ive gotten a few followers after i exploded my pinnedpost so Just In Case here is a tiny one....until i make that carrd/strawpage. thinking i might do carrd but *shrugs*. anyway
hi im Stanley but youre welcome to call me pitt/pitty :o). im 19 & use it/its pronouns
im fictionkin + a cat otherkin and use some neo/xenopronouns so feel frees to ask about that :p. ok thats all i thinks
tags i use so others can block them: vent, nsft, suggestive. anything else i tag is like. specific to this blog aka if you dint like my normalposting why are you here #lol
“Are you sure Mr. Ramirez asked for both of us to drop by?”
Stan shot a glance behind him at his brother. “Yup, he said he wanted me to bring you over, too.”
And why wouldn't he? It was both their thirteenth birthday, after all.
With the sun at his back and Sixer at his heels, Stan crossed the barrier that separated the forest from the cool, air-conditioned interior of Mr. Ramirez’ video store.
The rental shop was a bit out of the way from town, but that never seemed to deter any of the customers. The well worn desire path leading straight towards it was proof enough. It certainly never deterred Stan, ever since Ma had left Pa and had moved him and Ford to this sleepy little Oregon town. He’d happily take the small trek through the woods every day if it meant he got to lose himself for hours in the endless rows of cartoons and movies that filled up the shelves. Every genre and category constantly updated with every box of films that came in or every disc that was burned with something ripped off the internet. Truthfully, though, that was only half the reason Stan went.
It was something he kept close to his chest. Because it was kinda sappy, and kinda lame, and it made Stan feel something he wasn't ready to admit.
Because really, what he liked most of all was Mr. R’s company.
The door chimed as it slid shut behind them, locking in the cool air. Stan's head swiveled to eye the front counter, catching Mr. Ramirez’ head popping up from behind it. He let out one of the old man grunts as he hefted himself to his feet, likely from stocking some stuff on the bottom counter, and greeted both boys with a wave.
“Heya, little dudes, happy birthday!” Mr. Ramirez’ smile was warm and wide, reaching his eyes as he circled the counter to meet them. Stan noted that both hands were hidden behind his back. “Now, I know it's not much, but…”
“Bada-boom,” in his left hand, Mr. Ramirez slid a bag of pre-packaged jellybeans into Ford's waiting hands. “Bam!” With his right, he passed Stan his favorite brand of toffee peanuts.
“Jellybeans!” Ford marveled. “How'd you know they're my favorite?”
“Your brother told me,” he replied, flashing Stan a wink. “Oh, and one more thing,” Mr. Ramirez reached inside of one of his cargo pockets - somehow, he had managed to shove a whole DVD box inside. With a bit of a struggle, he managed to wiggle the packaging free, presenting it to Ford. Stanford's jaw dropped, staring in awe as his eyes passed over the yellow covering.
“Season one of Star Trek: The Original Series!?”
Stan was so pleased that his grin nearly split his face. Internally, he preened himself. Wasn't he such a good brother? He talked so much about Sixer and knew so much about his preferences that it had even rubbed off on Mr. Ramirez!
“Yup, free of charge,” Mr. R nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just remember to bring it back next week.”
“Of course,” Ford bounced in place, unable to keep his excited energy inside, and Stan soaked up his happiness like a sponge. “Thank you so much, Mr. Ramirez!”
Mr. R chuckled, then reached down to ruffle his hair. “No problem, Jellybean.”
Stan blinked. Slowly, his smile ran away from his face. Jellybean. He'd never heard Mr. R use that nickname for Sixer before. In fact, he'd never heard him use a nickname for Ford, period. He'd never spent enough time around Ford to come up with one – so, a part of Stan figured that this was a long time coming. Mr. Ramirez had a nickname for almost everybody. Even his Ma, who Mr. R referred to as Carrie whenever she came in to rent one of her soaps.
No, it wasn't the fact that Mr. R had finally bestowed a nickname onto Ford that bugged him. It was the nickname, itself. Mr. R could've picked any name in the book for Ford. He could've picked up one from Stan – like Sixer or Six. Or maybe something relating to his glasses, like Specs. Or maybe something just grabbed out of the ether that somehow managed to stick.
But no, Mr. R had called him Jellybean. After his favorite snack.
And it was stupid. It was so stupid but the crisp air inside the store slowly froze over into an icy cold sheen that covered Stan's entire body. And to contrast, Stan's stomach swirled and broiled into a toxic pit of acid, boiling over from the inside and swirling with a deep, deep anger.
It was stupid. It was stupid to get mad over something like this. He was just being dumb, like always.
He ripped his gaze away from them, instead looking down, past the package of toffee peanuts and glaring holes into his sneakers.
“You're good to go, I don't wanna hold you up on your special day,” Mr. R's voice was like fuzz in Stan's ears. “I just gotta talk to your brother real quick.”
“Okay! You want me to stay, Stan?”
Just outside of his periphery, Stan could see Ford turn to look at him. He just kept looking down. It was so dumb, but he didn't want to look at Ford. Didn't want him to see how angry he was, didn’t want him to see the unfounded, ridiculous look of betrayal in his eyes.
“No, you're good.” He mumbled.
“... You sure?”
Stan's lips pulled into a line and he flashed the best smile he could muster, missing tooth and all. “Yeah, I'll be right behind you!”
Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Ford waved him off and stepped back out into the humid summer air, leaving him alone with Mr. Ramirez. Underneath the radiating anger, Stan felt a bit satisfied knowing that, sometimes, not even his own twin could tell when he was lying.
Mr. R approached and Stan instinctively kept his head down. He had no reason to feel angry. He had no reason to be jealous. And yet, a hot, aching fury rose within him, like a volcano about to erupt. He felt like the one of those love interests from Ma's soap operas.
I thought you loved me! I thought what we had was special!
“I didn’t know if you wanted him around when I gave you…” Mr. Ramirez paused. “Peanut? You alright?”
Stan winced at the nickname. “I'm fine,” he forced out.
“Are you sure?”
Stan bit his tongue as if to force himself to not spit out an insult. I said I'm fine, are you stupid or something?
Instead he slowly nodded, not taking his eyes off the floor. He watched as Mr. R's crocs stepped into view ans felt him crouch down beside him on his creaky, old man bones.
“What's wrong, dude?”
Stan's bottom lip trembled. He was supposed to be better than this. He wasn't supposed to get upset over nothing, or be on the verge of tears like a girl. He was so angry. So angry at Mr. R, at Ford, at himself. Why was he so mad? Why did he feel like crying? It was just a nickname. It was just a nickname and if he was going to cry over it, maybe Mr. R should give him a reason to cry.
“Nothing.”
“Stan, look at me.”
Breathing beginning to grow heavy, it took everything in Stan's power to raise his head and look Mr. Ramirez in the eyes. To not give any clue as to how bad he was feeling.
And based on Mr. R's reaction, he'd failed miserably.
“I said, I'm fine,” Stan repeated, throat closing up and choking with held back tears.
“Did you…” Mr. Ramirez paused. He tilted his head to the side, confused. “Not want me to give your brother a present?”
Stan couldn’t bear to look the man in the eyes any longer, flicking his gaze back down to the package in his hand. Stan glared down at the bag of toffee peanuts like it owed him money, the plastic crinkling as he tightened his grip. A growing urge deep within his gut told him to crush them, or throw them, or tear them up. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Like the dumb brat he was. Stupid. Stupid. He was just being stupid.
“It’s not that.” He mumbled.
A large, warm hand rested on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “C’mon, Peanut, you can tell me.”
Mr. Ramirez was always so nice to him. It made him sick sometimes, a good and bad kind of sick that made his stomach flip. And sometimes, it made Stan angry, too. It made him so angry sometimes that it made his vision blur and he’d start seeing the outline of Pa there instead of Mr. R. And he’d just be waiting for the guy to just scream at him already. To just hit him and get it over with. To tell him he’s a bad kid, no good, worthless, to get out of his sight because he couldn’t even stand to look at him anymore. And to not dare cry about it, because he wasn’t a baby. Because he’d give him something to cry for.
A fat tear escaped out from under his eyelid, raced down his cheek, and landed smack on the bag of peanuts.
God, he was so stupid.
“Stan?”
Slowly, Stan looked back up. He blinked his eyes as fast as he could to fight off any more crybaby tears from escaping. His mouth refused to remain straight, the best he could manage was a wobbly, quivering line that barely passed for a smile. He really needed to work on his poker face. And poor Mr. R. He looked heartbroken. Stan had messed everything up again, because he was a bad kid. A bad, selfish, ungrateful, envious little brat who wasn’t good for nothing or nobody. Not for Ma, not for Ford, and especially not for Mr. Ramirez.
There was so much he wanted to ask. So much he wanted to say. So many emotions melding together.
Am I still special to you? Do you hate me now? Am I bad now? Do you still like me?
Stan sniffed. “Do you… Like Ford better than me?”
Mr. R had the gall to laugh. “What? Dude, no. You're still my buddy. Nothing's gonna change that. I don't even know him that well.”
“But…” Stan squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the words out. “You called Sixer Jellybean. And–...”
Mr. Ramirez didn't speak. He let Stan collect his thoughts.
“‘Cause Peanut— you calling me that was our thing. And if he– if he has it, too, then– I… We share everything, you know? And I just, I just want this one thing to myself.” I want you all to myself. “And I don't want–... I wanna be your favorite, still.”
And then Stan tensed. Flinching, he waited. For laughter or anger or mockery or being hit.
Instead, big, strong arms wrapped around him. He's pulled into a tight hold against a soft, warm body. And Stan's body was warmed and the storm raging inside cooled. He felt his body relax involuntarily and he snuggled just a bit closer, losing himself in the feeling of Mr. R hugging him. He always gave the best hugs. A large hand rubbed soothing circles against his back.
“You'll always be my favorite, dude. You don't have to worry about that. I won't call him that anymore, if you don't want.”
“No, it's okay,” Stan mouthed against the fabric of Mr. Ramirez’ shirt, wiping some of his tears away by nuzzling his face deeper. “I was just being stupid.”
Mr. Ramirez pulled away to give him a stern look. “Don't say that, Peanut. You're not stupid.”
It was moments like these when Stan could really get a good look at Mr. R, and reflect on how handsome he was. Sure, maybe he wasn't an action movie star or a ripped dock worker, but Mr. Ramirez was really good-looking. He liked the scruff on Mr. R's face and chin. He liked looking into the deep chocolate of his eyes. He liked the shape of his teeth, especially when he smiled. And he loved how big he was. Not big like Pa, but big and strong and wide, soft and perfect to hug and cuddle up against. And if Stan were being honest, more honest than he was afraid to be, he'd say that Mr. Ramirez was really cute. Maybe even, dreamy.
And maybe, sometimes, when they were close like this, he thought about closing the distance between them to give him a kiss.
“You're sure you're okay?” Mr. R spoke up again, derailing Stan's train of thought.
“Oh, uh, yeah!” Stan smiled nervously. “I feel a lot better now, Mr. R.”
Mr. Ramirez returned the smile with one of his own. “Good. Nobody should feel bad on their own birthday.” Then, he reached into another pocket of his shorts, having managed to fit yet another DVD case inside. Stan took it into his hands, and gasped.
“Sailor Moon?”
“Yup, the entirety of season one, just for you.”
The show was one that Mr. R had introduced him to since he'd begun making regular trips to the video store. He couldnt help but see himself in Serena (or, Usagi in Japan, Mr. R had explained). It was just like his life! … In a way. He'd never checked it out before, sticking to watching it in the store with Mr. R. It was just easier that way. And part of him didn't want to get caught watching something girly…
Stan hugged it tight to his chest. “I'll have it back by next week!”
Mr. Ramirez shook his head good-naturedly. “Nah, it's yours, dude. Keep it.”
“Aw, man, you're the best, Mr. R.”
“Don't mention it.” The man gave Stan's hair a ruffle. “Is there anything else I can do for you? I don't want you leaving in a funk.”
Stan wasn't upset anymore, but, well… If Mr. R was offering…
“How about a kiss?” He blurted out.
Mr. Ramirez blinked down at him.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. No, idiot! He just had to open his big, stupid mouth! Everything was fine and he just made it weird again! Mr. Ramirez probably thought he was a freak now. It's no wonder why nobody liked him. It made him wonder why Sixer ever thought he was a weirdo when he had Stan for a twin!
“I, uh, I just meant as, like, practice, you know, for the ladies—”
In one swift motion, Mr. Ramirez lifted Stan's bangs from his face. He leaned in. Stan's mouth went dry. His heart was like a rabbit in his chest. His stomach swirled and spun in his gut. His face was on fire.
And Mr. Ramirez placed a chaste kiss on his forehead.
He stayed there for a moment. It was like an eternity for Stan. One he never wanted to end.
And then they parted.
Mr. Ramirez smiled down at him. “Happy Birthday, Peanut.”
Stan smiled back so hard it hurt. “Thanks, Mr. R.”
He stepped back out into the warmth summer air, hugging his DVD and his toffee peanuts close to his chest as he raced home, smile still wide on his face. He could still feel the echo of Mr. R's lips on his forehead.
He looked forward to making it home in time for cake, stuffing his face with toffee peanuts as he rewatched Season One, and never washing his forehead ever again.
Soos walked in carrying a cake, gold candles burning at equal points around the outer edge. There aren't enough for every year Stan has been alive, but they'd probably burn down the Shack doing that.
“What is this?” Stan asked as the cake was placed in front of him.
“It's your birthday cake, dude! I made it myself.”
He stared at the cake. It was covered in white frosting with tufts of gold and red frosting elegantly draped around the sides and in a ring on the top. Gold pearls were scattered around the top as well, and there was a definite sparkle to the frosting, as if Mabel had attacked it with gold glitter.
“You made this?”
Soos beamed, nodding. “Doctor Pines— uh, Ford helped me with the writing. I've been practicing on it.”
“You did a wonderful job, Jesús,” Ford said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“You gotta make a wish, dude,” Soos urged him.
The candles were starting to drip onto the frosting, but Stan could hardly believe what he was looking at. Sure, Soos learned to cook from his grandmother and she taught him well, but he's never known Soos to be a baker.
Besides, Stan had already gotten everything he ever dreamed of. What else could he ask for?
He looked up at Soos's warm, brown eyes and smiled before blowing out the candles in a single breath.
“C'mere, kid,” he murmured, and Soos shuffled close enough for Stan to grab at his collar and yank him in for a kiss.
Soos let out a surprised squeak before his big hands found Stan's shoulders and massaged them while Stan nipped at his mouth. His eyes were dazed when Stan released him.
“Well, that's my wish granted,” Stan announced. “Let's cut this cake, huh, gumdrop?”
avoidance thoughts i should probably be telling to a therapist and not tumblr but i dont have a therapiest and being parasocial is awresome so its fine /silly
edit nevatrmind i lied i aint doihng that shit im gonna go drink chocolate utmilk
ok actually i think part of the reason why i like tfem jax but dont actually hc it myself is because were twinning a little bit . justr like my life..... in a way........
i do have one thats cute&soft and a halfmade one thats teenstans w 1960s esque stuff (never finished loll bc not really my taste) BUT i wanna make smth more like. mainstream. i dont want canon accurate tho just vibes & songs id listens to ofcourse
wait no. ive been calling the hand bone shit fuckoff disorder but i probably do have an actual fuck off disorder..... the one holding apollos dodgeball was me😭💔
i rrally like those prompt of the day for one month things but i never finish them.....its ok this will happens someaday *looks out the window and its raining* *runs hand down the glass sadly* *leaves pawprint there also bevcause im gross & yucky*
also this is some kvetching related to that gen gf fan but i dont like when they really like me/stan or ford to the point of disliking or hating the other twin. even if its all jokes i dony like it🙂↔️. if u dont fuck with ford i dont fuck with you its very simple and even canon shows that !!!!!!!!!!!!
this post is cutie esp op's tags...might use that idea for my multistans au.... i keep forgetting what the placeholder name for it is but ill find it in a second so i can tag this with it
