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2Fords Fic Prompt

I have a bit of an idea for a 2fords one shot (this was supposed to just be a small synopsis, but I am sooooo long-winded, and it turned into this giant thing) tw: dubcon

It starts off with the classic: Old Ford (I'm just gonna call him Mr. Forrester for ease) takes a teaching position at the high school the twins attend. And Stan is a bit wary of this guy because the man may be old, but he's obviously fit for his age and jaded in a way someone who was just a teacher shouldn't be. Stan is observant when it comes to people, and he feels like this guy's vibe is just off. So, as Mr. Forrester tries to integrate himself into the twins' lives, slowly but surely, Stan is just not having it. He tries to avoid the guy if he can, but Ford is completely down bad for the older man (cause, let's be real, Ford would absolutely love the older version of himself).

So Teen Ford is convinced that Stan is just being difficult for no reason and kinda makes it a point to show Stan that Mr. Forrester isn't a bad guy. He starts taking Stan to the after-school meetings that he has with Mr. Forrester (this is just Teen Ford forcing Mr. Forrester to talk to him about niche science things and Mr. Forrester going along with it), and Stan is obviously not having a great time, but then Teen Ford mentions Stan's low grades offhandedly to Mr. Forrester and he's like "Oh? Well, I wouldn't mind tutoring him." And Ford is like, "Omg That's so nice of you! Isn't he great, Stan?"

And Stan is not pleased, but eventually gives in because he doesn't want to make Ford upset. After a while, Mr. Forrester has successfully gotten Stan's grades up to passing, and he's actually understanding more than he ever had in school before, but he still feels a nagging at the back of his mind that Mr. Forrester just has something off about him. Stan has clocked that he's manipulative, a pretty good liar, and he always seems a bit miffed whenever he's interacting with Stan, but he tries to hide it; all that is to say, Stan is still wary.

But eventually, Stan just kinda accepts this teacher as just a part of his life now because Ford is obsessed with him. So things go like this for a while, Mr. Forrester getting closer and closer to the twins, with Stan slowly letting down his guard and Teen Ford is as star-struck as ever.

Then the science fair hits, and Stan is feeling all sorts of things over this. That is, until Mr. Forrester comes to the twins with an idea. He suggests that Stan come to live with him in Gravity Falls, Oregon, and work as his assistant while Ford finishes college at West Coast Tech (because it's obvious he would get in with his perpetual motion machine, or so Mr. Forrester says). Mr. Forrester explains that he was planning to move up there to study anomalies, and he knows that Teen Ford and Stan both wanted to go on adventures and both have always been interested in the unusual/supernatural so it would be the perfect path for them both, yes it would be a shame that Teen Ford and Stan had to be apart for a while, but wouldn't it be worth it to let Teen Ford live his dream in college while Stan gets experience in adventuring? It would be a win-win for both sides plus Mr. Forrester himself, why with both Stanford and Stanley to help him, he's sure they would make a scientific breakthrough of some sort.

Stan doesn't like this idea at all, because their dream had always been sailing, hadn't it? But Teen Ford is so ecstatic and is all "This is a perfect opportunity, Stanley! Just think, I get to go to college, you get to adventure, and then we'll both be together doing what we always wanted!" Stan ends up agreeing, but he's more concerned with the fact that he'll be living alone with a teacher he'd only known for a year tops, all alone on the other side of the country. No Ma, no Shermie, no Ford.

But Stan still agrees because he's come to terms with the fact that Ford is going to college no matter what, so if he wants to keep him in his life, he'll go live with Mr. Forrester and maybe get to punch mothman or something.

So Stan ends up not going to the school and messing up Teen Ford's machine. Eventually, it's time for Teen Ford to go to West Coast Tech and for Stan to head up to Oregon. Filbrick doesn't really care what Stan does as long as he's out of the house, but Caryn is a bit more suspicious, but gives in after a nice chat over dinner with Old Ford.

Once Mr. Forrester and Stan make it to Gravity Falls, it's surprisingly nice. Mr. Forrester gets him settled in, and then it's like something from a comic book. Stan gets to see (and punch) all these weird and amazing creatures that he knows Ford will absolutely adore when he gets here. Mr. Forrester actually doesn't seem to mind his presence and lets Stan help out with his experiments (as much as he dares) and overall it's pretty nice, and that awkwardness that Stan was scared would be present when living with some random old man. just. isn't there. It's like they've known each other all their lives, and Stan is pretty content with life. He does really miss Ford, however, and calls him as much as he can.

And then things start to get. Weird. Mr. Forrester usually let Stan go get groceries and supplies in town for them (Stan even started to make some friends!), but Mr. Forrester insists he be the one to get things for them soon enough. Slowly but surely, he starts taking over every errand that would let Stan leave the house. Even the phone calls from Ford get fewer and far between - busy with college workload or just too tired to talk until Stan is lucky to get a call once a month. All this accumulates to Stan barely getting to leave the house or interact with anyone that isn't Mr. Forrester. Even him and Mr. Forrester's regular outings in the woods are getting shorter and shorter until Mr. Forrester insists Stan stay behind all together.

And then Mr. Forrester starts to get, well, touchy. Not like before, where a pat on the back or playful hair ruffle was the extent of their physical contant. Now it's a hand sliding just a touch too far down Stan's back and lingering for a bit too long. Maybe a hand on Stan's hip to move him out of the way. A lingering shoulder massage, a grip on the neck that feels all too constricting. Just. Not exactly normal, but not alarming enough to complain about.

And so with all this happening Stan is pissed. He's angry and confused, and he just wants to go into town. Maybe catch up with some of the people he'd be talking to before all this weirdness started. So he goes to find his car (which he had brought up with him) until he remembers that Mr. Forrester had taken it into town for "matinence" about a week ago and hadn't brought it back.

So Stan is stuck. Town is a long walk from the house, and he's not exactly confident he could take all the monsters he knows are lurking in the woods next to the road (without Mr. Forrester's help) if it came down to it. Stan is isolated from everything and everyone except for the once in a blue moon Ford call and the ever present Mr. Forrester.

Mr. Forrester eventually comes back from whatever errand he had to run, and he reassures Stan that his car will be back at the house in no time. But as time goes on Stan is less and less sure he's ever going to leave the fucking house. Mr. Forrester keeps him locked away like some waify housewife. Left to cook and clean because the older man seems incapable of doing such tasks himself, but not allowed in the lab or even outside without copious amounts of persuasion and begging.

It's humiliating and frustrating, but what can Stan do? Stan knows that Ford will love this place when he's done with college, and he knows Ford would kill him if he messed up this thing they had going with Mr. Forrester. So Stan endures.

Until a month after the car conversation and Stan still hadn't gotten his car back. He starts the first real argument he's ever had with Mr. Forrester. It turns ugly quick, and Stan assumes it'll probably come to blows, but instead of fists flying at faces, it's a hand gripping Stan's hair and shoving him to the ground. And Stan knew that Mr. Forrester was strong, but not like this. Not in a way that Stan knew he'd never be able to match.

And then Mr. Forrester is dragging Stan upstairs and into his bedroom. Grabbing and groping and hissing into Stan's ear about how ungrateful he is as Stan struggles and cries out at the manhandling.

Stan is scared. He'd never admit it, but he's terrified and confused, and he never knew Mr. Forrester was capable of something like this. He no longer resembled the calm, collected, and scientificly passionate man that Stan had come to know. Now, he was livid and domineering and hurting Stan for wanting to live his life normally.

Stan doesn't understand what Mr. Forrester plans to do until he's forcing his tongue down Stan's throat and shucking the younger man's pants off in a flurry of harsh movement. Stan's struggles turn hysterical, never having expected it, and completely disgusted. He'd never even suspected Mr. Forrester was a homo, or such a violent one at that.

So Stan writhes and squirms and bucks and does everything he can, but it's not enough. Mr. Forrester has him pinned and helpless, and Stan can't help but tear up no matter how humiliating it is.

And for some reason, that's what makes Mr. Forrester pause. His eyes soften, but his grip doesn't. And instead of letting up or telling Stan this was all a big prank like Stan prays he will, he places a chaste kiss to Stan's lips. His voice is soft when he confesses to Stan that he didn't want it to happen like this, that he wanted Stan to come to bed with him willingly, that Stan was his second chance, that he wishes things were different. And worst of all is when his eyes harden back up, and he tells Stan that he has a choice to make. Either Stan can lie back and take it or he's going to be on the streets after he calls Ford to tell him that Stan fucked up and ruined their happy future here together.

And Stan is frozen, paralyzed in indecision because he can't do this. He can't. Stan isn't gay, he liked girls, and he lets Mr. Forrester know as such as some last ditch effort for this to end in a way that isn't awful, but the man just laughs. His eyes are hard when he tells Stan he knows about Stan's feelings for Ford. It makes Stan's blood run cold, because yeah, sure, maybe what he felt for Ford wasn't exactly brotherly, but it wasn't because Ford was a man, it was because he was Ford. It had nothing to do with that. And Mr. Forrester wasn't Ford.

Mr. Forrester doesn't give Stan time. He takes his face in a six fingered hand, a hand that should only be unique to Stan's brother, and demands that he choose.

But Stan cannot think, he can barley breath. So all he does is close his eyes and fall limp. Maybe an answer, a concession, one that Mr. Forrester is pleased to take advantage of.

And though Stan lets himself be stripped and groped and grabbed, his mind races, his nausea building. He knows what the end goal of this is. What his- roommate? Teacher? Guardian? Someone Stan had somewhat trusted - wanted to do.

Mr. Forrester was going to fuck him. Sodimize him.

And Stan was going to let him because he couldn't stand the thought of losing Ford.

When Mr. Forrester gets down to it and it doesn't feel horrible Stan is appalled by himself. Do this mean he was gay? If a finger up his ass (though a mind bending intrusion) wasn't a totally horrible sensation, did this mean he actually wanted this?

But when it's finally time for the big act, when Stan had even gotten half hard, when Stan sees Mr. Forrester's erection and knows that's going inside him - Stan can't comprehend it. Not what's happening to him, not why Mr. Forrester wants to do it, or why Stan is letting it happen in the first place. But he's frozen, stuck with fear.

And when it goes in it fucking hurts; it hurts so bad. Stan's body isn't made for this, not matter how much Mr. Forrester assures him it is as he pushes and pushes and pushes until Stan feels like he's bursting. This intrusion is different from the fingers, something horrible and all-encompassing and impossible to ignore. It feels like it's tearing him open, carving space in his guts just so it has more room to press into.

And this is where Stan loses it, completely hysterical, crying and begging for Mr. Forrester to stop, to pull out, to help him, but his pleas are ignored and it doesn't stop until Mr. Forrester is satisfied.

And when Mr. Forrester finally fills Stan with his cum and pulls out, Stan feels hollowed out. Silent tears streaming down his face but not able to utter a single noise. Mr. Forrester hushes him and tells him how good he did, how perfect he is, how he always knew he would make the right choice. Mr. Forrester holds Stan close and Stan can't help but cling to the very person he despises most if it means he can gleam even a sliver of comfort.

The next day it's like a switch flipped. Mr. Forrester acts completely different, doting and kind and sweet, almost like a lover would. He presses close to Stan at every opportunity, like they're some kind of couple now. And Stan wishes he could shout. Scream and rage and tear apart the man spooning him as he washes the dishes but he can't. Because Ford is depending on him and Stan is terrifed. He knows what Mr. Forrester is capable of now and he can't. He just can't.

Mr. Forrester doesn't force Stan into his bed again right away, no, he builds it up. Grooms Stan to anticipate the kisses until those kisses turn into makeout sessions and those makeout sessions turn into rutting and groping and then eventually they fall into bed and it's not so bad. (Stan will lie to himself like that. He hates it. Can't not hate it no matter how many times it happens. Because it's not who he wants to do it with.)

But Stan can take it because at least now Mr. Forrester listens when he says stop. Guides Stan into it with care and is attentive when Stan needs it.

And Stan starts to slowly fade away. Slotted into a role he was never designed for. He tends to the house, cooks and cleans and warms Mr. Forrester's bed like the good housewife he is and tries not to let it break him. Reminds himself who he's doing this for and how much better it will all be when Ford finally gets here.

And so years pass and Stan is doing....alright. He doesn't hate Mr. Forrester anymore. He couldn't hold onto that fury when Mr. Forrester started treating him nice, giving Stan everything he ever wanted. Everything expect his freedom, but that was alright. What did he need freedom for when Ford wasn't here yet? So, no, Stan is irritable, sometimes angry at the older man, but he doesn't hate anymore.

And then Ford is back. He's finally, finally here and Stanley Pines is almost gone.

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Mermaid 2fords rough doodles inspired and indulged by my friend @mirrorworldangel , holy shit, did it spur a lot of ideas. Have a lil story of how they met and Ford collecting seashells for his cute brotherwife.

POSSIBLE TW: thalassophobia and disturbing content under the cut ((the rest is tame though don't worry)

Yep. That's Stanley.

I don't know why, but the thought of Stan being a Sea Beast suddenly grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go. And then my friend tagged me on something and I became even more feral about it, so I half-assed this this in 2 hours quick. And I'm a sucker for size difference and body horror, so it was fun joining these two together!

A closer look to Stan's design (no Ford design sheet for now guys, I got tired, sorry):

I made him based from an anglerfish (call me basic, but they're my favourites I love these lil' guys), a basking shark and a bit of snailfish for his side view form. Stan is a mix of creatures from the Sunlight and Abyss Zones. Because he spent most of his childhood in the Abyss, he has certain characteristics as: sensitive vision, small gills, inexistent colouring, and a somewhat sleek build (for swift and fast swimming). But after gaining "independence" in his tween years and rising to the surface, his body started changing too to accommodate to it, such as his bones being stronger, a wider figure, and making way for a new respiratory system.

Although he still struggles a bit because: his gills are still forming, which makes his breathing hard sometimes (he used to depend mostly on his red cells producing oxygen through his body), his vision (he can't see any type of colour except for very few pigments, such as blue), and his "human half" (which was formed to attract other humans so he could attack them better, although he messed up a bit with his arm-mouth, so he made another pair of arm that's still growing).

But that doesn't stop him from being a skilled hunter, despite his size, he's a surprisingly stealthy killer, immediately slamming into his victims when the moment strikes. He likes to hunt large groups (be it fishes or other mermaids) or boats.

Which is actually how he and Ford met. Ford – a Leopard Seal – was captured and experimented on by a cult, until one day, Stan attacks the boat that had taken him – unintentionally saving him. The two start off as acquaintances, with Ford thanking him for freeing him (which was a suprise for both, Stan being approached for the first time and Ford seeing a Sea Beast in plain daylight – a rare sight).

They're both curious of each other, so in the beginning they're just questioning and studying the other, slowly growing closer until their mating union. It was a shock to most people, it's not that the species had a bad relationship (despite some cultures hunting them...), it's just... Unusual. Ford is considered attractive by mermaids standards, even with his age. Him getting the equivalent to married to Stanley is not what's mostly expected.

The Sea Beasts?? They're honestly disappointed at Stan's mate. Despite being an adolescent, he's showing an incredible predator potential, and he settles for Ford? It's not that he's considered unattractive, they just think he doesn't reach Stan's level (which is a wrong fact because my guy's a Leopard Seal, these guys are brutal). Stan and Ford don't give a shit, they're married for life and hell yeah.

So yeah, they're living their lives in their cave – which is decorated by wrecked ships they've destroyed, skeletons, coins and things Ford found interesting – and hunt together (with Ford helping him on seeing their targets, between the two of them his vision is better on water. In land? Not so much). Also Stan insists on Ford sleeping inside his mouth because it's safe and no one would dare enter it.

Basically, Stan loves his tiny old husband, he's not any better than Ford on this question.

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trust.

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Stan’s not really used to any kind of attention when she does this….at least Ford seems to be having a good time!

My super secret and hidden (not) sh kink strikes again

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Some lazy doodles to get back on it inspired by some quotes of my fav cottagecore family who considers murder at least once a week

Credits under the cut cause they were the main inspo (and also cause I just wanted to see Stan sitting on Ford's lap, this is indulgent as hell man I'm not even sorry)

Honourable mention to these panels too cause they reminded me way too much of them lmao

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Woah, first post of the black and white Stan twins

The title is a joke from a bunch of drawings i made of the stan twins being platonic until...it wasnt. Anyways, in this scenario

Basically Bill has to get along with the idea of having Stan around otherwise Ford will go nuts, this dosent stop him from being a terrible influence to Ford already obsessive tendencies

Stan has a shock collar to not go too far. Ford promised they will take it away if Stan behaves. Andddd Stan just has to cope with the fact his brother is a creep, has a demon boyfriend, and now cant go away + the humillation of the collar

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Sometimes your dog gets so stressed you gotta sedate him, happened to someone i know once

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The people have spoken; I will be writing Alpha Ford/Omega Stan..... but since I love non-traditional a/b/o dynamics, I'm also gonna write one for the runner-up Omega Ford/Omega Stan ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

So chat I have a dilemma; I want to write an a/b/o stancest fic and I can't choose their dynamics. I do have a preference for bottom Stan, so I'm a bit biased in my options but some help would be appreciated (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

I may end up doing multiple with differing dynamics, but we'll see what my motivation says

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Ughhhhhh I neeeeeed more of your fem stan she is actually amazing, you are so cool!!!!!!!!!

Ahhh thank you sm!! Fem Stan is one of my fav things to draw/write so there will always be more coming hehe

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I may or may not have fallen asleep when I was supposed to be finishing up my last piece for bottomstanweek but it will be done just....later (╥﹏╥)

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Burning & Encompassing

part 3

Fem!Stanley Pines x Stanford Pines

Summary: Ford was always burning. From the jersey heat, from shame, from want. Oh, how he wanted. He wanted so badly he could melt from it. And what he wanted most? His sister. His twin. All he's ever wanted in any way that truly mattered. Something he wanted so badly but could never have. Never. WARNINGS 18+ CONTENT, INCEST: Sibling Incest, Off-screen non-consensual blowjob, implied rape/noncon, victim blaming, protective siblings, porn with plot, making out, frottage, coming in pants, multiple orgasms, vaginal sex, riding, praise kink, slight breeding kink, a tiny bit of cockwarming, angst, hurt/comfort, STANCEST AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yet another cross-post and the last one for this series (until I write the next part lol) THE STANCEST IS HERE!! This is the ending for this small arc, and next I will be doing a Shermie intermission (because I love him and I need to actually push some plot instead of focusing on the smut lmao)

Hope you enjoy !!

Ford was always burning.

From the jersey heat, from shame, from want. 

And oh, how he wanted. He wanted so badly he could melt from it. 

His sister, his twin. All he's ever truly wanted. Something he wanted so badly but could never have. 

Never. 

He had thought he would be trapped, separated from his sister forever, never to have her in the way he truly desired.

Until. 

Until the fateful night when he sat there and watched his sister get fucked on her back like some common street whore by their father. 

He wishes he could say he was noble, that he stopped it, that he understood the implications behind what was happening, but Stanford Pines was blinded. Blinded by that burning inside him.

He was furious, so hot he was surprised he hadn’t completely fallen to ashes. 

Because he couldn't believe her. Because if she felt that way about their Pa, why couldn’t she feel that way about him? 

And he couldn't believe himself either, because the second he laid eyes on the scene, he got so hard he nearly passed out. Seeing and hearing his sister like that. No matter how livid, how irate, he could never resist the allure of her. 

Her sweet moans and startled gasps, so tantalizing and vulgar. The sweat he could see slowly cascading down between the valley of her breasts. The arch of her back as she met the thrusts of her father, mouth agape and eyes filled with tears. 

But he was also filled with a sense of something horrid, something disgusting, too. Because he could hear his father’s grunts, his ragged breath. The brief outline of his dick as it thrust harshly into the sweet core of his sister.

He wanted nothing more than to rip Filbrick from between his sister’s legs and replace him immediately. To be the one pulling those wanton sounds from her throat. To feel the slick heat of her wrapped around him. God, it’s all he wanted. He wanted it so fiercely that it stoked the flames higher and higher with every squeak and rattle of the bed.  

But he was quickly distracted because even though the sight of his father in such a state made him nauseous, Constance was still making those sounds. He knew those noises. Always heard them muffled from the bunk below whenever she thought he was asleep, but now brazen and unrestrained. The only thing stopping him from taking himself out of his pants and relieving himself right there was the sudden shout of “stop.” 

He was furious, he was jealous, and he was terrified for his sister. 

…

Ford Pines was a rational man. Prided himself on his logical thinking and cold, hard facts. And that’s why the merger sympathy for his sister’s predicament did not last long. 

Because if she truly did not want it, why did he never hear the word no? He knew their father was not a good man, if what he was doing with his daughter wasn’t evidence enough of that, but he could not be that cruel. He was strict, he was gruff, but he was not evil. He could not rape his daughter; it was impossible, a sheer improbability. Because that was evil, and though Filbrick was not a perfect man, he was no monster. The evidence led Stanford to the conclusion that it really was Stan’s doing. Because if Ford was so drawn to her, well, why was it such a stretch that she could use the same charms on their father?  

It had to make sense because if it was her fault, then it wasn’t his. 

So Stanford avoided her. As he’d taken to doing recently with a renewed fervor. He was disappointed because how could Stan do that? How could she give in to such base urges? Let herself be caught in the throes of pleasure and let it take her to her own father’s bed? It was disgraceful to know his little sister was nothing more than a two-bit whore. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, she was the picture of what every man could ever want. It was no wonder she let her womanly assets assist her in such distasteful ways.

A symphony of ‘stop’ followed by breathless moans battled through Ford’s mind like a heatwave.

…

Stan was staring at him. She was in the doorway of their shared room, arms crossed and holding herself in something reminiscent of a hug.  

He did not look at her head-on, just from his peripheral. Best to keep her out of sight, out of mind. For his sanity. 

“Stanford…” Stan starts, and Ford’s (despite his best attempts to ignore her) attention is caught. It is not every day his twin uses his full name. 

“What’d I do, Stanford, please,” Stan’s voice is small, pleading, “You haven’t had a real talk with me in weeks, I promise whatever it is I did, I’ll fix it.” 

He’s not surprised she’s noticed, but he is taken aback by her fear, the desperation so clear in her tone.

He finally turns from where he’s sitting at their shared desk to look at her, the stirrings of pity beginning to take root in his chest.

But the last dregs of his sympathy evaporate in the searing heat of his mind when he lays eyes on her throat, dark bruises littering her collar. 

“Because I’m busy, Constance. Can’t you get that through your head? I don’t have time for you right now.” He spits, voice venomous. 

He turns sharply and pretends to read the book he has open on the desk.

Stanford burns and lets his sister wipe the beginnings of the tears forming in her eyes away hastily before she turns and leaves.

…

He can hear them.

Every time they think he’s working upstairs. The walls of the house are thin, and Stan is not exactly quiet. It’s becoming more frequent, their little trysts.

He tries not to let it affect him or his schoolwork, but he cannot stop himself from ignoring any pressing matters to catch any hint of Stan’s faint gasps and whimpers. 

His lower stomach floods with heat so strong that he cannot stop himself, no matter how much he knows he should.

…

You would think learning that your father is fucking your twin sister would stop you from being attracted to said sister, but Ford was no such person. He could not let go of the feelings he had for Constance, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he resisted. No matter how much he kept her at arm's length. It didn't matter. 

Because his feelings for Constance were not just those of lust, but of love. 

Proud and stubborn, loud and sly, a perfect opposite to him. She was his other half, his twin. Everything he wanted and everything he had ever needed.

She had been there in all his lowest moments. A defender from his bullies, always supporting him in everything he did, in his passions, and his ideas.

No matter how annoying she could be, how brash, she was all he had ever wanted. He wanted to share even more with her, be just as close as they had been as children. 

And, truly, he was but a man. 

He could not resist her more than he could resist the need to breathe. 

And he knew deep in his heart that their father did not love her, could never love her the way that Stanford did. 

Filbrick only knew the softness of her body (and how Ford yearned for the same), but he would never know the depths of her heart, not how Ford did. 

…

He feels…betrayed. He thinks that’s the word, anyway. Because Stan was his sister. His. If any man should take her to bed, why did it have to be Pa of all people? Why couldn’t she see him, see what he could offer her? See that he’d been the one by her side all along. 

But he can’t think like that. He can’t. Because wanting his sister in that way is wrong, no matter what his father and Stan get up to, it’s not right. 

And sweet Moses, his father. Does it really matter if Stan seduced him? Pa is a grown man. A strong man. He should be capable of controlling his emotions, his impulses. They share those. The desire for Constance. But Stanford has proven that he’s stronger in this way, able to resist the temptation that burns so bright. 

Isn’t that something? Being stronger than his own father.

But he’s so angry, furious that his father wasn’t able to combat his nature. Because yes, Stan must have seduced him in some way (she had to have), but he was her father for Christ’s sake. 

But beneath it all, he knows why he despises his father so, a reason so simple it’s laughable. 

It should’ve been Ford. 

…

It goes on like this for so long, until the sound of his sister’s moans and his father’s grunts becomes commonplace, but never ignored. Until he can’t take it anymore. Their 17th birthday has come and gone, and it’s soon to be their 18th.  

Stan is…deteriorating. Not in the physical sense, not really. The bags under her eyes are larger than ever, she has more bruises, love bites, or something more sinister, he doesn’t know. But no, she’s as beautiful as she ever was, could never not be. 

But she’s different. Maybe it’s the time he’s spent distancing himself. Maybe she’s just changed in their separation. But something nags at him, urges him to dig deeper. He can see the weight she carries now, the invisible stain that she sports. She's quieter. Stan is not quiet. She's loud and brash and full of joy so profound that it leaves him breathless. This version of her, this quiet and sorrowful shell, is not his twin. 

Stanford has never been good at reading people, but Stan is different. No matter how much he distances himself, he could never not know her. 

“I know.” 

Stan freezes. She holds her body tense, but turns around with a smile on her face, wide and full of teeth. 

Stanford may not share much time with his sister anymore, but he knows her fake contentment when he sees it.  

“What d'ya know, Sixer?” Constance asks, grin fixed in place, not even a twitch.

She's always been a fantastic liar. 

“You. And Pa,” Ford looks her straight in the eye for the first time in weeks, “I know.” 

The silence is thick, so thick it could choke him. Could choke out the heat stirring in him if it went on for long enough, he’s sure. 

Stan's eyes are dull, glazed over in an expression completely unreadable, even to him. A tiny furrow in her brow the only indication she even heard him. 

“Yeah,” She sighs out, soft, defeated.

“Yeah, I know.”

…

“Pa, Pa, I'm tired, please not tonight–”  

He hears the sound of a slap and a muffled sob. The coo of a male voice, false comfort. 

Soon, the rap of the bed creaking, hitting the wall over and over again, fills his head. He can't hear his sister. She's tired. 

Ford burns. 

…

The shame hits him the next morning, lighting his blood aflame. 

He knew. Deep down, he’d always known. His sister couldn't do anything about her father's sick perversion, how could she? This whole time, he's been blaming her, pushing her away because he convinced himself she was some harlot who seduced her way into her own father's bed. 

Seduced him.

God, how awful, how fucking sick could he be? Projecting his own perversion onto his sister. Convinced that if he could feel this way about her, why couldn't she feel this way about their father? 

Truly, how shameless. How could someone who prided himself so highly on his academic prowess fail so miserably to understand his own sister? His twin? The one person he should know better than anyone.

And that heat flares, strong and unyielding. Shame at himself for thinking so lowly of his twin, and a deep, scorching fury at his father.

To betray Stan’s trust in such a way, to use her like that. Ford was not violent, never had been, but he thinks he could kill his father in this moment. 

Oh God, what Stan must be feeling right now. What horrors she must be going through, facing all this alone.

And Ford has let it go on for so long, so rageful, so jealous that he turned a blind eye to his twins' suffering. 

He knows that if he comes back to Stan, lets himself introduce himself back into her life, he will not be able to control himself, but he must. He must save her from their monster of a father.

Filbrick and Stanford may be cut from the same cloth, but Ford will be better than him. Is better than him.

He has to be.

…

One night, Ford is at their desk, writing a report for their science class, when Stan walks into the room. Her dark hair is dripping wet from the shower she just took, her skin damp.

She tends to take longer in the shower now. 

Ford doesn’t look at her when she comes in, but instead of greeting him like she normally does (no matter how Ford never responds), Stan just creeps in silently.

She shuts the door quietly (too quietly) and crosses over to stand at his side.

She stands there for what seems like hours; she doesn’t say anything. When he can’t bear the awkwardness of the moment anymore, he finally raises his head to look at her, raising a brow. He had promised himself he would be better, kinder to her, but habits formed from steady years of creating space between them are hard to break. 

Stan takes a deep breath, and her gaze is wide and glistening with the start of tears. Ford is instantly alarmed; his sister does not cry often, and when she does, it is always serious. 

“So uh,” Stan tries for a grin, but it does not reach her eyes; he can tell she’s trying very hard. She clears her throat and sighs, letting her facade break. “I just wanna know why.” 

Ford answers confusedly, tilting his head in question, “Why, what?”  

Stan’s eyes dart to the side, gripping her arms tight around her, as if shielding herself. When she answers him, her voice is quiet,

“If ya know, why did you never–you never–” She can’t seem to finish, her voice breaking.

Ford stands quickly, and it startles Constance. The shame, that horrible festering guilt, that had been eating him up inside, comes back with a vengeance. He knows what she wants to ask, what question burdens her mind.

Why did he never do anything?

“Stan I–” He stops, he knows nothing he says will be a comfort. Oh, I just thought you were a raging whore who was shamelessly fucking our father, sorry sis! 

Moses. What a great brother he is. 

“No, no, I shouldn’t have asked. Not like ya could–can do anything.” Stan lets out a sharp chuckle, but her voice is watery. Like she’s trying to hold in a sob. “And I know ya probably think I’m some–some–” 

“No!” Ford interjects loudly, and Stan flinches, surprised at his outburst, but he presses on, “No, Stan. I know you can’t do anything about it. Pops is–he’s scary. I get it. I do.” 

Because Ford does know now. Knows that his father is a scheming, manipulative cocksucker who stole Ford’s sister away from him. Knows that Stan is just a girl and Pa is scary, he always has been. He’s large, imposing. To disobey him in any way means a punishment, and Filbrick had always been particularly harsh with Constance. So, yes, Ford knows now, and he will not have his little sister thinking otherwise.

Ford starts again, “I’m sorry, Stan. That I didn’t talk to you about it, I just–”

Stan stumbles into his chest and throws her arms around him. The first time they’ve touched in months. It knocks the air from his lungs, his mouth going dry, but he returns the embrace tenfold. 

They stay like that for a minute before it becomes clear that Stan needs to sit, her legs shaking with the effort of holding herself up. Ford leads them to Stan’s bunk and sits them down, sister still in his arms.

“I don’t want it, Ford, I never do.” Her voice is so forlorn, so pleading. Pleading with him not to abandon her again. “Please, you have to believe me.” Stan’s voice cracks like a porcelain pot on a heated stove. 

“Sixer, Sixer.” She repeats his nickname over and over, pleading. Begging. 

Just like she begs Pa. 

It awakens the fire that is always trapped in his chest. He stamps it down with all his might because he can not put that on her. Not now. Not like this. 

His sister is hurting. Hurting because of what their father did.

 (What Ford wants to do)

“I believe you, Leigh.” 

Stan collapses further into him with a heartbreaking sob. Ford gathers her in his arms, lets her press her face to his chest, and wet his shirt with her tears.

“It’s the only time he looks at me, Six.” She whispers breathlessly between her hitching cries. 

Ford burns. 

“I won’t let him touch you again, Leigh.” His voice is firm. Resolute. His sister’s sobs grow louder, wracking her entire body. 

Ford presses his chin to the top of Stan’s head, shielding her from the world with his body. “I won’t touch you,” Ford whispers, so soft he knows she cannot hear him over the sound of her weeping, “I promise.” 

He holds his sister tightly as she shakes apart in his arms. 

…

The next morning, he wakes with Stan still in his arms, and he doesn’t try to stamp down the fondness that blooms in his chest when he sees her sleeping form. Her eyes are a bit puffy from her crying spell the night before, but her face is lax, completely at peace. He can feel her small breaths as they tickle his chin. He doesn’t dare move, scared he may disturb her. The small tooth gap she sports whistles faintly every time she takes a breath, and Ford thinks he may pass away from how adorable the sight is. 

He doesn’t know how long he has been sitting there staring at her; all he can think about is how nice it would be if they could do this every day. If every morning he could wake up to her in his arms. Maybe in the future, when they get out of this place, when he’s spirited her away from this awful house, they could live together. No, they would live together. He cannot imagine anything else. He would go to school, maybe rent an apartment off campus, she would work (Constance would accept nothing less), and they wouldn't be able to afford much at first, so they’d have to get a one-bedroom. They would wake up together every morning and fall into bed together every night, until falling into bed turned into something more, the tension would build, and they’d realize they couldn’t take it anymore–

Ford is shaken from his fantasy by the stirring of his sister. She groans faintly, and it makes Ford’s face heat with shame. To have such thoughts with his twin quite literally asleep and unaware makes him feel dirty, but he knows deep down that there is nothing he can do to stop such thoughts. 

“Good morning, Stan Leigh.” Stanford's voice is gravely from sleep, and he keeps his volume low so as not to irritate her. 

“Mhpm,” Stan grumbles and pushes herself more soundly against him. He tries to think of anything but the way her movements push her chest flush against his, “S’too early.”

“It is ten in the morning.” Stanford deadpans with no heat behind it, unable to keep a small smile off his face. God, how could he have ever thought so lowly of this beautiful creature pressed against him? How did he survive these past years with the distance he had created?  

“Ughhh,” Stan drawls, finally moving away from him to lean back and stretch. Ford instantly misses the warmth of her body against his. 

They don’t say much after that as they both get ready for the day, but there’s a different feeling in the air. The tenseness of the past few years is no longer there, weighing them down. There is still an edge, but that easy camaraderie from their childhood is back, and Ford has never felt better.

…

Stan sticks close to him now, never far. She stays glued to his side, hands brushing his, arms looped, always a point of contact. He is…struggling with the development as much as he is soaking up the brief touches like a particularly perverted sponge. As much as he wishes he could just enjoy the closeness, he finds himself in his bunk burning in the places his sister had touched and replaying the moments in his mind, often ending with Ford taking himself in hand. It’s shameful behavior, he knows, but every interaction adds more fuel to the fire, and he cannot control himself more than he can control being born with an extra finger on each hand. He gives himself some grace, though; he is but a man after all, a teen one at that. It is a well-known fact that men have intense physical needs. But he digresses; it is starting to become a problem when he finds himself getting hard at just the mere thought of his twin settling a hand on his back. 

What’s almost worse is how totally oblivious Constance is to his internal struggle. As much as it shames him to think such things, Ford would’ve thought that she would’ve picked up on his proclivities, seeing as their father seems to share them.

Ugh.

Their father.

Any mention of the man has Ford clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. Rage boiling just below his skin. 

He cannot hide his disdain for his father anymore. It leaks out into every interaction. Ford has become more volatile, glaring, and starting arguments over arbitrary things. The only reason he’s not punished is because his father knows that Ford is not above cutting him off in the future, knows that Stanford holds the weight of money over his head. He feels intense satisfaction over this; to see his father squirm is a great joy.

The one thing that Pa fights Ford on these days is the time spent with Constance. Not overtly, no, it's a completely silent affair, but a fight all the same. The glares exchanged every time Ford finds an excuse to take Stan away are evidence enough of that. 

But there are only so many excuses to get Constance out of the house before they start to thin out. 

“We have a project to work on at the school.” 

“Stan has work or boxing.”

“I promised Stan I would help her with her homework tonight.”

All made up on the spot to get his sister away from their conniving father. Stanford knows his father is suspicious, the way they went from barely speaking two words a day to spending each and every second with each other, but he does his best to keep his sister out of sight and out of mind. Stan is extremely grateful; he never gets tired of her thank yous and the resulting hugs (and on one memorable occasion, a kiss to the check. Ford had to rush to the bathroom directly afterwards.)

This lasts for two whole weeks before it all goes wrong.

…

“Stan! We need to go work on our final project!” Ford shouts the completely fabricated excuse to get Stan to come downstairs. He walks to the fridge and takes out the cream sodas he bought earlier today as a surprise for Stan. He imagines they’ll go and sit at the Stan‘OWar to watch the sunset and drink them, she’ll be so excited. Cream soda is her favorite. 

The sound of retching catches Ford’s attention. The sounds are clearly female, and their mother is back helping Shermie pack for his trip home, so it can be no one else but Stan. He quickly sets down the drinks on the kitchen counter and goes to bolt to the bathroom to aid his sister, concerned she may be ill, but stops dead when his father walks out of the bathroom. He is buckling his pants, and with just a glance, Ford can tell he is loose. Less tense than how he regularly holds himself. 

Ford feels that hot, boiling sensation rising to the surface, bubbling, steaming, and blocking everything else out. He’s so furious he contemplates strangling his father then and there. 

Ford stomps the path to the bathroom, and doesn’t think as he shoulder checks his father as he passes. They are of similar heights now, and Ford has broadened significantly in the past few years. Though he is nowhere near the size of his father yet, the action still sends them both stumbling minutely. 

Filbrick looks back at him at the same moment Stanford does, looking down his nose at his son. He is unperturbed by the fiery glare Ford shoots his way, and he scoffs mockingly. Ford seethes, but forces himself to push forward, to get to Constance. She is more important than whatever dick measuring contest he and his father are having. 

His father disappears around the corner when he gets to the bathroom door. The door is slightly cracked, but Ford knocks softly, regardless. 

“Stan?” He calls softly, and the answering sob has Ford tearing open the door. 

Constance is kneeling, hunched over the toilet, dry heaving. Ford rushes to her side, careful to be gentle as he crouches next to her and lays a hand on her arm. Her hair is a complete mess, as if someone had been pulling it, maybe gripping it. When Constance is able to sit up properly, he can see that her face is a mess. There are tears streaming down her face in a pool, dripping and dispersing on the front of her shirt. Her nose is running, and there is spit trailing down the corner of her mouth. When Ford glances at the toilet and sees only a white substance quickly dissolving in the water, his blood catches aflame. 

He knows exactly what happened here.

And his father had made sure he knew it, too. Parading around so smug and unbothered. 

A soft whimper pulls Ford’s attention back to his sister, and his heart splinters in his chest when he sees she’s folded in on herself, as if trying to make herself smaller. 

“Oh, Leigh…” Ford’s voice is a whisper, pity and anger heavy on his sternum.

Stan looks up at him through teary eyes, wide and haunted.

“I just needed to use the bathroom.” Her voice is so small, so defeated, that it has Ford reaching out for her instantly, pulling her into his lap. 

She doesn't sob like she had that night two weeks ago, just shudders in his arms as he hushes her softly. 

Ford’s legs have gone numb by the time Stan rises. She wipes her eyes aggressively, rubbing her face and hissing when she passes across her open lip. Ford is quick to stand and snatch her hand away from her face, where she continues to poke and prod. “Stop that.” He demands, but keeps his voice low. Stan scoffs, rolling her eyes, but relents, letting Stanford rest her hand back at her side gently. 

Stan grips one arm with her other hand, and she refuses to make eye contact with him. They stew in the silence. Ford cannot think of a single thing to say to comfort his sister, and he hates himself for it. 

“C’mon, Six.” Stan mumbles and pushes past him to leave the bathroom. Ford scrambles to follow her as she heads for the stairs. He snatches the sodas from the table at the last second before trudging up the stairs after Constance. 

The quiet that has overtaken them is as cloying as heavy smoke when he shuts the door to their shared room. 

Stan’s figure is tense; he can see the hard line of her shoulders, and she’s breathing hard, body heaving with each breath. She’s turned away from him and is facing their window. 

Ford seems to have been rendered mute. He can’t think of anything to say, as awkward as he’s always been; it should not be unusual, but this is Stan. He had never had trouble speaking with her, and he was disappointed in himself for his lack of comforting words.

Stan turns, “What’cha got there, Six?” She questions, stepping towards him. Ford stutters for a moment before clearing his throat, hopeful this will improve her mood, if only the slightest bit, “I–um bought some cream sodas for us today, I know you like them.” 

Stan freezes for a moment before her entire face crumples, and Ford immediately tries to backpedal, afraid he had done something to upset her, “Ah, Constance, I’m so sorry, I thought you liked–” 

Stan shakes her head aggressively, “No, no! I love cream soda–just,” her face breaks out in a radiant smile, so fetching it makes Ford’s breath catch in his chest, “Thank you, Sixer. Seriously.” She levels him with her gaze, eyes full of sincerity, as he holds out her drink, and she takes it from his hand gingerly. 

The silence is back, but it’s less burdened now. With little preamble, both break into their drinks, each bottle sizzling with carbonation when they manage to undo the caps. Ford eyes his sister discreetly over the top of his glasses as she takes a large sip. She groans low in her throat and tilts her head back, her grin large and loud on her face. 

Ford distracts himself from the sounds coming from her and the image of her neck tilted up and bare by picking at the label on his bottle. His face floods with a familiar heat, and he takes a sip of the cool, bubbly liquid in hopes it will bring down his temperature. 

It doesn’t take long for Constance to finish her drink, always one to chug instead of savor, no matter how much she enjoys the drink itself. With a thunk she sets her empty glass on their desk before leaning against it, arms braced behind her and facing toward him. She keeps eying him, her gaze darting to and fro before landing on him each time. It makes him want to squirm, unsure of the reason for her studying him in such a way, but he holds firm. He keeps picking at the label of his soda, the condensation making the paper damp, when he hears a quiet, “Fuck.” 

He glances up to regard his sister with a raised brow, before he sees the look in her eyes. There are tears that she hastily wipes away with her palm, but underneath the wetness is an expression he can only describe as longing. 

“Fuck!” The shout has Ford flinching backwards, almost dropping the nearly finished soda in his hands, completely caught off guard by the unforeseen outburst. 

Stan begins pacing, a hand gripping her hair in a tight fist. “Fuck–Fuck!” She growls out through gritted teeth, eyes alight with something deep. Furious and harrowed and completely helpless. Constance kicks the edge of their shared bed so hard he hears the wood creak, and with no warning, she begins tearing at everything she can get her hands on, shouting and thundering around the room in a flurry of movement. Ford is stunned, frozen before he sees her try to punch the wall and is kick-started into action like a racehorse let loose from its stall. “Stan! Stan, stop!” He interjects, grabbing her arms and forcefully pulling them behind her back to stop her from injuring herself. 

She struggles for a second, still spitting and cursing. But Stan eventually goes limp, falling back into him, her back pressed against his chest. He slowly releases her arms when he’s sure she won’t start another rampage. He can feel the moment Stan tenses, and he gets ready to stop her from starting up again, but she just shrugs him off.  Ford stands there helplessly, eyes catching on the destruction of the room when he realizes that even amidst her breakdown, she had made sure not to touch anything of his. Even under such stress, she had avoided everything that belonged to Ford. It opens a warmth in his chest, completely at odds with the situation at hand. 

“Fuck,” She repeats for the umpteenth time, and she falls to the ground with a thump, bringing her knees to her chest and putting her face in her hands. Her face now covered, he can’t make out her expression, but he can see the harsh rise and fall of her shoulders.

He truly has no clue what set her off, but he sits down next to her slowly, careful not to startle her. “Stan…” He begins softly, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder in a show of comfort, but his eyes widen when she pulls away. He had never known Stan to deny physical affection, and it sends a flash of alarm through him (along with a short stab of hurt, but he ignores it). 

“You don’t want to touch me, Ford,” Stan mumbles into her knees, making sure to turn her head away from him. 

“I’m disgusting.” She says it so firmly, like it’s a fact. It sets Ford’s blood aflame that she could think such things about herself, but moreover, he’s more upset about who had been the one to make her think such things in the first place.

Ford cannot stop the scowl that overtakes his face, voice hard as he says, “What Pa does to you does not make you dirty–” 

“This isn’t about Pa, Stanford!” Constance exclaims, her tone is heavy, laden with guilt. 

“I’m sick!” Stan shouts, voice gone shrill, “I’m sick.” Her voice is so disgusted with herself, so full of acid, he can almost see the way it burns her throat. 

“Stan, what are you talking about?” Ford questions, he hates to see this self-hatred from her, how it leeches that beautiful joy from her frame and leaves her so sullen and heavy. Stanford reaches out his hand again, but Stan seems to anticipate the move and slaps the offending appendage away. 

“You can’t do that. You can’t keep touching me, Ford, ya can’t.” Stan’s volume lowers to that of a whisper, “I can’t keep letting you touch me when you don’t know how awful I am.”

Ford is struck with confusion, and then a flare. A flare of something he had never let himself feel before. A small spark of hope. 

“What? What makes you so awful, Stan?” He tries not to let his hopeful desperation shine through, but he isn’t sure he succeeds, but Stan is so caught up in herself that she doesn’t notice. 

“I–” She scoffs and looks to the ceiling, eyes welling with fresh tears, “You’ve been so nice ta me lately, Ford. Real nice. Ya always let me hug ya, or just feel ya, and I guess I got my wires got crossed, I dunno. I just– I love ya so much. Too much for a sister. Guess the apple don’t fall far from the tree, huh?” She looks at him and tries to joke, but her voice cracks, betraying her. 

The speech was inelegant and stilted, but Ford had stopped breathing, mouth agape. His twin seems to take his silence the wrong way, and she breaks out into a sob, “Moses, Ford, I’m sorry. I know it’s bad enough I’m lettin’ Pa fuck me. I shoulda never said anything, ’ I’m so sorry–” 

Ford scrambles into action, forcing himself in front of his sister and taking her face in his hands, much less gently than he would have liked. Her watery brown eyes are blown wide, and he meets them intently. 

“Do you mean that?” Ford’s voice is near manic, his hands shaky where they hold his twin’s face, but he needs to feel her, to know this is real. 

“Moses, Sixer, don’t make me say it again.” Stan pleads with him, small and broken, still under the impression that Ford could somehow be disappointed, maybe even disgusted by her revelation. Moses, as if. 

He needs to fix that now. 

Ford feels all logic burn out and leaves him as he shifts forward and places a kiss on his sister’s lips. The angle is awkward, her knees still up and Ford half splayed on his side, but he has never felt so at peace and so at odds with himself ever in his life. He can physically feel Stan’s breath catch in her throat, the soft curve of her cupid’s bow, the slight roughness of her lips from being out in the sea-salted air so often.

It’s more a brush of lips than anything, but when Ford pulls back and sees his sister’s eyes, the way she stares with such wonder and hope, it lights that fire in him. 

He’s burning in the best way, and he never wants it to end.

“I love you too,” Ford says it like the fact it is, “too much.”

Stan practically tackles him with how fast she springs forward to slide her lips against his. He falls backwards, managing to catch himself with his hands behind his back. His sister crowds into his space, as if a second away was torture. They fall into an addictive rhythm, lips fumbling and greedy, both clearly have no idea what they’re doing, but the slick push and pull was something Ford never wanted to stop for anything in the world. 

Eventually, the pair has to pull away for air, panting breath mingling where they stay so close together. Ford’s brain has officially turned to mush, and all he can feel is the overwhelming sensation of delight as he takes in his sister’s kiss-bruised lips and the dopey grin that has overtaken her face. He leans forward to press a more chaste kiss to her lips, soft but full of meaning. Ford’s arms ache where they hold his and half his sister’s weight, and Stan seems to notice this as she stands and pulls him up by the arm hurriedly, guiding him to her bunk, and he sits without complaint (or choice, really, seeing as she shoved him down). 

Ford’s mind short-circuits for what seems like the millionth time today when his twin crawls into his lap, legs bracketing his hips. He can feel every inch of her as she leans forward to press her chest flush with his. He wraps his arms around her middle without thought, and revels in the pleased hum it draws from Stan. Constance leans down a bit due to the new height difference, face mere centimeters from his, and even though they had just kissed moments before, he feels his blood race and face heat to have her so close, so all encompassing. 

“Pa doesn’t kiss me.” Stan starts, voice low, “I always wondered what it was like. I’m glad it’s with you, Sixer.” She finishes and looks away, but keeps her face close. 

And the statement is a bit stilted, as if Stan regretted saying it the moment it left her mouth, but to Ford, it’s absolutely perfect. To know Pa had so many of Stan’s firsts, but not this one. His father may have gotten to Stan before him, but not this one thing. Ford cannot help the rush of vindictive pride, and he basks in the victory of it all. Ford rushes forward to claim her lips in his once again. His sister must not have been expecting it, as she gasps, and Ford takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside her mouth. The taste of cream soda and something distinctly Stan is heavy on his tongue, and the whole affair is hot and wet. Stan’s teeth graze his bottom lip, and Stanford lets out a groan, low and guttural, from the base of his throat. Stan has a physical reaction to the sound, grinding her hips downward, and the resulting sensation lights every nerve in Ford’s body on fire. He moans loudly, too blindsided by what’s happening to be embarrassed by the sound, and Stan lunges forward to suck on his tongue as if she plans to devour him whole, swallowing any noises he makes as she continues to cant and twist her hips. 

They finally pull back the action of separating from Stan physically pains him. They’re gasping, both flushed down to their chests, and a string of saliva still connects them, the visual so obscene it makes Ford twitch in his pants, Stan obviously feels it as she immediately breaks into a series of giggles. Ford huffs, but his breath catches in his throat when Stan lowers her head to rest on his shoulder, turned so that her hot breath tickles his neck. “This is crazy. We’re crazy.” Constance says breathlessly, and no, nope. Ford would not second-guess this, no matter how immoral it truly is, and he would not let his twin either. 

“I don’t care.” He does. Oh, he cares so much, but not when he knows she feels the same. Every moment he spent agonizing over his feelings, completely wiped away by her reciprocation. Cleared like a forest after a wildfire, razed down but left to start anew. 

Stan raises her head to look at him, and Stanford places a quick kiss on her lips before he moves his mouth away from hers to trail across her cheek and down her neck, the feel of her soft skin under his lips dizzying. The resulting shudder as he lightly nips at her skin makes a thrill of satisfaction run up his spine. 

Ford wants to mark her up, wants to wipe away the fading bruises he can see– wants to replace them with marks of his own. Stanford thinks he’ll do just that. 

With little preamble, he sucks at his sister’s neck with a single-minded determination he usually reserves for particularly hard math equations. Stan gasps, the sound directly next to his ear. She reaches up to grip his dark hair, keening and tugging at his curls while he licks and sucks at her pale skin. Ford can’t help the moan punched from his gut, never having even thought that his hair could be an erogenous zone. Stan slots her head between his shoulder and neck, and he can feel the grin on her face. She noses the underside of his ear, and suddenly she tugs his hair hard. 

“Ah! Hnn–” Ford groans loud and long, and Stan uses her tight grip to maneuver his head to the side to give her better access. She mouths at the skin below his ear and nibbles his earlobe, pulling small sounds from his throat as she works. With a wet pop, she pulls away from his neck and she cards her hands through his hair, now gentle. 

Constance then places her hands on his shoulders and grinds down directly onto his erection. Ford’s eyes shut of their own accord, but he forces them open a moment later, intent on seeing every expression that Constance makes. Stan’s face is flushed, biting her lip as she pushes her hips against his intently, obviously getting similar amounts of friction by the blissed out look that has overtaken her face. 

Once Ford has cobbled up enough brain power, he thrusts up to meet Stan’s hips, the resulting pleasure and loud gasp he gets make him groan in turn. 

They stay like that, rutting against each other with wild abandon, both a mess of sweat and shared pleasure, long enough that Stanford can feel the familiar tightening in his gut. 

“S-Stan, wait, I’m–” Ford doesn’t get to finish when Stan retaliates by grinding down harshly, rutting against him with a renewed fervor. “Stan!” Ford exclaims, hands coming to grip her hips tightly.

“C’mon, Sixer.” Stan whispers directly into his ear, “You can come for me.” She practically purrs, and Ford is like putty in her hands, as he chokes and comes in his pants with a shout of Stan’s name. It should be gross, disgusting, but the pleasure is not like anything he’s ever felt before as Stan continues to thrust against him through his orgasm. When he comes down enough to see straight, Stan is just barely rocking against him, whimpering slightly. He knows she still needs to get off, and the sight of her desperately panting and squirming is enough to make him twitch in his soiled pants, even amidst the overstimulation. 

“Leigh...” Ford breaths, voice hoarse. He leans forward to press a kiss to the side of her mouth. Stan sighs and leans back a bit, arms connected behind his head, a small smile gracing her face. 

Her hips are still twitching, but she stops them, the act obviously difficult, “That good, huh?” Stan teases, but there’s an air of disappointment, like she expects him to leave her wanting. 

Ford’s grip on her hips turns bruising, and he raises his hips to meet where he knows she needs him most. She hisses, “Y-You don’t gotta–” Stan begins to explain herself, but Ford is having none of it. 

“I want to.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument, and Stan shivers in his hold; it sends a spark of something unidentifiable down his spine at the realization that she could be so affected by his tone alone. 

Stan’s responding smile is soft and just a bit sad, “You’re too sweet ta me, Pointdexter.” Her voice is one that suggests that she doesn’t feel she deserves the kindness, as if his wanting to please her (and a bit more selfishly– wanting to have all of her in every way) is some kind of insane request that she does not deserve. 

“Constance,” Ford decides to continue; wants her to know how he wants everything she would give him, “I want you. To make you feel good, too. As long as you want me.” Ford takes one of her arms from his shoulder and laces her fingers with his, six encasing five.

Stan breathes in shakily, and she squeezes her hand where they are interlocked. She meets his eyes, something vulnerable sits there, and before he can dwell on it, Stan pulls back, but not to leave. Constance pulls her shirt over her head, and Ford’s eyes widen comically, unable to stop his eyes from darting downward to his sister’s chest. Her bra is white and lacey, just a bit too small, and making her cleavage practically burst from the garment. It looks painful, but he can’t help but appreciate it. Stan reaches behind herself, and he hears the soft unclip as she unhooks the material, letting it fall to the ground behind her.  

It doesn't matter that he just came; he can feel himself rapidly hardening in his ruined pants. 

He’d always had an unhealthy… proclivity for Stan’s breasts. It started when he was very young, when Stan was just developing. Doing everything he could to catch glimpses of them whenever they would change in their room together, could never look away when she would come back from her job at the beach in just her swimsuit. It was perverted of him, he knew, but it was a special form of torture as she tended to wear low-cut shirts whenever she was able. 

But this is not brief glances or subtle peaks, no, her chest is completely bare to him, and he thinks he may pass out. They’re beautiful, a slightly different shade compared to her tanned arms and face, nipples are a pretty pink. They look so heavy, and he wonders now if he shouldn’t have rolled his eyes and brushed it off when Stan would complain about her back hurting. 

Ford can’t help himself and presses his face between them, looking up at his sister through his (quite comfortable) spot between her breasts, arms wrapped around her middle. Stan chuckles lowly, fond exasperation overtaking her expression. Ford is too content to feel chided by her obvious amusement. Soon her giggles peter out, and Ford knows he probably looks like a lovesick idiot, but Moses he is a lovesick idiot.

Stan's expression shifts from amusement to something deeper. Her eyes are lidded, and her small smile is soft. It's affection laced with something more potent. With a jolt, Ford realizes it's desire that marks his sister's expression. 

It takes his breath away that she could want him as much as he wants her. No matter what had already transpired, it’s still a shock. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be over the rush of knowing that this is real. 

He reaches his hands up to touch, but hesitates.

“You can touch em’ I don't mind,” Stan says thoughtlessly, as if she hadn't just given Ford everything he's ever dreamed of in one simple sentence. 

He takes both breasts in his hands, his large palms able to fit them comfortably. They’re so incredibly soft, probably the softest things he’s ever felt. He feels Stan push into his six-fingered grip as he begins to knead them, swiping a thumb across a nipple breath catching as Constance lets out a short whimper. Stan begins to fumble with the bottom of Ford’s shirt, tugging it up. It takes all his willpower to pull his hands away and lift his arms to make the removal easier for her. He’d never felt a particular way about his body before this; he’d always been a bit scrawny, but over the last few years, he’d slowly been filling out, looking more and more like his father as time stretched (he tried to ignore the feelings this brought out in him). But right now, he hopes he’s not a disappointment to her.

All thoughts of such things vanish when Stan moves forward, and her bare breasts are suddenly flush with his own chest. He feels himself blush all the way down to his chest, red and burning, and he can feel it then. His hunger for her was insatiable, and he needed her now. He needed her to continue to stoke the flame she had started in him until all that was left were ashes. Stan’s soft palms began to trace his arms, his chest, his stomach, anything bare she could reach. 

Stanford doesn’t think as he tugs on his sister’s shorts, reaching to discard his own. Stan stands hurriedly, shucking off her shorts and panties as fast as humanly possible, and Ford is not far behind, his soiled pants and boxers soon gone. His cock meets the cold air, completely hard once again and leaking, the remnants of his cum drying around him, not helping the frigid nature of the bedroom. 

He chances a glance at Stan as she goes to walk back towards him and is instantly hypnotized. Her pale skin, spattered with freckles and moles, one particular birthmark in the shape of the constellation Gemini stark on her left forearm. His eyes glance downward, and the pubic hair she sports is dark and curly, and it suits her so well. He can see a faint sheen on the inside of her thighs. He knows that she’s wet, wet for him. He can’t tear his eyes away from her for even a second. 

Suddenly, the sound of a snap gets his attention. Stan is looking at him, expression lust-filled as she takes him in, but also embarrassed. 

“You’re staring.” Her blush is a beautiful dark pink that brings out the deep brown and flecks of maroon that color her eyes.

“I’m appreciating,” Ford states and drags her back to the bed with him. She yelps but giggles soon after, but instead of the same position they were in before, Stan maneuvers them so that they are fully in the bed, her hand pressing Ford down into the mattress as Stan straddles his thighs. The view of her atop him is fantastic and causes him to twitch into the open air. 

Stan is hesitant, but she takes him in hand, and Ford is none too embarrassed by the low keen he releases as she strokes him gently, and he twitches hot and heavy in her palm. Stan’s eyes are blown wide and full of a sort of astonished wonder. “Fuck, Sixer, I love the noises you make.” Her voice is low and gravely as she grips him harder and pumps a bit faster, spreading the precum that had gathered at his tip with her thumb. 

And then she’s guiding him to her entrance as she positions herself above him. The second she begins to sink onto his length, he nearly blacks out, the searing wet heat of her so transcendent he has to physically hold himself back from coming again so early. Stan lets out a long moan, head tilted forward so her hair falls into her face, obscuring her face from his vision. She continues to take him inch by inch, and her hand has turned into a claw on his chest, leaving a faint trail of raised skin that he knows he will be sporting with pride later. When he’s finally fully sheathed inside her, they both let out a breath in unison. 

“Fuck, Six, you’re big.” Stan breathes out in a whisper, voice cracking and shaky as she adjusts to the stretch. The words send a warm wave of pride through his mind that he refuses to analyze too closely.

Stan braces herself with both hands on his chest, and she shoots him a quick, hysterical grin as she rises off his cock and slams back down. Ford chokes and grips his sister’s wide hips with both hands and hangs on for the ride. Constance doesn’t stop to take a breath, riding him like she was made for it, bouncing up and down on his dick in a fast rhythm. Stan works her thighs, shaking with the effort, and Ford can do nothing but take it as he groans at each drop back down onto his cock. She squeezes around him so perfectly, they fit together like a puzzle. How he’d known they’d always fit together since the moment they were together in the womb. The pleasure burns through him so hot and all encompassing as Stan rocks her hips, deep and sinful, and amazing. 

“Fuck Stan, just like that–Leigh, just like that. You feel so good–” Ford babbles and the resounding moan and incoherent swears he gets in turn to the praise makes his blood sing in his veins. 

Ford brushes his thumbs across his twins’ hips and makes a decision, canting his hips upwards to meet the harsh downward weight of Stan’s bouncing. 

Stan lets out a guttural noise, something small and choked that is so at odds with her usual behavior that it stops Ford in his tracks. 

Stanford freezes and grips Stan’s hips tightly, stopping all movement, “Stan? Are you alright, dear?” He questions hastily, he would never forgive himself if he had hurt her in this context, not when she’s been so hurt by it all these years. His mind races, but Stan clenches around him, and he growls deep in his throat. 

“You didn’t do nothing, just–” Stan’s eyes are clenched shut now, and when she opens them, she meets his eyes intently, “You’ll–you’ll be nice about it? If I say stop?”  The question is vulnerable in a way Stan rarely is, so with all the necessary care, Ford takes her face in his hands and puts as much sincerity as he can into his answer. “Of course I will, Leigh.” 

Constance’s entire frame shudders, and the two moan in unison as the action sends bolts of pleasure shooting through them both. 

“Move–move! Stanford, goddamm, it I swear–” Stan’s pleading is cut short as Ford wastes no time driving his hips up into her tight core. Their foreheads are pressed together, and he can feel every one of Stan’s hitching breaths on his face. Stanford pushes himself faster, deeper into his twin, chasing that pleasure that has encapsulated them both. He chases that fire with a single-minded focus, and he changes the angle of his thrusts slightly, wrapping his arms around Stan and dragging her closer to him. Stan wails at the sudden change, completely giving up on keeping up with Ford’s pace. She trembles in his arms as he jackhammers into her sweet, dripping cunt, and all he can think about is how she’s finally his. His Constance, his Leigh, his.  

“Moses, Stan, you take it so well, so good for me.” He punctuates the statement with a particularly hard thrust that has Stan arching into his hold and moaning more high-pitched than he had ever heard her. “How are you so perfect? S-So perfect for me, my dear. Just for me.” He growls out the words, low and ragged as Stan bears down on him with a wanton cry. 

“Yours! Yours, Sixer–Sixer!” Stan shouts, and that vindictive part of himself knows she’d never say such things for their Pa; it fuels that burning, and he slams up into his sister with a choked moan. 

He can feel his orgasm quickly gaining on him, and his hips stutter. “Stan, I’m going to–I need to–” 

“In me! In me, please, Ford, I need it!” Stan practically screams, and how could he say no to that? He’s not sure he’d ever be able to deny Constance anything in this state. With a few more shallow thrusts, Ford comes, hot spurts filling his sister to the brim. He feels Consatnce’s orgasm wash over her in turn as she clenches around his cock deliciously, rutting on him as she rides through her own bliss and milking him for all he’s worth. Stanford stays buried deep inside her tight heat, not yet willing to let her go just yet. Stan collapses on him and her full weight knocks the breath from his lungs, but he just holds her tightly. 

They both pant and tremble in the aftershocks, and soon both are able to come down to earth. Ford looks at his twin in their matching set of brown eyes and can’t feel anything but that same desperate, all-encompassing love he feels for her every day of his life. And he knows she feels the same when that same feeling is reflected back at him through matching eyes. Ford smiles and Stan grins, tired but satisfied, spent but completely at peace. 

Ford goes to pull out, even as it pains him to do so, but is stopped by Stan. He looks at her questioningly, and she flushes a beautiful crimson. 

“Can we stay like this? Just for a while?” She asks, and Ford melts. 

“Of course, Stan.” He goes to kiss the top of her head, and Stan sighs happily. He knows this is horribly irresponsible of them, truly could mean the worst, but a dark part of him hopes it takes. Then Stan would be his in every way imaginable. But the consequences of what they had just done feel far away, and he enjoys the heat of the connection they share, still deep inside her and too content to protest. 

Ford turns them to their sides without pulling out, making the position more comfortable for him and his lover. Stan tucks her head into his chest, and Ford wraps his arms around her, happy to hold her close. 

The flames usually so present are now just embers, and Stanford has never felt more content as he drifts to sleep with Constance a comforting weight in his arms.  

[beelaboratory]

Bottom Stan Week!

Day 7: Lingerie

Fem Stan is a bit embarrassed. I think fem Ford is having a blast, however (,,>﹏<,,)

[beelaboratory]

wrote a lil somethin' for bottom stan week! Today's day six which means BODY WORSHIP aka my absolute jam. I decided to get a bit abstract with it for funsies.

(-> 4k of post-canon, established-relationship sea grunks 🩷 featuring insecure stan, deus-ex-mechanical failures and thighhhhfucking~)

Lights Out

Stan and Ford are halfway through a seemingly never-ending game of Crazy Eights when the subtle thrum from their generator hiccups, thumps, hisses and goes quiet.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Stan says as he lays down the fifth eight of the deck within the last couple turns.

Ford would have called him out for cheating, but when the lights flicker out, plunging them in an all-encompassing darkness, he has bigger complaints to air out.

“Damn it Stanley, I told you to fill up the generator with gas the last time we were at port!”

Ford hears Stan give a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, well if I’m remembering correctly, you were the one interrupting me with some technical mumbo-jumbo when I was trying to do it!”

Ford massages his temples in a half-hearted attempt at self-soothing. “Alright, alright. Bickering won’t get the lights back on. Come on, we’ll sort this out in the morning when we have natural light to work by.”

Ford can’t see how Stan reacts, but he can hear his all-too-familiar grunt of approval.

Odds are that the generator was on fumes, the real question is why the backup generator failed as well, and in the case that both died they may need to invest in some new power blocks…

Ford stands, but without the visibility provided by the ship’s overhead lamp maneuvering out of his chair has him bumping his hip and whacking his elbow into the table with all the grace of a newborn deer.

Stan hears his unfortunate scuffle and gives a deep chuckle. “Having trouble there, Poindexter?”

Ford rolls his eyes, a gesture that conveys nothing when Stan can’t see him do it. “I’m perfectly-”

Ford trips over something, knees coming down hard against the wooden floorboards. He catches himself with his hands before his head can hit the floor too.

Stan laughs harder, and can he really blame him? He seems to have an unfortunate knack for comedic timing.

Ford feels the tips of his ears burning. “Yes, very funny. Please do laugh at my misfortune like an unruly schoolboy.” Perhaps the dark isn’t so bad if his brother can’t see the embarrassment on his face.

Stan snorts, and a few wayward bubbles of laughter follow. “Sorry Sixer- let me help ya.”

Ford sits up, reaching for the vague direction Stan’s voice is coming from.

Their hands immediately find each other, as if pulled together by forces neither of them could hope to understand- they’re twins, and something even closer than that- so Ford doesn’t question the way his six fingers know their way to Stan’s and knit together with his five, it’s simply a fact of life.

The touch is comforting, almost enough to dull the sting of shame from floundering around in the dark.

Stan pulls him to his feet and steadies him with a hand at his waist. He’s gotten used to the roiling of the boat atop the waves, so why do his legs suddenly feel like jelly?

“Thank you, Stanley.” He mumbles under his breath.

“Anytime, doll.” The husky rumble of Stan’s voice is much closer now, right against his ear. With his sight impaired Ford’s hearing must be heightened, because just those two words send shivers down his spine.

Stan tugs Ford forward, and he follows after him blindly, trusting he won’t be pushed over or run into any more table corners. “We might as well hit the sack- not gonna get anything else done anyway.”

Ford should probably focus on keeping his footing, but his attention is drawn instead to the point of contact between them.

His thumb skates across the arch of Stan’s hand, running along his knuckles. He can feel a barely raised scar running horizontally across the top that he’s never noticed before. Maybe it’s too faded to see- maybe he never bothered to look. “Whatever you say.”

In the dark the callouses of Stan’s hands are more prominent, the planes of his palm more defined. His hands are those of an artist, a craftsman, a mechanic. They tell the story of someone who has worked hard and made their fair share of sacrifices- more specifically, they tell the story of Stanley’s sacrifice for him, his brother.

But if Ford follows that trail of thought he’ll surely find himself falling again, this time in the same guilt trap of regret that’s had him in its grip for the past year and a half.

Tonight is not the time to work himself into another fit of apologies- he promised Stan he wouldn’t do that anymore anyways…

So for now he’ll just be thankful that Stan used those calloused, rough hands of his to pull him back from a life of tireless dimension hopping, or in this case, to their shared quarters.

The Stan-O’-War’s hallway is loaded with knickknacks and trinkets from their various expeditions, and as the two make their way to the bedroom something is knocked off the wall. It clatters around before Stan accidentally steps on it, causing it to snap.

“Whoops.” Stan says with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’m sure whatever it is just needs a bit ‘a superglue- that stuff hasn’t failed me yet.”

Ford chuckles too, thinking about the impressive assortment of taxidermy that Stan managed to fill the Shack with while he was gone. For all they know that glue was the only thing keeping the business afloat, keeping their dream alive. Ford is thankful to Stan, and to superglue.

He smiles wide despite the damage, almost giddy that Stan can’t see the sappy reminiscing on his face. He wouldn’t call himself a closed off person, but showing his emotions wasn’t exactly encouraged when the two of them were coming up, so he usually finds himself suppressing his more sensitive reactions. Things are really changing nowadays, and always for the better.

They stumble as a unit, knocking down a few more knickknacks off the wall.

The dark is nostalgic in a way, reminding him of a much simpler time- when their Ma would turn out the light and he and his twin would put together their own sleepover. Ford would sneak his flashlight underneath the heavy plush comforters of Fort Stan and read comics while Stan kept him entertained with hasty scribbles to accompany his spurious spooky stories- it was the perfect escape, definitely worth the risk they took of falling asleep during class the next day.

Ford’s fingers smooth their way up Stan’s arm, tracing the bulging veins in his forearms made prominent from manual labor. It’s easy to get lost in that touch, fingertips skating across every uneven bump and wisp of hair. His brother is a fascinating creature, certainly worth more careful research.

Stan reaches the door to their cabin-Ford can tell because he lets go to push it open.  They only part for a moment, but when Stan reaches back for him it makes Ford cling even tighter.

His brother shoves aside the clutter on the ground as they walk. He most likely kicked their belongings going by the sound of the clothes and pencils that go skating across the carpet. “Moses, I’d like to know which knucklehead left all this crap on the floor. Damn tripping hazard even without the lights out.”

Ford smirks, unable to let go even if he didn’t need Stan’s help finding his way around. “That would be you, darling.”

“Well, that explains it.” Stan says with a cheeky lilt to his voice that says he knew all along.

It was strange at first sharing a room with his brother after being apart for so long, but they stepped back into it so naturally that Ford almost couldn’t believe they’d ever stopped. Stan still left his clothes on the floor and Ford still covered every surface in books and notes and journals, they were habits neither of them were soon to break, and surprisingly Ford has missed his other half’s quirks- even if his half-finished craft projects got in the way sometimes.

Stan moves past the mess and leads Ford to the side of the bed before sitting down with a grunt.

“Last stop, cuz I ain’t feelin’ my way to the bathroom, you can figure that out on your own.”

But Ford still stands, somewhat awkwardly clasping to his brother.

“You can let go now.” Stan says but makes no move to disentangle them.

Ford is grateful for the unintended privacy awarded by their current circumstances, because he must look like a fool trying to formulate a response that doesn’t make him sound like a lovesick puppy. “What if I don’t want to?”

Stan doesn’t immediately say anything. Without being able to read his facial expressions Ford can’t tell if that’s a bad thing.

“Then c’mere.”

With a wave of relief Stan pulls him closer, practically on top of him as he leans back in the berth of the boat.

Ford cozies up next to him, pressing against his side and holding their closed fists to his heart.

In the black night the world seems quieter. The usual noise from their environment fades away, and Ford feels his focus entirely, completely, fully on his brother.

With their bodies so close together he can easily tune in to Stan’s steady breathing, the even beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest against Ford’s cheek.

He wants to savor and analyze every bit of it, but he wants more than that too…

Ford spreads his fingers, and Stan mirrors the motion. They bring them together the same too, and Ford is reminded once again that the parallels between them will always be stronger than their differences.

But then he takes the initiative, hooking his fingers around Stan’s wrist and holding him tight before running them down his arm. The soft cotton of Stan’s pajama shirt sleeve catches him before he can get further than his elbow, so he digs his fingers underneath and appreciates the warmth lying below.

His other hand wraps around Stan’s hip, and his thumb slips just barely under the waistband of his boxers.

“Heh, getting’ handsy there, aren’t ya?” Stan mocks with no bite. “Like a teenager trying to cop a feel in the back of a movie theater.”

Ford flushes.

Is that what he’s doing? Is this moment so charged because of the allure of ‘getting away with it’ so to speak?

He lets his hand continue to roam in sensory exploration, until he can cup the soft yet sturdy flesh of his brother’s bicep.

No, it’s not that. This is something more… reverent. Stan is his best friend, his everything, and he ought to know just how thoroughly Ford adores him- every part of him.

He squeezes Stan’s arm and revels the way he can feel him flex under his touch. “I’m simply… loving you.”

Stan lets out a huff of air. “Heh, I get it.” He shifts again, putting space between them that Ford chases to fill. “Must be nice not to have to see this ugly mug once in a while… I guess I could get used to sex in the dark.”

Ford’s heart twinges.

There it is. That painful self-conscious doubt that clings to Stan like a dark shadow, haunting him despite the reality of the situation.

“No.”

Ford’s refusal is probably not as strong without the grimace that goes with it, but Stan still jolts slightly from the force of his conviction.

His fingers curl tighter around Stan’s shoulder and hip, pressing him close. “How many times must I tell you you’re beautiful before you believe it?”

Stan’s breathing is uneven now, his heartbeat arhythmic. “Just cuz you say it doesn’t make it true.”

Ford pinches him.

Really, his brother is being so difficult.

“It is true- it’s always been true!”

“Yeah, yeah…”

He doesn’t know how many more ways to say it, doesn’t know the magic words that will shake Stan of his misplaced body shame. Stan is the one who’s good at talking to people and getting a point across, but if all he has are his words then Ford will continue to try…

“I’m not attempting to engage in intercourse because the lights are off, Stanley- it’s because I’m so irrevocably attracted to you that I simply can’t keep my hands from your person! I love the way you look, and I love the way you feel- and the way you make me feel…”

There’s a pause before Stan speaks.

“…So you are trying to have sex with me?”

Ford groans, dropping his head to Stan’s chest.

“I can tell you’re being purposefully obstinate- but I can’t understand why.” He raises his face only to drop it against his brother’s sternum with more force. “You’re so incredible, Stanley. I only wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Stan coughs awkwardly. “Well technically I can’t see anything right now.”

That’s the last straw.

“You stubborn, gorgeous idiot.” Ford grates out. “You brought this upon yourself.”

Stan makes a questioning little grunt before Ford straddles him, successfully pushing out a louder sound of surprise.

“What’re you-”

Ford feels out the hem of Stan’s shirt and lifts it all the way to his collarbone. “Appreciating your body, because you refuse to do it yourself.”

Stan doesn’t have a snappy retort for that one.

So Ford lays both hands on Stan’s stomach, feeling the beautiful, soft expanse of skin for the marvel it is.

Stanley is hefty and strong, he’s always had bigger arms and a bigger chest- it’s one of the first ways their bodies began to really differentiate. Ford can recall a few too many days spent ogling his brother’s changing body, wanting to feel those differences, and fighting off much-too-strong emotions that threatened to surface and overtake him like a literal wave of lust.

He had repressed those desires back then, but not anymore.

He squeezes Stan’s love handles and makes a satisfied noise, rocking just slightly on Stan’s lap. Like this he can focus on every little sensation, and against the pads of his fingers he feels stretch marks- smooth, subtle grooves of slightly raised skin that wrap around Stan’s sides. He traces each one he can find and whispers soft words of praise.

“You’re so gorgeous, Lee. So sexy.”

Stan whines like he always does when Ford attempts to shower him with affection. But Ford knows his brother too well, for as much as Stan protests, he needs the reassurance.

He travels higher up Stan’s body, along the middle of his stomach until he can palm through his coarse chest hair and cup his full pecs.

Ford doesn’t have a favorite physical feature per say…. But Stan’s tits might just take the figurative cake for the most addicting thing to play with.

Stan’s supple breasts are like putty in his hands, and he kneads and massages them to his utter satisfaction. When Stan’s breaths come faster he pinches his nipples, just to hear the way his brother comes apart.

“Shit, Sixer-” Stan’s voice is strained, and comes out even raspier than usual. “You trying to rile me up?”

Ford smirks. “Is it working?”

“Damn straight.” Stan mutters. “Can I get a kiss before you make me cum or is that too forward?” His nonchalant attitude would probably work if Ford couldn’t hear the earnest want in his voice.

He shifts on Stan’s lap, hiking his legs further up the bed so he can easily lean down to kiss him, but his aim is slightly off and he instead presses a kiss to the bridge of Stan’s nose. They both chuckle before trying again, and this time their lips lock together in a kiss that’s light but laced with desperation. The stubble along Stan’s jaw feels sharper, adding to the heightened sensation.

As they continue to kiss, Ford's hands come up to comb through Stanley’s gray curls, carding through the soft locks from his temples down to his shoulders. He’s been growing it out for more than a year now, and his hair has never looked so beautiful and long and windswept and perfect.

After a few more increasingly deep kisses he pulls away to press his lips to Stan’s throat, sucking and nipping at the tender skin there. At the same time he gives a slight tug to Stan’s hair making him gasp.

“Stanford.”

He can feel the way Stan’s adam’s apple bobs against his mouth when he swallows.

“Yes, love?”

Stan shifts underneath him. Then there are hands at his hips, firm holds that ground him even further into the moment, they feel like hot irons against his skin.

“Don’t stop.”

Ford wouldn’t dare.

He continues to leave kisses along Stan’s neck, down to his collar bone and then his chest, he goes further- to his belly and even lower- his lips follow the trail of coarse body hair until he reaches the wiry fuzz just above the waistband of Stan’s boxers.

He hasn’t touched him there yet, but he’s happily surprised to find Stan hard and tenting in his boxers.

He pulls the waistband down and lifts himself up and off his brother so Stan can yank them the rest of the way down his legs. He tries to sit back down but Stan stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Nuh-uh, buddy. I’m gonna need you to even the playing field here a little first.”

So Ford obliges, shuffling out of his sleep shirt and throwing it somewhere to the side, possibly on the floor. He goes for his pajama pants next, shimmying them down before they’re caught around his knees.

It feels different stripping when Stan can’t see him- part of the enjoyment usually comes from Stan’s reactions and the way his eyes rake over him, but like this he can focus more on himself, and less on any potential reaction. It’s… actually nice. Ford isn’t overly self-conscious, but it’s hard not to focus on the scars and embarrassing tattoos that cover his body, even if his brother has mentioned he doesn’t mind them…

Oh…

He's been a bit of a hypocrite then, hasn’t he?

 “Are you naked yet or what?”

Ford rolls his eyes, once again not very helpful in communicating anything at all. “Eager now, aren’t we?” He sits between Stan’s legs, but otherwise keeps his hands to himself.

Stan humphs. “Hey, I wasn’t the one pawing at you like a horned up t-ohhh fuck!”

Ford’s lips wrap around his brother’s cock- it’s even better when Stan can’t see it coming, getting to draw out a surprised moan like that.

He gives a few licks to the head before taking him deeper. He focuses more on the taste than usual, salty- and a bit addicting to be honest. Ford doesn’t give head that often, but when he does it’s always such a pleasing experience, drawing those noises out of Stan and watching as he falls apart.

And plus, he wants to appreciate this part of Stan especially, wants to feel the thick weight of him all the way down his throat. It’s a sensory smorgasbord.

He rubs his thumbs into the divots of Stan’s hips as he bobs his head. Stan makes a litany of pleasing sounds, babbling into the night air like he’s rehearsing a prayer.

“Shit, fuck, Ford-“ He bucks his hips and Ford just barely pulls off enough to prevent himself from gagging. “God- Ford. A-are you gonna fuck me? Cuz I ain’t gonna last like this.”

Ford pulls off entirely, licking his lips. “There’s a novel idea.”

“Nerd.” Stan pulls him up by his hair, getting a teeny bit of payback for before. “I ain’t asking you twice.”

“Needy.” Ford says, but he stretches his way toward the edge of the bed to grab the lube just the same.

His hand swats at where the nightstand should be, and at one point his fingers make contact with something hard but it topples over and onto the floor with a bang. (Most likely a book left on the edge- that could be either of their faults…)

He continues feeling around for the drawer, but to extend his reach he has to drop to his elbows, and their fronts brush together.

All that skin-to-skin contact feels divine- so he soaks it in, draping himself across his brother and holding him tighter.

He would continue his search, but when Ford accidentally rocks their hips together and it leaves them both gasping as their cocks make contact, he gets distracted.

“Fuck, just-” Stan moans when Ford leans forward again and their cocks grind together. “Nngh- do that- do that more.”

Ford gets a better idea. He grabs Stan behind the knees and carefully hoists his legs up in the air, pinning his thighs together.

“How about this? Can I fuck your thighs?”

Stan groans his approval. “Fuck- yes- please.”

Ford uses one hand to hold Stan and one hand to stroke himself, he spits in his hand to get just a bit more lubricant before happily sliding himself between the soft skin of Stan’s thighs. He moans at the heavenly feeling as he grinds forwards and back, letting his jaw drop open as he lets out repeated grunts of pleasure.

And then he gets the angle just right, massaging himself between Stan’s thighs and successfully grinding against his brother’s cock when he pushes all the way forward.

“Fuuuck, Six- feels amazin’.”

The sensation sends a shiver of pleasure down Ford’s spine. All that friction in just the right places… a bit of precum leaks from his tip, leaving a wet streak against his brother’s skin.

Stan squeezes his thighs together tighter and the pressure increases to a level that has Ford seeing little stars light up in the dark.

It’s not easy to keep his composure like this, not with the dirty sounds and the way Stan has him locked in place, milking him for all he’s worth. Each sensation feels strengthened by the deprivation of his environment- and with just a few more clumsy thrusts he feels himself already teetering on the edge of an orgasm.

But his brother beats him to it, shaking and moaning and twitching against him as he comes. Usually there’s some visual cue- some warning, but now they’re reduced to the physical- the minute tremors in his thighs, the shaky exhales that signal he’s reached his climax.

He feels Stan’s release rub against their cocks, slickening his thrusts and smearing across the sensitive skin of his dick. If he wasn’t close before this surely would’ve been enough to drag him over the edge.

As it stands, he’s desperately trying not to cum- just to experience a few more seconds of this heaven on earth- his cum-slick cock rubbing between Stan’s thighs and giving him an overdose of serotonin that feels downright overindulgent.

But he can’t hold off the tidal wave of his satisfaction, and soon his hips are stuttering as he loses his composure. The blood rushing in his ears seems louder, the pressure at his groin stronger, and his peak is imminent. He lets his mouth fall open, rambling. “I’m close- oh Stanley! I love you, I love your body- your thighs- I love-fuck-”

Stan only squeezes him tighter, caging his cock between his supple thigh meat. “Do it, cum all over me. Show me how much you love me, Sixer.”

Ford loses all restraint at that, grunting forward with one last uncoordinated thrust before he spills over onto his brother.

His legs can barely keep him up, and he quivers as he comes down from his powerful orgasm.

It’s amazing, and more intense than he thought possible.

And he wants to say something sappy, the kind of thing that Stan will complain about and call him a sentimental knucklehead for but that they both know needs saying anyway. Something like 'I don't need to see when I already have the light of my life-'

But then the lights come back on.

It’s nearly blinding at first- being in the dark for that long had his eyes adjusting to the low light, so being suddenly assaulted by the overhead lamp has his pupils shrinking to pinpricks and leaves him blinking through a series of colorful afterimages and black spots. The jump from a post-coitus bliss to an all-out assault on his senses makes him groan in discomfort.

But after suffering through the pain of his overtaxed photoreceptors Ford is finally able to see clearly.

And the sight is breathtaking.

Stan is still splayed out against the pillows, cheeks ruddy and flushed as he rubs at his eyes. His gray curls are mussed and sticking up at odd ends, messy and loved thoroughly by Ford’s fingers. His chest is tinged pink and sheens with sweat as he takes deep breaths, his shirt is still rucked up and only kept in place by his gorgeous swollen chest. Ford looks down at his brother’s stomach to find it splattered with white-a mix of his and Ford’s release, and Stan’s cock is still flushed and draped against the curve of his gut.

When Stan lowers his hand Ford gasps.

His face, his expression- it’s almost too much.

Stan looks so cheeky and satisfied, and the line of drool running down his chin is more than enough evidence of his submission to debauchery. Not being able to see his descent makes the redness of his lips and the hickies blooming at his throat even more noticeable.

He’s perfect.

“Heh. Watch’ya starin’ for Six? You look like this is the first time you’re seein’ me like this.” Stan’s voice is hoarse from overuse. It’s incredibly hot.

“It may as well be.” Ford says, unable to keep the reverence from his words. “You’re so enchanting I feel as though this is the only sight that matters.”

When Stan genuinely smiles and blushes at the praise, Ford takes that as a well-deserved win.

He’s not going to solve all of Stan’s body issues today, and chipping away at that shame piece by piece will take a lot of time and effort.

But luckily, that’s exactly the thing he wants to dedicate himself to- he always did love a challenge, after all.

And worshipping each and every beautiful part of his brother’s body has never felt like more of a privilege.

[beelaboratory]

Observant & Impatient

part 2

Fem!Stan Pines x Filbrick Pines

Summary: Filbrick wouldn’t say he was attracted to Constance exactly; he was her father after all, but Stan was growing from a girl to a woman in record time. He watched and he waited and he noticed. Filbrick was an observant man, but he was not a patient one. When he settled on what he wanted, he did not waste time. WARNING 18+ CONTENT, DUBCON: Filbrick Pines POV, parent/child incest, major dubcon/noncon, underage, neck kissing, vaginal sex, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, praise kink, manhandling, child abuse, angst, porn with a little plot, stancest is here but very minimal AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once again, crossposting this from ao3, and I will probably be posting the latest part directly after this lol! I really wanted to get into Filbrick's mind in this, and I remember really wanting to strangle him even as I was the one writing him this way haha (˶˃⤙˂˶)

Filbrick Pines was a man. He was large. He was tough. He was stern. He was strict. He didn’t cater to the sensitive nature of others. He was often called unfeeling by his wife. Everything he was supposed to be. 

Filbrick Pines is also observant. But he is also a man. So when he started paying more attention to his youngest, it was difficult not to notice her coming into her own so completely. 

Filbrick wouldn’t say he was attracted to her exactly; he was her father after all, but Stan was growing from a girl to a woman in record time. He watched and he waited and he noticed. 

He was observant, and he underestimated how much his daughter had taken after him. He knows that she was suspicious of his sudden involvement in her life. He wouldn't say he’d been completely uninvolved previously, however. He was present when the twins were young, but Filbrick was a busy man. As the years went by, he spent less and less time around his children, still there to discipline them when necessary, but nothing more. 

He knew what had changed. He wouldn’t delude himself into thinking he was some saint. His daughter had grown. She grew into a woman with ample breasts and hips and a plentiful stomach that the girl's mother couldn’t stand. But while she was a pretty little thing, what truly stood out to him was the shift in her eyes. The cleverness he could see was stored behind years of faked stupidity. 

Unlike the rest of his family, Filbrick could see past his daughter’s well-tailored suit of deception. He was observant. Stan had been on par with Stanford intelligence-wise late into their elementary years, but one day it had changed. She had fallen behind on purpose to let her freak of a brother shine and let him think it was all his own doing. Although it doesn’t truly matter, given how she’d let her smarts go so early, she was truly struggling now. She had always been a slower learner than her twin, but she could understand just as much, tough to say if that was the case anymore. It had taken him a while to see it, to understand his daughter was not just a bumbling idiot who didn’t know left from right. He wasn’t sure that wasn’t what she was turning into, however. It was a bit pathetic, but there was at least one thing she was good at. As she aged, she got better and better at lying, at hiding, so like her father without ever knowing it. She was made from the same stuff he was, and maybe that’s what really caught his attention.

She was better at talking back, better at weaseling her way out of punishments on technicalities, better at knowing just what to say and when to say it. She was not perfect, though. Filbrick could see through her games as easily as looking through a glass door, but she had everyone else fooled, and that’s what drew him in.

Filbrick was observant, but so was his daughter. She knew he was interested in something, wanted something from her, and she wasn’t wrong. Filbrick was a man, and he wanted what any man did. 

So Filbrick came back. Came back into her life with a harsh hand to quell that cleverness. To turn it into something useful. As much as it drew him to her, there was one thing he wanted from her more; something that he could never seem to have. Obedience. His wife was obedient, his sons even more so, but never her, never Constance. It was hilarious and pathetic that his daughter could have more balls than her brothers. It was as captivating as it was infuriating. She would go behind his back, talk back to him, and it would flame the embers of fury and desire all the more.

Filbrick was an observant man, but he was not a patient one. When he settled on what he wanted, he did not waste time. 

Punishing her was easy, as it had been all her life. She was a born troublemaker, and it was child’s play to catch her in moments that warranted harsh words and even harsher acts. But he did not send her to her room or let her mother comfort her afterwards, no, he took care of that himself. A novel change for him. He was never one for platitude or acts of kindness; no point in something that would gain no results. But he knew his daughter, more than she knew, and he could see her brighten with every caress and whispered comfort. 

He didn’t plan to touch her that night. Filbrick was furious, angrier than he had been in a good while, and when he bent her over his knee and felt her weight against him, felt the heat of her body, the careful control he’d been maintaining snapped like a taut rubber band. 

Filbrick was loath to lose control, something he hated more than anything, but who else could tempt him so? It was no surprise that he caved. 

And to be fair to himself, she was the one in one of his old shirts, hadn’t even bothered to change for the day, nipples showing through the fabric and pale thighs on display for all to see.

But he had only touched her, didn’t even fuck her. Oh, how he had wanted to, to take her right there, sitting in his lap, twitching and making such sweet sounds, but Filbrick had regained control of his passing fancies.

Filbrick knows this was the turning point, the point of no return, but he was not upset by the fact. He could teach her what he wanted her to know, could make her understand that he could not only bring her pain, but pleasure as well. That she could be rewarded for being good, just as she has always been punished for being bad.

Filbrick was a man of action, and he could teach his girl whatever he wanted, and he knew she would take it. 

Filbrick was observant, and he saw how she craved for it, craved for the attention he gave her. What, with the girl’s mother pulling away so early and her own twin abandoning her for his books. 

Filbrick knew his daughter, and he knew she was truly his now in all the ways that mattered. 

…

After that first night, she had been twitchy, probably taken aback by his actions. Always keeping Filbrick in sight, at arm's length. Always sticking by her twin or mother. But they could not stand her clinging for long, and soon Filbrick had his chance.

…

Constance is washing the dishes, her curly hair a mess and falling down her back in waves of dark brown. Filbrick knows his wife is in their shared room, preparing for the day. Stanford is upstairs with his nose in a book or whatever it is he gets up to.

Filbrick gets up from his seat at the dinner table, taking his time stepping behind his daughter. He can feel Stan tense and stop washing as Filbrick moves his hands to his daughter's hips, leading them to rest on her stomach and lace together. He lets his head hook on one of her shoulders. He has to lean down a bit due to the height difference, but it is worth it to feel her body heat pressing against his own. 

“Keep going.” He says with no inflection, just a demand.

Filbrick can see his daughter swallow nervously as she continues to wash the dishes, speeding up her work slightly.

It makes Filbrick want to chuckle. He doesn’t. 

They stay like that until Stan is done with the washing. She had unconsciously pushed back into Filbrick, practically melting against him, and if he were a lesser man, he would take her then and there. 

But he is not stupid, and that is a line he cannot cross. Not yet, at least. He can hear his wife's footsteps approaching, and he reluctantly pulls away from his daughter's back. 

When he steps back, he can see Stan's eyes darting this way and that, wider than normal and sporting an expression of quiet confusion. 

She's shaking a bit. Either from the sudden cold or from fear, he doesn't know.

He guesses that from her point of view, he must seem unpredictable. He can't bring himself to care.

Filbrick walks away to open the pawnshop for the day, catching a flash of brown as Stan makes her way up the stairs hurriedly.

…

It goes like this for a few days. He touches her when he wants to, a hand on her shoulder, her neck, her hips. Just lets himself hold her, feel her whenever the mood strikes. Filbrick had never been a particularly touchy man, but something about his daughter made him want to grab her and never let her go. 

He can see the shift in her behavior. She’s no longer scared of it, the brief touches. Practically seeks it out, and why wouldn’t she? So robbed of touch these past years, it’s no surprise. 

He’s a bit surprised she hasn’t brought up that night yet. Maybe she’s embarrassed, maybe she’s afraid, or maybe she’s waiting. Waiting for what he’ll do next. But his girl is a loud-mouth, no amount of lectures or the switch has ever been enough to correct that mouth of hers, so it wouldn’t be unusual for her to bring it up to him. 

Ah, he’s been thinking about her mouth too often lately. Filbrick’s never been one for oral, but in his daughter, he could see the appeal. 

She hadn’t inherited her mother’s thin lips, no, they were full and tinted a dusty pink even without the red she tended to paint them. He could imagine it then, those lips stretched wide around his cock, the mess of drool that would run down her chin. He would pet her hair and whisper encouragements in soft tones, if only to keep her placated. She would be inexperienced, a bit too messy, too sloppy, but she would try so, so hard for him, just like she had that night strewn across his lap, taking it so well for her Pa. 

But it was just a fantasy, and one he wasn’t sure he could indulge in. Because touching her was one thing, it wasn’t sex. Not really, anyway. A blowjob was a bit more involved, and so was fucking her, but God, how he wanted to.

He needs to get out of his head about this, or he's going to pop a boner in the middle of the fucking pawnshop. He huffs to himself and resigns to another day of conning to put food on the table.

…

It gets harder and harder to stop himself. He knows he doesn’t truly need to; he can do whatever he wants to his daughter, but he is not stupid, and he knows the implications of his actions perfectly well. 

Constance is chatting with her brother in the living room, her voice loud and jovial, as she recalls a clearly embellished tale from her lifeguard job at the beach. 

Her hair is frizzy and large from the salty ocean water, still clad in her bright red two-piece swimsuit. It hugs her broad frame tightly, pushing cleavage forward, making it practically spill out from the garment. Her bottoms do nothing to hide the generous fat of her stomach. He wants to remove it and see the red indents he is sure the suit will have left behind. 

Filbrick leans against the doorway, arms crossed, not bothering to follow her story. He notes the red flush of his son’s face, the way his eyes dart to and fro. 

Hm. 

He and his son may be more similar than he thought.

Filbrick moves into the room slowly, and the twins' eyes are on him immediately.

Constance smiles when she notices him, the grin she sports is lopsided and showcases the one dimple she has on her left cheek. It’s awkward but genuine. 

“Hey, Pa! I was just tellin’ Ford about my shift today–” Filbrick didn’t bother to listen to whatever inane shit his youngest got up to, instead he took a seat next to her on the couch to watch the television. 

This wasn’t new for her, the rambling. He’s sure he might’ve smacked her for it in the past, but he couldn’t find it to be annoyed with her right now. 

With little thought, he drapes his arm across the sofa behind Stan, hand resting on her shoulder. She pauses for a second, eyeing him with a look of thinly veiled apprehension, looking at her brother for a second before continuing her story, her voice a bit more strained. He liked the sound of it like that.

He begins to run his thumb across Stan’s shoulder in small sweeps, making the girl’s voice hitch. 

Filbrick can feel eyes on him, and he turns his head from where it was focused on the TV screen to look over. Stanford is looking at him. The older man raises an eyebrow from under his sunglasses, and the boy looks away quickly. 

No need to worry about him, then.

…

It wasn’t more than a week before Filbrick needed more.

He was not and had never been a patient man.

His wife was gone for the weekend, maybe even longer, out to visit Sherman and his wife to help with their newborn. 

Stanford was in the twins’ shared bedroom. Filbrick could hear the persistent tapping of his son's foot, something he did when particularly focused. Filbrick needed to get him to stop such annoying habits.

Filbrick was closing the pawnshop for the day when Constance walked through the door. Her hair was a mess as it always was when she got back from work, but what caught his eye was the rapidly swelling hand imprint on her cheek and the bloody knuckles she was sporting.

“I thought I told ya no more fights,” Filbrick said, voice stern and annoyance clear. 

“Didn’t wanna.” She mumbled, trying to make her way into the house, but Filbrick blocked her path.

“Stop mumbling,” He snapped sharply, voice rising. “What happened?” Filbrick was not asking; the demand she tell him was clear.

Stan shuffled her feet a bit before answering, not meeting his eyes.

“Some shmuck grabbed me on my way back from work. Told him ta knock it off. Didn’t like that, I guess, I dunno…” She mumbled again, making his temper flare, before he saw the distant look in her eyes. 

Maybe grabbing isn’t all the mystery man tried to do. 

Filbrick hummed in acknowledgment. 

“Can I go, sir?” His daughter asks, her voice is quiet but firm. He doesn’t appreciate the attitude, but he supposes he can let it slide for now. 

“Come with me.” He says simply, Stan trails behind him slowly as he leads her into the bathroom. Filbrick can see her confusion, but he just holds out a hand expectantly. She seems to get the message and puts her hand in his. He turns it around and sees that the damage to her knuckles isn’t bad, mostly superficial. The mystery man must’ve been easy to put out, then.

He takes her to the sink and grabs a washcloth. His wife will complain about the stains.

He maneuvers his daughter so she is in front of him, and he stands over her from the back, not all that different a position from the one they were in in the kitchen days before. He can see the pink spreading to her cheeks.

He rinses her hands first, the angle making it easier for him. He ignores the hiss of pain he gets from the action. He is not gentle when he whips the remaining blood from her knuckles with the washcloth, but he does ease up when he applies some ointment to them. Stan signs in relief at the treatment.

This is the most gentle he's been with her in years. He's surprised to find he doesn't hate it.

Filbrick runs his thumbs over her knuckles a few times, not moving out from behind her. She’s wearing her usual white tank top and jean shorts; he can see the hint of red where she has her swimsuit on under her shirt. 

Filbrick doesn’t think as he goes to move Stan’s hair to one side, exposing her neck to him. With little preamble, he leans down, breath ghosting her throat, not yet touching but close. He sees her full body shiver and feels satisfaction, a hot and quick rush to his system. 

Didn’t even have to do anything special, and she has him feeling like this.

He's sure his mustache is tickling her, but she doesn't move away from him. Not like he'd let her.

Filbrick can't recall the last time he'd felt the need to lay claim to something so completely. He examines the girl's neck and the skin that's revealed therein. The usual pale pallor, slightly tanned from her time out in the sun, the light dusting of freckles, the occasional mole, something she inherited from him. 

He kisses the mole right between the junction of her neck and shoulder before moving upwards to the side of her neck, ghosting there for a second before he starts to mouth at the soft skin. 

“Mm!” He can tell the sound embarrasses her, the girl’s face turning a bright shade of red. As red as her swimsuit. 

The girl gets into trouble so often that no one will notice a few new bruises. 

His daughter scrambles to grab his shoulder when Filbrick begins to lave with his tongue and suck harshly, not bothered by the thought of the dark hickeys he knows will be prominent tomorrow. 

He continues like this for a while, drawing soft moans from his daughter's throat that she tries to stifle to no avail. 

Filbrick soon releases his youngest’s neck. Stan’s arm is still clutching his shoulder, squeezing and releasing. He’s amused to find she’s rubbing her thighs together in search of a friction that won’t come. 

He forgets she’s a teenager, excited by the simplest things. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he wants to indulge her. Wants to indulge himself. 

She’s desperate for it, and he’s happy to let himself finally give in. 

Filbrick takes Stan’s hand off his shoulder before he steps back slightly. He grunts at her and motions with his head for her to follow. She understands and walks after him, face aflame.

He leads her to his and his wife’s shared bedroom. Constance hesitates in the doorway while Filbrick goes and sits on the bed, the springs creaking with his weight.

He can see the swirling emotions clouding her dark brown eyes. The fear, the apprehension, the desperation. He wants to replace that conflict with something much more streamlined. 

“Come here.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. 

Constance's gaze snaps to him, and she seems to steady herself before making her way over to him. She sits down next to him, but that is not what he wants.

“No. Here.” Filbrick pats his lap as one might when calling over an animal or pet of some kind. 

Filbrick’s throat hurts. He’d been talking more often; more than he had his entire life, if he had to guess. Constance seemed to bring out his need for speech. His wife knew what he liked, what he wanted, with just a grunt or a look, but it was taking time to train Stan. She had always been a slow learner, and Filbrick was not a patient man, but he held no qualms in taking the time to teach her, to truly break her in. 

He catches the moment of realization as Stan's face floods a beautiful crimson. 

She's been uncharacteristically silent these last few interactions they've had. He doesn't mind the quiet. 

With little fanfare, she crawls onto his lap, straddling him. Her movements are stilted, as if she can't decide whether she wants to run away or give herself to him completely. He's not sure she knows either. 

Stan's hands come and rest on his shoulders, lacing behind his head. Filbrick places his hands on his daughter's wide hips, and to feel her solid against him again is fantastic. He feels like an idiot for thinking such things, to be so affected by his girl, but he can't bring himself to be too upset, not when he finally has her like this.

He starts to stroke up and down her flank, feeling her up while using the movements to keep himself grounded, no need to rush. 

But Filbrick is not a patient man, and so he careens his head up to suck more hickeys into the bottom of his daughter's jaw. 

She gasps at the sudden sensation, and he hears her whimper of pain when he tongues over one of the forming bruises he gave her earlier. 

His hand trails over the side of her neck to the back of her head, holding her in place as he does what he likes to her soft skin, his head traveling further and further down until he's at the bottom of the neckline of her tank top. 

“Off.” 

“Pa, I-” Stan starts but tapers off, biting her lip and looking to the side. 

Filbrick reaches up and takes off his sunglasses to see her better in the dim lighting of his bedroom.

Stan stares at him, mouth parted in quiet shock, before she gets a hold of herself and tries to finish. 

“I'm- I've never-” 

“I know, doll.”

He does know. Would’ve been furious if she had. He knows she’s been hanging around that Carlos boy recently; best to end that now. She won't need anyone else after this. 

He doesn’t bother waiting any longer, gripping the bottom of Stan’s tank top and tugging it swiftly over her head.

She yelps and goes to cover herself, but Filbrick grabs her arms forcefully.

Her eyes are wide and startled, afraid. He doesn’t reassure her; he’s getting impatient.

He places her hands back on his shoulders; the look he gives her makes it clear she cannot move them. Her nod of acknowledgment is shallow and timid, so unlike her usual self. 

Filbrick can see the little confidence she had earlier fizzle out, and he feels a rush of something unidentifiable at the observation. Best for her to be cowed; to know who’s in control.

He hums quietly, appreciating the sight of the bright red swimsuit top against his daughter’s pale skin. Mostly clear, hints of the beginnings of acne, a testament to her age. A copious amount of freckles and moles, just like her neck. 

Stan’s hands clench on his shoulders unconsciously, eyes doing their best to avoid his (now uncovered) ones. He raises an eyebrow at his youngest child. 

Her pupils are pinpricks, and her breathing has sped up; she understands what he wants. Good. She’s getting better at reading him. Maybe she’s a faster learner than he thought. 

Constance forces her shaky hands behind her back to unclasp the swimsuit, letting it fall to the ground somewhere behind her. She’s shaking all over now, but stays seated in his lap, doesn’t bolt like he knows she wants to. He’s almost proud.

Her tits are just as gorgeous as he knew they’d be. They’re large, larger than any 16-year-olds have any right to be, nipples dusty pink and standing at attention in the cold of the room. He’d never been one to particularly care about size, didn’t even like huge tits if his wife wasn’t evidence enough of that, but once again, his daughter wears it so well he can’t help but appreciate it. 

He doesn’t waste time and leans forward and sucks a nipple into his mouth. He fondles the other breast, appreciating the curve and softness of the flesh. He kneads it and brushes his thumb against her nipple and nips the one in his mouth, barely grazing it with his teeth. The gasp he gets from the action is loud in the silence of the room. 

He hums, and Stan whimpers at the sensation, pushing herself further into his mouth. He can feel her grind down slightly, most likely unconsciously. He can feel the moment she brushes against his hard on, her body tensing and jolting. 

When he’s had his fill of her, he pulls off with a wet pop. She looks unnerved but tantalizingly desperate. He knows that she needs him even if she isn’t so sure herself.  

With a grunt, he grips her hips and pulls her with him to the center of the bed, keeping Consatnce secure in his lap. 

“S-Shit, Pops!” Stan titters, balking at his strength. If he were a different man, he might’ve been offended. But Constance is not a light girl, so her surprise is warranted. 

He tugs the hem of her jean shorts. The length might’ve been more modest on another girl, but they tend to ride up, exposing more of her thighs than they should. They’re her favorite pair.

He unbuttons them with deft fingers. Doesn’t pay mind to his daughter’s trembling. It’s getting annoying how she can’t control herself. 

Her fear is unwarranted. He’s not going to be too rough with her. 

“Off.” He repeats. He puts a hand to the small of her back, pushing her forward and up. She goes easily, lifting herself and leaning on one of his shoulders for support as he helps her shimmy out of her shorts. She kicks them off to the floor somewhere in the room, jostling them both. 

He sees the red bottoms of her swimsuit stand out against her pale skin, and though the contrast is striking, he wants them off too. 

Filbrick hums quietly as he teases the edge of the material, but a hand stops him. He looks up to see his daughter's eyes, wide and alarmed.

He’s frustrated now, but he doesn’t want to spook her off completely. He could rein in his temper for her; he could control himself like that. 

Filbrick sighs, taking her wrist in his hand, his large, laborer’s hand practically dwarfing hers. Realizing that sends a rush of heat through him; he’s bigger than her, stronger than her, could do anything he wanted to her. But that’s where the careful control he maintains comes into play; he could do anything he wants to her, but he doesn’t; he holds himself back. Accountable. That’s part of the fun.

And besides, he’s touched her there before. She’s being dramatic.

He caresses her wrist with his thumb, making sure to look her in the eye. She’s thrown off by it, so unused to seeing his eyes bare. 

He doesn’t reassure her, but he extracts her hand from his slowly. Carefully. 

When she doesn’t resist, he gives her a rumble of approval that she preens at. His girl is so predictable.

“Come on, sweetheart. Off.” 

The red of her swimsuit has transferred to her face down through her neck and shoulders; it should be pathetic, but it looks striking on her. 

She isn’t confident exactly, still too timid about the situation for that, but she reaches back and takes her bottoms off with his help.

With that act of finality, she’s completely bare to him. He hums his appreciation, it wasn’t even to make her feel better. She truly was maturing so quickly. It’s impressive he’s held out for so long.

He finally lets his hands roam down the soft chub of her stomach and over the gracious curve of her hips, without fabric obstructing the feel of her skin against his. 

The first time he touched her, he hadn’t taken her in fully, had gotten a bit ahead of himself, he could admit. He looks down at the skin revealed from under the suit's bottom. The dark curls of her pubic hair against her pale skin, the few moles he can spot on her inner thighs.

He wants her now. 

Filbrick runs his hands down her sides just to feel her heat. Constance shivers and leans further into the touch. He careens up to kiss her jaw a bit more. She tries to stifle a whine, but Filbrick just sucks harder, and the whimper becomes clear and unrestrained. He likes hearing her; her voice isn’t soft, truly just a slightly more feminine version of her brother’s, but the gravel in it is all her. 

He’s a bit amused with everything. He can tell just how much she hates the vulnerability, how she wants to flee, but doesn’t. Can’t. Too tempted by the promise of the attention she so craves in whatever form she can get it. It might’ve been sad if he weren’t reaping the rewards so thoroughly. 

Filbrick is not going to undress, sees no need. But he does need to free himself from his pants as the material is becoming painfully tight. He’s not embarrassed by his arousal; he’s a man, men have needs, and this is just one of them. His daughter knows this. 

He can see her tense at the sound of the belt buckle, and he lets out a sound akin to a chuckle but not quite. 

He takes himself in hand when he’s finally freed from the confines of his slacks with a quiet groan of relief. 

Constance is staring and blushing like a bride on her wedding night. The comparison makes him let out a genuine short chuckle. More of a release of breath than anything, but it makes Stan’s brown eyes snap to his face, expression unreadable.

For a second, he contemplates how he wants to take her; he’d never been one for anything fancy, just whatever got the job done. He knows he wants to see her face, to watch her expressions. 

The girl wiggles in his lap, impatient, and he gives her a look of short exasperation. She at least has the decency to look ashamed. 

“Patience, baby. I’ll give it to you.” He mutters. Ha. How ironic. 

He lays her down on her back, her dark curls spreading out behind her head like a halo. He gives himself a minute to take her all in. Spread out and ready for him, he knows this was always meant to happen. 

“Pa, I’m–” Filbrick shushes her, he gives himself a tug, spreading the precum that had gathered at his tip to wet his dick a bit. He knows she’ll be wet enough for him, just like she was last time. 

Her legs instinctively wrap around his hips, locking together. He rumbles his approval once again. 

The anticipation is too much. He grabs his dick and guides it to her entrance. 

He finally enters the tight, wet heat of his daughter, and he knows that this, this is what she was made for. She had no need for smarts like her brother. No need for the strength she insisted on pursuing in boxing. No, all she needed was to give him the richness of her body in his marital bed. This is how he would keep her useful; she had no need to be anything else.

“Ah–hah,” Stan’s eyes are wide as saucers, mouth hanging open and making a beautiful O shape. He’s going to fuck her mouth soon. 

“Oh God, Oh God.” His daughter rambles, arms coming up to grab the sheets next to her in a desperate attempt to ground herself. 

“Sh,” Filbrick hushes her, “I’ll take care of you.” 

And that’s exactly what he was doing now, his girl moaning and clenching around his cock so nicely. He’s the one making her feel this way.

God, she’s tight. If he had any doubts, they’re completely assuaged now. He lets himself groan at the feeling, stilling in her, letting her adjust. 

He can see her hitching breaths. He adjusts his arms so they’re placed on either side of her head.

“Pa. Pa.” A broken record. She sounds on the verge of tears, her eyes now clenched shut.

His fragile control snaps. He pulls out, painstakingly slowly, before pushing back in one long smooth stroke. 

Constance chokes and swears loudly, hands rising to wrap around his neck, tugging him closer desperately as Filbrick begins a steady pace.

She’s just as wet as he’d known she’d be, so desperate for it, for him. She’s completely unintelligible now, moaning and clawing at him for more. He complies without complaint.

The softness of her walls draws him in, urges him to pound into her faster, harder, deeper. So he does.

She’s more graceful like this than he’s ever seen her. Undulating her hips up to meet his, his usually clumsy and bumbling daughter, was so in her element. 

Filbrick is breathing hard, the soft body under him trembling and groaning at his pace. The sound of slapping echoed throughout the room, loud and obscene. His daughter’s face is twisted in ecstasy, and he’s sure his is similar, if not more restrained. 

“Ah, ah! Shit, Pa! Pa– please–” She doesn’t even know what she’s begging for. 

He and his daughter are drenched in sweat from the exertion of it all. It makes the slide between their bodies easier. The slick sounds of him sliding in and out of her cunt has him speeding up even more, earning him a high-pitched wail in response. 

He can feel his orgasm approaching slowly, but he can feel his girls coming on quickly. The clenching and increased swearing keying him into her tumble over the edge. 

“Pa! I’m–I’m close, please,” She begs and begs. He grabs her arms from his shoulders and pins them above her head with one hand, forcing himself even deeper inside her. She arches her back at the new angle, keening lowly and shuddering violently, causing Filbrick to swear at the sensation. 

He can tell the exact moment she comes, her entire body tensing, clenching so tightly around him it’s almost painful. Her moan is long and low. A string of ‘ah, ah, ahs.’

She’s drooling, eyes rolled up in her head. Completely debatched by his hand. 

This only spurs him on further, his girl’s expression turning panic-stricken when he doesn’t let up. 

He gives a particularly hard thrust, rolling his hips in shorts, deep bursts. Constance squeals, incapable of focusing on anything but the feeling of Filbrick splitting her open on his cock.

Filbrick can feel his orgasm fast approaching. Stan is screaming in overstimulation as he pumps into her rapidly, a mess of tears and spit, but Filbrick can’t bring it in himself to care. 

“Pa–please, stop, hurts! It hurts!” Stan wails, sobbing and yelping at every thrust. 

He shushes her, bringing his hand, the one not gripping her wrists, to the side of her face, cupping it lightly, a stark contrast to the fevered pounding of his hips. 

Her eyes are glazed and pained in that specific way that comes with the intensity of sex. A perfect brand of pain that he loves to see on her. He hums and strokes her cheek, leaning down to kiss her temple. He angles his hips, and the groan he draws from her at the action is downright pornographic. 

“You’re being so good for me, sweetheart.” Stan stutters out a high-pitched moan and clenches around him again in her second orgasm of the night. 

He gives a few more deep thrusts before pulling out completely. He doesn’t let himself come in her; no matter how much he wants to, he may have given in to his desires, but he can comfort himself with the fact that he did not come in her. He can give himself credit where credit is due. 

He takes himself in hand, pumping a few times before he spills on her stomach, growling loudly as he does. He lets himself collapse next to her, both of them breathless and panting.

His daughter is twitching and shaking, whimpering slightly, completely overwhelmed. He hauls her on top of him and into his arms, her weight grounding. 

She wraps her arms around him, and he splays one hand on her back, the other coming to rest on the back of her head, tucking it into the crook of his neck. He shushes her until she’s no longer making any heartbreaking sounds, her noises eventually tapering off to some sniffling and the occasional shudder. 

He is too tired to get up, and he’s sure his daughter is too. They can clean up tomorrow. 

He situates them under the bed covers, noting his girl has passed out. He follows not long after. 

…

With Filbrick being as observant as he claims to be, he should’ve noticed the tapping from upstairs coming to a halt. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar. 

Stanford Pines stands in the doorway, shrouded in shadow as his father and sister sleep tangled together, a mess of limbs in the sheets of his parents' bed. 

[beelaboratory]

Do you have any dynamics you really like between the twins?

Also does drawing them help with things like art block?

-a fellow artist who is strugglinggggggg <3

Hmm, I have to think on it a bit, but I do have a couple of dynamics that I enjoy more than others with the twins.

I would say some of my favorites have to be 2Fords au, domestic Stan 'O War, ll Era Grunkles, 30s Stan's (the angst is always so good), Creeper Ford/Oblivious (or ignoring it in favor of peace) Stan (I especially love when it escalates and gets scary for Stan), Possessive/Codependent Stans, Fem Twins/Fem Stan aus, Abo universe aus, and so many more I'm not even going to lie.

I'm definitely forgetting a few, and I'll be so mad when I remember them, but yeah! There are just so many good ways they can interact/aus that make those interactions so good.

I hope this is what you meant by dynamics, if not, feel free to let me know and I can answer again lolz (or let me know if you want me to elaborate on some haha)

And yes, drawing them definitely helps me with art block! I tend to do small studies first (things like expressions, busts, stuff like that to get in a good groove) before fully committing to a full piece. I think starting out small and then gradually doing more is really helpful during art block and helps me get out of it quicker. It also helps when it's something you like drawing! I find it so much easier when I'm drawing the characters/dynamics I like!

Anyway, thanks so much for the ask! Hope that art block stops harassing you ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

[beelaboratory]

Bottom Stan Week!

Day 6: Body Worship

Old Ford needs Teen Stan to know how much he loves him even if this kind of attention is a bit…unwanted

I absolutely love old!ford x teen!stan and vice versa, I may write something with them soon

[beelaboratory]

Starved & Saved

part 1

Fem!Stan Pines x Filbrick Pines

SUMMARY: Stan was starved.  Starved for food when her Ma started harping about her weight, starved for time with her twin when Ford became too busy for her, and starved for affection. Affection of any kind, really. She just wanted to be consoled, to be held, to be loved. But she was starved. Starving.  So when the touches started, she didn't mind. Because she was starving for it, and there was no one who could abate that feeling quite like her Pa.

WARNING 18+ CONTENT, DUBCON: porn with a little plot, parent/child incest, extremely dubious consent, underage, corporal punishment, child abuse, non-consensual spanking, smut, vaginal fingering, angst, hints of stancest

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a bit old and crossposted from my ao3 just cause I wanna get all my more problematic content onto this account lol. I'll be posting the rest of the series that's already written as well as a new work for this series soon hehe. I know not many people (even my fellow stancesters) fuck with either of the twins x filbrick, but I really, really wanted to write a very elaborate setup for future stancest so this happened. I'm also just a sucker for fem!stan ♡(˃͈ ˂͈ )

Anyway, hope you enjoy (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Stan was starved. 

Starved for food when her Ma started harping about her weight, starved for time with her twin when Ford became too busy for her, and starved for affection.

Affection of any kind, really. She wanted to be consoled, to be held, to be loved.

But she was starved. Starving. 

So when the touches started, she didn't mind. Because she was starving for it, and there was no one who could abate that feeling quite like her Pa. 

…

Stan was 12 when it all started. When Ma stopped helping brush her hair in the mornings before school. When she stopped letting Stan put her head in her lap while they watched their old-timey TV shows. When she stopped cupping Stan's cheeks in her hands with a, “Oh my little free spirit, so adorable. Gonna knock out all them boys when youse get grown.” Punctuated with a pinch. 

All standard things that stop slowly with age, she supposed. Wouldn't have been an issue, really, if her Ma hadn't started the nagging. With harsh looks and even harsher words, Stan was no longer her Ma's “free sprint” –she wasn't even Stan– she was just Constance. 

“Constance, you stop that unladylike behavior right now!”

“Really, Constance, do ya need another serving? I'm sure you've had enough.”

“That top is obscene! Go change right now, Constance.”

That's when she started to hunger for it. For the love that fled her mother the second Stan began to mature. 

So she turned to her twin. Stanford. Ford. Sixer. They had always been close, a bit too close, she could admit. Close enough that their Ma had caught them tonguing in Stan's bunk after Stanford had read a romance book he had taken from the library, and they decided they needed to know what all the fuss was about.

They had been just young enough to excuse their behavior, but not ignore it. Right on the cusp of too old and on the edge of too young to know better. They had gotten the switch from Pa and a lecture from Ma so intense that Stan was sure she had permanent hearing loss from the ordeal.

While they never tried that again, they were still undeniably close. Attached at the hip, two peas in a pod, and all that. But there was less touching, just overall less in the form of physical affection. Cuddling up together in their bunks and kisses on the head and cheek turned into side hugs and arm punches. Until eventually that stopped too, and Stan was lucky to get a pat on the shoulder from her twin. 

And that was fine. She was fine with that. Ford didn't like to be touched anymore, and she could deal just fine, thank you. They were still close in other ways. She could still read her brother like an open book. She knew his likes, his dislikes, even the feelings he didn’t know how to identify in himself. She knew his soul, and that had to be enough.

Until that, too, started to fade. When he started to eye her with barely disguised contempt, an annoyance that hurt her in ways she couldn't describe. And then it was,

“I need to finish my homework, Constance. Let me work.”

“I have a project I'm working on, can I have the room?” 

“I have to study for our next test. Why don't you go work on the Stan O’ War without me?”

She could feel him pulling away, the threadbare string holding them together on the verge of snapping, and she was lost. She was frantically clinging to the last threads of connection she could get from him because, without Ford, she was alone. Shermie had moved out years ago, and Ma was sick of her for reasons she didn't understand, and Pa– well, Pa was a different story. 

She had never gotten anything from Pa. Never expected anything. Pa had always been distant, more like a ghost than a real, tangible being. 

There was a point, when she and Ford were very young, where he would sit them both on each knee and she would lean into his chest. They wouldn't do much, just listen to his breath, watch whatever was on TV, maybe listen to Ford ramble about whatever his nerd brain had found interesting that day, but they were sweet memories. Cherished ones. Because whenever Pa needed to get up, he would pick them up gently, more gently than Stan can ever recall him being, and then he would ruffle their hair and crack the smallest sliver of a smile. 

But there had also been more…recent developments when it came to Pa. He was becoming more and more involved. He had always seemed to be content to let her do what she wanted. Well, not whatever she wanted–he always let his disapproval of her be known, but it usually wasn’t too big of a deal, but recently he’d been on her ass about everything. She couldn’t even take a shit without that somehow being wrong. From grades to her attitude, it was all unacceptable. He had been lecturing her nonstop and using the switch just as much.  

But it was…different. Different than when she was younger, when he would bend Stan over his knee and swat her, and afterwards she would run to Ma for a hug or would be sent to her room, and he would look down at her from behind his glasses with a look of disdain, evident even behind his shades. No, he had started to be…well, she didn’t really know how to describe it. 

He would swat her, or lecture her, and then he would step close, put a heavy hand on her shoulder, and run his thumb up and down, as if to soothe her. On one notable occasion, he had been particularly hard on her, and she had been crying, trying hard to hold it in, but was unsuccessful. He had reached out and cradled the back of her head in a large hand, and just petted her while she sobbed. And then, voice still gruff but quieter, he had said, “You know why I’m hard on you, hun.” And she had felt a part of herself shake apart, because that’s one of the nicknames he had used for her when she was small; she hadn’t heard it in years. 

And how Stan craved–oh, she craved it more than anything. To have that again. To hear him call her hun and sweetheart, and doll again, to crack a smile and look at her with love instead of the cold glances of indifference she was so used to now. She wanted him to look at her and see something worthy, something he could be proud of. 

Wth a shake of her head, Stan snapped out of her musings with a huff. It was no use thinking about it; she couldn't change it, couldn't fix it. 

So she would just have to pretend, put on a smile, and be her normal, rambunctious self. 

She would go hungry, but she could sustain herself with what little she had. 

Just like always. 

With a groan, Stan stretched, back popping loudly. She stumbled out of bed, hair mussed and shirt rucked up, exposing her ample stomach. 

She didn’t bother changing for breakfast, only in a white tank top and panties. The shirt was large enough to reach just above her knees. It was one she took from her father. It was an old, tattered thing, with a stretched collar that made the shirt hang off one shoulder, but it worked perfectly fine as a sleep shirt.

Stan rubs her eyes tiredly. Thank goodness it’s a Saturday, she’d been busting her ass down at the beach as a lifeguard to save up for the El Diablo she’d been eyeing for a good year now. Today was her day off, and she was determined to make the most of it by lazing about as much as possible.

She and Ford had just turned 16 about a week ago, and she needed her driver’s license once she got her hands on her own car, but for now, she could practice with the family car. She might get that today, after she and Ford did whatever he wanted to do first. She didn’t really care much, and she would drive without a license, but Pa had caught her borrowing the family car one night and had torn her a new one for driving without one. 

Stan heard something smack the ground to her left, and Stan looked over to see Ford, apparently having reached for a book and knocked it off the desk. 

Ford’s face was aflame, his eyes trained on her, unblinking. Stan was concerned for a second before she smirked, placing a hand on her hip. 

“Whatcha doin’ up so early, ya clutz?” Stan questioned a teasing lilt to her voice. 

Ford rolled his eyes before clearing his throat, eyes darting between her and various places around the room.

“It’s 9 am, Stan,” He deadpanned before reaching down to pick up the book he had dropped. “And I’m not a 'clutz', I just got distracted, is all.” Ford finished, placing the book back on the desk with a sharp sound. 

“Yea’? Distracted by what ya dork?” Stan asked, figuring the embarrassment of her catching him being clumsy was getting to him as she saw red creep from below his collar and color his neck. How he could be fully dressed on a Saturday morning, she would never know. Her twin was such a nerd, she thought fondly.

Ford coughed into his fist, adjusting his glasses unnecessarily. “It was nothing, I can’t even recall what what-what it was.” He stuttered and caught her eye, looking down briefly before turning his head away quickly, avoiding her gaze.

Stan chuckled lowly and conceded to torture her twin no longer. “I’m just messing with ya, Pointdexter. Now! What do we got planned for today?” Stan urged.

Ford looked at her, gaze slightly exasperated. “I already told you earlier this week, Ma and I are going to the Young Scientists Convention in New York! Pa finally agreed to let us go, and I saved up enough to pay for entry!” Ford’s voice got more and more giddy as he went on, almost shaking with excitement. 

“Ah, how could I forget! You and your nerd convention! Sucks that I can’t go with ya, but y’know me and science have never been great friends.” Stan says with amusement and adds a wink.

Ford rolls his eyes again, but he’s grinning. “Yes, yes, I know you and science have a very rocky relationship. I’ll be sure to spare you the details of your enemy once I return.” Ford teases lightly, and Stan punches his shoulder good-naturedly, grinning in turn. 

It was moments like these that reminded Stan she still understood Ford better than anyone. This is the first time in a while Ford’s been in such a good mood, and the easy banter fills her enough to keep her empty stomach from stopping its never-ending growling for the morning. 

“Ford! Get your sister up! I’ve got breakfast ready!” The twins turn at their mother’s call and both start downstairs, in an instant race. 

Stan wins, obviously, and Ford pouts (I don’t pout, Constance!)

Ma gives Stan a disapproving look when she sees that Stan hadn’t bothered to change out of her pajamas before serving Ford and her their plates. Pa walks and sits at the table with a newspaper in hand. 

Ma sits with a quiet thump, leveling her with a look and a fork pointing towards her. 

“Alright, Ford and I are gonna be hittin’ the road here right after breakfast. We won’t be back till tomorrow evening, so make sure not to cause too much trouble.” Ma says it teasingly, but there’s a hint of real warning under that warmth. 

Stan nods, “Course, Ma, you know me, never one to cause trouble here.” Stan says unconvincingly, and her mother sighs. 

“Just stay outta trouble for a day. One day is all I’m askin’. You don’t need to be causing trouble for your Pa while we’re gone.” Ma pleads. Stan groans.

“Yeah, yeah. You don’t gotta worry, Ma, I won’t start nothin’.” Stan acquiesces; it’s not like she ever plans to cause trouble, anyway. It just seems to find her. 

“Good,” Ma says with a nod, and she starts to eat. They finish breakfast in silence, and soon it's time to send Ford and Ma off. 

Ford stands in the doorway with a suitcase, and Stan smiles at him. “Have fun at your nerd convention, Sixer,” Stan says, and Ford smiles back at her, obviously gearing up to go. 

“I’ll see you on Sunday! Bye, Stan!” Ford shouts as he’s already halfway down the street on a path towards the bus.

Ma stays in the doorway for a second, “You’re in charge of the chores while we’re gone. I expect ya to make yourself and your Pa some dinner tonight.” Stan opens her mouth to protest, but shuts her mouth at the look her mother gives her. “It’s not that big a deal, Constance, besides it’s good practice for when ya got a husband of your own.” Ma finishes with a slight wistful smile. 

Stan huffs but doesn't protest, knowing it's useless; they've had this argument too many times already, and she didn't wanna keep Ford waiting any longer. 

“Alright, Ma.” Stan mumbles, and Ma pulls her close and kisses her forehead, and Stan preens at the attention. 

Ma gives her husband a quick kiss on the cheek, who was standing next to her, arms crossed. He grunts, and Stan waves at Ford and Ma as Pa closes the door behind his wife. 

Now alone with Pa, Stan turns to him. Pa raises an eyebrow from under his sunglasses and looks at her for a moment before turning away, probably to open the pawnshop for the day.

With a quiet sigh, Stan resigns herself to a day of boredom. She heads upstairs and decides to let herself sleep in a bit more. 

…

When she wakes up again, it’s already 1 pm. She spends the next few hours reading her comics and doodling in her sketchbook before getting the motivation to stop being lazy and do something worthwhile. 

She glances out the window and is surprised to find it’s already dusk, shit, that means the DMV is definitely closed for the day. Stan groans and runs a hand down her face at her own stupidity. 

Stan pads down the stairs and into the kitchen. She needed to make something for dinner, right? Ugh. It’s not like she hates cooking or anything; it’s just such a hassle, and she gets annoyed when Ma insists on it constantly. 

She quickly sets to work making a basic spaghetti dish, it doesn’t take her long at all, and eventually she can hear the sound of heavy footsteps on their way to the kitchen. 

Pa must've gotten done with work in the pawn shop and smelled the food. Stan begins to plate the food, and sweat beads on her neck as she feels the eyes on her back. She really hoped Pa was fine with what she made; she really didn’t want to sit through another lecture.

With quiet steps, Stan makes her way to the table and places both plates down and digs in. The only sound in the house is the clanking of silverware as the two eat their dinner in silence. 

When they finish, Stan takes their plates to the sink to do the dishes. Stan knows her father’s anger would be imminent if she doesn’t do them immediately, and she’s not exactly fixing for a punishment. 

Stan starts on the dishes when she feels a presence at her side. Eyes flicking behind her quickly, she sees Pa, just. Standing there. Arms crossed like always. He’s looking down his nose at her, and he’s really really close. So close she can feel the heat radiating from his body and can hear the faint sound of his breath as it tickles her hair. 

Stan is perplexed and she’s nervous, because what the hell could she have done wrong? Pa being this close is never a good thing. It usually means she’s going to be grabbed by the arm and pulled into the living room so he could tear into her for her latest fuck up, but Pa had never this close before, and for a second she thinks he’s going to step even closer when she feels the air shift, but Pa just grunts and reaches out a hand to give her shoulder a quick squeeze before walking off. 

His way of thanking her for dinner. How he would typically thank Ma. Stan sits in stunned silence, caught mid scrub. She’s less hungry than she has been in a long time. 

She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of whatever the fuck that was. She finishes the dishes and gets an idea.

Pa had to have gone to bed by now, so what if she took the car and planned her route to the DMV, just so she could get the hang of it before she actually went to get her license? The only car left in the drive is Pa’s, and the thrill of doing something she shouldn't is exhilarating; she grins to herself. 

She goes to the front door, taking Pa’s keys from the stand. She makes sure to be as quiet as possible as she opens the door and sneaks outside and to the car. Stan makes her way to the driver's side and unlocks the car door before slipping inside. With a giddy feeling settling in her stomach, Stan goes to start the car when she hears a rapping on the window, making her startle hard.

Stan whips her head to the side to see Pa standing there, arms crossed and expression stormy. 

Stan’s stomach drops instantly, feeling like she had just swallowed a fistful of stones. 

With a harsh slam, the door is ripped open, and Pa grabs her arm in a grip so tight she knows she’ll have bruises tomorrow, and tugs her out of the car. Stan can’t keep back her shout of pain as her dad drags her back inside the house. 

Pa releases her, tossing her into the middle of the living room, and Stan stumbles to avoid falling on her face. 

“What the fuck were you doing?” Pa hisses, voice low and dangerous. 

Stan is terrified because if Pa isn’t already yelling, she’s absolutely fucked. She can feel herself start to shake, but she grips her sore arm to distract herself.

“I just– I wanted ta plan a route, no big deal, Pa, swear.” She appeals. 

“No big deal?” Pa questions and steps toward her menacingly, his figure large and imposing as he towers over her.

“About ta use my car, without permission and without a license, and it's no big deal?” Pa is seething now, voice getting louder and louder. 

Stan is fucked, oh, she’s so fucked, of course Pa is furious, he was already pissed about last time, stupid, stupid, stupid. 

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, swear! I just wanted–” Stan is cut off by a sharp stinging pain as she’s slapped across the face. She cries out, cradling her cheek in her hand, eyes wide as they peer up at her father.

“I don’t care what ya wanted! Why can’t you ever just do what you’re told, you knucklehead!” Pa’s voice is thunderous, and she knows what comes next.

“Pa, please! I’m–I’m sorry I won’t do it again, promise.” Stan pleads. Her father lets out a disbelieving snort.  

He grabs her by her bruised arm, ignoring her pained cry, and jerks her toward the couch. Without preamble, Pa sits and drapes her over his knees. “Underwear.” He orders, and Stan stews in shame. It’s a humiliation ritual as much as it is to inflict more pain, and she feels her face burning with embarrassment as she reaches behind herself and tugs her panties down under her ass. Without pants to cover her legs, she feels even more exposed. She closes her eyes tightly, trying to distance herself from the sensation. 

Pa places a hand on the small of her back, and she braces herself. She tries to keep herself quiet when the first hit lands, the sound of the smack echoing throughout the small room. Stan bites her lip, sure she’s going to draw blood when more hits rain down on her rear. 

She can feel tears prickling in the corner of her eyes when the pain starts to mount. She knows she’s beet red and she can feel the heat radiating off of where Pa continues to smack her over and over. 

She thinks it’s about the time when Pa will have finally worked through his anger, but he just keeps going, and eventually, Stan can’t hold in her cries any longer.

When Pa hears her, he hums, “I wouldn't have’ta do this if you would just listen to me.” His hissed statement is punctuated by a partially hard hit and she’s openly sobbing now.

She can’t make herself stop the flow of tears. Pa had never been this rough with her before. She’s hurting all over, her arm, her face, her ass, she can’t help the tears falling in waves and the pained whimpers that rip from her throat. It’s humiliating, not being able to control herself, not being able to take her punishment with any grace. She was never known for being delicate; she was tough! Or she was usually, so her tears made her burn with shame.  

Eventually, Pa has had enough and stops. Stan is left trembling from head to toe and snivelling pathetically. 

She goes to sit up when Pa doesn’t move for a moment, but is startled when a hand presses on her back to keep her folded over his knee. Stan tenses, terrified it means he’s not done. A panicked sound escapes her before she can get her teeth in front of it.  

Pa tuts, but it’s not the usual cruel sound, it’s tinged with something closer to pity. 

“I don’t enjoy this,” Pa states plainly and starts swiping his thumb up and down on her butt. It stings harshly at the treatment, but what’s worse is the shock. She tries to pull away, nearly hysterically, because what the fuck is going on? She’s so confused and she’s scared, why is Pa doing that–

“Hush.” Pa’s voice is harsh but throaty as he runs the same hand that was just caressing her ass down her clothed back in one long stroke. Stan stops squirming and shivers at the sensation. Her blood is ice in her veins, and she has no idea what’s going on, why Pa is acting this way.

“Y’know I’d never have to do this if ya just behaved, sweetheart.”

Oh, sweet Moses, the nickname hits her like a brick to a glass window. The sound that escapes her is akin to a soft whimper, and she feels the heat flood up her neck when Pa chuckles lowly. She hasn’t heard that sound from him in years.

What is happening, oh Moses, what is happening, what is going on–

Pa’s hand trails down her back again, slowly, ever so slowly, making his way down her back, her ass, and finally to her thighs. 

Stan is snapped out of her stupor when he starts pushing at her thighs, forcing her to part her legs. 

“P-Pa! What are you–wha–” 

She’s shushed warningly as Pa sets his other hand on her abused backside forcefully, a promise of pain. Stan stills. 

“This won’t hurt. Be good for me.” 

Oh, Moses he’s– he’s running a finger down her slit, and she’s wet. When did she get wet?

Why is he touching her like this? He’d–Pa had never done anything like this before. Nothing to even make her suspect–

Her thoughts are cut off as she lets out a sharp gasp when she feels a rush of air hit her entrance. Pa had spread her open with two fingers and was humming appreciatively. Stan’s mouth is wide open in shock, and she tries to turn her head around to look at him, but a hand on her neck stops her. 

Stan’s not even sure he can see her opening from the angle he’s sitting at, but she hears him let out a low groan. Hearing her Pa make a sound like that–her tough as nails, shuts everyone out, barely speaks Pa– so vulnerable and lewd, makes her core spark with heat. 

She’s cold and hot and shaking, and she doesn’t know if this is the worst moment of her life or the best because she’s finally getting it– that attention she’s craved for so long, but she doesn’t want it like this; never like this.

Pa is moving, or rather, his hand is. It releases her folds, and she thinks that maybe this was a fluke, maybe Pa realized he’d gone too far–

Then Pa’s thumb is grinding against her clit. She shouts, heaving forward as the pleasure rushes through her in a wave, clamping a hand over her mouth desperately to muffle her sounds. 

Pa doesn’t let up, massaging her clit with a calloused thumb. Stan bites the meat of her palm to stop her moans, but Pa is quick to pull her hand away from her mouth, a string of spit connects her mouth and hand for a second before it breaks. 

“You can be loud,” Pa says as his hand rests back on her neck and begins massaging it. Stan hums at the soothing gesture. 

Pa is being slow, circling and rubbing, teasing. She’s sure she’s dripping, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry when suddenly it seems like he’s had enough with teasing her, and he pushes his finger inside her in one smooth motion.

His fingers are so much bigger than her own, she’s being stretched so wide with just one, oh–oh–

She was pretty sure she was making some terrible, high-pitched whining noise, but she couldn’t be too sure when her brain had been turned into oatmeal. She could feel Pa’s finger moving inside her slowly, undulating between pressing further inside and curling slightly, exploring her. 

A loud cry punches its way from her chest when he adds a second, but she doesn’t move away at the slight burn. Pa hums in approval, and Stan can’t help but feel an intense wave of pride, but soon she can’t feel anything but the bliss of the fingers moving inside her in a sinful rhythm as Pa picks up the pace, grinding his fingers deeper and deeper before hitting something inside her just right. 

“Hah, ah! P-Pa!” Stan moans wetly, “Uugh.” Stan can feel herself drooling as her legs tremble. 

The hand on her neck tightens when she bucks back onto his fingers, the pressure grounding when she feels like she’s floating away. The pleasure is heady and intense, so much better than anything she had experienced before. 

Stan’s eyes widen as she feels a third finger make its way next to the others, not quite pushing in alongside them, but close. A rush of fear grips her, and she tenses, making her unconsciously tighten around the fingers already inside her, and she groans at the sensation. His fingers were just so large she didn’t think she’d had anything as big as this inside her ever. She can’t handle another one. 

“Ah, ah, Pa–Pa I can’t! It’s gonna be too much–” The fingers inside her stretch apart, scissoring her, and she pitches forward, falling limp against her Pa’s lap as she lets out a weak whimper.

“You can take it, doll.” Oh fuck oh fuck ohfuckokfuckohfuck.  

Pa rumbles in approval when all she does is whine when a third finger pushes its way past her entrance to join the others. The burn hurts, but it hurts so, so good, and she lets out a shuddering breath. Her father gives her a second to adjust to the stretch, bringing his hand on her neck up to the base of her head and running his hand through her hair, scratching lightly. 

When she groans and wiggles, Pa begins his ministrations once again, but he’s no longer holding back. He pulls his fingers in and out of her forcefully, going deeper and deeper with each thrust of the digits, making her head spin. The squelching of the fingers in her is so obscene that it has her burying her head into one of her Pa’s legs to lower the volume of the ‘ah, ah, ah’s’ she’s releasing. 

Pa’s hand, which was lightly scratching the back of her head, turns tight, and he grips her hair, yanking her head up, forcing her back to arch and her moans to become loud and uninhibited. 

When Pa starts to rub her clit along with the frantic thrusting of his fingers. She shouts so loud she’s sure the neighbors will be complaining for days. 

She can feel her orgasm fast approaching, the tingling sensation spreading through her entire body, amplifying to an overwhelming degree. 

“Pa! I’m close. Pluh–please, can I? I need–need–” Pa twists his fingers and hits that special spot inside her and grinds his thumb harshly on her clit simultaneously. Suddenly, she’s coming so hard her vision blacks out, and she screams so loud it makes her ears ring.  

When she comes too, she’s panting, still in her Pa’s lap. He’s running his hands along her body as she shakes and trembles.

She was full and empty, completely spent.

“You did good,” Pa says, his voice soft. Stan thinks that’s the first time he’s praised her since she was five. She feels like she could burst with the overwhelming feeling of it.

Pa gathers her in his arms, placing her upright on his knee. She can feel herself leaking her mess onto his pants, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

Pa is exploring again, hands finding her chubby stomach and thighs before cupping her breasts for a moment before finally settling on her wide hips. He pulls her closer to him, so that she’s practically straddling him, and she can feel his hard-on through his pants. She doesn’t know why this scares her more than anything else that has happened today. 

She squirms a bit to get comfortable, and Pa hisses through his teeth and stops her by gripping her hips more firmly. She’s still coming down, the pleasure having not yet left her system, and she wraps her arms around Pa’s neck and shoves her face against his chest. 

Pa hums, taking one hand from her hip, and begins to rub her back. She sighs and melts further into the embrace. 

Lying there, still twitching with aftershocks, clinging and sitting on his knee like she was young again, she was full.

So full, in fact, that the heavy weight settled in her stomach threatened to crawl up her throat and spew out her mouth.