Fiddauthor Smut (Kinda)

"What?" Ford squints his eyes in confusion and raises an eyebrow at the weird look Fiddleford gives him. "What's happening right now? Am I missing a social cue?"

"Yes. Many of 'em, in fact." Fiddleford leans in closer, pushes Ford to lay on his back and gets on top of him, planting his knees on either side of Ford's hips and propping himself up with his elbows on either side of Ford's head.

Ford stares. "Um. I-... I'm not sure what I should be doing." He takes a second to watch the way Fiddleford's honey-colored hair dangles down his shoulders, and in a matter of seconds the smudgy ceiling seems a lot more interesting to look at.

"You just relax, city boy — I'll show you how we do things 'round here." Ford is sure he can't take the look in Fiddleford's eyes, so he doesn't even bother looking, brings his hands up to cover his eyes and lets his lips press into a wobbly line.

Fiddleford’s fingers trail slow and deliberate over Ford’s shoulder, the warmth of them pressing through his shirt. Ford swallows hard, every muscle in his body wound tight, waiting. He can’t decide if it’s nerves or anticipation. Maybe both.

Fiddleford hums, amused, his breath warm against Ford’s cheek. His fingers slide down Ford’s arm, ghosting over his wrist before pressing into the dip of his waist. Ford tenses, his breath catching in his throat. Fiddleford notices — of course he does — and his lips curl into a smirk.

"You wound up tight as a coil, darlin’," he murmurs, shifting his weight just enough that Ford feels him there, solid and close in ways Ford has never let anyone be before. "You ever even been in a position like this?"

Ford swallows hard. “Not— not exactly.”

Fiddleford chuckles, low and lazy. "Figured." His fingers find the hem of Ford’s shirt, slipping beneath it, brushing over bare skin. "You gonna let me take care of you?"

Ford doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what the right answer is. His brain is buzzing, screaming at him to move, to think, to do something, but his body is betraying him, sinking into the warmth, into the unfamiliar but not-unpleasant pressure of Fiddleford’s hands on his skin.

"I—" He stops, breath hitching as Fiddleford’s fingertips skim higher, teasing over his ribs. Ford exhales shakily. "I don’t— I mean, I— I guess?"

(Why is he still here? Why doesnt' he pull away, run from this before it gets worse, before it goes places he doesn't know how to follow? He was always the smart twin — so why is he here, lying beneath Fiddleford McGucket, feeling like the world's tilting and he's just — watching?)

Ford brings his hands back at his sides to see Fiddleford grinning like he’s just won a prize. "That’s a yes."

And before Ford can second-guess himself, Fiddleford leans down, close enough that their noses nearly brush. Ford shuts his eyes, fists clenching at his sides. He doesn’t know what’s more overwhelming: the scent of him — sawdust and old books and something sweet — or the weight of him, pressing down in a way that makes Ford feel utterly trapped and yet—

Fiddleford’s lips ghost over his jaw, and Ford sucks in a sharp breath. His whole body is burning, overheating, his brain short-circuiting with every inch of contact.

"You ever been kissed, darlin’?" Fiddleford’s voice is barely above a whisper, teasing, testing.

Ford's pupils flicker away sharply, avoiding his gaze. "That’s none of your business."

Fiddleford laughs, breathless. "And that's a no."

And then he presses in, lips skimming just over the corner of Ford’s mouth — light, teasing, like he’s daring Ford to do something about it. Ford doesn’t. He can’t. He’s frozen, his hands gripping at the sheets beneath them like they’re the only thing keeping him from floating away.

Fiddleford’s fingers stroke slow circles into his hip, grounding, patient. "I can stop," he says, but Ford can feel the way he’s holding back, the way he’s waiting, wanting.

Ford is shaking. He doesn’t know if he’s terrified or exhilarated. Maybe both.

"Don’t," he breathes.

Fiddleford grins, wicked and knowing, before finally closing the space between them. Ford barely has time to process the way Fiddleford kisses him — confident, teasing, like he’s tasting something new and liking it — before Fiddleford pulls back with a satisfied hum. His fingers are still tracing slow, deliberate patterns along Ford’s ribs, creeping higher.

"You’re real easy to rile up, y’know that?" Fiddleford muses, grinning as he watches Ford struggle to breathe properly. "Ain’t even done nothin’ yet."

Ford glares, but it’s weak, unfocused. His whole body feels like it’s running too hot, and Fiddleford isn’t helping. He doesn’t move when Fiddleford tugs at his shirt, pulling it up inch by inch. The air feels too cold against his skin when Fiddleford finally lifts it over his head and tosses it aside.

Ford swallows, arms twitching like he wants to cover himself but doesn’t know how without making it obvious. Fiddleford’s eyes sweep over him — curious, considering — but his smirk never fades.

"Relax, darlin’. You got nothin’ to be nervous about," he says, and then, as if to prove it, he shucks off his own shirt in one smooth motion. He’s lean, all wiry muscle, his skin dusted with freckles and scars Ford wants to ask about but can’t find the words for.

Ford doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s never been this exposed in front of anyone before. He barely lets himself think about his own body, let alone have someone else looking at it. Fiddleford notices. Of course he does.

"Still breathin’ over there, city boy?" he teases, shifting just enough that Ford feels him, warm and solid and impossible to ignore.

Ford’s hands flex at his sides. “I— I don’t—” He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to tell Fiddleford that he feels like he’s about to short-circuit, that he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be enjoying this or surviving it.

Fiddleford seems to get the gist anyway. He leans down again, presses a slow, lingering kiss just below Ford’s ear, and murmurs, "Ain’t gotta think so hard, darlin’. Just let me handle it."

His hands are already moving lower, toying with the button of Ford’s jeans. Ford lets out a shuddering breath, his stomach flipping.

"This okay?" Fiddleford asks, and for the first time tonight, there’s something soft in his voice. Not teasing. Not cocky. Just real.

Ford hesitates. But he doesn’t push him away.

"…Yeah."

Fiddleford grins. “Good.”

And then he tugs at Ford’s jeans, slow but deliberate, peeling away the last barrier between them. Ford squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming fast and uneven.

Fiddleford chuckles, low and warm. "Didn't think I'd ever see Stanford Pines this speechless."

Ford makes a strangled noise. "I hate you."

Fiddleford just laughs, and Ford doesn't know what he's doing.

He doesn't know why he's letting this happen, why he isn't stopping it, why he wants it. He shouldn't. He's never even thought about this before, (Has he?) not like this, not with Fiddleford—

(Because Fiddleford wasn't supposed to be this — wasn't supposed to make Ford feel this was, with his hands and his eyes and his smile that holds secrets Ford hasn't even begun to understand — Because Fiddleford was always something distant, something Ford could admire but never touch, could observe but never need; but this moment is something new a longing, a want something tender and aching, like a wound he never knew was there until Fiddleford's lips pressed against his skin, and Ford doesn't know how to name it, doesn't know if he should let it grow or bury it deep, doesn't know if he's supposed to feel like I'm sorry or what are you doing or a disgusting feeling that reminds him he needs to run away — Stop)

But Fiddleford is touching him — warm hands, steady and careful, sliding up his sides — and Ford's body is reacting faster than his mind can keep up. His brain is screaming a mess of tangled contradictions, of what kind of a man are you and I don't know but they can't know—

Then Fiddleford presses a slow, lingering kiss to his jaw, and Ford's thoughts shatter.

His breath stutters. His fingers clench into the sheets. He can feel Fiddleford's hands against his chest, not pushing, not demanding — just there, grounding, waiting for Ford to catch up.

"Hey," Fiddleford murmurs, voice softer than Ford's ever heard it. "Breathe."

Ford exhales shakily, his fingers gripping the sheets like a lifeline. "I— I am breathing."

Fiddleford chuckles, low and fond. "Not very well." He pulls back, watching Ford carefully. "You want me to stop?"

Ford opens his mouth — yes, no, I don't know — but all that comes out is a huff of warm breath.

Fiddleford exhales, licking his lips. "Look, I— I ain't exactly an expert at this neither," he admits, a little sheepish. "Not like this. But—" His hands flex slightly against Ford's skin, hesitant but wanting. "I do know I wanna kiss you again."

Ford's heart lurches and Fiddleford swallows, gaze searching Ford's face. "Do you—?"

Ford doesn't answer. He can't. But his hands — shaking, unsure — reach up and grip Fiddleford's shoulders, and that's all Fiddleford needs.

"Alright then." Fiddleford breathes.

And when he kisses him again, Ford melts into it.