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geesecanon · 5 months ago

Text

Fog

read on ao3 Rating: Explicit Type: One-shot, PWP Words: 5,240 Tags: Ford Pines/Reader; Vaginal Sex; Vaginal Fingering; Creampie; Overstimulation; AFAB reader (but no pronouns are used); Library Sex; Strangers to Friends (?) to Lovers Summary: ""It's a stone King classic," you had defended, and began counting off on your fingers. "It's got weird creatures; it's got a small boy; it's got an old woman who's a religious fanatic; it's got two characters unnecessarily having sex right in the middle of it — although, now, I kinda get it. What else is there to even do?" You had said it as a joke. Obviously. But then you had caught Ford's eye and you both stared at each other a few seconds too long. And then he had you up against the wall."

Dizzily, you try to remember how you ended up here: pressed against the wall, a hand that is not yours cupping your ass, the other getting rather adventurous under your shirt, with Stanford Pines groaning into your neck and grinding you against him.

It had been one of those inexplicable situations where you were the only two left in the library, no staff to be found, almost certainly after hours, and definitely alone. Oh, and the ominous fog. That is also a key factor as to why you had not left as soon as you realized you had overstayed your welcome.

With your hand on the door handle, Ford had grabbed you by the arm and said nervously, “I… wouldn’t go out there, if I were you.”

Right, so, if the expert on the strange and unusual was telling you to avoid something, you would heed his advice to the fucking letter.

And then, uh…

You gasp, sharp and breathy, head thunking back against the wall as he wedges a knee between your thighs and presses up. “Ford — shit —” Both your hands in his hair tighten as your entire body tries to curl in on itself with the sudden spike between your legs, almost completely involuntarily as the arousal shoots through you.

It has the interesting reaction of getting a low rumble from the back of his throat, as he uses his hand on your ass to grind you against him further, harder, almost bruising — the heat in you only boils hotter at the combination. There is something just so appealing about getting a man usually so composed into a panting mess. Well, at least to you.

Right, but again, what had happened between noticing the ominous fog and humping each other in the back of the library like horny teens? You and Ford are — well, you are friends, probably, in the way that two people who exist in the same place at the same time with enough occurrences eventually become friends. Both of you were known to haunt the science fiction section of Gravity Falls’s library with disturbing frequency, as your life and job had been in a lull, and Ford had been… doing whatever he does.

After enough awkwardly stepping around each other in the aisles, you caught him frowning at the back of The Tommyknockers one afternoon.

“Not to spoil it,” you had said quietly, sidling up to him and clearly spooking him with your interruption. He looked at you with wide, brown eyes behind slightly cracked glasses, before the expression shifted into one of vague recognition. “But, it’s an addiction metaphor.”

“…It is?”

You nodded. “Not that it makes it bad. It’s a good book. But, not for everyone.”

“So, you just saw fit to warn me?” he asked, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“You just looked so confused by the blurb,” you shrugged. “I thought I’d save you the hassle. It is kind of a doorstop.”

He had checked out the book that day. You had not gotten his name then.

In the present, Ford decides he is done attacking your neck like a fucking vampire and migrates the adventuring hand from under your shirt to tangling at the hair at the back of your neck, using the grip to angle you better for a kiss that makes you weak at the knees. He is a staggeringly good kisser — or maybe you are just desperate for it, his glasses are pressed between you which is kind of annoying — which you never would have quite guessed from the zealous professor vibes he had going on, always in knit turtlenecks and high-collared shirts.

Instead, his tongue counts your teeth, meeting yours, and you are left panting into his mouth.

After a few minutes of this, and after one particularly hard thrust against you, he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead hard against yours. “Ford…” you whine as you desperately try not to hump his thigh too vigorously, at least attempting to retain some composure. He chuckles, breath hot against your face, and you open your eyes to see his screwed shut, mouth slightly hanging open. Your hands travel down his sides and you tug at the hem of his sweater with some urgency. “Stop, hnngg, stop teasing.”

He rumbles a noise that you feel more than you hear, and he tilts his head down to murmur in your ear, “Needy, are we?”

It just makes you burn hotter; your eyes slip closed. “Come on.” It is hard to sound threatening when you are caught so breathless. For all his posturing, you know Ford is equally as ruffled as you are; you can feel the hard line of his dick in his jeans every time he grinds you against him. Your cunt has a heartbeat and the man seems stuck in some kind of feedback loop of, again, necking like horny teenagers. You could definitely come just from the dry humping, but you’d much rather —

Abruptly, his hands leaves you entirely, lifting his head… only to wrap both hands under your thighs and hoist you into the air, pressing you even harder against the wall. You gasp, “Jesus,” at the shock all the breath being crushed from your lungs and your feet no longer being on the ground, and instinctively you wrap both legs tight around his waist. Your eyes fly open to catch a front row view of his jaw clenched, an extremely dark and concentrated expression across his face. You are both extremely amused and extremely turned on by this.

Ford readjusts his grip, fingers digging painfully into the fleshy undersides of your glutes, before he steps back and actually carries you with him. You yelp, leaning your weight further against him, face buried in his shoulder and arms now tight around his neck for stability. The few steps from the wall to a nearby table seem to take a not insignificant amount of effort. But he still manages it.

“I could have — walked,” you complain as he functionally drops you on the edge of the table.

He pulls back, breathing a little heavier, and runs a quick hand through his hair to push it back. He grins down rakishly at you, clearly delighted by how flushed you are. “Too difficult.”

“Too — too difficult?” you laugh.

He hums an affirmative, smoothing some flyaway hairs from your face before leaning in and kissing you much more sweetly than before. You make yourself more comfortable on your perch and raise yourself up into it, wrapping an ankle around the back of his knee while one of his hands cups your jaw. It is an unexpected change of pace, but not an unpleasant one.

Anyway, it had taken roughly three or four more brief asides in the sci-fi aisles before coincidence brought you to the check-out counter together, while idly discussing the Catholic dogma in Book of the New Sun, when the librarian behind the counter said, “Find everything okay, Dr. Pines?”

“Yes, Mildred, thank you,” he said breezily, setting down his stack of books for her to begin scanning, then rifling through his pockets.

“Doctor?” you repeated.

In lieu of a response, he finally pulled out his library card and had flipped it up for you to read — Gravity Falls Public Library: Stanford Pines — then put it atop the stack to be scanned as well. “I suppose it is ill-mannered of me to not have asked your name already.” The line sounded smooth, especially in the low timbre of his voice, but the light pink tint to his ears gave him away.

When you realized you recognize the name, you ignored the expected polite reply of telling him your name in turn, and instead asked, “Are you that guy who lives in the woods? Er… or that guy who ran the Mystery Shack…?” You faltered, as you consistently got them mixed up in your mind, and were not entirely convinced they were two separate individuals.

“That would be my brother,” he said with a hint of snide disdain, “Stanley.”

“God, did your parents like, hate you or something?” you said without thinking.

“Or something,” he replied with a wry smile.

“Sorry, that was —” What the hell came over you to say that to a complete stranger? You readjusted your own stack under your arm, and held out a hand, introducing yourself by name. Thankfully, he shook it; your name sounded much nicer in his voice than it ever did in yours.

“You’re all set, Dr. Pines.” The librarian pushed his stack of books back to him.

You expected him to grab his books and bid you a polite goodbye, as you hoisted your own stack upon the counter. But he lingered and asked, “You’re new to town?”

“Ish,” you said, steadying your elbow on the counter to lean your weight there. “It’s been a year or so. Is it that obvious I’m a transplant?” you joked.

“No,” he reassured you with a bit of a smile. “Only in that you didn’t know who I was.”

You slid your library card across the counter as well, heard the beep of the scan, then grabbed your own stack. “If it helps, I’ve heard the name.”

“What else do you hear?” The amused twinkle was back, tone playful and — oh my god was he flirting with you?

Behind you both, the next person in line cleared their throat at a pointedly loud volume, and you scampered away, face burning. Ford held the door open for you as you slunk out them — how gentlemanly — and you waited for them to shut behind both of you.

Ford turned back to you, expectant of an answer. “Only weird things,” you had told him with a smile. “Promise.”

He had blinked, smiled again, much more genuine than it was flirty, then bid you a quick and polite goodbye.

Currently, your hands run up under his sweater, palms gentle over the surprising amount of muscle — or, maybe not surprising, since he had literally just picked you up off the ground. His stomach tenses under your touch. Is he ticklish? “Are you, like, secretly jacked or something?” you mumble against his lips.

He rears back with a bemused expression. “Secretly jacked?” he repeats, the words sounding extremely foreign in his mouth.

“You are hiding an unsuspecting amount of muscle under these dorky sweaters,” you tell him, settling both hands just above his hips.

He huffs, one hand steadying himself against the table, the other pressing his thumb gently against the underside of your jaw as he cups your face. “They are not dorky.”

“It’s fine that they’re dorky,” you laugh at his attitude. “If you had been showing up to the library in muscle shirts, then…”

“Who in the world is showing up to libraries in muscle shirts?” he asks, incredulous at the mere idea, and the hand not on your neck slides up your side, also under your shirt, rucking it up. His palm is large, spanning around your ribs.

“You’ve lost the plot,” you say, removing your hands to begin undoing his belt buckle. “It was a compliment.”

“The dorky sweaters or the secret muscles?”

“Either,” you reply, a little distracted as you try to keep eye contact while shoving his pants over his hips and slightly down his thighs. “Both.” You cup his dick through his briefs, feeling him hard and heavy through the fabric.

That, at least, distracts him too; Ford says something truly unintelligible that you take to be a swear and leans into your touch. Jesus, he feels — he feels big. You bite your tongue against that compliment, as he presses his forehead against yours again and puffs a hot breath across your face. You run your hand from the thick base to the head, the fabric there slightly damp.

“Stop — stop distracted me,” he huffs, and then his hands are also going for the button on your jeans, a little awkward around the angle of your hand still down his pants. You get with the program and remove it to instead help him get your pants off, kicking them off and to the floor. For a moment, you consider continuing the dry humping him here, you are getting desperate, but he tugs you even closer to the edge of the table. You have to lean your weight back on your hands as you just barely balance there, as he presses two fingers against the very clear damp spot in your own underwear, rubbing roughly against your clit.

You swear as well, but definitely in English.

For all that was good — how had you ended up with your pants off in the library, panting with sheer anticipation?

After several more months of only seeing each other in the stacks, catching up over recent reads, opinions on the subject matter and, yes, definitely flirting, you had started to consider Ford a friend. You even tried to keep a regular attendance schedule just to catch him on a consistent basis, since neither of you seemed to progress it further past the walls of the library.

Okay, so maybe you had developed a bit of a crush, also. So what if he was, at minimum, at least two decades your senior? The silver fox thing worked well on him, and you never saw him outside the library. It was harmless.

Which all led to today, when you spent longer than necessary chatting, not paying attention to the time until you realized that you two were the only ones left. Mildred wouldn’t just leave you locked in the library overnight, would she? Or maybe she was just tired of how you two kept holding up the checkout line on a biweekly basis.

Still, when you saw the fog, and then were warned not to go out in the fog, you had thought, well, fuck, what is this, The Mist? Considering some of the stories you heard from the locals, it might just be. Somewhat frustrated, somewhat fearful, you had said aloud, “What is this, The Mist?”

“The what?”

“You know, The Mist.” You led him farther into the library, where the desks and tables and chairs and beanbags resided. Turning to him and crossing your arms, you said, “I’m pretty sure I literally handed you Nightmares & Dreamscapes like, a month ago.”

Ford wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t quite care for that one.”

You laughed. “I know, you said The Jaunt was too unrealistic for long-distance teleportation.”

He huffed, apparently annoyed at the reminder. “Because it was. But, The Mist wasn’t that good, either.”

“It’s a stone cold King classic,” you had defended, and began counting off on your fingers. “It’s got weird creatures; it’s got a small boy; it’s got an old woman who’s a religious fanatic; it’s got two characters unnecessarily having sex right in the middle of it — although, now, I kinda get it. What else is there to even do?”

You had said it as a joke. Obviously. But then you had caught Ford’s eye and you both stared at each other a few seconds too long.

And then he had you up against the wall.

You whine again, a truly undignified sound, when he pushes the fabric of your underwear aside to slide one thick finger into you. “Oh, my god,” you mutter, as you realize this is actually happening to you, right here, right now.

Ford looms over you, leans in, so you are forced to lean back as well, until your back hits the table. His stare is extremely intent and heated.

…And he is just keeping his finger completely still, and you squirm against it, trying to — “Can you at least move?"

The intensity breaks as he grins coquettishly and draws it out slowly, before pushing two fingers back in. The stretch of it burns in the best way possible, and your eyes slip closed. “Needy,” he reiterates the sentiment from earlier, this time almost lightly scolding you. Which should not be as hot as it is, while he sets a slow pace. “You, my dear, are extremely impatient.”

You groan out half a laugh, clasping one hand tight around his bicep, feeling it flex under the knit fabric; on the out stroke, he curls his fingers, and your hips lift off the table as he drags over that particular spot. His unoccupied hand lands on your hip, pinning you there.

“You are doing this on purpose,” you accuse, heart positively hammering.

“Doing what?”

You open your eyes just to be able to roll them at him, and instead of verbally answering, you use your other hand to wrap around the back of his neck and drag him down into a heated kiss. Ford smiles against your lips, positively lecherous, as his pace speeds up. Your kissing loses its coordination as you get closer to the edge, turned on by the fact you can hear yourself get wetter and wetter, twitching around his fingers as the coil tightens and tightens in your stomach. Just when you are becoming accustomed to two fingers, he pushes three in without warning.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hand tight in his hair, struggling against his grip as you are unable to stay still. Your thighs tremble at the strain of trying to chase the sensation as he stretches you further, your feet kicking uselessly in the air at particularly rough strokes. He leans in more and puts one knee atop the table, steadying himself and keeping it from rocking so much. “Fuck, I, ah, Ford!”

He lifts his head to watch your face contort in pleasure. “Tell me what you want, darling.” He is drinking in every noise and involuntary motion you make, expression eager.

How is he this debonair? It feels wildly unfair how much this is turning you on — isn’t he supposed to be a shy nerd? “I — shit — please, I need, I need —!”

“You need,” he repeats, sounding close to deprecating, amused and acting utterly unruffled by the fact you are swiftly coming apart on his fingers alone. But there is a hunger in his eyes that gives him away. Then, he shoves all three fingers in as deep as possible, while grinding the heel of his palm against your clit.

“You are such,” you say through gritted teeth as your cunt clenches around him, “a fucking bastard.”

You get the most shit-eating grin in response. “Well, if that’s what you think…” he tuts, drawing his fingers out, slowly, slowly.

“No!” Your hand shoots out and grasps his wrist, the other tightening in his hair to keep him there. He wants to see you desperate? Fine, you can play along. “Please,” you plead, absolutely wrecked, and you should probably be feeling embarrassed at how quickly this man got you to beg. Usually you like to stretch it out longer, but — “Please, make me come, please, I —”

Looking satisfied, his speed picks up again, pressing roughly on your clit, and you are so, fucking, close, you are chanting his name in time with each thrust, and, and…!

Ford kisses you again as you peak, swallowing your moan as the pressure breaks and you come on his fingers, still grinding his hand against your clit as your hips buck against him. It is almost painfully tight, but he readily takes it, slowly dragging his fingers against the walls of your cunt and drawing it out.

Eventually, the intensity of the moment gently subsides, and you squirm against the overstimulation. “That’s — hah — that’s enough,” you gasp for breath, and open your eyes — when had they closed? — to see him smirking down at you again, this time with a sort of self-satisfied pride. Cheeky bastard.

You take a few seconds to catch your breath as he draws all three fingers out of you, which makes an obscene noise, and then you are pushing back on his shoulder so you can sit upright. Instantly, you are pulling him out of his briefs, and your mouth positively waters as you take in how thick his cock is. The tip is flushed pink, pre-come already beading there, and it twitches when you take him in hand.

You wrap your fist around him and stroke slowly from root to tip, then get the gut reaction of pure trepidation as you think, is this thing actually going to fit? His hips jerk at your drawn-out touch, and his hand that had just been inside you closes around yours to make your grip even tighter. It is definitely a little gross that you are getting your own arousal all over your hand, but it is also getting all over his dick, and it smooths out the process as you continue to stroke him.

“Fuck,” Ford mutters, staring down at you jacking him off, almost completely slack-jawed. A kind of headiness fills you — you understand his smug little looks now.

“Please fuck me, Dr. Pines,” you practically purr, and he positively shudders when you call him that. You smile, delighted, and the headiness only grows. “Please fill me up, make me…”

Ford chokes out something halfway between a laugh and a groan at your saccharine tone. You chortle as well, the act completely broken, as he closes the space between you two; you let go to steady yourself back on both hands. His belt jangles as he hastily pushes his pants and briefs farther down his thighs, then hooks his fingers into your underwear to pull it off. Gripping the base of his cock to line it up, he rubs the tip against you a few times, catching once or twice on your hole. Your cunt twitches at the anticipation. “You are such a menace,” he tells you, sounding almost disbelieving, still looking down.

“I’m a menace?” you can’t help but laugh. Trying to aim for the same tone as before, you coo, “Why, Dr. Pines, is it too mu— ahh…” but cut yourself off with a moan as he finally begins pushing inside you.

He grits his teeth, pulls out a little, then pushes in again, further this time. He continues to work you open with small thrusts, as you stretch to accommodate him, and no amount of preparation could have primed you for this particular feeling. All twelve fingers dig into your hips to keep you steady, and you slide onto your back again, hands gripping the edges of the table on either side of you as you focus on your breathing. Fucking Christ.

When he is fully seated, hips flush to yours, he lets out a low rumble from the back of his throat. The noise goes straight to your cunt. You are loose and wet from your earlier orgasm, but — “Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, hunching forward as he steadies both hands on either side of your torso. He hangs his head between his shoulders to look at where you are connected, practically hypnotized by the sight alone.

The complete stillness is killer, and you try not to squirm against him. He glances up at you, his glasses sunk well down his nose but sturdily hooked there. Some stray curls fall across his forehead, which you indulge yourself to gently comb them back with your fingertips. The disheveled look really does work on him, you think, as he closes his eyes and hums at the touch. Well, frankly, all looks seem to work on him for you.

“If you don’t move, I’m going to die,” you announce, breaking the tender reverie.

He snorts, then looks back down, draws out halfway, and slides back in smoothly. Somehow, it feels like he gets even deeper this time. You are definitely going to die just from this. Good way to go, you decide as you wrap your ankles around the back of his thighs.

Ford sets a leisurely pace, gliding in and out with measured thrusts that go from just the tip being settled in you to grinding his dick as deep as it can possibly go, like he is savoring the feel of you. It is not nearly enough, as he pushes up your shirt to press a wet kiss to the very base of your sternum. You fist the collar on the back of his shirt, enjoying the sensation of being filled, but…

“Please,” you beg, “please go faster.”

Without warning, the next thrust is so sharp, you let out a surprised, “Ah!” as even the table wobbles a little.

He somehow presses even farther into you — fucking hell you can practically feel him in your stomach — as he looms over you, staring down with a flushed expression, and yes, now you feel like you are on a level playing field. He looks completely wrecked just from being inside you. “Insatiable,” he breaths with a kind of reverence. “Utterly insatiable.”

Definitely the kind of guy to use ten-cent words while being inside someone. As established, it works, though. “Yeah, yeah,” you say blithely, trying to use your heels to press him in closer. “That’s me.”

He foregoes kissing entirely in favor of ramping up speed, panting hotly against your neck, and you wonder if his glasses are fogging up. Except, as you try to keep control of your moaning as pressure builds in you again, his thrusts are slowly pushing you up the table. So, he stands up straight again with a sore kind of groan, drags you back down by your thighs — fuck, that was hot — and then grips both large hands at your hips to hold you still. The sight of his concentrated expression at where you are connected as he absolutely rails you is enough to put you close to the edge; still sensitive, your pussy clenches around him uncontrollably. It just spurns him on, rocking your whole body with each thrust.

Desperate for the feeling of coming on his dick, you reach down and begin furiously rubbing at your clit, your wetness smoothing the entire way. Every so often your fingers overshoot, and you feel him entering you over, and over, and over —

You come again without much warning, just a gasp and an arch of your back off the table as you grasp blindly for anything to anchor you. Ford practically doubles over as your cunt squeezes around him. “Fuck,” he grits out, eyes glued to your face as you come, pounding into you faster and faster as he chases his own release. “Fuck — fuck — I’m not —”

“Ford,” you whine breathlessly, as the waves wash over you, your thighs twitching with oversensitivity as he somehow rams into you harder. “Please come in me, just —!”

His thrusts become uneven, sacrificing any coordination for the sheer attempt to drive deeper and deeper into you, punching staccato’ed breaths out of you with each thrust as your orgasm finally subsides. He moans your name, then bites out another string of unintelligible curses.

Finally, when it is almost too much, he presses his hips hard against you, hilting himself entirely as you feel his cock twitch in you; he moans, low and deep, as he comes. Ford’s eyes fall closed as he does a few more short, uncontrolled abortive jerks in to you, clenching his jaw so hard you can see a vein popping in his column of his neck when his head tilts back. When he has filled you, the tension in his body unravels all at once as he lets go of your hips and slams both palms on either side of your torso as he falls forward. Spent, he breaths heavily, head hanging between his shoulders.

Both of you take a few more seconds to come down from your respective highs, as your cunt continues to throb, and you reach down to card your fingers gently through his curls. As before, he leans into the touch and lowers himself to settle his forehead against your collarbone, breath slowly evening out. You relax your legs so he can pull out, and you feel his come drizzling out of you. Jesus fucking Christ.

Then, he chuckles, still resting his forehead against you. “I don’t think I have ever considered doing that before in my life.” Somehow, his voice is even deeper from all the exertion.

“What, really?” Surprised, you press your chin to your chest to peer down at him, and he raises his eyes to you as well. “No raunchy library fantasies?”

“Not for at least forty years.”

You laugh lightly, somehow feeling honored. Desperate we-could-die-any-moment fucks do that for a man, you suppose.

You both spend the next few minutes cleaning up in the bathroom, not really keen on being so tacky and sweaty if you have an undetermined amount of time left in the library. Ford emerges to find you sprawled out on a few bean bag chairs you have pushed together, as you feel extremely loose and well-fucked out.

He sits next to you on the edge of one, gingerly. The hesitancy is cute, but unnecessary since he literally just came inside you, and you tug at the back of his sweater until he gets the hint and lays down, too. Thankfully, he takes this as permission to wrap you in an embrace, which you settle comfortably into. Eventually you start to doze with your head on his chest, legs tangled, and a hand settled on his side. He has an arm curled around you, and his hand strokes gently where your shirt has rucked up, warm on your skin.

Not a bad way to die, all things considered.

“So, what’s in the fog?” you ask drowsily.

“Hmm?”

Dragging yourself out of the place where you had been floating, between part and meet, you elaborate, “The mysterious and deadly fog, that we can’t go out in.”

“Oh.” His hand stops its stroking. “There’s nothing special about the fog.”

You open your eyes, blink twice, then steady yourself on a hand to raise yourself to look down at him with a truly bewildered expression. “What?”

“The fog isn’t deadly,” Ford reiterates, with raised brows.

“You said not to go out there!” you argue.

“Right,” he confirms, “it just looked too thick to drive through.”

Is he serious right now? You had been under the assumption this had been an urgent, final fuck sort of deal — not that you were complaining about the extremely good lay, but — wait, does that mean he wanted you that much, that he was just willing to fuck you silly in a library without thinking there was death imminent in his future?

It’s kind of flattering, all in all.

Ford looks more nervous the longer you are silently staring down at him, as your brain puzzles this out, and he tries to reason, “Well, I suppose the fog could be a symptom of something more dangerous…”

“It — it’s fine,” you try to reassure him quickly. “Thank you for… being so concerned about my safety behind the wheel.” It is such a weird thing to say to a man who was railing you fifteen minutes ago. With that, you press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, downturned in a befuddled expression, before snuggling back in atop him.

He seems to breathe a sigh of relief. “Did you really think the fog was dangerous?”

“Yes,” you complain, closing your eyes again, enjoying the rumbling in his chest when he speaks. “I thought it was like The Mist.”

His hand resumes its stroking. “You, my dear, read too much.”

#ford pines x reader #stanford pines x reader #reader insert #afab reader #writing.txt #j.txt #is this what the kids do nowadays? post both to tumblr and ao3?#oooo im imparting my stephen king opinions on you ooooo #oooo you wanna listen to the just king things podcast to know what im talking about ooooo #anyway the same way i havent used the ao3 interface in SEVEN? years #i havent made a post off desktop in probably an equal amount of time #hello old friend.... :)#anyway currently bopping around in my brain writing the amab version of this but we'll see where the tide takes us

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