nsfw blog and stuff

✨26✨ DNI: below 18 years and antis ✨ WARNING: this blog contains DDLB kink this is where my thirsty stuff goes. my art, posts I like, all that good stuff. current character obsession: Stanley and Stanford Pines of Gravity Falls

[cutecootnightnight]

Welcome to my thirst blog!

This is where you'll find me obsessing over fictional characters and generally act horny.

I use a tagging system to sort through this blog. Use it to find stuff and/or block stuff! Especially important if there is anything in particular that squicks you out or find triggering!

DNI: Thinspo, De-transition kink, AB/DL (adult baby/diaper lover), antis

[cutebuttart]

ahhh he got something on his glasses :(

[hadalhalfmoon]

i have briefly regained my ability to draw

[tootsiebun]

Currently thinking about Ford's bodily noises. Clearing his throat, grunting when he bends over, an "Aha!" when he figures out something, his sighs that come from deep inside of his chest. Good grief. He is nothing short of immaculate.

[rurumustbedone]

b🫪bs

full >

the last pic is will planing like full art

[mabelpiness1fan]

Request by @pasttheshy Taking Stan home when he's drunk (or vice versa). Walk Me Home in the Dead of Night.

- [ ] I can't stress this enough, the most noisy and loud drunk you'll ever seen

- [ ] One second He's butchering a love song dedicated to you then trying to steal some of the booze to put for sale in the shack (we love our multi tasking king)

- [ ] If you're strong you should be able to get him to the car if not or if he just retaliates for whatever reason just call Wendy's dad I'm sure he'll be happy to throw something (after he probably vomited or tries taking the booze from before first) "aw come on toots! Let me take the goods no one's gonna miss it!" ☹️

- [ ] After finally getting back to the shack it's almost midnight and after dragging him to the bath to bathe him in whatever cheap soap he has, drying him off and putting him in an extra robe (his t shirts were in the washers which he declined to drying earlier saying it was too far away) you both go on his creaky fucked up bed giving him plenty of water (which was a hassle he has a very questionable diet) you guess finally drift off to sleep in his arms (well hands very guarded by pillows you're scared he'll randomly retch on you in your sleep better safe than sorry <3)

This probably sucks stan's balls (I'd know from personal experience) I'm on the toilet as we speak extremely constipated but I hope you enjoy this mess🫡💕💕

Remember : stan is in the walls the only way of keeping him at bay is giving him your bank account information

[tootsiebun]

Okay very silly drabble idea but what if Y/N got their nails done with a cutesy red knit pattern so they could always be matching with Ford 👁️👁️

I think he'd really dig that. And this goes for anything quirky/silly you do that's specifically for him.

Wearing a necklace with his initial engraved into it, pointing out things that come in 6 and chuckling stupidly, wearing his glasses and watching him fumble trying to look for them, purposely matching outfits with him in a subtle way.

He is very detail oriented, so he would notice your nails immediately and understand your niche reference. Blushing elderly men galore.

[helene-pines]

A little tid-bit of a WIP for a small writing thing I'm doing for a Stan Pines x reader I'm doing alongside GLW <3

[the-sin-hole]

stay seated

stanxreader flashfic, 1.2k words gender neutral, SFW, no warnings apply

+++

This is always how it goes: you sit and you watch.

Head heavy against the heel of your hand, the weight digs your elbow into the hard wood of the kitchen table. Your ulna aches as it props up a brain swollen with saccharine thought. The steam of burnt coffee pulls its light fingers across your chin and your unencumbered hand keeps a firm grasp on the hot ceramic even though it hurts. You barely notice it. You’re too busy sitting, and watching.

Stan, sitting across the table as if putting himself on a stage just for you, smiles at his niece in the seat next to him. She’s trying to make a pancake man, he’s enjoying her efforts. He wears a practiced scowl by default, one you’ve become well acquainted with the last two months, one you’ve seen gradually loosen. Edges smoothed out, buffed by the friction of degrees of comfort and contentment. You’ve liked watching the process. His frown lines look more like smile lines now. And you love it when he smiles.

He tosses a quick grin at you as Mabel’s pancake man takes form, begins walking across the table, her small syrupy hands dictating each step of his spongy legs and underlining them with a booming voice. You return the grin, though his eyes have already darted back to her by the time your lips have twitched in the right direction. You inhale deeply. You take a swig of coffee that rips the soft flesh of your tongue and your throat as you force it down. The pancake man falls over. You keep your eyes on your coffee as you listen to Stan’s loud crashing laughs. You make your lips twitch back into their earlier position as you watch specks of ground coffee float in your mug. Your hand burns. It all burns. You barely notice it.

This is how it always goes: you sit, and you watch.

The porch couch is one of your favorite spots in the whole house. Cushions worn, foam resiliently holding shape despite years of use and elemental exposure. A vista of the edge of the forest that lines the property, great jutting pines boxing you in. You sit there often, as you are now, with a can in hand after a long day of serving customers, and watching.

Stan’s agreed to let Dipper help with an exhibit. You don’t know what it is yet- from your seat a few dozen feet away the thing being assembled is all fur and elbows to your eyes. You watch Stan lift the heavy pieces into place so Dipper can do his very best with a staple gun to secure them. Stan straightens. One hand braces his lower back as he strains his posture, the other wipes a few beads of sweat lingering on his brow. The act of observing such a simple series of movements feels lecherous. A brief, squirming, pathetic thought wriggles from a small and dark part of your mind: has anyone ever watched you like this? You pluck the sad little thing from its crevice between your synapses and crush it. No. And it doesn’t matter. This is how it always goes, after all.

You drain the carbonated can, harsh bubbles bursting against your still-burnt tongue, and make your leave. Out of the corner of your eye you see Stan’s head turn in your direction. You pull the small handle of the screen door, your hand spasming a squeeze around the warm metal, not letting yourself entertain the notion that his eyes might linger for more than a moment before returning to his abomination-making.

You toss the can into a trash bin filled with glitter and fur before taking your place at the kitchen sink. Your turn for the dishes. You flip the crusty power switch on the radio kept on a shelf next to the window. Hot water, cheap milky dish soap, your hands all go in one side of the partitioned sink. A song you love crackles through the coil, tinny and warbled. One of your wet hands reaches up to turn the rusted knob and crank the volume, leaving dripping suds to trickle over its curve as your fingers dive back into the water to hook around the sponge. You hum along as you scrub, swaying slightly, bouncing your weight between each leg in time with the beat. The chorus kicks in and you start singing along, out of tune voice raising- hardly a belt, but loud enough that you don’t hear him come in.

Stan hovers in the doorway with an excuse about seeking refreshment ready on his tongue. It’s a lie, mostly. He came in here just for you. He’s been doing this more and more, and though he hopes you don’t notice, he can’t help himself from finding excuses to be around you. He’s too stubborn to identify the root of that desire. He follows it blindly when it tells him to enter the kitchen. He steps tenderly over to the kitchen table to take a seat and wait until you’re done and free to engage in conversation. He lifts the chair as he pulls it to prevent the scraping of wood interrupting your show. He lowers himself slowly, letting both of his elbows meet the table and he hunches, shoulders squared, on the defense.

He sits, and he watches.

Lemon yellow light frames your swaying figure from the southern window above the sink, your silhouette swallowed in sun. Your head and shoulders bob to the beat, moving along with the dust particles lazily floating in the rays. His eyes follow the edges and curves of your body, well worn trails they’ve taken countless times. Your shape eases some small brittle thing in his chest. It often does. The edges of his thoughts begin to slack and blur, unfocused, a soothing haze rolling through and submerging him in a lull.

You turn back to the table to ensure you haven’t missed any loose dishes. The lyric in your mouth stutters to a halt; you freeze when you see him.

The air is suddenly thick. He looks stuck, caught, not scared, but some ambiguous anxiety easily read in the way his shoulders tensed when your eyes locked. You cock your head slightly to the right and try to divine the source of his discomfort. Worried thoughts dart around in your skull, bumping into each other. Is something wrong? Did you do something wrong? He remains silent and his face gives you no answers. You shake off your hands then drag them against your jeans, letting small bubbles sit against then pop into the denim. You step forward to pull back the same chair you slumped at this morning and face him.

“I just, uh. I was just listenin’ to you.’”

Two small bewildered laughs hiccup beneath your soft palette, a tidy little grin curves your mouth. You expect this to be the start of a joke or a jab or a sarcastic quip. But then he doesn’t follow it up. No second part, no punchline, he lets the sentence sit between you as his ears turn red. A vicious gut punch of realization precedes elation filling the cavity of your chest. Your grin widens. He looks like he wants to say more, but he’s hesitating, apprehension and a certain sort of softness twisting the wrinkles of a face that makes something within you swirl. You could stare at this face of his all day. So you’ll let him take his time.

You sit, and you watch.

[the-sin-hole]

Mabel’s Guide to Forcing Two People Into a Small Enclosed Space for Several Hours at a Time

stanxreader, 2.3k words NSFW 18+ here there be smut! fem!reader, dirty talk, dry humping

+++

“This is stupid.”

“At least we can agree on that.”

“Oh no, don’t you go tryin’ to find common ground here! I’m pissed and I’m gonna stay pissed.”

You try to pull your face away from Stan's collarbone. It’s difficult, thanks to the fake metal tree less than three feet wide you’ve been crammed into. Your bodies are fully pressed up against each other’s, and both of you are highly irritated and more than a little flustered at the forced contact.

“Oh you’re pissed?” You angle your eyes upwards- despite the beautiful sunny day just outside the curved metal, it’s hard to see anything in the dark. “Well what did you do to piss off Mabel, huh?”

He shifts against you. One of his legs is shoved between your thighs- you’d opened your legs as much as you can to avoid any contact, but it didn’t really work. Despite your efforts your knees are hovering tautly on either side of his thigh. His shifting moves that thigh a couple inches upwards. You do your best to ignore it, an increasingly demanding task the longer you’re trapped against him.

“I didn’t do nothin! You know Mabel, she’s always doin’ some wacky something or other. What did you do to set her off?”

You exhale sharply into his neck. He shifts again, that leg venturing another few dangerous inches closer to your groin.

“I have a fantastic relationship with Mabel and would never do something to make her mad. Or at least not mad enough to make her throw me into a metal tube with an old man.”

He strains to create space between you, straightening his back against his side of the metal tree. His attempt is no more successful than yours. Your bodies remain in full contact.

“Oh please, if you were gonna be shoved into a tight space with any old man, I know you’d want it to be me.” You scoff into his shirt collar and roll your eyes to yourself.

“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” Stan chuckles at that before changing tracks.

“There’s gonna be a button or somethin’ in here,” he says as he starts patting the walls, grazing the smooth metal looking for any sort of aberration. As he works his hands up the tube his thigh closes the precious few inches of distance that had previously been keeping it from your crotch. He doesn’t react to this; he must not have noticed. Heat rushes to your cheeks at the contact.

His hands keep moving, each shift and pat exploring the small space serving to rub his thigh against you. He continues to be unaware of his actions while your face gets warmer and warmer with each passing second. You grit your teeth. Thoughts run wild in your head. You’re disgusting, getting aroused from this. It’s not your fault, just a normal physical reaction to stimulation! You know it’s not just that, you’ve been lusting after Stan for long enough that you’re getting more than a pure physical thrill out of this. Back and forth the internal argument gets more and more frantic. It does not make you any less aroused.

Stan’s hands reach as high as they can. His thigh rubs even harder against your groin and you almost let out a pathetic whimper. The internal argument is halted. You can’t take this anymore.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” You blurt out, unsuccessfully in your attempt to sound unbothered.

“What, lookin’ for a way out? Yeah, I am, no thanks to you.”

“No, asshole, are you grinding on me on purpose?”

“What’re you-“ he freezes when he realizes what you mean.

He takes it in. Your quickened breathing, your chest raising and falling against his with every hasty inhale and exhale, your thighs tense on either side of his leg, and the undeniable heat he can feel from your groin. He clears his throat.

“I, uh. I don’t know whether it looks worse for me to say yes or no here.”

“You can say whatever you want as long as you cut it out.”

“Y-yeah, ‘course. Let me just-“ He tries to pull his leg back, but he’s stopped. Your legs have unintentionally clamped on either side of his.

“Uh. You’re gonna have to let me go first.”

“S-sorry,” you mutter, deeply embarrassed, and Stan hones in on this immediately.

He can’t resist pushing your buttons when an opportunity presents itself. He loves getting a rise out of you, frustrating you, pulling blushes and reciprocal jabs and not-so-gentle arm punches out of you. His own internal argument flares up, bouncing between thoughts of how indecent this is and how exhilarated he is to be in this situation. His argument doesn’t take nearly as long as yours, though. He quickly decides: he’d be a fool to pass up this opportunity, regardless of how inappropriate it may be.

“What, you been lonely or somethin’ lately sweetheart?” Stan teases, and you scowl at the fluttering that takes over your gut. You get a thrill from him calling you pet names, no matter how sarcastically they’re thrown your way. Despite this, you manage to loosen your thighs enough to free his leg. It moves against your groin again. A small “nnngh” escapes from your gritted teeth. You clear your throat, trying to cover it up. Unsuccessfully.

“And people say I’m wound tight.” You can hear the mocking grin in his voice. “When was the last time you got, uh, taken care of?”

“I jerk off a perfectly normal amount, thank you,” you say, trying to sound glib and casual, but it comes out with that same obvious frustration. Stan scoffs.

“That’s great, but not my question. It’s different when someone does the job for you. So when was the last time someone actually took care of ya?”

“It’s been a minute, alright?” His leg is immovable. Your thighs are starting to tighten again.

“How many minutes we talkin'?”

“How many minutes are in a year?”

“Heh. No wonder you’re such a grumpy asshole every morning. You ever think you should get laid?”

You throb. He’s taking far too much pleasure in bullying you, and your brain is too flustered to put up a good fight.

“Yeah, it’s crossed my mind.”

“Is it crossin’ your mind right now?” He responds quickly, and if you weren’t too busy trying to keep your own thoughts in check, you’d hear the anxious, eager undercurrent in the question.

You exhale sharply into his neck. His leg rubs against you again.

“I’ll be honest, I’m not doing a lot of thinking right now.”

You feel his leg press harder against your groin and it draws another small, humiliating noise out of you. You wish you could see his face but all you see is darkness, thanks to the total lack of light and the fact that you’re too close to properly look up.

“That’s good to hear. I like you better when you’re stupid. Makes it harder for you to talk back.”

His leg presses against you again and this time it’s undeniably intentional, even to your struggling brain. Your cunt throbs with the desire, the need for more stimulation. You can’t help it- you let your hips move and tentatively rub yourself against him.

“If anyone here needs to stop talking back it’s you. Is this your version of dirty talk, just being kind of a jerk?”

“Nah, you ain’t ready for my dirty talk.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I can only imagine the old man shit you’d say. Let me guess, you call your dick your johnson?”

“Heh, that’s pretty funny. No, my thing is more along the lines of, ‘I’ll make you come so hard you’ll be cryin’ my name out like Jesus’.” He says it conversationally, as if he were explaining an exhibit at the Shack. “But like I said, you ain’t ready for that.”

Heat blooms throughout your body as your pussy throbs again. He slowly pushes his leg into you again, angling it slightly so you can better straddle it, and you push back. Then again, and again, you move back and forth together in small increments, so slow, but unquestionable.

“Big talk from a guy that gets winded running up the stairs.”

“I don’t need to run to make you come, sugar.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, and you can hear the smile in Stan’s voice when he asks, “Somethin’ wrong?”

You’re losing your mind. You’re too aroused, too hot, throbbing too hard against his stubborn leg. For a moment, you hover on the precipice of escalating the situation. Things have gotten so heated so fast. You worry, for a moment, it’d be a mistake to push it further.

The moment passes, and you’re still horny. Your way forward is clear.

“Yeah, you’re taking too long. Are you always this sl-nngh!”

Stan wraps one of his large hands around to the small of your back. He follows the curve of it, slides his hand further down until it’s resting on your ass, then pulls, bringing you even harder against his leg. His hand reaches your hip next. He grabs it hard and uses it to guide you in a rocking motion, forcing you to fully hump his leg. The seam of your jeans digs against your clit, and you can feel your wetness start to seep through your underwear as his firm grip directs your movement.

“I was just goin’ slow for your sake, sugar,” he says low in his throat, and that almost draws a groan out of you, “It’s obvious how fast you’re gonna come, I was just tryna spare you the embarrassment.”

“W-wow, you’re so considerate, Stan," you manage to spit out despite your immense fluster, "Are you gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you just gonna keep running that mouth?”

“I can do both,” he says, and grabs your other hip. He squeezes both of his hands and your back arches slightly, the thrill of him gripping you so intimately sending a tingle up your spine.

“Y’know, if you need to get laid, I can help you with that,” Stan starts slyly.

“Y-yeah? How’s that?”

“I know some guys in town that’ll do anything for twenty bucks.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“What? I’m just tryna help. You obviously need it,” he says, and emphasizes his point by pushing your hips down hard against his leg and eliciting a small moan from you.

“Y-you too chicken to do it?”

“Hardly. I just don’t think you could take it.”

“And what exactly makes you think that?”

“You’re huffin’ and puffin’ just from humpin’ my leg, sweetheart. You’d tap out after five minutes with me.”

A few more breathy rocks back and forth and you realize you can feel something against your hip. His cock, hard, straining against his pants, and though you can’t feel much more than a lump, you can’t help but notice it feels large. The realization sends your already-frantic heart into overdrive.

“I can take plenty,” you say, high and soft. “How big could it possibly be, anyways?”

You try to get even closer to it, scooching further up his leg to the point where your hips are nearly flush. You pant harder, and you can hear his breath picking up speed above you.

Stan replies in a low growl: “Big enough to make you beg.”

“Oh my god,” you whine, arousal totally overtaking you.

You clumsily place your hands on his forearms, trail them upwards to his biceps and squeeze. You’ve always wanted to cop a feel of his large arms, and you’re not going to let this chance pass you by. You can feel his muscles moving underneath the fabric of his sleeves as he continues to guide your rhythm. You’re dimly aware that your humping is hard and fast enough you’re rocking the cramped enclosure. You don’t pay it much mind, though. You’re close, clit pulsing with each hump against him, and single-minded in your desire to come.

Stan can feel your hasty breaths, your body get warmer and warmer, your thighs get tighter and your pace quicker. He knows you’re about to come.

He could just keep his mouth shut and let you finish. But that wouldn’t be particularly gratifying to him. Don’t misunderstand- he wants you to finish on him. Of course he does. This whole time he’s been drinking in the feeling of you writhing against him, the small sounds you’re trying not to make, the hot tingle of your panting against his neck, savoring every moment and trying to commit it all to memory. But he also wants to feel like he’s gotten you to come through some specific act of his own. You could hump against anything and get yourself to an orgasm- he wants to know that he’s done something you can’t get anywhere else.

He puts on the lowest, most gravelly he can muster and says,

“If I can make you come like this, just think what my cock can do to you.”

And that’s all it takes. You come. Trembling, awkward, and jerky, your hips buck on his thigh. He grips you harder, keeps rocking back against you, the movement of his hips nearly in sync with every wave of your orgasm. Strangled moans catch in your throat. Your head falls forward, forehead resting near his collarbone as your body stutters and writhes against him.

Then, three things happen in very quick succession.

You rock together the hardest you have yet. You feel something snap underneath you. And immediately after that, you find that you’re horizontal.

The metal tube you’ve been trapped in has fallen over. Stan is on top of you, leg still stubborn against your pussy, which is still throbbing despite the stomach turning fall backwards. Just as you’re taking in the new position, you find that your eyes suddenly hurt.

A hatch has popped open behind Stan, above you, letting in the bright summer sun.

Stan sits up on his knees, looking around quickly at the surrounding forest and straining his ears. He perceives nothing but bunnies and birdsong.

“Did Mabel just forget about us?” You ask between pants.

He turns his face back down to look at you. Flushed red, breathing hard, lips parted. He puts a hand on the door.

“I hope so. We got more work to do.”

He leans back down, closing the hatch behind him.

[the-sin-hole]

communication

stanxreader, 4.2k words NSFW 18+ it’s smut baby!!! female reader, creampie, public sex, vaginal sex, rough sex, bratty reader

+++

You two are terrible at communication.

He has trouble properly untangling the mess of feelings he experiences during difficult times and even more trouble expressing or explaining them. You’re fully capable of articulating feelings and ascertaining their origins, you just hate the process of emotional extraction. It’s too painful, too much for you to bear. While Stan can’t do it, you choose not to. Regardless of the differing motivations, you end up at the same frustrating spot. And this is why you’re fighting in the bathroom at a bar.

You’ve been officially “seeing each other” for a few weeks now. Neither of you are calling it anything, of course. That would take emotional vulnerability. Eugh. No, you’re mostly just doing all the things a couple do but without naming it as such. Kissing, holding hands, fucking. You’ve only fucked a few times despite the mutual desire for more, privacy being hard to come by when you both live in the Shack with two children and a consistent barrage of paranormal something or others. Those times have all been great. Vanilla, but great. You’d like him to be a bit more dominant, but you’re not sure how to approach that conversation just yet. It’s still too early.

Overall, things have been going very well, more than you ever would have hoped. With the exception of the fight you had this morning.

It was stupid. You both know it was, but you’re also both too stubborn to admit that you played equal parts in blowing it out of proportion. You’d probably have cooled down enough to have some sort of half-assed mutual apology and move on by the end of the night, if not for the hijinks you got wrapped into.

The twins needed to get into the bar in town. Something about a secret code tucked in one of the storerooms. The bouncer was onto their fake IDs and they needed some actual adults to help them get into the establishment, then distract the bartender and the bouncer so they could try to sniff out their prize.

Stan distracted the bouncer with a variety of terrible magic tricks, and you took care of the bartender with terrible flirting. You were not, by any means, on your game, throwing out too many winks and hamfisted attempts at forcing continued conversation. He was very unreceptive at first, likely thinking you were just trying to get some free drinks out of him (which may have been an ulterior motive of yours), but the longer you went, the easier it got. He was handsome, in a rugged way, and though you had very little common ground, once you started asking him about the difference between whiskey and whisky, he did most of the work for you, letting you fall back on batting your eyes and putting a hand on him here and there.

The twins, thankfully, did not take too long. You saw them scurry out and signal the okay, that they were now onto the several other locations on their list for the evening, and you had at least an hour before they’d need a ride back to the Shack. You’re about to try to look for a way to wrap up your conversation with the bartender when Stan walks in.

He sees you, leaning far too forward on your barstool, wide smile on your face, finger twirling in your hair, and the lingering frustration from your fight is reignited. More than that, it’s burning even brighter than it had been before. He beelines right to you, not caring who he bumps into on the way.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink, there, sweetheart?” Stan suddenly appears beside you and you jump in your seat.

“I’ve barely even had anyth-”

“She’s ready for the tab,” he says, cutting over you to address the bartender. His voice is low, measured, and no small amount of intimidating. The bartender quickly produces a receipt and slides it across the counter before hastily going to the other side of the bar to help a customer he had up to then been firmly ignoring. You dismiss the paper, instead turning in your seat to face Stan.

“What the hell was that?” You ask in a hiss, taken aback by his fiery attitude.

“You heard me sugar, we’re done here,” he replies in that same low tone. “We’re gonna spend the next hour sittin’ in the corner drinking nothin’ and talkin’ to no one ‘til the kids are done.”

“What are you, my babysitter?” You ask loudly, frustrated at this sudden display. You stand from the barstool, draw yourself up to your full height and jab a finger into his chest, poking it for emphasis as you rebut. “I am not done drinking, I am not going to spent the night sitting next to your sour ass-” your voice is raising quickly, drawing some attention- “and I am not going to let you- hey!”

Stan grabs the wrist of the hand currently jabbing into his chest, stopping it instantly. His grip isn’t hard, but it is firm, and you’re reminded of his strength when you try to pull away and find you can barely even get his arm to move, despite the hard yank backwards. He, however, is able to make your entire body move when he steps past you, bringing your hand with him, leading you to the bathroom door a few feet away. He asks in a harsh whisper, “You wanna get us kicked out?”. You do not, in fact, want that, so you bite your tongue long enough to make it through the doorway.

It’s a single-use bathroom with a toilet and urinal lining one wall, a large mirror and sink in a counter hanging opposite. Stan swings you in front of him through the door and he follows, closing it behind him. You stumble as the momentum of his pull leaves you. You start speaking before you’ve even turned around to face him.

“Why are you so mad? What’s going on?” When you do turn you see him, shoulders squared and face still stony. You’ve never seen him like this before- sure, you’ve seen him angry or upset, but this is different. Despite the emotional nature of the situation, you can’t help but appreciate how it makes him look: dangerous.

“You tell me, toots. Cus what I saw when I came back inside was you puttin’ the moves on that hairy loser with the bad mustache.”

You blink.

“Stan, that was an act!”

“Yeah, ‘course it was. But don’t lie and say you didn’t enjoy it.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, sure, he was kinda cute, so sue me! That doesn’t mean- ”

“Oh, so one fight and you’re tryna punish me by actin’ like you’re steppin’ out?”

You’re both hurt from the fight. He’s hurt that you appeared to so effortlessly flirt with another man. You’re hurt that he appears to trust you so little that he’d assume you’d go for another man at the first sign of trouble. If you both calmed down, you could talk this through, and with some difficulty, reach an understanding of each other’s perspectives and resolve the conflict entirely.

Neither of you are doing that shit.

“No, if I wanted to punish you, I’d fuck him!”

Something changes slightly in his gaze. For a moment it worries you, until you can identify what exactly it is. Then it excites you.

He closes the distance between you as he says, “I can fuck you hard enough you won’t dream of fuckin’ anyone else.”

Your knees nearly buckle. But you’re not going down without a fight.

“You gonna show me, or are you all talk?”

Immediately, as if he was waiting for his cue, he pushes you against the counter, your ass digging into the edge, and one of his hands is already rubbing your crotch. You’re instantly aroused, taken aback by the sudden escalation and how rough his fingers are grinding into the seam of your jeans. His other hand grabs the back of your head and angles it, his mouth finds your earlobe and bites. You’re squirming in his hard grip, already throbbing.

“C’mon Stan, I know you can do foreplay better than this,” you say, trying to goad him.

“Just for that,” he says low, directly into your ear, making your spine tingle, “you get nothin’. Hope that was enough for you sweetheart.” He pulls his hand away and for a second, you think your goading backfired. Then he takes you by the hips, spins you around to face the counter and the mirror that sits atop it, and presses his body against yours.

You take in the sight. Heat has already found your cheeks, your brows are knit. Stan’s eyes find yours in the reflection. His gaze is intense, piercing even, making you feel a vulnerability you’ve never felt with him before. It makes you throb again.

His eyes dart down. His hands reach around your hips, finding the button and zipper of your pants and undoing them for you, pushing them down and letting them fall to the ground. You step your right foot out of the leg of your jeans and prepare to to do the same with the other to give him space to, you assume, stick his fingers inside you again, when you hear him unzip his pants.

Now you know what he meant. Your heart jumps a little in your chest. Those past few times you’ve had sex you’ve required ample foreplay to get yourself to a point where he could fit inside you, and even then, it took time to acclimate to his thick cock. The first time you fucked it took nearly ten minutes of fingering to get you ready for him. You’re certainly wet from the arousal and the precious thirty seconds of his fingers grinding against you, but you don’t know if it’ll be enough.

Stan places a hand between your shoulder blades and pushes, making you lean forward, bending you over the counter. You place your palms on the counter to brace yourself. One of his knees nudges your leg, making you open wider for him. You feel him run two large fingers up and down your slit a few times, checking to see how wet you are. Whether he’s satisfied or not, you’re not sure. But immediately after his fingers leave you, the large head of his cock replaces them, pressing against your entrance. You swallow, unsure if you’ll be able to take it, when he pushes in. He barely enters you, it’s not much more than an inch, but he’s thick enough that’s all it takes to make you feel like you’re being split open. You suck in air through your teeth and swallow a whine. He doesn’t press further, not immediately, and you dart your eyes back up to his reflection. His eyes meet yours again.

“Eyes on yourself, princess,” he says low and dangerous, red starting to bloom through his cheeks. His hand reaches up and runs through the hair on the back of your head, then grips, turning your head to meet its reflection face on. “I want ya to see what this does to you.”

Before you can think of a response his eyes dart back down to your pussy, and he gives a shallow thrust to bully another two inches of his thick cock inside you. It feels almost brutal, the intrusion literally breathtaking as all the air leaves your lungs. He barely pulls back before forcing another couple inches inside your twitching pussy, watching the way your muscles tense as your body reels from his sheer girth. Despite his instruction your eyes are thrown to the ceiling, mouth open in a voiceless gasp, unable to produce any sound, just high and quick pants for breath as you take him. With every thrust you endure you think surely, that’s it, you can’t take any more, but he keeps going, filling you completely. By the time his hips hit your ass you have the dim thought that he’s going to have to carry you out of here when he’s done with you.

He stays there for a moment, buried completely inside of you, so deep he’s brushing up against your cervix. You’re throbbing, both from arousal and the swelling of your punished nerves. His eyes dart back up to the mirror and he sees your eyes rolled up, mouth open, face reddening. The hand not holding your head finds your waist and keeps it in place as he pulls back.

His cock drags against your walls as he leaves you slowly, making you feel every centimeter of the sensation. You can’t move, body locked in place, everything overridden by the feeling, both the pain and the pleasure of it. He pulls back until just the head remains inside you.

“That all it takes to shut you up?”

You let out a couple pants before responding, having trouble forming a coherent sentence, stretched to your limit as you are.

“You fucking wish. Don’t get lazy on me, asshole.”

He pushes back into you and your mind goes blank. He doesn’t do it fast, doesn’t do it hard, but that doesn’t really matter. His cock is stretching you so much it’s all you can think and feel. He fills you up again, his hips meeting your ass, but he doesn’t linger this time, instead pulling right back, all the way to the head, and then pushing back in, a steady pace that is almost devastating. The more he goes the more slickness he draws out of you, helping to ease the pain on the edges of your pleasure, and bringing your voice back to you. You can hear the music and rowdy voices as more clientele come into the bar. You’re desperate to hold back any noise- you clap a hand over your mouth and let out a muffled moan.

“Nah, none of that,’ Stan says, quickly grabbing both of your wrists and pinning them against the small of your back with one large hand. “I think everyone here wants to hear what you have to say.”

You grit your teeth as a whine looses from your throat. You glance at him in the mirror. He’s panting, eyes heavy lidded and eyebrows drawn together, mouth open with a slight grin playing on his lips as he watches your struggle with great satisfaction.

“Hey,” he says, starting to breath a bit harder, “I said watch yourself.” His free hand travels back up to the back of your head to force you to look at yourself. He hasn’t even fucked you properly and you already look like a mess. Face a bright red, screwed up in an expression of both pain and pleasure, eyes dazed.

Then, he does start fucking you properly.

He starts thrusting in and out of you with a quicker pace and you think, for a moment, you might pass out. He’s just too fucking big. Even with him still holding back it feels like he’s ramming into you with every brutal snap of his hips. Your pussy feels like it’s at its limit, your thighs so tense they’re burning. Your jaw is clenched even harder trying to hold back any sound, face getting even redder and screwed up in an expression of pure desperation. Your clit is throbbing so hard it’s overwhelming.

“Look at you,” Stan says, and you can hear he’s breathing fast too, “so drunk on my cock you can’t even talk back”

“I c-can talk back all day long, old man,” you manage through gritted teeth. “You just gonna ram into me a-all night, or are you gonna fuck me right?”

He thrusts particularly hard and you almost let out a high pitched moan.

“Stop actin’ like you’re not enjoyin’ this.”

He picks up speed a little and you can hear your wetness on his cock.

“You hear that? You hear how much your pussy loves gettin’ split open?” The hand wrapped around your wrists tightens as he slows his pace, making sure the sounds of your soaked cunt are unavoidable.

“I think you’re ready for more.”

He stops thrusting.

“More? W-what, you got two dicks suddenly?”

“Shut that little mouth of yours up. You’re gonna wanna save your breath.”

The hand on your head travels down your spine, caressing your back and your hip and your ass before finding your thigh. He grabs the back of your right leg and lifts it, bringing your knee to rest on the counter and pins in there, his hand gripping hard enough you know he’ll leave a smattering of small purple bruises. He repositions his hips and in one jerk thrusts his cock all the way back inside you.

You’re completely prone, cunt wide open to his cock which, at this new angle, rams against the spongy tissue of your G spot and batters up against your cervix.

“Oh, god,” you choke out of empty lungs, like the wind has been taken out of you. His grip on the hands behind your back tightens again.

“You gonna let me hear you now?” he asks, and he starts thrusting in and out of you at a steady pace again, rolling his hips this time, making sure his fat cock drags against the softest part of you.

Sounds spill from your mouth, his cock grinding down your resolve. “oh god”s, “fuck”s, and high, pathetic moans are coming out in a steady stream, at a volume you’re trying desperately to keep low but are finding more difficult the longer he fucks you like this. You’ve just about lost yourself in it all when you hear a knock at the door.

“Everything good in there?” A rough voice asks. It’s the bartender. Your mind snaps back to reality and your heart is seized with anxiety.

“Should we let him in?” Stan asks in a low voice, watching the fear on your face in the mirror. “You want him to see you like this?”

“N-no, St-stan you wouldn’t d-dare-”

He knocks again.

“I said, you good in there?”

“You want him to go away, you tell him.”

You swallow thickly. You open your mouth and Stan slams into you, sending another wave of pleasure and pain through you. You manage to turn the moan into a small squeak. He slams into you again.

You see the doorknob start to turn.

“A-all g-good!” you say in a high, wobbly voice. The doorknob stops turning, but you don’t hear anyone leave. Stan keeps ramming his cock inside you, brutalizing your cunt, making your clit throb so hard it aches.

You hear a glass shatter and footsteps walk away from the door. You drop your head in relief.

“Good girl,” Stan says, and keeps fucking you hard, picking up speed.

“F-fuck you,” you stutter out between high pitched, restrained moans. You’re close to an orgasm, and you’re desperate for it. If you could just reach down and rub your clit you know you’d come harder than you have in years.

You try to wrench your hands out of Stan’s grasp. It’s futile; his grip is too strong for you on a good day, let alone when you’re getting fucked like this. You weakly struggle against hi.

“What’s all this about sweetheart?”

“S-someone’s gotta-ah, st-stimulate my clit.”

“Oh, you wanna come?”

“No, I-I just wanna do it f-for the hell of it.”

“Sorry but my hands are full, and yours are too. You wanna get off, you’re gonna have to grind for it. Here I’ll even do ya a favor.”

He turns you slightly against the counter, giving you the wiggle room you need to line your clit up with the counter’s edge. For a few moments you don’t do anything, just keep taking Stan’s ruthless cock into your stretched pussy, put off by the idea of having to get yourself off using the infrastructure of a public restroom. But with each pound you throb, and you’re so, so desperate. You wriggle onto the edge of the counter until you can feel the edge graze against your slick clit. You can’t move your hips much while Stan rams into you, but you can squirm just enough to roll your hips slightly against the hard edge, pressing into your swollen cunt.

“Desperate little pervert,” Stan says in an undeniably appraising tone.

“S-someone’s gotta finish me o-off, seeing as you’re too b-busy,” you manage between gasps and restrained moans. You’re about to come. You’re so close, the past few minutes’ of overstimulation finally coming to fruition, and you want it so fucking bad, you need it, you’re going to lose your mind if you don’t, and then he pulls you back from the edge. He pushes into you down to the hilt but he stops fucking you, pulls your leg down from the counter, leaving you trembling on the precipice of release. You almost sob in frustration.

“I-if you’re gonna be like this, you might as well leave so I-I can fuck myself-”

“Why would I let you do that when I can do it better than you?”

You both pant for a moment. You writhe against his hips, thoughtlessly rolling his fat cock inside of you, craving more. After a few seconds that feel like minutes, Stan speaks.

“You’re gonna keep your feet on the counter, otherwise I’m dropping you and fuckin’ you on the floor.”

“What?”

The hand holding your wrists travels down to your left thigh and lifts, along with his right hand pulling you up and back from the counter. He steadies as his fingers curl into the flesh of your thighs, trapping you in his grasp. Your feet find the countertop and plant for balance. His cock almost slides out of you, but as you two right yourself together, he slides easily back in, pulling moans out of both of you. He finds a slow and steady rhythm in this new position and the two of you turn your attention to your reflections.

You both watch Stan’s fat cock slide in and out of you in the mirror. It almost looks ridiculous, how wide he is, how far he’s stretching your swollen cunt. It’s drenched, nearly dripping from the battering its taken up to now.

“You wanna fuck yourself? You gotta let me watch.”

“You’re a disgusting old man,” you say, devoid of any fire, having the fight almost completely fucked out of you.

“Yeah? What are you doing letting a disgusting old man fuck you?”

You can only moan in response. He likes that answer. He knows he’s just about won.

“Who’s this cunt belong to?”

You’re losing the ability to think, almost entirely overtaken by the ecstasy of it all. You offer no resistance.

“Y-you.”

“Who’s cock d’you want?”

“Yours.”

“Atta girl. Now lemme hear you say it.”

“My cunt is yours Stan, I only want y-your cock,” you spill out over a clumsy tongue, giving in entirely now. “God you’re so fucking big, I don’t want anything else, j-just you -fuck- do whatever you want, please just don’t stop f-fucking me.”

“That’s right, sugar.”

Satisfied, Stan picks up speed. You reach a hand down to your clit and brush it tentatively. Your legs twitch and you feel Stan’s fingers dig deeper into your thighs.

You start gently rubbing in circles and your back arches, letting him get deeper inside you. Stan fucks you harder. You’re so soaked your fingers occasionally slip from their target. It’s not going to take long to get you over the edge. Stan fucks you even harder and you can hear deep growls and groans in his throat right by your ear in between sweet little murmurs like “so fuckin’ tight for me” and “that’s a good girl,” and you’re starting to feel dizzy, you watch his giant cock go in and out and in and out and you press hard against your clit, and everything stops.

Your hips jerk, almost forcing Stan to slip out of you, but he brings you down as far as you’ll go onto his cock, impaling you, keeping you right where you are. He can feel your pussy twitch and seize around him, hear desperate choked moans you can’t hold back any longer, see your face screwed up in desperate pleasure, and it pushes him over the edge too. He thrusts hard into you, barely pulling back each time, and you both watch in the mirror as he goes. He doesn’t stop thrusting even as he peaks, relentlessly pounding up into you. You watch through hazy eyes as white strands leak out of your cunt, come from each of you dripping down his cock, a mess made by both of you pooling on the tile below.

Finally his thrusts slow and his arms start to give. You pull your legs back from the counter and they find the floor as he lets you slide out of his grasp. You keep yourself from immediately buckling by bracing your palms on the counter- he does the same, reaching his arms around you, one arm bringing your body against his chest in a half hug, the other firmly on the counter, keeping him up. You’re both dripping, both panting, both smiling.

“What were we fighting about again?”

“Who knows. Probably somethin’ stupid.”

“Sounds about right.”

You two are excellent at communication.

[tootsiebun]

Being in a noisy crowd with Ford, he's trying to tell you something but you can't hear him. Rather than trying to yell over the crowd, he instead leans in to whisper directly into your ear.

His stubble slightly tickles your neck as he speaks, and his breath is redolent of coffee. Which sounds rather unpleasant, but you've come to love that scent after sharing many kisses with him. :-)

[stanpineskisser]

I wanna be his Valentine 😭💖

[grrabityballs]

A scene from a fic I wrote a while ago <3

[tootsiebun]

AUGH I love ford sm i keep imagining silly little mundane scenarios like him helping you tie your shoes or doing the dishes. It’s so simple yet I CRAVE IT. 😭💕

Ramble session incoming:

Ooh. You had me at "tie your shoes." I admittedly am not very good at tying my shoes.. 😭 I know how to do the bunny ear method but I actually only re-tie them maybe once every 5 months... and I don't untie them when I take them off. LOL talk about "type B personality."

Imagine your shoe is untied and he beckons you over with 2 pats of his thigh, implying that he wants you to prop your foot up on his lap so he can tie your shoe for you. He does it with his classic blank/unreadable expression with those sexy half lidded eyes. Eeek. And if you're someone like me who rarely ties your shoes, he'd do it for you every day after noticing that you just slip them on before leaving. At first he'd gently scold you about how you're the first person he has ever met who does this kind of stuff, but after a while it becomes routine for him to just do it for you silently. You look foward to hearing those two pats before you leave the house.

Another mundane scenario I like thinking about is kind of gross, so don't judge me. But a lot of people in relationships don't mind their partner being in the bathroom with them while they're using it. Like one person will be taking a piss, and the other is brushing their teeth. Or one is showering, and the other is doing their hair in the mirror. And I don't care if you think that's too much, I think that's really cute!! To be so comfortable around someone that you don't mind them being a foot away from you while you're taking a leak is couple goals to me. Imagine him sneaking glances at you while you're showering and he's "shaving" in the mirror. Haha

When I don't want to do household chores, I'll imagine Ford standing off to the side leaning up against the doorway, arms crossed, yapping about his nerdy stuff. It makes time go by a lot faster, especially while doing tedious tasks like folding towels or hanging up clothes.

Mm.. him carrying two cups of coffee to the kitchen table where you're sitting and kissing your forehead as a silent goodmorning before placing down your respective cup. He's reading the newspaper and you're staring off into space. So sweet, so comfy.

I enjoy asks like these, it shows the human side to Ford so beautifully. ( ´∀`)/~~♡

[nevadaafterdark]

ugghhh thinking so hard about forced intox.. like, you baked something for me? oh -- it's my favorite type of brownies! haha wouldn't it be funny if they were weed brownies or something.. nah you'd never do that without my permission, right? anyway.. no, i shouldn't have more than one. you wanna give these to other people, right? no? i guess one more wouldn't hurt.. they aren't edibles, so i should be good to eat as many as i want, yeah?

[tootsiebun]

Ive never done these asks things bf (hello hello hi 👋🏾😊) but HEAR ME OUTT; witch x scientist dynamic with Ford and wife!reader

Like basically opposites bc it's a magic and science duo 😋 and it's not as much as the classic goth/alt witch core but like a botanical kind (made an OC like this last year lolol)

And THANK YOU also for keeping the Ford x reader tag alive 🙏🏾 UR WRITING IS SO GOOD ❤️

OH MY GOSH. I was just talking about this with my friend, I kid you not! I think a witch reader would pair so well with Ford. I forget if this is canon or if I'm just pulling it out of nowhere, but I can totally see Stanford doing witchcraft too, actually. He'd see it as science, and he probably carries protection spells or crystals on him while out and about. I mean, wasn't him using unicorn hair and whatever else to protect the shack from Bill technically some kind of witchcraft?

Imagine getting to school him on your witchy stuff. Being able to teach him about your practices and such. The satisfaction of getting to cut him off mid sentence and correct him on the usage of a certain herb, hehe... Something about being more knowledgeable on a certain subject than him is so satisfying.

Leaving crystals in his pockets, talking about the stars and planets with him. Looking at his birth chart and literally reading him like a book. Bonus points if your signs are compatible!!

Cute stuff :-)