky that I care about you, y/n,” she growled, stabbing her eyes into Ford when she said the next part. “Or else I’d turn this fucker in right now to the dean's office.” Ford only stared back, arms folded in a mirror of Jordyn's stance. His voice was steady and calm, but there was something hidden deep under it that was…disturbing.

“Go ahead.”

You peeled your eyes off of Jordyn's to focus your gaze on Ford with a slight hint of concern behind your eyes. Watching the two of them clash like this felt like seeing a battle between two Gods over a land that was conscious, and you felt a pit form at the blank masked stare Ford gave. After an intense stare off, Jordyn ultimately lost, scoffing, and throwing you an object that you fumbled to catch.

“Here. It’s your wallet, you left it in my car,” she murmured. You examined the wallet in confusion for a second before she began to make her way towards your tent, zipping it open angrily. “I’m going to bed. You two keep making out, or whatever the fuck. Hell, suck his dick for all I care,” she called back angrily, before zipping the tent back up and disappearing inside of it. You stared blankly for a few seconds, completely stunned by the sudden altercation that left you shaking.
Long moments of silence passed, and just when you could feel yourself start to spiral downwards, your racing thoughts were interrupted by a hand on your shoulder. You slowly traced your gaze from the six-fingered hand up to Ford's face, which wore that same blank look, but now there was a hint of guilt behind his eyes. You frowned and let out a sigh, and he nervously ran his other hand through his hair.

“I…should probably go,” he muttered into your ear, setting your skin ablaze, but your heart sinking. Even after such a violent moment of confrontation, you still wanted him to stay right beside you in your orbit, but you knew he was right. With a slight shake of your head, you fiddled with your fingers.

“Yeah, probably,” you breathed quietly, trying to ease your shaking. “I’m…sorry about all that. She’s just really protective,” you try to defend, but Ford holds a hand up.

“Don’t worry. It’s ok, y/n,” he reassures, reeling his hand back to his body and leaving a burning mark where he once rested. You stare at him unsuredly, before he nods and turns to pick his gun up off the ground. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” he dismisses, slinging the weapon over his shoulder.

You want to respond with a goodbye as well, but the words refuse to come out of your mouth with the question that nags at your mind. As Ford leans down to pick up the deer bag, you find yourself questioning him in a sheepish tone.

“Are…are we gonna go back to how we were?”

Ford pauses his motion at this and stills. You can't see much since the fire was nearly dead at this point, but you can tell he’s deeply in thought as you await his response. Seconds drag on that feel like hours before his deep voice finally cuts through the silence.

“I don’t think we can anymore,” he breathes, with an air of realization hitting him all at once. You blink in surprise, feeling your heart rate increase at his answer. “I…don’t think I want it to,” he adds.

You both stare at each other for a few long seconds, gazing with a grim understanding from both ends that something irreversible had just been set in motion. Even through his guarded defense, you could tell Ford felt just as complicated as you did, which did help to put your mind at ease, even just a little.

“I don’t want it to either,” you admit.

The finality of your statement rings true in the way Ford's jaw clenches. There's a moment where he doesn't say anything- just looks from you to the bag gripped in his hand until he finally slings it over his shoulder opposite from where his gun rested.

“I suppose that means we’ll be meeting for our scheduled tutoring session?” he quips, and you feel an intense blush beam across your face at the slight dip in his tone, rendering your words useless. Instead, you nod feverishly, and he smirks with a hum.

When he turns and begins to make his way down the trail, you stand in place, pure shock from all the events that have just taken place coursing through you. The remainder of Jordyn's earlier anger surfaced when you glanced at the tent behind you, and you nervously approached it, though you didn’t enter it yet. You bit your lip anxiously, halfway expecting her to bite your head off as soon as you unzipped the tent, but you were instead met with a curled-up Jordyn.

You sighed a bit in relief at the sight of her deeply sleeping, and you crawled into the tent as well, careful not to step on her when you shuffled to your side. Your red sleeping bag ruffled when you slipped into it and began to wiggle your hoodie off, tossing it at your feet, then looking back up with a sigh. The quiet sound of the wind blowing against the tent soothed you a bit, and you snuggled up into the sleeping bag further, turning to face Jordyn's sleeping figure.

You knew you were supposed to be worried about her at that moment, that she was your best friend, that was supposed to be your top priority. Your brain wasn’t on the same page, however, as you replayed the events leading up to her arrival over and over, feeling the sensations tingle all down your spine. The irresistible urge to listen to his deep grunts and groans over and over ate at your stomach, and between the late hour and piles of fantasies you ran through with guilt, you finally ended up falling asleep.

Chapter Text

There were no mistakes to be made, no second chances. If there were even one slip-up in the moment, everything would come undone at the seams, leaving Ford's innards wide open to the sun. Every movement had to be precise and fast, and the smell of gasoline was heavy in Ford’s nose when he made his swift movements in the freezing morning. His warm breath lingered in the air, threatening to give away his hiding space behind the sizable tree in the lawn across from Jordyn's house. He paused to check the time, then smiled in quiet pleasure that he had been so punctual, not even a second behind schedule.

The darkness of the morning provided him ample cover when the orange light beamed out of Jordyn's home, and she stepped outside, keys in hand. Ford didn't even realize it, but as he watched her figure make her way from the porch to her car, he eagerly licked his lips in anticipation. Shortly after her, Lilly followed, trailing behind with her giant backpack. The thudding sound of car doors shutting was Ford's signal, and he paused, hunching slightly. A moment passed, then two, of the silent waiting. The early morning birds sang their happy tunes, completely unaware of the depravity that lingered in Ford's mind.

Finally, the quietness was interrupted.

Jordyn's car engine roared to life, then slowly began to make its way back out of the driveway, and he watched silently as she rolled down the street, eventually disappearing from view.

Do it, now.

The demand in Stanley's disembodied voice was stern and final when it rang through Ford's mind. Though he knew it was only his brain playing tricks on him, he still couldn’t help the way his lip trembled before he took a deep inhale, then a step forward, leaving the shelter of the tree.

Now!

If anyone had seen the sight before them, they might assume that something must be chasing him to get an old man to run that fast. Ford tore off across the street at an alarming speed, faster than what you’d expect for someone his age, and he didn’t stop running until he reached the front door to Jordyn's house. There was little emotion behind his eyes when he bent down and flipped the welcome mat up, revealing the spare key below. Instead, there was a cold calculation taking place behind his dark eyes that never faltered when he picked the key up and jammed it into the lock, feverishly jiggling the handle and flinging it open.

The unfamiliar home proved a disadvantage as Ford cautiously padded inside, gently shutting the door behind him, then turning to scan the area. He cursed himself silently in his head upon the numerous hallways in the fair-sized house, and he found himself wishing he had more thoroughly scoped the property before. There was no time to worry about that now, though; he had a job to do, and as he began to make his way further inside, he scanned the walls and doors for any signs of familiarity.

Several family photographs hung beside the staircase, displaying many of Jordyn, Lilly, and, of course, you. He couldn’t ignore the way his heart slightly skipped when his eyes grazed over your perfect skin, and he shook his head to regain focus. He eyed the kitchen area before strolling inside and scanning around, finally seeing a few familiar landmarks from the night before. Across the hallway was the staircase, and Ford's footsteps echoed through the empty house when he approached the small storage door underneath it. With a swift motion, he unlatched the hook and pulled the door open quickly.

Don’t let her get away.

He glared down at the plain black backpack for a second or two before picking it up and feeling its weight in his hands. After momentarily zipping open the bag to dig through the contents and checking twice that everything was in place, he flung the bag over his shoulder and straightened back out. Glancing at more of the pictures when he shut the door and skated to the bottom of the stairs might’ve deterred him previously, but now he was certain of what he needed to do. There was no way around it, only through.

He began to make his way up the stairs quickly, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out an envelope, which he scanned over in his hands when he reached the master bedroom. He made a move to pull it open, tugging at the handle and revealing the mess inside, though this was hardly an obstacle. He was careful as he stepped inside slightly, setting the letter on the nightstand and exiting once again, slamming the door shut. He had no time for sightseeing, especially since Jordyn tended to speed on the way to work.

In a flash, he was running back down the stairs with his backpack in tow, hardly able to hear his own thoughts over the several voices that began to urge him to move faster. They hissed and snapped at him with desperation, and he finally made his way back to the front entrance, not even sparing a glance backwards. Everything had been perfectly set up, after all. He slammed the door shut behind him, before shoving the spare house key into his pocket, then pulling his own car keys out.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok…this doesn’t look terrible…

You hummed to yourself as you spun around slightly, offering a better angle to see the outfit you had picked out that hung loosely around you. You drowned in a large, dark sweater and a pair of tights that you had to lint roll to be black again, but they still fit nicely, just as they did the last time you wore them. You weren’t typically one to fuss over appearances, but today seemed like the right day to put a bit of effort in.

The sweet scent of your cherry perfume was heavy in the bathroom where you resided, posted up in the mirror to begin stabbing some little heart earrings through your ears, and you examined them with a quick smile. The faded purple of your hair was loosely hanging, allowed to spiral wildly from under the black beanie you also sported. Even though you knew you weren't, your eyes still flashed to the time on your phone to be sure you weren’t late. Your palms felt sweaty, with a familiar sensation of anxiety blossoming in your chest, as if you were about to go on a first date. So, you took in a deep breath to try to calm your nerves. It was just another tutoring session after all, nothing out of the ordinary.

…Except for the fact that everything was now out of the ordinary.

You bit your lip before slipping your phone into your pocket, your brain eager to provide you with the memories of a few nights before. Whether it was the alcohol demons or your plain old libido that made you kiss him like that, it didn’t matter anymore- There was no more cover of indifference to hide behind when it came to Ford. It was leaving you feeling quite exposed, though you weren’t sure if it was a sensation you hated or not yet. Being under his watchful eye during a session was a completely different story.

You had to steel yourself to begin to make your way to your car, and even then, your mind still wouldn’t cease with billions of ‘what-ifs.’ Your hands felt like ice when you unlatched the car door handle and pulled it open, peering nervously inside as if Ford himself was going to jump out at you. You shook your head at your paranoia and slid into the driver's seat before slamming the door shut behind you. You took a moment to glance in the mirror and check to make sure there were no stray hairs or mascara streaks, before deciding you were at a satisfactory, not-ugly level, and plugging the keys into the ignition.

When your fingers brushed up against the soft fur of a plush dog keychain that dangled, you paused for a moment, glancing down and examining it. The familiar little trinket peered back at you through its plastic eyes, and you couldn’t help the slight frown that formed on your face. You stared at it harshly before quickly yanking your keys out again and pulling them up to your face to unlatch that specific keychain.

“Isn’t this dog so cute, y/n?” Jordyn hollered, waving you over from the other side of the large and glamorous gas station. You set down the bottle of vodka you had debated buying to make your way over to see what it was she was pointing at so excitedly. When you reached her and peered down at her hands, you couldn’t help the laugh that barked from your lips.

“What in the damn is that?!” you exclaimed with a crazy laugh, holding up the keychain to get a better look. The small Blue dog sparkled under the lights, and its big eyes popped out at you with a bewilderment you didn’t know was possible to capture in a piece of plastic.

“Oh my gosh, look, there's a cat one too!” she gasped, picking up the pink keychain that dangled on the hook beside the other dog ones. “It’s us!” she grinned, holding hers up next to yours.

The memory was bitter in your mind when you finally got the stupid dog off, and you stared at it with a haze of angry sadness before simply opening your center console and tossing it inside. Even just looking at the items Jordyn and you had bought together…it made your heart ache in a way you hadn’t felt in a very long time. You had fucked up by being dishonest, but there were no warrants for the words exchanged the following morning that still rang true in your ears nonstop. Even attempting to justify the way she stared at you with such distrust and anger proved to be futile, and you found yourself replaying specific sentences that had truly stuck with you. They were words of bitterness, yes- but you could see the truth behind them, like she had wanted to say them for a long time.

And that part was what hurt you the worst.

Throughout everything, your weirdness, your technical criminal record, your pessimism, she had been by your side as you had been for her. Grappling with the weight of her admission that she wouldn’t be friends with someone who was hurting themselves for a guy, your stomach felt insanely heavy, and your eyes subconsciously flashed upwards to your dash.

Alongside the sad memories that began to race past you, the glaring green of your car's clock was also starting to take hold of your attention, and you sighed, putting the keys back into the ignition and finally making your way to the college. Several groups of families roamed the streets as you drove, and you were so lost in thought, you nearly missed hitting a curb. You surveyed the line of adults and children that made their way across the crosswalk in front of you, all bundled up in their coats and hoodies.

You felt an eyebrow raise when the light finally turned green, and you examined the rows of streets for a sign of some kind of event, finally landing on a giant poster taped up to a small shop's window. You had been so caught up in thought, you had completely forgotten that tomorrow was, in fact, Halloween. Scanning the crowds of people, you could tell they were setting up for an event, and you turned back with a frown, trying not to dredge up memories of you and Jordyn's shared holidays. Gravity Falls always held a community trunk-or-treat with a bunch of games, and you and Jordyn had never missed a single year.

Except now, she would not join you in your festivities.

You tried to bite back the simmering resentment that settled in your ribs when you turned into the parking lot of the college and parked. Before getting out, you glanced at the clock one more time- 6:50. You were ten minutes early. The anger and sadness of your inner drama were slightly subdued by the growing anxiety you felt as you exited your car and peered at the entrance harshly, an uncertain expression etched into your face. A few students waded out of the doors from their previous classes, all chattering, listening to music, and getting ready to end their day. With a shaky breath, you were determined not to pussy out, so you made your way up the steps and pulled the giant glass door open nervously.

Strangely, even the smell of the building gave you butterflies, as if your brain knew it was the cue to start going into overtime to not look like an idiot. You walked down the quiet hallways that only echoed with low student conversation, until finally, you approached the oh-so familiar door you found yourself standing in front of so often. Your eyes traced the lettering on the plaque beside it, reading Stanford's name in your head like a mantra that would calm you down. Even your hands were trembling when you reached forward for the door handle and gripped it firmly.

It’s just your professor. You thought, taking a deep breath. It’s not like he’s gonna bite.

The door creaked open agonizingly loud, making you wince at your own presence, and you could feel every inch of chaos digging into your shoulders and neck when you finally made a move to step inside.

“Ah, y/n, early I see. Come have a seat, I’m nearly finished grading these papers,” his raspy voice echoed, shooting an arrow straight through your heart, which made you fight to keep balance.

All of the tension that had built up in your mind weighed heavily until the moment Ford lifted his head from his desk to finally look at you, and in that instant, it all shattered. He wore a charming smile when he spoke, waving you over, and your body had no choice but to obey the sultry-sounding command.

“Hey…Professor Pines,” you greeted sheepishly, silently kicking yourself for being shy like some middle schooler. Your legs felt like jelly when they carried you across the room through the rows of desks, and finally stopped in front of Ford's desk, which already had a chair scooted up for you. You pulled it out and took a seat, watching the way Ford paused, then slightly chuckled.

“Still on the Professor train, I see,” he observes with a grin. You blink in surprise, then laugh a bit nervously.

“Right, um- Sorry, Stanford,” you correct, offering him a small smile, and folding your hands into your lap when you were unable to find anything else to do with them.

There's a silence that slowly befalls the room that makes you eerily aware of your own breathing, as if you could do that wrong, too, and you wonder what's going on behind Ford's eyes. They look steadily into yours with that same darkness as before, but as you glimpse closer, there is something different about them, something…off. Your gaze is attracted to his six-fingered hand when he finally lifts the stack of papers he’d been grading, and gestures to you.

“No need to be so tense, y/n. I won’t bite,” he grins. The tone behind his voice catches you off guard with its purr, and you feel your stomach twist pleasantly. “Call me whatever you’d like, I just warn your usage of my title,” he admits, running a thoughtful hand over his chin. You pause at this, a light blush beginning to creep its way to your face.

“What does that mean exactly?” you ask, raising your eyebrows at him. When he runs his tongue over his top lip, you bite back a shiver that threatens to shake your spine. He leans back casually in his chair, studying you.

“I think you’ll find that out in time,” he replies cooly, and the words go right to your stomach. You shake your head slightly, taken off guard by the vulgarity of your own mind, desperate to change the subject, and unsure of where the boundaries now lie. The distance between the two of you is nearly maddening, though you weren’t sure your body could support you if you were to try and bridge the gap. “For now, though, let’s discuss your grades as of late,” he shifted, the change in his tone jarring.

The immediate switch from such a low and seductive tone to a scholarly and intelligent one made you blink in surprise, trying to catch your breath that he’d knowingly knocked out of you, as apparent by the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. You felt your eyes narrow slightly, and you tapped your fingers on his desk as he pulled up files on his computer. His smugness ignited something inside of you that urged you to push back, and your mind was definitely not in the mood for studying. When he finally got the shitty browser to load, you squinted to get a better look at your grades, before pulling back.

“Weird…I thought I was supposed to get some kind of perk for all this,” you joked, trying to hide your disappointment in the few low numbers that tanked your grade as a whole. Ford cocked his eyebrow at you, humming curiously.

“A perk?” he repeated, looking at you amusedly. You grinned and sarcastically motioned with your hands as you spoke.

“Yeah, I mean, aren’t girls that mess with their professors supposed to get all A’s?” you pointed out, looking at him with a playful grin. He thinks about this for a moment, turning to the screen to ponder your grades with a slight smile.

“Pardon me, Miss L/n, but those favours require extra work on your part,” he clarified, raising his eyebrows at you. Your eyes don’t miss the way his gaze skates down your figure when he says this, and the underlying message rings loudly in your ears. “Besides, don’t you even want to try and pass on your own? Not even a little?” he questions, motioning to the stack of graded papers he had set aside. You sighed, studying the stack, before shaking your head.

“Honestly? No, not really!” you chuckled, a bit exasperatedly. “Between all of my other classwork, regular work, and keeping myself alive, I'm exhausted,” you admitted. Ford blinked in surprise a few times before his expression shifted towards that of genuine concern.

“Y/n, what do you mean? I thought I provided my students ample time to complete assignments,” he frowned. “No one’s ever had a grievance about it before, but…Perhaps I should…” he began to trail off. Embarrassment felt like a hole in your head at your blunt admission of hating schoolwork, because, situationship or not, he was still a professor.
You shook your head, trying to stammer out some kind of explanation.

“No, no, it’s…it’s not a time issue,” you wave, shaking your head. “It’s more like a me issue, I think,” you clarify, motioning to your brain. Ford tilts his own head to the side, looking at you with a curious glint in his eye.

You both study each other for a good few moments, and his friendly smirk is making your heart beat out of your chest. All of the shields and walls you usually sported were so easily scaled by him, to the point where talking to him felt like second nature. It’s like you could tell him anything and everything, and he would still be looking at you with that same beautiful, inquisitive glare, eager for you to keep spilling your guts. You hated the vulnerability, yet felt addicted to it at the same time, since it was something you didn’t do often.

“Your issue, my issue, either way, there's an issue,” he finally says, adjusting his glasses slightly. You aren’t sure why the pit of guilt opens in your stomach, but it does. “It seems like you’re still having trouble focusing in class, and due to circumstances, I will have to throw you a lifesaver, so to speak,” he comments, absentmindedly twirling a pen between his six fingers. You gulp, trying to hide the way the sight makes you redden, and you search for a response through the desire.

“So…what are we doing today?” you asked, your voice jagged and hoarse. Ford smirks at this, and you nearly comment on his smug demeanor, but he suddenly bends down to reach under the desk. You pout at his expert avoidance of your snarky remarks and fold your arms to lean back into the chair more comfortably.

“Just a simple worksheet, nothing crazy,” his voice is muffled from under the desk, and when he sits back up, he places a large microscope on the desk between the two of you. You eye it for a moment, before looking back over to him with an unamused expression, which he returns with a confused look of his own.

“We made out in the forest, and you’re deadass about to make me do a worksheet?” you huffed. Ford pauses before he erupts with laughter, his chest bouncing and pulling at your heartstrings with the sound alone. “I’m serious, Ford!” you whine, gesturing to the microscope exaggeratedly.

After more of his laughter and you waiting in a disappointed silence for him to finish, he finally sighs and grins at you.

“You truly don’t have a filter, do you?” he smiles, and the sight almost makes goosebumps break across your skin. He opens his drawer and fishes around inside for a moment, before finally sliding a paper in front of you with a pen. “Will you at least try? For me?” he asks.

You glare at him, his earnest question making you angry that he would dare to pull the puppy eyes on you, but you reach for the pen with a sigh and get to your feet begrudgingly. He smiled at you pleasantly, humming as he set a few small slides onto the desk as well. You shoot him the fakest glare ever, trying not to crack a smile, and reach for the small containers to examine the labels on each. You read over the three, then turn back to Ford expectantly. After a beat, you decide to ask him about them.

“Soooo, what exactly am I doing?” you question, and Ford grins, moving to stand beside you. When his familiar scent lingers in the air between you both, you inhale subtly, trying to ingrain the very smell into your mind. He reaches a hand across the desk and plucks one of the slides off the table, carefully slotting it into the device and adjusting the lens.

“I’ll take it easy on you, since this can be a little tricky for some,” he explains, his breath grazing over your ear when he speaks. You feel your breath catch in your throat when he leans in closer beside you, motioning to the paper and tapping the first line. “I just want you to identify the cell type for each of these slides. Do you believe you can manage that?” he elaborates, his palm gesturing to the microscope.

Your raging hormones are making you feel almost adolescent, so you sharply nod to shut your mouth from the dumb flood waters of words that threatened to spill in favor of looking at the slide. When you peered inside, you were greeted by the sight of bright pink slashes, dotted with purple all around. This one, you didn’t need to spare a second glance because you already knew exactly what it was. In your shaky handwriting, you scribble down the word “MUSCLE” into the first blank. You stand as still as possible when Ford leans over you with his tall frame to gaze at your answer, nodding approvingly after reading it and humming, urging you to continue, so you do.

He takes the previous slide out, and you slot the new one in to take a look. Unlike the previous one, however, the little cells that appeared under the lens weren’t familiar to you in the slightest. After a beat, you frowned, straightening back up from your position to look at Ford, embarrassment apparent in your eyes.

“I’m… not sure about this one,” You slowly admit, brushing a stray hair out of your eyes. Ford nods, motioning for you to scoot over a bit, and you obey.

“Let’s see here…” he murmurs gently, peering into the lens. While he can’t see you, you take the time to drink up his outfit that is certainly doing no favours for your wandering mind. His blue jeans hug tightly around him, and he sports a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to expose his insanely hairy arms that almost have you impressed. He nods slightly, clicking his tongue, and snapping you out of your libido-driven trance. “Ah, I see why you may be confused, this type may vary from time to time,” he noted, turning to you and ending your creepy staring session.

“What kind is it?” you wonder, curiously peeking down the lens again when he clears the way. His words are a sweet buzzing sound to your ears, like the gentle sound of waves against the shore. It’s so sweet, in fact, that you entirely forgot to listen to whatever the hell he just said. You blinked, looking back up and staring at him.

“So it would be a…?” his voice purrs, and after a moment or two, you realize he was asking you a question. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and you chuckle nervously.

“A…Liver cell? You state slowly. Upon scanning Ford's face for a sign of a correct or incorrect answer, you could safely conclude that it was incorrect. He sighs with a smile, shaking his head at you.

“Incredible,” he began, leaning into the counter. “I have never met a woman who can tune a man out quite as well as you can, y/n,” he joked, and you felt your face flush at being clocked.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I just…agh,” you groaned, running a hand over your forehead. How could you even approach him without his teacher mode taking over? You peered at him from your peripheral vision, biting your lip uncertainly. “I can’t focus,” you admit, attempting to wipe your sweaty palms off on your sweater in a non-obvious manner.

Ford studies you for a moment, peering into your eyes. When you catch a glimpse of that calculating look deep within, it stirs something in you, and looking away no longer feels like an option. He adjusts his glasses and leans in just a touch closer, but it still sets your heart on fire anyway. The next time he speaks, his tone is still professional, but now it's exponentially lower and softer, and the intimacy of the closeness is beginning to rub you the right way.

“I believe I know the reason you’re having trouble,” he breathes. You feel your heart catch in your throat, eagerness beginning to rear its embarrassing head and causing you to look at him through half-lidded eyes. “You have another activity in mind you’d rather do, am I right?” he asks.

You feel like a small prey animal when he lurks in front of you slowly, eyeing you up and down while he awaits your answer. His arms move to rest on the desk behind you, trapping you in a cage of his body, while still maintaining a frustrating distance. Though he’s expecting a response, you know you won’t be able to produce one when he’s this close, and you swallow thickly to clear your throat.

“I…I…we shouldn’t,” you stammered out, clutching your arms in front of you in a weak defense. “After what happened with Jordyn, it doesn’t feel right…” You frown, your gaze dropping to your shoes.

Though you don’t see it, Ford considers this for a moment, thoughtfully drumming his fingers against the desk, and the tension in the silence makes you nearly combust on the spot. When you finally do peel your eyes off the floor and slowly trace up to Ford's face, the expression he wears sends a shockwave through your gut, and it almost scares you for a second. His eyes are painted dark with what could only be a similar desire to what you felt at the moment, and his breathing was heavy when he spoke again.

“Jordyn isn’t here,” he exclaimed coolly, slowly reaching his hand up to hook your chin on his index finger to look at him. “If I don’t take care of you now, how long will your hormones pester me?” You could feel the insane tenseness in his body when he touches you, and it would normally alarm you to find a potential partner so stiff, but your arousal clouds your judgment. Even the insanely weird way he flirted was pooling heat in your stomach, and you fought to speak coherently.

“I can’t help it,” you mumbled, doing your best to keep yourself from turning into a puddle on the floor. “You always do this to me, Stanford,” you groaned, in a bit of a whinier tone than you’d have liked. He cocks his eyebrow at this, leaning closer.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he replied softly, like the words themselves had jagged edges you might cut yourself on. You frowned at him, snaking your hands to his chest to slightly push him away, though he hardly budged.

“Don’t give me that shit, man. You know exactly what you’re doing,” you accused lightly. “You get all…husky and sexy, and make out with me, but then you go all teacher mode and start being…being…” You stammered, searching for the word. Upon seeing the sharp smirk on Ford's face, your brows furrowed in remembrance of the word. “Cocky!” you exclaim exasperatedly. His facial expression never falters, only shifts when he tilts his head down to peer at you through his lashes.

He slowly begins to trace circles with his finger onto the top of your hand in a soothing motion, successfully throwing your weak amount of anger into a volcano. His head cautiously looms ever closer, pausing when he reaches the side of your face, and he places a small peck onto your cheek that makes your body tremble with emotion. The feeling of his hand slowly tracing up your arm and to your collarbone is like ecstasy in your veins, and when he finally stops at the base of your neck, he twists his head to look you in the eyes.

“I don’t mean to tease, really,” he chuckles softly, running his thumb over your exposed collarbone thanks to the off-the-shoulder sweater you chose. “The truth is, I don’t want to cross any boundary, y/n. It…would greatly pain me to know I did something that you didn’t want,” he admits, raking over your expression carefully.

His words ring in your mind, somewhat getting through the haze of pink your mind is shrouded in, and you feel a sympathetic side slowly rise in your chest. He was so concerned with your well-being that it made your head spin, uncertain of how to handle the way he walked on eggshells in your presence. When you speak, your voice is unsteady, but certain.

“I’m sick of boundaries,” you finally hissed out. Ford stiffened in surprise, still studying you like a wild animal in a cage, but you felt no need to stop your honesty. If it scared him off, so be it, because the heat between your legs was beginning to become unbearable being this close. “Ford, I don’t know how else to spell it out. I want you. In whichever way you decide to interpret that,” you guiltily breathe, allowing the weight of the words to exit your body once and for all. “You make me feel different, and it’s pissing me off because I don’t know why.”

The way Ford stares at you makes an uncertainty begin to overshadow your mind. There was no way you had misread his signals this time, not when he quite literally had you pinned against a desk with one arm, and petted your body with the other. His expression was unreadable, only adding to your nervousness as the quietness dragged on, and you wished for a way to go back in time to stop you from taking this stupid class in the first place, to save you the drama.

Amidst your frenzied inner panic, his voice parted the sea elegantly, stilling the chaotic motion all at once.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

You blinked, sucking in a deep breath. It’s not like he had asked to marry you, but the weight of his words held some kind of finality in them that lingered over your neck like a blade, and you stilled, closing your eyes to form a clear, unbiased thought.

Is this really what I want?

A moment passes, and you open your eyes again to be met with the incredible sight in front of you. Ford waited patiently, though his blown pupils and red face gave away his true desire, and you felt yourself fold like a lawn chair, practically collapsing onto the desk behind you.

“Please…” you hoarsely begged in a quiet tone, but it was more than enough permission for Ford.

There was desperation in his motion when he took the back of your head in his hand and angled it upwards, which you obliged. The feeling of his teeth sinking into your neck blurred your vision slightly, and you covered your mouth to muffle the small gasp that escaped. The pain and pleasure rose side by side as the purple bruising of a hickey began to bloom across your delicate skin, and Ford pressed his body closer to yours, encasing you in his muscles and shirt. He continued feverishly biting up your neck, trailing striking reds in his path to your lips, and when he pressed his onto yours, you found yourself already desperate for more.

The taste of cigarettes and booze lingered on your tongue as he swayed in motion with you, both your bodies twisting together like vines that set you on fire. His giant frame encased you, making you feel even smaller, though this didn’t scare you, but rather excited you a bit more, and your body involuntarily responded to his touch. When one of his large hands moved to lift the hem of your sweater, a quiet gasp escaped your lips as his hand snaked up your belly, grazing over the cut that you had long forgotten about until that moment, and he quickly reeled his hand back in response. He blinked in surprise, his breathing heavy when he disconnected his lips from yours. You looked back in a similar confused fashion, still pumped full of arousal that shrouded everything else.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, the desire laced in your tone making you bite your tongue, and you can see the way Ford responds to it as well when he licks his lips.

There is a moment of hesitation when Ford slowly resumes his earlier motion of lifting your shirt, until you glance down and see the semi-fresh cut, now a deep crimson above your belly button, and feel your face flush.

Instead of exploding with a barrage of questions for you, there was a moment where nothing was said, and the only sound that filled the air was the lustful sound of heavy breathing. When you searched his eyes for some kind of emotion, you were confused to be brought back with not much. They were hard marbles of Black that stared at the clean incision, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raspy and low.

“Does it hurt?” was the only thing he asked.

After a moment of gathering your scattered brain, you finally managed to shake your head in a decisive “no”, though it was only a half truth. It was sore to the touch, but you weren’t about to let his teacher mode take over when you were this close to getting what you wanted, so in a slow motion, you gently grabbed his hands and guided the sweater further upwards. He watched you with an intensity when the black of your lace bra began to spill out, until finally, the sweater was raked up enough to expose your entire chest. You could nearly feel the way his gaze branded you like a hot iron as he stared down at your cleavage, then shot you a look as if to ask permission.

The sight of the tall, confident man being undone so easily by you was intoxicating, and you nodded slightly, your lips slightly parting in anticipation. He takes in a deep breath, almost as if steeling himself, before he nods back and presses his lips up against your earlobe, sending goosebumps all over your body. When he speaks lowly into your ear, you clench your fists in a weak prevention of ripping his pants off at that second.

“Decided to dress up for me, hm?” he commented, trailing his warm hands behind your back, and you stifle back a groan at the way his jeans rub against you at just the right angle. “Didn’t take you for the type,” he smirks, as if he watched you meticulously pick out the cutest bra you owned.

“Couldn’t disappoint,” you reply, trying to keep your voice as steady as his is, hellbent on not appearing as desperately horny as you feel. When the protective fabric of your bra falls after his skillful fingers swiftly unclasp it, the coldness from the air instantly hardens your nipples, and you nervously shift your gaze to Ford for a reaction of rejection. You found none; however, instead replaced by a look that was clearly from a man with no intentions to hide the way he felt, and the sheer intensity behind it made you shiver.
He moves to cup one of your breasts in his impossibly large hand, rubbing a calloused thumb over one of your bright pink nipples, and you bite your tongue to stifle the moan that builds. Ford is not a fan of your silent treatment, however, and he makes it clear when he suddenly grips your hand that had been covering your mouth, and stares at you.

“No one will hear us,” he quips, and the eagerness seeping from him is starting to make you feel like the tease, so you just nod instead, unable to form any coherent argument against him. When he lets go of your wrist, he slowly begins to trail kisses from your jawline down to your collarbone while fondling you gently, earning a small string of moans from you.

You can feel the demand in his motion when he licks a stripe over your nipple, then latches his mouth onto it gently. The feeling of his tongue lapping over your sensitive bud is like heroin in your veins, and you can’t even help the moans and breaths that stream out of you a bit more confidently now. He seems to be enjoying the dirty, melodious sounds, and you feel him nip at you a bit to earn a louder, clearer response, which you, of course, give. When his glasses begin to get in the way of his activities, he reaches up for them and tosses them onto the desk behind you before turning his attention back to your unattended left boob, which he begins to suck hickeys onto with fervor.

When he finally unlatches his teeth from your skin, you survey the area to find a field of dark purple bruises all over your breasts and neck, and you suck in a trembling breath of sheer awe at his force. There’s no chance for a witty comment on this, though, because his mind is already hyper-focused on what he wants when he slowly grinds his hips into yours, earning a breathy moan from both of you.

“You’re- hah- excited,” you pant a bit, feeling your eyes widen as he continues to buck into your hips in slow, methodical motions that have you undone. You try and sneak a discreet glance down, but can’t help the way you swallow thickly when his sheer size becomes apparent even underneath the fabric of his jeans. He must have caught you staring in fear, because a slight chuckle escapes him, causing you to snap your eyes up to his in embarrassment.

“Intimidating?” he purrs, and you feel your face grow even hotter at his bluntness. Your mouth drops and you scoff, trying to hide the fact that he was absolutely right- that thing was a fucking monster compared to you. “Don’t worry, I don’t have condoms anyway,” he grins slightly bashfully, and you feel your stomach twist when the sudden vision of him pumping you full of his hot spend flashes through your mind, making you bite your knuckle. He luckily doesn’t point this out, and continues on his barrage of dry humping, but this time, his fingers break the seal of your waistband, and dip just below it. When his rough skin brushes right above your heat, your hips unintentionally jerk forward, chasing relief, which makes him chuckle.

“You should invest in some,” you pant out, though you know you really don’t mean those words. He grins lopsidedly down at you, which makes your heart hammer against your ribcage.

“Haven’t needed them in a long time,” he admits, and your breath catches in your throat when he extends his fingers downward, cupping your pussy. “Looks like that will definitely change though, with such an eager participant,” he smirks, feeling your wetness spill onto his fingers.

His words make you twitch in excitement, and when he finally runs a teasing finger over your slit, a beautiful moan is sung from your lips that makes him shudder, before he plunges one of his fingers into your entrance. The surprising thickness of just one of his digits makes your head spin, and he coaxes more of those disgustingly lewd sounds from you when he begins to pump in and out agonizingly slowly. The sound of your slickness fills the room next to your moans and breathing, and he runs his tongue over his lip as he studies you, hitting different spots at different angles and measuring your reactions. Under his gaze, you realize he is definitely running some kind of experiment in his head, but you couldn’t be damned to care if it made you feel this good.

When he retracts the digit from you, a whine rips from you at the loss of contact, and he slowly brings his hand closer to him to study the shimmering wetness leftover, making you flush a bit in embarrassment. Much to your mixed arousal and horror, you can’t help the way you shudder when he slowly licks it off, never breaking his intense eye contact.

“God damn,” you breathe out shakily, feeling the way you throb when he looks at you in that predatory way. Your eyes follow his movement when his fingers gently graze your lips, and he peels his eyes from yours to study them.

“Open,” he instructs.

You blink in a short surprise at his sudden demand, but find yourself obliging anyway when you slightly part your plush lips enough for him to push two of his fingers inside. The taste of yourself on your tongue, combined with the way he presses onto the muscle, makes your eyes flutter shut in pure bliss, and your saliva pools around him. When he removes them, he examines them to ensure they’re sufficiently wet, then he motions with his head downward to your tights, tugging at the waistband with his other hand. There is a moment of hesitance that flashes through his mind that you catch in real time, which makes you look up at him intently.

He meets your gaze, his uncertainty painted plainly for you to see, which tugs at your heart a bit. In an attempt to still his probably racing thoughts, you slowly hook your own fingers into your waistband and begin to shimmy the tight garment down your thighs, assuredly, as if to say “I know what I want.” When the matching black lace thong was the only lower half of your outfit that remained, you drew your eyes back up to him, with desire on the forefront of your mind.

“Don’t be a pussy,” you tease, and you feel a smug glee pit in your stomach at the way his eyes narrow. He huffs before hooking his finger around the strap of your revealing undergarment and gently tugging it downward. You watch as he lowers himself to sit on his haunches, and now that his face is mere inches from your sex, you fight the urge to jerk forward at the feeling of his hot breath. There is an agonizing moment where he doesn’t make any movement, and just admires you, making you feel a bit exposed. After a few seconds, he looks up at you, and the absolute wreckage of this man is evident when he speaks, his voice hot.

“Who’s the pussy now?” he grins. You pout at his intense studying session of your reproductive system, and open your mouth to get a witty quip in, but this plan is foiled when his large hand places itself under your thigh and grips mercilessly.

In one swift motion, he hoists your leg over his shoulder, opening you wider to him, but there is no chance for embarrassment before he connects his lips to your clit and begins to place gentle kisses all around the area. You feel the heat in your face as your breath quickens at his gentle pecking motions, and when he flattens his tongue to lap over it entirely, a drawn-out moan rips from you at the hot sensation that courses through your lower half. You feel your knees buckle under the intensity of the pleasure, and you realize the point of the position when you finally collapse your full weight onto his mouth, and he moans as well, though muffled from his obvious activity. He twists his head expertly, dragging his tongue between your folds in tandem with two of his digits that begin to pump in and out of you, earning more sounds of ecstasy.

When he hooks his fingers inside, you swear you see stars when he brushes against your G-spot nearly immediately, as if knowing exactly where to find it. The lewd sounds of his tongue licking eagerly at your pussy make your head spin, and you tangle your fingers in his ashen hair to keep the small part of you that was sane still grounded. Ford's absolute precision and expertise made every other time you’d gotten eaten out feel like nothing compared to him, and it was clear to you that this was something he really enjoyed. His eyes were piercing through you as he continued his welcomed intrusion on your heat, plunging his fingers harsher and harsher into the sweet spot.

Your mind began to go fuzzy around the third finger he added on top of the persistent motion of his tongue against your clit, and you felt reduced to a moaning mess in his touch, unable to stop the pursuit of your high. You could feel the way your hips twitched against him completely independently from your brain, as if your body was hardwired to be in sync with his. When his lips disconnected with a trail of spit, you could practically feel the heat radiating off of him when he glowered upwards and licked his lips hungrily, making you shiver.

“Incredible,” he huffed, the warmth from his breath making you clench around his fingers harshly. “I’ve hardly started and you’re already this much of a mess,” he cooed, adding another finger, and stretching you further.

His gentle and partonizing words rang in your ears over the sound of your moans, and when he could see how blissfully unaware you had become, he stilled all motion completely. A small cry ripped from you at the loss of friction, and your hands unconsciously snaked themselves into his hair, attempting to yank him forward, but he was much stronger than you and held his ground, much to your dismay. You looked down with glazed-over eyes, panting feverishly, and pure desperation was laced in every ounce of your body language when you finally mustered enough energy to speak.
“Please, Ford,” you croaked out, your voice broken and quiet under the weight of your untameable arousal. “Please, I can’t take it.” You can feel the way his grip on your thigh tightens when you say this, which makes you gasp out in surprise.

“Yes, you can,” he growls out lowly, and when you’re met with the feeling of all his fingers re-entering, you can’t contain the pleasure that spilled from every inch of your being. He resumed his attack on your G-spot, now with the included use of his thumb on your clit to continue running his smart-ass mouth. “You will take whatever I give you with a smile, and a ‘yes, professor,’ won’t you?” he murmured hotly, and you could feel yourself shake at the inability to even respond, only the pornographic sounds you produced could be heard. “You’re the one who wanted this, remember? I see the way you look at me, y/n- like an animal in heat… You can’t even help yourself, can you?” he said, through a thick tone of mock pity that made your stomach twist pleasantly, and a hearty moan escape your throat.

His barrage of words was skating the line between just enough to be humiliating, and arousing all at once, and you weren’t sure how much longer you’d be able to last in such a state. Whenever he would feel you getting closer to the edge, he would reel himself back in just enough to keep torturing your sex, but not allow you to finish, and you could feel the growls of frustration mounting in your throat. The sheer sensitivity was enough to drive you absolutely mad, and your body twitched harshly when he finally reconnected his mouth to your clit, but this time, he was a man on a mission. The playful puppy licks were now replaced by intense and skilled rapid movements that made you bite down onto your lip harshly, certain that thick walls or not, the entire school could hear the perverted scene. He licked and sucked with such vindictiveness, you might assume it was a prisoner's last meal on death row.

The bliss of the sensation completely numbs your brain to everything around you, and you can feel your head tip back lazily. The world seems dipped in gold when you gaze absentmindedly downward towards Ford, who seemed to be coming more undone by the second. His moans grew more and more intense against you, the vibration sending shockwaves down your spine, and when your eyes traced further down, you could see the way his hips bucked unconsciously forward, chasing relief. While feeling guilty, you also feel some kind of satisfaction that he was the one on his knees. Though the thought of pulling him away to aid in his arousal did cross your mind, it was ultimately obvious that it would take a crowbar to pry Ford off of you at this point, so you decided to enjoy the view and his expert knowledge of female anatomy.

When your hips begin to stutter in their rocking motion, you can’t help the way your body folds over, clutching onto Ford's hair to push him impossibly closer to you, but he doesn’t falter. Upon feeling your desperation grow more and more, the intensity of his actions also increases, and the feeling of his fingers driving into your G-spot over and over makes your mouth fall open with a string of curses, and a small strand of spit to fall. He maneuvers his head to the side, giving you just enough to feel the pleasure, but not enough for release, and when you glance down in a hazy need, he smirks back up at you.

“Magic words?” he groaned, pumping his fingers into you even deeper. You can’t even form a coherent thought at that moment, so the words that you do manage come out quiet and garbled.

“Please,” you gasp out again, but Ford is having none of that. He continues his agonizing teasing, dangling you closer and closer to your release.

“Please, what?” his voice is husky, and it dawns in your mind exactly what he likes to be called in the bedroom, so you don’t hesitate this time, your voice clearer and desperate.

“Please, Professor!”

When the words met his ears, it was like a chemical reaction when a match is struck against its box, and he roughly twisted his digits inside you, while finally placing his mouth exactly where you needed it to be. His tongue laps furiously at your clit, encasing you in that beautiful and intoxicating feeling that burned white hot in your stomach, and you couldn’t hide the flow of lewd and provocative language that followed when you finally tipped over the edge.

You felt your body violently convulse and shake as the feeling of your orgasm ripped through you with an intensity you hadn’t experienced in quite some time. He allowed you to ride out the feeling, and when your body began to weakly twitch against Ford's lips, he begrudgingly removed his mouth and fingers from your sensitive groin, but not before placing a gentle kiss directly on your clit. You huffed, gasping for breath to try and recover some of the pillaged energy, and Ford looked up at you gently, stroking your thighs tenderly, while murmuring sweet words of affirmation for you.

“You did well, my dear, so well,” he hummed. “Did that feel okay? I admit I may be a bit out of practice,” he grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. You stare down at him in awe, chest still heaving from the violence of your orgasm.

“If that’s ‘out of practice’ then all of my exes are fucking noobs,” you panted out, earning a laugh from the man below you. The sound of his bones cracking and snapping filled the room alongside his grunt as he got to his feet once again and reached behind you on his desk.

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment then,” he grins, and when you open your eyes again, he is holding a box of tissues for you, and putting on his glasses with the other. You glance at the tissue box, then back to Ford before taking a few with a slight giggle. When he murmurs an apology for only having tissues to clean up with, you wave him off dismisively.

“Trust me, it’s not the worst thing a man has made me clean up with,” you joke, and you’re too focused on getting all straightened out to see the way Ford scowls when you say this before his face returns to normal. “Besides, you’re the first man to make me finish in a while, so I’m happy either way,” you chuckle, and he pauses from his motion of cleaning his fingers to look up at you.

“That's…sad,” he raises his eyebrows, and you sigh with a nod. “You’re incredibly sensitive, so the fact that others have failed is almost amusing,” he comments with a shake of his head, before tossing the used tissue into the small trash can beside his desk. You make a move to pull up your pants after discarding your tissue as well.

“Hey, what can ya do?” you shrug. “Sometimes, the other person just doesn’t care if you…” Your eyes trail down before landing on the obviously painful tent still pitched in Ford's pants, and you snap your gaze back up to him. “Right! I can’t leave you hanging,” you comment, and Ford looks at you curiously, before tracing your gaze to his groin.

“Oh, ah- it…I don’t know,” he breathes, and it’s the first hint of nervousness you’ve seen from the man all day. “I…wouldn’t want to hurt you,” he admits sheepishly, and you immediately frown at this. You take a step forward towards him, mustering all of the intimidation you could for a woman your height.

“I’m not fragile,” you waved off, and you hooked one of your fingers into his belt loop, teasingly tugging at the fabric. You could see the way he thickly swallowed before he replied.

“Look, y/n, I know you are…eager,” he croaks, licking his lips. “Believe me, I am too. I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to go at this pace,” he defended nervously, and you could feel your expression twist a bit at this. When you frowned, you rolled your hips into his, earning a hiss from him, and you could feel the way he stiffened to prevent himself from returning the motion.

“What kind of pace are we moving at anyway?” you pout, tugging at his belt loop once again, and he bites his lip. “I want to take care of you too, Ford, it’s not just about me,” you offer, searching his eyes for something under the hesitance. Of course, under the layer of his uncertainty, there were the thick and warm pools of lust that still surrounded him like smoke. Nevertheless, his voice is steadily building its way back to that formal, teaching manner.

“I assure you, I’ll be quite all right,” he shook his head, but the tone made it clear that his rejection was nothing but a facade. With a mounting determination to get this guy off, you gently start to run your hands over his body, discreetly feeling him up through his shirt. “I can control my desires,” he weakly argues, and you pause to look at him with a dumb expression, which makes him immediately crack. “Alright, maybe not entirely…” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, but the genuine distress in his voice immediately makes you pull your hands off of him.

“Woah, hey, it's…it’s ok,” you assured, feeling your stomach twist in a slight guilt at the crestfallen expression that befell him. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, either, ok? I promise,” you say in a more gentle tone. Ford looks at you in surprise, but smooths his expression flat just as quickly.

“Right, yes,” he nods, as if that weren’t the primary thing he was worried about. “Thank you, y/n. For being concerned,” he added the last part sheepishly, adjusting his glasses, which you couldn’t help but smile at. After a few moments of silence, he reaches behind you once again and brings up his travel mug to offer to you. You take the black cup in your hands, unsure of what to expect when you tip it back and let the liquid flow into your mouth, but you’re pleasantly surprised when the sweet taste of orange juice hits. After taking a sip, you confusedly look up at Ford.

“Orange juice?” you question, holding out the cup for him to take again, and he does, cracking the lid off.

“Well, I figured I’d let you sip before I mixed my drink in,” he smirked, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye when he pulled out a small flask from his back pocket and screwed the cap off.

You stared in surprise as he dumped an absurd amount of the clear liquid into the cup before pressing the lid back on and taking a sip. Registering that your teacher had not only eaten you out on his desk, but was now making mixed drinks in front of you, you couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the absurdity of it all. He raised an eyebrow at you, a curious smile playing on his lips.

“How often are you drunk when you teach?” you half-joked, the other half genuinely curious for the answer. Ford took another swing of the drink before setting it down on his desk and making his way behind it to take a seat in his chair. You watched him blankly for a moment before he patted his lap, motioning for you to sit, and you immediately felt your face flush. When was the last time you had sat on a guy's lap that wasn’t Ford's? You are unsure of that answer when you make your way over and have a seat facing him. He immediately cradles your frame in his larger one, holding a protective hand on the small of your back.

“I’m never drunk when I teach,” he begins, and you watch the way he absentmindedly begins to play with a piece of your hair between his fingers. “Only before or after, but not during. I would never threaten my students' grades in favor of intoxication,” he says thoughtfully, drumming his other hands fingers against your thigh. You consider this for a moment, then nod.

“You…really care about your students, huh?” you ask, your eyes trailing over your shoulder to the rows of empty desks behind you. He pauses to think, then surprisingly, shakes his head.

“Most of them, yes,” he agrees, tucking the piece of hair behind your ear in favor of making eye contact that immediately gives you butterflies. “There are a few that I would…rather not teach,” he admits with a wry laugh, and you cock your head to the side inquisitively.

“And why’s that?” you ask, trying not to put your full weight down onto the poor man's lap. He sighs and shakes his head, waving one of his hands as if to shoo his own recollection away.

“Many different reasons. Usually it’s the students who have no desire to try,” he hummed, and you pouted at his obvious dig, to which he slightly chuckled. “Kidding, kidding,” he smiles at you, and the way the world feels at that moment is beautifully perfect, like the moment is encased in a rose-tinted box. You bite the inside of your lip harshly, attempting to still the way your stomach begins to somersault around. Your eyes search his for some kind of answer to your obsession, some kind of password that would open the door you needed it to, but behind the warmth, there was little else to see.

You continue to look anyway, completely encapsulated in his aura that radiates like a beam of light in the dark, and you feel a contented sigh leave your lips, before leaning more of your weight into him. He has no trouble with this, of course, his muscular frame able to support you effortlessly, like you were nothing but a lap cat, and you had to admit it wasn’t a title you were opposed to. Through the comfortable silence, the sound of rain against the window begins to resonate around the room. This, paired with the way Ford gently stroked your lower back, made you melt and turn to peer at him.

“What are you going to be for Halloween?” you suddenly asked, an idea beginning to creep its way into your thoughts. Ford looks at you in slight surprise, his eyes squinting.

“Ah, right, Halloween. I had almost forgotten,” he admits, thoughtfully eyeing you. “Honestly, I haven’t thought about it much. I used to dress up but…” he trails off, his tone dipping into one of fond recollection, which makes you smile endearingly. “Why do you ask?”

You pause, your breath hitching now that it was time to ask the question. You both share a light staring contest that you eventually lose, your gaze dropping down to trace the muscles in his arms.

“I don’t know, I was just uh…free this year,” you began, feeling like you were tripping over each word. “You know, since Jordyn isn’t really uh, talking to me, cause of…yeah,” you continue, swallowing thickly and peering at Ford, who simply looked back with an amused grin. “Not saying that it’s like- a thing or, whatever, but if you maybe wanted to do something,” the more you dig your own grave, the quieter your voice becomes, until you trail off completely, all the confidence evaporated. Ford chuckles and gently caresses your arm in his free hand before he replies, cutting off your stammering.

“I would enjoy nothing more,” he grins, snaking his hand through yours, and bringing it up to his lips to place a gentle kiss on your knuckles. The sweet gesture feels like a fire in your lungs on top of his agreement, and you nearly want to pinch yourself to ensure you’re not dreaming. “I have to handle some…personal…matters, but after that, I’m all yours,” he purred, and that sickeningly sexy tone strikes just the right chords with you.

You can’t help the way your face lights up when he motions towards you and asks about your costume. You jump into explaining what you picked out immediately, trying to ignore the slight pain in your heart at the memory of shopping for it with Jordyn.

“I'm gonna be a Playboy bunny,” you grinned, and you don't miss the way Ford slightly exhales when you say this. “Jordyn was gonna be Hugh Heffner, but…you know,” you shrugged. His fingers trace patterns into your thighs for a moment before he speaks, and his tone is light.

“Playboy, hm? Haven’t read one of those magazines in quite some time,” he hummed thoughtfully, gazing upwards as if in recollection. There is a small part of you that guiltily pictures a younger Ford flipping through one of the issues, and you shake your head to escape the thought before it spirals.

“You could be my Hugh,” you joke, prodding one of his arms. He gives a slight chuckle before firmly shaking his head no, which makes you frown. “Aw, c’mon, why not? I think you’d look great in a robe,” you comment, the vivid image of Ford in that sultry deep red robe taking the thoughts from your brain.

“While I’m certain it’s something you would love to see, it would not be the best idea for a college professor to be seen in such a…” his gaze skates down to your cleavage, then back up to your eyes. “...compromising costume…with a student,” he offers, with a sympathetic smile when you continue to pout. Finally, you huff and nod, realizing that he could definitely lose his job over being seen together in public, and that reality feels like a razor blade slowly being dragged down your arm.

“Right, right…” You say softly, attempting to conceal the disappointment behind the words. It was something you had barely stopped to consider, but while your reputation could no longer be damaged, Ford's definitely could. Being in such a small town, if word got out that the guy with twelve PhDs decided to bone one of his barely legal students, it would spell disaster for him. Your heart clenched with guilt, and you made a slight move to shift off his lap. “No, you’re right. That was ah…dumb of me to suggest,” you chuckle sheepishly.

When you feel his grip tighten around your thigh and back to keep you from getting off, you finally peer down at him in surprise at the suddenness. He looks up at you with the kind of look a man only gives a woman when he knows he’s hooked, and when he speaks, his tone is serious, which further locks you into place.

“Y/n,” he breathes, and the way he says your name sounds so…vulgar. Your heart hammers, and he clears his throat, also taken off guard by himself, before continuing unsteadily. “Don’t…Don’t worry about me, ok? If anything happens, I can handle it,” he assures, looking at you with sincerity. “Do you trust me to do that, yn? Do you trust that I can handle things?” he questions, and now the spotlight is blindingly on you once again. Your mouth opens and closes a couple of times from being caught off guard by the question, but you do eventually manage to answer.

“I…Yes,” you stammer, tucking a piece of hair behind your ears. You can feel Ford relax a bit underneath you, and his grip lessens, which makes you feel better. “I trust you, Ford. If anything happens, then…you’ll know what to do,” you nodded to yourself. Ford smiled, gently tucking his fingers under your chin to get a better look at your eyes.

“Atta girl. You don’t need to worry about a single thing, my dear,” he coos gently, and the barrage of pet names makes your stomach do backflips. Seeing your sheepish reaction to his flirting makes Ford smile even more, and he removes his fingers from your chin to adjust his glasses that slide down his nose. You look at him for a few seconds, basking in the absolute warmth that encases you like a blanket fresh out of the dryer, and after much consideration, you decide to ruin the moment by being a smart-ass.

“Well, there is one thing I need to worry about,” you say, and Ford cocks an eyebrow at you. After a beat, you have to hold in your giggles. “My fuckin’ terrible grades, that’s what,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at Ford, who leans his head back with a dramatic sigh.

“Agh, but that means I have to log onto my computer…and go in and change the grades…” he jokes, sarcastically reaching for the keyboard. “That’s a lot of work, y’know,” he groans, and you pull your best angry face, which only makes him laugh to your dismay. After a few seconds of staring at his giggling face with your scowl, he finally recedes and puts his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. I suppose I can move a few things around for you, since you were so good for me this evening,” he decides.

“AND you’ll wear the Hugh Heffner robe for me in private?” you bargain, and his eyes narrow as his smile widens further across his face. Finally, he sighs and nods, flooding you with excitement.

“Only for you, y/n.”
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crickets were chirping their melodious sounds through the deep woods whenever Ford began to make his way through the familiar trail carved by his boots over many years. The gravel crunched underneath his feet, and when the cold air whipped at his face mercilessly, he simply zipped up his hunting jacket and continued forward, stalking and lumbering like a man on a mission. He did not need any directions or landmarks- his body was hardwired to know exactly where to go.

As he cut through the dense trees, they began to lessen, and when his eyes landed on the bright yellow police tape that guarded off half of the trees, there was a moment where everything went still. He spared a quick glance over his shoulder towards the rising sun, then looked at his watch, before taking off towards the tape. As if the animals knew something disturbing was about to unfold, they all hid and cowered when Ford stepped over the flimsy plastic barricade, glancing into the several holes dug into the soft ground.

He almost scoffed upon seeing it, the shoddy work of the local police force entirely evident as he waded further into the crime scene, inspecting each of the holes. It was astonishing enough that the police force managed to convince the campgrounds to still allow campers close to a crime scene, and even more astonishing that they hadn’t found what they’d been secretly searching for for weeks. Under the guise of construction, they ripped up the earth in a desperate attempt to find the last clue they needed, though Ford knew they would never find it. As he scanned the area in a silent glare, the small, silver glint of metal peeked out at him from under a set of nearby bushes.

He bent down with a grunt and grasped the object in his palm, before swiftly sticking it into the side pocket of his backpack. When he was assured that everything was in order, he got back up again and began to crunch through the foliage of the forest under his muddy boots. There was a ravenous edge in every motion he made, accompanied by the aggression of his inner dialogue that began to chat with each other when Ford didn’t respond to their nagging. Over the arguing that ensued in the battlefield of his brain, only one thought could survive.

Five minutes.

He glanced down at his wristwatch, exponentially quickening his pace until he was nearly at a full sprint, tearing through the twisted branches with a disturbing grace. Whenever he finally saw the road peeking through the edge of the dense treeline, there was a sense of adrenaline in his blood that was further adding to the overall intensity of his turmoil. He knew it was violent and depraved, and he knew that no god could save him anymore because when the sound of a car approaching finally met his ears, he hunched down lower and watched eagerly.

When the bright green van sped past, Ford held his breath, scanning the seat for a passenger, but letting it out when he saw no one in the vehicle, except his intended target. Nearly as soon as the car came into his view, it disappeared, and the agonizing suspense began to set in when Ford listened to the sound of the engine growing further and further away. None of his traps had failed, no one had ever escaped him, and he would make damn sure this wouldn’t be the first time. Still, there was a slight nervousness in his chest.

Until finally, the suspense was cut.

A sickening sense of pride swelled in Ford at the sound of metal on asphalt, grinding and shattering along the roadside at such a volume that would surely be heard anywhere else, but not here.

When the bright green van tore into the trees chaotically, his eyes widened as he watched the scene in slow motion like an excited moviegoer, and when the branches stabbed through the shattered windshield to finally bring the car to a halt, he was still like a stone, beginning to grow more and more eager. Without hesitation, he stood back to his skyscraper height and began to make his way towards the smoking vehicle, the smell of gasoline surrounding the area.

When he finally reached the driver's side door, he peered inside with a wicked curiosity to see the results of his hard work, and when Jordyn's face blinked back at him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Holy fuck, you’re still alive,” he awed, looking at her spectacularly through the cracked window. Her eyes widened upon seeing Ford, and when she tried to turn, the disturbing sound of a gurgled yelp escaped her throat. His eyes immediately traced down to her neck, and he couldn’t help the twisted glee that overcame his senses at the sight of the shard of metal that was lodged directly into her vocal chords.

Looks like he would get to play with his food this time.

Chapter Text

The next morning was deafeningly silent when Jordyn awoke to the birdsong outside the tent, giving a light feeling to the looming problems ahead. The more the sun beamed through the thin plastic, the more Jordyn wanted to resist getting up and ignore the glaring knot in her stomach, but she knew the longer she delayed, the more upset the previous night's events would make her. In a slow and groggy movement, she shoved herself upright from her elbows with a weathered cracking sound echoing down her back, causing her to groan out in slight pain. She wasn’t sure when she had managed to fall asleep, but there was much tossing and turning in the uncomfortable silence the two girls had sat in, not uttering a word to each other for the first night in years, and her heart felt heavier than usual. 

Her eyes traced to the red sleeping bag beside her, already zipped open and abandoned, which made Jordyn sigh in both disappointment and frustration. She really did not want to have a conversation like this so early in the morning, but the cool breeze that circulated the tent almost beckoned her outside. Jordyn wasn’t the type of girl to be so harsh with her loved ones, and the thought that she would have to confront you for your behavior nearly made her nauseous. She sat for a moment in a silent debate, toiling over the fact that the words exchanged last night had no way of being unsaid by either of them. With the understanding that the only way left to go was forward, she took a breath for stability and unzipped the tent.

When she stepped outside, the striking orange and pink tones that traced the sky caught her attention immediately, and she glanced into the swirling clouds that floated lazily above. The sight was so breathtaking, she nearly didn’t see you sitting on one of the benches, hunched over, and clutching a cigarette between your lips like it was the last one you’d have. You didn’t look up, nor say anything at all, which meant Jordyn would have to be the one to initiate this conversation. She bit her lip, trying to swallow her feelings of betrayal, and she took a few cautious steps towards the busted-up wooden bench you perched on.

Even when she had approached, you still didn’t acknowledge her presence until she took a seat next to you tenderly, and you glanced up at her with that tired look you wore well. She felt her stomach churn terribly at the sight and the thought that this was something that needed to take place, so to distract herself, she looked up to the sky once more.

Without you in her vision, it was easier to say the things that needed to be said, after all.

“The sun rise is…pretty,” she commented in her low voice. She wasn’t expecting an answer, so she wasn’t surprised when you remained silent, taking another deliberate puff from your cigarette to keep yourself busy. 

The silence was long, and the tension began to grow once more as the aggression and anger from the previous night quickly took over the center stage in Jordyn's head. She felt herself sigh wryly, unable to contain the frustration she held for you in that moment. When she spoke, her voice was quick and striking.

“You’re really not gonna say anything?” she asked, just edging the tone of aggravation, turning her head to finally face you. You didn’t move at first, but after a second of letting the words linger in the air, you slowly turned to her as well. She felt a wave of shock overtake her when she got a clear look at your face, which had been red and blotchy like you’d been crying for hours. Nevertheless, there was still a part of her that needed to confront this, whether it made you upset or not.

“I didn’t want to freak you out,” you said, slowly like a person approaching a rabid dog brandishing a treat and hope. Of course, the words meant to offer some explanation only ignited more emotion within Jordyn, and her face twitched into a grimace at your words.

A slight silence stretched between you two, and Jordyn could feel her shoulders tighten when she considered your words. The irony of the statement wasn’t lost on her, and when she snapped her head towards you, she couldn’t hide the venom in her tone as she continued. 

“Yeah, great job,” she had frowned. She noticed the hurt that stabbed across your face at her abrasiveness, but at this point, she couldn’t care less. “What the hell were you thinking?” she scolded. 

She watched the way you stilled, glancing at her with what seemed to be a cross of hurt, anger, and guilt all at once. You had sighed annoyedly and bit your lip in slight irritation, before firing back.

“I was thinking that I’m a grown ass woman who can make my own decisions,” your voice trembled slightly, the way it always did when you were met with confrontation, but Jordyn couldn’t let it slide, not this time. You were sensitive, but you also needed to hear the truth.

“Yeah, so a grown ass woman should know better than that,” Jordyn huffed, shimmying her hand into her pajama pocket and maneuvering to fish out her phone. She examined the time through sleepy, irritated eyes, then turned back to you. “There's a reason he’s with you and not someone his own age. They know better.”

The look in your face was something that Jordyn hadn’t seen before, and it nearly sent a shockwave through her at the sight of your anger so blisteringly white and on display. Before Jordyn could put up any line of defense, you had sputtered in a furious hiss.

“I’m not stupid, Jordyn. I know…I know what I’m getting myself into. Besides, why are you so upset about this?” you snapped, like a dog bearing its fangs before striking. “What, are you jealous or something?” As soon as the words left your mouth, Jordyn let out a wry scoff, but you had only doubled down, insisting there couldn’t be another reason. She cut you off suddenly, like a swift motion of a blade on a chopping block.

“Why in the hell would I be jealous of you?” She seethed hotly. “I’m supposed to be jealous of the girl who’s giving herself up so easily for a man?” she fired questioningly, the shot hitting you directly in the heart, and she could see the tears forming obviously as well as feel her own. “Open your fucking eyes, y/n! You were making out with some senior citizen next to a deer corpse, and I’m just supposed to…to accept that?!” 

Another silence, and a moment of thought from you provided Jordyn ample time for regret to build for shouting at you, but the anger was stronger. A few silent tears rolled down your cheeks that made Jordyn's heart twist, and finally, you answered. 

“… I…Wish you would,” you frowned, the quiver in your voice undeniably signifying that you had begun to cry. It was at this point that Jordyn finally sat up and stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. No one said anything for a few long moments, and the tension was thick in the air to the point that it was nearly unbearable. Jordyn was sure that the sheer aura of their argument would shatter windows in the nearby radius, though she longed to escape the confines of this argument that wasn’t going anywhere.

She was upset, of course, but there was also a part of her that understood. The girl in her that had fallen in love with her ex, and bore him a child, clawed at her mind, begging to shake your shoulders. The anger was so deeply threaded through her because she knew exactly what was going through your head, and it made her stomach churn. 

When her eyes slowly made their way back to you, the disappointment in her heart weighed heavily. She had taken you under her wing and lovingly watered you so you could blossom into a rose, but instead, she was left holding the thorns. All of the shared memories and all of her perception were shattered the moment she walked in on the vulgar scene, which still left a pit in her stomach just thinking about it. This wasn’t the y/n that Jordyn had met all those years ago during her orientation, no. You were something else, untethered from Jordyn entirely, and seeing the depravity was something that made Jordyn want to completely bubble wrap you.

“Promise me, y/n,” Jordyn began, desperation beginning to bleed into her. What if she lost you? “Promise me you won’t see him anymore,” she pleaded, sincerity in every corner of her tone. 

Much to her dismay, your face fell, and you said nothing, instead choosing to stare at the treeline with a trembling lip. Your lack of an answer, though, was an answer in of itself. 

She had stared at you in apallment, hurt, and worry that engulfed her like flames and burned her skin. 

Her body.

Her…

Her skin. It…hurt. No, it didn’t just hurt, it felt like it was on fire, like someone had clawed at her neck with their fingernails over and over to rip the skin open. The faint feeling of the ground was raw and painful against her sore thighs, and the sound of footsteps slowly making their way through gravel rattled in her mind with no true source. She was entirely plunged in darkness, even when she attempted to peel open her eyes. When her feeble body tried to slightly adjust her awkward position, a sharp, horrific pain shot through her neck again, causing her to let out an incredibly groggy cry. At the sound she produced, the footsteps and dragging motion both stopped entirely, and Jordyn felt like sobbing from the slight relief it provided her raw legs.

The sounds of the crickets and the feeling of the horribly cold wind whipping at her skin made it clear she was outside, though it’s not like that information would be any use, since her brain was fighting to catch up to what was happening in the first place. Before she could try to get a sentence out, the sensation of sharp and jagged gravel cutting into her already wounded legs caused her to yelp when the dragging motion began again. It was at this moment that she finally realized that whoever this person was, was dragging her body by the arm.

“Finally awake?” a voice gruffed, causing a new blossom of fear to pit in her chest. The voice was masculine and dark, with no comfort to be had. 

The question must’ve been rhetorical, since in that moment, there was a sharp yank where she was pulled off the ground and upwards onto the person's large frame like a fireman's carry. Panic surged through her wildly, and she tried to twist her body or even lift a pinky, but it was clear the injuries had weakened her exponentially. The only sensory input available to her was the creaking wooden porch and the steady, deep breaths from her attacker, who was otherwise deadly silent after his quip. There was a pause, followed by a swift entrance, as the sound of a door opening was heard, then it clicked and latched shut behind them. The sound of locks being moved into their places was deafening.

The feeling of the cold air finally ceased, and the warmth caressed Jordyn's face, though it was a useless comfort for the horrors that awaited her.

The smell of pine trees and hospital burned her weary nose, but it did give her a little kick to keep her awake. The figure below her paced, flicking on light switches and moving throughout the area as if he didn’t have a human scarf around his shoulders, and Jordyn's stomach dipped. Whoever this person was…they were strong. The movement of the man stilled once again, and the sound of another door creaking open was similar to alarm bells in Jordyn's head. This person's strength was also evident in the way they effortlessly walked down what seemed to be a flight of stairs, never stumbling or hesitating on the way, and a looming dread pit deeply in their stomach. The up and down rhythm was like war drums thundering in Jordyn's head, and when the motion stopped, it was clear they had made it to wherever this person was taking her. 

It was an oddly tender moment when the large arms of the figure wrapped around Jordyn and hooked her hands loosely around his neck. Her head tipped back lazily when she was shimmied and adjusted into a bridal carry, and she was met with yet another horrific realization as they began to walk again. She had done her best to fight, squirm, or at the very least take the blindfold off, but in that moment, she realized that not only was she in incredible pain- she couldn’t move a single part of her body. She had been drugged.

Panic surged through her, easily beating her tiredness with a stick, and she managed to part her lips just enough to let a yelp out. When the horrible, grating sound ripped from her chest, it must have startled them both equally, and she felt a slight flinch in the man's movement, before a pause. A few agonizingly long seconds dragged on, of Jordyn waiting in terror for some booming voice to reprimand her, but none came. In fact, it was so silent in the cold darkness that she could pick out the sounds of the man's heartbeat looming near her ear. The pause on all motion made her head swim with anxiety that tore at her insides ferociously.

Finally, her kidnapper made a motion to set her limp body down, but the coldness of metal against her skin made her jerk in surprise, then groan out in pain. The searing, hot white in her neck licked flames that made her hands attempt to shoot up and grab at it. Horrifyingly, her arm couldn’t even make it halfway up before stalling, and lazily dropping back down onto the metal table with a thud. The fear that raced in her mind was evident from the repetitive whimpering cries that she choked out, writhing like a slug in jello. Her body tensed weakly when she was positioned to lie down on her back, and though she wanted to figure out anything at all to help her, there was a thick cloud around her mind, making it impossible to think. Even still, she desperately clawed at the walls of her mind in an exhausted attempt to form a coherent thought. 

Her inner battle was interrupted after just a few short minutes, though, when the voice echoed again, from somewhere else in the room. Jordyn wondered how she hadn’t heard the man walking around, and that thought scared the hell out of her. 

“I would advise you not to speak for now. If I’m correct, your vocal cords are severed,” the voice rang cheerily. Before any panic or anxiety could be had, though, the brightness of a white light beamed into her relentlessly as the person removed what must have been a blindfold from her eyes. She hissed in pain and surprise, only able to flutter her eyes shut, before they finally opened again. 

When that rugged, glasses-wearing face came clearly into her line of sight, her face immediately twisted into one of fear. He studied her, and through her panic, she completely ignored Ford's previous comment, and her lips parted to scream for help. When the powerful cry was only a disgusting croak, and the pain began to blossom through her throat like she’d swallowed glass, she gasped in unrelenting agony. The symphony of her pained cries fell on deaf ears, as Ford eerily stared, watching her like a mother watching their daughter throw a fit in public. She continued, nonetheless, to gasp and try to scream. 

In one sharp motion, two six-fingered hands shot up in a flurry that made her see stars, and she squeaked out in surprise. One hand clasped over her mouth, and the other must’ve been near the source of her neck pain, though she couldn’t see much. When he made a short, slight twisting motion, a fiery explosion of incredible torture crackled through her skin, and her eyes widened, the sickening sounds of choking on blood filling the room.

“Listen to me, young lady,” he instructed, leaning in closer. The smell of the man's woody cologne and blood was heavy on his clothes when he stared daggers through her, seriousness etched into his face. “If you don’t want me to drive this piece of metal all the way through your neck, you’d better shut your mouth,” he said, agonizingly monotone. Jordyn, who had been staring at him like a fish out of water, immediately clamped her mouth shut tightly, sensing the intensity behind his tone and body language. 

After a second of staring in horrified silence, he slowly removed his hands from her mouth, but not her neck. She shakily surveyed him as he did her, and when his other hand crept down near the metal shard in her skin, she couldn’t help the way her body began to tremble from fear, exhaustion, or both weakly. His odd attire was one of the first things she could notice through her bleariness. A blue face mask was pulled down under his chin, and he sported what seemed to be a doctor's coat over scrubs with a stethoscope draped around his neck.

Ford's eyes unglued themselves from hers, and he slowly looked down to inspect the injury more closely. As he ran his deranged little inventory of her body, Jordyn only had one thing on her mind besides the painful misery she was in. 

Slowly, and shakily, she forced her hand to try to rise. It fought back as if she were wading through cement, but Ford noticed the action and cocked his head to the side curiously, nearly amusedly, though this didn’t dissuade Jordyn. Watching her in mockery, Ford didn’t even flinch when her weak hands gripped onto his white coat, staining bloody handprints into the fabric with all the force she could muster. Her attempts to form any words were met with a sharp stabbing sensation, and through the pain, there was thick distress in her tone. 

“L…Lil…y…” 

She watched the way Ford's eyebrows raised slightly curiously at this, and he smirked, before nodding understandingly. 

“Ahh, yes, your daughter,” he recalls, running his hand through his hair thoughtfully. “How maternal of you. Even through all of this, she’s still the first thing on your mind,” he said thoughtfully. He peered at Jordyn for a moment, as if they were just two people in a very normal circumstance having a casual conversation, and his apathy sent fear down her spine.

His mockery was not a satisfactory answer, however, and Jordyn refused to let go of Ford, her hazy eyes fluttering open and shut as she fought for consciousness. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the show, and after he gripped onto her wrist and pulled it off of him, he chuckled wryly. Jordyn felt no sense of comfort in Ford's next words when he finally answered.

“I assure you, she is in good hands,” he commented, straightening back to stand to his towering height, only adding to Jordyn's terror. “I couldn’t allow her to be in the hands of such a judgmental whore,” he eerily justified, and Jordyn could feel her stomach drop to her knees, tears of pure fear never stilling their now rapid flow. Her eyes followed him cautiously when he began to walk out of sight, and the sound of a drawer opening was followed by several metallic clinking sounds. 

The weight of reality was heavy and crashing, though blurry through the drugged state she was in, and the polite humming only fueled the fire of sickening anticipation. She surveyed what she could with her limited mobility, but came up empty, seeing as there was nothing but the dark room and the table she lay on, illuminated by one powerful light. No windows, no doors to the outside world, she was completely isolated. When the sound of a cart being rolled across the floor caught her attention, her breath hitched.

Ford came back into her view, pushing in front of him a small medical cart, holding a variety of different tools ranging from scalpels to drills. Jordyn could feel her pulse quicken at the sight, and the horror in her eyes must’ve been evident by the way he eerily smiled back down at her, as if he were a dentist about to start up a chat, and not a blood-thirsty maniac. The mechanical sound of the table whirred noisily, and it steadily rose, bringing her closer and closer to sit at the man's height.

“Y’know, Jordyn, it’s a damn shame I have to do this to you,” he sighed, grabbing a small box from a nearby shelf hidden in darkness. “I’ll admit, in the time I’ve had to observe y/n, I’ve learned quite a bit about you as well. We share the same obsession with the unusual,” he continued, punching the slot in the box and revealing the bright blue sterile gloves inside. “It’s what attracted you to y/n in the first place, though that’s no fault of yours, of course,” he chuckled to himself, slipping to gloves on. “An anomaly like her ought to be studied, but I suppose you’ll do for now,” he commented.

A fresh wave of panic began to settle in when he reached a gloved hand over to the cart and hovered over a few of the items. Jordyn's eyes watched helplessly, bugged out of her head, and anxiously awaiting for him to choose her death right in front of her eyes. It dragged on for far too long before he finally plucked one of the objects and surveyed it, before leaning in closer over her. Upon a closer look at the instrument, Jordyn felt confusion in her mind and also abject horror at the pair of tweezers he clamped between his fingers. He peered down at the wound, studying and prodding at the surrounding area with his digits boredly, but it was evident he was enjoying the painful noises that followed from her.

“I would say it’s a miracle you survived, but I believe that your survival is evidence of my theory,” he explained to his unwilling audience. “If you survive this as well…” he trailed off, his eyes skating down to the floor. Jordyn simply shook at his passive statements, unable to understand what he could possibly mean. “I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we get there, hm?” he grinned, a disturbing twinkle in his eye that made Jordyn's stomach turn. “For now, I would advise you to bite down on this,” he said, producing a small handkerchief from his pocket. Jordyn could only observe as he folded the bright red fabric and placed it between Jordyn's jaws. She wildly looked up at him, now connecting the clues as to what he was about to do to her, and she whimpered horrifically painful cries of protest. He didn’t respond, but simply adjusted his glasses before adjusting the tweezers in his grasp, and looming closer, making Jordyn squeeze her eyes shut.

The handkerchief, of course, would be no aid for the course of action that proceeded. Though she couldn’t bear to watch, the sensation of the tweezers clamping onto the shard caused an earthquake to rumble through her chest, and a wheezy sound escaped her. The sensation of the jagged edges of the metal slowly began to drag back through its entry path, slicing the open wounds, and the wet, warm flow of blood began to spill. The disgusting cries were closer to an animal being tortured, and she certainly felt like one writhing weakly, thrashing with what little she could muster. She gasped for air, her teeth digging into the handkerchief like a vice in a useless distraction from the searing sensation of flesh being torn and flayed, and the tears were salty on her tongue as the strangled cries continued.

Then, it was over.

The cutting, agonizing pain was a bit duller, though not to a comfortable level by any means, and she could hear the sound of the large chunk of her car hitting a pan on the cart. Her vision swayed and blurred like she was on psychedelics, and it was so powerful she almost didn’t feel Ford holding something cloth-like up to the wound. Her T-shirt, now wet with blood, clung to her body, adding to the insane discomfort as it dried and effectively glued it to her. The sound of Ford's voice was practically background humming at this point, and she fluttered her eyes open slightly, fighting with all of her strength to remain conscious. Ford was digging through his coat pocket with one hand, and holding what must’ve been gauze to her neck, before he answered the ringing phone, and put it up to his ear. 

“Hello?” his voice softly echoed. The slight sounds of a voice on the other end were heard, and Jordyn knew it might be her only chance to escape. With all the energy she could muster, she spit out the handkerchief and tried to cry weakly, though there was no audible sound anymore, only pain. He continued his conversation with the other person on the line, as if he were performing a mundane task, such as doing the dishes while chatting.

He positioned the phone to sit between his shoulder as he hummed responses into the mic that were lost on Jordyn's ears, now only able to see the bright light above her, and nothing else at all. When a horrific stabbing sensation pierced her skin, her vision went completely white, as Ford began to drive a needle and medical thread through the wound in an incredibly sloppy and brutish manner. 

Though she was fading out of consciousness for the second time that night, she couldn’t stop the primal fear that rang in her ears when she blacked out.

“Don’t worry, y/n, I’ll be there soon.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowds never really were your strong suit, and especially not crowds of people dressed as fantastical and scary creatures. Even in the coldness of the setting sun, the downtown street bustled with the life of many ages and sizes, excitedly making their way around the fair and munching on their earned candy. The sky was a beautifully dark grey, which eased your mind a bit when you scanned through the unfamiliar faces. The candy apple you carried was sticky and sweet when you bit into it again, irritation beginning to rise.

While it was true you had told him to wear a costume that would mask his identity, that didn’t mean to disguise himself so perfectly that not even you could spot him. You sigh dejectedly, adjusting the pair of costume bunny ears a top of your head and pulling out your phone to check the time once again, only to be disappointed further. It had been 20 minutes since he’d called and said he was on the way, so where the hell was he? Your thumb hovered over the call button, and you bit your lip in indecision, caught between wanting to be with him and not wanting to seem like a clingy ex.

A frown formed on your face, and you shut your phone off, pointedly putting it into your white rabbit onesie, and taking another slightly aggressive bite of your candied apple. Ford was always one to be punctual, so if he was late, there must have been a good reason for it, and that thought helped to still your mind a bit from the anxiety and worry. You stared into the crowd at nothing in particular, leaning up against one of the buildings as people made their way passed you. The setting sun was shrouding the street further and further into darkness, and you clutched the costume to your body tightly with a shiver, grateful you could find something warm to wear over the promiscuous bunny suit. 

Even through the masked and painted faces, people's eyes still trailed over you when they passed, some with curiosity, some with empathy, but most with disgust. Dejectedly, you pulled your bunny-eared hood further over your head and began to walk down the street once more, desperate to appear like you had a place to belong. The smells of different food vendors were a polite distraction for your nose from the obvious judgment you were constantly under, and the smell of popcorn made you lick your dry lips hesitantly. There was a pause, and just as you were about to veer off to make your way towards the food truck, the feeling of a hand on your shoulder made you jump in surprise. After a moment, though, you relaxed and turned brightly.

“Oh hey-! Um…” you began. Your greeting was cut off by the confusing man behind you, who was clearly not Ford (way too short), but a man wearing an oni mask.

You blinked, uncertain of how to proceed or what to say as the slightly heavier man stared at you through the pinholes in his mask, and you began to feel an uneasiness creep into your throat, which you swallowed, and politely smiled, trying to hide it.

“Do I know you?” you questioned, forcing your tone to be as casual as possible. The man's hand never left your shoulder, further adding to your discomfort, and making you take a step back to brush it off. He continued to study you, silently, only his glowing yellow eyes visible from beneath the mask he wore.

Through the heaviness of the discomfort you found yourself stuck in, you urged yourself to take a few more steps back cautiously. Instead of staying in place, however, he followed each of your steps with some of his own, causing you to gasp out in a mixture of fear and startlement. Before your brain could even register what was happening, the solid feeling of the wall hit your back, and you flinched harshly at the contact, turning to see that you were indeed cornered. A few faces peered at the two of you, and you nervously sat, silently begging for one of them to see your plight, but no one made a move. 

Except for the demon-masked man, who was now stalking closer with a quick and staggered pace, like he had been possessed. He was soon inches away from your face, to the point where you could feel his hot breath on your face through his mask. Panic surged through you at the closeness of the stranger, and with incredibly shaky hands from the adrenaline that pulsed through you, you dove your hand into his chest and shoved, hard. He stumbled backwards a few steps, then looked up at you with that eerie plastic face. The more he stared, the more and more your discomfort grew.

“What do you want?!” you barked, as he stood, studying you. 

He made no sudden movements, and all of the people passing by were giant blurs of unhelpfulness, turning a blind eye to the predator that stalked you in broad daylight. His jerky and unsettling movements continued, and you could feel your hand trail down your thigh and into the pocket of your costume, wrapping around the pocket knife you carried at all times. 

You had gotten into fights before, of course, but not with a man twice your size, and you had no way of knowing if this psycho was armed or not. However, in that moment, the fear had you pinned down to your basic survival instincts, and this guy was setting all of them off. He took slow, staggering steps towards you once again, and your eyes narrowed intensely as you made a move to whip the knife from your pocket and flip it open. He lingered closer still, and you held the small weapon defensively, pressing as hard as you could into the back of the wall.

When you see his fingers twitch, there is no hesitation in the movement you make to swipe at his neck, but when you should be met with flesh, there is only air, which makes you gasp in surprise and jerk your head up. The man in the mask is stumbling backwards now, before tripping over his own legs and slamming down onto his ass with a thud, earning a few glances from the crowd. His ungraceful fall reveals the tall figure behind him, his gloved and bloody hand still grasping onto the creep's shoulder tightly.

“Oh thank fuck,” you gasp out in a fearful relief, Ford's tall figure immediately easing your mind. Though he had a blue face mask pulled up to hide his face, it was undeniably him dressed as a surgeon, and covered in fake blood. 

You watch in shock when Ford picks the man up by his collar and drags him to his feet. Your eyes glance around wildly, and there is an odd realization that hits you when you see that no others are watching the commotion. It’s like the two men aren’t there at all, and people simply walk past them without a second glance. You stare in a haze of pure confusion as Ford mutters something into the stranger's ear, then drops him into a heap on the ground. There are only more questions when the man slumps over limply, curling into a grim pose on the concrete, and you gasp in shock. 

Before your hesitant legs can carry you closer, though, your action is stilled when the man suddenly snaps his head up, and glances around in seeming confusion. You feel curiosity blooming in your chest when the man finally looks up at Ford, and he scrambles to his feet with such quickness that he almost tripped over himself again. The man pulls his mask down completely over his face, before turning and sprinting off into the crowd, as if Ford's gaze had set him ablaze. The confusion on your face is undeniable when he finally turns to you, only his harsh, dark charcoal eyes visible, and his stern expression sends a pleasant ripple through your mind. 

 When Ford's lumbering presence begins towards you, you feel your breath quicken at the sight of the dark red that stains his hands, mask, and the front of his shirt. When he approaches you, you’re unsure of what to say, so you simply look him up and down with your mouth agape due to shock. You hadn’t even realized you’d still been holding your knife up defensively until his worn fingers gently met the blade, and he steered it downwards away from where it had been pointed at his chest. You watch as he runs his finger down the weapon's blade with a cringe, but when he examines his glove, there are no cuts.

“I hate to inform you of this y/n, but you aren’t gonna do any damage with that thing,” he chuckled softly, and you feel a slight twinge of embarrassment dust your cheeks. In a flurried motion, you flick the knife back shut and shove it hastily back into your pocket, before flashing him a dramatic frown.

“Hey, I have to have something to cut the boxes open at work,” you shoot back, and he puts his hands up defensively, his eyes curling up to indicate a smile behind his bloody face mask.

Ford lets out one of his beautiful chuckles at this that immediately makes your heart pound, and you can’t help the goofy smile that creeps its way onto your face. He takes notice of this, of course, and his eyes crinkle up thoughtfully. Before he has the chance to get any words out, though, you don’t even realize you’ve closed the distance between the two of you and pulled him into a hug. After a short second, you feel your face drain of colour when you feel Ford's broad frame bounce up and down in gentle laughter. Though you wanted to make a move to move away and end the embarrassingly clingy move, surprise filled you when his huge arms wrapped around you as well.

Even when smearing your pristine white bunny suit in fake blood, there's no denial in the way the action makes your heart shoot off like fireworks. 

“It’s good to see you, too, dove,” he rumbled into your ear, placing a gentle peck on it that makes your skin burn pleasantly. Though the embrace is absolutely wonderful, you crane your neck to get a look up at his gorgeous face, illuminated in purples and oranges from the fairground lights. He peers back down at you with a similar expression in his eyes, one of joy and ease, and it relaxes you instantly. 

When the two of you break free from each other, you brush a piece of your faded purple hair behind your ear, trying to ignore the gross bluish shade it has become. His tall figure is like a beacon of warmth in the cold, and you can’t help but be inches away at all times.

“Wait, hey, you’re in trouble, mister,” you remember briefly, twisting your brows into a playful scowl. Ford's eyes widened a bit, and he raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You got here like an hour late, dude. What the hell were you doing?” you questioned, playfully punching at his arm. Seeing the way his stoic resolve crumbles to a man so obviously enamored by you fills you with a fuzzy pink feeling. 

“Mnn, right…Apologies, y/n. I misjudged the time for some of my chores,” he explained simply, the trace of a smile clear in his eyes. “I think saving you from a random creep puts us on even ground, though, don’t you?” He jokes, but there is an air of…nervousness in his tone. You notice at this point that he is shaking incredibly hard, like an aggressive dog being choked back by a metal chain. You knew it wasn’t your fault, but a part of you can’t help but feel guilty for Ford coming to your rescue. 

“I…I guess that’s true,” you chuckle, though there is little humor in your voice. 

The two of you simply studied each other after that, and it became clear to you that Ford was incredibly tense in that moment, though you’d never notice if you didn’t know what to look for. His jaw was wound up tightly, and his dark crimson-stained fingers twitched like they were ready to spring into action. His expression is even harder to read now, seeing as the bottom half of his face was entirely covered, leaving only his obsidian eyes to give you clues as to how he felt. The longer you gazed, the more guilt tugged at you. Had Ford really gotten worked up so badly from that? 

Now that you had time to stop and think about it, Ford had seemingly been this tense for the entirety of the week, especially during classes. He was always monitoring, more than usual, especially the male students. For the first time, you witnessed Ford truly giving a death stare, and the poor boy he had picked looked as if he were going to combust on the spot. The way he looked wasn’t a passive look by any means…it was almost as if he was searching for something. Checking boxes. You don’t even realize there's a look on your face, but clearly there must have been, because when your eyes return to his, worry is burned into Ford's retinas.

“That man…he didn’t…um..” Ford began, and to keep the train of new experiences rolling, a part of you was shocked at the genuine fear in his tone. “...he didn’t talk to you…Did he?” He asked, his eyebrows narrowing into a stern ridge. Usually, you would find his intensity attractive, but the desperation that you could feel when he placed his hand on your shoulder was…jarring. You blinked and licked your lips, suddenly feeling as though you were being lowered into a shark tank.

“N-no! Nothing like that, I promise,” you replied, putting your palms up and waving the idea away. “He didn’t say…anything. At all. It was really weird, actually…But I’m ok, Ford, really,”  you shook your head. “That kinda stuff happens to me all the time, don't worry,” you offered, but the second you said it, you knew those words didn’t comfort him in the slightest. His fingers dug a bit into your shoulder, enough to make you gasp out in slight pain. 

“What do you mean, y/n,” he breathed, looming closer, and heating your face to a bright red. “What do you mean that happens to you ‘all the time’,” he repeated, with no sign of emotion in his voice now. 

The sudden change in his entire demeanor puts you in shock, like you’re a little girl being yelled at again for not telling the truth. When you don’t answer at first, Ford's voice booms the question again. 

“Please stop,” you demand quietly. He doesn’t falter, though, and it's only when a small popping sound echoes from your shoulder that you jerk away with a yelp. Ford takes a half step away from you as well, a low gasp emanating from his chest as if he couldn’t believe it either. Your arm shoots up to grasp your slightly sore shoulder, and your brows twist downwards in disbelief, staring upward to meet Ford's. 

You can’t hide the shock and hurt in your eyes from him, but the way you can feel his guilt seeping from every pore of your body makes you freeze in your tracks, unsure of how to proceed. Your mouth drops open and shut a few times, but you can’t find a sentence that isn’t gibberish in your brain. Luckily, the words shoot from Ford's mouth before you can worry about that.

“Y/n, I- shit,” he breathed, and it's incredibly muffled. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just…” There is a heaviness of worry in his eyes when he takes a cautious step closer, and you’re still on the defense in your posture. “You mean to tell me that random men harass you like that? Often?” he questions, significantly softening his tone and demeanor, and you can’t help but mirror his body language. 

Now that he’s saying the words out loud, they definitely sound terrible. But unfortunately, it was the truth of what you had faced since moving to this small town. Maybe it was the regular fate of a woman, but sometimes you could swear you were a magnet for these horrible types of men who wanted to prey on you like that. When your gaze finally peeled off your shoes that you had been shamefully staring at, there was sadness between the two of you in a grim understanding. You needn’t nod, agree, or say anything. The two of you already knew the answer.

He looks into your eyes for a long moment, and you’re unsure of what move to make next. He slowly reached up to his mask, hooking his finger through it and gently tugging it down to sit underneath his chin. You feel the way your heart immediately starts to race at seeing his familiar, worn face, and when he gently moves to be closer to you, the fact that he even hurt you in the first place evaporates in your mind. He hesitates when the distance is now mere inches away from each other, but you stand in your statuesque pose, as if to give him the green light. The way the corner of his mouth tugs into a small smile feels like being in the sun after a long, cold winter, and you want to bask in the rays for as long as possible. 

“I’m…I didn’t mean to…” he tried, but you simply shook your head. You could feel his muscles entirely relax when you slowly closed the distance, connecting your mouths in an intimate but brief kiss, and when you pulled away, you could see the red dusting his cheeks. With a giggle, you made a move to pull his facemask back up over his nose and mouth, and he sighed fondly.

“It’s ok, Stanford,” you smiled gently. “I know you’d never do something like that on purpose,” you chuckled, and he chuckled as well.

Though his laugh was slightly muffled from the mask, the anonymity it provided meant that you and Ford would be free to be seen together, and that thought made you explode from excitement. He seemed eager as well when you stepped closer, wrapping your arm around his, then beaming up at him. 

“Are you sure you still want to…?” he questioned, glancing around nervously, which made you shoot him an inquisitive glance. “I just- y’know after what happened…”

“Ah, never mind that, really. Let's go play some games!” you smiled happily. He returned the sweet expression by tucking his hooked index finger under your chin and tilting your head upwards for a better look at your face. A hazy red swept over your cheeks under his close inspection, and he grinned, his eyes raking you up and down. 

“Well, now just a moment,” he paused, his gaze meeting yours again. “I was promised a Playboy, not the Easter Bunny,” he lightly teased, motioning to your bunny onesie. “Looks like you’re not seeing the robe tonight then,” he emoted cockily.  

His words did not disturb you in the slightest, though. Instead, you shot him a smug look of your own, reached up to the zipper of the garment, and stood on your tip toes to speak at a volume only the two of you could hear. When your fingers tantalizingly pulled the zipper down just enough to reveal the black latex suit underneath, you could see the wires short-circuit in his brain. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure, Mr. Hefner,” you easily shot back, grinning at him through slitted eyes, and you can see the way his tongue dances across his lips. The sight of his easy arousal makes you giggle a bit, then pull the zipper back up. “But that’s if this date goes well,” you say passively, before even realizing what had slipped out of your mouth.

Ford cocks an eyebrow at you, and when you realize the word “date” had been officially uttered, a pit of uneasiness and anxiety stabs its quills at your stomach. The thought of coming across as desperate as you felt made you cringe internally, and your thoughts raced with excuses that would make the sentence disappear, but none did. Amid your overthinking chaos, the feeling of a six-fingered hand on your shoulder slowly pulled you back down to earth like a kite being reeled back in. Your nervous eyes met his steeled ones, and his emotions gave away nothing as usual, which is why the next sentence he uttered was so important to you.

“Yes, y/n. This is a date,” he says slowly, like he is trying not to scare you off. “I assure you that I would not go to these lengths for anyone but you,” his eyes smile softly, and that pink fluffy feeling fills your chest again. “And I certainly wouldn’t beat the shit out of a stranger for anyone else,” he puffs confidently, and you sigh in amusement. 

“I wouldn’t say you beat the shit out of him per se,” you argued lightly. “More like…told him you were gonna… touch him or something,” you joked, and Ford's eyebrows raised in surprise, before he erupted into laughter. “What? That’s exactly what it looked like!” You doubled down through your laughter.

“Sweet Moses, y/n, I at least have some standards.” he shook his head with a grin, and the two of you began to walk, arms interlinked together like the perfect puzzle piece. “I mean, sometimes I shoot above my league, but…” he trailed off, his eyes thoughtfully taking inventory of you, which makes you blush. Since you’re shit terrible at accepting compliments, you bump your hip into his gently and shake your head at him. 

“Geez, don’t get all mushy on me,” you giggle, and he sighs fondly. 

“It’s true. You’re absolutely stunning, dear,” he continues, playing further into your obvious discomfort. “If I had to say, you’re the cutest easter bunny I’ve ever seen. Cottontails got nothing on this,” he purrs into your ear, and you swear you feel his fingers pinch at your backside when he says this, though it's hard to feel through the fabric. 

You gasp incredulously at the motion, playfully batting at his hand while he snickers guiltily, but with no regret. The clear glee in his expression is a sign that he definitely enjoys flustering you on purpose, and you huff at him, trying to hide the smile that won’t leave your face. As the two of you make your way down the main street, it feels as if you're floating on a cloud, and the buzz of Halloween music and chatter fills your brain. Your eyes excitedly skate down the variety of different games, treats, and booths set up all around, being manned by familiar costumed faces of the town. You pause, stilling in your tracks when you spot Susan perched beside a small make-shift track. She spots you as well, and you turn to Ford for some confirmation when she waves you over.

Ford pauses with you, looking from you to Susan, then back to you. After thinking for a moment, he nods, and you smile at him before quickly dragging him over to her in your excitement.

“Hi, Susan! I thought you’d be working tonight?” you greeted, raising your voice to be heard above the sea of people. Her delightful laugh filled the air when you inventoried her costume, which was simply a cat-eared headband and some whiskers. 

“Howdy, sweet pea! I was supposed to be workin’ the evenin’ shift, but them damn raccoons chewed through the electrical wires,” she shook her head in disbelief. “Whole places powers’ cut till’ tomorrow mornin’,” she continued, and you looked at her in a bit of shock. 

“Raccoons got into the wiring? How?” you pondered, trying to picture how an animal like a raccoon would possibly fit into a space like that, let alone chew through it for no reason. Susan simply shrugged with a smile.

“No idea, babe! I just work here,” she said, though in her tone, you weren’t able to decipher whether it was a joke or not. “Who's this tall fella here? He’s like a big old skyscraper,” she asked with glee and curiosity. You blinked and turned to Ford, nearly forgetting he had been beside you the entire time. 

“Oh, this? He uh…he’s…” You began searching for something convenient. When you drew a blank, you bore your eyes into Ford's for an out, and you could see the bastard chuckle at your nervousness before he spoke.

“I’m Finkleburg,” he introduced, and though he was clearly amused that a simple mask was effective enough to conceal his identity from people who had lived there for years, you were not as amused. You cut your eyes at him for the backhanded joke, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. “Y/n is my mentor, teaching me to use a swift and steady blade,” he elaborated on his “joke”. You turned to Susan nervously, but it didn’t truly surprise you to find that she was completely buying it. 

“Oh my! I didn’t know you were a swordsman…lady?..man?…” she exclaimed at you, and you bit back an eye roll towards Ford in favor of smiling at her instead, with a nod. “Well, Mr. Finkleburg, how’d you like to win a prize for your mentor?” she asked, cheerily clapping her hands together. 

Your eyes were now looking at the small track that you’d been standing next to. On one end, there was a dart board with ample covering so as not to hit any passerbys, and on the other was a few bright coloured strips of tape at different distances away. You and Ford both gazed over it curiously before you eventually took notice of the flimsy prize counter, protecting several stuffed toys. An excited gasp escaped you when the glorious sight of the enormous black cat plushie caught your attention, and you grabbed at Ford haphazardly. He paused his thoughts to peer at the toy as well, and when he caught on, you could see the soft smile form on his face.

“How do I get the cat?” Ford asked, pointing to the trophy. Susan glanced at it before nodding sweetly. 

“That one is the hardest one to get,” she explains with a smile, producing three darts from her apron that she still sports over her costume. “Ya get three darts, but one has to be a bullseye,” she grins, holding out her palm to Ford. 

He glances at the three bright red, pointy darts, then at you. When your eyes meet, you shoot him the best puppy eyes you can, mouthing the word ‘please’ intensely, over and over again. Ford chuckled, turning back to Susan with a nod. 

“I’ll give it a shot,” he agrees, producing a small ticket to play from his lab coat pocket. Susan accepts it, and he moves to gently swipe the darts out of her hands. He follows where her finger points to a piece of bright yellow tape, the furthest away from the dartboard. 

He nods in understanding, and you chant a few words of encouragement for him. He moves to take his place to stand a little further than behind the line, and it's like there’s something complex happening in his head when he gazes forward. As if measuring things like distance or whatever nerd shit he knew, his posture was adjusting eerily quickly. Like it already knew what the goal was. You watched intently, drinking in every moment. His wild gray hair stood against the now dark sky, and you felt his sheer focus when he slowly readied the dart, bringing it upwards. He sat like that for a good moment, and for a second, you almost wanted to comment that it was a game and not a math equation, but his sharp, sudden movement cut your train of thought off abruptly.

You nearly missed the way the small metal dart whizzed in the air with intense speed, and you felt your jaw drop open in shock when the thudding sound landed moments later. You nearly couldn’t believe it, so you looked down to where Ford stood far behind the tape, then to the dart that was driven directly into the middle of the red. A bullseye. Impressive was the word to describe it, seeing as the tape he was supposed to stand at was easily ten feet away, and he was planted a good foot behind that. When you peeled your eyes up off the tape to finally look at him in your pure awe, he smirked under his mask, clearly pleased at his ability to impress you. 

“Holy cow, Mr. Finkleburg, that’s some mighty fine dart throwin’!” Susan exclaimed suddenly, snapping you out of the wonderment that filled you. She made her way over to the prize counter, producing a small box cutter from her apron pocket and reaching up to cut the toy down. “I haven’t had anyone win a prize this big yet,” she struggled, very much too short to reach.

“Just have a knack for precision,” he grins, strolling over beside her and holding out his palm. She gratefully gives him the boxcutter, and you watch excitedly as his tall frame stretches upwards and frees your new baby. After sheathing the blade and passing it back to Susan, Ford began to make his way back to you.

“That was kinda cool,” you breathed astoundedly when he approached, brandishing the humongous plushie towards you proudly. “Scratch that, that was hella fuckin’ cool,” you chuckled, admitting. You could see the large grin in Ford's eyes when you excitedly accepted the soft plush in your arms, and you hugged it closely to your body.

“I’m glad you think so,” he grins sheepishly, though you can tell the praise goes right ot his head. You watch the way his eyes trail over the small chalkboard sign near the booth, and he scans the text for a moment, briefly nodding over. “Do you like haunted houses?” he asked with a grin. 

You paused, giving him a look before also glancing over to read the bright blue words against the blackness of the chalkboard. Scrawled in Susan's handwriting was, of course, the name of the game, “SHOOT THAT DART,” followed by the rules. Below that, however, in a red print, there were big bold letters that immediately stood out to you. You blinked, then gazed at Ford. 

“Three bullseyes in a row gets us a free pass to the haunted house?” you asked aloud, turning to Susan, who nodded happily.

“That’s right, darlin’! All you gotta do is-” she began. The movement out of the corner of your eye, though, drew your focus away from her words immediately. Before you could stop him, approach him, or say any words of protest, Ford sharply released the last two darts he held in his fingers. Susan paused before letting out a whoop in celebration. “-That!”

You surveyed the darts incredulously, unable to wrap your brain around the fact that each dart fit inside the middle, let alone got there in the first place. You could feel the slight annoyance at his never-ending skills, but the smirk on his face when he turned to you couldn’t possibly make you mad. 

“Show off,” you muttered playfully, moving to stand beside him as Susan reached into her apron pocket and handed over a bright red slip of paper. Ford simply laughed at your insult, inspecting the slip in his hands before passing it to you to do the same. There is a shitty stretched-out PNG of a haunted house on the front, and the back reads “FREE ADMISSION.” 

“I prefer the term ‘cocky asshole’, but I guess that works too,” he grinned, lightly flicking your ear, which makes you gasp dramatically and reel back. “Thank you, Susan, I’m sure my er-mentor-will enjoy the haunted house,” he turned to the short, plump woman, and you had to bite back laughter at the role reversal.

“Any time you two! You should come in and eat sometime,” she grinned back. “I’ll even give you a dart throwin’ discount. Wink,” she says, making a move to wink her closed eye. You can’t help but find so much endearment in the woman, and when a group of kids approach the booth, you know it’s time to scoot so they can have their turn. 

Saying goodbye over your shoulder, you turn and take a few steps to catch up to Ford's strides, with your giant cat plushie in hand. The sheer size of it compared to you is almost humorous, and you can hear Ford's delightfully raspy laughter emanating from under his mask at the sight. You can’t feel offended, though, there's no way any negative emotion could plague you in a state like this. Even the events from the beginning of the night were beginning to fade in your mind like a bad dream, because there was no room for fear next to the warmth you felt. The brightness of the moon caught your attention, and the sliver reminded you of a Cheshire cat smile when you scanned the beautiful sky that was clear for once. 

You don’t fuss when the feeling of Ford's large hand engulfs yours, smearing that fake blood in its wake. Crowds of all kinds of different kids run around you, some with parents, some completely unsupervised, and you can’t help but stop when you spot a matching costume. First, the little boy in his vampire costume whizzed past you. Then, the next, a girl in a werewolf costume ran after, both giggling like madmen. Your eyes followed the two children fondly, watching them chase each other without a care in the world, screaming at each other about where the best candy was. 

Ford pauses in tandem with you, and he also watches. When you turn to him, you swear there is a flash of something… despairing…on his face.

“Are you ok?” you breathed gently, trying to get his eyes to meet yours. He can’t seem to peel his eyes off the kids, but when he does, all of the emotion on his face is gone like a dried-up well. 

“Of course,” he confirms. But it’s just that- a confirmation. Like clicking yes on a form for a website you didn’t read through all the way. “Never better,” he offers, his gaze softening. This eases you a bit, and when you glance up again, the kids have already run off. 

You had grown up an only child, so you always wondered what it was like to have a sibling. On the one hand, you enjoyed the attention you received and recognized all the birthdays you didn’t have to share. On the other hand, though, it was really, really lonely, especially during the cold seasons like this. The cold breeze served as an abject reminder of all those nights spent in your attic room, curled up under your blankets with a flashlight in one hand and your beloved stuffed toys in the other. You often found yourself wishing there might be another person lying across from you, ready to ask you about the latest chapter you had read under the glow of the flashlight. 

“Hey…Ford?” you found yourself asking. He hummed in response as the two of you strolled side by side.  “Do you have any siblings?” you wondered. 

The passive question had no ill intention, of course. But the second that Ford's body stilled, and his grip around your hand tightened ever so slightly, your eyes couldn’t help but shoot up to his. Upon seeing the look in his eyes, you felt your gut twist sickeningly, and your legs go numb with guilt. The deep, washing wave of sadness that washed over his expression couldn’t even be concealed by the mask, and you blinked in surprise, before your mind backtracked. That morning at the cemetery…that tombstone. 

“I…did,” His voice is hoarse. The usually playful, intelligent man's demeanor was nowhere to be seen. You froze, and at this point, you could taste copper from how hard you were biting the inside of your cheek. “My twin brother. Stanley,” he confirmed. 

Now the imagery was clear in your mind of the freezing morning, you had crept up after him to gaze down at the slab of stone. The word twin echoed around in your mind, and the complexities of their relationship were entirely obvious just through the tone of his voice. It was ragged and almost broken, and you could feel your face drain of color for opening up an old wound of his. Ford didn’t look at you, instead just stared straight ahead, with an eerily blank look as if he were wearing a plastic mask. The sight sends a shiver down your spine, and your mouth falls open desperately to issue an apology.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…” You began, your voice quiet and unconfident. Finally, he slowly shifts his gaze to yours. The sheer level of pain in his eyes makes your heart shatter immediately. “Oh god, I'm so sorry, Stanford,” you breathe out, understanding that this was something incredibly recent. The pristine nature of the plot of the grave suddenly made a lot more sense. 

“No, no…I…was going to tell you eventually,” he murmurs, gazing at you through his bleary eyes. “Halloweens are…they are very difficult for me. It was his favorite holiday,” he explains further, though this only adds to your growing pile of guilt. 

You can’t help the frown that forms on your face in empathy for the broken soul that crumbled in front of you so easily. You weren’t expecting such a stoic man to crumble like a Jenga tower, but the acknowledgement that he was indeed going through this pain silently made you feel slightly upset. Of course, you truly had no right to know about his personal life at the end of the day. He was simply an older man trying to get his fix, that's all, but it still hurt to know he didn’t trust you with it. Personal feelings aside, though, you swallowed back the sadness you felt at the obvious emotional distance between the two of you, then slowly raised your hand to put it on his shoulder. 

The gentle touch to his shoulder made it quite obvious he was still tense, and he felt like a statue under your fingertips. You gazed over his bloody costume, then gazed up into his eyes, trying to offer some kind of comfort in them. While his expression remained unchanged, he did significantly relax when you began to rub gentle circles into his skin, and offered him an understanding but sad smile. You watched his chest rise and fall at a semi-rapid pace, and the sight was almost nerve-wracking. His eyes weren’t on you anymore when you looked, but were instead fixated on something behind you. 

“What’s up?” you asked, craning your neck to see what he was looking at. Your eyes traced over a building in the square, clearly decorated and converted to be a cheap haunted house. You blinked, then turned to him, unsurely. “Don’t worry about that right now, ok? We don’t have to do it,” you offered. Ford peeled his gaze to look at you. 

“It’s alright, y/n. I promise, I’m ok,” he returned. “I just…I need to get my mind off of things,” he breathed. The tone in his voice was something…strange. You could feel goosebumps form on your skin when he began to move forward once again, towards the building. You watched him dumbstruck for a second, before rebooting, and taking a couple of quick steps to catch up. 

“Hey, wait- wait a second,” you protested, making a move to stand in front of him. The state he seemed to be in was surely not the kind you should be in during a haunted house. “Are you sure? You seem pretty…uh…” You tried, but the look he was giving you made your lips seal shut instantly. 

He simply stared down at you without a hint of anything inside of his eyes, and moved like a piece of machinery, functioning as it was told. It was cold, completely lacking the warmth of the man who had won you the stuffed toy just minutes ago. You watched him uneasily as his back grew slowly further from you, towards the line of people waiting to enter the shenanigans. You were frozen in place, unsure of how to proceed, but the thought of being out of Ford's sight pushed your legs on their own to follow him. 

When you finally caught up to his long strides, he was standing rigidly in the line. You approached, feeling like a zookeeper brandishing zebra meat for a lion in its enclosure. Guilt embedded itself more firmly into your mind upon seeing the emptiness he still sported, unmoving and silent. Your brain screamed at you to say something, anything, that would flip the switch again, but the cold and devastating aura he exuded made it impossible to speak. When the line moved forward, he simply marched forward as well, and you had no choice but to follow. 

When you were so lost in thought, staring at your shoes, you jumped a bit when you felt the firm grip of Ford's hand over yours. This time, though, the gesture wasn’t sweet— it was possessive. His fingers gripped yours like a vice, as if to instruct you to stay by his side, and your eyes shot up wildly to his for some kind of relief, but there was none. He simply tugged you along in the line, his movements borderline twitchy, and when you finally reached the front of the line for your turn, you felt your stomach turn. 

“Just two?” the small man asked, holding out his palm for the tickets. 

Ford nodded sharply, producing the bright red slips from his pocket and sliding them into the man's hand. He glanced at them for a second and turned to toss them into a small jar full of used tickets on the counter. You felt hyper-focused on every movement made when he reached for the shoddy rope guarding the entrance and unhooked it, motioning for you both to step inside. 

“Please don’t hit our actors, we’ve had a few too many cast injuries tonight,” the man sighed, clicking the rope shut and waving the two of you forward. You blinked in slight horror, but before you could even turn to Ford to see if he’d heard that sentence as well, he was already walking. In a swift motion, he tugged you forward with ease, making you gasp in surprise.

“Ford- are you ok?” you asked sternly. The action hadn’t hurt you, but it definitely tripped you up a bit, and you stumbled to catch your balance. “You don’t have to tug on me like that, y’know. I’ll stay beside you,” you murmured softly, gazing up at him. He didn’t say anything for a few moments as you both continued into the darkness, the light of the outside disappearing when you turned a dim corner. 

“I know you will.”

The tone in his voice is filled with something you can only describe as…wrong. When you whip your head to the side to glance at him, you find yourself looking at not much but the dark shadows of his face that were barely visible. The only light source available was the small, red, flickering lantern that sat on a table a few feet away, and the atmosphere sent a chill down your spine. The light provided enough to put together that this area was meant to look like a mental asylum, as there were a few props of people in straitjackets set up, though they were the least of your concerns. You hadn’t meant to upset Ford like that, and now that the two of you were travelling through the dark, barren haunted house, the tension was thick, and so was your guilt. 

The sound of your footsteps echoing through the dark provided no comfort to you, and the sounds of your nervous breathing were becoming increasingly obvious. You were sure Ford would never do anything to hurt you- he was only acting like this because his brain is shutting off from the emotional pain. There was no possible way for you to know that his twin brother had died so recently, and he was still grieving from the loss, of course. Ford was very smart, but intelligence usually comes with horrific mental complexities, and that was something you acknowledged in your mind when the scenery of the walls slowly changed from an asylum to a forest. Even through your justification, you couldn’t help the cold chill that shot down your spine. 

As if to punctuate your unease, the loud sound of a wolf's howl echoed through some ratchety old speakers, making you jump and yelp in surprise. Your body tensed, attempting to smush itself closer to Ford, and suddenly felt utterly ridiculous for getting jumpscared like that. You sighed and turned to him, attempting to soothe your racing heartbeat. 

“Ford…” You breathed shakily. 

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but when he did, he finally turned to you, his eyebrows knitted tightly. You both stared at each other intensely, and you felt as if he’d removed your ability to speak entirely. 

“Don’t move.”

The words that echoed off the small hallway were harsh and jagged, and they made you freeze immediately. 

“What?” you finally managed to ask after swallowing the dry lump in your throat. You stopped walking when you realized Ford was no longer beside you, and you gazed behind your shoulder, feeling a growing pit in your stomach. He stood like a silhouette against the dark red lighting, unwavering. When he repeated the sentence, he loomed closer. 

“Don’t. Move,”  he hissed, closing the distance between the two of you. You felt your eyes widen when he put his hands on your shoulders, but there was no warmth in the action. “Stop moving,” he demanded, digging his palms further into your skin to try and still your uncomfortable fidgeting. “Let me see your eyes,” he barked lowly. 

“What are you talking about?” you managed, his words ringing through your head, but with no real meaning. “My…my eyes?” you asked, your brows curving downward. Not even a second after the sentence leaves your lips, there is an air of violence in the action when he firmly slams you against the wall, making you gasp for breath. 

“Why do you want to know about Stanley?” he hissed, and fear at his genuine anger rises in your throat. You reach your hands up in an attempt to push him off of you, but there's no moving the stone of a man who had you pinned against the concrete wall painfully. “Why?!” he repeated, and the roaring tone makes you gasp. 

“I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean to make you upset!” you stuttered out, pure shock laced through every inch of your being. “I didn’t know, Stanford, I’m sorry!” The apology was desperate and fearful. 

He continues to hold you in that slightly painful grasp, and the way he studies your eyes is making your head swim. He doesn’t say anything, which only adds to your fear, and you find yourself glancing around wildly, hoping for someone to see the insanity taking place and intervene, but there are no such bystanders. After a long few minutes that felt like hours to you, you could feel the grip on your shoulders soften, then completely let go. 

“Y/n, I…it’s…” he tries, but it’s almost as if someone interrupted him mid-sentence. He squeezes his eyes shut forcefully and gives his head a firm shake, muttering a few words you can’t quite make out. “You’re…you’re ok. It’s ok,” he breathes, and even though his tone is softer now, you are still on high alert, clutching onto the giant cat plushie for some kind of comfort. He notices the small action, and a flash of guilt runs over his face, making him take a step backward. 

“I’m sorry…” You murmur out again, feeling like a kid slipping an apology letter under their parents' door after an argument. Ford's brows twist downwards, and he lets out a sigh, his shoulders slumping. 

“Don’t be sorry. You’re right…you didn’t know,” he agrees, bringing up a cautious hand. “I shouldn’t have- shit, please, don’t be scared,” he breathes with an air of caution. You bite your lip nervously, eyeing his actions carefully, still shaking from the aggression from earlier. 

“You can talk to me,” you slowly say. He looks at you, slowly tugging his facemask down so you can see the entirety of his guilt-filled expression. “You don’t have to hide the bad parts. But I can’t help if…if you…” You fizzle out, losing the little confidence you had. You swear you can see the moment his heart breaks, and he sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Look, y/n, I trust you, I really do,” he bites the inside of his lip harshly. “There are just things about me…things that you shouldn’t have to worry about. It would kill me to know my emotions worry you,” he frowns. 

“Your emotions don’t worry me,” you return swiftly. “What worries me is how casually you can hurt me. Do you realize how strong you are?” you point out almost incredulously, and that guilty look flashes on Ford's face again. “You practically threw me into the wall, Stanford!” you say, a slight mess of anger welling up. Ford says nothing for a second, but instead just looks at you with that same expression that tugs at your heartstrings terribly. 

“I’m so sorry, Dove,” he breathes quietly. “I was just scared that…that you would leave. I don’t want to dump my mess of grief on you,” he sighs, and you peer at him with a stab of empathy in your stomach. 

You knew the feeling all too well, after all. 

In a slow, cautious way, you slowly take a few steps towards the tall figure who looks as if he’s ready to crumble right then and there. He watches you intently as you slowly snake your hand to his, gently curling your fingers to stroke his skin. You can observe the way his breathing slows from that rapid, quick pace to a more even one, and this gives you the confidence to look into his eyes. Deep within the dark pits, they are swimming with rapid emotions, which is a stark contrast to when the two of you entered. When your lips part, you don’t miss the way he glances down at them. 

“It’s ok,” you assured, reaching your other hand upwards to stroke his face. He leans into the touch slightly, which makes you flush with admiration. “It was an accident. I shouldn’t have triggered you like that,” you sigh, looking down at your shoes. 

You feel it when Ford shifts to kiss your palm, and the action sets butterflies wild in your tummy. The warm ambient lighting provides a warm glow that halos Ford's Figure, and you can’t help the way your body tingles at the sight. It makes him seem almost angelic, and despite the broken nature of the man, you can’t help but feel the need to repair the cracks with gold. The sweet and tender moment lasts for about thirty seconds before a booming voice causes both of you to reel back instinctively. 

“Keep it moving, lovebirds!” the voice echoes, and in a flash, Ford's facemask is tugged upwards. When you spin around, your eyes land on the two town officers, Blubs and Durland. You can’t help the smile that cracks at the sight of their matching costumes, a little red riding hood and the big bad wolf, respectively. 

“Sorry, officers,” you chuckled, waving at them and turning back around to face Ford. “Do you want to go watch some scary movies?” you offered, smiling hopefully at him. You swear you feel your very soul light up when he finally gives you that full grin. 

He simply nods, and the two of you set off further into the shitty haunted house to find the exit. 

Chapter Text

It was around nine thirty by the time Ford had managed to pile you into his truck once again, and despite all your best efforts, there was no convincing him otherwise. He was stubborn as a mule when you playfully argued back and forth while leaving the fairgrounds, debating on which home would be the coziest movie-watching setup. While you may have had the best justification for your apartment (big ass couch), ultimately, Ford's sticky fingers had snatched your keys out of your pocket when you hadn’t been looking, causing your ultimate surrender. Being in his old, red, beat-up truck was becoming the new normal for you, it seemed.

“What the fuck,” you breathed quietly to yourself. 

Upon gazing at the large, two-story home tucked away deep in the woods, it became increasingly obvious how unnatural this whole thing was. Not only were you about to go into your professor's house, but based on the looks and innuendos he’d been giving you in the car, it looked like you were in for a very long night. Ford chuckled to himself at your reaction while he turned the keys and the vehicle powered down. He turned to you with a mischievous smile. 

“Not what you were expecting?” he grinned, and after a brief pause, you could only nod. The sound of a seatbelt being unbuckled quietly echoed in your head before being punctuated by the thud of the driver's side door shutting.

Ford rounded to your side to open your door for you, and though you appreciated the gesture, it was difficult to pull your eyes away from the dark oak building a few feet in front of you. It wasn’t a lavish mansion or anything like that, but you admittedly hadn’t grown up with a lot of money, and the sight of such a well-kept house was a bit jarring. Ford let out a subtle cough as your eyes traced a few gorgeous stained glass windows, causing you to finally turn to him and flush in embarrassment at your gawking. He smiled, holding a hand out for you, which you happily accepted, and allowed him to help you down. 

“It’s nice,” you admitted out loud, and you could feel Ford's warm glow from beside you without even looking. His keys jangled noisily when his large body took lumbering steps to lead you down the long gravel driveway towards the wraparound porch. 

“I’m glad you think so,” he chuckled, holding up his keychain until he found the necessary one. “I haven’t ah…had much time to clean these past few days,” he hummed somewhat nervously, unlocking the door, then swinging it open, and gesturing for you to step inside. You couldn’t help but find a bit of endearment in his embarrassment when you cautiously moved past him and into the house.

The inside was just as pristine as the outside, save for a stack of dirty mugs by the sink, cigarette butts, and a variety of alcohol bottles with varying levels of liquid in them. Entering the kitchen, you surveyed the area closely, taking in a few of the home decor items he had chosen. A part of you felt like an intruder for catching such an intimate glimpse into his private life. The other part was almost giddy to get some clues about the secretive man, finally. The first thing your eyes felt drawn to was the antler chandelier that hung above the kitchen table, and you hummed curiously.

“That's fuckin’ sick,” you smirked, pointing up to the light fixture. “Where did you get it?” you wondered. Ford turned around from where he stood beside the door, removing several pieces of his costume, including the mask, and your heart picked up speed. His gaze traced up to where you’d been looking, and he smiled with a nod. 

“Made it, actually,” he explained, dropping his keys onto the designated hook and finally making his way closer to you. “Seemed like a waste to get rid of the most beautiful part of a stag, so I decided to keep some last year,” he recalled, scratching his chin thoughtfully. 

“Oh damn,” you blinked, glancing from the chandelier back to him. “You must uh…hunt a LOT,” you chuckled, in awe of the sheer number of bones above your head. You heard him give a slight snort before he nodded, standing in place beside you. 

“Well, tracking them is the entertaining part,” he admits, pulling his phone out of his costume pocket and setting it onto the table. “Finding out what routes they take, what hours they’re active. Keeps me occupied,” the sound of the fridge being opened makes you turn your head, and peer at Ford, who is rifling through his drinks.

“I see teaching at least five hundred students isn’t enough work?” you joke lightly, and you enjoy the way his strong shoulders give a slight bounce when he laughs. When he turns to you again, he's brandishing two water bottles, one of which he holds out for you. You accept it happily, feeling quite parched from the night's events.

“Nope. Not enough to keep this mind busy,” his eyes crinkle up thoughtfully when he gestures up to his head, and you smile lopsidedly at the gesture. You crack open the water bottle, but before you take a swig, you glance up at him curiously. 

“Just water?” you ponder, your eyes glancing back to the variety of bottles that lined the kitchen. He twists the lid off his own bottle and steps closer to your personal space, which sends a thrilling sensation to your stomach.

“Oh? Did you have something else in mind?” he chortles, putting the bottle to his lips and taking a healthy swig. You can’t help the way your eyes focus on his Adam's apple when it bobs, and you swallow thickly, attempting to mask your embarrassment. 

“Honestly, kinda, yeah,” you let out a slight giggle, and he can only smirk back in response, raising his eyebrows.  “C’mon, isn’t Halloween for adults just a glorified reason to drink?” you justified. You see the twinkle in his eyes when he quickly points out the flaw in your logic.

“You’re telling me you want to get drunk at your teacher's house on a school night?” he tuts, raking a hand through his hair. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to fail my class.” he shakes his head, and you pout at him.

While the boosts he had been giving you in class were certainly helpful, the results were still lackluster compared to your other subjects, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit hurt at the playful jab. He had always been so cocky to hold your grades above your head like this, and it was turning from endearing to irritating really quickly. You needed to get one up on this guy if you wanted any leverage at all, but coming up with a way to outsmart a man with twelve PhDs was not an easy task. You peeled your eyes off of his, trailing next to you to the mostly full bottle of cheap whiskey that sat tantalizingly next to you. A slow, evil smirk crept across your face at the flash of an idea.

“Ok then, let's make a deal,” you offered. Ford glanced up at you, a mixture of curiosity and caution filling his face. You could feel your heart beating against your ribs at the sight of the rugged man leaning against the kitchen table, staring at you intently, but you wouldn’t be the one to back down now. “Whoever can take the most shots without throwing up wins. If I win, you have to give me an A with no strings attached,” you declared, gesturing to the bottle beside you with your head. 

“Hmmm…and if you lose?” he ponders, folding his arms over each other. You blinked, your mind blanking since you hadn’t thought out your evil scheme too well. You racked your brain for a moment before deciding what the fairest tradeoff could be.

“If I lose, then…I’ll get something tattooed on my arm,” you smirked, holding out your hand cockily. “Your choice.” You were capable of drinking grown sailors under the table, so this challenge would be an absolute breeze. “Deal?” You tilted your head to the side, and Ford studied you with a grin for a few moments.

“Deal. But I want to be there when you get it,” he challenges, cocking an eyebrow at you. A spark of your competitive nature flashes through you, and you nod in determination to win.

You watch as he makes his way over to one of his cabinets, and he pulls it open gently, revealing the variety of glassware inside. He takes down two shot glasses and studies one for a few seconds before turning back and strolling over to where you had taken a seat at his island kitchen table. The glass clinks against the wood when he sets a glass down in front of you, and your eyes peel down to study it. It was a matching set, one red and one blue, but both had 'Vegas' written in bold letters. You can’t help but wonder who this shot glass originally belonged to, since it certainly didn’t seem like something Ford would own.

When he cracked the bottle of whiskey open, the sight of his aged face in the dim, warm lighting was a wonderful source of entertainment while he poured the first shots, then slid the glass over to you. You eyed the liquid inside as you took the glass in your fingers and raised it. You can see Ford do the same in your peripheral vision, and the burning hot drink warmed your throat in a manner you had grown used to. Downing it in one go, you gently set the shot glass back down, then pulled your eyes up to Ford just in time to catch the last bit of whiskey spill from the glass into his mouth. You could feel your face burn slightly when he exhaled through his nose contentedly, like he’d taken a refreshing sip of water. Deciding you definitely needed a distraction to not go feral on this man, your eyes wandered into the living room and landed on the large flatscreen television. You had come under the guise of watching scary movies after all. 

“What did you want to watch?” you ask passively, attempting to appear nonchalant. Ford raises an eyebrow at this with a slight chuckle, and he drums his fingers against the table in thought. 

“Let’s see…if I remember right, the latest Poltergeist Invader movie just released, hm?” he hummed casually. “We could also go for the classics like…” he trailed off, but you wasted no time finishing his sentence. 

“ Texas Chainsaw Massacre ?” you suggest, a flicker of hope in your eyes. There is a brief pause before he nods in agreement, looking back at you thoughtfully. You can feel the excitement bubble in your belly next to the whiskey. 

One shot had been counted. When you sat on his large brown couch, you had been at two, respectively, and when he flicked the TV on and began to search for the movie, you made the executive decision to get round three poured. You splashed the dark brown substance into the two glasses over the coffee table, only feeling a slight buzz, and not nearly close enough to throw up. You had to admit that your confidence was a little shaken at Ford's state of damn near sobriety, but you weren’t going to give up just yet. Especially not when your grades (and romantic agenda) were involved. 

It had been ages since you’d seen the old slasher film, but it was just as you’d remembered it, of course. The background of the TV playing was a quiet soundtrack over your slowly growing neediness that the alcohol gave you, and the small distance between you and Ford was suddenly a chasm. The zipper of your rabbit onesie was mercilessly fidgeted with by your nervous fingers, the awareness of the situation stabbing into your ribs. Ford had invited you over to his house and allowed you to drink with him, so were you really wrong for wanting just a bit more closeness? More contact? 

More…of Ford? 

You couldn’t help it when your eyes traced to your left to gaze at him in the soft TV lighting. He was engulfed in the movie, and it was clear that horror was a genre that he really enjoyed. You had to admit his focus was incredibly attractive, and you inventoried the tell-tale signs of his demeanor as you had done so many times before. His jaw was set a bit tightly, but he was leaning back into the couch with one elbow propped up beside your head. The sheer size of the limb compared to you made you fluster just a bit, just enough for Ford to turn his attention away from the movie. When those dark, mostly sober eyes meet yours, it feels like being baptized, and the slight smile on his lips is similar to sitting in the sun. After you study each other for a moment, Ford's ragged voice breaks over the screaming from the TV speakers.

“Something on your mind, dove?” he ponders, leaning his head into his hand to look at you better. You stutter for a moment before embarrassingly taking in a breath to collect your thoughts. 

“Uh- not in particular,” you respond, and it comes out a lot more drunk-sounding than you realize. Ford lifts an eyebrow at you, and the intensity of his eye contact is so arousing that you hardly notice when he makes a move to fill the shot glasses once again. 

“No? Nothing at all?” he hums, holding the shot glass of brown liquid up for you to take. “Could it be that you’re on the verge of losing our little bet?” he smirks triumphantly, downing his next shot easily. 

Feeling the flare of competitiveness once more, your hand shoots out to accept the drink on its own. You mumble some slurred, sarcastic comment that you can hardly make out yourself before practically throwing the burning liquid down your throat with vengeance. He watched as you wiped a bit of the whiskey off your lips, then held up your shot glass expectantly. 

“Not a chance, old man. I need that A,” you exclaimed, earning a slight chuckle from Ford that is like music to your drunken ears. 

Instead of filling up the glass like you expected him to, though, he gently lifts his hand and moves the glass downward out of the way. You look at him a bit suspiciously, unsure if he was cutting you off or something similar, but it didn’t seem like the case. You watch as he glances at you, smirks, then unscrews the cap to the whiskey, and you truly aren’t sure what to expect, but you aren’t left in suspense for long. When he lifts the bottle to his lips and begins drinking, the first couple of seconds are impressive, but a solid ten seconds later had you're in solid shock. Strangely, it was doing something to your brain that you liked. 

When he finally ended his hearty drink, he sighed contentedly and glanced down at the remainder of the whiskey inside. You could only blink in a stunned manner, absolutely caught off guard by the action. When he turns to you, he’s wearing a giant grin. 

“Come closer,” he says, and now the intoxication is slowly starting to bleed into his voice as well, though not as terribly as yours. The command is light, but the look in his eyes is deadly serious, and your body involuntarily scoots closer. Mere inches away from each other, the smell of alcohol on each other's breath is heavy, and so is the tension. 

You can’t find any words at this point, just a jumble of an intoxicated mess in your mind. Even in your state, you couldn’t help but catch the way he frowns harshly when you obey the action without a question, and this makes you pause, glancing up at him for approval. 

“What’s wrong?” you slur out, suddenly unsure of yourself. Ford's expression twitches, as if caught between feelings, but it suddenly smooths, and the only visual cue you have is the way he bites his lip. 

“Nothing- it’s…” he says, and it’s suddenly tenser, pained. “It’s nothing.” 

You blink for a few seconds, the switch in his demeanor unfathomable to your drunk mind. You must have done something wrong, done something to piss him off or scare him away again. You harshly dig your nails into your palms, upset at the fact that you had crossed an invisible boundary for the second time that night. When you glance back up at him, though, his face holds no anger or resentment. 

“Are you sureee?” you ask, slurring the last word pointedly. This cracks his mask of indifference, and a slightly sad smile creeps onto his lips, confusing you further.

“Yes. You just…you truly are the perfect…” he trails off, before his eyes go a bit wide. 

“The perfect…what?” you wonder, truly confused as to what those words could mean. 

He stares at you, and there is so much uncertainty in his tone that it just doesn’t translate to his face. It’s an incredibly odd sight, but when his eyes lower at you, a shockwave goes up your spine. He smells like cigarettes and booze, and it fills your head, making it foggy to the weirdness of the interaction and pumping you with a fresh wave of arousal. Out of your peripheral vision, you see him bring the whiskey bottle between the two of you. 

“You’re just perfect,” he hums, and the compliment sweetens you even further. “Open your mouth for me,” he instructs, so you do. He winces at this slightly, but there's no time to comment on this before he takes a large swig from the bottle. His hand snakes up to cup your chin roughly, and it's a contrast from his gentle compliment.

When he connects his lips to yours, two waves of warmth flow through you, one due to the kiss and one due to the burning alcohol he spills into your mouth from his. He gives you enough time to swallow before you feel his tongue run over your teeth, sending a shiver down your spine, and your body instinctively twitches closer to his. Your eagerness for contact is not one-sided, and as Ford gently pushes his tongue into your mouth, you feel the way his strong, six-fingered hands come up to aggressively cup your breasts. A moan escapes your throat, and you can tell Ford particularly likes the sound since he repeats the motion with more aggression, earning a larger sound. 

He wastes little time, and there is more neediness in the kiss than there is romance as he unzips the bunny onesie you sported, exposing the Playboy costume hidden underneath. He disconnects from the kiss briefly to let his eyes take in your body, and you’re so hazy in thought you hardly realize he’s making more moves to undress you further. In a flash, he’s pulling the warm pajamas completely off your body and discarding them to the side, and the eagerness in his movements makes your head reel along with the pace he is setting. Before you can comment or do anything really, his large frame is pushing you backwards onto the couch, and moving to straddle above you. 

The print of his hard dick is clear through his scrubs, and it serves as another glowing reminder of how large this man is compared to you. So many emotions are swirling in your head like a windstorm that you can barely pinpoint even the basic “happy” or “scared”, but when he leans down to connect your lips again, it’s heaven. He expertly dominates your tongue, clearly more experienced than you could dream of being, and when he sharply bites down onto your bottom lip enough to taste blood, you let out a yelping moan, glancing up at him in shock. 

He hardly reacts to this, and when you feel a bit of the dark liquid pool by your lip, he eyes it for a moment, tilting his head to the side. You swallow thickly, feeling as if you were a slide under a microscope that he studied with an intense focus. Slowly, he leans his head downward and brushes his lips against your earlobe, which makes your skin break out in goosebumps at the sensitivity. His stubble is scratchy and intoxicating all at once when his deep, rich, honey-like voice pours into your mind confidently. 

“I know you like it,” he hums. Before you can choke out some sentence to mask the embarrassment that swarmed, the feeling of his teeth dragging against your neck earns a light groan, and you feel your hips involuntarily buck upward into his. 

The feeling of his hard-on against your clothed heat feels incredible, and you can hear a low groan escape his lips at the action. When he latches his teeth onto the soft skin of your neck once again, he grinds his hips down onto you now, slowly and rhythmically. You can feel your grasp on your autonomy slipping moment by moment, but the primal lust in your body is far too large to ignore, added to the fact that you’re way too drunk to move. He punctuates a thrust with a sharp bite to your neck that makes you gasp out, and you can feel his desire building more and more with each second.

When he finally pauses to catch his breath, his eyes are low and his chest heaves dutifully. Without a lot of thought, you can feel yourself reaching up for his costume's blood-stained shirt, clutching it in your hands. He gazes down at this, then back to you, before he gives you a slight nod and moves to take his glasses off and discard them somewhere on the coffee table. It hadn’t occurred to you that you hadn’t seen Ford in all of his glory, so to speak, and you could feel excitement well inside you at the consent. As gently as you could muster, you shuffled to grip the hem of his shirt and hazily pull it up and over his large torso. You resist the urge to give it a good sniff and quickly toss it to the side to gaze at your prize. 

The sight is just as intoxicating as the alcohol, and you can feel your desire heighten at the sight of his bare skin. He’s covered in grey body hair, complementing his masculine physique wonderfully, and the muscle mass of this man is incredible. He isn’t like some bodybuilder, and there's still a bit of pudge to him, but he could punch someone's face in if he really wanted to. Aside from the glistening muscles that have you feeling fuzzy, he is adorned in several large, gnarly-looking scars, the most obvious one tracing from his left rib up to his left pec, and for some reason, this only attracts him to you further. You had seen the number of scars that coated his hands and arms, but you didn’t expect him to be covered head to toe.

He notices you admiring, and instead of allowing you to ask, he runs a teasing hand over your stomach and rests it right above your breasts. His eyes rake over you, the hunger obvious in his eyes, and it feels like he’s about to topple over whatever edge of self-control he stood on. He stares at you intensely before confirming your suspicions when he suddenly grabs the top of your costume and pulls it down, exposing your breasts. The coldness of the air almost makes you hiss, but you aren’t chilly for long before he makes quick work of licking and biting at the buds, humming in approval of the small moans you produce. 

Your head spins with both pleasure and drunkenness when he further shimmies the costume down, but it sticks around your plump hips. He sucks in a breath through his teeth in slight agitation plus arousal, earning a slight giggle from you, and you snake your hands down to pull the costume off in a joint effort. When you manage to get the leather bodysuit off, you’re left in nothing but your black thong and the fishnet tights that hug your thighs tightly. He admires you hungrily, and you can practically feel him drooling where you sit below.

“You’re telling me,” he rasps, grabbing ahold of your hips. “That you’ve been prancing around in this,” he hisses lustfully, tugging at the strap of your thong. “And I didn’t get to see it until now?” 

His words send a shockwave through you that goes right to your aching arousal, and you open your mouth to search for some kind of defense, but the fog of intoxication is too thick. He scoffs, and when he digs his digits into your hips a bit harsher, you feel lit up like a firework. 

“S’ cold outside,” you slur weakly, finally coming up with a defense. Ford looks at you for a second, and it seems like your voice is turning him on just as much, astonishingly. How he can comprehend your drunken, garbled nonsense is beyond you, but he understands you perfectly.

“Then I’ll warm you up,” he insinuates lowly, and his gravely voice is the word of God that you will blindly follow. When he lifts your hips, you’re a bit shocked at his ease of maneuvering you like that, but you allow him to flip you over into a downward dog type of position. 

There's a moment or two of quietness, and you want to turn around and look at Ford, but this sentiment is interrupted by the sensation of his tongue dragging over your soaked panties. The surprising intensity of the movement makes you moan, and you can feel your breathing accelerate with each moment he lazily licks over the fabric, just barely providing enough friction to drive you crazy. You can’t help the way your hips shift backwards eagerly, searching for more intensity. His teasing is nearly driving you crazy, and the growing need in your stomach is starting to make you primal. 

There is no pause when he loops his fingers through your fishnet tights, then tugs in a swift motion, ripping a hole for him to access yours. You can feel his large hand engulf one of your ass cheeks and squeeze harshly before giving a sharp slap to it, which makes you yelp. You hear Ford chuckle a bit at this, and he runs a gentle hand over the tender skin before he does it again, earning a loud smack that ricochets in the living room. You can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed, and you groan out into the couch cushion. 

“You’re gonna kill me, Ford,” you pant, sounding incredibly needy. Though you can’t see his face, you can tell he’s wearing that shit eating grin just based on his tone when he responds. 

“Mnn,  but you sound so enticing when you say my name,” he breathes, and presses his hard cock against your backside. “You say it like a prayer. Say it again,” he instructs. You feel your face flush, and it takes a second for you to earn the confidence to speak at all. 

“Ford,” you repeat, the slow realization that this can be leverage crossing your mind. Your tone is ragged and lustful when you speak.

“Again,” he says firmly,  and you can feel the sensation of cold air against your pussy when he finally makes a move to pull your thong to the side. 

“Stanford- oh shit,” you gasp out in surprise when two of his digits find their way inside of you, and a moan escapes your throat animalistically. The sound of your wetness fills the room as he slowly pumps his fingers in and out, coaxing more of those sounds from you. 

“So perfect. So eager to please. So…” he huffs. “Malleable.” 

He punctuates his last sentence by driving his fingers into you harshly and twisting them so they hit your G-spot. You can feel your body shake at the disgusting sound that escapes your lips, and you can feel your own fluids on your thighs when he pumps his fingers more pointedly. His eagerness is growing the more he continues the action, and you can practically feel his arousal through the motions. 

“Ford,” you beg lowly, the embarrassment something that you can file away until tomorrow. You rock your hips onto his fingers slightly. “I- need more,” you manage to get out between your panting moans. The pause in his fingering motion nearly makes you whine like a dog, but his soothing voice makes up for the loss of friction. 

“What’s that dove? You need more?” he repeats in a mixture of tenderness and mockery. “I want to make you feel good, but I don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, and the teasing in his tone makes you want to donkey kick him, but you refrain. 

“Ughhh, are you really gonna make me say it out loud?” you question, glancing back at him over your shoulder, very much aware of the two fingers still and buried deeply inside you. 

“Oh, I think I need to hear it, y/n,” he purrs, removing his fingers completely, making you whine for real this time. “I want to hear how much you need me,” he cooes, and you see him hook his thumbs into his scrub pants' waistband. You swallow thickly, feeling your face quickly overcome by that beet-red color. As much as groveling was not your thing, the alcohol and lust were too heavy to back down at this point. 

“If you don’t put your dick in me, I’m gonna fucking explode,” you rasp unelegantly, and Ford can’t help the hearty drunk laughter that slightly escapes. He quickly regains his composure and nods, tugging at the fabric of his pants. 

“Atta girl, though your vocabulary could use improvement,” he commented, tossing his pants to the side. “I suppose I’ll just have to teach you in other areas too, then.” his voice is low and seductive, and when he makes a move to pull down his boxers, your eyes are immediately attracted downward. 

Your head spins with many thoughts ranging from “there's no way that’s gonna fit” to “I’ll make it fit,” and you suddenly regret the position since you wouldn’t be able to see him. Nonetheless, his hard dick stands on end, glistening with precum from the tip, and red as if it were angry. The appendage had to be around eight or nine inches, if you had to guess, aka something you were not very experienced with, and when he takes it in his hand to rub it against your slit, fireworks explode in your stomach. He hums in pleasure behind you, and the pain in your neck from turning to look at him is wearing on you a bit. A thought crosses your mind at the contact, and you debate asking about condoms. 

He gives his cock a few lazy pumps, moaning slightly at the motion, and he eyes you closely, watching you. His gaze never leaves yours, and the thought of protection is thrown out of your mind the second he lines his dick up to your entrance and presses ever so slightly. The pressure makes you shudder, and the sickeningly slick sound is deafening when he begins to drive the head inside slowly, stretching you around him. Even going at the slowest pace, and with this much care, even the tip has you overwhelmed, and you bury your face into the couch cushion to dampen the loud moan you provide.

Slowly and steadily, he grips onto your hips for better leverage, then slides the rest of his shaft inside, his breathing growing heavier and heavier by the second. The sensation of being stretched this far was both painful and intoxicating, and when he finally buried himself to the hilt, you both let out a small contented sigh. He gently pulled his hips out and thrusted gently once, testing your pain level to see if you could handle it. Upon hearing the moan earned from the motion, he steadied himself to begin to drive his hips into you more pointedly. 

The sounds of skin on skin began to fill the room, increasing in intensity with each thrust, and you were left a moaning mess underneath him, burying your face into the cushions to try and mask your noise level. The feeling of fullness was inescapable, and he was hitting every angle you could ever ask for mercilessly, in slow, forceful thrusts that made your head spin. The grip he had on your skin was unwavering, and you couldn’t help the pitiful way you clawed at the sofa fabric, trying to hold steady against the incredible force behind you. The pace he was setting was agonizingly slow and teasing, which felt incredible, but with each driving hip motion, you could feel more eagerness building in the poor man who was doing his best to hold back. A few moments pass by before you hear him let out a low growl, and suddenly his body is shifting to hover his chest over your back, driving him even deeper inside. When you let out a strangled groan into the couch, there is a quick motion where Ford's hand snakes to grip your neck from behind, earning a gasp from you. 

“If you, hah, keep hiding those sounds of yours-” he panted out, licking a stripe up the nape of your neck. “Then I’ll just force them out of you.” 

His words make your head ring, and before you can even try to formulate a sentence through your haze of lust, his strong hand is tightening around your throat. He lifts your head out of the couch cushion, choking you with intensity, and your brain feels fuzzy when he drives his dick into you harder. There's no stopping the loud string of eager moans that pour from you endlessly as he begins to quicken his pace, slowly ramping up until the only noises are the slapping of skin on skin and both of your moans. 

His strength is incredible and obvious in the way he pulls your ass onto his hips with such power, and you can feel it reverberate in your thighs every time your skin meets. The sensation of being choked piled on top of the ruthless fucking was turning your brain into mush, and you couldn’t help the way your stomach turned pleasantly when he reached around to cup your pussy, and began running his finger over your clit expertly. His pace only continued to ramp up, and you wondered how long you could continue at this intensity.

“Ford- Shit,” you gasped out, raising a hand to claw at his hand that wrapped around your neck ruthlessly. To your dismay, his fingers didn’t falter, but stayed right in place. His voice was blackening when he spoke into your ear.  

“Take it. You know you can.” It was more like a growl, and it made your stomach pit in a mixture of arousal and fear. Your vision was beginning to go foggy around the edges, and you coughed out moans, unable to escape his grip. 

“Can’t…breathe,” your voice was barely audible at this point, and it was only then that you could feel Ford's hips stutter a bit, but the motion never stilled completely. A few horrific seconds passed where he didn’t take his hand off your neck, but when he finally did, you gasped for air desperately.  

“Pity,” he huffed, driving his hips forward with more force than before. “You sound so cute like that- fuck,” he groaned, digging his nails into your hips feverishly. 

Though the compliment rings through your head, it doesn’t truly register with the sheer intensity of his thrusts that are making the couch creak in protest. The sounds of his groans behind you are a symphony, and you can’t even be damned to care about the fact that he almost choked you too hard, because you had to admit, it felt fucking amazing. The endless stimulation of his dick, combined with the skilled way he runs his fingers over your clit is making your stomach drop with your arrival clawing its way out. 

“Ford, I-” you pant out, driving your hips back into his to meet his thrusts. “I’m close,” the words are whiny and thick, and you can hear the way Ford grins in his tone. 

“Aww, already?” he says in between gasps for air. “I was just staring to-hah, have fun,” he says snarkily, but the attitude barely registers with you through your looming orgasm.

Despite his disappointment with your close ending, he never stops, and the relief you feel that he’s not going to edge you is palpable. In a few more thrusts, you can feel yourself topple over the edge through your intense orgasm, and you can barely hear Ford above the ringing sound that echoes in your mind at the sensation. Through the haze, you can tell that he’s also getting close despite his earlier remarks, and the sensation of him slamming into you intensifies, making your head spin with overstimulation.

You feel his hips stutter, and at the very last moment, he pulls out completely and aims for your chest, which he coats in his thick cum. The warm liquid drips down the front of your heaving breasts, attempting to catch the breath he had fucked out of you. He pumps his hand over his dick a few more times to coax the last bit out before he shudders slightly, then tips his head back to attempt to catch his own breath. The sight is glorious, and it's the low sound of the horror movie soundtrack in the background that merely intensifies the feeling. 

You both sit like that for a good while, spent, sweaty, and incredibly exhausted. Eventually, you manage to slightly shift your body to move, causing a domino effect on Ford, who quickly motions to get off the top of you.

“Right, towel,” he murmurs to himself, peering at your chest, his bright red face apparent. His chest still heaves when he reaches down and picks his glasses up from the table, sliding them back on to his face. “I’ll be right back- y/n,” he turns to you, and when he pauses, it’s clear he intended to call you something different, but you have no time to question before he disappears off the couch and down the hallway. 

Coming down from the incredible high he had provided you, the tone in Ford’s voice now was different, though you couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was. Your eyes peered at the spot he had been sitting moments ago, then to the hallway he had walked down. The only sounds you can hear are the movie and the harsh wind blowing outside, indicating a storm rolling in. After a few seconds of sitting quietly, you made a move to finally sit up, but you winced at the feeling of the tacky white cum stuck to your chest, so you chose to stay seated.

When his gray hair finally poked out of the room again, he was wearing a new set of boxers and brandishing a red towel. You felt a warmth spread through you when he approached you, but this faltered when he stopped in front of you and handed you the towel. When you looked up to him, he didn’t seem happy or pleased but rather had the unmistakable look of regret etched into his usual stone expression, and you could feel your stomach drop to your knees immediately. You blinked at him in shock, but his face never faltered, and he simply shook the towel slightly to indicate annoyance that you hadn’t taken it already.

“Did…Did I do something wrong?” You avoided his eyes now; instead, you focused on wiping your chest clean to avoid revealing the hurt on your face. In your peripheral you can see him visibly stiffen, and he runs a hand through his hair, taking in a bit of breath. 

“No,” he said simply and almost…cold. “Of course not, y/n. You were incredible,” he compliments, but the words sound like they’ve been hollowed out from the inside. 

You can’t help the frown that forms on your face now at his sudden mood swings that were leaving you in the dark. When you do finally get the courage to peer up at him, he studies you closely, completely unreadable. Confusion wells inside your stomach, but more than that, a heavy guilt pits in your stomach. 

“I’m…sorry, Ford,” you apologized. Ford considers this for a moment, turning to the TV screen that was rolling the credits blankly. 

“Why on Earth are YOU sorry?” he returns, and it comes out with some force behind it that makes you reel back in surprise. “I'm the one who…who has to…” he trails off, putting his skull in his hand as if nursing a headache. 

The small meltdown is both unexpected and a quiet sort of explosion, as if it were happening underwater and you were merely watching from the surface. Though you want to question what in the hell this man is blabbing on about, the sensible part of your brain, though still drunk, kept your mouth shut nonetheless. He rubs his face in his hands a few times, tapping them against his skin, and it’s at this point that you notice how jittery he is. He damn near paces impatiently, and there are too many unanswered questions that linger in the air for your liking.

When you open your mouth to speak, you are interrupted slightly by the low rumble of thunder outside the window, which causes you both to peer outside. You can hear Ford shuffle, and when you turn, he has moved to sit back down next to you on the couch. Suddenly feeling very exposed and embarrassed to a degree, your spinning vision tries to pinpoint some kind of covering, though this is a difficult task. You fumble around for a moment in search of your pajamas that had been discarded, but when the sensation of a warm, fuzzy blanket wraps around you, you turn in surprise. 

Ford had thrown it, and though he still looks rigid and tense as a rock, there is a softer look in his eyes when he peers up. You uncertainly shuffle to give him some space, just in case that was the issue. When you anxiously turn away again, the droplets of rain make their presence known when they begin to patter against the roof and windows, and it soothes you somewhat. Trying to find as much sobriety as you possibly can, you collect your scattered thoughts into a sentence. 

“I’m not sure…what it is you have to do exactly,” you say slowly, and you notice the way he flinches when you say this. You pause, but press on after a beat. “But…if you didn’t want me to…I…” You said slowly, like your words were stuck in molasses. Ford still says nothing, and this drives even more anxiety into you like a nail. “Maybe I should go,” you frown, embarrassment welling up inside of you.

Everything had seemed to go so right, so what gives? The only explanation was that you had taken your drunken shenanigans too far, and if that were the case, you didn’t have the right to stick around in his home. Your palms were clammy when they shakily made a move to get up from the sofa, but you were stopped quickly in the motion when Ford put his hand on your shoulder.

“No! Please!” he pleads quickly, and this startles you even further due to the intensity of the words. His stone face now weathered into a desperate expression that has you confused, hurt, and sympathetic all at once. “Please y/n…don’t…leave,” he exclaims pointedly.  

Despite the absolutely bizarre behavior Ford is showing, undeniably, there is a pull in your stomach, and you stay right where you are. Your breathing is shallow and quiet, like it would cause him to shatter if it got too loud, and you uncertainly eyed him before speaking.

“Stanford, what’s wrong?” you ask, trying to mask the worry that is slowly taking over your mind. Though he hid it well, you could tell there was panic behind his eyes, and that made you nervous. “You can talk to me…if it’s something I can fix or…” You trail off, trying to get the ball rolling, but trying to converse right now is like dragging a cinder block through mud. 

“It’s really nothing,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in thought. You watch the way his face crinkles as if lost in his head before he finally turns to you. “Just…paranoid, I suppose,” he says, drumming his fingers against his bare thigh. 

“Ohh,” you breathe, as if realizing something obvious. Ford raises his eyebrows at you expectantly, so you continue. “Of course…you could lose your job if we ever get caught. That's why you’re so nervous,” you observed. You could see Ford's body visibly relax at your understanding. 

“Indeed. Though I shouldn’t have…” he pauses to think. “...I’m sorry,” he breathes. 

The apology swims in your head, and though you feel some sense of unease deep within your belly, it’s completely masked by the warmth he provides by just sitting next to you. When he peers back down at you through those beautifully glossy black eyes, it sets your heart on fire even worse than before. Before you realize it, you’re discarding the towel onto the floor and scooting your blanketed body closer to his. He watches you in a bit of amusement at your slug-like movements, and you finally still when you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“Please…please don’t do that to me again,” you say softly, and you can feel Ford wince at your words. “Don’t make me feel…used like that,” you plead, adjusting so you can look at him. He doesn’t say anything, and his lip pulls into a tight line before he lets out a breath and nods.

“Right,” he agrees simply, turning back to the now shut-off TV screen. “I won’t do that again. I promise,” he murmurs, never breaking eye contact. The gentleness of the promise makes your heart flutter, and you can’t help but smile a little bit. 

“You better not, jackass,” you playfully jab, butting your head into the side of his lightly, which earns a chuckle from him as well. 

You sit for a moment still, together, like one beautiful statue. The smell of booze lingers between both of you, and the spins are beginning to take their toll on your sleepiness levels, though luckily, it doesn’t seem like Ford is far behind. His eyes scan the clock on the wall, and he sighs upon reading the time. 

“I can’t remember the last time I stayed up this late,” he comments, punctuating the sentence with a yawn. You nod in agreement, already starting to feel your eyelids droop. “I suppose it seems like you’ll be staying the night with me,” he observes, the now pouring rain outside that is followed by low rumbling thunder. 

“Can’t argue with that,” you grin, knowing full well you’d never argue against a blessing. Ford gently pets your hair, and when he gets to his feet, his towering size lowers to your height.

“I…understand if you’d like me to sleep in here,” he said with a trace of guilt, his eyes motioning to the couch you sat on. “What I did was unacceptable, so I would get it if you-” 

“Mnnn, sounds like an excuse not to cuddle,” you cut in, not wanting him to beat himself up too hard. “Besides, you already promised me you wouldn’t do it again, remember?” you reminded him, holding a hand up for him to help your drunk ass off the couch. He pauses for a second before nodding, subtly at first, then more assuredly when he takes your hand.

“Right, right. You’re right,” he takes in a breath, and when you get to your feet, the warmth of the blanket is taken away when it falls, leaving you exposed again. Seeing you shiver slightly, Ford hesitantly wraps his large arms around you, encasing you in his holy warmth. “I believe I might have some pajamas that may fit you,” he recalls, and you glance up curiously. 

“Why the hell do you own women's pajamas?” you questioned, and Ford chuckled a bit at this, peering down at you. 

“I bought them for my niece a long time ago, though; she never was into unicorns after…” he trailed off, and you blinked curiously, though he continued. “Ah, never mind that. I’ve just had them lying around here because I always forget to toss them out,” he sighs lightly, and the explanation makes you crack a smile.

“Fair enough. Show me to the unicorn PJ’s!” you slur out sleepily, and you can feel the way Ford's chest bounces when he laughs. The sound fills your mind like a choir of angels. 

You really aren’t sure what to expect of the man's bedroom whenever you drag your sore and fucked out body through the hallway, tailing behind the broad figure. You couldn’t help the way your eyes roamed about his back as you waded through your drunken thoughts like mud. Ford was a weird guy, with really bad mood swings, but there was a reason; there had to be. No normal person parades around with a twelve-inch scar on his back besides surgery patients, and it certainly didn’t look like a doctor's work. Over the toned muscle and the dots of freckles, almost forgotten by time, was also etched into his skin a memory. Something you wanted to know about.

Given the current state of both of you, you decided to politely file that desire away for the time being when he opened his bedroom door and stepped inside. The light gray carpet was nice after the trudge on his hardwood floors, and through your spinning and blurry vision, you could make out a few piles of laundry, but other than that, the mess was at least clumped together. Maneuvering around the landmines of dirty clothes, you didn’t hesitate to flop down onto the sizeable mattress, covered in a soft brown blanket that felt like heaven to your sensitive skin. When you turned to get a look at Ford, he was digging through his closet, and when he exited, he wore an embarrassed expression. 

“Sorry, I uh…Suppose I should’ve cleaned, hm?” he chuckled nervously, passing over a small pile of purple pajamas that you accepted with a grin. 

“Nah, don’t worry bout it,” you waved off, mentioning how the state of your room was typically much worse, and that this was practically spotless to you. 

Even still, he seemed fidgety when he sat down, but he still wore that calm expression. Not wanting to attempt to read his micro expressions, you unfurled the simple white tee shirt and purple pajama pants, revealing their unicorn pattern all over, and you couldn't help but smile.

“Will those work?” he questioned, and you nodded happily, just relieved to have something to sleep in. 

“They’re awesome,” you chuckled, quickly pulling the shirt on over your head. As you yanked the pants up with your terrible coordination, you couldn’t help but wonder about the seemingly perfect size of them. “Oh wow- how old did you say your niece was? These fit like, really good,” you pondered, suddenly worried about being underweight as a medical issue. 

“I bought them a while ago, so I don’t remember exactly,” he says, rubbing a hand on his chin. “She and Dipper are 18 now, so they won’t be needing any pajamas like that,” he points out, and you nod in agreement. 

You can feel the dip in the left side of the bed when Ford's massive body climbs inside, and the realization is slowly leaking into your hazy brain where exactly you are, and what you just did. The usual smell of Stanford that you had wanted to capture for ages was now engulfing you like a pleasant holy water, and you didn’t even realize your body had begun to move back onto the mattress to lie down until your head hit the soft pillow. The air was relaxed now, and an air of exhaustion lingered between your figures, so you turned to take inventory of your unlikely partner's emotional state. 

His strong arms made a move to take his glasses off once more and set them onto his nightstand, and you can see him glance at the alarm clock before finally fully lying down as well. When he looks at you, he seems to be at peace, and there is a gentleness in his actions when he pulls the covers up and reaches over to shut the lamp off. Now plunged into darkness, the only thing left is the sound of your breathing, both mixing as one in your proximity, and the intimacy of the moment feels heavenly and hellish all at once. 

You aren’t sure what to say, or if you should say anything at all, since you still couldn’t exactly comprehend what the hell was going on anyway. Thankfully, though, Ford saved you from having to break the silence when his groggy voice spoke.

“Are you sure you want to sleep next to me?” he questioned, and the tone was uncertain. Wanting to put a stop to his overthinking that was clearly taking place, you felt in the darkness to put a sweet hand on his cheek, and though he couldn’t see it, you smiled softly.

“I’m sure. There's no way your big ass would fit on that couch anyway,” you tiredly laugh, and this earns a slightly humorous exhale from him too. A few seconds drag on after this, before you can feel Ford's hand reach up and encase yours completely. 

“Only if you’re absolutely positive, y/n,” he says cautiously. You nod, and though he can’t see the visible motion, he understands the motion and sighs. “Ok, ok.”

The two of you sit in a few more moments of silence, but the feeling of Ford shifting around in the darkness interrupts this, and you suddenly feel yourself being maneuvered as well. Confused, tired, and frankly not in the headspace to care, you hummed in contentment when he finally adjusted his large frame behind your back, encasing you in the best big spoon cuddle you’ve ever had. The warmth blossoms through your body against the coldness outside, and suddenly, there's no way you’ll be able to keep awake anymore with this gentle giant.

“Mnn…Goodnight, Stanford,” you grumble out tiredly, and he strokes your arm.

“...Sleep well, y/n,” he responds. 

With the last few words of his ringing in your mind, you feel your body drift off to sleep with incredible ease. 

You always had vivid dreams due to the medication you were on, though recently, they had gotten even more intense and even more lucid in nature. When your eyes opened again, what seemed like moments later, confusion flooded your dream body at the bright light hitting your eyes, and you instinctively went to shield your eyes from the harsh sun. It beat down on your skin relentlessly, and you suddenly found yourself wishing you had some sunblock or an umbrella. The lucid dreams always made you aware, but you couldn’t create things out of thin air like others could. 

The sensory input from these dreams was also something incredible, as if you were really experiencing what was happening, and you prayed this wouldn’t be some kind of nightmare. A bit nervously, you glanced down at your attire and took in the old-school swimwear you sported, which made you raise an eyebrow. When you wiggled your toes and felt the sand between them, you finally got the courage to focus your eyes and get a look around the scorching beach. The yellow sand stretched a couple of miles, and the deep blue ocean lapped at the shore lazily, putting you at ease. Seagulls and the gentle breeze made a pleasant orchestra in your ear, and you couldn’t help but feel relaxed. 

Your muscles loosened when you took a step to the side, surveying the boardwalk that was suspiciously void of all people for a sunset view like this. The purple and orange sky was a striking background that you studied when you took a few more steps forward, trying to figure out where the hell you were. Usually, your dreams were random stuff, like giving Susan advice about the restaurant or listening to Jordyn vent about her life, but this wasn’t familiar to you in the slightest, except for one detail. 

The scent of pine trees and copper was heavy around you, which was incredibly unusual for the coast, and you scanned the area curiously. Much to your surprise, the beach seemed to be completely abandoned and void of all life, and despite the relaxing nature, a sense of loneliness began to claw its way up as well. A bit uneasily now, your eyes finally spotted a sign a good distance away, and you glanced down before deciding to move forward, seeing as no monsters or demons were awaiting you. Your weight pushed back down into the sand, and you fought somewhat treacherously through the warmth, almost burning the soles of your feet.

When you finally reached the sign, it was a small wooden board half-heartedly staked into the ground, overrun with weeds and covered in seaweed rot. You read the words, hoping to make some kind of connection to them, or have some sort of memory jog, but rereading the words didn’t ring a single bell. Carved into the wood were the words “GLASS SHARD BEACH,” though you knew it wasn’t a place you’d ever seen. 

When you stood in a bit of confusion, the slow sound of rusted metal was beginning to surface in your priorities, and you glanced up, wondering how you hadn’t heard the repetitive sound before. Scanning the horizon briefly revealed the silhouette of a swing set that was dutifully rocking back and forth and holding the one soul that seemed to live on this beach. You stared at it with curiosity and caution, worried it might be your brain setting up a jump scare, but based on what you could see, it appeared that a child was the lone person present, so you felt safe enough to press forward towards them. 

The creaking of the swing set slowly came to a stop as you approached the young man, and you studied him curiously for a moment. He was a scruffy boy, his curly hair tousled and messy, and his freckled face covered in bandages. The old-school children's wear was nothing shocking in comparison to the one yellow eye he sported, and it slightly squinted in suspicion. 

“Hey, my ma told me not to talk to strangers, lady,” he warned, putting up a dutiful hand as if to shoo you away. You blinked in surprise, stopping in your tracks, but still determined to get some answers about this place. Cautiously, you took another step, holding onto yourself in a hug.

“I’m…where am I?” you asked despite the kid's suspicion. You could see the gap in his teeth flash when he replied, as if it were obvious.

“Uhhh, New Jersey?” he cocked his head to the side. “You’re definitely not from around here…are you a mermaid?” he asked with awe, pointing at your head. You took a second, scanning for what he could possibly be mentioning, before your eyes landed on your purple hair. Whatever time this was, it clearly wasn’t the norm for shitty drunk dye jobs. Deciding to go with the dream logic, you nodded, approaching the swing set fully, and grabbing onto the empty one next to him. 

“I am. I uh…got lost in the currents,” you explained, taking a seat in the empty swing. He looked at you with pure, inspired joy in his eyes, and you couldn’t help but smile at the innocence. 

“Whoa, that’s so freaking cool!” he exclaimed, digging around in his pocket and producing a small shell. “I think that’s what happened to this little guy, too. He looks all shook up,” he murmured, placing the shell in your palm.

You raised an eyebrow at the small boy, then peered down at the eggshell white coloured seashell you now held. After a moment of observing the motionless object, you found yourself a bit surprised when the feeling of crawling began, and a small hermit crab poked its head out of its home. Gazing down at the little creature, you could see it had some kind of birth defect that had given it an extra claw, and you examined it empathetically. 

“Looks like he’s having a hard time moving forward,” you mention, watching the way it tries to drag itself forward. You could see the plea in the small boy's eyes when he shot out a question at you like kids usually do.

“You’re a mermaid, right? Can you, like, heal him or something?” he asked. The puppy dog look in his eye was gut-wrenching, and you found yourself wishing you could control these dreams better for the sake of this little boy. “It reminds me of my brother…I don’t want him to die,” he frowned. 

You glanced from him to the small crustacean in your hand, then back to him again. There was something almost familiar about the strange kid, though you shook this feeling and nodded in agreement.

“Ok, I’ll…I’ll just have to keep him with me and uh, take him back to my ocean town,” you tried, and he cocked his head at you. “They have uh…crab hospitals. Down there,” you lied unsmoothly. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice the fib, and he nodded eagerly, grabbing onto your swimsuit fabric.

“Thanks, miss y/n! I can’t wait to tell Stanford I met a mermaid!” he beamed. 

The second the sentence left his lips, you felt your eyes narrow just a touch. Your mind might be very into Ford, of course, but the resemblance of the child was uncanny to him, and you paused. 

“Stanley?” you questioned, and he blinked in surprise. 

“Whoa! How did you know my name?” he asked, amusement and also suspicion crossing his facial expression. You could feel the confusion layer in your head, and you wondered why on Earth your brain was conjuring up some sort of self-interpretation of his deceased brother. He leaned back in further suspicion, so you quickly found your footing again. 

“Oh- just! Mermaid magic,” you grinned, brandishing the little crab in your hands proudly, and he smiled back. Though it was only a dream, a part of you felt inclined to get to know the young man more. “Where is your brother anyway? Or your parents?”

He paused for a second, glancing down at his shoes, then back up to you, as if he were caught in a lie. You simply kept your face steady, curious as to what the little guy had so much to be nervous about. He ran a hand through his curls and glanced around like a criminal hiding from the police.

“Well…I’m not really supposed to be here right now,” he admitted slowly, a guilty look bleeding onto his face. “Ford told me to stay put and not to talk to strangers, but I got bored,” he explained further. A bit of confusion brushed over you, and you pressed further.

“Why?” you wondered, hoping for an answer to both questions. The explanation Stanley provided you, though, was more interesting than what you could've hoped for. 

“Ford has a lotta secrets,” he sighed over exaggeratedly. “He doesn’t want me runnin’ my big mouth,” he rolled his eyes. “So, he’s been keeping me cooped up in my room all day! It sucks, he’s really scared for some reason, I can tell,” he finished off with an observation.

In curiosity and the urge to know more, you pondered his words carefully, your eyebrows knitting together at the admission. You knew none of this was real: the beach, the sun, the swing set, the kid…but you couldn’t stand it if you didn’t know more about this magical story your brain has conjured up. Out of most of the dreams you’d experienced, this had been a surprisingly pleasant one, and you didn’t mind sticking around to be a mermaid for a little bit longer. 

“Why do you think Ford is scared?” you wondered, half asking Stanley and half asking yourself. “He’s a tough guy, what could he possibly be scared of?” you commented. 

Stanley blinked up at you and glanced around suspiciously, eyeing the area for any passersby, but of course, it was just the two of you. He leaned in, motioning for you to do the same, and you can’t help the slight grin that cracks when you obey the command. His little voice is a hushed whisper when he cups his hand over your ear. 

“He’s scared of a girl,” a pause, “I think he’s scared of himself too. He keeps talking about this ‘job’ he has to do, but I don’t know what it is,” he shrugs. “He’s never home at night anymore. He’s always working on his science-y stuff or taking pictures of that lady,” he sighs, kicking at the sand below him. 

It’s not real. This conversation isn’t real. So why does the pit that forms in your stomach suddenly feel incredibly real and intense? You study Stanley's expression, with an intense look of your own starting to wear into your face.

“Pictures?” you questioned, and Stanley nodded in confirmation. 

“Yeah. He has to watch what she's doing, or else-” he begins, but the sound of footsteps in the sound make him whip his head around nervously, and you can’t help but feel the unease as well. “Crap, I think that’s him,” he hisses, quickly jumping off the swing. 

You barely have time to react before his small body throws itself to the ground, grabbing his shoes and shoving them on his feet hastily. You stammer out in confusion, attempting to gather any thoughts whatsoever. When you finally have clarity in thought, the kid is nearly a foot away from you, and you shout out to him eagerly. 

“Where are the pictures?” You yell, and he pauses to turn to you and shout back.

“I don’t know! He hides all his stuff in drawers,” he shouted back. The look in his eyes shifted a bit, and he stared beside you.

Tense energy suddenly surrounded you, like suffocating on mace, and when you turned back to the shoreline, there was no trace of fear in Stanley's eyes, but instead, an ear-to-ear grin, unlike the one he had worn before. It was…inhuman. You only got one final glance before the unbearing presence next to you suddenly gripped onto your shoulder with a fierce nature. Tracing your eyes up from the figure's muddy boots to his tan trench coat and red sweater, this was the first time you were seeing Ford in a light that was entirely cold and lifeless. You stared up at him wordlessly, half expecting some kind of beratement to take place.

When none did, you almost felt yourself loosen up for a moment, but the sharp sensation of a slap across your face shocked you just as much as it hurt you. You peered up in complete shock, raising your hand to nurse your cheek and staring at Ford incredulously. It didn’t seem that he was done with you yet, because he quickly reared back a fist, making your gut drop immediately. 

He put all his force into the first punch, and when the sickening crack of your nose echoed through the air on the second, the sensation of blood running down your face was jarring. Now, in a hazey, dizzy, barely conscious state, you could feel the way his broad hands gripped one of your shoulders to hold you steady upright, but you quickly realized this wasn’t for support when the last blow contacted your cheek, and you slumped off the side of the swing set onto the sand. Though barely audible, you could make out the last few words of the unlikely attacker as you slipped out of the dream.

“Get out, get out now!”

“Get out, Wake up!”

“Wake up, y/n. Get up.”

Chapter Text

FRUSTRATION, ANGER, RESENTMENT. 

Even on the shore of his beloved childhood beach, there were still no good feelings to be had within the memory-like dream. He was here strictly on business, and that was that, no getting around it. Stern, tense, and upset were his movements when he lifted his heavy work boots one over the other, fighting against the yellow sand and the blistering sun. None of this was real, but it was real enough to smell the saltiness of the sea and hear the faintest sounds of a small town a few miles away from the dock that he approached.

His eyes were tired and laced with a desperate hope behind them, though this would be futile in the grand scheme of things. Watching the strange man stare out into the sunset was certainly a sight because sitting still wasn’t in Ford's brain for a single second, so he paced the dock, harshly biting down on his lips. Even when he tasted blood, and even when a generous chunk of his flesh became detached from the inside of his mouth, his fidgeting did not cease. In here, he was completely defenseless, unlike the real world, where he could easily overpower an entity like this now. 

When the sore, horribly grating sound of laughter echoed throughout the pristine beach scene, every single hair on the back of Stanford's neck stood on end with anticipation, and his legs urged him to run. He knew there was no escaping this, however, and negotiation was the only language this demon understood. So, when there was a tense moment where Ford could feel the familiar sensation of claws up his back, he stood like a statue, willing himself to stay in place. 

Spinning around, he and the entire universe knew what to expect when he gazed upon the otherworldly lifeform. For a second, Ford's entire being felt completely hollowed out to allow molten lava to scorch his insides with rage, and a blind anger wanted to take control. Violence in this dream world was laughable, and that was purposeful, clearly. Stanford chained his hands to his sides as he bore his eyes into the figure that hovered beside him now, and he willed himself not to attempt anything stupid with his unwanted “business partner.”

There was a moment where nothing was said, but silence wasn’t Bill's forte. 

“What's the holdup, Stanford?” 

That eerie, terrifyingly happy voice was like sandpaper in Ford's mind, and he could already feel the beginnings of a blistering headache when he would eventually wake. A small amount of anger rushed through him, so he took a small breath to steady himself. 

“There is no ‘holdup, ’” he responded through clenched teeth. 

Bill's one large eye blinked curiously, and when he floated a few inches closer, the familiarity of the motion made Ford's stomach churn unpleasantly. Bill considered this for a moment, humming in thought. 

“That's interesting, IQ, cause the body you’re lying next to isn’t a dead one this time!” he exclaimed knowingly. Ford visibly bristled at this, his already tense figure winding up like a spring. 

“Don’t you dare talk about her like that,” he snapped, raising a fist in a pointless anger. The yellow demon counterpart only watched in amusement when Ford brought his fist down onto the dock's wooden railing with a sharp crack as it splintered. “Have you considered what I offered, or not? I didn’t come here to have a friendly chat.”

There was a pause, allowing Ford to survey the familiarity of his “new” mindscape. The beautiful galaxy with endless equations and comforting chess games was no longer normal like all those years ago, and was instead replaced by the exact shores of Glass Beach. It was sick, it was incredibly harmful to Ford's mind, and it was perfectly crafted by Bill. 

“That’s a harsh way to treat an old friend, Stanford,” Bill tutted, relishing in the way his scientist's eyes angrily scanned the sands. “I even made our business chats take place in your old stomping ground! I’d say you owe me a thank you, but we both know you’ve never been good with those,” he baited, glee surfacing in his mocking tone. 

Ford's heart thudded against his chest with anger and a deep despair that this is what his life had come to, and the regret for the metal plate in his head was ripped open all over again. If that damn screw had never come undone in the first place, he wouldn’t have to be negotiating with a dream demon trying to take over the world. 

“This…isn’t about him,” Ford pauses reluctantly. 

Bill's disgusting laughter dripped from his being, and he adjusted his bowtie frivously. 

“Well, sure it is, pal! He’s the whole reason for this, ain’t he?” Bill said, the obvious hint of a grin in his words. “Trade in one for the other, that is what you told me, isn't it?” he pried further, his voice dropping a terrifying octave. 

Fear wasn’t the word to describe what Ford felt. It was sheer absolute terror that he hadn’t experienced in years. 

“There is someone else you can have instead,” he quickly spat, trying to hide the shakiness in his tone. Bill's absence of an eyebrow raised curiously, and he began to float around Ford's head lazily. “But you can’t have y/n anymore.” 

The demon hummed indecisively, even making a show of taking off his top hat as if he were lost in thought. Ford watched him expectantly, tenseness encasing his muscles like resin and trapping him in this uncomfortable scenario, and he couldn’t ease himself even when Bill floated back in front of him. 

“I’m no lawyer, Stanford, but we had a deal, didn’t we?” he questioned, though there was no more playfulness in his nature. “I can’t puppet around in just any woman your sick brain decides to chop up,” he chuckled humorlessly, and Ford felt a flash of his emotions get the better of him. 

“This one isn’t ‘any woman’, Bill. She might as well be second pick for a body,” Ford argued back. “She’s just as pliable, I just- I just need a few more weeks to crack her,” he desperately continued. 

When Bill raised a finger in front of Ford's face to shut him up, he obeyed, but with a spark of frustration burning through him. When the yellow figure floated close enough to put his hand on his shoulder, this feeling only grew. 

“A few more weeks, huh? And…what if your old pal is just a little too impatient for that?” Bill said, implications thick in his tone that made a shiver shoot down Ford's spine. “A perfect vessel in return for a loved one. Key word: PERFECT. I won’t let you short me, Stanford Pines,” he hissed. 

The claws attached to Bill's hands dug into his flesh sharply, making him yelp out slightly in pain as tight fear constricted around his neck like barbed wire. Deep-seated panic was slowly beginning to bleed into his veins, and he knew he was being turned down. 

“Jordyn is perfect too, I promise!-” Ford tried, but the echoing sound of Bill's empty voice drowned his pitiful wail out. 

“If you won’t do the job you promised to, Stanford…” a pause. “...Then I’ll just do it the good old-fashioned way!” 

POP.

And just like that, the demon was gone. 

But Stanford knew he wasn’t gone, only relocated, and now that the sounds of their debate were done, it gave room to Ford's ears for another sound. 

It was a sound that made his heart drop to his knees. 

Unmistakably, your voice. 

PANIC, UNCERTAINTY, GRIEF. 

Staring at your beautifully pristine skin from across the classroom was doing no favors in helping Stanford's racing thoughts. The student asking questions right in front of him might as well have been invisible, and the agitating sound was beginning to get on Ford's nerves. Listening to the kid ramble on for about five minutes was enough of Ford's time to be wasted over such a stupid question, and eventually, he put his hand over the graded test the student held out to him.

“Mr. Skinsky, as much as I would love to raise your grade from a 60 to an 80, I don’t believe it would be in either of our best interests to do so,” he sighed, his agitation slightly surfacing. “For one, the handwriting on this page is hieroglyphics, and for two, I could see you cheating off of Lindsey's paper the entire test. I’m not going to reward a cheater, especially a bad one,” he hissed, and the kid visibly flinched. 

The quiet conversations of other students had completely stilled due to the intensity of Ford's words, and the air was awkwardly tense in its silence. This did nothing to break through the stone mask of emotionless emotion he sported, staring the young man down through his piercing black eyes. Finally, the kid scoffed and ripped his paper off the desk, upset, flashing Ford the best dirty look he could muster, but the sheer resentment in the professor's expression made his look weak in comparison. 

When the blonde-headed cheater slunk away from the table in defeat, Ford let out a hefty sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. He hadn’t gotten any true sleep, of course, and it showed. When he slowly lifted his head to survey his classroom working on their latest assignment, his eyes were, of course, drawn to you. Against the background blur of demonic nonsense, Ford's mind projected, but you were a beaming light staring directly into his eyes and melting his rotten insides. In your look, there was something different, something uncertain. In Ford's look was suspicion, something mistrustful. 

Upon catching your eye, you had turned away from him in favor of looking down at your worksheet, and it was so reminiscent of the beginning of the relationship that it made Ford's heart sink even lower. He didn’t know what it was exactly you had discovered, but it was close to spelling disaster for him, and he knew it. He couldn’t will his eyes to look in any separate direction, but the sudden, persistent beeping of his wristwatch forced him to do so, and he turned it off with a slight huff. 

The students stirred, looking up from their activities. Some were slow, some were quick about gathering their backpacks, but the student he needed to stay was firmly rooted in place. 

“Don’t forget, my tutoring students need to meet me in the library tomorrow at six,” Ford called out. “We’re preparing for the exam, so please don’t be late,” he requested, his eyes following the handfuls of students slowly rising out of their seats and picking up their belongings. 

The various sounds of shuffling were almost splitting Ford's skull open due to the headache he sported, and the garbled voices of his hallucinations echoed off the corners of his mind louder than usual. He stared down at the photographs sitting on his desk of his beloved family, a complete mismatch from how the voices degraded at him, suggesting violence. By the time Ford glanced up, the last students were filing out the door, leaving only one pristine angel sitting in the room, and the comfort you provided ran beside his horrific inner monologue. 

Neither of you wanted to be the first to speak; that much was clear. The previous night had worn on you, and even from the distance Ford sat at, your hangover was glaringly obvious. Your overgrown, faded purple hair was greasy and tossed into a birdsnest atop your head, and Ford felt a pang of guilt before smoothing it over in his mind. You watched each other with an equilibrium of grief and panic, though for two entirely different reasons. 

Reluctantly, Ford raised his palm and waved you over with his six fingers. The amount of information you knew was uncertain, but he would have to find out one way or another. His eyes never left yours, and vice versa, when your graceful body rose from the plastic seat. 

Watching you was like watching a swan in motion, its long, craning neck and delicate motions being awe-inspiring. You were drowning in the outfit Ford had provided for you that morning, a pair of his old basketball shorts and a hoodie from college he never wore. When you finally approached sporting his outfit, his eyes quickly skated up your figure guiltily, before settling on your expression, searching for some clues. The mascara smudged onto your eyelids created a raccoon look that he couldn’t help but find incredibly endearing, but his anxiety remained.  

Wordlessly, he watched as you scooted one of the extra classroom chairs closer to have a seat in front of his desk. When you settled into your usual place, you looked up at him expectantly. 

“Afternoon, professor,” you smiled gently, though there was an air of sadness behind it that made Ford clench up immediately. 

When the two of you woke up that morning, you were shaken from the “nightmare”, and Ford had left the room to make the two of you some coffee. When he came back, all of your emotions were suddenly cocooned up tight, out of his reach for the first time.

“Greetings…y/n,” he breathed, trying to keep his screaming head as level as possible. 

His fingers twitched in place when the dark scribbles that surrounded his peripheral vision were nearly materializing into hands and reaching for you with desperation. Completely oblivious to what Ford was seeing, though, you had simply sighed and leaned your head in your palm. 

“You look like shit,” you joked, and Ford couldn’t help the smirk that played on his lips at your bluntness. 

“I could say the same about you, dove,” he tried, offering the pet name up like cheese in a mousetrap. “What’s wrong? Looks like you got something on your mind.” 

One of the black claws of a hallucinatory creature stroked at your face tenderly, rubbing Ford the entirely wrong way, and he could feel his jaw clench up at the way your eyes drooped a bit. You didn’t say a word for an agonizingly long few moments, creating an even bigger pit in Ford's already nervous stomach. He was careful about making sure nothing was in your reach that shouldn’t have been before you arrived at his house, but there was always the dreadful possibility he had missed something. He watched your chest heave gently as it sucked in a breath, and he could almost picture the way your heart was pumping in your ribcage. Following the trickle of his disturbing thoughts, he attempted to maintain composure at the sight of a full figure materializing next to you now. 

“Oh, no, it’s really nothing,” you finally said, pulling Ford's attention away from the looming demonic shadow. “Just a long night,” you continued, waving a dismissive hand. 

She knows. 

Fear ebbed its way into Ford's stomach when the disgustingly garbled sound of his hallucination assaulted his eardrums, and he did his best not to flinch, though he did drum his fingers on the desk. 

“I see…I suppose that nightmare is still troubling you?” he prodded, hiding his questioning behind the guise of concern. “You wouldn’t even tell me about it, so it must’ve been bad,” he chuckled, attempting to soothe himself. 

Instead of a response, you had only nodded, playing with the string of Ford's hoodie. He could practically feel his skin itching as pairs of disjointed red eyes glared him down from the background, and he could feel his leg begin to bounce like when he was a teen. Usually, your presence calmed these horrific sights, but now, there was little to keep them at bay, and a slow desperation was clawing its way up Ford's throat. 

“Did I…scare you, y/n?” 

You paused fidgeting with your hoodie to glance up at Ford, before shaking your head no. 

“If you didn’t want to, I…why didn’t you say no?” he questioned, wondering if the sexual nature of the relationship was becoming an issue for you as well. 

Much to his frustration, though, you simply shook your head no once again. He ran an exhausted hand through his hair, wishing he could find a way to make his splitting headache cease. If it wasn’t the sex, and he didn’t scare you, why were you acting so odd? It was both agitating and terrifying to his guilty consciousness. 

“I’m fine, Stanford, really,” you argued finally, shaking your head. “I’m just tired and hungover, that’s all,” you explained. 

Ford studied you closely, inventorying your facial expression with an expertise he had gained over the past three years. You were lying, obviously, but about what? The voices of the shadowy hallucinations were quick to provide their terrifying guesses, most of which included Bill and Jordyn. When the overlapping, screaming, and taunting became too much for him, he shook his head sharply, then got to his feet, making you flinch in surprise. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” he asked gently. “If I did something wrong, then I want to know y/n. Let me do better,” he coaxed, motioning to run a thumb over the side of your face. You didn’t lean away from the touch, which was a good sign. 

For a moment, you didn’t say anything, dragging on the nervous train wreck that was Stanford's thoughts. When he receded his hand from your delicate skin and leaned back to give you some space, your eyes were glued to your shoes, and a dark look was plastered on your face, catching him a bit off guard. When your gaze finally raised to meet his, it was a near-perfect one-to-one image of a puppy looking guilty when caught getting into the trash.

“Stanford…I…need to ask you something,” you began. The small amount of relief the touch provided him had completely evaporated, and anxiety took full force of Ford's mind. 

His eyes were glued to you with intensity when you reached inside the hoodie pocket and pulled out a small object, hidden within your palm. Ford smoothed his expression down expertly to mask his impending doom, but the bouncing of his leg was a dead giveaway for the mental turmoil happening. It seemed to go in slow motion when you unclasped your fingers, setting the small metal object down on the desk. When Ford's eyes met the device, his eyes narrowed. 

“What is this?” you questioned. 

The sharp edges of the makeshift caltrop he had retrieved from the forest earlier glimmered under the fluorescent lights menacingly. Ford glanced up at you to gauge your expression, a mixture of relief and anger starting to flood his brain. It was clear you had no idea what you were looking at, nor what the purpose of the object was, but Ford couldn’t help the way his brows knitted together.

“You went through my nightstand?” Ford questioned, holding up a palm in disbelief. “Let me get this straight, y/n. I left for about ten minutes to make you a drink after a terrible nightmare, so in return, you go through my nightstand, and steal?” he breathed, an air of unabashed offense on his face. 

You stuttered out, and he watched mercilessly as your face began to turn a deep shade of red from embarrassment. 

“No, no, it’s not like that!” you tried, holding up your hands defensively. “I was looking for, uh, Advil or something,” you fibbed weakly, and Ford saw right through it.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” he frowned, hard. “Why the hell did you look in my nightstand?” he pressed, using his towering height to his advantage to scare the answer out of you. 

“I promise, Stanford! I wasn’t looking for anything else,” you defended, shrinking in on yourself from the sudden hostility of his body language. “Even if I was, what are you so nervous about? What else did you have in there?” 

The sudden, accusatory tone you had taken made something in Ford snap. You hadn’t talked to him like that before, and he certainly would not let this go without repercussion. 

“And just what are you insinuating, y/n?” he hissed, leaning in inches away from your face. “You think I’ve got some big secret in there? Something I’m hiding?” he questions, emotionlessly. 

You wasted no time in puffing yourself up, like a small animal trying to make itself look bigger. Ford would have found this cute if he weren’t so pissed at the blatant intrusion. 

“At this point, I don’t know,” you snapped, folding your arms over yourself. “You’re so black and white, I can’t ever tell when you’re about to act like a complete dickhead, so yeah! I’m a little suspicious,” you glowered, pulling your lip into a tight line. 

Ford paused at this, a flash of pure, genuine anger laced through every fiber of his face.

“You watch the way you speak to me, young lady,” he spat. “I’m still your professor, and you will show me respect.”

The dry sound of your humourless laugh grated against Ford's ears, alongside the now roaring, violent voices that urged him to take action. 

“Oh, NOW you want to pull the professor card? You didn’t seem to have an issue last night treating me like a common street whore,” you hissed back, motioning wildly with your hands. “And now you’re gonna sit here and get all defensive?! What’s in that locked box in your nightstand, Stanford?” you asked, punctuating the question with a frown, and a firm finger pointed in his direction. 

Realization dawned on Ford at this, and though the caltrop you had found was certainly not the best thing to happen, it certainly wasn’t the worst. If you had searched even an inch or two more, this conversation would have ended very differently, and you would have had to be added to the deer body bag graveyard. You hadn’t truly found anything incriminating after all, and a slight relief washed over him. You had been so focused on the box that you’d entirely missed the photographs of Jordyns home inside. 

“You mean my loaded pistol?” he questioned, anger still thick in his tone. “Usually, I try to keep my weapons away from pretty ladies like you,” he scowled in ironic accusation. 

There was an air of understanding that washed over you, and he could see in real time the embarrassment that crept onto your face. Your attempts to take his king piece were laughable, seeing as he was playing chess and you were playing checkers, and your naive nature made a smirk cut into Ford's expression. It was endearing when smaller animals made attempts to outsmart their predators, in his opinion, but it wasn’t enough to calm his anger.

“Well…that doesn’t explain what this is,” you pointed to the caltrop on the table, and Ford's eyes skated down to it. 

In an irritated flash, Ford grabbed the spiky object while pointedly staring at you with darkness. Your gaze was unbroken as he pulled the top drawer of his desk open and tossed the item inside before sliding it shut with a sizeable slam. Ford ran his tongue over his lip and loomed closer. 

“You don’t have the right to know that, dove,” he said lowly, drumming his fingers against the desk. The scribbly figures were incredibly aggressive now, and he couldn’t turn away from the motions they made to rip at your shirt and flesh. He blinked harshly. 

Unaware of your silent attackers, you got to your feet as well to try and level the playing field. 

“And why is that?” you questioned, though your tone was drained of all confidence, the second Ford's hand shot up to grab onto your chin roughly. His black eyes seared through yours like a red-hot iron, without a trace of understanding or sympathy. 

“Because now you’ve got yourself in trouble,” he growled, the tightness of his grip becoming painful, though he didn’t care in the slightest. “You think you can go through my shit without consequence? Absolutely not,” his brows tightened, and he could feel the way you began to tremble in his grip. 

“Stanford, that hurts,” you yelped, attempting to wiggle out of his unrelenting grasp, to no avail. “Let me go, I want to go home,” you spat, grabbing at his hand. 

“You’re not going anywhere, yet,” he frowned. “Right now, you’re going to do exactly what I say with a smile on your face.” The air of danger in his words was breathtaking, and unfortunately, you found yourself unable to argue. 

“Stanford, you in there?!” 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

…how long had someone been knocking at the door?

“Who the hell is that?!” you whisper-hissed, panic rising when Ford's grip loosened significantly. When your eyes met his, they were locked on the classroom door. 

“It’s Statenborough. Come here,” he hissed, grabbing onto your arm with force and dragging you in his direction. He could see the pure appalment in your eyes when you turned to him.

“The fucking dean?! Oh my god, what, what the fuck! What do we do?” you say quietly. 

Ford had had just about enough of your bullshit for today. 

“I have a meeting. Shut up, and do your job.”

Those were the last words he said before yanking on your arm so harshly that you got the gist he wanted you under the desk. He felt a perverted glee flare up in his stomach when you flashed him a terrified look at the implications, but with no other choice, you obeyed the command and climbed into the dark space.

There were a few mortifying seconds where you allowed your eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, and when they did, you felt your face flush at the proximity of Ford's fly to your face. 

“Come in, David, I’m here,” Ford's booming voice echoed off the classroom walls. He pulled a few papers out of his desk hastily in an attempt to look busy, and he failed to notice one of the Polaroid photos when it fluttered out of the stack and onto the ground. 

When the door latch clicked open, another male's voice invaded the space, adding to your panic, but there was nothing but relaxation in Ford's tone as he cooly responded to the authority figure.

“Afternoon, Stanford, nice to see ya,” Mr. Statenborough, or David, exclaimed with a smile. 

“Nice to see you as well. I’ve already pulled you up a chair if you’d like to have a seat,” Ford lied, motioning to the empty chair you had sat in only moments ago. “You’re earlier than usual-  looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, eh, Stat?” Ford grinned, the familiarity of their relationship very clear.

You could only listen in a quiet horror to the conversation with the oblivious man, and Ford noticed how still you sat, but that would not do. The point of a punishment was to be uncomfortable after all. 

“You can say that again,” the tired man sighed, setting his large manila folder onto Ford's desk. “All of these are just the complaints from students, I think I’m gonna need a bigger folder,” David joked, earning a laugh from Ford. 

Much to your horror, Stanford was slick with his movement to grip onto your hair under the desk, and you bit back a pained noise when he yanked you forward, touching your lips to the zipper of his blue jeans. 

“Student complaints, huh? I’m sure there are plenty about me in there,” Ford chuckled, and David laughed alongside him, trailing off at the end. 

“Nonsesne Stanford, you know you’re our top-rated professor,” the man beamed. “Kids love ya, staff loves ya, only people who don’t are the slackers,” he offered, and Ford nodded in agreement. 

“Absolutely, I agree. I mean, some students just don’t want to do their work,” Ford nodded. When his darkened black eyes shot down to you dangerously, you swallowed thickly. “Makes me want to drag 'em to your office so you can tell 'em what for,” he joked, but to you, the message he was sending was clear. 

He could feel the reluctance in the motion when your small hands crept up his thighs slowly, then went to rest over the front of his jeans. 

“Oh, you know I would, just for you, buddy,” David's eyes crinkled up thoughtfully. Ford coughed into his hand to mask the slight sound of his zipper being undone before he excused himself and continued. 

“Apologies, my allergies have been terrible,” he lied smoothly. “What was it you’d like to speak to me about? Haven’t had a chat in ages,” Ford observed. 

There was deep panic at both being exposed and being punished that ran through your mind when the sensation of cold air hit Ford's dick, and he licked his lips slightly, though this seemed insignificant to David, of course. 

“Well, I do have to confess something, Pines,” the weary dean sighed. “There was one complaint filed against you, though not from a student.” Ford bit down on his tongue sharply when you kitten licked at his tip, urging his half-hardon to stand at full attention. 

Halfway listening to the conversation, and halfway focused on Ford, you gently stroked his length, causing him to tense up in the legs. 

“Not a student?” Ford breathed curiously. “It…must be serious if you scheduled this meeting. What is it?” he questioned, leaning his mouth into his palm as nonchalantly as possible at the sensation of your warm mouth encasing him. 

“It is quite serious, I won’t beat around the bush,” David decided, tapping his fingers on the desk. “I was informed that you were spotted with a student at the fairgrounds yesterday night,” he confessed. 

Anxiety surged through you at the confession from the dean, causing you to still your slow head-bobbing motion. Ford felt his stomach drop slightly, but this was nothing he couldn’t get out of; he was sure of it. 

“Oh my…that is indeed serious,” he raised his eyebrows. “Is there any way you could tell me who reported me? I believe this is all a misunderstanding,” Ford waved his hand nonchalantly, his acting skills sharp.

When his other hand snaked down to smack at your face lightly, you snapped out of the panic-ridden rigor mortis you faced, and the way he pushed his hips up made it clear it wasn’t time for you to stop. Guiltily turned on by this whole ordeal to a small extent, your plush lips wrapped around his dick once more, and you took him in your throat as quietly as you could. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t tell you that part. You know, confidentiality and all that jazz,” Statenborough motioned. “What I can tell ya is that I’m on your side, Stanford. Just tell me what happened, and we can get this whole mess cleared up, I’m sure,” he smiled. 

The secret nature of the conversation wasn’t lost on you, even through the haze of your terrified brain. It was obvious the men on staff would protect each other no matter what.

“Of course. Hah- ah, let's see,” he gasped out when he hit the back of your throat, but he played it off incredibly well. “I was in the haunted house when I saw one of my students,” he replied, scratching his chin as if in thought. “I believe her name is y/n, l/n?”

“Right, right,” The dean hummed in contentment as Ford continued.

“She looked incredibly unwell, so I was naturally concerned,” he continued, his hand hooking onto your shoulder. “She was having a panic attack. I knew I could help get her through the house faster ,” he grunted the last word. 

David nodded in understanding, and Ford's eyes fluttered a bit when you received the memo, and picked up the pace as much as possible without making too much noise. 

“Ah, indeed. Miss l/n does have a history of…outbursts, doesn't she?” he observed, and you could feel the way Ford tensed when he said this.  “Not exactly stable, that one. You’re a good man for stepping up to help,” David concluded, nodding in empathy. 

It wasn’t anything you hadn’t heard a hundred times before, so it didn’t phase you in the slightest to hear the dean call you ‘unstable.’ On the flip side, though, Ford seemed entirely agitated at the gossip, subtly driving his hips to choke you. 

“Mnnn, I wouldn’t say she’s unstable,” Ford masked his groan. “Just troubled. Likes to stick her nose where she shouldn’t,” he said, the passive aggression not lost on you. With the intensity of his slow, methodical thrusts, you were almost surprised your school's dean was this unobservant. 

“Ah, yep. Troubled, there's the right word,” David nodded in agreement. “I had a feeling that cop was full of shit. Not like they catch actual criminals in this town anyway,” he laughed, bolstering. Ford chuckled in tandem, the heaviness in his breathing becoming evident. 

“An officer, eh? Looks like someone was trying to meet a quota,” Ford joked. “I’m glad you came to me about this, David. I would hate to lose my job over something trivial,” he admitted, the irony almost making you laugh yourself. 

“Absolutely, Pines. Like I said, you’re one of my best men…and…” he trailed off, just now taking notice of the redness in Ford's complexion. “You alright there? Looks like you ran a marathon,” David observed with a slight laugh.

A small amount of the earlier panic burned at your throat, but a sharp grip tangled itself in your hair, urging you to continue. 

“Oh, just peachy,” Ford smiled nonchalantly. “I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather as of late, must’ve caught a cold when I was hunting,” he explained smoothly, and David nodded. 

“The cold will getcha,” David nodded in understanding. “Well, in that case, I’ll leave you to it. Just wanted to get confirmation from the big man himself,” he explained, and you could hear the creaking of the plastic chair, indicating he had stood. 

When the shadow of the dean lingered, Ford leaned over to return his handshake, further driving him into your mouth and earning a silent gagging sound from you. 

“Let’s go get some coffee sometime, huh?” Ford offered, calling out to the receding man who made his way towards the door.

“Sure thing, Stanford. Feel better soon, I need you teaching,” Statenborough joked, pointing to Ford from the door frame, and Ford chuckled, watching as the door slowly creaked shut behind him.

After a few seconds ensured he wouldn’t return to the room, Ford jumped a bit when you abruptly popped your mouth off of him and threw yourself out from under the desk, panting for breath. He wasted no time in spinning to face you in his desk chair, harshly peering down on your heavy-breathed figure. You stared at him incredulously, and when you opened your mouth to speak, he fought the urge to shove himself inside to shut you up.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you gasped out, pushing against your palms to raise off the ground a bit. “You could’ve gotten us both caught!” The frustration in your tone was like a choir in Ford's ears.

What Ford hadn’t noticed when you were shoved under the desk was the way your eyes immediately took notice of the photograph that had come loose as it fluttered to the ground beside you. Your palm was plastered over it on the tile ground that bit into your knees roughly, but Ford was so out of it, he didn’t realize it when you discreetly slid the picture closer to your body. 

“I didn’t, though,” he returned simply, his eyes darkening significantly. The figures that danced around him resembled cult members preparing their sacrifice, and they echoed with outrageous and horrific ideas. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you enjoyed yourself, isn’t that right?” he questioned, and it was obvious he was certain of the answer. When a moment of anger crept into your expression, he could feel himself throb in anticipation for motion. 

“No, no, I didn’t! That was the opposite of enjoying myself, actually,” you huffed out, attempting to stand. 

When Ford's massive hand wrapped around your arm, you took the moment of distraction to shove the pristine photograph into your shorts pocket, but this allowed him to drag you forward. When he positioned your mouth over his erection, there was a primal sense of urgency to both run and stay within you all at once. 

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” he huffed lowly, unable to mask his unhinged desire, fueled by the rampant and terrifying voices that surrounded him. “Because when I ask you a question, I expect an answer,” he glowered. 

He could practically feel the shiver that ran down your spine when he said this, which only excited him further. The fear in your gaze was delectable, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. His large hand wrapped around your unwashed hair and gripped mercilessly, earning a sharp yelp from you, and a flash of a grin ignited on his face at the sound. 

“So tell me y/n. Why were you looking through my things?” he asked. 

Your lips fell open, trying to conjure up some believable story, but you ended up looking like a fish out of water. Understanding that he wouldn’t get the answer he was looking for, he had no hesitation when he yanked your face forward, urging himself inside your wet mouth once again. Unable to move against the current of force, you had no choice but to accept the harsh motion as he intruded into your throat, earning a low gagging sound.  In a bleary haze of disbelief, anger, and uncertainty, you wanted to curse the part of you that aroused at the sound of Ford's breathless groan. 

Decisively, you were no longer in control of the pace in any capacity. Ford could feel the way your muscles braced with each thrust's impact, driving further into your esophagus and unable to escape the restraints of his violent lust. The way the smudged mascara began to trail down your cheeks when tears silently fell was heavenly, and the sight riled the man further. 

She sounds so cute when she can’t breathe. 

The raging storm of voices was merciless in his mind. 

“That’s right, dove,” he cooed through his heavy breathing. “If that pretty mouth can’t tell the truth-” a forceful thrust, “-then I’ll use it for something else,” he punctuated the sentence with a grunt. 

The degrading words he provided flew past your head like planets in orbit around the sun, but your mind was elsewhere at this point. The futility of fighting back was obvious, and the horrific realization dawned upon you that even if you could escape, you didn’t really want to. It was as if Ford's forcefulness had turned out the lights on all of your critical thinking, and you had only one goal in mind, which was to serve. You had been in a submissive headspace your fair share, but this was something entirely different. Something almost paranormal.

Your anger was only a muffled backwash in the sea of a need to be needed, and with each bruising thrust to the top of your mouth, your eyes fluttered shut further and further. The soothing but terrifying sounds of Ford's agitated and aggressive voice had you like a helpless monarch caught under the guillotine. Gladly accepting your temporary fate as a human fleshlight, your brain was slightly cleared of fog when Ford's sentences became less and less coherent, turning into heavy-breathed nonsense. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” he panted out, mercilessly humping into your mouth like a depraved animal. “Just like that, that’s my girl.”

The pacing of his thrusts intensified and grew sloppier each time, and you could already taste his arrival, strong and needy. In a swift, final motion, his unrelenting grip on your hair provided ample leverage to force himself down your throat, spilling his thick cum inside, and the symphony of his orgasmic groans seemed otherworldly. The warm, foul-tasting liquid dripped down, spilling off the planes of your plush lips when he eventually receded. You watched intently as he leaned back into his chair with a heaving chest, clearly spent. 

When he gazed down at you through his post-lust-ridden eyes, you ran your tongue over your bottom lip to lap up the missed ejaculate, and you basked in the way he shivered. 

“I just wanted to know what was inside,” you confessed, and he blinked absently for a moment. 

Understanding that you were explaining your crime, a slow, steady frown formed on Ford's face after a few moments, and he drew in a long, steady breath. 

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

TRAUMA, GRIEF, PUPPET.

You truly had no way of knowing what could be taking place in your professor's basement when you clocked in to work that day, nor did you have any idea of what awaited you when you tied your apron tightly as you always had. Passive conversations in the restaurant provided a sense of normalcy against the wildfire of racing thoughts you suffered. Noticing your shaking hands when they reached for your pens and ticket pad, it had suddenly dawned on you that you hadn’t eaten all day.

The hunger you felt and the emptiness in your stomach were mirrored in the dank, dark basement that Jordyn resided in. And when you peered out of the window slot leading into the kitchen, a mess of anxiety quelled in your stomach towards the small clump of police officers that approached. 

Far from any sort of authority that could save her, there were still a few ounces of fight left in Jordyn as she lay strapped to the same metal table from a week prior. And when the heavy sound of footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted the dark quietness, she allowed the fear to flare up inside her, just as much as perseverance. At the same moment, she wondered if there was any possibility of someone looking for her, if anyone at all had noticed her absence. 

The small group of policemen were polite as they were stern when they arrived at the front counter, requesting to see a certain purple-haired waitress. Even though you knew you hadn’t done anything, the sense of dread that loomed in your stomach was inescapable when Susan brought you out for them.

While you had agreed to speak to the officers regarding a disappearance, the missing woman's bleary eyes shot back and forth, trying to pick out her attacker's massive outline in the dark. She didn’t need to look for long, though, and when Ford's large hand crept onto the switch, there was ample shock in her brain when the entire room was flooded with light. 

She had croaked a weak, mumbled sentence that fell on deaf ears, in the same instance that you roamed through the halls of the county jail, being led by one officer only now. All of the small talk he tried to make was nothing but underwater nonsense, and you only hummed in response as the two of you weaved through bustling bodies. He finally paused in front of a large blue door, and you read the words “ROOM 4511” curiously. 

Even in her post-surgical haze, the outline of a large, sniper-tipped rifle sparked fear into her heart when it pointed directly between her eyes. And when Ford's finger mercilessly pulled the trigger, you couldn’t help but feel a sudden, intense shiver run down your spine.

MISSING: JORDYN LINDSEY ADEBOYJO

There was nothing that could prepare you for the small poster the officer slid to you over the desk.

“I’ve been informed that the two of you were close,” the officer finally said. 

It was like someone had flicked on a light switch in your brain, and you surfaced for water, sucking in a sharp breath. 

“Jordyn is…missing?”

Chapter Text

How many hours had it been since you moved from your spot on the couch, watching the television blare through groggy and bloodshot eyes? How long had it been since you had dragged your limp body out of a fetal position to shower, brush your teeth, or even eat? The greasiness of your tangled hair, and the purplish tones that made up your eye bags, shimmered in the light of the news reporter that droned on. A pretty, trim, blonde woman with a red dress and sparkly blue eyes felt like a cruel contrast to the bit of your reflection that you could see in the screen, and the words she spoke were no comfort to you either.

The words of disappearances and missing persons reports hardly fazed you anymore, but even still, the photographs that flashed of each missing face tugged at something deep within your heart. It was a diverse selection, ranging from your still-missing coworker Andrew to finally landing upon the most recent case to date, and you felt your heart sink lower. Her black curly hair and almost smiling expression were a twisted reminder of a simpler time working your boring coffee shop job, and you longed to go back the more you looked at Jordyn's face through the screen. You could hardly bring yourself to reach for the remote on the coffee table, and when you did, it was as if your entire body ached in remembrance.

Plunged into the darkness, now only illuminated by your tiny lamp, it was the first moment in hours you’d given your eyes a rest from keeping your eyes on that stupid TV. Even though you knew you would be one of the first to be updated, there was an inherent need to stalk the news for any updates on the case. When you glanced out the window, there was a twinge of sharp pain in your neck from sleeping on the lumpy, old couch, though you couldn’t find the motivation to care about the pain either. Every word, sound, and movement felt like you were trudging through the desert like a mule, carrying the weight of its rider.

The most daunting matter of all, though, sat on the dining room table a few feet away from you.

It was a pile of three items to be exact, three objects that you had gazed over time and time again in contemplation. A part of you wondered if you were perhaps going crazy, finally crumbling under the immense stress, but the other part knew this was no nightmare. Whether or not you would admit it was the better question, and when your body finally rose from its temporary couch prison, you sought to prove yourself wrong. Your body shook from hunger when you made your way past the living room furniture obstacles and approached the dark dining room.

When your hand became flush with the wall to flick the lights on, you hardly allowed time for your eyes to adjust before you were closing in on the arrangements of items displayed on the table. It was almost as if you were convinced someone invisible would swoop in and steal away all of your sanity, along with the rest of the objects. You hadn’t moved them an inch from their spots when you had thrown them down in haste three days ago upon coming back from the police station interrogation.

The officers were cold in their delivery, offering no time for your raging mind to settle before mentioning that you were considered a suspect. Defending yourself against a crime you didn’t commit proved deeply saddening as much as it was aggravating, and the hour that followed questioning had you questioning your own alibi. But you knew better than anyone exactly where you were when Jordyn left that day, asleep, nestled in your blankets. They had allowed you to go home after talking in circles, but part of you knew they’d be back to continue their hopeless pursuit soon, and that meant you were on edge. Talking to authority was one thing, arguing with them over your basic rights was another, and your hope was dwindling.

A caltrop, the silver device you discovered in your car, and the photograph.

If you hadn’t picked up that picture from the ground, the other two items might seem insignificant, but your brain nagged you to be sensible. With slightly trembling fingers, you reached down and slid the Polaroid into your grasp, raising it to examine it one more time.

Your eyes traced the words scribbled on the bottom in Sharpie in deep confusion, just as they had the first time.

BRUCE & STANFORD, CLASS OF —

The date was scribbled out, but everything else was clearly highlighted in the camera's flash.

On the back, those words that echoed familiarly in your head were taunting you. Glass Shard Beach. It was something you had heard before, which is why you had taken to Google the first time your shocked eyes scanned the back of the picture. Your shock was only exacerbated when the shimmering yellow sands from your dream were pictured, along with the exact sign you had read before…

You felt your lip draw into a tight line as you set the photograph back down and sternly stared down at the other items. Whatever this pointy device was, it was clear Ford had multiple of them, seeing as you had successfully taken one without notice. As for the silver metallic plate, it still befuddled you, and frustratingly so. With a deeply intense sigh, you scooped it up as well to stare at wordlessly.

You ran your fingers along the underside of the device, feeling the small, various switches you had missed the first time. Flicking them didn’t produce any sort of result, but it was clear that one side was meant to be a screen like a cellphone or laptop. The internet produced no results, except for one specific inventor in the town, though he had nothing to do with the device himself. Still, you had figured you’d write down the name anyway, in hopes he might be the owner of the tech. Fiddleford was a decisively funny name, but the man's awards and inventions provided all the bragging rights needed.

You had always been curious about who lived in the old Northwest Manor, and seeing it go to a previously homeless scientist was a sweet ending you hadn’t expected. You had always pictured it to be a scary, haunted place ever since you were a little girl, but for the first time, you had a reason to go. When you glanced outside at the freezing rain, a slight frown formed on your face, knowing that the trek with a car would be next to impossible with the mud the hill produced. Going now wasn’t an option, but as soon as the weather cleared, it would be a different story. A small crack of thunder followed a brilliant flash of lightning, and the noise helped snap you from your own thoughts for just a moment.

It was the first time you’d gotten up i a while after all, and the coldness of the floor tile was chilling through your feet, and you blinked harshly. You threw your arms around your frame, clutching your almost sickly body when your eyes finally took notice of the disgusting amount of dishes piled up. How long had it been since you had bothered to clean your own apartment? The unpleasant smell lingering from the overfilled trash provided enough of an answer, and a small sense of shame crept into your throat.

Shame weighed heavily on your shoulders these past few nights, and it felt even heavier at that moment when you sat alone in your silent kitchen, listening to the rain against your windows. Shame for how you treated Jordyn, guilt from giving your body away, and embarrassment that a certain part of you enjoyed it. After the haze of infatuation ends, you feel hollow from the inside out, unable to view yourself positively. Was it your fault for allowing this, or was it his for taking advantage?

… Did you exactly care?

To a certain extent, yes. But there was something else that stirred in your heart other than simply lust or arousal. It seemed to even transcend what a person would define as love– it was devotion. And the fact that you were bending this easily to Ford scared the hell out of you. You hated the disgusting pit in your stomach that craved more, more closeness, more of his eloquent speech and rugged demeanor. That separate entity in your stomach was starving since you’d cut off the food source– you hadn’t seen Ford in days. You’d even missed your exam.

Much to your surprise, though, your grade remained untouched from the pristine A+.

A frustrated growl escaped your lips at the whole situation, and more so for your own stupid attachment to the man. If Ford had known your father, why wouldn’t he have said anything? Were you really perceived as that unstable, even by a person who knows you better than most? It had undoubtedly sparked feelings of betrayal within you, and not a single text or phone call had been made from his end to even try and explain himself for the way he treated you during his “meeting.” He seemed so terrified of you turning on him, but had no issue with turning on you in the blink of an eye.

What he did…he must have really perceived it as an appropriate punishment.

You had gone snooping after all. You stole from him indefinitely, then admitted it to his face after he allowed you inside his home, and he reacted badly. As extreme as it was, it still felt as if he were simply…correcting you. Training you.

The small realization sent a chill down your spine, as the implications were horrific, but they were slightly arousing. Perhaps he was a lot less vanilla than you had previously anticipated. The gentlemanly demeanor he usually had remained, even when face fucking you under a desk. Even though a part of you felt the need to scream at him and berate him, the other part just…agreed.

Which is why you’d spent the last 72 hours cooped up in your little apartment. Shame was a barbed wire that wrapped around your throat mercilessly, and the thought of facing him in your current state sounded incredibly unpleasant. If he only viewed you as an object, why would he worry so much about losing you? It made no sense, and your groggy mind was doing no favors in solving whatever mystery this even was. With a shake of your head, you turned away from the dining table.

Through the haze of depression and numbness, you found yourself sitting on the couch once again, but this time, a bowl of hot microwave ramen sat on your lap. Every bite felt unappetizing and sick, but you managed to shovel the noodles in your mouth until nothing remained, and the pain in your stomach finally stopped. Throughout the entirety of the meal, your mind could only dwell on Ford and the consequences of the items found.

It wouldn’t be wise to show him all your cards yet, especially when you just pissed him off like that. Simultaneously, your chest ached with the need to understand why Ford hid the fact that he knew your father from you. It was all a massive blur of indecision that loomed over your head like a cloud, stuck on the fence of wanting answers, and also wanting to keep the strange professor at your arm's length. Besides the fact that you were hopelessly attached to Ford, there were other obvious issues with going against him.

His status as town darling was a shimmering gold star next to your “father killer” badge. Who would people listen to, the incredibly well-spoken, wise old man? Or the mentally ill twenty-something-year-old who gets so drunk she’s thrown up on a toddler before. All of those parties and wild moments felt as if they were in another lifetime now, far away from you. The only thing that was within your reach was Ford in the tides of your horrible thoughts. It really wasn’t a surprise when your fingers wrapped around your phone next to you, and opened the screen expectantly.

To your surprise, there was a message waiting for you, from exactly the man you wanted to hear from. You felt your heart jump into your throat anxiously, and you scanned over the message a few times.

“Open the door.”

You blinked a few times in confusion, and your legs uncertainly unfolded to stand. Trudging across your carpeted flooring, you approached and curiously peeked through the peephole, standing on your tiptoes.

“Stanford?” you mumbled in awe.

Quickly making a move to unlock the door, you were greeted by the sight of the towering man, drenched from the heavy downpour, and brandishing a bouquet.

“Y/n, oh, sweet girl…” he said, sucking in a breath. “I noticed you haven’t attended my lessons for the past few days,” he explained, nervousness thick in his tone.

You felt your eyebrows raise in shock, and a guilty blush creep onto your face upon gazing up at his untrimmed face. He peered at you intently through his wet glasses, and you stepped aside to allow him shelter from the rain that pelted his shoulders and back. His dirty boots stained the welcome mat, and you snapped to put a finger in his face.

“Shoes off, mister,” you instructed, cocking an eyebrow. Ford peered back down at you before a small, endearing smile crossed his face, and he nodded understandingly.

As he removed his shoes and his trenchcoat to hang on your rack by the door, you couldn’t help the way your heart began to pick up speed being in his presence once again. It was like you had been given a whole pack of cigarettes after depriving yourself of smoking for months on end, including the guilty feeling. When he took a step further inside, your eyes skated down his figure, highlighted wonderfully by the deep blue turtleneck that clung to him in the right ways. When he stopped to turn to you, his eyes were eerily absent, per usual.

“Are you feeling Alright? I was informed that Jordyn is…missing,” he says cautiously, empathy bleeding into his tone. “I’m so sorry, y/n. I know you two were close despite the obvious,” he sighs, placing one gentle hand on your shoulder, and the other one offering you the flowers.

“I’m…ok,” you breathed with a simple shrug. You gazed at the white lily flowers wrapped in their baby blue decorative paper, and even in your haze of self-loathing, a smile found its way onto your face.

He nervously ran his six digits through his hair as he measured your reaction, and you could tell he had a lot on his mind.

“Can we talk, y/n? There's something I need to tell you,” he admitted, adjusting his glasses and peering at you with a hint of guilt.

Your brain felt like a puppy, helplessly conditioned to run to its owner when heeled. Your body nodded and pointed to the sofa without a word, like it was acting on its own. His heavy footsteps rang in your ears, and when his frame passed by the entrance to the dining room, a pit formed in your stomach. As subtly as possible, you flicked that set of lights off on your way to have a seat next to him. Within his presence, there was a tenseness, and you could feel it stinging your skin when you gently set the bouquet down onto the coffee table before turning to him.

“What’s up? Come to ‘punish’ me for missing classes,” you half-joked, but it clearly didn’t land. Ford's lips were a taut straight line, and his sense of seriousness hit you.

He shook his head, drawing in a breath. You felt a bit of anxiety surface with each quiet second that dragged on, only broken up by the distant sounds of thunder.

“No. No, I can assure you…” He began, but trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind that. I can’t offer apologies anymore, I know,” he frowned, his eyes fixed on the ground. You stared at him curiously, silently admiring the way the light illuminated his facial features.

“Well…what is it, then?” you questioned, somewhat agitated but also relieved he wasn’t trying to ‘sorry’ his way back into your life. “If you didn’t come to say sorry, do I really want you in my apartment?” you debated, and he nodded agreement with a sigh.

His leg was bouncing when he finally steeled himself enough to turn to you and peer into your eyes. You could feel the way your breath stuttered when his dark gaze met yours.

“I’m sick, y/n,” he finally stated.

There was a silent pause that dragged on. Though the admission was unclear, it was certainly heavy, and you didn’t want to respond offensively.

“You’re…sick? Sick how?” you asked slowly, but the moment you tried to search his eyes for clues, his face returned to the floor. “What do you mean, Stanford?”

The quiet thudding of rain on the window was the only soothing sound in between the drawn-out silences, and Ford's rugged hands twisted together, clasping and unclasping as he searched for the right words to say. Seeing such a well-spoken man at a loss for words was a jarring sight, and worry was beginning to stab at your stomach for the severity of this ‘illness’. Whatever it was, though, it was something he didn’t enjoy talking about, that was for certain. He wore the same look on his face as when you had mentioned his brother Stanley on that Halloween night. His voice was low and careful, as well as articulate.

“I see things…things that aren’t normal. It’s- People. Talking to me,” he tries, biting at his lip. You can’t help the confusion that crosses your face upon the admission, and he winces when he explains further. “I’m not all there. Mentally,” he said, turning to look at you finally.

You take in his words, allowing time for the sentence to linger. He was seeing things, no, people, that talked to him? Curiosity ebbed in your mind, though you knew you had to tread carefully.

“You have…hallucinations?” You begin to understand, but Ford remains still. “Is it like schizophrenia?” The word seemed harsh when it came out of your mouth, though it wasn’t your intention. To your surprise, though, Ford shook his head.

He ran a hand over his face, deeply in thought, and you sat patiently. When his tired face turned away from you, you scooted cautiously closer to hear him better.

“They aren’t entirely sure. You see, I’ve had my fair share of…surgeries. I’m sure since you aren’t blind, you’ve noticed the scars on my body,” he observed, motioning to his arms when rolling his sleeve up to show an example. A… amateur procedure done in my skull is causing cognitive problems that are also affecting my mood.” He explained further. “In other words, a screw came loose, quite literally,” he dryly joked.

The extent of the confession had you mentally staggering for a few seconds, and though it seemed utterly ridiculous, the sincerity in his tone couldn’t be ignored; he was telling the truth. As if sensing there may be some kind of uncertainty within you, he suddenly leaned closer cautiously and reached over to grab your hand. Allowing him to guide you, a flash of genuine shock blistered across your face when your fingertips met with a fine raised seam line that began at his temple, hidden by his sideburn. The awe you felt was heightened when you traced the entire length of the scar to the back of his head.

“Oh, oh my god,” you finally managed, staring at the scar line shadowed by the grays of his thick hair. “Jesus Christ- how long ago was this? Why did you need surgery?” you wondered, unable to shield him from your bluntness as you returned your arm to your side.

He simply shook his head, as if it weren’t something worth bringing up.

“Look, the point is…I..have something to confess,” he shook his head to himself, as if mentally scolding his truthfulness. “I don’t understand why, but whenever I’m around you,” he paused, a flash of fear in his eyes. “...everything stops. At least for a little bit,” he finishes, punctuating the sentence by taking your hand in his.

His words buzz in your ears like a pleasant melody, and you feel your face deepen shades of red a few times. You were like a medicine for him…your very presence provided him relief that he seemingly looked for for years. So many questions were in your confused and groggy brain when you glanced up at him from the sweet gesture.

“What do you mean, Stanford?” you asked, hoping to gain any kind of clarity. “If I help you with these voices truly, then…why did you…” You trailed off, the memory of that day under the desk surfacing in your mind as well as his, evident by the way he winced.

He took in a deep breath before smiling with a deep sadness pitted within him.

“I was upset with you, I suppose... that dampens the effects you have on me,” he offered, his shoulders slumping when the words left his lips. “The people I see, they tell me things. Things that I...I can’t…”

You both sat in a small pause, allowing the silence to settle on his statement. It did make sense after all, he probably experienced hallucinations when he hurt you in the haunted house as well. This, coupled with the fact that he had defended you to the dean, tugged at your heartstrings a bit. He did care; it was so frustratingly clear, but if you misstepped, it was like stomping on a landmine by complete accident. A frown tugged across your face at the familiarity of this kind of relationship, a flash of memory from childhood days that you shook away decisively. This was different; he couldn’t control it. Even the pain on his face made this obvious, and you could feel your resolve softening minute by minute, before you finally spoke.

“So… I'm basically like your medicine,” you said plainly. “I feel like I should be offended by that,’ you admitted with a dry laugh, and Ford quickly shook his head.

“You are much more than that to me, y/n,” he quickly rebutted, squeezing your hand gently and holding it up to his lips to place a gentle kiss on your skin. “I need you. I…I can’t live without you,” he stammered, desperation in his gaze.

You could feel the way your body tingled under his warmth, and you couldn’t help but smile a bit.

“Well…it’s safe to say the feeling is mutual,” you grinned lopsidedly. “I have my own vices, Ford. I’m glad you told me,” you nodded, your own feeling of obsession being a topic you would not bring to the light just yet.

When he took in a long, drawn-out breath, his eyes were finally completely focused on you with their usual lack-of-warmth expression he sported which you had grown used to.

“That being said. I can’t guarantee I won’t get upset with you again,” he bit his lip, running a finger over your cheek. “I…I can’t control when my brain short-circuits like that, and I don’t know how to shield you from it besides…staying away from you,” he said, sadness returning to his eyes.

The implications of the statement hit your stomach, and the small amount of joy disappeared in an instant.

“What are you saying?” you quickly exhaled. Ford's eyes were trained on you, stone cold, but his trembling lip was a dead giveaway.

You couldn’t believe the words that slipped out of his mouth, and you could feel it like a punch in the gut when he merely suggested it.

“I’m saying, perhaps it would be best if…we stopped here,” his voice was quiet. “I–I can’t hurt you again, y/n. I don’t trust myself,” he rambled on, intensity in his focus.

You felt a sense of betrayal, and also sympathy well inside of you. He was so broken up about hurting you that he wanted to push you away to avoid it again, but the pushing away somehow hurt more. Practically feeling your heart shattering, your mouth had a mind of its own when it shot open, belting out your statement almost incoherently. Ford blinked in surprise, uncertain if he was understanding correctly.

“What? What do you…” He trailed off, now staring at you intently.

You know the words that lingered in the air couldn’t be receded, so you repeated yourself in a slower, quieter tone.

“I liked it,” you admitted, slowly bringing your hand up to cover your mouth, in shock at your own words. “I…I really, really liked it. It was…scary,” you breathed, avoiding his eyes in favor of staring at nothing in particular in your lap. “But it was a good scary.”

You can see Ford's figure visibly stiffen at the last words, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve made some kind of mistake. On the other hand, he did admit to you that he was seeing and hearing voices that told him to do bad things, so it seemed like a fair trade-off.

“You’re telling me that you um. Liked that?” he swallowed thickly, his eyes fixed completely on you. “I thought— but…” he tried, but he was at a complete loss for words.

“Look, Stanford,” you sighed, finally meeting his gaze. “I can’t explain it either, because if this were ANY other guy, I would have your head on my wall by now,” you contemplated, and Ford stares at you blankly. “But it’s true. Something about you- it’s like my body is…” You trailed off, trying to search for the right words without seeming weird.

Luckily, Ford supplied the rest of the thought with pinpoint accuracy that made your eyes widen in a small surprise.

“You feel like a magnet, right?” he paused, scanning your features. You held your breath with a nod, and you don’t miss the way his shoulders slightly slump when you do this. “Ah. Yes, well. The feeling is mutual, to say the least,” he bites his lip, though his eyes are seemingly clocked out like he's debating someone else in his mind.

Picking up on his inner battle, you gently put your hand on his cheek, his stubble gently prodding into your skin. His eyes flutter shut, and when he leans into the touch like it's second nature, you practically feel your heart melt. Whatever hangups either of you had about this inappropriate relationship were insignificant compared to the desperate need you shared for one another. Everything was clouded, once again tinted rose coloured, and you didn’t give a damn. When he opened his eyes to look down at you, you carefully considered your words before speaking.

“From this point forward. I consent to you, Stanford,” you exhaled nervously. “I need you. You need me. Don’t push me away, please,” you eagerly requested.

His dark eyes stared down at you in both disbelief and acceptance. Did you just throw away the last bit of self-respect you had? Absolutely. Was it worth it in the end? Only time would tell. The gentle way he placed his large, six-fingered hand over yours, as it rested on his face, was a promising sign, though, and warmth blossomed in your stomach.

“I won’t,” he finally answered, his gaze dipping to the floor beside the couch once again. “If…if it’s what you truly want, y/n. I won’t stop you,” he nodded. “But that means you can’t push me away either,” he said pointedly.

You paused, cocking an eyebrow at him. You had only skipped out on his class for three days; had it really affected him all that much? You cocked your head to the side in response.

“What do you mean?” you questioned. Ford's eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, his tone was serious again.

“You’re obviously not doing well, dove. I know that…these past few days have weighed heavily on you,” he examined, looking at you knowingly. You put on your best ‘I’m fine’ tone when you made a pshht sound, and waved him off.

“What? I’m fine, what are you talking about?” you brushed off, shaking your head dismissively.

Stanford's eyes cut in sarcasm at you, and maintaining eye contact, he reached down beside him, picking up the ashtray you had filled with cigarette butts and joint roaches. It was at this point that you also realized your usually walkable apartment was completely trashed, left ignored for days with a variety of takeout boxes and empty cups. You felt a stab of embarrassment in your chest when Ford set the ashtray down on your coffee table, gesturing to the small baggie of weed.

“Usually, people who are taking things well don’t chain smoke indoors,” he observed, a sly smirk on his face. “I never did peg you for the stoner type. Smells like my college roommate in here,” he commented, and you felt your face flush.

With a heavy sigh, you shook your head, burying your face in your palms at the state your apartment was in.

“Ok, ok, maybe I’m not taking this whole Jordyn situation very well,” you sighed, drawing your knees up to your chest. “Does it really smell that strong?” you questioned, your eyes widening, and it earned a grin from Ford. He scooted closer to you to wrap a comforting arm around your shoulder, pressing you into his side. The warmth that he provided flooded your senses along with his cologne, and you couldn’t help but feel at ease.

His thumb tenderly rubbed over your arm, and he placed a kiss atop your head that set your heart on fire.

“Where do you keep your towels?” he questioned suddenly.

The oddness of the question made your face contort in confusion, but you replied anyhow.

“In the cabinet in my bathroom. Why?” you wondered.

In a swift motion, Ford got to his feet. You gazed up curiously, and he reached out a hand for you. You grinned a second, uncertainly taking his hand and allowing him to help you to your feet as well. When he placed his hand on your back and slightly bent his knees to hook his arm around your legs, you felt a rush of surprise when he lifted you into a bridal carry with incredible ease. You squeaked in surprise at his sheer strength, astounded that he was handling you like you weighed nothing, although that was obviously not the case.

He walked gallantly through your apartment, as if he’d seen the inside numerous times, and when he approached your bathroom door, he adjusted your body so you could grip the handle.

“Because you’re a smelly little creature,” he joked, setting you down on your feet. You blinked in wonder at his joke, letting a gasp escape.

“Wooow, you come into my house and tell me I smell? That’s crazy,” you rolled your eyes playfully. Ford's eyes crinkled up in laughter, and you felt your heart swell at the sight.

“Hey, I’m not saying I don’t stink too,” he admitted, and when his hands reached down to grip the hem of his sweater, you felt your face redden.

In a swift motion, he pulled his turtleneck off and cast it to the floor. Trying to keep your shaky breathing steady, you eyed his muscular frame up and down, adorned with his aforementioned scarring. He reached down for his belt, but paused when he sensed your eyes on him. He glanced up at you, raising his eyebrows expectantly, and motioning to the shower next to you.
Your body stalled before catching up with your brain, but you finally understood and reached inside to turn the water on. Cranking it to the maximum heat, you could hear the clinking sounds of Ford undoing his belt and dropping his pants, which makes your heart thud against your ribs. When you turn back to him, you swallow thickly before moving to untie the string of your sweatpants.

After shedding his boxers as well, you weren't far behind in being completely undressed, and for the first time, you were seeing all of each other. Unabashedly, two mammals, stripped to nothing but their fur. The steam from the shower indicated its temperature, and Ford gazed upon your naked body before motioning to the shower.

“Ladies first,” he smiled. You couldn’t help but smile back, and when he stepped aside, you pulled the shower curtain open to climb in.

The feeling of the scalding water hitting your skin was heavenly, and you quickly sank into the stream with a contented sigh. The sound of the shower curtain closing behind you punctuated the feeling of Stanford's massive figure on your back, and you fought back a shiver. After allowing the water to run down your face and hair, you turn to get a good look at your companion. His entire body is covered in an impressive amount of hair, muscle, and scarring, but that was nothing you weren’t used to. After a few minutes, you scooted and switched positions to let him in the water.

When he turned his back to you to face the shower head, you felt curiosity spark when you glanced down, your eyes resting on his lower back.

“Flirty…gal?” you breathed in disbelief, and you tried and stifle a laugh when you saw Ford visibly tense.

“Good grief, I always forget about that idiotic tattoo,” he huffed, his head sinking in shame with a laugh. “I uh, lost a bet. Believe me when I say this was NOT of my own volition,” he defended, turning and putting his palms up defensively.

You couldn’t help the fit of giggles that burst through your lips gleefully, but you nodded sympathetically.

“Right, right. I’d sure like to talk to the guy who won the bet,” you joked, picturing what kind of shenanigans Ford could possibly have been in. Instead of laughter, though, he was quiet now.

Before you got the chance to question the change in tone, Ford stepped aside, motioning gently to allow you in the water. You obliged, the coldness starting to get to you, and when the warm water greeted your skin once again, you had forgotten. From the corner of your eye, you could see Ford reach down to pick up your shampoo and crack the lid open. He poured a good amount into his palm before gesturing to the top of your head and motioning for you to turn, so you do. When his six fingers snaked gently into your hair, your body immediately relaxed under the touch. The gentleness he exuded when he lathered the shampoo felt heavenly, and the massage he gave your scalp felt incredible. Breaking up the silence, he hummed a small tune quietly, taking his time in raking the soap through your roots. The tune was familiar, some pop song from the sixties, and you sighed contentedly, enjoying his deep tone.

He similarly washed your body, humming to you like a scared cat getting a bath as he ran your loofah over your body gently. The scent of your vanilla soap filled the air, and you almost felt the need to apologize for the fact that Ford had to use such a girly-smelling soap. Admittedly, though, a part of you enjoyed that he would have your scent, even for a little bit. Eventually, after completely scrubbing down both your bodies from head to toe, you simply stood together in the water, entangled in each other's embrace, and allowed the warm water to run down your faces. His large arms compressed you in a security blanket of a hug, and you wanted to dig your nails into him and never let go. Despite the incredibly ugly circumstances you both faced on the inside, the scene was serene and beautiful. You stayed like that for so long that the water began to run cold, forcing you to end the wonderful connection.

After drying his body, he wrapped your red flower towel around his waist, then took hold of your towel to dry your hair for you.

“If you want me to go home, I understand,” Ford spoke, eyeing you carefully when you peered out from under the towel.

You simply shook your head, a warm smile tugging its way at the corner of your lips, and you breathed words, urging him to stay.

So he did.

And you fell asleep, side by side, in your queen-size bed, wrapped around each other tightly.

Your brain, however, didn’t receive the memo that it was time to shut off.

Deep within the abstract concepts of your mind, you weren’t sure how much time had passed since you’d fallen asleep after talking for hours. It truly didn’t matter, though, and when you opened your eyes and peered up at your ceiling, your body felt undeniably strange. When you attempted to turn your head to peer at the clock beside your bed, a strange feeling of eeriness crept over you when the blank alarm stared back at you. You blinked, trying to shake the grogginess away, but when you did so, it felt as if your body began to lift off the bed.

Gasping out in shock, you writhed in the air like a startled cat, spinning around and floating further upwards. Glaring down, a strange feeling of dread pitted deep within your stomach when your eyes met the blur of abstract shapes that sat where your body should be. Beside you, or whatever that thing was, was Ford's sleeping body, resting motionlessly save for his deep breaths. Confusion and fear gripped your throat, and you continued to shake your head in a rapid attempt to wake, to no avail.

The feeling of being pulled began, slowly at first, but was undeniable, as if someone hooked a rope into your back. Your mouth fell open to shout while your body jerked in protest against the motion, but you were horrified to discover the only sounds you could make were gurgled, choking sounds. The pulling sensation's intensity was suddenly heightened, and it yanked you backwards with such a jarring force that the room around you blurred away into darkness in a flash. Your limbs helplessly stretched forward, grabbing for an object to cling to, but you were met with nothing but the void. The invisible force that gripped you became so quick and intense that your eyes squeezed shut, becoming dizzy from the blurry darkness that surrounded you.

Until suddenly, it stopped.

The whiplash of the violent halt startled another strangled gasp out of you, and the feeling of falling still weighed heavily in your stomach. You collapsed forward, no longer being directed by the force, and you internally battled with your void body’s stomach to not throw up. The dizziness slowly faded to a manageable level, so you cautiously opened your eyes, drawing in deep breaths, though it didn’t feel like anything was entering your lungs at all. The coldness of the tile floor was evident, however, and though it was reflective of the LED lights above, you saw no silhouette.

Slowly, you raised your head to survey your surroundings. Uneasiness was like Saran Wrap around your lungs and chest, compressing your breathing, and you tried to control your shaking as best as possible as you staggered to your feet. You felt your eyes narrow as you peered down the long stretch of hallway that rang familiarly in your head, illuminated by oddly coloured green LEDS. Most unusual of all, though, were the several items that floated midair in the empty hospital, including small things like pens and needles, then bigger things like wheelchairs. The pale white walls were a sickly colour as you leaned against them for support, trying to regain your footing.

When you managed to take a step forward, the sensation was more akin to floating, but the harsh sound of your footstep echoed anyway. You paused, surveying your surroundings for a sign of something sinister, but after sitting in silence, you decided it was safe to continue gliding forward. You glanced up at one of the clipboards that floated to your left, scanning the description of a patient briefly before continuing. The only other life was the insect-like buzzing sound the lights produced, and the coldness of the setting pierced your skin like needles. You wandered aimlessly down the hall, passing several doors as you went.

MATERNITY WARD

The sign was in bold letters, hung from the ceiling with an arrow pointing down the hallway to the right. Another wave of familiarity flushed over you, and you glanced down the two hallways curiously. In the quiet hum, there was a small, piercing sound that began to ebb at your mind, and you strained to listen better. Your legs unconsciously carried you down the maternity ward hallway, deeper into the bizarre hospital, and slowly but surely, the sound was increasing in volume. It was so subtle that you were surprised you even heard it, but it was the unmistakable sound of a cry; specifically, a baby cry.

You trekked down the stretching corridor, clutching your arms to your chest defensively, and unsure of what to expect. The mournful wails of the infant began to grow louder and louder, until you could practically pinpoint the set of doors it was coming from, and when you reached it and read the number, you paused. It was a jumbled mess, blurred by a blob of void, but it was undoubtedly familiar, even though you’d sworn you'd never seen it before. The unrelenting screams drilled into your brain, and you hesitantly put your hand on the doorknob.

The sight that awaited you was utterly horrific, and nothing could prepare you when you opened the heavy door.

“Oh my god, Jordyn?!”

…is what you tried to scream. What instead came out was a gasping and strangled cry, though the tone was still the same. A horrific fear stabbed into your heart, and you stumbled back in shock, unable to look away from the scene.

With your very own eyes, your best friend was seemingly deceased. But the manner in which her body was displayed was absolutely terrifying. As if she were some kind of science experiment, she was splayed naked against the wall, the skin of her stomach peeled back and pinned like an animal prepped for dissection. Every organ in her torso was visible, and her cold eyes fluttered ever so slightly, giving you an even more horrifying realization. You inched closer, now aware of the second figure crouched on the floor beside her.

Not only was there an umbilical cord attached to a baby that the figure held, but upon gazing at her exposed lungs, they expanded and deflated weakly. She was breathing. She was alive.

Your throat ripped out a particularly gruesome screaming sound when you fell backwards onto your ass with a thud, scooting away from the horrific blood stained scene in front of you. The sound caught the entity's attention, and through a robed sleeve, she raised her arm to point at you. Your eyes widened in fear, and you continued your flailing attempts to scramble away, though it made no move to get closer to you. Instead, it slowly lowered to a small circle of yellow salt on the ground, surrounding Jordyn.

Your eyes glanced from the figure to the circle wildly, not understanding what the hell it was trying to tell you. When it gestured for you to come closer, you immediately shook your head, picturing every horror movie you’d ever seen. Slowly, the figure's arm receded, then raised slightly, and you could only watch in horror. When its fingers met the hem of its hooded robe, you were tempted to shut your eyes in case it was an entity that would scar you for life or something. Curiosity kept your eyes wide open, though, and when the fabric cascaded away from their face, your mouth fell open in surprise.

“Y/n,” her familiar voice spoke. “Come here,” she requested, her tone sincere but incredibly serious. There was nothing off about her, but you still felt inclined to shake your head no and scoot backwards again.

She looked at you eagerly, clutching the newborn baby in her arms that screamed and writhed. Once again, she didn’t say anything, but she gazed at you with pleading eyes that you had seen so many times. Her mass of red curly hair sheltered her face wildly, but her eyes were clearly panicked when she waved you over again. Uncertainly, you swallowed, trying to breathe deeply to slow your racing mind, and you got to your feet enough to slowly clamber towards the hunched-over woman. Upon seeing her teary-eyed, fearful expression, you felt a pang in your heart for the older woman, and you wished so deeply you could say words of comfort. You placed a hand on your shoulder, attempting to ask her about he location, but the only sound was an inquisitive absence of breath. Her bony hand that didn’t cradle the baby reached up, and she rested it on your shoulder, glancing side to side.

“Something is happening, something bad,” she tumbled over her words eagerly, breathing like she’d run a mile. “There's- he’s here. He’s…he’s inside,” she stressed, putting tension on the last word. You felt your brows twist together confusedly, and you cocked your head to the side. Her eyes widened during the slight pause she took, and her grip on you tightened. “He’s inside of her, y/n.”

Though the words seemed meaningless, the weight they carried hit you like a sack of rocks, and the pit of dread in your stomach only grew. Your eyes, though you didn’t want to, slowly traced over to the horrific scene beside you, the grating sound of Jordyn's laboured breathing now obvious in the silence. Tracing up her legs, your gaze skimmed over the gruesome wounds slashed into her skin; several triangles in a variety of sizes. The soft flesh pinned to the wall made your stomach churn, and you tried to ignore the way her body fat glistened under the green LEDS. When you finally reached her face, she was gazing down at you intensely through a glowing, yellow eye.

You yelped, jumping back in surprise, and feeling your breathing quicken at the sight all over again. Your gaze wildly cut to the woman beside you, still comforting the screaming newborn, but now her free hand was gently over yours to comfort you, too. Her face was contorted, and an unwavering panic was in her eyes that scared the hell out of you.

“I need to talk to you, that’s why I brought you here,” she explained quickly, her eyes darting upward to the figure, “But we need to talk when you’re awake. He’s listening,”

So, you were still just dreaming? The sensations and most of all the rotting smell that fumigated the room seemed anything but fake to you, and you eyed her through terrified tears. Her voice cracked with desperation when she spoke again, clutching the baby protectively.

“Promise me y/n! Promise me you will come see me,” she begged. The sheer sincerity in her plea made all of your hair stand on end, and you found yourself nodding in agreement sharply. She glanced towards Jordyn's figure, which began to writhe more noticeably, and the grotesque sounds of wet flesh made you want to vomit.

You could feel the air leave your lungs when the jaw of her former best friend suddenly fell open, and for a second, there was silence, even the baby stopped crying.

The horrible sound of grating, almost demonic laughter, echoed through her body like a speaker, amplifying feedback, and it sent a chill down your spine.

“Go back, quickly. Leave through the exit, and DON’T look back,” she instructed, gesturing sharply to the door behind you.

The shakiness in her tone made it clear that it was an order, not a suggestion, and you scrambled backwards a few times before finally managing to get to your feet. The jarring sound of the disembodied laughter provided ample fuel to sprint-float as quickly as you could out of the room. The very foundation of the hospital shuddered ever so slightly, with light cracks forming on the sides of the walls while you raced down the stretching hallways that only seemed to get longer. Rubble from the roof of the building was crashing down around you, and you jumped to try and keep yourself safe.

Reaching the sign that pointed you in this direction, you glanced forward and locked your eyes on the glaring red exit sign at the end of the hallway. Even though you’d been told not to, it was almost second nature when your head snapped to the side slightly to glance from where you came. Your eyes widened, and your heart dropped, the agonizingly fearful feeling gripping your heart in a cage, and you took off running down the hallway once again. The disembodied caricature of Jordyn now chased after you, blood, organs, and her now cut umbilical cord trailing behind her while she limped closer at an impossibly fast pace. The laughter was harmonized with an undertone of her familiar voice screaming in pain, and the agonizing sound made your stomach twist in fear. Your footsteps hammered faster down the corridor until finally, the exit was just within your reach.

You slammed your entire body against the metal bar to open it, and the brightness of the outside stung your eyes powerfully. With a horrified scream, you hurled yourself forward, expecting ground, but you were met with the sensation of falling instead. Your hair flicked violently above you as you plummeted closer and closer until finally—

Your legs hit the ground, bones snapping with a sickening crack.

It was the second time you had woken up screaming in the span of just a few weeks.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A deep breath, in, out.

Another deep breath, in and out.

Yes, that’s good. Just like that.

In….and…

Your eyes slowly fluttered open, and you let out a large breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Apparently, you’d passed out momentarily in front of the toilet when you’d hunched over it a few minutes ago to vomit into.

The stark white lights of the bathroom were like a cruel joke to your intoxicated mind, and the stall around you seemed to spin violently, like you’d been on a merry-go-round for the past three hours. The jacket you had worn was discarded onto the dirty floor, and your curled hair was tossed into a claw clip haphazardly. With a groan, you wiped the vomit from your lips and got to your feet, struggling to find your balance in the slightly heeled boots you sported. Gazing into the toilet to ensure you’d actually flushed the crime scene, you reached down to grab your jacket before turning and squinting to focus on unlocking the bathroom door.

Stumbling out of the stall, it didn’t surprise you to find you were the only patron inside, seeing as this dingy bar didn’t see many new faces. Your messy, slightly smudged makeup peered back at you in the large mirror behind the sinks, and with a sigh, you stumbled forward towards them. Trying to avoid your sickly reflection as much as possible, you ungracefully jammed the soap dispenser, getting half of it onto your palm, then sticking it under the water and scrubbing lazily. When you dried your hands underneath the annoyingly loud blow dryer, you made sure to grab your purse off the bathroom door hook before stumbling out.

The quiet hum of old classics through the overhead radio was somewhat pleasant as you trekked forward down the hallway, back towards the main bar area. Several men of all sizes were posted up playing pool when you passed, others sat in circles and smoked in their lounges, and there were, of course, the skimpily dressed barmaids flitting around with trays. Feeling a bit underdressed in your baggy jeans and tee shirt combo, drunk, you saw no issue in slinging the bathroom floor-covered coat onto your body while you stumbled up to the bar counter. The familiar bartender peered at you through his green eyes, and you smiled.

“Heyyy, Bobby,” you sang out, leaning against the oakwood bar for support. “I’m back~” you grinned, poorly attempting to mask your intoxication.

Bobby smiled back at you sympathetically, tossing his shaggy black hair out of his eyes to peer at you better. He paused his action of cleaning the table and tossed the rag over his shoulder.

“Well, hello to you too,” he smiled, shaking his head. “If you’re coming up for another drink, I gotta remind ya that I cut you off after that rum and coke,” he recalled, and you groaned.

You’d figured he’d forgotten because you’d been in the bathroom for hours, but the sober reality was you’d only been gone for about ten minutes.

“AW, come on, man, really?” you sighed out in frustration. “Look, Mr. responsible, I wanna get drunk, it’s my given right,” you argued playfully, putting a finger in the air. Bobby chuckled lowly, shaking his head at you, making you groan again. With no other choice, you frowned and slunk down into a bar seat in defeat.
“Usually, I’d say yes to you cause we’re pals,” he admitted, going back to cleaning the counter. “But it’s rare I see you do five back-to-back shots within the span of ten minutes. You alright?” he questioned gently.

You waved a dismissive hand at him, slumping your head down into your other palm.

“Can’t a girl just get fucked up in peace? Sheeeesh,” you slurred, grinning to dissipate the serious nature of his question, which succeeded. He didn’t continue his questioning and instead went about his work duties while you sat there pouting.

One of the things you appreciated about Bobby was the fact that he knew when not to pry into people's personal lives. If a drunk person is gonna tell you their sob story, he was, of course, a good listener, but he wouldn’t ask if you wouldn’t tell. Of course, you certainly didn’t want to tell the bartender about your horrific nightmares, or your worship-like situationship you couldn’t escape, so it was a good mutual agreement.

Your brain hardly registered it when the sound of the doorbell alerted another patron entering the bar. You’d only realized it when Bobby glanced up, before a cheerful smile plastered across his face, and he exclaimed excitedly.

“McGucket! Nice to see ya.”

That name…it was familiar for some reason, but your drunk mind simply shelved it in favor of slumping your head into your arms. The newcomer said something in response through an old, thick, accented voice that nearly scratched at your ears. The sensation of a figure stepping up nearby you made you blink confusedly, then slowly raise your head.

“Howdy, Bobby. How ya doin’ this evenin’?” his voice rasped, and you couldn’t help but turn to gaze at the frail old man next to you.

The familiarity of the old, weathered face struck a chord in your intoxicated brain, though you couldn’t connect any meaningful dots. He wore a flannel jacket over his working jeans and a pair of welding gloves poked out of his pocket, which you eyed curiously. Not wanting to be caught staring, you shifted your gaze away quickly to stare at the glass of water that magically spawned in front of you.

Their small talk continued, the elderly man taking a slow seat one chair down from you as he conversed with Bobby. Your ears perked up with interest when the word ‘invention’ was tossed around, sticking in your blurry mind.

“Oh, y’know, workin’ on my next project of course,” he grinned with a laugh. “Just a simple mech suit commission, I reckon I’ll have it done soon,” he contemplated, stroking his beard thoughtfully as Bobby poured him what must’ve been his typical order: a whiskey on the rocks.

“A mech suit?” you drunkenly wondered out loud, earning a glance from both of the men. Though Bobby commented on your intoxication, the old man waved him off and turned to you with a pleasant smile.

“Indeed, little lady,” he nodded, leaning closer. “I build all kinds of robots for a livin’. Mostly for others, though of course, it’s all for show,” he chuckled.

You stared at him in wonderment, eager to hear more about his creations.

“You…build robots? That's so cool,” you breathed excitedly, and he chuckled, taking a sip of his drink with a bandaged and braced hand. “Are they like… functional?” you slurred curiously.

His blue eyes twinkled thoughtfully under the dim bar lighting, and the eccentric old man with the bandage on his beard shot you a playful wink.

“Depends on whatcha mean by functional!” he laughs, and there's an air of loose screws in his mind that for some reason makes you trust him. “If yer talking gun blasters and lasers, those are only for my use,” he jokes, and you can’t help but laugh.

Bobby cuts in while cleaning a glass, and the spark in his eyes is undeniable.

“Fiddleford here is wonderful with tech, y/n. I mean, my ex smashed my laptop with a hammer, and this legend still got it working again!” he exclaimed.

You blinked for a second, the familiarity of the name flashing through your mind, and you turned back to the elderly man with a drunken squint. The name, the face, it matched.

“Fiddleford McGucket?” you questioned, and the man nodded with a grin.

He took another sip of his whiskey, rubbing a hand over his sparkling bald head before letting out a contented sigh.

“That’s me, darlin’. Tech and robotics specialist, at your service,” he chuckled sarcastically.

Suddenly, after having it spelled out for you, the dots connected in your incredibly spinny head: this was the man you needed to see. You opened your mouth to say something, but of course, your uneloquent speech did you no favours.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” you slurred out, blind to the implications of your words at first.

Both men shot you an astonished look, appalled by your unabashed pass at the practically nursing home-bound scholar.

“Pardon?” he choked out, his lazy eye momentarily moving into place to look at you squarely. After a few seconds, you choked out in embarrassment, your face reddening a few shades.

“Ah uh, no no, not like—,” you stumbled out, tripping over your own words to try and regain some lost aura. “Sorry, that was— ok, listen,” you slurred, taking in a deep breath to try and reel in your focus.

Fiddleford blinked at you, shaking his head with a polite grin, only adding to your flustered nature.

“I’m flattered, dear, but I promise you don’t want an old kook like me,” he chuckled, running a hand over his beard.

Bobby joined in on his laughter, gesturing to him over the counter and grinning.

“It’s the money, man, chicks dig it.” he wiggled his eyebrows, and you groaned out to cut off his poor attempt to be a wingman.

Putting up your hands and slightly swaying with the motion, you manage to silence both men from their laughter long enough to talk.

“I have a…device I want you to look at,” you tried, and both parties stared at you for a moment, uncertain of whether you were joking or not. “I um. I found it in my car and I don’t know what it is,” you finally explained. Though Bobby seemed to write you off, Fiddleford gazed upwards curiously, then back to you.

“What’s it look like?” he questioned, a glint of wonder hitting his features that made it clear he was interested. “Do ya have it with you? I could take a look,” he suggested.

You sighed, blurrily remembering leaving it on your dining room table, covered in darkness. You shook your head no.

“It’s ah, at my house,” you struggled to get the words out coherently. “That’s why I…invited you, I guess,” you defended, embarrassment from the whole debacle evident in your beet-red face.

He glanced thoughtfully at Bobby, who simply looked between the two of you and shrugged, before going back to cleaning. When Fiddleford turned back to you, he was nodding decisively and pulling a pen out of his coat pocket.

“I’ll tell ya what. You sober up for me, then give me a call,” he persuaded, sliding a bar napkin to himself and scrawling a phone number onto it. “I’ll take a look at your thingamagig and see whatcha got for me,” he smiled, sliding the napkin over to you. “For now, though, I’d like to see you call a ride and get yourself home safe, y’hear?” he instructs, raising an eyebrow at you.

You eye the napkin before folding it up and shoving it into your purse with a nod.

When your eyes flashed to Bobby, he sighed, knowing he’d be playing designated driver for you once again.

Chapter Text

Most people wouldn’t expect to find themselves sitting between two of the town's craziest people sharing conversation over dinner, but then again, you weren’t most people. The average Gravity Falls citizen would rather not take the trek up the large hill to reach the old Northwest manor, especially through the mud and insects, but you had. Even when you approached the gates with mud-covered shoes, looking in no condition to visit a mansion for God's sake, you were determined for answers. What you hadn’t expected was not only to be welcome with open arms, but familiar ones. 

Fiddlefords' voice crackled through the speaker, some near southern gibberish that you couldn’t make out, followed by wild laughter, and then– the gates swung open. Your uncertain mind was not soothed when you crunched down the winding driveway and all the way to the grand, elegant, wooden doors. It wasn’t raining today, just bitterly cold, and the longer you sat on the porch, the more out of place you felt. The grand pillars, towering statuettes, and well-kept shrubbery even felt expensive to you, so your hands naturally rested on the small bag full of items you hauled around. You could feel the sharpness of one of the caltrops inside, and your eyes narrowed slightly– though that was a different issue entirely. 

Susan had known what the caltrop was for the moment she laid her eye on it, and the sentence had made your breath catch, if only for a moment. Popping tires. Popping. Tires. 

Ford's face flashed through your mind momentarily, and that stone-cold look he had given you when shoving one into his desk drawer. It was odd, it was…defensive. He was hiding something, and you intended to figure out what. The first step was identifying the odd silver disk that also resided in your bag, neatly tucked away. When the sound of a distant voice began to approach the door, you peered up just in time for it to swing inward, the warm, blinding light making you squint. 

“Ahh, miss y/n. A pleasure to have you,” Fiddleford chuckled in that saturated high voice, and you couldn’t help but smile back. “My wife just finished cooking up supper, so you’re right on time to wash up.” 

“Thank you for having me, Mr. McGucket,” you chirped. Fiddleford stepped aside, and you entered, grateful to be away from the harsh outdoors. The second your muddy shoes stepped onto the expensive-looking rug by the door, you nearly felt your heart drop, though Fiddleford didn’t even flinch.

“Oh please, just call me Fiddleford, young lady, we ain’t need the formalities here,” he waved a hand toward a pile of muddy shoes of all sorts, a woman's shoes of similar disrepair, and… children's shoes.  “You can jus’ toss yer boots wherever, don’t be shy now.”

You held the wall for balance and slipped one shoe off, then the other, and set them down neatly. When you bent down to do so, your eyes trailed over the variety of kids' shoes curiously, stopping on a certain pair. You stretched back to your height and wandered back over to Fiddleford curiously, eyeing the grand entrance room of his home. In comparison to the small-framed elderly man, the mansion seemed…excessive. But there were touches all around the place that so clearly breathed life, as if a family had lived in it well for a while. Hand-sewn quilts and clothes wrapped around taxidermied animals, a lavish-looking hat rack (how a hat rack can look expensive was beyond you) that  held several beat-up cowboy hats, a pink young girl's backpack, and of course, the grand chandelier overhead was completely customised to be colourful glass. It was absolutely stunning, as well as a touch of homeliness with all of the plants and old beat-up furniture, a stark contrast to the area. You couldn’t help but find it intriguing. When you turned back to Fiddleford, he put a gentle hand on your shoulder, something almost paternal. 

“As I said, my wife’s bout finished cooking-” fiddleford began, though he was cut off by a knock at the door, and you almost flinched at its intensity. Your eyes flashed to the old man curiously, and he smiled. “Must be the other company. You go make yourself at home in the kitchen with Dahlia and Lilly.” 

At first, you didn’t even register half of what he said, and simply nodded, your body beginning to carry you off in the direction he gestured to that led to the kitchen. One step, two steps. Those names…Three steps, four steps. The shoes are near the front door. Five steps, six steps, quickening in pace. The backpack. You were almost running to the kitchen now. You knew you would startle the poor woman to death, but the part of you that hoped was too strong. When you stuck your head to peer in the kitchen, your heart almost collapsed with the weight of relief. 

“Lilly?” You breathed, fully stepping into the doorframe. Lilly, in all her bright beauty, flashed her eyes up in wild confusion– before locking onto you. 

And before you knew it, she was out of her chair, darting across the floor. 

“Auntie y/n?! Auntie!!” she cried, her little arms eagerly wrapping around your legs and squeezing with all the strength she could muster. You could feel a well of joy rise in your body as you bent down to pull the young girl into a tight hug, lifting her as you had done so, so many times before. You peered up at her smiling face, so unapologetically happy…so… 

The reunion was filled with so much emotion, and with each little plane on her face, you could make out a piece of the lost woman your heart missed terribly, too. You were so caught up in the moment of holding a fraction of her close to you, you hardly noticed when the tall, lanky woman who had been cooking at the stove turned to face both of you. 

“Y/n,” she spoke softly. Your eyes didn’t want to leave the precious jewel you held, but the morals of being a good guest began to bleed back into your mind through the shock. “I thought I’d be seeing you soon,” the woman's eyes, Dahlia, crinkled up thoughtfully. 

She was one of the tallest and most slender women you’d ever laid eyes on, each of her bones protruding from her in a way that nearly read ghostly, but it was matched in her graceful movements when she pulled a kettle off the stove and placed it on the countertop. Thick, wild, angry red locks were untamed atop her head, and her entire outfit was adorned with jewelry all the way from her blouse to her long, wispy skirt. Her face– you’d seen it before. The familiarity nagged at your mind as you watched her weathered face as she spoke, her brilliant green eyes sparkling like her words themselves were magic. 

“Oh, hi! I’m so sorry, this is my uhh…” You trailed off, eyes lingering on Lilly. Technically, you had no blood relation, so calling yourself an aunt would be a blatant lie. You bit your lip in search of an explanation, but luckily, Lilly supplied your thoughts. 

“She’s my auntie, but not really my auntie,” Lilly proclaimed, and Dahlia's smile was so calming, you could practically feel your body untense. 

“No need to explain,” she spoke, her voice was a touch masculine, and almost regal. She lifted the kettle in her frail hands and poured one, two, three, four, five cups of tea. When she turned, she gestured to the dining table. “Have a seat dear, dont be shy. We can get down to business later,” she said, and you felt your expression twitch a little. 

What could that possibly mean? You tried to brush it off in your mind, and you smiled at Lilly, agreeing that they should have a seat. Lilly led the way back to her stool, excitedly with you on her heels, and you took a tentative seat next to her. She had several pages of math homework splayed on the table, and she clutched a bright orange pencil. As she began to pack her worksheets into a blue folder and put them away, the sound of a dish being set down startled you a bit, and you glanced up. In front of you, Dahlia had placed one of the cups, and she smiled, beginning to set other foods down on the table. Eventually, you got the courage to speak. 

“Do I…know you?” you asked, awkwardness biting into your cheeks, turning them red. Dahlia chuckled lightly, the softness of her rose colored lips upturned into a charming grin. 

She turned and plucked a picture off the large fridge beside her, then slid it over to you. 

“I’m Lilly's godmother. We met briefly at Jordyn’s wedding,” she explained. You glanced down at the picture, and sure enough, the memories of your short conversation flashed into your head, just something about the weather, and the many spiders that were hidden in the corners of the venue. 

You felt your cheeks flush hotter, even more embarrassed that you hadn’t remembered. Of course, Lilly would go with her godmother. But…there was something else familiar in her face, too. You had seen her at the wedding those years ago, but you had seen her again. Recently. Where?

“Of course,” you laughed awkwardly. “How could I forget? Dahlia and Lilly, two flowers,” you beamed down at Lilly, lightly poking her nose, to which she giggled in response. “I love your home. It’s very roomy,” you joked lightly, trying to use your server skills to ease your anxiety. 

Dahlia thanked you with a nod, setting the table with plates and napkins, and of course, refusing your help when you offered. You couldn’t help but be impressed by the uptown-looking dish and silverware set, and you almost wondered if you were too broke to eat off of something like this.

“I’ve been meaning to reach out to you sooner,” Dahlia spoke, catching your attention off the expensive ass napkins. “I was informed by the police you might like to see Lilly, I’m…sorry for not saying something before you ran into Fidd’s,” she admitted, genuine regret in her tone. 

You shook your head, waving a hand in the air with a light smile. 

“It’s alright. I got mud on your fancy carpet, so we can call it even,” you grinned, the safety of this woman's energy being undeniable to you. She smiled back, returning the warmth. 

Lilly lit up, suddenly tugging at your sleeve, and clearly bored with the adult conversation topic. You couldn’t help but lean down and hear what the little voice had to say. 

“My Pop made me something, you wanna see?” she grinned, flashing another tooth she had lost. How long had it been since you’d seen her? Had it really been enough time for her to lose yet another one of her baby teeth? Though sadness panged in your stomach, you put on a brave face and nodded. Her little hands dug around in her coat pocket before placing a small round keychain on the table. 

Curiously, you picked it up and examined the little blue thing, and when you flipped it over, you felt your heart light up. It was a hand-made Tomagatchi-like device that displayed a frog, as well as its health, water, and rest status. You breathed out in disbelief, nostalgia from the small item hitting you. 

“This is incredible– Fiddleford made this?” you awed, peering at Dahlia, who wore the grin of a proud wife. 

The nostalgia session was abruptly canceled when the sound of the man's voice himself echoed closer, assaulting your poor eardrums, but you couldn’t help but find it somewhat amusing. The faint conversation between two men was becoming obvious with each closer step, and though it was so incredibly subtle, you could see the slight shift in Dahlia's demeanor. Most would write this off as looking too deep into body language, but you felt it too. The small, creeping feeling in your gut that something wasn’t right. Your eyes naturally shot to the kitchen entryway despite your efforts to play it off. Lilly's little hand reached up to take the device from your unmoving grasp. 

“Alright, darlin’, looks like that’s everybody,” Fiddleford smiled lovingly, and though Dahlia smiled back, when she peered at the man following behind, there was something else in her eyes. And when you saw him, your expression shifted, too. 

No…why…?

“Stanford. Welcome,” Dahlia finally managed. 

You felt as if you were going to choke on the air around you. He had already been looking at you from the moment he stepped inside the room. 

“Hello, ladies,” Ford greeted with a smile, adjusting his glasses. “I apologize for my last-minute attendance. Grading papers and all that,” he waved his hand, his eyes glaring over to Dahliahs for only a second before returning to Fiddleford. 

His presence was looming, like a storm rolling in, when you first start to hear the distant thunder. He sported a tight red turtleneck and slacks that did no favors to help your panicked state of mind, and your brain felt pulled in two split directions. Something was off– REALLY off, with Dahlia. You peeked over at her curiously, and she simply had her eyes locked onto Ford's, like a silent battle was happening that you couldn't see. 

“Y/n, Lilly, not sure if you’ve met Stanford here, he’s an old college buddy of mine,” Fiddleford introduced, looking to Ford with adoration. Stanford smiled softly at him, and your heart almost felt a pang of something– Jealousy? He had never looked at you with such compassion in his eyes. Your quiet seething was interrupted when Ford addressed you directly.

“Miss Y/n. We keep meeting like this,” his eyes crinkled up thoughtfully, though the flash of human emotion from his eyes was gone the second they landed on you. “A student of mine, a very sharp one, at that,” he chuckled, stepping closer. Your stomach knotted with both anxiety and something else. 

“Ford is your professor?” Dahlias' voice cracked. You turned to her curiously as she cleared her throat, cautiously looking from Ford to you. “That’s…” a pause for awkward breathing, “Great. That’s great,” she smiled, though you could tell it wasn’t…right. When you glanced back at Ford, your brain caught the maliciousness in his eye despite his charming smile that he returned to her. 

“Dahlia told me teachers are overworked, Mister Stanford,” Lilly piped up as Ford and Fiddleford both took their respective seats, one next to Dahlia. When the chair beside you pulled out, you felt your throat tighten. “You look like you need a nap,” Lilly bluntly pointed out, and you tried to stifle a chuckle into your hand. 

Ford's deep, throaty chuckle erupted from his chest, and you could practically feel your brain being pulverized into mush. Why was it that every time he entered the room, your IQ seemed to dip into the goddamn negatives? Your brain was a slow, pink, pleasant hum when his familiar cologne filled your senses, though the cutting razor blade of something off-putting was hidden underneath. Your eyes met his out of habit, and he stared at you. Something was cold inside, something calculating. He ended the staring contest, finally turning to Lilly, and you felt like you just de-armed a bomb. Your heart certainly raced like you had as Ford made polite and easy conversation with the young girl, clearly a man who had experience with children. 

Although the meal had started, a delicious course of turkey and a variety of sides, you could hardly find it within yourself to join in on the conversation Stanford and Fiddleford began– something about quantum mechanics. It felt as if you were in the presence of something overbearing, and your shoulders felt heavy, though you couldn’t place why. When a firm, six-fingered hand landed on your shoulder, you slightly flinched, glancing up from your plate to the imposing figure beside you. 

“So, how did you meet the town cook, huh?” Ford joked, cracking a shared smile with his friend. You went to speak, but you felt your throat tighten instantaneously.  

What’s wrong with you? You hissed to yourself. Just because he and Dahlia seem to have a grudge doesn’t mean I have to, right? You swallowed. 

“Just…at the bar,” you admitted, taking a sip of your water. 

Fiddleford laughed slightly, pointing a fork in your direction. 

“I thought I’d have to get ya home myself, truth be told,” he drawled playfully. “Glad that you made it in one piece. I’ve been itchin’ to check out that thingymagig ya got,” he added, scratching his beard thoughtfully. 

The memory of the item in your bag flashed in your mind, and you managed to remember the entire reason you were here through the thick fog. When Ford's voice rumbled like a dark cloud, you turned to him instinctually. 

“Thingymagig, huh?” he repeated with a smile. “Let’s see it then. I might be able to help,” his eyes glimmered when they looked at you. 

Your eyes peered at Fiddleford, who nodded in eager agreement.

“Ford invited me out to dinner tonight, funnily enough, but I’d already invited you, y/n,” Fiddleford recalled, taking a bite of his food. “I figured two minds are better than one, so he agreed to stop by and have a look,” he explained. 

You blinked in a bit of surprise, turning to Ford, who wore a smile that seemed pleasant on the outer shell, but inside seemed like it was cocky. You cautiously dismissed this, reaching to slowly unclasp your bag.

“Right…that makes sense,” you cleared your throat, your hands wrapping around the small metal disc you’d found in your car all those months ago. 

For some reason, when you went to pull it out of your bag, there was a nagging, screaming voice in your head not to. Like it was contraband you shouldn’t be caught with at the TSA, and the feeling only intensified when you tried to ignore it and brought it out of your bag anyway. You trembled slightly when you held it up, uncertainly looking between the two men. 

Ford reached out slowly and gently grabbed it. The eye contact he held with you in those few moments made your blood run cold. Your breath was like trapped wind in your chest when he turned it over in his vascular hand, the metal glinting off of it. He didn’t say anything, simply made a curious humming noise, before passing it to Fiddleford. 

“Interesting. Looks like it was made with tech from another dim-” Ford began, before his eyes shifted over to a curious Lilly, and he coughed. “Tech from another…country,” he corrected, clearly not wanting to open the can of worms that was dimensional travel to a kindergartener. 

Fiddleford hummed in agreement, also studying the object. When he reached into his overall pocket and brought out a small screwdriver, Dahlia's voice suddenly cut in. 

“Hey, no tinkering with equipment at the dinner table, mister,” she scolded, pointing to his and Ford's plates. “Let’s eat before we do anything science-related. Brains are useless without fuel after all,” she grinned softly at you, motioning to your hardly picked at plate. 

Fiddleford sighed, putting both the object and screwdriver back in his pocket, and taking a pointed bite of his food while maintaining eye contact with Dahlia for goofy emphasis, to which she and Ford both giggled. The motherly fussing was somewhat effective on you as well, and you couldn’t help but eat more of your own plate, too. 

Between the conversation with Lilly about school, and Fiddleford about his grand inventions, two statues simply sat and ate– Dahlia and Ford. You nervously picked up your teacup from its plate and lifted it to your lips, the taste of peppermint warm in your mouth. Ford was a quiet man; you had seen it yourself, but Dahlia…well, she seemed far from that. Her energy was practically crackling with love and ease when you’d entered, but it was now a dull, slow stabbing of a knife. Per usual, Ford's expression was mostly unreadable except for the occasional joke or comment to the table. But even though the playfulness in him seemed off, you found yourself intoxicated in his presence anyway. 

You’d figured he’d hardly acknowledge you to keep up student-teacher appearances, but this was definitely not the case, at least, where people could see. It could’ve been a mistake, but when he’d rested his boot next to your shoe, connecting your knees, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of warmth flutter through your stomach. When asked about your major, you explained the painting degree, and Ford was quick to rush and commend you for your work and intelligence. The praise was so blatant it made your head spin, and when his fingers brushed against yours under the table, you swore your heart was going to explode into confetti.

Did he always speak so highly of you, even if you weren’t around to hear it? The honesty in his rugged voice embedded itself in your ears, and though the notion seemed silly on the outside, the thought that he missed you wasn't there gave you butterflies. You hadn’t been too kind to yourself about the amount of pining you’d done over the past few months, and you almost felt like a creep for wanting to see him so bad. Even though he had done what he had done, he was still Ford at the end of the day. A man that you felt inexplicably drawn to, even despite his flaws. You were one, like the sun and moon in an eclipse.

By the time you noticed your teacup was empty save for the tea leaves at the bottom, your dinner was gone, and so was everyone else's. The quiet hum of the men's chatter was background noise in your mind as you stood alongside Dahlia, instinctively taking the array of dirty plates from the table. This time, she didn’t fuss when you helped, and when you approached the sink and began to run the water to clean your dish, she approached beside you. 

“Would you help me clean up dinner, dear? We’ll let the boys go have a look at your toy there,” she requested. The fragile woman's face smiled, and you smiled back, her gentleness soothing your jagged edges. 

You nodded, turning off the water and setting your plate in the drying rack, but before you could speak, Ford's voice cut in, stepping closer and making Dahlia scoot back with a glare. 

“Are you sure y/n? We could really use another brain to decode this thing,” he asked, and your heart felt pulled in his direction automatically. 

Just as you were about to choke out a hasty ‘yes’, the mess of red hair moved in your peripheral vision, and your eyes were drawn back to Dahlia. Her sweet face was like the layers in rock where you could see every different formation over the years, and it snapped you out of the ‘boy crazy’ mindset. You couldn’t let an elderly woman clean up all by herself. 

“Thanks, but I’m gonna stay up here,” you smiled at Ford and Fiddleford. You didn’t catch it when Ford's jaw clenched tightly, and his nails dug into his palms roughly. “You guys see what you can find. I’ll come over when we’re done,” you compromised. 

Ford ran his tongue over his lips, an action that you undeniably found attractive, and he nodded. 

“We’ll be in my upstairs lab if you need us, darlins’,” Fiddleford cooed to the three women in the kitchen, who all hummed back in response. “Eh– not you, Lilly. It’s your bedtime, ma’am,” he smirked, and Lilly groaned. She gave you a goodnight hug and kiss before eagerly running into your arms for one final hug. Ford shot you one last glance when your back was turned, and it was wild, angry, and panicked. Dahlia cut his eyes to him, like banishing a ghost, and the men disappeared from the kitchen, Lilly lovingly held in Fiddleford's arms. 

Unaware of the silent shootout you’d failed to witness, you began to fill the sink with hot water and placed the plates inside. Dahlia moved to the table behind you and began to put extra food into containers. 

“Thank you for dinner,” you were truly grateful as you shot her a pleasant look over your shoulder, and she smiled in return. 

“Anytime, my love, you are always welcome here,” she offered, and you felt the warmth coming off of her. “Especially to visit Miss Crankypants over there,” she joked, referring to Lilly, who was undoubtedly upset about her early bedtime. 

You nodded and scrubbed at a particularly stubborn stain with your fancy sponge. It was like things rich people owned worked even better, and you were almost frustrated at how clean the plate looked when you rinsed it. Your mind began to wander, picturing what Dahlia did for a living to have such luxury items. Sure, her husband was a brilliant scientist, but it was clear he wasn’t the only one with an exotic job. As if sensing your curiosity, she spoke in her silky and intelligent tone. 

“I’m very happy you showed,” she said, clearly pleased. You turned to her as she picked up the teacup you had drunk out of. “You’re an intriguing young lady. I’m fascinated by your energy,” she admitted. 

Even though what she said hardly made any sense…you somehow completely returned the sentiment. 

“I have to agree with you there,” you raised your eyebrows. “I gotta say, I’m curious about the woman living in a mansion married to a cooky genius and raising a kid all at once,” you rinsed a plate off before adding, “I saw a lot of sewing projects in the entryway. Are those yours?” 

Dahlia smiled, nodding and humming a pleasant sound. You felt like you were in a relaxing bath, being in her presence with how gentle she spoke, and how elegant her motions were as she cleared the table of its leftover containers. 

“Indeed, they are. Though it’s more of a side passion of mine– the arts. I prefer something more…” she thought for a moment, slowly approaching your side. “...invisible.” 

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard correctly. Her green eyes sparkled with delight when they met your slightly confused ones. 

“Invisible?” you repeated softly, pausing your dutiful scrubbing motions. “What do you mean by that exactly?” 

In her hands, you could see the teacup you’d drunk from, stained with your lip gloss on the side. You watched as she tilted it around in her hands, and the tea leaves slid around inside with the small remnant liquid. She stared into it intently, then back up to you. 

“There are some things that your brain doesn’t like to outright show you,” she began, like she was explaining the water cycle or some scientific fact. “My job is to show people the part they can’t see. The other side,” she elaborated. “Parts of themselves they hide, and don’t even know they’re hiding. Parts of themselves that…they hide from you intentionally,” she shifted her gaze back into the teacup.

This woman was blatantly talking crazy to your face right now. The ramblings of someone close to senile, perhaps, but intriguing words nonetheless. Your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the tea leaves at the bottom of the cup as well. 

“So you’re a..?” You trailed off, unsure of the messy clumps of leaves you were looking at. 

“Some call it a spirit guide. Some call it a medium. Some call it crazy,” she said, her eyes boring through yours at the last words, as if she could read your thoughts. “But I help people. I allow them to see the darker parts of themselves so they can heal. Sometimes, it needs to include the dead, of course,” she stated, studying you. “Mostly parents. Friends. Siblings. An emotional support system lost is like a building with no support– bound to come crumbling down soon.”

Her words echoed in your ears, as if she had read your inner soul and held it in her palms. It was a vulnerable feeling, but not like the one you shared with Ford. It was different in the sense that you felt held, but not contained. Trapped. You breathed out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, slight images of your totalled car and police lights flashing in your head. You shook the thoughts immediately, motioning to the cup to distract yourself. 

“Are you…?” you wondered, and she nodded.

“Reading the leaves, yes. Hold this for me, and swirl it in your direction as many times as you feel is right,” she instructed, placing the cup in your palm. You felt a little bit like a fool having your fortune read by a self-proclaimed medium, but you obeyed anyway. 

When you had swirled it exactly four times, you felt the sudden urge to stop, so you did. She looked at you expectantly, and you tilted the cup slightly so she could get a better look. When she took the teacup from your grasp and looked into it, her eyes narrowed and she hummed out flatly. 

Well, that’s probably not a good sign, you thought, watching the way her face screwed up as she read the leaves. After what seemed like an eternity of her holding you in this ridiculous suspense, her eyes finally cut to yours. 

“What is it?” you finally managed, meeting her gaze with an uncertain look. She took in a breath, glancing behind her as if to check they weren’t alone. When she turned back to you, her voice lowered significantly. 

“Tell me y/n, have you had any dreams about Jordyn recently?” she asked.

You felt yourself freeze when your brain quickly supplied the horrific memory of the nightmare from the other night, and you cringed instinctively. You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak, and you simply nodded, slowly looking down into the teacup. In the small amount of silence, you could feel puzzle pieces clicking into place. The hooded figure you had seen in your dream–

“I think I remember,” You murmured, slightly backing away. “You were…you were in my nightmare. With Jordyn,” you swallowed thickly. 

Dahlias' eyes darkened, and you felt an ice-cold sensation shoot down your spine. Her voice was edged with sharp caution when she spoke. 

“I will be truthful, y/n, this is not favorable. Something…something isn’t right,” she breathed, biting her lip. “It has to be her.” 

You paused, blinking in surprise. Who was she referring to? Jordyn?  Before you could think to ask, she set the teacup down in the sink pointedly. When her frail hands reached up to grasp either of your shoulders, it felt like someone merely brushed you with a feather.

“She’s trying to reach us,” Dahlia continued, her brows furrowing. You stared blankly at her, confusion webbing through you. “Jordyn. She’s alive, but…” she looked to you with genuine fear, and you couldn’t help the spike in anxiety. 

You were off your rocker, that’s for sure, but even all this ghost talk was beginning to make your head spin. You cautiously moved her hands from your shoulders, placing them gently at her side. Sensing that you were starting to see her as someone in need of a nursing home, her expression shifted to one of frustration, so you held your hands up defensively. 

“Look, Dahlia. As much as I want to believe that she’s somehow sending energy waves to talk to me or whatever, I just…I think it was just a stress induced dream,” you combated gently. 

Dahlias eyes squinted, and she shook her head in a desperate manner.

“Y/n, you need to listen to me,” she urged, her wildfire hair flicking wildly when she spoke in that hushed tone. “Stanford has something to do with this, I know it. You need to get as far away from him as you can,” she grabbed your hand. “Please y/n.”

You felt your brows furrow at the mention of Stanford. 

“What are you talking about?” you frowned. “What the hell does Ford have to do with this? I don’t know what kind of personal history the two of you have, but he’s a good person,” you defended. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

Dahlia didn’t say anything at first, just simply studied your face, though not in a scrutinizing way. It was a look of concern, like a mother letting their child enlist during a war outbreak. A few moments of silence ticked by, and with each moment, uncertainty crept up into your mind. Sure Ford had mental health problems, but it’s not like you were a saint either, especially with the looming guillotine of a missing ex-friend hanging over your head. His outbursts just…tended to be outward instead of inward, like yours. The notion of Ford having something to do with Jordyn being missing though…you couldn’t help but remember the night that had severed your friendship in the first place. The look he had in his eyes with Jordyn as she berated him, it was the same look he wore when he looked at Dahlia that night. 

“You really believe that?” Dahlia whispered. 

The question was sharp when it cut into your ears, and you could feel your heartbeat quicken. 

“I…” you began, your mind feeling like an unpleasant emotional smoothie. When you glanced in her eyes, you felt a spark of something ignite inside, though it was hardly pleasant. “Yes. Stanford wouldn’t do something like that,” you concluded bluntly. You’d known Ford for much longer than Dahlia, and so did Fiddleford. If Fidds saw no sign of anything amiss being as close as they are, then certainly, there was no need to worry. 

Dahlias shoulders slightly slumped, and you turned back to the sink with the intention to finish up the few dishes left. Though you had mostly dismissed the old womans words, parts of them sill bounced around in your skull, even when she eventually receded, simply growing silent and putting away the clean dishes. 

Despite your brains immediate want to jump to his defense, your inner monologue was a battle itself. While you didn’t particularly believe in the supernatural or anything, the notion of Jordyn being stuck in some in between state was…unnerving. What if she had been trying to contact you through the dream? It wasn’t a coincidence that Dahlia appeared in your dreams, only to be seen in person after years, but you still had skepticism. If Stanford did have something to do with Jordyn going missing, then why did he comfort you in his arms the night you found out? Why would he volunteer for search and rescue teams alongside you in the desperate first weeks? A man guilty of something like that would surely not be out in the forest on his hands and knees in the dirt, looking for any trace of the missing woman he supposedly…

What was Dahlia even suggesting by that? Murder? You almost felt a small chuckle escape your lips at the ridiculous notion. The idea that the giant teddybear you knew as Ford could commit full out murder, it was just…insane. He was rough around the edges from battles unseen, but so were you. If you were to try and scrutinize his behavior, you’d only be a hypocrite since that would make the both of you murderers, after all. It was a silly thing to categorize people with schizophrenia as dangerous in your opinion, and you acknowledged the fact that he’s never truly ‘hurt’ you anyways. Every move he made, your brain and body seemed to welcome with open arms, whether it be a gentle hand or a fist (though Ford hadn’t ever beat you, of course).

When the sun was beginning to set fully now, and when you turned to watch the sunset out of the window, you couldn’t help but sigh. Dahlia was still silent, and on her face was an expression etched of worry stone. You initially felt the need to apologize, but shook your head to dismiss this. This woman you’d barely known for a few hours was spouting some crazy ghost story and you were just expected to believe it? Nevertheless, your lips parted to say something. 

“Thank you for dinner, Dahlia. I think I’m gonna go check on the boys,” you bowed slightly, and Dahlia looked at you defenselessly, but she eventually nodded.

“Look.” she began, stepping closer to you. “I know you are affected by his presence, you can’t help it. The least I can do is offer some kind of safeguard,” she murmured, reaching into her skirt pocket. 

When you went to refuse whatever gift she was about to give you, she opened her palm and revealed to small slip of paper with her number on it. You squinted cautiously, but accepted the paper slowly. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, slipping it into your bag to most likely be forgotten about. 

Dahlia clasped her hands together, looking at you with a mixture of danger and worry.

“If anything happens, if you change your mind. If you want to know what I know, please. Call me.” 

The odd conversation was about to drive you up the wall, so you sharply exhaled another thankful sentence, before turning away from her and facing the kitchen doorway out into the hallway. You didn’t feel like you could get out of her gaze fast enough, and the further you got from her, the less exposed you felt. 

All of the kitchen nonsense was swirling through your mind as you aimlessly wandered the halls, a bit awed at the lavish and spunky decor. As you gazed upon a hallway lines with several painting, it occurred to you that you hadn’t actually asked where the lab was in the first place. You remembered the general direction of ‘upstairs’ and you began to ascend the grand staircase. By the time you reached the second floor, your knees begged for mercy, and you seriously wondered how the hell two elderly people had no problem traversing this labyrinth. You stepped into a dimly lit hallway, your gaze peering down the stretching corridors. On the left was an array of rooms, and a door at the very end seemed much larger than the others. 

You approached curiously, the low hum of machinery and talking coming from the other side. You got on your tip toes to peek through the little window slow and sure enough– both Ford and fiddleford talked, a cigarette hanging from both their mouths. Tentatively, you knocked on the door at a volume just barely audible to them, and their head whipped around toward you. Even though you were invited along, you couldn’t help but feel like you were intruding when Fiddleford approached the door and opened it for you. 

“All finished in the kitchen?” Fiddleford asked, and you nodded with a light smile, following him inside. Your eyes were immediately drawn to Ford who’s sleeves had been rolled up, but that wasn’t the unusual part. Besides the normal scarring you had seen, there was bandaging across both of his wrists, stopping at the elbow. You curiously stepped closer to the working man, dodging the cloud of cigarette smoke that tried to sting your eyes. 

You glanced down at the device, and it was disassembled, with Ford prodding at the wires. You hummed, catching his attention, and he peered up at you, a smile creeping onto his weathered face. 

“Jeez, Lilly was right, you do look like you need a nap,” you joked, and Ford playfully rolled his eyes when Fiddlefords laughter echoed in the room. 

“Hey, you try dealing with students all day, then we’ll talk,” he shot back sarcastically, and you made a mock-offended noise. 

“Wooow. Didn’t know you thought of me like a lowly common student,” you tsked, and when Fiddleford took his seat again, you were pulled into the reality that that’s exactly what you were, at least right now. Ford chuckled at this, a low and wonderful sound, and you averted your gaze so they wouldn’t witness your mental undoing in real time. 

You peered curiously at the alien looking lab equipment that lined wall to wall of the room. Some things you could identify from middle school science class like pipettes and a bunsen burner, but the large tech– it was unfamiliar. It didn’t even look like it belonged in a medical setting with how complex it’s mechanics seemed to be. 

“What are all of these machines for?” you chirped curiously, and Fiddleford pulled his gaze away from the disk to you, then smiled.

“All kinds a’ things, darlin’. The one yer looking at is a weather forecaster I whipped up for Dahlia,” he commented. “She likes takin’ care of her little plants, needs to know if theres gonna be a storm weeks in advance so she can protect em,” he smiled fondly, gazing out of the window into the large backyard. 

Your eyes followed his to the garden, and the sheer amount of growth it supported was incredible– it was no wonder she needed to know sooner than a weatherman could provide, there’d be no way to prepare this many plants in time. 

“Wow. Dahlias garden is…impressive,” you breathed, taking in the variety of flowers and shrubbery. “Does she use the plants for her um…practice?” you pondered, recalling that spiritual people often used herbs in rituals. Fiddleford nodded, but Fords curt laughter cut in. 

“Oh yeah, ole crazy eyes loves talking to plants,” Ford joked, stabbing his screwdriver toward the door. “Hope she didn’t scare you off with all the ghost stories.”

Fiddleford lightly punched Fords shoulder, and he sighed, a quick apology spurting from his lips, and you curiously looked between the two men. 

“Well…she did tell me a few things,” you admitted, walking back over to where the boys worked side by side. Fords eye twitched ever so slightly, but you missed it since fiddleford turned to you.

“My sweet flower, she’s always had a sixth sense I tell ya’,” he grinned. “Says she can communicate with the dead. It’s helping er cope, so I leave her be. Sometimes, her gut is spot on,” Fiddleford raised his eyebrows, and Ford shook his head with a wry chuckle. 

“That may be the case, however, a broken clock is right twice a day,” he waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Don’t take what she says to heart, y/n. I know a con artist when I see one,” he advised, slightly grimacing. 

You awkwardly played with your jewlery, the slight shift in atmosphere becoming increasingly obvious. 

“You think she’s lying?” you asked fiddleford. He turned to you with a simple shrug. 

“She’s never asked for no cash– anything like that. She believes what she says, and I trust er’,” he replied, cutting a small wire out of the device with precision.  

You glanced from Fidds to Stanford, your eyes narrowing. 

“Except when it comes to you,” you pointed out, meeting Fords eyes. Ford was a stone, his lips in a straight line. 

Fiddleford held a finger up pointedly, wagging it in the air with a wild chuckle. 

“As much as I love my Dahlia, I can tell she jus’ don’t like him,” Fiddleford shook his head with a smile. “Ever since our wedding day, that is.” 

Ford bristled, his back straightening up. 

“You accidentally break a mirror one time…” Ford sighed through his teeth, earning laughter from Fiddleford. 

You blinked in surprise, your face screwing up in a delighted confusion. 

“Wait what? You’re telling me she doesn’t like you because you broke some mirror?” you couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous notion. Ford shook his head with a disapproving look, running a hand over his face tiredly. 

“I recall it was a handheld mirror her mother passed down. Meant a lot to her,” Ford admitted, his expression somewhat reaching toward guilty, but never fully getting there and embracing it. 

Well that’s…not as funny as you’d thought it’d be. Fiddleford gently patted Ford on the shoulder, shaking his head with a smile. 

“She knows it was an accident. She just holds onto things till they have claw marks,” Fiddleford remarked, and Ford hummed in agreement. 

You slowly sat in the seat that Fiddleford scooted over for you, and your eyes rested on the metal device. 

A few hours ticked by of the three of you cooped up in the lab, working to solve the mystery of whatever the hell this object was. Near the hour three mark, despite the combinations of two incredible minds and you, it didn’t seem like the group was any closer. The tech was foreign no doubt, and when one man would suggest a purpose, the other man would debunk it with a solid rebuttal. When the clock struck midnight, it was decided that you would leave the object with Fiddleford, and check on the progress later. It was a school night after all, and you couldn’t afford another sleepless night. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That was way too close, poindexter.” 

The disembodied voice crackled sharply in Fords ears, and he paced the basement floor. Back and fourth, back and fourth. 

“You almost lost it. Lost her.” 

Ford grimaced, his jaw clenching tightly. He sharply turned his neck to the figure that laid in front of him, motionless, but wearing a grin.

“I had it under control,” Ford finally managed, his tone dark and icy. Through the dark lighting of the basement, the better source of light was the glowing yellow eye that watched him as he paced. “She doesn’t know it’s a tracking device, and it’s going to stay that way.”

The voice tsked in an unimpressed tone, and Ford scowled at the blatant disrespect, though he’d grown used to it at this point. 

“Come here, sixer. I wanna tell you a joke,” the voice beckoned. 

Ford absolutely did not want to get any closer to Bill than he had to be, but right now, he hated to admit that he needed his help. He yanked at his hair, a painful motion that provided no stimulation for him, and he urged himself to move closer to the medical table. With each staggering step, the disgusting smell of formaldehyde and flesh burned his nostrils further. When he was close enough for Bill to deem fit, Ford watched as Jordyns body struggled against the restraints keeping her strapped to the table, and she groaned out a horrible noise. Ford peeled his eyes from her deathly brown eye, to the luminescent yellow one when she gurgled out another sentence, half her voice, half of the demons.

“What does a serial killer eat when he’s on a budget?” Bill hissed, barely able to move the decaying face to form a smile. Ford frowned, clearly unamused. “Raw Men! Get it? Ramen?” 

The hideous two toned laughter echoed through the basement, providing a similar sensation of nails on a chalkboard, and ford grimaced. He had had just about enough of Bills shenanigans, even if he was contained to a half dead body strapped to a table. 

“Quit the games, Cipher,” Ford hissed, towering over the corpse. “I’m in no mood for this.” 

The side of the face Bill had possession over slightly twitched, and he opened his blood filled mouth again. 

“You’re the one playing with your food buster, not me,”  he chuckled casually. Too casually for someone discussing something so disturbing. Ford swallowed thickly. 

Though he had fought against admitting it at first, now that Bill had a physical body to somewhat possess, he couldn’t escape the constant remarks of the all knowing demon. His plan to trap Bill in Jordyns body had worked, but at what cost? Would he forever keep this rotting corpse in his basement until he died and someone inevitably finds it? He bit his cheek roughly, wishing desperately he hadn’t acted so rashly. 

“I…can’t do it,” Ford rasped, shaking his head. “I can’t do it. I can’t.” 

Bill sighed, as if he were a leasing office kicking out a mother and three children to the curb without a second thought. 

“The first step of rehab is admitting there’s a problem, well done,” Bill congratulated sarcastically. “You’ve got an addiction, thats for sure. All for some kid, too. Just when I thought you couldn’t go lower Stanford, you still amaze me with how disgusting you are,” Bill cackled, and Ford slammed his hand beside the bodies head, rattling the metal table underneath. 

“She’s not a kid,” Ford argued, images of your beautiful smile flashing through his mind which he shook off promptly. “But you are right about one thing. I can’t stop…watching her,” Ford admitted, biting his lip. 

Bill hummed thoughtfully, as if it were an obvious fact because it was. 

“So you can perv on her and assault her, but you can’t kill her? You’ve gone soft Stanford,” bills eye crinkled up ever so slightly. 

And that right there, set off the explosives that were Fords fragile emotional regulation skills. His hand shot up reactively to Jordyns forehead, and the blink of panic in her unpossessed eye sent a warm shot into his stomach. The body hissed and laughed when pressed his finger into the gaping gunshot wound, sticky from mostly dried blood. Even when the body began to writhe in pain, he did not recede, and instead, dug his thumb further inside, the feeling of skull and brain matter squishing disturbingly. 

“You’re the one that’s trapped, don’t forget that,” Fords eyes were dark when his voice came out like rumbling thunder. “I will hunt every other person you could use as a vessel and slaughter them in front of your eyes. You will watch your only hope die again, and again,” Ford hissed, violently stabbing into the bullet wound now, causing new blood to spill. 

Bill barked out more two toned laughter. 

“That sounds like a good time to me,” his lips slightly twitched into a grin despite the tears that poured from the bodies eyes. “How long do you really think you’ll be able to keep this body alive for? Surely it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she’s on her last leg,” He pointed out. 

He was absolutely right, and Ford knew it. His eyes shot to the small screen monitoring the bodies vitals, and he glanced back down, pointedly removing his thumb from the wound. While he could whip up some scientific things to delay the death process, there was nothing that could stop it completely. He watched the heart rate monitor slow, and he stepped away, needing space to think, though it was next to impossible with the unpleasant roar of voices in his head. 

Bill needed an unconscious (key word, unconscious, NOT asleep)  but living body in order to possess it, and the person had to have specific qualities to be a suitable vessel. For years, Ford tracked, and successfully hunted hundreds of these possible vessels, beginning his killing streak. The fact that Jordyn, one of the only people standing in between Ford and you, happened to meet criteria for being piloted was a fact Ford had no problem exploiting. What he did have a problem with, was you. The perfect, moldable body who’d withstood trauma others couldn’t begin to comprehend. It was no coincidence that you listened to Ford and jumped to his eager defense– it was in your nature to obey from the second you were born, and you didn’t even know it. The last fact was what scared Ford the absolute most though. 

Just like Bill, you were born with the gift to traverse into others dreams. And that’s why he wanted you, and only you.

As if sensing his inner monologue, Bill piped up again, calling out to Fords back, and he winced. 

“Aren’t you so happy that the theraprism got shut down? I would say I missed our conversations, but I didn’t,” he hummed. “At least now I can give you some good old therapy advice, doesn’t that sound nice?” Bill taunted. 

Even though Ford didn’t turn to face him, Bill knew he was absolutely listening, so he continued in that mocking and harmonized voice. 

“You talk about her like she’s your property, and yet, she still stays beside you. It must take a pretty sick person to take advantage like that, trust me, I know,” Bill grinned. “As long as she’s in your life, she’s in danger. You fight to keep her anyways. I see your selfishness hasn’t changed.” 

Still, Ford said nothing. He slowly turned, and when his eyes met Jordyns, there was no longer anger inside them. Instead was something more frustrated, more lost…more hopeless. He frowned and stepped back closer to the body. He towered over Jordyn and bill as one, examining the incision marks in her stomach, like some sick science project, and he couldn’t bring himself to not stare at her exposed muscle. 

Finally, his eyes met Bills glowing, possessed one. 

“How do I get rid of her then?” He rasped. He couldn’t kill you, and he couldn’t let you go. What other option was there? 

Bill paused, the cracking of a laughter on his lips. 

“By any means possible.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You had always liked the snow. Especially out here where you could see the paleness of it stand out on the trees.

The forest floor was blanketed in a good two inches, and the cold air nipped at your nose with aggression, stinging your skin pink.  You turned to peer up at Ford, who up until now, had been mostly silent. 

He was staring straight ahead, wrapped in his thick leather jacket, and he didn’t seem to be cold whatsoever. You on the other hand, despite being buried under about three jackets, a turtleneck and your winter boots, were shivering for your dear life. You liked the winter, but more of the inside aspect of it, but when Stanford invited you on a date to walk through the forest trail, how could you say no? The hot chocolate you’d bought before arriving was gripped in your hand tightly, and you took a scalding sip. 

You hadn’t seen Ford since class on Friday, and spending the weekend with him didn’t sound like such a bad proposition to you. You were happy to be in his presence, but a small part of you was beginning to degrade with worry. He’d been his normal self, up until approaching the wooded trail, and when you’d asked, he’d simply brushed you off. You slightly frowned at this, trying to keep your thoughts on track through the crunching snow and mind numbing cold. It was clear he was having another episode of sorts, and you wanted so desperately to help, but he had you locked out this time. 

You carefully monitored his unwavering face, and when he noticed you staring, his eyes slowly trailed to you, before he fully turned his head. You cocked your head to the side curiously, and his words came out with a puff of hot breath that lingered in the chilly air.

“Something on your mind?” he had turned back ahead. 

You blinked, his unusual demeanor still somewhat baffling. Eventually, you got the nerve to speak and interrupt the serene quiet. 

“Oh nothing just…cold,” you breathed out with a slight laugh. 

Ford stiffened a bit, just slightly, but you noticed it. His eyes were locked ahead, and he never faced you after this when he spoke. There was another long pause for silence where you took in a deep breath, and turned your own focus back to the trail, too. 

“Where is the brachirodialis located?” his deep voice suddenly asked, drained of any color. 

You stalled at first, your mind still registering what he was saying, but eventually you understood, and you pointed to your arm.

“Um…here I think. Why?” you wondered curiously. Ford nodded, humming a noise of approval.

“Yes, very good,” he confirmed. “And what about the Teris major?” he continued. You shot him a curious glance, but pointed to your shoulder. 

A few more rounds of the silly label game passed before you let out a giggle, and shook your head. 

“Didn’t know this was an impromptu tutoring session,” you grinned. You felt your stomach flip a little when his face remained absolutely still, but he still laughed anyway. 

“Just a distraction from the cold. Focusing on it makes it worse,” he replied. Understanding dawned on you, and you breathed out a simple ‘oh’ under your breath. 

The two of you had been walking for about an hour now, and you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder at the long gone trail markers, and your footsteps. When you turned back, you raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Well, where are we going anyway?” you questioned, trying to see anything ahead except snow covered trees. “How long till we get there?” 

Fords jaw clenched, tightly, and ever muscle in his body was wound up like a spring. He was silently walking beside a conglomaration of shadow figures which he was failing to ignore, even going as far as to glance at them. When your gentle gloved fingertip touched his arm, he flinched, and turned to you with his brows furrowed. 

“Right. Um. It’s…just up ahead,” he nodded, gesturing forward. His short, curt answer only added to your confusion, and you couldn’t help but ask again. 

“Are you sure you’re alright Ford? You seem…well, you seem a little distracted?” you wondered, your eyes tracing over to his. 

“I’m fine,” he snipped back, not aggressive exactly but not friendly either. You felt your brows furrow, and you bit your lip. 

It could be overstepping, but he had reached out to you for support. Surely it wouldn’t be out of bounds to dig a little deeper, right? 

“Are you…seeing things?” you tried slowly. Ford paused, and you paused in time with him. When he whipped his head to you to finally look at you, the darkness on his face…it was the first time you’d felt genuinely scared in a long time. This combined with the fact that his eyes drifted to a seemingly invisible person behind you, you were safe to assume you were correct.

“No, I’m not. Don’t ask me things like that,” he scowled, before turning back ahead, and continuing to walk, leaving you behind. 

His snappy tone had you frozen in awe for a second, wondering if this was some kind of joke. You found yourself laugh wryly, before slightly jogging to catch up with him.

“Hey, no need to get all mean on me,” you frowned. “I’m just worried about you. If we need to turn back–” This time when Ford turned to you, he didn’t say anything, and you felt the sudden urge to stop talking. Eventually, he did say something, but it was quiet and completely inaudible over the sounds of the outdoors. 

You asked him to repeat it, and he finally came to a complete stop, avoiding your gaze like the plague. 

“We aren’t going back,” he breathed.

You sighed in a bit of frustration. You were always one to defend Fords odd manner, but this time, it was seriously grating on your nerves. He stood like a statue, unmoving and silent. Uncertainly, you strided up next to him. You could try and provide him words of support, but it would be like trying to eat soup with a fork: completely pointless. He was stubborn as an ass unless he wanted to open up first, and you knew trying to pry open the safe of his mind was futile. You understood what it was like to shut yourself off like this, and your heart slightly ached for him. 

You followed his gaze into the nothingness, and when you gazed at your surroundings, there was nothing really monumental about the place. 

“Is this where we’re supposed to stop?” you said, looking ahead to try and see if you were missing something. 

Ford moved beside you, skating around to your backside. You heard the shuffling of a coat behind you, and you turned around curiously. 

Click.

“Stanford? What– what are you doing?” you stammered out in confusion. He held a toy gun that looked incredibly real, like a glock, and you furrowed your brows. “Hey if this is a joke it’s not funny. Is this seriously all you brought me out here for?” you asked in full honesty. 

He didn’t say anything, and he stared right through you with that same look from before. Confusion was slowly being replaced by a fearful unease, and you continued to berate him for trying to pull such a stupid prank. Just as you went to angrily stomp around him back up the trail, he put it to your forehead. You scoffed wryly, scowling at him with as much aggression as you could muster.

 Then, you watched in horror–

He whipped the gun to the side, and fired a round at a tree, sending a flock of birds flying. 

It wasn’t a toy. It was real.

He pressed it to your forehead again, and this time, full panic was clawing at your lungs and throat. Ford stared eerily, simply holding the loaded gun like he was deciding what to have for dinner, and you felt hot tears sting your eyes. 

“What– what are you doing?!” you shouted, taking a slow step back and putting your hands up. “Stanford, don’t play around like that! You’re scaring me!” you admitted through a shaky breath. 

You wish your eyes had deceived you. That your brain was simply playing tricks because of the situation, but you knew what you saw. He bit his lip when you said this…he was biting back a groan. Before you could comment, it was one swift motion before he had you pinned against a tree, roughly slamming your back into the bark and causing you to yelp. 

“Stop. Stop fighting,” he growled, his strength easily overpowering your attempted struggle. He shed his large coat to the black sweater underneath, and he pinned you with his arm at the neck. “If you scream, I will kill you. Do you understand?” he breathed in your ear, shakily. 

You felt your heartbeat thrum in your chest, and you simply nodded, too afraid to scream anything else or make any movement.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” you cried, almost a whisper, the crushing pressure of his arm on your windpine nearly unbearable. “I don’t want to die, Stanford, please,” you pleaded, and you watched in horror when his eyes fluttered, and he let out another low groaning sound. 

It was then you made the horrible realization that not only was he pinning you down with his body…he was starting to grind his hips into yours. In a panic, you began to struggle once again, though it of course, did absolutely nothing. 

“God damnit. God damnit stop, stop talking,” he huffed, frantically shutting his eyes. “I…shit. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go,” he shook his head. 

You wanted to ask what he meant by that, but the rational part of your brain was currently working on a possible exit route, if one would even come. When he pressed his lips onto yours, you choked out in surprise, struggling against the weight of his arm and body. The warmth of his tongue against your teeth made your stomach twist, and when you refused him access, he pressed down on your neck harder, and you gasped for breath, providing him entry. You practically choked on his tongue as he lapped at your molars with intensity, and when he was finished, he popped his mouth off of yours, leaving a string of saliva connected between. 

“Strip.” he suddenly demanded. 

You felt your blood run cold, the haziness from the kiss making your brain lag. When it caught up, you stared at him in horror, unmoving. 

He moved away from keeping you prisoner against the tree and pointed the gun directly between your eyes, his expression empty and wide. You shook your head, tears streaming down your cold cheeks. 

“I’ll freeze to death!” you choked out, clutching at your chest. “Please stanford, dont make me do this,” you desperately pleaded, and he lowered the weapon. You felt relief for about two seconds before he was grabbing a hold of your arm and twisting it behind your back painfully. You could feel his heaving chest against your back as he reached for your coats zipper, and tugged it down despite your struggle. 

“I love it when you say my name,” he breathed in your ear, tossing the first coat to the side. “Fuck…fuck I can’t. I have to…” he murmured, his hands hesitatingly meeting the next jackets zipper. He made a growling sound, then tossed that one to the side too. 

It was freezing when your bare breasts hit the snowy air, and you hissed out unpleasantly. When Fords large hands began to travel down to the pants you sported, you let out a panicked cry, twisting violently enough to go cascading to the forest floor. You yelped at the jagged rocks that stabbed you beneath the burning cold snow, but you had no time to catch your breath before Ford was on top of you, pinning both of your arms down with his knees. You wildly looked up, and your face flushed seeing the outline of his hard print through his jeans. 

“You…You like this,” you gasped out quietly in realization. Ever time you’d cried for help, every time you showed fear, the lust in his blown pupils only got worse. “Oh my god. You’re fucking insane,” Fords eyes darkened, like he was biting back some level of guilt. 

Slowly, he brought the glock up to your face, pointing it directly under your chin. When fear flashed in your eyes, you could see him twitch, adding to your disbelief. He kept it there for a while, staring at you in utter silence. You bit down on both your lips, letting the tears distract you from the numbness beginning in your backside from the extreme temperature. His voice was low, and thick with lust when he spoke again. 

“I could never kill you, y/n,” he said, and the genuine tone of seriousness it possessed made you shiver. “I would never. I would never give you to him,” he breathed, and you panicked below him, struggling further, though he didn’t seem to notice or care. “Let me hear you beg again. Please, y/n,” he was ragged, like a man starved. When you refused, he simply moved the gun from your chin to your mouth and you gasped out in shock. 

“Jesus christ, please let me go! Somebody help!” you screamed, writhing and kicking with all of your might. This was a step too far. This was…this was wrong…right? 

“So good,” he groaned lowly, slowly pushing the gun into your mouth. “So good for me. Barking when asked. Coming when called. It almost makes me sick,” he chuckled breathlessly. “I have to. I have to do this, for both of our sakes,” he panted, and the barrel in your mouth was terrifyingly halfway. 

You shut your eyes, fully expecting to hear that pop, then finally, peaceful bliss, or hell, or whatever the fuck was after this sick joke you called a life.

You didn’t. 

But you weren’t sure if you preferred what happened next over death anyways. It was the sound of a belt being undone. When he removed the gun from your mouth, you couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes, knowing exactly what you would see. You felt the glock rest against your temple, and then–

You knew the sensation all too well without needing to open your eyes. You sealed your lips, cringing away from the unwanted appendage being dragged over them. After a few seconds, you let out a sharp yelp when the butt end of the gun collided with your head, a viscious cracking sound echoing through the forest. Finally, you opened your mouth, but not your eyes. The salty taste of precum leaked onto your tongue when he plunged the tip inside hastily, and let out a low hiss of pleasure.

The usually arousing sensation was horrific this time, and when he hit the back of your throat, he didn’t provide much room for you to breathe. He huffed out, rocking his hips back and fourh into your mouth, and you had no choice but to reciprocate the motion with a goddamn gun held to your head. With each thrust forward, intruding into your throat, your mind began to feel less and less fear, and a little more acceptance. There was no way you could possibly fend him off, and screaming for help was useless– you were in the middle of the forest. 

Your eyes fluttered open, landing on the man above you who was ruthless in his pace. You expected to feel disgust, or something close to it, which you did to a certain degree. You glanced at the gun next to you, and felt your stomach churn pleasantly, feeling heat pool in the bottom of your stomach. Normally, you’d be horrified with this revelation, but your mind was currently occupied by thick fog and the blinding cold. He moaned softly, and though the sound was disgustingly lewd in the worst way, it made you let out a huff of breath yourself. 

He pulled himself from your mouth suddenly, and his dick twitched with anger at the loss of sensation. He growled lowly, clearly fighting to maintain some form of self control, and failing miserably. He licked his lips, before standing to his full height, and pointing the gun down at you. 

“Loose the pants,” he huffed, gesturing to them with his weapon. If you didn’t do it, he’d simply do it for you. Your trembling hands slowly reached down, and unbuttoned your pants tentatively. In the blur of tears that berated your eyes, waves of fear, arousal, and disgust all ripped through you, and your brain seemed to have shifted gears into survival mode. You were going to listen to the man with a gun pointed at your head at the end of the day.

He was more than pleased with your obedience when you slid off your jeans and tossed them next to your jackets. The fridgid snow bit into your bare skin, stinging it terribly, but every sensation felt as if it were underwater. He bent back down to your height, motioning to flip over. You swallow thickly, a spark of fearful betrayal igniting in your gut, but you did so anyway. Your nose was planted in the snow now, and Ford gripped onto your hips roughly to guide them upwards. 

You could feel the need in the motion when he ran his rough palm over your ass, and he looped a finger through the strap of your thong. He chuckled lowly, pulling another item out of his pocket which must’ve been a knife, since a few seconds later, the string holding your underwear was cut, then discarded. 

“You even dressed up for me,” he husked, and you could feel it when he rested his dick on your ass, and gripped one cheek firmly. “I know you always want it, y/n. Like a bitch in heat,” he purred, leaning over your back to whisper in your ear. 

You felt yourself tremble when his tip brushed against your entrance, eager. With one hand, he reached up and grabbed the back of your hair, yanking your face upwards to look at his, and with the other, the gun rested. You groaned in pain at the roughness, but this only made him chuckle slightly. He unsnaked his hand from your hair and used it to tease your aching entrance which was horrifically aroused, and practically dripping. He hummed pleasantly, burying just the tip inside, and you let out a strangled moan at the intrusion. Your hot breath melted some of the snow around you, but the discomfort and pleasure were side by side as partners in your body. When he drove the rest of his length inside with a harsh thrust, you practically screamed out. He let out a breathy moan of his own when his hips met your ass, and the sharp sensation of cutting began to dig into your back, making you yelp. 

“Ohh, I know,” he cooed, sliding the blade he’d brought out of his jean pocket across your shoulder blades. “I know, dove. It feels good, doesn’t it,” he huffed through shaky breaths. 

You let out a sharp cry when he plunged the knife tip just slightly further, his hand tightening on the gun with excitment when he felt your walls squeeze around him. He began to thrust, slow, and harsh, while dragging the knife down your back with one hand, and discarding his gun to the side to grab your ass with the other hand. Slowly and methodically, he traced bloody red lines into your back, accompanied with his pace that only quickened the more you hissed in pain. Drops of red splattered into the snow, and you buried your face, gasping moans escaping your throat involuntarily.

Ford was so out of it, driven purely by the hum of violent backround chatter in his head, and he dug the knife through your flesh over and over, as if trying to flay it. Each time you screamed out those horrific cries of pain, the more both of you were getting consumed by your own fucked up brains. Not only were you screaming– you had begun to scream his name. And your hips were moving to meet his thrusts. It wasn’t a voluntary decision, but more like the primal instinct a person is simply can’t control. Ford growled out a moan, pulling himself out and flipping you over, hardly noticing when the blade accidentally grazed your arm, earning a deep gash. 

Your eyes fluttered open and shut, the pool of red in the snow below you slowly starting to expand. When he slammed himself back inside, locking you into a mating press, you buried your face in his shoulder, deeply inhaling his scent. You gasped out with each punctuated thrust, slapping into you harshly enough to make you see stars, and between the blood you’d lost and the cold, your brain was starting to fade from cohesive thought. The only sensation keeping you awake was the deliciously sinful sounds of Fords moaning, and skin on skin as your ass richochetted off him. Your arms, weak, and one bleeding more severely now, reached up, and gripped at Fords back, scratching marks down it. 

He groaned at this, urging you to do it again, so you do. His head dipped between your shoulder blades to viciously lick and bite at your neck and collarbone, though you could hardly feel it through the cold numbness spreading. Even when he bit down hard enough to draw blood, you couldn’t do anything much beside let a few low yowls rip from your chest. With each passing second, things were becoming darker and darker around you, your body shivering relentlessly. 

“Fuck,” Ford gasped out, watching your hands when they fell to your sides. They were nearly blue, and he drove his hips into you more pointedly, though your body responded less and less each time. “Hold on– I’m almost–” he gasped out, and then, even in your haze you could hear his horror. 

And then you felt it. Your insides flooded with his cum, painting your insides white, and he pulsated with each new thrust, driving it further inside. 

He heaved for breath as did you, and you felt your eyes shut, finally slipping off into a slumber. Ford took a few seconds to catch his breath before he pulled out, and glanced down at you. His lips were chapped, and his bloodshot eyes widened in abject horror at what he’d done. He grabbed the glock from the ground, and got to his feet slowly. 

The sun was just beginning to set, but Ford had no reason to take his eyes off you as he buckled his belt, deep in thought. He collected his jacket off the ground, then glared down at the gun in his hand, then back to you. When he turned, his heart felt like it was about to shatter in a million different ways, and his footsteps began to crunch away from the scene. If he couldn’t kill you himself, the elements would do it for him. 

When he was a few feet away, through the roaring crowd of emotional voices that attatcked and berated him for his despicable action, he heard it. Low and groggy, but clear.

“Don’t leave me here.” 

He paused in his tracks. 

He had to. If he didn’t, then who knows what kind of consequences it would bring. No one would ever find her body out here, it’s why Ford had picked the location in the first place. 

But he’d done more than he planned.

He had defiled you completely, and there was no turning back now. 

A horrific, stabbing feeling burned his insides, and he kept walking forward.

When he came running back up the trail about ten minutes later, he was afraid it might already be too late. You were ice cold when he draped his layers over your naked body, and hugged you to his chest. 

Chapter Text

Police sirens

…Police sirens? 

There was a bright light shining directly in your shut eyes, and you stirred with a groan, shielding your face with a shaky hand. The light still did not cease, and when you finally managed to pry your eyes open, it was pretty much the equivalent of getting flashbanged. You hissed, a stinging pain coursing through your body in too many places to tell where exactly you’d been injured. 

The sirens.

They were obnoxiously loud in your ears now, so much so that you felt a crack in your eardrum, followed by a buzzing sound, and you whipped your hands up to cover them. Despite the raging pain that coursed through your body, you made a move to sit up, and it was so slow and deliberate, it looked as if you were encased in jello. Blue and red lights flashed, and the stinging feeling of loss began to dig its ugly claws into your throat, though you weren’t sure why. 

Where…am I? 

The coldness of the asphalt was unbearable, but moving was even more so. When you attempted to get to your feet, you hissed out, your eyes immediately drawn to your legs. They were skinned raw, bloody, with shards of windshield glass buried inches deep in your skin, and your arms and face didn’t seem to be much better. The slow, warm feeling of blood dripping down your forehead made you wince, and you reached up to gingerly wipe a streak of blood on your fingertips. Finally, you got to your feet completely, clinging to the sweater you had on for dear life. 

That's when you finally saw it. 

An ambulance. A few of them, in fact, were surrounded by police cars. But… it was your old car that caught your attention. 

Smashed inward, it was rammed into another car. 

No. 

People rushed around in a variety of uniforms, including EMS personnel, police officers, and others. You felt your throat tighten immediately, and a wave of grief crashed over you in an inescapable riptide.  

“Dad?” you breathed out quietly.  

None of the paramedics acknowledged you when you slowly approached the blaring sirens and bustling movement of several gurneys being loaded into the ambulances, plural. The sound of glass crackled underneath your shoes, each step further punctuated by the impossibly heavy guilt that settled in your chest. First, it was your own car that you had passed. Blood stains and broken car parts were a blur to your eyes, and you inhaled, approaching the second car. You knew what was inside. Your brain knew exactly what you would find, but your eyes horrifically moved toward it anyway, like a punishment. 

A middle-aged woman, slumped over her steering wheel, staring out at you with her lifeless blue eyes. Blood dripped from her scalp, and the way her ribs were contorted like a butterfly made your stomach jerk. Her son was less lucky. His cries of weak agony and pain were inaudible to you, and the sight of his teenage body trapped between your bumper and their own burned into your brain just as it had all those years ago. Blood poured from the severed wound, a piece of car jammed deep inside his stomach, and your eyes caught the way his intestines glimmered in the blue and red lights. 

He weakly took a breath, and then, not one more.

The feeling of hands on your shoulders made you jump, and when you were being shoved backwards, you couldn’t even fight the motion. The paramedics swarmed the scene, blocking out the horror show you’d seen. You stared ahead, lifelessly, like a corpse posed pretending to be human. 

“Y/n.” 

Your blood ran cold. 

The voice behind you was so weak, so…sad. 

You’d never heard your father have such a tone before. 

“Dad,” you whispered, unable to move your eyes off the swarm of working emergency staff. “No…no, no. I…this wasn’t supposed to happen,” you choked out. 

Your guilt-filled words were cut short when you felt a cold hand hold yours with such gentleness that you almost burst into tears. 

“Please, angel. Please, look at me,” his voice croaked weakly. 

You couldn’t help the waterfall that began on your face, salty tears stinging the carious cuts etched in your skin. You couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

This was all your fault. 

“This isn’t fair,” you gasped out. “Why am I still alive?!” Your voice was broken through the thick sobs. “I…we…we were supposed to go together,” you trailed off. 

The hand wrapped around yours squeezed gently, and you bit back an agonizingly grief-filled cry. 

Slowly, your body did eventually turn, though at first you couldn’t take your eyes off the ground. Your father's large hand was rough, and his wedding ring glinted in the moonlight. 

“I had no idea,” he rasped weakly. “I had no idea…your mother was…” he choked, and your eyes shot up to his in a panic. 

You eagerly bent downwards, your eyes finally able to meet his. They were full of sorrow and regret, but no anger. 

“I did this for us!” you cried desperately. “We had to escape, we…” You were breathless, stumbling over your words like a child. 

His hand gently let go of yours, and your brows screwed downwards when it traced up and rested on your cheek. He wiped a tear away with a small smile on his lips. Through your broken sobs, you leaned into the touch, desperately putting your forehead against his. 

“I love you, y/n,” he whispered. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know pumpkin.” 

Images of your mother's face flashed through your mind, agitating you like a hornet's nest. You let out a screaming cry, grabbing onto his weak body with as much gentleness as you could muster.

“Don’t leave me alone. Please, please, Dad,” you gasped, choking on the breath. 

He smiled weakly, his eyes locking onto yours for one last time. 

“It’s going to be ok. I’ve got you. My sweet…babygirl.” He took in an agonizing wheeze of a breath. “I’ve got you.” 

His last words echoed in your ears, making them ring like never before. 

“I’ve got you.” 

“I’ve got you.”

Someone was saying it now. Louder, more panicked. 

“I’ve got you, Y/n, please,” Ford huffed, clutching your limp body to his like a vice. “We’re here. We’re here, it’s gonna be ok.”

Your head rolled around limply in his grasp, and his terrified, shaky breaths whispered in your ears like a song. There was desperation in every sound and movement he made, and the loud thud of a door slamming open reverberated in your brain. Ford made his way inside, kicking the door shut with similar force, and then bolting to his bedroom, avoiding the piles of clothes, trash, and alcohol bottles. The soft fabric of his bedsheets felt like a blooming rosebush digging its thorns into your back, and your half-awake body groaned weakly, tears welling in your eyes. Ford hissed, muttering an apology, then gently rolled your body to lie on its side. 

“You have to wake up, y/n, please,” Ford breathed desperately, gently slapping your face. “You can’t go unconscious again, open your eyes,” he panted out, breathless from the sprint to the front door from his truck. 

Even in your state, your body still responded to the demand, and you peeled your eyes open. Ford sighed out a short sound of relief, but his worry quickly took the reins again. Confusion and blurry edges made up your mind, watching the tall figure scramble out of the room, calling to you about ‘holding on’. You inventoried his room in your delirious state, none of the piles of trash or gross coffee mugs really registering in your brain anyway. 

Ford rifled through his medical supply cabinet like a madman, shoving several items under his arms to carry back to you. The voices now were completely silent, and though it was only temporary relief, the way he’d obtained it made his stomach jerk heavily with guilt. His mind pulled him in many different directions, but his body was on one set task as he quickly skated back into the room, spilling the supplies he’d gathered onto the bed. 

You slightly stirred, humming out in a quiet and hazy voice. 

“Ford…what…why did you…”  

“Stop talking, now,” he hissed, grabbing a bottle of saline solution and spilling it onto a rag, recklessly spilling it everywhere, though that was the least of his worries. “Don’t speak. You need to focus on your breathing.” 

His words were pretty much garbled nonsense to you, but you did shut your mouth anyhow. The stinging of the solution when it pressed into your back was painful, and you weakly cried out in protest, failing to wiggle away from his unrelenting grasp. The coldness in your appendages was numbing, and you had no sensation in them either, not that you could move much in the first place. The dampness of blood pouring from your arm stained the sheets below you and clung to your skin like paint. After agonizingly long minutes, he finally removed the cloth from your back, then gently grabbed your arm to apply the solution as well. When he let it fall limply back on the bed afterwards, you stared at him through unblinking, hazey eyes.

“Why…?” 

Ford's body tensed, and he didn’t respond. The feeling of something warm pressed against your neck and chest, and he pulled several blankets over your trembling body. Your voice broke as it spoke again, a bit more of a sad bite to it.

“Why. Why didn’t you just leave me?”

There were a few seconds of tense, pointed silence before he finally responded. 

“Why do you want to die so badly?” 

You paused, unable to come up with any sort of answer to that because he was right. Ford accepted your lack of response as a response, and you could feel his eyes on you through the delirium. Your body was slowly but surely beginning to warm– but not nearly fast enough. He mumbled ‘Be right back’ under his breath, and then, you could feel his presence no more. You clung to the soft and warm blankets for dear life and reached up to feel the warm bottle of water he’d placed on your neck. Your mind was slowly catching up to everything, and you felt your stomach churn. Clattering noises echoed from the kitchen, the sounds Ford made keeping you tethered to reality.

Ford poured a cup of hot coffee into his only clean mug, hastily, hardly flinching when the scalding liquid dripped onto his hand. Though the voices of others were gone for now, his own inner monologue was still unfortunately intact, and it was relentless. He bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, and his hands were shaky when he lifted the mug, placing an ice cube inside, then moving to the hallway again. He was split with guilt, partially for sparing you and partially for what he’d done altogether. It was supposed to be quick and painless, like putting a dog down. Then, you had begged him. Begged him for mercy. And it undid his barely stable mind like the snapping of a tense cable. The thought of watching the life drain from your eyes made his chest heave unpleasantly, and he picked up the pace to get back to the room. 

You hardly moved when he entered again, just made a weak groaning sound that hung in the air when he moved closer, bending to your height like a bedside nurse.

“Drink this. Don’t spit it out, it’s bitter,” he instructed shakily, gently holding the cup to your paleish blueish lips. He nodded in approval when you drank, the black coffee stinging your cold chest with its warmth.

Your eyes were fluttery, and your movements were hazy, but you were beginning to ground more with each second. Your mind raced with the imagery of what you’d just been subjected to, the look in Ford's wild eyes, the animalistic sounds, and the stinging cold of the snow below you. You let out dry laughter, causing Ford to flinch slightly as he set the mug down on his nightstand. He turned to you, his eyes burning with confusion. You felt hot tears sting the corners of your eyes, but the smile on your face stayed all the same. 

“Where is your gun?” you questioned, your weak voice slightly stronger now. “Give it to me, you fucking pussy. I’ll do it myself.” 

Ford's eyes widened, and you felt his heavy frame quickly sit on the bed next to you. 

“No, what– No! Absolutely not!” he exclaimed, visibly bristling. His brows furrowed, anger burrowing into his expression. “What is wrong with you?!” he gasped. 

You let out a louder cackle, broken sobs escaping you as you did so. His expression faltered, though you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

“What’s wrong with ME?!” you shouted out with as much strength as you could muster. Ford was still as a statue. “I give you my consent, and you defile me anyway,” you hissed hazily. “Then you can’t even finish the job,” you chuckled humourlessly, your eyes wild when they gaze at his. 

Ford's expression shifted from anger to undeniable guilt. One of the first true shows of emotion you’d seen from him. 

“I…” he tried, fumbling his words and snaking a hand through his hair. You glared a hole through him until he finally got a sentence out. “You don’t understand, y/n,” he pleaded out, frustration laced in his tone. 

You shook your head lazily, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment in disbelief. The pain in your back was beginning to burrow itself deeper, but that meant your body was heating back up now. You could feel every individual cut the man had made in his hedonistic state of mind. 

“Enlighten me, then,” you croaked sarcastically bitter, furrowing your brows. “What am I missing?” 

Ford paused, his breath hitching. His mind was racing at increasing speeds, a frenzy of how much information he should come clean about, and what he should keep close to his chest. His hands gripped his hair painfully tight in his silent battle against only himself, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at your sickly body that weakly peered up at him with that blank gaze. He recognized the look because he wore it all too well. There was nothing behind it but despair and grief, masked as silent defiance. 

He finally huffed out, coming to terms with the death sentence he was signing at his admission. 

“Look,” he began, his voice low and uncertain. “I don’t understand why, but…I need you, y/n. I need you more than I need water and air,” he breathed, his gaze slowly moving to fixate on you. You shot him a nasty scowl, venom dripping from your tongue.

“You need me, so you try to off me and fail?” you growled in awed frustration. Ford winced with a sigh. He knew the consequences saving you would bring, and he was ready to atone for his sins.

His uncertain demeanor suddenly shifted, and he sat up straighter, his face getting that focused look like the one he wore when teaching. The thought that this man ever landed a job on a college campus was appalling to you, but then again, you had been fooled by the facade, too. Ford ran a hand over his face with a sigh, shaking his head.

 “You’re the only thing that matters to me anymore. You’re the only thing that makes the voices stop. I feel different around you, like I’ve never felt before. The problem is that you feel the same.” He licked his lips, taking in a shaky breath. “I tried to scare you off. I tried! I– I can’t stop thinking about you. Where you are, what you’re doing. I can’t stand it. I wanted to kill you…So I wouldn’t feel this way anymore.” 

It wasn’t entirely the truth. But it wasn’t entirely a lie either. 

Your eyes wandered over his face, taking in his words in a bleary confusion. So many things raced through your head. Fear, guilt, anxiety. But lower, there was a hum of something much different. Joy, desire, and familiarity. Which emotions were stronger was a blind question as they fought for dominance in your groggy head. Finally, you managed to form a coherent thought and translate it into a sentence. 

“You raped me.” 

The words lingered in the air over both of you, and there was a still silence for a long while. Finally, you added the last part of the sentence. 

“And…I think...” you paused, taking a breath. “I think I…kind of liked it.”

There was another stark silence, and you could feel Ford ball his fist when he gripped the blanket. 

“No. No! Don’t say that,” he huffed quietly, looking at you with pure anger. “No. You didn’t. I…I hurt you, y/n, don’t you understand that?!” he barked out desperately. “You said it yourself. I’m fucking insane. You’re supposed to be scared of me!” he hissed, gesturing toward himself with a look of guilty desperation. 

You took in a breath to consider his words. Were you scared of him? Absolutely. Did that fact seem incredibly tantalizing to your broken mind? Absolutely. 

Being brought to the edge of death stirred something deep inside your stomach that you never imagined you’d experience again after that fateful car crash. When you’d pulled the wheel, there was an undeniable feeling of excitement in your stomach. Through the screeching sounds of metal on metal and glass, you were thrown over the hood of both cars, and the distinct feeling in your stomach of something incredible felt like fireworks. You’d come close to it, but you hadn’t died. It was the in between that had been addicting, but the chaotic aftermath stilled the feeling completely. With Ford, there was no chaotic aftermath. Just a plain event, no strings attached. 

“It felt incredible,” you breathed softly. Ford's eyes narrowed, looking at you with uncertainty. “It was terrifying. I almost died, but…I didn’t. Why…does that feel so goddamn good?” you chuckled wryly. “If I can’t ever open death's door, I’m sure as hell knocking  on it.” 

Ford stared at you incredulously, not believing a second of the delirious commentary you spouted at him. He put his hands on your shoulders, and the fact that you hardly flinched away only made his disbelief grow. He was at a loss for words for a good few moments, and the usually well-spoken man stammered out near nonsense, but you understood perfectly. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Ford argued. “I’m a danger to you as long as you’re around me. I got off on the fact that you were begging me not to kill you for Christ's sake, y/n!” he panted. You simply smiled, your head rolling to its side lazily. 

“You think you’re gonna scare me off, don’t you?” you hummed, your voice gaining some of its traction back. “I’ve got news for you, Stanford. There’s no taking this back. There is no apology I will accept. Because I don’t want one.” Ford's brows twitched aggressively, but you couldn’t care less. “You were right– I need you just as much as you need me. If I were to walk out of that door to the police precinct, you’d probably blow your own head off, wouldn’t you?” you accused. Ford's expression shifted into that guilty one again, and you hummed in acknowledgement. “Not because you’re scared of being arrested…but because you can’t cope with losing me.”

Another silence befell both of you. Ford shifted where he sat, his dark eyes glued to the carpeted floor, filled with absolutely nothing. He didn’t say anything– he couldn’t possibly say anything. You were incredibly ill in the head, but so was he. He was surprised he hadn’t observed this behavior from you at this intensity in the years of following you, but you didn’t need to know that. Slowly, he reached down, his six-fingered hand wrapping around a half-drunk bottle of tequila and bringing it up. He removed the cap and took a sip, staring straight ahead as the burn of the drink raced to his stomach. He took another sip, easily drinking most of it, then he sighed, putting his head in his hand. 

“You’re a goddamn asylum escapee,” he name-called, taking another sip. You let out a scoff, observing the pathetic-looking man through your permanent rose-tinted glasses. 

“Takes one to know one, asshole,” you furrowed your brows. Ford's eyes snapped to yours, and he smiled an angry smile. 

“Now you’re trying to provoke me,” he hissed, the anger in his expression strong like a shot of bourbon that you took greedily. “If you speak to me that way, I promise you you won’t like the consequences,” he threatened lowly. 

You felt a shiver shoot down your spine, and you grinned. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you hummed. 

Ford groaned incredulously, getting to his feet and shaking his head in astonishment. 

“Fuck…” he murmured, setting the bottle down on his nightstand and putting his face in his hands, roughly rubbing. 

His attempts to break your mind had proven to be way too effective. It wasn’t a question of whether you were telling the truth, but rather the question of what would happen now. He still had cards hidden up his sleeve, and not everything was brought to light for you to see…but the closeness of the two of you was dangerous– very dangerous. The empty promises Bill had made to bring Stanley back…were they even real? As long as you were alive, there was a risk for a weirdmaggedon 2.0. Jordyn's body wouldn’t hold up for much longer, and Bill would eventually get to you. 

…Jordyn. Right. 

His eyes flickered toward the door behind them, his mind filled with images of the half-alive body strapped to a table in his basement. There was nothing that could possibly cause you to turn against him…except her. He could protect you more efficiently if the two of you proceeded in a cautious symbiotic relationship, but he could never let you discover what he’d done. It would be a near-impossible balancing act; there was no way he could do something so selfish after what he’d already done. When you moved to slightly sit up, Ford immediately rushed over, forcing you to stay down. 

You scowled, unable to fight back against the man's immense strength, and the familiar feeling from earlier crept up in your stomach, making your ears ring. Realizing what he was doing as he pinned you to the mattress with you looking up with those wild, fearful eyes, he let out a string of curses, followed by an apology, before taking his hands off of you. You relaxed your rigid body when he scooted away, the burning feeling of fear somewhat simmering down. 

You shook your head in the silence. 

“What now?” you finally asked quietly.

Ford paused, furrowing his brows in thought. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to sort through the messy piles of junk in his brain. 

“I…I’m not sure,” he breathed slowly. “What…do you want, y/n?” Ford's face fell, his eyes draining of their soul minute by minute. When he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the gun from earlier, you felt your pulse quicken in your chest. You watched in quiet awe as he looked at the weapon in his grip, then pointedly set it down on the nightstand next to you. You looked from it back to him, and then you spoke, your voice cracking.

“What do you-” you began to ask, but he quickly cut in, trampling your words. 

“I need you to choose,” he said, his chest heaving. “If you truly want this. You don’t need to do anything, and I’ll take care of everything. But if you don't…” his eyes trailed from the floor to the gun. “You pull that trigger on yourself, you understand? And I’ll turn myself in.”

You felt your eyes widen a bit, your head whipping between him and the gun over and over.  Tentatively, you spoke again. 

“What if I shoot you instead?” you threatened weakly. Ford scoffed, not even turning to look at you. 

“Oh, please. You want to die more than you want me to die, y/n. I’m not an idiot,” he gruffed, his voice low. “I don’t expect you to make the decision now, of course. You need time to…reflect,” he sighed quietly. 

You slowly reached out towards the nightstand, taking the gun in your grasp, not to use, but to examine. Getting a better look, you could identify it as a Glock 17, and it glinted brightly as if it had just been polished. It was worn from use, but beautifully kept, like whoever owned it took great care of it. You hadn’t held many guns in your life, if at all, so you only knew how to use one from TV, but you managed to cock the gun back to load it, and it made a satisfying click.

Ford had gotten to his feet by this point, and he tiredly grabbed the bottle off the nightstand once more. In a silent move, he gently bent down to kiss your forehead, then your nose. He climbed back to his towering height, looking at you with an expression full of emotion you couldn’t read whatsoever. The only sound between the two of you was your breathing against the roaring winds of an incoming snowstorm outside that whipped at the windows. Wordlessly, he finally turned, making his way to the bedroom door and shutting it behind him. Once again, you had been left to your own devices. 

Your mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend the mess that was your life up until this point as you stared at the gun with a hard gaze, fighting the slow rise of tears. 

How much time had passed since you thought?

How much time had you wasted dwelling? 

How long had your mom been prostituting you for drug money? 

A long time. A silent uproar in your mind at the intrusive thought, and you clenched your teeth roughly. Your Dad's words echoed in your ears, and they stabbed your intestines like a starving parasite. 

“I didn’t know.”

What Ford had done…it wasn’t anything new. Your brows furrowed into a scowl. 

Men. Men were beastly, ravenous creatures. You had tried to find an out through death, sparing your father's blissfully ignorant mind with a double suicide, but you had survived. You had to have survived for a reason…right? 

You had seen things no child should ever witness in their lifetime. When the feeling of hands all over your body came back, you allowed it instead of fighting it this time, and you turned the gun over in your hand, lost in thought. When those men had done what they’d done, there was no reason behind it, no motive, only lust. They tore at your body viciously, eating pieces whole like a pack of wolves, unable to be satiated. When they were done, leaving your body lying upon the freezing floor of the shitty trap house, you would beg. Beg for someone to come back. Someone to help clean your face and your hair from the disgusting eject. You would be met with your mom's unmoving face, clutching her bag of rocks like a grand prize. She would turn to you and thank you for being of service to her. Your brain produced hazey images of men that had defiled you over and over, and then, there was Ford.

Ford might be a sexual deviant, but you were a murderer. 

You knew the woman and her son. The mother, whose name was Addison, worked at the kindergarten school you’d attended as a kid. She’d been taking her son, Oscar, to soccer practice with his gear in tow, excited for the final game of the season, and he chatted excitedly, unafraid of who his mother was. She listened, and when she put her hands on him, it would be in a gentle embrace, not a forceful shove or being pinned down. They had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and when your car headlights swerved out of your lane and onto theirs, she had instinctively put her arm out in a futile attempt to protect. But there was no protecting people from you.

And now…you were here. In society. 

You weren’t sure if you preferred the six-year-long trip to the mental institution, or the fact that you were helplessly thrust back into new adulthood, given nothing but a good luck and a college grant. The one man in your life who had held you, sung to you when you cried, and was there for your birth, was gone. The only connection you understood was violence. You’d managed to land your job at that shitty coffee shop on the bad side of town, and then…there was Jordyn. She knew your story. Everyone knew it. How could they not in a small town like Gravity Falls? You’d taken the life of a beloved teacher and a kid, not even seventeen yet. But she had kindness in her eyes anyway. She had gentleness in her touch. You opened up to her, and only her. When she had invited you to a support group for assaulted women, you’d initially thought it to be silly. 

Silly was the last word you’d ever use to describe Jordyn, now. You’d never be able to apologize to her again. 

Lilly crept into your mind, the memory of her working away on a colouring page at the kitchen table etched in your brain. The words of Dahlia flashed through your mind. The warning about Ford– she’d been right, and you’d known it from the very beginning. But he was the only man who made you feel human. 

And that meant you wanted to hold out on Ford for as long as possible before his behavior became too much for you to carry– surely, you would eventually break.

But you didn’t. 

He had done the most despicable thing someone could do. A crime that didn’t have any sort of excuse. 

But he did.

You had consented. 

All those weeks ago. 

Somehow, you knew he would. It’s why you gave it to him in the first place… but he wasn’t like any of the other men who had groggily taken advantage of your body. 

You had seen it. Weeks ago, but you had seen it indeed. 

He’d invited you for dinner once again, and you showed up, of course, the evening slow and serene. He had disappeared somewhere, leaving you to curiously wander the halls after he’d mentioned to make yourself at home, and that's when you found the door. Ford's office, no doubt, had a dark red wooden barricade usually locked up tight, but not this time. This time, the key was sticking out of the knob, carelessly forgotten in a rush. You didn’t expect to find anything really, just doing some snooping like you tended to do, and you’d trotted in curiously. Stacks of ungraded papers littered the desk, along with an old glass of whiskey, and the thick smell of his ashtray stuck to your clothes. 

It didn’t seem like much, just a workplace. You had walked around to have a seat in the office chair, feeling devious for sneaking around, and you almost giggled despite yourself. You examined the pictures on his desk– twins, a boy, and a girl. Dipper and Mabel. Next to those pictures, you had felt a tug in your heart as you gazed at Stanley's face for the first time. You gingerly picked up the frame and brought it closer, examining it like an important artifact. Identical twins– nearly identical. His five-fingered counterpart had him in a playful headlock, and Ford's smile was the brightest and most genuine you’d ever seen in the span of knowing him. He never smiled like that now. Not even at Fiddleford. 

That wasn’t the most important thing, though. When setting the picture back down, you spilled the glass of whiskey across his desk, hissing out a string of curses, and quickly moving to set the cup upright and gather the soaked paperwork. As the dark liquid soaked into the pages and made them soggy, you gathered them up and scooted, opening his desk drawer to shove them inside. 

You blinked. 

Polaroids. 

Fifty of them? Sixty? A hundred? You felt the breath leave your chest. 

They were all of you. 

Not only did they all have you as the sole capture, but only a few were recent, as evidenced by your purple hair. The rest of them were old. So old, you could hardly recall the events they’d been taken at. Your hands shook with a wide-eyed awe, and you reached into the drawer, pulling one of the photos out and examining it with a pounding heart. It was you, of course, on the way out of your apartment after coming back from the mental hospital. Your hair was still its natural colour, and you flipped the photo over incredulously. 

Scrawled in neat handwriting, undoubtedly Ford's, you read it over and over again. 

“Mourning Dove is back.” 

And now, here you sat. Clutching a gun in your hands instead of a picture. Should you have run the second you saw? Probably. 

But you didn’t want to. 

Not a single one of the pictures was sexual in nature. Not one. And all were tagged with short but heartfelt phrases, each like an individual love letter that you never received. 

Your brain was broken beyond repair, and there was no person alive who could begin to glue it back together without cutting themselves and giving up. Ford was different. He had watched you, for all of this time, seen you at your very worst, very best, and your defeats. And he still wanted to be by your side. It was fucked up, incredibly fucked up– you knew that. You scowled, looking down at the Glock angrily. 

It was a jerky motion, but you whipped the point of the gun to your temple, your finger lingering on the trigger.

He had done exactly what those men had done to you. You held fiery passion for justice. It didn’t matter if he cared about you or not, right? He was going to leave you to die after all, and now, it would have to be your bloodstains cleaned from his sheets while he rotted in a cell.

So why. 

Just do it. 

So why…

Do it already. 

Why don’t I want to anymore?

Your finger trembled as your brain fought with you over the concept of suicide. Until finally…

You gasped out. 

Meanwhile, Ford was sitting at his kitchen table, sleeplessly staring into nothing, lost deep in his mind. His thoughts were scattered and chaotic, with the slow uptick of voices beginning again, making it all the more difficult. His fingers drummed against the table aggressively, but the noise was practically mute to his ears. The memory of you from those few hours ago was trapped in his mind like a bug in a jar that a child shook relentlessly, and it replayed over and over like a broken record. 

He had every intention to get the job done from the second he picked you up that morning, to the time you arrived at the fateful forested trail. Something quick, something you wouldn’t even see coming. Just a bullet, and then, you would be free from the shackles that were your life. He could see them attached to you with their heavy weight, chained around your limbs and neck relentlessly, and they rattled every time you spoke. He’d known you since you were a teenager, though you didn’t know that part. What Ford did remember was the look of excitement in your father's eyes when he’d burst into Ford's room, throwing his arms around him in blind joy. Following behind was your mother, a gentle smile, and a positive pregnancy test in hand. Even though your mother was struggling to get over her addiction, Ford genuinely believed in her capability to overcome it to raise this child. 

The first time you had officially talked to him was at the coffee shop all those months ago, but he’d learned of your status as a vessel as a child. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt a child, absolutely not. So, he waited.

Then, as most college graduates do, he’d lost contact with your parents. Not out of malice, just out of life events, and the chaotic spiral that was Stanley's death. Your existence was shoved to the back of his mind, overtaken with grief.  Being alone in the Mystery Shack was a type of hell he remembered from the days he was worried Bill would come knocking at the front door. Although he’d moved to a new house and had more than enough money to be content for a while, he wasn’t. He was getting worse with each passing day, with no promise on the horizon and an increasing problem. Theraprism was well…gone. Destroyed by bandits, gods, whatever, it didn't matter. Bill was some level of free, though his powers had been significantly lessened; the stress was weighing heavily on Ford. Bill could slip through the cracks of his mind– because that damn metal plate had become unscrewed. He was terrified to do much of anything but listen to Bill's demands, with a dangling promise of Stanley's return, but deep down, he knew it was bullshit. A few months into this paranoiac game of cat and mouse, Fiddleford had sent a letter, the old codger, telling Ford about the job opportunity on campus, urging him to apply. Though Ford's depression, growing insanity, and hallucinations were immense, so was his love for knowledge and teaching, so of course, his 12 Ph. D.s earned him the spot indefinitely. 

The college had attracted many new people, and that’s around the time the news story about your father's death had hit the local news. When your mother's mugshot flashed across his old box television's screen, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The once bright eyes of your mother were dimmed and aggressive, not how he’d remembered her. But your father's picture of when he was alive, that dug an arrow straight through his heart. They hadn’t been terribly close, but close enough for him to know your name, even though the news reporters wouldn’t release it. His interest in your life was rekindled, but so was Bill's. 

He’d meant to kill you from the very beginning. The first picture he’d taken of you, the first day you returned from the hospital, it was supposed to be a bullet from a sniper rifle. But he’d watched you grow. He’d watched you change. He didn’t know exactly what she’d done to you, your mother,  but the fact that you were still standing made his stomach twist when he looked through the sight of the rifle. And when he tried to pull the trigger with a trembling finger, his brain fought against him, tooth and nail. 

Obsession had always been pitted within him. It was only now that the rose bloomed in his chest. 

He dropped the gun and pulled out a Polaroid camera, snapping a picture. 

He knew he should never have said anything to you at the coffee shop. His heart was aching, and his head was full of the murderous thoughts supplied by Bill and himself, but when he approached the counter, it all stopped. Your curious eyes had gazed over him, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering off of you heavily. When your smaller hand slid the cup of coffee over to him and you locked eyes, you had that look. The look he’d seen in your eyes the day he’d taken the first picture. It was a dancing flame that he needed to snuff out. But…

He couldn’t. 

He’d slipped the tracker into your car on his way out of the parking lot, unsure if it would be used to your defense or downfall. 

He sighed out a tired sigh, gripping at his hair in an anxiety-riddled mess. It had been about three hours since he’d left you in the room, and he had yet to hear any noise whatsoever. He refused to interrupt your decision-making process, though, genuinely wanting to give you the reins over your life for once. Your face flashed in his mind, along with all of the things you’d said. His stomach burned when he recalled the events in the woods, how you acted then, versus how you acted now. The concept that death excited you…no, aroused you– it was playing with fire, especially if you wanted to be in a relationship with a serial murderer. But it did seem like that’s what you had been leaning toward. 

Ford shook his head incredulously. He’d done every possible thing in his power to spook you back out of his life, something that would bandage the fuck up that was talking to you in the first place. You weren’t shaken. You were upset and angry; that was a given. But you had accepted what he did with incredible ease. He swallowed thickly, imagining the implications of what that meant for the kind of childhood you’d had. You swung so violently between wanting to die and wanting to barely escape it that it left his head spinning. If you wanted it..

…he couldn’t deny the fact that he would be more than happy to oblige. 

He hadn’t started as a bloodthirsty maniac. Not with the first few hunts for vessels anyway. They were just faces; he’d had no problem mowing civilians down in other dimensions, and this one was no exception. But the more and more people he hurt, the more people's cries he heard, the more tests he ran on their bodies, the more dissections that happened, the more he found himself in the deep end. It wasn’t a job for him anymore; it was a sport. A game. Something…darker. He could sit there and teach his students to rip out pig intestines in the daytime, but when he came home, he could have a real live subject. A human subject. Strong-minded human subjects. They were proven incredibly helpful for his scientific endeavors. His fascination with organs grew alongside his bloodlust, and the feeling of hearing their cries and pleas for mercy was a pleasure like no other. It excited him. It aroused him. 

So, he really wasn’t the person to be kink-shaming here. 

He sighed gently to himself, leaning back in his chair. 

It’s not like he hadn’t observed suicidal behavior in you before. It's why he wasn't surprised to see all of the raised scars that littered your body when he’d seen your bare skin for the first time. He’d watched you make them, after all. He knew it was disgusting to get off on such a horrible thing like hurting yourself, but he couldn’t deny the way he felt when he watched the thick drops of your blood spill onto the tile floor off your thigh. The first time he’d seen it, it was like watching a pornographic video, perfectly crafted with everything he could ever ask for, and it never lost its potency. It only made him crave more. The scene of your pale skin bleeding dark against the cold snow made him shiver, and he shook his head to avert the perverted thoughts. If he could, he would hold each of your organs separately so every part of you could know his embrace. 

He was so lost in thought that his brain didn’t register the sound when you swung the bedroom door open slowly and stepped out into the hallway. With the gun in hand, you stepped cautiously towards the kitchen, sensing his lingering presence. Your breath was even, your eyes focused, and your mind made up. You cocked the slide, creeping into the kitchen, and up behind Ford. 

“Bang,” you mouthed. Ford slowly got to his feet, then turned. You held the gun a few inches from his face with a smile. He stared at you blankly for a few moments, unable to read the wild expression you wore.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t struggle. He simply shut his eyes and rested his forehead against the barrel in quiet acceptance. 

“Gotcha.” 

Chapter Text

The chilly classroom was silent as the students worked on their exams per Ford's instructions. It was so silent, you could’ve heard the person next to you breathe if you listened hard enough. The room was tense with worry from different kids, fearful of a failing grade during such an important test– the midterm. Pens and pencils scribbled on scratch paper meticulously, fifty-something minds all working at max capacity to finish chemical compounds, label diagrams, and an essay sector at the end. Snow was falling outside the window, creating glimmering light inside while Ford worked at his own desk, pleased at the ease with which some students had while flipping through questions. He picked up his coffee from the table and took a sip, his eyes shifting toward the window. 

You hadn’t shown up for class, of course, so Ford didn’t really have much to look at. Why would you need to? He had promised a passing grade, and that wasn’t a promise he was about to go back on. Though he was happy you were getting rest this week after the obvious, his stomach felt as if it had an empty pit inside of it seeing your unfilled seat. He watched the snowflakes from a distance, his inner hallucinatory thoughts somewhat of a low hum today, which was good. He had to focus after all– this class period liked to copy their neighbors' work. Ford's eyes shifted from the rows of students, studying them like rats in a maze, working toward a goal. 

Leaning back in his chair, he glanced down at the stack of graded papers he’d fished out of his office desk that morning. Not only were they not in the place he’d left them– they were covered in a dark brown liquid that he’d identified as whiskey after sniffing them. It didn’t take a genius to solve what happened or who happened. The desk drawer, you’d seen it, there was no doubt, but that was weeks ago, before…the forest. His eyes crinkled in thought, his expression morphing into a stern, dead gaze while he placed his nose on his intertwined hands. There were a lot of things Stanford could do. He could write, he could research, he could solve quantum mechanics, he could create life, and he could take it away. But there were also a lot of things Stanford couldn’t do, and that included understanding your bizarre behavior. 

You’d seen all the evidence needed to know he was stalking you. All of the commentary words on the back– it’s not rocket science that it was romantically inclined, and you’d read one at least. So why…why the hell hadn’t you said anything? The time between that and him taking you out behind the shed, so to speak, was weeks, and you hadn’t acted any different…besides the fact that you didn’t want to sleep at your own apartment for a few nights. He was missing something, some fact about you that he hadn’t learned already. Who in their right mind would let a man stalk, rape, and try to kill them without running straight to the police? You wouldn’t call it what it was, but Ford had no reservations about what he’d done. Giving him consent weeks ago meant nothing when you were genuinely scared he was going to kill you. 

His heart thrummed against his chest, and he groaned quietly, taking his glasses off to rub his forehead tiredly. He hadn’t slept the whole week– how could he? Guilt was there heavily at the forefront of course, backed by the arousal of the disturbing imagery of you burned into his brain. You’d liked it. The feeling of your tenseness and the sound of your cries when he dug his switchblade into your back was godly, and he fought off the urge to shiver at the memory. You weren’t acting; it was real. Of course it was. What he didn’t expect was how efficiently he’d really gotten into your head with his pity plays. He’d managed to pull the dead brother card to the extent that you’d allow him to do whatever he wanted, and he felt his pulse quicken. 

He swallowed thickly, turning away to distract his mind from going to the gutters in hell. His eyes met a photograph of himself and Stanley propped next to his computer, and various other photos. His heart twinged slightly, the acceptance that Bill would never truly help a bitter pill he’d been swallowing. He was ridiculous to hold out any hope in the first place; he just…got desperate. It’s easier to relapse on something if you have an enabler after all. Bill was something of his past he’d thought he’d escaped, but of course, his luck would run dry eventually. At least he couldn’t manifest in just any person and possess them– they had to have specific attributes. Ford bit his tongue, running them over in his mind. 

Easily manipulated, traumatized by witnessing a death (or causing one), and mentally unstable. 

Three simple things, and you're qualified to be a flesh puppet.

 His eyes glanced up. He didn't mean to, but his gaze caught one of the girls in the class, her brilliant green eyes already locked on his. He stilled for a moment at this, raising a curious eyebrow at her to see if she had a question for him. Her gaze quickly returned to the paper, and the scribbled wildly on the test, burning more confusion through Ford. Her name, what was it again…Molli. He’d noticed her gaze on him quite a few times that week, to the point where he’d actually taken the time to learn her name. It was odd, incredibly odd. Whenever she got caught looking, she’d always turn to something else, just like…you used to do. 

He ignored the blooming realization in his chest, turning back to the stack of half-graded papers in front of him. He didn’t have time to worry about anyone else but himself and his mourning dove, and right now, he needed to get his shit done. The clock ticked its gentle metronome as Ford filed paper after paper, writing mostly passing grades, which made him hum in content. He was impressed by the work this year. He flipped another paper to get to the last one in the stack, and of course, it was yours. Ford bit back a smirk at reading your name that sent his pulse skyrocketing once more. He picked up the empty assignment and flipped it over curiously, seeing faint graphite through the page. 

His eyes met with–well, his eyes. You had taken to sitting in the front row lately, giving you a perfect line of sight to sketch out an incredibly accurate portrait of him onto the back of the page. He felt his heart flutter a bit, unable to contain the smile that crossed his lips. Your talent was absolutely beautiful, and the note you’d scribbled under it was the cherry on top. 

“Mourning dove is back.” 

He sighed lightly, letting the paper fall onto the desk with a grin. What a psycho you were. And how perfect for him. His heart thumped in his chest like a drum beat, but he was snapped out of his enchantment when the alarm for class dismissal rang on his desk. He adjusted his glasses, peering up at the students. 

“That’s time, everyone. If you’d please make a stack on my desk,” he requested, motioning to a barren spot on his cluttered workspace. “If you didn’t finish, let me know so we can schedule a time later this week,” he added. He really wasn’t supposed to allow any extensions on a test like this, but he’d remembered how Stanley had trouble finishing tests because of his dyslexia, so he never enforced the rule. 

The students got up from their chairs and spilled into a (somewhat) single-file line to put their tests on his desk, and he hummed in approval at many correct first answers he’d managed to see. Some students spoke to him, some didn’t; it was nothing he wasn’t adapted to. When a student expressed worry, he provided reassurance. When a student expressed triumph, he celebrated with them. It was the script that hadn’t changed, unlike everything else around him. As the stack of papers grew larger, the end of the line drew closer as students flooded out of the classroom door to head to their next class. He’d watched them go until finally the door shut behind the last person with a click.

 When Ford turned back to face the empty seats, he raised a curious eyebrow at the student he’d somehow missed. She straggled a few feet from the desk, brushing her dark brown hair behind her ear, then took a tentative step toward the desk. Ford couldn’t take the teacher mask off yet, so he reflexively greeted her. 

“Molli, young lady. Is there something I can help you with?” Ford smiled, but it was hollow of anything but annoyance. “I noticed you were a little…lost today.” She didn't pick up on his uninterested tone, and she smiled bashfully as she approached the desk and set her paper down. 

He felt his eyes narrow a bit when the smell of her perfume hit his nose when she leaned in just a touch closer. 

“Ah, yeah. I’m not gonna lie, I think I bombed that,” she chuckled in her high voice. “I was just um– well, I was wondering if you’d help me out a little bit?” she said honestly, her eyes peering at the ground. 

Ford leaned back in his chair curiously, taking in a breath. 

“As in– review your answers?” he clarified, reaching for her paper. “Molli, as much as you know, I’d like to help you, but this is a midterm test. I can’t exactly be your answer key,” he explained bluntly, raising his brows. 

The young woman was practically a wet piece of paper, crumpling in on herself. Disappointment was heavy in her eyes, and she nodded. 

“Right, that was a…stupid question,” she chuckled dryly at the end, unable to peel her eyes off her shoes. “I guess what I meant to say was that…I heard you provide favors?” 

Stanford's entire body immediately froze. For the first time in a very long time, a small shot of panic ran through him. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but he couldn’t help the way his eyes narrowed. 

“Favors?” he repeated, studying her carefully. “...what kind of favors?” 

Molli ran a tongue over her teeth, her shy face turning another shade redder. When her plump lips parted to speak, his stomach jerked unpleasantly. She couldn’t bring herself to speak for a moment. 

“Y’know…favors.” 

A small stretch of silence consumed the room, Ford's jaw falling slightly agape in shock at the insinuation in her tone. His voice came out rushed in a rattlesnake hiss, defensive and

 frightened.  

“You’ve been misinformed,” his eyes cut low, brows furrowing. “Who the hell told you that?” his hands were tight fists on the desk, the feeling of cold sweat prickling down his neck. 

Molli shook her head, unwilling to give away her informant, and Ford slammed a hand on the desk at a volume that made her jump. He got to his feet, leaning closer. 

“That wasn’t an optional question, Molli,” he frowned, his face dead serious. “Unless you want me to tell the dean about your harassing language, I would fess up right now. I’ll let you slide if you tell me who started the rumor,” he bargained. 

Molli’s gaze was transfixed on nothing in particular as she bit at her lip, torn between being truthful and covering for someone. Ford stared her down, his gaze grilling into her like a hot iron against her flesh. Her breathing was shaky, and she shook her head no, her brows furrowing into a defiant look. A flare of frustration made Ford scoff wryly, and he glanced at the clock. He was supposed to meet you soon, and he didn’t have time to deal with this cat-and-mouse game– not with her, at least. He turned back to Molli with a scowl. 

If he didn’t take care of this now, there was a good chance it would spiral out of control. The cops being up his ass for a rumor of sexual favors was something he did not need for his own sanity. He could feel a flare of dark language in the back of his mind, a quiet hum. He adjusted his glasses and considered his options, possible escape routes. 

“What do you want?” he hissed, his jaw clenching tightly. Molli swallowed, that determined look still on her face. 

“I want an A,” she stated simply. “I’ll do whatever you want me to,” she added, but her shaky tone and the way her eyes roamed over Ford indicated she would– but not well. The thought of another woman's body against his immediately made him recoil, his face twisting in discomfort, and he quickly shook his head no. Molli’s eyebrow raised in confusion, clearly not expecting that kind of response. 

“I’ll do it, but you will not touch me,” he snipped, his voice defensive. “You will give me the name I want, and walk out with a passing grade. Or, you leave empty-handed, and get your ass expelled for even insinuating I’d lay a finger on your…body,” he huffed, keeping his more insensitive words to himself. 

How badly he wanted to kick her down a few pegs, though. It was a tantalizing thought to pick her apart where she stood, compare all the ways she couldn’t possibly measure up to you. Her attempts at flirting were abysmal, her skin too pale, her eyes not yours. She didn’t look at him like he was God. Like he wanted. Her dark eyes crinkled, realizing she was attempting something futile, and there was no other way to weasel out of it. She had no idea how much danger she was truly in, standing in direct line of sight of a prideful hunter. 

“...Fine,” she finally huffed, shaking her head at herself for breaking under his pressure. 

Ford stared at her expectantly, towering over her ruthlessly. The longer she didn’t say anything, the louder the violent suggestions became in his head. He tried to ignore the growing urges in his twitching hands when she met his eyes again, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She slid it over the desk to him, and he caught it, giving her a distrustful glance. 

He peered down at the screen, examining the picture on display. Slowly, he felt his powerful facade crack, a breath escaping his ragged chest that felt hollow. On the outside, he stood still, but on the inside, all of his fortress walls were crumbling, the support beams completely removed. His eyes snapped up to her in disbelief. 

“Did you take this?” he asked blankly. 

A tense, horrifying silence befell them, and Molli couldn’t even bring herself to lie through the way he was staring at her. 

A nod. Another beat of silence.

“Who have you shared this with?” he inquired, his tone cold. Molli shook her head, the first truthful movement he’d managed to see out of her body language.

“No one. Yet,” she said. The threat hit his ears like nails on a chalkboard, but it was just that– a threat. She was the only person who knew, and here she was, isolated in the classroom with Ford. Where Molli expected him to tense, his shoulders relaxed, and he looked up at her. Her brows furrowed, and she felt a cold sensation shoot down her spine when his gaze met hers. Dark, cold, empty. But his lips were curled into the beginnings of a smile, an eerie Mona Lisa on display. 

“You almost had me for a moment there,” Ford admitted with a tense sigh, like he’d been told someone survived a dangerous surgery. “You don’t pull any punches, do you?” his eyes narrowed, the playfulness completely drained from his tone, but that empty grin was still on his face.

Molli’s fingers twitched at her sides, and the sense of something incredibly wrong lingered in the air. Her stomach twisted, and she shuddered quietly. 

But she had nerves of steel, continuing to stare in the mouth of the beast with determination. 

“I’m not bluffing,” she hissed, upset at the notion that he hadn’t taken her threat seriously. “Quit laughing. I’ll send this to every single staff member if you don’t hold up your end,” she threatened, but her shaky tone gave everything away. 

Ford couldn’t help but smirk down at her in amusement, the panic from earlier dissipating behind the scribbling voices in his ears like parasites. His fingers twitched eagerly, and he slowly opened his desk drawer. She eyes him suspiciously as he begins to rummage through it, speaking to her casually. 

“I'm sure of that, Mrs. Fergusen. I have no doubts,” he hummed. She crossed her arms impatiently, not liking whatever game he was attempting to play. “Here's the thing– I think you’ve severely overestimated yourself. I always applaud a student attempting to shoot beyond their usual performance, as you’re aware,” he continued, pulling out the caltrop he’d stored inside those weeks ago when you’d confronted him. Molli eyed it in confusion, and Ford smiled up at her. 

“What’s your point? I have…I have other classes to get to,” she frowned, glancing down uneasily at the item. He nodded in understanding, motioning to it with a chuckle. 

“My point is– you lack the skill needed to efficiently blackmail,” he insulted, and Molli bristled. “So, I’ll cut you a deal. You tell me what this is, and I’ll let you go with a stellar grade. Fair?” he mused. 

Molli looked from the spiky tool to Ford, her eyes narrowing. She gave him an eyeroll– a pathetic attempt to mask her mounting fear that he could sense like a bloodhound. She glanced down at it and shook her head. 

“What-? I…how am I supposed to…” she scoffed incredulously, and Ford simply smiled, motioning to it again. Seeing that he was serious, she frowned and let out a huff. 

Slowly, her body leaned down to get a closer look. Inch by inch, she loomed closer and closer to her demise. Ford had to bite back his smile of excitement, his hands planted firmly on the desk. She studied it, shaking her head to herself. 

“Any guesses?” he inquired. “You get one try,” he warned when her mouth fell open to answer. 

She took in a breath, uncertainty all over her face. 

“I…Don’t know,” she admitted.

When her small frame dipped downward again to get a look, Ford couldn’t contain the smile that bloomed now. 

“That's a shame.”

He leaned down to her height, locking his eyes with hers. 

“I wish I could say I believed you were smarter than this,” he hummed. “But I always did figure you were quite unintelligent.” 

Her eyes snapped up to look at him in wild offense, and that was it. Like a mousetrap, she hardly registered it when his elbow raised over her head, casting a shadow. He swung it down with brutal force, and it connected to her skull, plunging her face down onto the sharp ends of the caltrop.

CRACK.

The sharp and disgusting sound was followed by a violent spurt of blood, spattering over the items on the desk, including Molli’s phone, still displaying the picture. 

Once, twice, three times. He brutally stapled her face down onto the desk in a mixture of anger, disgust, and pleasure. His shoulders heaved lightly when her once sparkling green eyes, now dull and lifeless, rolled to the back of her head. When her body slumped to the floor lazily, Ford found himself quietly thanking the universe that his classroom had tile flooring instead of carpet. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your hands were shaky when you brought your eyeliner up to your face to apply a sharp wing carefully. Your darkly painted nails and done-up face were a strange sight to see in your dirty bathroom mirror staring back at you, but there you were: covered in glittery eyeshadow. You could feel the anxiety in your stomach running rampant when you popped a clear lip gloss on and fussed with your hair. 

Wherever Ford was taking you tonight, it must be fancy, and the thought of that made your face twitch. You enjoyed an expensive dinner, of course, but at the expense of Ford's pockets? You weren’t so sure. Growing up in the kind of situation you did always made you extremely aware of money, so you were content to eat ramen most nights, but this was something coming to a screeching halt. Where there were once quiet nights alone on the couch with some cost-effective TV dinner, you now spent most nights sitting across from him under that beautiful chandelier. He’d pour you both a drink, then he’d lie down next to you in bed, sometimes covered in lipstick, and sometimes covered in hickeys and scratch marks. Tonight, though, he had insisted on taking you out on a proper date. 

Exiting the bathroom, you caught a glance at the time and frowned a bit. You weren’t usually picky, but it was a growing habit that Ford was running later and later. You sighed, clicking on your hoop earrings and grabbing a sweater off your bed to cover up with. You’d thought about confronting him over it, but honestly, you felt embarrassed. So what if he was fifteen minutes late? He was a grown man with a grown man job– he had shit to do other than worry about you. You brushed the stray hairs from your outfit and glanced outside your window, searching for that familiar red truck. 

In the darkness, the streetlamps illuminated the soft piles of snow, still untouched and pure from the sky. Winter was here in full swing, which meant Christmas break would be coming up soon. The thought of a break from your endless supply of classes was tantalizing indeed, but less so was the reminder that you’d likely be alone. Ford had family that was alive and well, and you? Well, one was dead, the other in jail, and the rest not on speaking terms with you. Still, you’d decided to be a little bit festive and buy a crappy little Christmas tree to put on a table somewhere. Alone or not, you were no grinch. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of tires crunching against snow, and you snapped out of your haze to see Ford pulling in front of your apartment. Even though he’d done this for you a million times now, you still couldn’t help the butterflies that released in your stomach, and the nervousness that clawed at your throat. You watched with a growing red face as he stepped out of his truck, his outfit looking good even from far away. You ducked out of the window and took a few deep breaths. 

When you swung the door open, you were greeted by a white rose and Ford's smiling, gray face. 

“Expecting someone?” he purred, his voice sending shockwaves through your body. You couldn’t help the way you giggled when he held the rose out for you, putting a hand in his pocket. 

“Something like that,” you hummed, smiling down at the flower you accepted and studying it closer. 

Now that you could really get a good look at him, you felt as if you might pass out on the spot. He sported an expensive-looking suit jacket and slacks, accompanied by a tie and dress shoes. You were used to seeing him in formal wear, but he looked like he stepped out of a men's warehouse catalogue and showed up at your door. You sucked in a breath when he held out his arm for you, and you took it in your own. 

“You look absolutely stunning, y/n,” he grinned lopsidedly, the cold biting at his cheeks to turn them red. As you turned around to lock the door behind you, you couldn’t help but scoff in amazement. 

“Me? Dude, I look like I got this shit from Goodwill,” you joked, gesturing down to yourself. It’s true, they were the nicest clothes you owned, which was embarrassing in and of itself. Ford chuckled, leading you to the passenger side door and opening it for you to climb inside. 

“Only such a perfect woman could make rags look like a ballgown,” he smirked, placing a gentle kiss on your hand before gently shutting the door. 

You passed a cigarette back and forth as he drove, letting the cold air from the unrolled window whip at your hair. Several kids were still in their yards playing in the snow, and a few people roamed the streets, hot chocolate in hand. Despite the overly religious zest the people of Gravity Falls tended to have, it was an incredibly cozy place to be during the holidays. You passed a litter of little shops displaying toys and kitchen appliances in the window, marked on sale despite remaining the same price they’d always been, and you couldn’t help the nostalgia that pooled when you drove further. 

He had driven quite a way away from town to be safe; no one would see the two of you, but there was still some unease in your brain from last time. It was true you enjoyed being taken advantage of, but less true that you wanted to be threatened with a gun again. Thankfully, though, the sights of city lights twinkled brightly through the trees, and you could feel yourself untense if only just a little bit. You honestly couldn’t be sure where exactly you were– you didn’t even know there was anything within a ten-mile radius of Gravity Falls. Murals and a variety of downtown restaurants towered on every side when you finally entered the city limits, and you hummed curiously, turning to Ford.

“Where are we?” you wondered, flicking the cigarette butt out of the window. 

“It’s called Pikes Creek. Got founded when the rich folk of Gravity Falls didn’t want to be among the common people,” he rolled his eyes, gesturing an air quote with one hand. “I get invited here for science bullshit all the time, always hated it– rubbing elbows with stuffy neanderthals. But now, I have a better reason to come,” he grinned, gently putting a hand on your thigh. You felt your face burn, and you couldn’t help but shyly fidget with your fingers at the action. 

“So…like a gated community as a town?” you questioned, attempting to distract yourself from your racing heart. Ford nodded, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles. 

“Bingo. They don’t take too kindly to us living in Gravity Falls, but they can kiss my ass I made a reservation,” he hummed triumphantly. You paused, smiling at the accidental admission. 

“A reservation? You're taking me to some fancy lounge to eat?” You guessed, a slow grin forming. Ford paused, cursing to himself before nodding with a laugh that screamed ‘alright, you got me.’ 

When he said this town was full of rich people, he wasn’t kidding. As you pulled up into the parking lot, your eyes were immediately drawn to the array of glamorous cars lined up in the spots, shimmering and undented. You’d never seen so many sports cars in your life, let alone sat right next to each other. You masked the bite of jealousy you had when Ford parked his truck right beside a hellcat, unashamed and unbothered. 

You quickly made your way inside to escape the frigid weather. The host at the front desk inventoried your outfit with a keen eye, deeming it barely fit enough to eat at the place. (You hadn’t noticed Ford give him a dangerous glare before he spoke.) It was dimly lit, with several couples and important-looking individuals sitting at their tables, eating and conversing in hushed tones. It was nothing like the dinners you’d grown up with– loud, rowdy, and hectic. You felt incredibly out of place as the host guided you to your seat, pulling your chair out and declaring that a waitress would be with you shortly. 

“Wow,” you raised your eyebrows in disbelief, looking at the marble ceiling so polished you could see your own reflection in it. Several copies of famous artworks hung on the walls, many of which you recognized, and you shook your head. “Y’know, we could’ve just gone to Greasy’s,” you offered with a smile. 

Ford shook his head with a laugh, also taking his seat and peering up at you with his black holes for eyes. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, dove. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t take you on a proper date?” he argued lightly, reaching across the table to hold your hand in his six-fingered one. It completely engulfed yours, large and warm. “Besides. If we were in town, I wouldn’t be able to do this,” he pointed out warmly. 

You felt your cheeks flush at the tender motion, his gentleness something you’d grown to love just as much as his rougher side. You returned the smile he wore, gently squeezing his calloused palm. 

“I guess that’s true,” you agreed, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You glanced down at the drink menu, peering at the variety of options. “Still. I won't drain your wallet, promise,” you nodded sternly. 

Ford rolled his eyes at that notion lightly, also sparing a glance down at the menu before his eyes returned to yours. 

“Get what you want. I mean it,” he replied, looking deeply. “Not a single cent spent on you is wasted money,” he cooed, and you shooed his flirting away with a giggle. 

It didn’t take long before the waitress strided up to the table. Her blonde hair was tied back into a slick and elegant bun, and when she reached the table, she smiled at Ford with her dazzling teeth. 

“Mr. Pines, glad to have you back with us,” the waitress greeted. For some reason, you felt your throat tighten at this, and even more so when Ford smiled back up at her. 

“Glad to be back, dear. I’ll have my usual,” he requested, then glanced toward you. The waitress followed his gaze, her blue eyes landing on yours. There was something within them that you couldn’t quite place– amusement? You cleared your throat anxiously to speak. 

“Just a water for me,” you added, watching as she quickly jotted that down. She hummed and nodded, peering back at Ford. 

“Whiskey on the rocks and a water, yessir. Be right back, babe,” she smiled pleasantly, before scooting her way off. 

You sat for a moment, watching Ford contemplate the menu with a silent shock. A few seconds of silence passed before Ford could feel your gaze, and he pulled his eyes up to yours, raising an eyebrow. You stared back– unsure of what to say. It was obvious this was a place Ford frequented, and it was the waitress's job to be friendly, but there was still a spark in your stomach. A spark of something bitter and ugly. 

“...Yes?” Ford coerced, sensing there was something amiss. 

After a beat, you bit back the frown that threatened to form on your lips. 

“What? I didn’t say anything,” you replied, trying to sound as casual as possible. Ford blinked and studied you, so you made yourself busy by looking at your own menu. “Just didn’t expect them to know you, that’s all,” you shrugged. Ford hummed, also going back to his menu.

“Ah, yes. Most of the Biology professors in the area usually drink here,” he admitted. You paused, glancing up at him briefly. 

“I thought you said you usually drank at the same bar Jordyn and I used to?” you recalled. 

Ford stiffened just a touch, but he shrugged smoothly. 

“Different days, different energies, I suppose,” he justified.   

It was around this point that the blonde-haired woman had made her way back to your table, brandishing your drinks and setting them down in front of you respectively. 

“Did we still need a few minutes to look over our menu?” she asked, speaking directly to you. “I know what that silver fox wants off the top of my head,” she joked, taking Ford's menu with a playful wink in his direction, and he chuckled. 

You felt your fingers grip the menu, and your jaw was tense when you answered. 

“I’ll have the steak,” you replied coolly, handing her the menu. She nodded cheerfully, jotting your order down and taking your menu as well. 

“Not a problem. I’ll go ahead and ring these in for you guys,” she smiled, before turning on her heel to speed walk in another direction. 

Now, you couldn’t mask the unfiltered jealousy plastered to your face. When Ford's chuckling died down and he made eye contact with you, his brows knitted together in confusion. You frowned at him, hard. 

“What?” he questioned. “What's wrong, y/n?” 

You did your best to restrain your volume, but you wanted to slap him for the whole restaurant to see. 

“‘What's wrong?’ Maybe it’s the fact that you and Miss Blondie are making passes at each other,” you hissed lowly. 

Ford stared at you, genuinely dumbfounded for a second. After the second ‘what’ that fell from his lips, you felt like an agitated hornet. 

“Stanford, she’s flirting with you! And you’re just…letting her??” you accused incredulously. 

Ford's face fell, and he returned your frown. 

“Flirting? Y/n, you’re a waitress, for god’s sakes. You know it’s just what the job demands,” he smoothed a hand over his hair. His response only riled you further. 

“Yeah, and I know that a good waitress doesn’t need to get into her customers' pants to get paid well,” you shot back. “Petnames and everything…seriously?” you rolled your eyes, folding your arms over your chest. 

A beat passed in silence, and Ford breathed evenly, looking at you like he was solving an intense equation in his head. Finally, his face twitched, and he raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. 

“…Are you…jealous?” he breathed out in awe. 

You felt your cheeks burn hot, knowing he was one hundred percent correct. Nonetheless, your scowl deepened. 

“Of course I am! You’re on a date with me, not her,” you scolded, glaring down at the floor in aggravation. “What kind of waitress calls a customer a ‘silver fox?’ That’s sexual harassment,” you pointed out with a pout. Ford barked out a quiet bout of shocked laughter. 

“Sweet Moses, you are jealous. And here I thought I was the protective one,” he smirked fully now. 

You stuttered out, truly caught between agreeing and berating him, or denying and shutting up. The longer you couldn’t provide an answer, the more his smirk grew, and the more flustered you became. 

“Shut up! I’m not crazy for not wanting some bimbo hitting on you,” you scowled, trying to hold your ground. Ford nodded in agreement, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“Right. A bimbo, y/n,” he confirmed. You looked at him in wild confusion until he finally continued. “She’s just that– a bimbo. What could she possibly have that you don’t?” he asked. 

You looked at him incredulously, your eyes practically bulging out of your head. You let out a frustrated growl, motioning to your chest.

“Um, I don’t know if you have eyes, but I do,” you frowned. Ford let out a curt laugh, cutting you short with a wave, but you continued. “No, I’m serious! I’m like a tree stump compared to her,” you sighed out. 

Suddenly, Ford's expression shifted from his playful demeanor into a more sincere and deeper one, and you flushed. 

“Stop talking like that,” he demanded softly, gazing at you sternly. You rolled your eyes, incredibly not down for the whole ‘love yourself’ talk. 

“Whatever. Just don’t flirt with other women in front of me next time, kay?” you quipped lowly. 

Ford stared at you for a few moments, his brows furrowing. 

“I wasn’t reciprocating anything. You are the only woman I-” 

You held up a hand, being the one to cut him off this time. He groaned out in frustration, but the conversation would have to pick up later, because the devil herself was approaching, two plates in hand. When she leaned forward to expose her cleavage in front of Ford, it took every ounce of you not to slap the hell out of her, but you refrained. Ford hadn’t glanced down, not even once. When she finally swung her bodacious hips away from the two of you again, you stabbed at your food with your fork, trying to even out your rage a bit. Whenever Ford's foot met yours, you pulled away, creating a chasm. 

He scowled, adjusting his glasses and taking a pointed sip of his whiskey. Then, he reached a hand out, attempting to grab yours, and again, you recoiled. Now, when you glanced at him, his expression was pure frustration. 

“Stop that,” he hissed. You rolled your eyes at him, and you could hear him seethe from where you sat.

“You first, asshole,” you gruffed, taking a sip of your water to punctuate the sentence. 

He drummed his fingers against the table, his dark eyes flashing into yours with an intensity most would crumble under, but you didn’t. You stared right back into the mouth of the beast, unafraid. He ran a tongue over his teeth, shaking his head in irony. 

“So, this is how you’re going to behave tonight?” he murmured lowly. “I was aware our maturity levels were different, but I didn’t expect you to act like a complete brat,” he harshly spat. 

Your eyes flashed up in anger, and in a swift motion, you connected a heeled boot to his ankle, hard enough to hurt. He winced slightly, his face contorting until he glared down at you with the look of a parent about to beat their child's ass. There was a brief pause where he stood completely still, and then, with alarming speed, he reached out and grabbed your wrist, keeping you from using your fork. You attempted to glare at him, but this quickly melted into dripping fear when your eyes met his. 

“Hey– let me go,” you hissed quietly, frantically looking at the other patrons who were thankfully all minding their business. Ford did not release, and instead, his grip tightened, making you bite your tongue in pain to bite back a yelp. 

“One more time. Piss me off one more time, y/n,” he threatened lowly like venom. You felt goosebumps rise on your arms, and you shuddered involuntarily under his relentless gaze. He was an immovable object, but you were an unstoppable force. 

You cut your eyes to him, unimpressed, and then you sharply dug your nails into his arm. 

“Fuck you.”

And just like that, the tense tug-of-war rope was cut straight down the middle. 

He stood in a flash, spilling the entire glass of water you’d ordered down the front of your white dress. You gasped out, quickly getting to your own feet. You stared at him incredulously, but his cocky expression was taken over by one of fake apology, and he took you in his hands. 

“Ah, clumsy me,” he chuckled, stepping to block the view of your bra that any other customers would get. “So sorry about that. Let's get you cleaned up, dove,” he cooed, murmuring the last part in your ear, a dangerous growl of that anger before. 

Your eyes widened when his grasp around your waist tightened painfully, and he led you toward the women's bathroom. Much to your shock, none of the other patrons even batted an eye at this, like Ford was allowed to do whatever he wanted. He pushed open the door and poked his head inside before practically throwing you inside and joining you. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you gasped, pulling at the front of your soaking dress that clung to your body. After the door was shut, Ford was inches away from your face in such a flash that you jumped in surprise.

“Don’t you cuss at me, young lady,” he growled, furiously jabbing a finger toward you. “You’re so lucky, y/n. You’re so lucky that I respect those people out there enough not to…” he trailed off with a groan, and you furrowed your brows. 

“Enough not to what?” you pushed further, completely fueled with anger. 

His eyes snapped up to yours, and he grabbed hold of your neck, slamming you against one of the sinks, earning a yelp from you. His grip was harsh, crushing your windpipe, and your hands flew up to claw at his neck. He glared down at you, studying your expression carefully. 

“Enough to not show them how much you like it when I hurt you,” he growled into your ear as you gasped for breath. “You disrespectful whore. I take you out, and this is how you treat me? Maybe I should fuck that bitch just to piss you off,” he snapped. 

Finally, he let go of your neck, and you collapsed backward into the sink, clutching at your throat while gasping. He groaned softly, grabbing your hair to roughly pull your face upward to look at him. When your pained eyes fluttered open with a hiss, you were met with his dark eyes, slowly but surely pooling with lust. You coughed out a sob, half from pain, and half from what he’d said. 

“Don’t,” you groaned weakly. “Don’t leave me, Ford,” you begged, trying to steady yourself as much as possible while regaining some brain function. 

Ford shuddered at this, staring deeply into your eyes as the tears began to drip down your face, dragging mascara along with them. Suddenly, his free hand gripped your waist, and he spun you around, forcing you to look at your reflection in the mirror. 

“Say it again,” he demanded quietly. You swallowed thickly, embarrassment filling your body, and you shut your eyes, shaking your head. He snapped your head forward in dissatisfaction, smacking your cheek into the glass forcefully. You cried out in pain, and he pressed himself against your back, his dick strained through his tight slacks. ‘’I won’t ask again.”

Your eyes fluttered back open begrudgingly, and you glanced at him in the best you could through the mirror's reflection. 

“Please,” you murmured. He pressed your face into the mirror harder, demanding that you be louder, so you obeyed. “Please, don’t leave me again, Ford,” you choked out an ugly sob.

He hummed in contentment, easing the pressure just a bit on your head, but not your hips. He rolled his erection into your ass, reaching around to roughly cup one of your tits in his hand.

“Atta girl. That’s what I want to hear,” he purred in your ear, kissing at the nape of your neck in little pecks that made you shiver against him. “Say my name.”

He smeared your cheek against the glass, smudging your lipstick in its wake, and you groaned in pain when he bit down onto your neck, hard. 

“Ow, fuck, Stanford,” you half moaned, the feeling of tearing skin enflaming the back of your neck. He moved his hands to grip your hips tightly at the sound, biting down harder. You shuddered at the feeling of something warm dripping down your back, and Ford gazed down at the red beginning to stain your dress with a hungry breath.   

You gasped when his hands suddenly moved under the hem of your dress and pushed upward, revealing the pair of striped underwear you’d picked out, just in case. Looks like you made the right call. He trailed more kisses down your back, tracing his hands over your plump ass and squeezing with force. He was panting like a dog in heat when he huffed in your ear. 

“I want you. Only you, y/n,” he breathed. You felt a shiver and a pleasant feeling like standing in the sun wash over your body, euphoria at his words flooding your brain, and you groaned out. He smirked, lightly trailing one of his fingers over your clit through your panties. “You like it when I talk to you like that, don’t you? So pathetic,” he said, though it was less of an insult and more of a hungry description. 

You groaned out when he pushed the fabric of your underwear aside, caressing your slit gently, revealing the slickness. He groaned out softly, bucking his hips into yours at the sight of the glistening substance. Slowly, he raised his hand, pressing his slick digits to your parted lips, and you understood immediately. Allowing his access, he slid them inside your mouth, pulling at your cheek to force you to face your reflection. Your tongue needily lapped at his presence, like you’d been starving for days, and when spit began to drip, he let out a growl. 

When his hand dipped back down to cup your mound, you shuddered against him at the sensation, and even more so when he pressed two fingers against your entrance. Your hips involuntarily jerked back into him, and pushed them in agonizingly slowly, watching the way your eyes fluttered in the mirror. He took his time when he added another, then another, but pretty soon the lewd sound of your wetness filled the bathroom when he began to fuck into your pussy with his fingers. You gasped out in pleasure at the slowly increasing force he provided, his anger clearly being taken out on you, though you didn’t mind. His digits brushed against your G-spot over and over, and you struggled to keep your noise levels down, lazily glancing over your shoulder toward the door now and then. 

He continued the motion, harshly pumping his fingers back and forth, and you felt your vision go blurry, close to release from just his fingers alone. Sensing your impending arrival based on the way you tightened, he hissed, removing his fingers all at once and leaving you agonizingly empty. You groaned out from the loss of contact, peering at him in the glass as he licked his own fingers clean greedily. His hands were suddenly on your hips again, and he was guiding you toward the wall now, slamming you into it roughly and connecting his lips to yours. You returned the kiss eagerly, the feeling of his teeth biting down onto your lips sending shockwaves of pleasure through your spine. 

He caressed your hips and fumbled for your hands in his haste while attacking your mouth with his tongue. He placed them on his belt, and the burning flare of arousal grew hotter between both of you, frenching like the last survivors on Earth. Needily, you both worked his belt off, the clinking sound a shivering reminder of last time's events, and you pulled back from him, gazing at him through fluttering eyelids. He shoved his pants and boxers down just enough to free his erection, and you swallowed thickly, glancing toward the door with wide eyes. 

“What if someone comes in?” you rasped weakly, now aware of how late it was to be asking that question. 

Ford paused, looking from you to the door, then back to you, and raising an eyebrow. He licked the spit from his lips in thought, getting the look on his face that was clearly devious, and he smirked down at you, grabbing onto your ass and thighs, hoisting you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist with a gasp, and when he leveraged you against the door, you glanced up at him in bewilderment, but his cockiness was unwavering. 

“These doors are pretty thin. Hope you can keep quiet,” he purred, and you shuddered. 

He lowered you slightly enough to feel his leaking tip pushed against your entrance, and you bit your lip harshly as he teased. Both of you were reduced to quiet huffs until he finally drove the head inside, sliding you downwards onto his throbbing cock. You let out a low groan, screwing your face up in complete concentration to stay quiet, but his size is stretching you completely, bordering on painful. Ford isn’t faring much better, so he roughly bites down onto your shoulder to stifle his moan when he finally gets you down to the hilt, and you can feel him tense inside. 

“God damn,” he grunts out, lifting you again with relative ease. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed, thrusting upward into you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on for dear life. It was jarring how much stamina he had for such an old man– he bounced you against his dick with a slap punctuating each thrust, and a stifled moan threatening to rip from your lips. You could feel his need in every single motion that drove him deeper inside, hitting all of the right angles to make you scream, but of course, you couldn’t. You tangled your hand in his hair, burying your face into his shoulder while letting out strangled huffs, the immense pleasure clouding your vision. 

He was an animal in your ear with low growls and grunts, and he gripped your thighs with bruising force, his nails biting enough to draw little blood droplets. Between his thrusts and breaths, he tore down the strap of your bra to latch his teeth onto your nipple, lolling his tongue over the sensitive bud and trailing saliva in his wake. You moaned into his suit, in a desperate attempt to stifle the sound, but he just drove his hips into you rougher, earning a string of moans that you couldn’t contain. He trailed his tongue from your nipple up to your jawline, then he bit at your earlobe roughly to get your attention. Desperately, you turned toward him to catch a glimpse of that face you loved so much. His complexion was deep red, his glasses slightly fogged, and his pupils blown with lust when he stared down at your lips. 

He gave another pointed thrust, but connected his lips to yours to drink the sound, his tongue lapping against your teeth. Your brain was so fucked out at this point, you hardly registered it when he grunted in your ear. 

“Fuck. Y/n,” he huffed his hot breath against your earlobe. “Fuck. I need you,” he admitted through gritted teeth, and you moaned, the words ringing through your head. 

“Say it again,” you gasped out, the first words you’d managed to form. His eyes fluttered shut, and he nodded eagerly. 

“I need you, dove. I need you so so badly,” he groaned, driving his hips harder and harder against you. “I’m not leaving. Mn not–” he shuddered. You arched against his dick, every inch inside filling you to the brim with each brutal motion that pushed you closer and closer toward the edge. 

“Promise,” you demanded, hazily unaware of what you were even saying. “Promise me. Ford,” you moaned out, and he let out a breath. 

“I promise. I’m not leaving,” he swore, driving up into you. “Jesus Christ, I love you,” he gasped out, clawing at your thighs, but you didn’t even care. He loved you.

He loved you?

The admission was straight ecstasy in your veins, and you couldn’t help it when all the heat in your abdomen suddenly dropped, and with a stuttering force, you reached your orgasm, gasping out in pleasure and murmuring Ford's name like a prayer. 

He didn’t seem too far behind himself, his thrusts becoming more erratic and sloppy with each passing second. The intense sound of skin on skin was dizzying until finally, a low growl ripped through his chest, and his motions stuttered heavily. He thrusted once, twice, three times more, driving his pulsing dick deep inside as it spilled cum into your womb until finally, his hips stilled, and he gasped for breath, leaning his forehead against yours tiredly. 

‘Oh my god,” you choked out, blinking up at him in shock through your post orgasm haze that still lingered heavily when he eventually pulled himself out of you. His chest heaved as he tucked himself back into his pants and buckled them back up. 

“Not too bad yourself,” he joked lightly through a panting laugh, but you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. When he gently lets go of your thighs to set you back on the ground, you have to steady yourself against him to keep your trembling knees from giving out. 

He provides ample support, gently stroking your hair. After allowing your brain a moment to catch up, your eyes snapped up toward his. 

“Did…did you say that you loved me?” you swallowed thickly. 

Ford peered at you from his thick-rimmed glasses, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. Before he could answer, you felt the door behind you push slightly. Someone was trying to come inside. You hissed gently, quickly pulling up your underwear and fixing your dress as best you could. 

When the woman stepped inside, she hardly spared either of you a glance. Ford made a face before motioning to leave with his head, and you quickly nodded in agreement, slipping out of the bathroom. You weren’t sure if everybody was looking at you, or if your anxiety was convincing you of that, but when you slipped back in your seat, you hastily pulled your sweater on again to cover the countless bite marks. Ford simply grinned at you across the table like a fool, and you felt your face flush ten shades deeper. 

You glanced down at your plate, at the half-eaten food now gone cold due to an argument forgotten. You could feel him leaking out of you, and you jerked your head up to him incredulously. His gentle smile never faltered, and that made your stomach twist pleasantly. 

“How was everything, guys?” 

You blinked up in surprise at the blonde waitress who had appeared beside the table. Your mouth fell open to say something, but Ford's smooth voice was quick. 

“Wonderful, Katy. If you wouldn’t mind, we’ll take the bill now,” he requested, and she nodded, smiling brightly. She pulled out a slip of paper, and Ford examined it before handing her his card without a second glance. When she totted off again, you locked eyes with him. 

“You promise?” you breathed lowly. 

Ford grinned gently, cupping your face in his hand. 

“I promise.”

Just as the waitress approached, he leaned forward and connected your lips with a gentleness you hadn’t seen from him in quite some time. 

When he slowly pulled back from you and looked at you with that damn softness in his features that always got you, you felt your heart melt. You weren’t even concerned with the waitress anymore, who glared down at you in discomforted jealousy as she set the card back down and murmured a soft ‘have a good night, you two.’

You felt a grin spread across your face, uncontrollable. For every time he hurt you, he cherished you tenfold, and that was a trade-off you were willing to make. 

Chapter Text

It started with an earring. 

A small, dangly, and blue earring, glinting up at you from the floor of Ford's truck. 

Maybe your eyes had glazed over it once, twice, without a second thought. But that third time…oh, that third time. 

The radio was background chatter in your violent, roaring thoughts that arose immediately, anger and a sense of dread looming heavily. Ford spoke, though, the words fell on your deaf ears, locked in on that tiny piece of metal like a sniper. 

Just days ago, you’d witnessed his unabashed flirting toward the waitress that you’d dismissed when he took you to the bathroom that night, but now? Now you felt like a court jester jingling miserably across the floor in front of a cruel, cruel king. A dunce, idiotic for ever trusting a man like him in the first place. Sex was currency, and it seems like you couldn’t afford to keep Stanford by your side after all. At least, not in the way you’d wanted.

Your body had instinctively reached down to pick it up between two fingers, and you dangled it a few inches from your face, examining it closely. The incessant sound of Ford's voice had ceased all at once, and there was a deadly silence that poisoned the air in the truck. 

Silence….it dragged on. And on. Then, Ford said something you didn’t quite catch in the state you were now in. 

You weren’t sure why, but when you opened your mouth, it wasn’t to speak sentences of beratement or anger, or accusation, no. 

Out came a dreadful sound, screeching tires of laughter from your chest, disbelief echoing throughout. When you turned to Ford, his face was deadly pale, his sarcastic smirk gone now, possibly forever. He watched you for a moment, his eyes stern, and then he repeated his sentence one more time. 

“Y/n. I can explain.”

Maybe it was the tone of his voice that set you off like a bottle rocket, or maybe it was the way he licked his lips and looked at you with that same stupid look, the familiar look of a man caught with his pants down. Either way, you didn’t have the words for him. 

But all of that anger had evaporated now under the hot sun of genuine fear. 

Who had landed the first hit? Hard to say, but either way, the slap that ricocheted off of Stanford's face was a satisfying sound indeed. 

So…how did you end up here? 

In the dark. Unable to see inches in front of your face, hands bound behind your back to something cold that pressed harshly against your skin. 

Your breathing was the only audible sound besides the sound of…a heart rate monitor beeping, driving you incessantly up the wall the longer you tried to keep your eyes closed. Open or shut, it didn’t matter. You had absolutely no idea where you were, and it was pitch black. Somewhere cold. So cold, you’d begin to fantasize about one of your bright purple sweaters wrapped around your body that was now stripped to underwear. Stripped of clothing, stripped of sight. Stripped of yourself. Would anything remain after this? 

Open. You’d decided to keep your eyes open when you tugged at the restraints holding you down, and the harsh fibers of the rope cut into your skin, making you hiss and stop immediately. Should you try to say something? Could you even say something? Your lips fell open in a test– not bound or gagged in that sense. Your voice was shot and torn from screaming at the top of your lungs hours ago. But you did manage to get a word out. 

“Hello?” 

…

Nothing.

But the heart rate of whatever else was in the room increased whenever you spoke. It was a few feet to your left, and you strained to get a look, able to make out the dimly lit screen only, and not much else. 

It was quiet…until…

“I tell you what, kid, you got balls of steel for putting up with Poindexter.” 

A sharp gasp escaped your throat, every single hair on your body raising at the man's eccentric voice. Instinctively, you yanked against the ropes harshly in a futile attempt to jump away, but you hissed at the pain it caused, and the second voice echoed out with charismatic laughter. 

“Oh my God, who the fuck–?!” you breathed, stuttering from the pure adrenaline the scare had given you. The man's laughter continued for a moment, but it eventually died down into silence, along with the steady beeping of the machine.

You were frozen in the dark, staring forward into pitch-blackness with pure fear gripping every part of your being. You weren’t sure whether to say something else, but your shaky voice eventually found enough confidence to speak again. 

“Who are you? Where am I?” you asked the dark, trying to hide the panic in your tone. It clearly didn’t work, though this seemed to amuse the other person immensely. 

You heard the slight sound of shuffling from the machine on your left, and then the voice spoke again.

“Jeez, I didn’t think he hit you that hard. Looks like he did a number on that noggin if you can hear me right now,” the voice chidded, far too playful for the predicament, and not answering any of the questions you wanted answered. 

Right now, your brain is working at about one hundred percent with anxiety and pure survival instinct, but even still, that sentence. What the hell did it mean? You looked puzzled into the nothing. 

“What are you talking about? Ford…hit me?” You tried, trying to scrap together anything in the quilt of your memory. 

Right. He had hit you. Several times, in fact, though it was very bleary. 

“Stop running your mouth and listen to me,” Ford had shouted back in your face. In a swift motion, when you indeed hadn’t shut your mouth, he’d returned your earlier slap, hard.

You’d shrieked out in an astonished anger that could whip most men into shape, but not Ford. You’d lunged for him, blindsided by his rough, calloused palm when it grabbed onto your shirt collar and shoved you backward. 

Your head had hit the window so hard, you’d wondered if it had cracked. 

“Your skull, or the window?” 

You gasped in shock, your neck snapping to the left in shock. The voice– it had answered. Like it could hear you. 

“Yeah, I can hear ya. Loud and clear, in fact, turn it down a few decibels, will ya?” he requested, and you felt your blood go cold immediately. 

You had to be hallucinating, some kind of awful excuse of a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from. Stretched tense silence was bizarre, and you managed to choke out again. 

“You can read my mind…what…the fuck,” you breathed quietly, goosebumps spreading across your skin. Every ounce in your body felt like it was begging to rip your own skin off to get away from wherever this was. “You still haven’t told me who you are.” You swallowed hard, determined to get any other information besides your hazy daydream of memories. 

The voice hummed in thought, like considering your words as a bargain. He did introduce himself, much to your surprise. 

“Name’s Bill Cipher. And you’re little miss bat-shit crazy, y/n,” the voice, Bill, introduced. 

If you weren’t in the state you were in, you would’ve done something about the nerve that nickname struck, but you were far too out of your element to even try. You breathed out, fear dripping from your tone. 

“You know my name, and you can read my thoughts. I’m definitely going crazy,” you shook your head, eyes widening in disbelief at yourself. “What are you gonna do with me, Bill?” you wondered. 

To your surprise, the voice was not harsh, only sarcastic when he laughed a short chortle. 

“Trust me, if I wasn’t stuck down here with you, that freak would be dead by now,” Bill exclaimed, oddly cheerily. 

Your eyes narrowed, and you felt your mouth run slightly dry. So…this Bill Cipher was also a captive of…Stanfords. You felt your breath catch, staring harshly into the void like it would provide more answers. 

You remembered now. He had shown you. 

The matching earring, but not alone. 

It was attached to your classmates' cold, dead ear. Rolled up in a carpet in the bed of Ford's truck, just out of sight from other drivers.

“So, I guess he told you? Or more like…showed ya,” he joked, as casual as a bar conversation. 

You swallowed thickly, frowning. 

“I think I would’ve preferred he cheat on me,” you murmured humourlessly, but Bill laughed anyway. “Are we…?” you wondered, but reading your mind, Bill was fast to answer. 

“No, we aren’t dead,” he laughed, but you didn’t find anything funny. 

The sound of something high above you scraped against the floor, and you gazed in the direction curiously. It sounded like a chair being pushed out, then back in, and then heavy footsteps moving around. A person. Someone who could help. 

With wide eyes, your mouth fell open, and you shouted out into the dark, a string of sharp curses that echoed off the walls. You twisted and writhed against the painfully uncomfortable rope, twisting it further and further into your flesh, but you didn’t care. You shouted and cried out with your raw voice, burning your throat beyond belief, and your chest heaved when you paused for breath. 

The footsteps did not come thumping closer, like you’d hoped. They didn’t stomp down the stairs, ready to rescue you like a damsel in distress. The footsteps simply ceased. The longer the silence dragged onward, the more your hopelessness grew. 

Bill tutted out, interrupting the silence. 

“Yeah, trust me, Sixer isn’t gonna come save you this time. Good riddance if ya ask me,” he taunted, and you felt your cheeks flush, partially from despair and partially from embarrassment for expecting that from him.

How could you expect something like that? 

His grip on the back of your neck was rough, forcing you to gaze into Molli’s lifeless, dull green eyes. There was no sparkle, only nothingness, and when you felt your stomach jerk, you fought hard against Ford's grip, vomiting everything you’d eaten onto the grass of the forest. 

“SOMEBODY FUCKING HELP ME!” 

You had screamed it into the forest back then, and you screamed it now at the top of your lungs. Your body thrashed, exhausted and cold. 

When you’d heaved up whatever stomach acid you’d had, your survival instincts for the first time since meeting this man finally kicked in. 

And you ran. 

“Kid– kid, stop with the yellin’. We both know who’s up there, so save yourself the sore throat,” Bill advised in half irritation. 

Your chest heaved up and down, and you fought against the fearfully hot tears that stung your dry eyes. 

“Why, Stanford– why?” you tried, choking on your own spit. Confusion was stinging your bleary head, and you couldn’t help the trail of tears that began down your cheeks. 

Despite Bill's many attempts to convince you otherwise, you continued to scream out in a vain hope someone would hear you, wherever the hell you were– but you had a feeling you knew exactly where that was. The next time Bill spoke, he was harsh, and his voice louder, shutting you up quite effectively. 

“If you don’t shut your mouth, he’s gonna come down here and shut it for you, and not in a way you’ll enjoy. Stop it,” he commanded. No threat could scare you, but it was what he added that made you obey. “I’ve been watching you closely, Y/n. We’re quite similar. Similar in ways you’d never imagine. I’m simply dying to finally talk to you.” 

You paused, listening to the even sound of the heart rate monitor. Though it was hard to see, there was a faint yellow glow emanating close to it. You ran your tongue over your teeth in fearful uncertainty. 

“In what ways, exactly?” you frowned, thoroughly unamused and quite terrified by the whole situation. “In the ways that we’re both fucking kidnapping victims?” you spat, though with no venom toward Bill, only yourself. 

You’d been stupid enough to trust him in the first place, after all. 

Bill laughed. 

“Yeah, pretty stupid to trust a perverted maniac. And that’s why we’re similar, y/n,” he hummed. Your brows furrowed together in curiosity. “He and I were partners once. A long, long time ago.” 

Partners? As in..business? Or…

“Ford likes men?” you raised an incredulous eyebrow, your fear shaken for a moment of pure shock, and Bill laughed heartily at this. 

“There are a lot of things you don’t know, sister. But luckily for your bruised-up little brain, that’s what I’m here for,” Bill returned. 

A bruised-up brain…that was a pretty good way to describe how your head felt right now. It was as if someone was driving an ice pick right into your scalp and beating it senselessly inside. You frowned, shivering at the cold and trying to get the cogs of your memory to turn. 

You had made it a few good strides away from the truck, but you were no match for Ford's excellent in-shape body.  You hadn’t even seen the safety of the road from the forest before his massive hand had wrapped itself in your hair and yanked backwards harshly, stopping your escape. Your vision was blurry between the time you’d rolled to the ground, getting cut up on the rocks and debris of the forest floor, and the time he’d hauled you to your knees by your scalp. But the hair-pulling isn’t what was causing such a horrible headache. 

No…He…

You felt your stomach twist violently when the memory finally flooded your confused mind. 

You had been drug to face the hood of his car. He lifted it with his free hand and shoved your face inside. 

You heard Bill hiss out in sympathy as you recalled the way Ford mercilessly slammed the hood of the car down onto your head, though apparently not hard enough to kill you.

“Jesus, and I thought I was messed up!” Bill hummed thoughtfully. “Guess he stripped you to keep you cold and conscious. I was wondering if that was just a creep thing,” he added. 

You shuddered, feeling more exposed than ever, even in the complete darkness. But that did spark another question in your brain that you didn’t hesitate to ask. 

“How did you know that? Can you see me?” you questioned, craning your neck and squinting your eyes in the dark. Bill made a sound of confirmation, and you frowned. “Well, if you’re not a hallucination, and this isn’t hell, then…what are you?” 

Bill chuckled, a slight wheezing sound escaping his lungs that sounded like they’d collapse at any moment, though he seemed unbothered. 

“You can call me your new business partner, toots. I think you and I are gonna be great pals,” he exclaimed, surely. “I’m what you humans like to call a God of sorts,” he said, a bit too proud for your liking. 

Your nose scrunched up in slight distaste at his prideful attitude, and you scoffed. 

“A God, huh? Is that why you’re stuck in a dark ass room? Or was that part of your master plan?” you chided, aggravation stirring with your panic. You flinched, half expecting to earn beratement for speaking out of turn. 

You were confused when you were met with a genuinely humoured laugh, like you’d told the funniest joke Bill had heard in ages. 

“Ahh, I like you, kid, you’re fiery. I can see why Stanford was hesitating to kill you,” Bill admitted. You flinched at that, but he continued. “Good thing he didn’t, though. I got great news– you’re both our tickets outta here,” he offered.  You could practically hear his smile in his tone.

You were tensed to all hell, burning tears of disbelief, and the ropes stinging your skin so badly it made you want to claw it off. You laughed hopelessly despite yourself. 

“Me? I thought you said you could see. I’m–” 

“Yeah, yeah, save it, you’re tied up, I know. But not for long,” he interrupted. “If you keep making noise, he’ll come down here soon enough and take you upstairs,” Bill predicted. 

You raised an eyebrow at this, wondering how crazy you must be to have a full-blown conversation with your own hallucination, but what the hell. 

“What makes you so sure?” you wondered uneasily. 

Bill sighed lightly, as if stating a fact he’d repeated a million times. 

“Because he loves you, or something. In a…fucked up way. I’ve seen that guy's mind, not exactly a pretty place to be,” he commented with a slight laugh. “He’s got a soft spot for you though…like a pet,” he added, and you felt your stomach drop. 

“A…pet?” you repeated to yourself quietly. 

You stared out blankly. 

A pet. 

You came when called. You fetched when asked. And even when he laid his hands on you, you still loved him unconditionally. Loyal till death. Like a good dog. 

You choked back a sob, shame rising in your throat. 

Bill provided no sarcastic quip at your thoughts this time, and despite your efforts to keep yourself together, it was all too much, and your emotions were collapsing in on your brain like the roof of a burning building. You were so lonely, you’d allowed this man to violate you, berate you, hurt you, and look at where it got you. Curled up in a small ball on a cold concrete floor, hiccing quietly to yourself as tears and drool dripped from your face. You should have seen this coming– you somewhat did see this coming. 

You were just naive enough to believe he cared about you more than he cared about his fucked up fantasies. 

“His pedestal is too high for you to sit next to him. Believe me, I tried. Even promised him a galaxy,” Bill confided, and for the first time, there was seriousness in his tone. “Infinite knowledge. Power. But it’s not enough,” he concluded, as if finishing out an essay. 

You let his words linger in the air for a moment. 

The way he’d looked at you in class at the very beginning of this fucked up Fifty Shades of Grey knockoff was so obvious now. It was the look of a hunter on the chase, and you? In the meadow, peacefully grazing and careless about your own survival, he’d approached from behind with a rifle and aimed it at the back of your head. You let him pull the trigger. 

You let him. 

“He’s got brains, but so do we,” Bill said after a few more seconds of silence. “You’re concussed, which means I can communicate with you– until you heal,” he explained. The words were confusing and nonsensical, like a fantasy book. 

You shook your head slowly, trying to wrap your head around things. 

“So…I can only talk to you if I’m…brain damaged?” you asked, confusedly. 

Bill chuckled at this. 

“Kinda sorta. That or unconscious, but Stanford knows that. He doesn’t want us talking to each other,” Bill admitted. This only drove you to more confusion. 

“Why?” you wondered, leaning your head against the support beam you were tied to. 

“Simple. Because with two of us, we can escape. The only problem is, both of us are currently a bit tied up, huh?” he pointed out. You sighed, your body shivering from the immense emotion and cold. “But. Just like you were stupid enough to trust him, he was– IS stupid enough to trust you, too,” Bill exclaimed. 

This game of beating around the bush was quickly becoming tiring for your overworked brain. 

“What’s your point?” you asked, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “You think if he unties me, I’ll just be able to grab you and run? I tried that and uh, didn’t exactly work out,” you snipped bitterly. 

When Bill spoke next, his voice was lower, and a seriousness cut his tone like a knife. 

You felt the hair on your arms rise at the slight distortion of his voice– inhuman, not even alien. 

“Good thing we only need your body.” 

Your eyebrows immediately knitted together, a billion interpretations of this sentence flashing through your brain, none of them good. After Ford, your capacity to give anyone else your body was a big fat zero. 

“I don’t know what kind of sick shit you’re implying, but I’m not interested,” you hissed out defensively. 

Bill made a disgusted sound at the vulgar imagery that flashed through your mind before laughing. 

“Thanks, but– not thanks. My type in women is rectangles, babe,” he purred, and you felt an eyebrow raise at this. Before you could comment, he was already steamrolling with another charismatic claim. “I have the ability to possess the living. Not only can I help you escape, but we can both get revenge on that six-fingered bastard on the way out,” he chirped. 

You paused, feeling as if this were to be a dream or hallucination; you certainly would’ve snapped out of it by now. Possession? Had this guy been down here so long that he’d gone crazy, too? 

“Ok, if that’s true, then why don’t you possess me right now?” you asked, calling his bluff. 

He made a noise of acknowledgement, barely audible above the steady beep of his heart monitor. 

“I have to have your signature to use your body, so to speak. We have to shake on it,” he explained. You scoffed at this, writhing against the rope harder now. 

Forget this crazy old bastard; you were going to escape with or without your sanity intact. A god, claiming he could possess you? Please. You’d had enough nonsensical horribleness for one day, and you so desperately needed to get out of the dark– get away from your brain. Your throat ripped with more noises of all kinds, wailing, screaming, crying for help. You were desperate and persistent despite the pain that clawed at your neck, begging you to lower the volume, but you refused. 

There was a sharp scooting sound upstairs, and you flinched, but that meant you’d gathered his attention now. Bill hissed out, frustration edging his casual tone ever so slightly. 

“Jesus, you are one stubborn woman. I see why you and he worked out for so long,” he groaned out. You ignored him, continuing to holler at ear-splitting decibels. “I’m not a hallucination, kid, would ya quit it? I–”

His voice abruptly stopped when the sounds of heavy footsteps drew closer. And closer. And closer. 

There was quiet urgency in Bill's tone when he spat out at you, like passing a note in class. 

“Believe me or not, do NOT tell him about this conversation. When he’s gone, come down here and see for yourself.”

This time, Bill went silent, and he didn’t speak up again. 

You heard the sound of a door swinging open, and fear prickled at your neck. 

Slow heavy footsteps slowly descended each stair with a groan. To your right, your ear perked up at the shuffling sound that loomed closer. And closer. And closer. 

Silence. 

Your body was wound like a spring, anxiety gripping at your heart relentlessly. 

Clink. 

Flick, followed by a small spark. 

Another flick, and then–

Dimly, Ford's features came into view in front of you, illuminated by the Zippo lighter's flame. 

You couldn’t help the yelp of fear that escaped your lips, but he only stared with that unwaiveringly blank expression. Your breathing quickened when he loomed in closer, his breath warm against your freezing face. 

“How do you feel?” his voice rumbled. 

You trembled, wide-eyed eyed flicking up and down like a zookeeper in the lions' enclosure for feeding time. Your shaking lips parted in an attempt to speak, but nothing came out except a strangled, fearful gurgle. For a second, you swore you saw his blank expression twitch into something else, something like shame, but you knew better than that. Just tricks of the light. 

His merciless stare from earlier was etched into your brain when he’d thrown your limp body back inside the truck and slammed the door shut, locking you inside. When he’d gotten inside the driver's seat again, he wasted no time in fishing a bottle of pills from his jacket pocket and spilling them onto his hand.  

His elbow had hit your chest with bruising force, and he pinned you down, forcing two of his fingers in your mouth that you bit so hard you drew blood. In the end, it would be the only thing to help wash down the fistful of dry medication he shoved inside. Slowly, you gazed up at him, forcing words to leave your heaving chest. 

If you responded with anger or attitude–

“I’m so cold,” you murmured pathetically, your knees clutched to your chest to retain what little body heat you still had. 

You watched him consider for a second before sighing. When he leaned closer to you, you instinctively tensed, bracing for some kind of impact, but instead, he reached his arms behind you like a hug. It took a second for you to realize he had undone the ropes binding you to the frigid floor, and when they went slack, you slowly brought your arms up to hug your body. Your skin was like ice to the touch, and your teeth chattered. There was the sound of the lighter clicking shut, and then, you felt your body being carried upwards by his force. 

His scent invaded your nose, and your stomach churned unpleasantly. He clutched you to his chest in a bridal carry, and when he began to move forward, you craned your neck to get one last peek at the heart rate monitor you’d been sitting beside. It was faint in the extreme dark, but you could make out a pair of legs covered by a sheet, and you felt your heart sink. 

There actually was another person down there. You weren’t sure if this comforted you or terrified you. 

“I have to do this, y/n,” he had shouted over your noises of struggle when he held you down. “I can’t lose you, you’re too important. I can’t lose you,” he huffed, and when you refused to swallow the pills, he pinched your nose, forcing you to choose– death, or worse. 

In the end, the pills had dissolved in your mouth anyway, leaving you with the bitter taste of truly having no autonomy over your body. 

When he opened the door to the basement, the harshness of the light stung your eyes, and you squeezed them shut with a hiss. You bounced against his body with each gentle step, and when he shut the door behind him, he cooed at you, like a parent comforting a child. 

“It’s ok, y/n. We’ll get you warmed up,” he breathed, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly. 

His tone, a stark contrast to the shouting match at the beginning of the day. 

You’d thrown your cheating accusations in his face, of course, and even when he roared for you to stop, you persisted. Insults and anger dripping with venom that tried to pierce his bulletproof shell, or so you thought. You’d watched the frustration practically boil over in his eyes at your words, snapping into a look of pure fury that made your blood run cold. 

He’d asked if you really wanted to know where that earring came from, and if it would make you shut up. 

How you wished so badly you’d said no. 

He lay you on the couch where you slumped onto the comfort of the cushion, the relief on your achy joints enough to make you cry. Exhausted and barely able to move anyhow, you sank, not putting up a fight when he wrapped a blanket around your shivering figure. Your shoulders heaved, torn with overstimulation and panic. His kindness felt like a venus flytrap, luring you in with a sickly sweet scent to digest later. 

You’d hardly noticed when he left the room, your bleary vision focused on the floor, trying to hold back sobs. It was only when the heavy footsteps signalled his return that you slightly perked up, though your head was in far too much pain to turn and look. His long legs appeared in your vision, and your eyes skated upward to meet his eyes. Your stomach churned unpleasantly at the look on his face, something gentle, something nonviolent. 

“I have a gift for you, dove,” he cautiously hummed. 

Your eyes dipped down, meeting the small, red box he held, tied together with a blue ribbon. You frowned, choking back a quiet cry. You couldn’t even manage more words at this point, and you simply shook your head no, which he promptly ignored. 

“I wanted to say sorry for all of this, y/n. I really, really am…” he sighed, slowly untying the ribbon. “You’re my pretty girl, you know that? I had to hurt you to keep you safe, you know you’re a liability now.” he frowned. “So, I made this for you.”

His large hand gripped the top of the box and removed it. Your eyes looked inside, half expecting a human finger or eyeball, but what you were met with was probably all the more sickening, and your eyes flashed up to his with a plea. 

“What…what is that?” you panicked lowly, swallowing dryly. He picked up the gift from its box and dangled it in front of your face, a genuine smile on his lips. 

“Well, I can’t have my good girl running her mouth. It would…disrupt my studies, to put it lightly,” he hummed casually. “This is only a measure to keep you in check. I trust I won’t need to utilize most of its features,” he said, but that last part was spoken like a camouflage threat that made you shudder. 

You couldn’t find the will to move from your position on the couch when he slowly leaned forward and clasped the choker around your neck, the metal prongs on one side slightly digging into your skin just enough to be uncomfortable– but not painful. When he moved backwards to take you in, he sighed in approval, like a proud father at a kid's baseball game. 

“A…shock collar?” you murmured, your fingers lightly tracing the front of it while trembling. Ford chortled, shaking his head. 

“To put it simply, yes, though I’ve tweaked it a bit. It will respond to the borders I’ve set within the house,” he explained, like explaining a biology concept. Your eyes widened in horror, and when you reached around to feel for the clasp, you felt your heart sink at the small metal lock holding it in place. From what you could tell, it was some kind of combination lock. “As long as you’re behaving, there won’t be any troubles.” 

You were exhausted. Your eyes were dry and blurry as you wildly looked around the living room, hoping so desperately for some sign of this being a nightmare or a sleep paralysis episode. You were only met with Ford's eerily gentle smile, and when his hand raised over your head, you flinched hard. 

Slowly, he lowered it down on top of your head, gently stroking your hair. You stared up at him, afraid and caged, but he simply watched you like an onlooker at the zoo. You weren’t a person– you were an exhibit. He leaned in closer, and you swear you felt your heart come to a stop when he gently connected his lips to your forehead, then pulled away to lovingly examine your face. His hand scooted downward to cup your cheek, and he gently ran a thumb over the stray tear that had silently fallen. 

“Please, Ford,” you croaked weakly, hoarse and tired. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise, please,” you breathed, but his gentle smile was unwavering, making your heart sink. 

“I know you won’t. Because you’ll be where you belong. Where you’re safe,” he murmured, his tone gentle and sincere. “With me,” he elaborated. 

There was no begging your way out of this one. 

Your fate had been sealed the second you picked up that god damn earring. 

The small silence that befell you both was interrupted by a groan from your hungry stomach, completely empty from its earlier purge. You frowned at your own body for betraying you, and Ford chuckled, sitting up to his full towering height. 

“Someone's hungry. Lucky for you, I just got done with dinner,” he exclaimed with a smile. He offered his hand down to you to take. “Can you walk, angel? Do I need to carry you?”

The sight of his hand held out for you was like someone threatening you with a match while you were covered in gasoline. Whether you could or not, you were walking yourself to that damn kitchen, so you shook your head a sharp no. He gave you an unsure look, but you doubled down, sitting upright as best you could. 

“No, really, I’m ok,” you mumbled, trying to sound as passive as possible. 

You felt like a newborn fawn trying to clamber to your feet for the first time, but eventually you did manage to get up. Ford was beside you as a makeshift spotter, ensuring you wouldn’t collapse, but if you did, you’d prefer he just let you faceplant at this point. He hummed in approval and gently put a hand on your back to guide you.  

The familiar walls of his home were now a prison cell, keeping you locked inside without hope of an escape, and when you veered into the kitchen, it no longer brought you the sense of comfort it used to. 

How foolish you were. A violent man is a violent man to everybody, no exceptions. His gentleness now was simply the eye of the hurricane you were bound to, and there was no sliver of trust left inside. You’d given and given and given, and yet all he’d done was take, take, take. You supplied his drug. Knowingly. Consensually. Fear and heavy shame spiked in your heart at this.

Shakily, you had a seat in your usual spot– right across from Ford. He had his back turned to you, standing in front of the stove. The scene felt horrific and wrong, everything distorted with dull colours that swayed with your blurry vision. Whatever pills he had given you made your body's muscles essentially useless, so every movement was like moving a static-feeling limb, but your panic remained when your eyes met the large soup pot he was stirring with a quiet hum.

You had seen this exact scenario so many times, but instead of being framed in your fantasy, it was now hung in the frame of disgusting vulgarity. Your fingers were aimlessly running over the front of the so-called ‘gift’, a million horrifying thoughts swarming your exhausted brain. Gentle sounds of utensils clinking together somewhat pulled your attention toward Ford again, and you shivered, watching him ladle the soup into two separate bowls. When he turned around, brandishing the warm food, your eyes locked onto his, and you were frozen, completely helpless. He approaches calmly, a polite, blooming smile on his face that feels like it should be genuine. 

He gently set your bowl in front of him, but you hardly move. 

He ignores this and takes his own seat across from you, sitting with a contented sigh. 

For the first time since meeting you watched his body relax entirely. 

Your eyes didn’t leave him, unblinking and dry, when he began to eat, and you knew he wanted you to eat as well. That was an outrageous want, a want that you would not satisfy him with, though you weren’t sure you could use your arms even if you wanted to. You stared blankly forward, and though the action seemed defiant on the outside, on the inside, there was numbness. An unwillingness to move, speak, act, breathe. Suddenly, your streak of suicidal thoughts was very, very valid in every aspect. 

The warm steam from the bowl rose, heating the tip of your nose, and you inhaled. It smelled good, of course, Ford was an incredible cook, to no surprise. No matter how badly your stomach demanded you to take a bite, though, you fought against this weakly. 

As if sensing your hesitance, Ford gazed up at you, taking a sip from his spoon. 

“If you don’t eat it yourself, I’m going to force you, and I don’t think either of us wants that,” he frowned lightly. “You used to love my cooking.” 

Through the bleary surrender your mind had come to, a silver lining of your personality managed to shine through, and you scoffed lightly, scowling and meeting his eyes. You studied his hardened black eyes, stern, but not violent. Yet. 

“Yeah, well, that was before you kidnapped me.” 

Ford didn’t react to your quietly venomous words. He just stared, like always. 

Silence hung thick in the air like smoke, and he shook his head, giving you a scoff of his own with an irritated smile. 

“Oh? So, kidnapping is where you draw the line, not rape? Not stalking?” he mused humourlessly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re glad you don’t have to fight on your own anymore,” his eyes narrowed. 

Weakly, your fists resting on the table, balled up. You wanted to scream. To throw the bowl directly into his face and make a mad dash for your escape, but you knew better. You knew exactly what this man was capable of, and with the pain you were in, you had to step lightly. 

“Then I guess you’ll have to feed me. Because I'm not eating,” you decided, your tone dangerously skirting on offense, but just passive enough for Ford. 

He looked into your eyes, calculating. Considering your words and drawing in a tense breath. 

Slowly, he picked up his bowl, tipping it to his lips and taking a healthy sip. He let out a sigh, setting it back on the table, and it clinked gently. 

“Alright then.”

When he stood, you felt every single muscle in your body tense with harsh pain. His movements were slow, not exactly angry but not exactly overjoyed either. He slowly approached you, and with each footstep that drew closer, you shrank away more and more. 

When he was at your side, you felt a surge of fear rise within you where there were once butterflies, and when he picked up your spoon, there was no ounce of comfort. He raised the spoon to your lips expectantly, and the broth's delicious scent filled your nose, but you would not give in. Your lips were sealed shut, but it seemed like this was exactly what Ford expected. The spoon pressed against them, and Ford shook his head. 

“Don’t make me do this, y/n. I don’t want you to make me hurt you; you’ve been through enough,” he tried to bargain. 

You frowned harshly, your eyes snapping upward to his with a mixture of exhaustion and defiance. 

“If you don’t want to hurt me, then let me go,” you breathed out, though instead of sounding intense and scary as intended, it was more of a stressed plea. 

Ford paused at this, but his stern expression did not falter, not even once. He let out a huff of air, setting the spoon back down on the table with a clatter that made you wince. 

“You and I both know why I can’t do that,” he frowned, picking up your bowl. “If I let you go, that means this, everything, us– it will all end. I don’t want that, and I know you don’t,” he purred lowly, raising the glassware to your lips. 

When you still refused to take a sip, your stomach churned with fear of his reaction. Instead of a violent beratement or an impatient action, you watched his free hand rise with lingering irritation. Just like the beginning of all this, however long it had been– (a day? Two days? You couldn’t tell), he pinched your nose shut, blocking off your air, and tipping the broth over your sealed mouth. You held out for as long as you possibly could with no air, your brain fully prepared to pass out from lack of oxygen, but your body was running on pure survival instinct at this point, and damnit, that soup smelled amazing. 

You broke after sitting in silence, and the warmth spread through your throat and stomach pleasantly, making your eyes flutter shut. It was one of the only genuine things you could feel for miles– a gentle embrace on your taste buds. Ford hummed in approval, and despite your disgust at the sound that used to drive you up the wall, you found yourself unable to stop drinking. It wasn’t long before the broth was entirely gone, leaving only a few stray vegetables behind. 

“See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he murmured in your ear, and you shuddered. He stretched back to his full height with a contented sigh, collecting your dish and his own from the other side of the table. 

“I’m tired,” you frowned out, the complaint falling from your chest, completely ignoring his disgusting words of praise. “Please. Let me go to sleep,” you softly pleaded, your tired eyes sagging in exhaustion. 

Ford chuckled genuinely, making his way to the sink to set the bowls inside before turning back to you with a warm smile that made your stomach feel empty despite just eating. 

“Of course, dove. Just let me clean up first,” he nodded.

He turned and began to fill the sink with water, and you sank further into the wooden chair that bit into your backside painfully. How many injuries had you sustained throughout this ordeal? It seemed like every single part of your body had been cut, bruised, scratched, or slapped, and there was nothing you could do to escape the low hum of pain. Only sleep could ease your aching body, though you were sure nightmares were sure to torment you even then. 

When Ford began to drive you both back to his house after the pills, you felt like you were watching your body from an outsider's perspective, helplessly stuck in that passenger seat. Your head throbbed, and despite the previous rage in his actions, Ford's calloused hand stroked your thigh comfortingly. It was like he had exploded all of his anger in a furious grenade, and now there was a gentleness in the smoke, but it made your stomach twist horribly. You were so out of it, you barely felt it when he threw you over his shoulder and trudged through his house, a sense of peace within him at finally, finally, having his prize. No more did he need to worry about your reactions, the possibility of you running, or finding something you weren’t supposed to because you were entirely his now. A trophy kill to mount and display. Your eyes wandered upward to the antler chandelier, and you fought with your brain to sort out your memories. 

Vaguely, you remember him marching down the stairs with your body in tow. He used no lights; you only remembered that because of how strange it was– the basement was pitch darkness after all. He used the light of his Zippo to maneuver and slump your body against the support pillar of the basement. He briefly left you, rustling sounds emanating from further within the room, and when he returned, he was brandishing a rope. Right– the rope he’d used when he stooped down to secure you to the pole. 

There was something else…something you were missing, a memory just beyond your brain, and you flailed desperately in your own head to grab at it. What had happened after he stood up straight, his eyes angrily flashing to the left in silence? Silence.

No. He had spoken. Ford had said something low and threatening, just moments before he got to his feet again. 

What did he say? You bit your lip roughly in recollection until finally, the bleary sentence managed to peek through the fog. 

“If you try to speak with her, I promise you’ll regret it, Bill.”

Slowly, in a moment of clarity, gears clicked and turned, your eyes widening slightly. 

“Get up.” 

Your eyes snapped upward, and you swallowed thickly, realization settling in your stomach when he took hold of your arm, hauling you to your feet despite the command. You said nothing, but simply allowed him to drag you further into the maze-like walls of his large home. You trudged over wooden flooring, barefoot, and shivering, still mostly stripped, but the cold was a numb feeling at this point– everything was numb. Except your brain, working overtime to tie ends, connect pieces, and try, at least try to think. You talked yourself into this mess…eventually, you’d be able to talk your way out, too, hopefully. 

You were taken through a hallway of the house you didn’t recognize, and the unfamiliarity made you realize just how little of the house you’d really seen. Based on Ford's earlier words of there now being a ‘boundary’ in the house you couldn’t cross, you were sure you’d become acquainted with the rooms very soon. The walls were lined with various photos and decorations, but it hardly meant anything to you now. Your eyes were laser-focused on the door that lay at the end of the hallway, large and ominous, with a scary number of locks on the knob. Your stomach prickled with unease the closer you drew, and every fiber in your weak mind prayed to whatever God that it just be a normal room and not some evil torture dungeon. 

Ford reached down the front of his shirt, pulling out a necklace he’d always sported, but the charm was always tucked out of sight. Now, seeing the brass key attached to the chain, you understood exactly why that was. He undid the padlock and turned the knob, and you squeezed your eyes shut, half expecting to be bunking with a corpse or worse. You didn’t open them and just let him wordlessly lead you inside. You couldn’t stay ignorant forever, though, especially with the low words Ford hummed that made every hair on your neck stand up. 

"This is where you’ll sleep. Hope you don’t mind taxidermy.”

Your eyes slowly peeled open, and you shivered, grabbing hold of yourself. This room didn’t have human corpses– just animal ones, which made you slightly ease, but that didn’t last long. Your eyes lingered over the variety of beasts, most regular trophy kills, but there were some… fantastical-looking creatures and parts as well. 

And they looked a little bit too realistic for your liking. 

“I don’t exactly have a guest bed, I hope you can forgive me,” he hummed. Your eyes wandered, dropping down to the floor, and you felt your heart sink lower. 

Your eyes met the large dog bed, plush-looking, all things considered, with the name ‘Waddles’ stitched on the side in patchwork lettering. Your face burned in shame, and you desperately turned to Ford. 

“Why can’t I sleep with you?” you breathed quickly before even realizing what you’d said. 

Ford blinked in surprise, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath. 

“I…figured it would be best to limit our interactions until you level out,” he admits. 

You feel some kind of…anger? Embarrassment? Either way, it has you scowling up at him with clenched fists.

“So you’re just gonna make me sleep in a dog bed?” you breathed incredulously. Ford sighed, motioning to it. 

“It was actually a pig bed, so,” he shrugged. You bit back a groan of resentment, just narrowing your eyes at him in humiliation. 

As if he were providing you the most extraordinary room service, he gestured to a nearby desk, empty save for the pile of clothes that lay on top of it. You murmured out some kind of noise of weak gratitude despite yourself, urgently moving over to the clothes and grabbing them up with greed. As you clutched the fabric to your bare chest, you turned to stare at Ford, who was moving to leave the room to allow privacy. How kind. 

“You’re leaving…” You murmured, and Ford's ears perked up. 

He studied you and shook his head with a sympathetic smile. 

“I know, dove, I don’t want to be separate for too long either. Trust me, it’s better if you have time to adjust,” he nodded, surely like you were an adopted animal being welcomed into a new household, and you shuddered. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back to check on you later,” he cooed, accepting your body language as missing him. 

But that was the farthest thing from the truth. You wanted him out of your sight now so you could curl up in the pig bed and go the hell to sleep. 

You glowered down at the articles of clothing you held, getting a better look at them. It was a pair of old flannel pajama pants, way too big for you, and a massive shirt with a pun about the periodic table on it. Your eyes flickered up to his, and you breathed out a shaky breath. The last thing you wanted was to let this pervert watch you get dressed, so you motioned for him to go weakly, hoping he at least had the kindness to obey. Luckily for you, he seemed to be docile at the moment, and he nodded in acknowledgement, beginning to shut the door. 

You sighed, but just before you could allow yourself to slightly untense, the door creaked back open into a crack, and your panic spiked again, making wild, fearful eye contact with your captor. He stared at you in the dim light, silence, dragging on between both of you, before he finally spoke again. 

“Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he hummed. 

And just like that, the door shut, the gentle but horrifying sound of several locks being locked coming from the other side. 

You simply stared at where he had once been, too many thoughts and emotions swirling around you in a ruthless attack that you were defenseless against. You had been through fucked up shit, done fucked up shit, but this? 

I'm so fucked. 

You thought bitterly, shivering harshly as you bent down to put the pajama pants on. You pulled the clothes over your icy skin, huffing out a breath at the relief it provided to finally be covered up, but that was where the relief ended. Now you were completely alone, isolated, with just your thoughts. 

And your thoughts were not in a very stable place, imagine that. Your eyes danced around the unfamiliar room, and it didn’t take long for you to notice that he had taken precaution while you were downstairs, because there were no sharp objects in sight.. You couldn't defend yourself– or hurt yourself. 

Rushing over the bear skin rug, your hope was completely drained, save for the droplet you held onto when you saw the window shadowed by a lace curtain. 

You nearly tripped over a taxidermied bobcat on the stumble over, but when you ran up to the glass to slam your fists against it–

You yelped out sharply, pain flooding the nerves in your neck like wildfire. You couldn’t even get within an inch of the window, and the shock you’d received was strong enough to make you collapse into a puddle on the floor. 

Your chest heaved up and down, and desperately, you got back up again, making another desperate jump at the window. 

Another yelp, another tumble. 

You gave up on the third try. 

Your throat ripped an angry cry, slamming your fists into your own body, against desks, walls, anything to cause a ruckus, but it was no use. Nothing could distract you from the very bleak thoughts that consumed you, thoughts you were all familiar with that were now impossible to ignore. A deep sadness stirred within you at the events of your life leading up to now, and you felt like an animal in a bear trap, prepared to gnaw its own leg off for escape. 

When you’d fashioned yourself a makeshift noose from the pajama pants you kicked off to end whatever sick game he wanted you to play, you’d been shocked as well. 

He was monitoring you along with the invisible electric fence caging you in. 

Hopeless. Isolated, and so so incredibly exhausted, you aren't sure why, but from your cracked lips, you mumbled out a low sound.

You whispered Jordyn's name in a plea to no one in particular. Then your father's name, and your mother's too. The names held no value now, caged within the deep red walls. 

You didn’t know it, but the clock had just struck one in the morning when you finally collapsed onto the pet bed, your body shivering, dejectedly clinging to your body for a semblance of comfort. 

But there was none to spare.