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smiley-mcdoggington · 5 months ago

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HEY SO I DON'T KNOW IF THIS IS SMUT OR NOT NEITHER OF THEM ARE GETTING OFF TO THIS BUT I KINDA AM ANYWAYS TW STANCEST TW MISCARRIAGE TW ABO TW MISCOMMUNICATION TW SEQUEL TO THIS

He woke up covered in sweat, his sister's snoring covering the loud calling of gulls prowling over the streets. He kept his eyes closed, already feeling the twisting in his stomach but resolutely ignoring it until throwing up was unavoidable.

Stan hung onto him like a sloth held onto a branch - the simile even more fitting with his recent weight loss. What little Stan had nagged him to eat always just came right back up again. It made the slight distension in his stomach even more prominent - though for now, Ford didn't have to see it, not with Stan clinging to as much of his lankier form as she could get in her grasp. She always insisted he sleep in her bunk now, and the thought of clambering down his bunk's ladder kept him from arguing. She didn't even seem bothered that every morning she would wake up when Ford had to get up for the puke bowl Ma was still looking for. It was obscenely domestic, every morning she ran her fingers through his hair while he hurled and then she snuck to the bathroom to rinse it out so no one would ask - always cooing and hugging and clinging like a leach while he was sick.

His stomach cramped hard enough for his body to seize up - but his mouth stayed dry, so he continued to pretend he could sleep in until a reasonable hour.

Stan had woken up, her snores turned to low purrs, not letting him go - never letting him go, like he was only hers. If he moved, she would let go, if he asked, she would let go, but would it really count? Or would she just go back to clinging the second he wasn't actively telling her not to?

He knew what she wanted from him. She was just an alpha, in the end. Sweat collected on his skin where she was latched to him, looking so content and comfortable against the outline of his ribs. Once it was gone he wouldn't need to continue this - this farce. She wasn't his wife, she was his idiot sister, he refused to be less than her just because they had been reckless one time, just because for once he thought it was okay to let his guard down around an alpha.

Another sharp cramp in his stomach had him curling around Stan like a dead insect, his breath shallow for a moment.

When he opened his eyes, Stan was looking at him, before she slowly detached herself, leaving a cold, damp chill where she was. She threw the blanket off, already moving for the puke bowl so he wouldn't have to move. Attentive - like she was meant to be to her belongings, her child, her mate, nothing more, never anything more.

Then the plastic bowl hit the hardwood. He looked at her but she was ghostly pale, rushing over and putting one hand on his face. "Hey - what do I do? Bathroom? Do I - do I call 911 for this?" She said, voice quicker than normal. Ford squinted at her, but she was panicking, honestly panicking, she hadn't panicked since they had been stuck on top of a ferris wheel in 68'. Her eyes kept darting to the right. He followed her eyes.

Oh.

That was a lot of blood.

That would explain why he felt so out of it. He cramped again, wincing and whimpering like a shot dog and then then next second he was out of bed. Stan's short, trembling arms under his knees and shoulderblades, probably getting blood on her while she waddled to the door. He had to get the doorknob for her, barely registering he was outside their room in nothing but pajamas and covered in blood, if their parents saw they would kill him. The thought made his eyes hot, but he didn't register the feeling deeper than that.

Then Stan was slamming the bathroom door shut, and his wet shorts met cold tile. Stan locked the door before dragging him into the shower like she was dragging a corpse - blood trail and everything. He watched her the whole time. She was saying something about him - she only ever said 'nerd-brain' when she was talking about him. Another cramp hit him, this one making the space between his legs throb.

He tried to think of what he was supposed to do - what he'd read about - but his thoughts were slippery, distant. He was anemic, or hypoglycemic, or both, he needed to fix that. You fix that with a high-iron high-carb diet.

"Constance..?" He asked, his voice hoarse. She immediately stopped what she was doing, crouching in front of him and putting her small hands on his face - probably getting blood on him. How did he explain what was happening in terms Stan would get? "Stan, I'm starving."

She must have thought it hyperbole, she laughed a little desperately but tapped him on the cheek, said she was supposed to be the big eater, and left.

With her gone, the cold of the tile seeped into his skin, his clothes soaked with sweat and blood did nothing but make them cling. He grabbed his waistband to get the stained red article away, arching so he didn't have to stand. Then when he sat fully back down something touched the cold tile and he winced, before letting himself rest.

The cold soothed the throbbing, just slightly, and he fully put together what was happening. It worked. The thing would be out of him, and then he could go back to eating properly and sleeping in his own bed and having room to breath without...

His shallow breath echoed off the walls, Stan's steady stream of noise gone completely, all he could focus on was the cramps stabbing into him, the feeling of slowly warming tile. How long did it take to get a snack? Did Stan not get the urgency?

The steadily mounting pain had his legs trying to push him further against the wall, arms crossed and digging into the small lump of his stomach. His breath sounded awful, stuttering and swallowing and grunting like a wretched thing, the feeling of sweat rolling down his forehead made him want to scream.

Would he even be able to do this without a doctor? He was only twelve weeks along, his birth canal was underdeveloped, maybe he was bleeding because his insides were torn open and he would die on the floor of a bathroom in his parents fucking house and they would have to bury their son thinking he was just a stupid omega that couldn't keep his pants on, an unremarkable life undeserving of more than a moment's thought, a quick 'Oh, Stanford Pines? Was that the kid with the fingers?' and nothing more.

He barely registered that Stan was back until something cold was pressed against his lips, he opened his mouth and bit into a fucking Snickers bar. He chewed on chocolate and peanuts and caramel and maybe sobbed while he inhaled what was likely the least healthy thing his sister could find. She handed him another, unwrapped, and he looked up at her like a matron saint.

She sat down on the floor in front of him, rubbing his shoulder. He looked up at her, mouth full, tears and snot and sweat running down his face. "Why candy..?" He asked.

She dramatically rolled her eyes. "I'll make you a sandwich later, Sixer." She said, effortlessly drawing all attention while she wiped the tears from his cheekbone and teased him for nagging her.

Then another sharp throb took away his oasis. He swallowed thickly. "Okay. I just need to - to--" His hand drew down to the source of the blood, knees parting just slightly while his finger found the barely-there slit that had just begun to form. He pressed the tip of his pinky inside and it burned. He whined, ripping his hand away while his stomach continued to throb.

"Hey - Stanford, I need the play-by-play." Stan said, one hand brushing the sweat and hair off his forehead.

Ford nodded, taking a second to breathe. "Human pelvises are only - only wide enough for a baby to exit straight down. Male om-- I need it to pass through a - a vulva, sort of, like yours." He huffed. "It's - it's meant to be bigger at the end of 40 weeks, when..." He said, and for a second Stan just looked devistated, before she swallowed it.

"Do you need a hospital--?"

"No!" Ford said quickly. "No - then they'll find out - they'll--. I just need to - to stretch it out, I just--"

"But you couldn't fit even a finger in there." Stan said quietly, and Ford nodded, because it was hopeless and he would need a hospital and Pa would find out and--

And Stan's thumbs were rubbing circles on his knees. "My hands are smaller, I could try?" She asked, and for a moment he was a child, they were both children, small and scared and inexperienced. But there wasn't a place for children here.

"Be careful." He panted, because he wasn't quite so pathetic as to say 'please don't hurt me'.

She nodded, gently tugging his legs apart, her hands trembling on his knees. She was looking at the source of the blood with something like grief on her face. Then she gave Ford a smile. "We got this, yeah? We always do." She coaxed, childish and naiive.

Ford nodded, and he felt her warm fingers begin tracing his slit. His stomach cramped harder, he distantly wondered if she could feel his pulse from there. Then one digit tore into him, searing but manageable. It was an inopportune time for a hiccuping sob to escape him - Stan pulled her finger away, both hands back to cupping his sweaty face, pressing his forehead to hers. "Sixer you need a hospital." She said, a cruel and amusing reversal to when he used to bandage her cuts and bruises while listing tetanus symptoms that she ignored.

Ford shook his head. "No. I'll do it myself if you won't." He said, trying to sound firm but sounding more like roadkill, like he was trying to manage a panicked wheeze through collapsed lungs and caved ribs.

Stan swallowed. "Okay. But if you die on me or something--"

"Shut up, Constance." He huffed, not wanting to think of the risks. He wouldn't beg for it, an animal caught in a trap shouldn't have to beg to knaw it's leg off. "Do it."

Stan's fingers were back, gently running over his slit with shaking fingers. This time, when the digit entered, it burned a little less. He closed his eyes tightly and mentally named every element in the periodic table in order. Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron - until he could barely feel it under the continued stabbing cramps - nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine, neon--

Stan touched his face again, finger still slowly moving in and out of him. It dragged him away from his list, dragged him back to the shower floor. Her less bloody hand went to his shoulder. Then her head tilted.

Ford all but collapsed forward, hid his tears in her shoulder, she combed the soaked hair on the back of his neck, letting Ford hold onto her. She was saying something, he could feel the vibrations on his nose like butterfly kisses. For a moment he was ten and hiding in her long hair before she decided to cut it off her shoulders and keep it that way. He would later scold himself for this, he shouldn't be crying and clinging if he was going to be better than a reckless omega, but for now Stan was soft and warm and he was cold and stiff without her.

"I'm sorry." She muttered, and then another finger joined the first, burning, tearing him open, he sobbed on her shirt and she kissed his damp hair, fingers slow and careful. "You'll get through this." She whispered, and he nodded even though it wasn't a question. He would get through this, he would be fine, better than fine, he would get a PhD for every week he had been pregnant, he would win.

Stan's body seized up for a second, before she was back to petting him, her hands shaking worse than Ma's, her breath trembling. He barely noticed before he was cramping up again, mouth open to scream but taking in a soft neck instead. Blood filled his mouth and for a second his mind blanked.

Then her fingers were out of him and something followed. The throbbing remained but the cramps were finally, finally gone. Ford detatched from his sister's neck and heaved on her shoulder while she held him firmly with one arm. He could finally catch his breath - there was blood on all his clothes - blood on Stan's clothes - how did you get out bloodstains? He needed to lie down, Stan would probably have to clean up the bathroom before their parents woke up, he would be no help, he felt about as stable as a wet fawn, and he was probably just as disgusting. Stan would probably have to help him shower too and--

Stan sobbed once, quietly, and Ford came into awareness she was holding something with the hand she wasn't using to cling to him. He pulled away and she moved to cup it with both hands. A reeking pile of clotted blood and tissue, and she held it in her trembling hands like glass.

"You s-said she was the size of a plum." She said, because about five weeks ago she had pretended to knock on the barely-there distension of his womb like a watermelon and dubbed that she was absolutely sure it was a girl. Ford had said that that didn't prove anything, but Stan had just gone on and on about how cute and smart and perfect their daughter would be. Now she held Ford's discarded death warrant as if she were the one that just had it gutted from her.

"It is." Ford said simply.

Stan looked up at him. "I'm so sorry Stanford - I couldn't - I should have--" She blubbered. "I'm sorry." She said for all the wrong reasons.

Ford nodded anyway. "I know." He said, not telling her what he really made of it.

She was just an alpha, after all.

#stancest #a/b/o dynamics #Uhhhh concerning the pole abt my WIPs I-- *smoke bomb*#drafts #This isn't how miscarriages normally work btw it's just like a heavy period this is just the average boyperiod experience #Animal metaphors and all

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