Been thinking about the Idea of a horribly sex-repulsed Bill. Like, Stan and Ford met up in their 30s and for whatever reason it goes different, Stan's trying to think of ways to help Ford sleep and not get hurt by Bill anymore and Ford mentions there is ONE thing that Bill really hates but it's 'not a option'
Of course Stan won't have that and pushes, Ford finally gives in and tells him and Stans like "..but what if it was a option?"
So now Stan's fucking Ford every night to fill him up and/or fucking Ford while he sleeps so Bill doesn't possess him. Maybe Bill tries to once or twice but only for all of five seconds before he realizes Stan is way, WAY stronger than Ford.
Bill is SO pissed off about it while the Pine twins couldn't be happier. They both love eachother (haven't confessed) and now they have a completely valid reason to fuck? Perfection.
Just loving the idea Ford can't sleep if Stan's dick isn't involved in the process. Lmao
I dreamed that grunkle Stan conned me out of a hundred dollars and it wasn't even clever. he just. took it. I guess that's theft. but I was like, ok. very cool. my comfort character
he had my wallet somehow and took two fifties as a "tip" in advance for how good he claimed his show(? Ride? Attraction?) would be. And I was like fine, bet, but if it doesn't measure up, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 owe 𝘮𝘦. because that made sense.
I was robbed.
I also dreamed about Ford in the multiverse, traveling. Nomad life. And some little alien boy who kept yapping at. Reminded him of Stanley.
I want to critique my work. I want to pick holes in it and search for flaws. I want to look for ways to make it more intriguing or polished.
I also forgot that I'm just making it for me. For fun. That maybe the extra stuff that would bore someone else or be way too flowery- like, maybe I can leave it because I liked it and had fun writing. It can be messy for now. And we'll make something tighter and shapely later, yeah? Let's just remember to have fun.
Lastly, as I do improve, I hate that I didn't start publishing writing until after the age of gen ai and LLMs. :/ Now if my writing looks professional I'm worried it'll also look fake. And fanfics use the em dashes so much, I wanna use em for flow. sob.
this and also the only difference between fanfic writers and writers who sell their own original works as careers is that fanfics aren’t monetized. that’s all.
being a “professional” writer doesn’t mean your works are inherently better than fanfics. I’ve read so many fics that are more professionally written than some published books.
whether or not a piece of writing is monetized has nothing to do with its quality.
Something pulls him away from sleep, from dreams filled with the scent of the ocean and freckled grins and laughter. There is a comforting weight on him that, sadly, does nothing to the pit forming in his stomach.
Cracking his eyes open, Stanford sighs at the sight of the warm sunlight that decorates the ceiling with shapes. His hand is around something, he notices but is far too sleep induced to try figure out what, fingers tangled in something soft he brushes and fidgets with.
A happy little hum, however, forces him to look down and finally acknowledge the soft weight taking over him.
There, laid out bare in just a lacy thong, is his twin brother. His leg is thrown over his lower half, soft stomach pressed against his uninjured side and chest squishing against Stanford's own as he rests his cheek on his hand and stares down at Stanford with an expression he can't quite see.
Everything is fuzzy around the corners, blurry, but even he can make up the upturn of Stanley's lips.
“Get off me” he manages, hating how strangled it sounds and how he holds onto the curls of his brother's growing hairs in his fingertips.
“Woah-hah” Stanley laughs, almost nervously, and instead of getting off, he shifts to lay on top of Stanford, reaching for something on the side. Stanford takes a sharp breath though his nose, pointedly ignoring the warmth of another body, the warmth of his younger twin's skin pressed flush against his own.
“Your morning voice is hot” Stanley says casually but even Stanford can tell the redness creeping up on his ears.
The world comes into view and Stanford realises Stanley is placing his glasses on his face, every detail coming into focus. It's somehow worse.
Stanford can see the way Stanley's sweat from sleep glistens on him, the bruises from the previous night painted over the sprinkle of body hair, the smudged mascara that makes him look all the more endearing…most of all, he sees the way his brother smiles, a soft warm thing, and feels his heart rate picking up-
“Off” he growls out, pushing Stanley's head away until his body slides and flops to the other side of the bed. Ignoring the pain, he sits up and ignores his brother harder.
“What the heck?!” His brother gasps in offence, sitting up and punching the mess of blankets and long abandoned dress. Stanford refused to look at him, much less meet his eye.
“UGH!” Stanley all but whined, standing up and stomping like a child towards the bathroom with a “fine!” And a slam of a door.
Stanford breathed, attempting to calm the thumping in his chest with the disgust that his brother had been laying with him still sweaty and dirty from others touching him. Yes.
It only made his heart beat faster, anger travelling in his veins with the boiling blood.
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
“Sta- Stella” Stanford called, watching his brother get ready in front of the mirror. He was wearing something less revealing than last night but it still hugged all his curves and the current position, back arched and ass towards him, made the dress just as bad.
Stanley applied bright red lipstick, not working on any other makeup and clearly not needing to remain in front of the mirror much less quiet. He brushed his hair with his fingers, attempting to style it and turned here and there in front of the mirror.
“Stella” Stanford called again, watching Stanley walk away from the mirror at last and take a seat on the lounge chair to put on his kitten heels.
“You can't possibly ignore me forever”
“Hmph” his twin huffed sassily, standing up and thankfully ruining his getup with his ratty old jacket.
Without a word he left the motel room, leaving Stanford alone with the controller put cruelly away across the room where he couldn't reach and a channel for kids playing on the screen. He sighed, flopping back down to lay on the bed.
Stanford laid there, thinking of how he got there as he stared at the ceiling and listened to the little muppets sing along to the alphabet. It would be soothing if his thoughts weren’t plagued by that devilish grin of his brother’s and the phantom weight over him, like a sleep paralysis demon, keeping him captive.
The quiet, thankfully, was short-lived as his brother returned with a tray in hand and closed the door with his foot. Stanford watched from where he was laid, knowing better than to call to ‘Stella’ again, it would just be pathetic then.
Stanley set the tray down on the opposite bedside table to Ford, the smell of food and coffee travelling through the air to Stanford tauntingly. Turning his head, Stanford had a perfect view of a bowl of soup, a black and another foamy coffee to go with the two tea cakes.
The smell was agonising, coming in through his nostrils down to his stomach and twisting it into knots until it growled loudly. Embarrassed, Stanford quickly checked on Stanley to see if he heard but the man was still ignoring him and pushing the lounge chair closer to his side.
Stanford had just been considering whether or not he should sneak a bite of the tea cake, there were two so surely one was for him, but got interrupted by his brother sitting by his bedside, the lounge chair pushed close to the bed. His brother took the contents on the tray and set it on the bedside table, leaving the bowl of soup to be placed on the tray in his lap, mixing it a bit before scooping a spoonful. It smelled divine.
“Sit up” Stanley said, blowing on the spoon with those bright red lips. Stanford licked his own, throat dry.
“Excuse me?”
“I said sit up” there was a hint of annoyance there, Stanley’s eyes finally meeting his own. Gulping, Stanford decided the sudden warmth that just flooded him was annoyance at being commanded. Still, he sat up.
Silently, Stanley continued to blow on the hot soup, his lips forming in the shape of an ‘o’, almost as though he was about to kiss the spoon. After a few moments of the agonising torture of having to watch his brother prepare to eat, Stanley turned the spoon towards him, bowl of soup carefully balanced on the tray in his lap so his free hand could hover beneath the spoon so none would spill.
“What are you doing?” Stanford questioned, far too shocked to be offended.
“What’s it look like, All Star? Feeding you” Stan lift a brow “Now, say ah”
“I think I am perfectly capable of feeding myself”
Stanley didn’t really pause any further to listen to him, simply attempting to shove the spoon in his mouth which proved to be quite the poor decision considering not only did Stanford nearly choke, stuck coughing, the soup spilled over his chest as well.
“I-Idiot!” Stanford cleared his throat, glaring between Stanley and the mess before settling on giving his brother a death glare when the man simply clicked his tongue. As though Stanford was the one being troublesome!
“Look at you”
“Look at me?!” Stanford repeated, affronted “How dare yo-” but his words died in his throat with an embarrassing yelp.
Long red nails slid up his chest, finger tips lifting the droplets of soup upwards, smearing more than cleaning, really. Slowly, Stanley brought his two fingers into his own mouth, tasting the soup that had been soiled by his skin.
Maybe the soup was just that good because his brother proceeded to hum as though it was the most delicious thing ever.
“I don’t like wasted food so stop being fussy, Star”
“Fu-fussy? I’ll be-”
And so Stanley shoved another spoonful in his mouth, this time still piping hot to which ended up in the same mess earlier. Stanford is embarrassed to say that he felt a little disappointed when his younger twin didn’t clean him up again.
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
As dumb as his brother Stanley is, he is quite perceptive.
Stanford thought he had been hiding his discomfort well enough but the man still silently slipped a few painkillers where he could reach with a glass of water, not to mention, he even provided him with a book for him to read. The book itself wasn't his favorite, some fiction book with a few questionable stains in the pages, but it was better than the random channels his brother settled on.
Every now and then, Stanford would allow himself to make some comments. Who wouldn’t really? All Stanley had done was sit by and watch tv, practically killing his brain cells by doing absolutely nothing! Stanford honestly expected the boy that used to be so energetic to grow into an equally energetic man!
Well, Stanley, who never sat still, was sitting still now so it shouldn’t be shocking that the Stanley that would get offended and punch anyone that annoyed him didn’t knock Stanford’s teeth in after he asked him if he was ‘lazy bum who does nothing with his life’.
The painkillers must have been stronger than he was anticipating though, that or the coffee Stanford drank earlier was a fluke, or maybe the warm soup in his belly had something to do with it, because Stanford woke up once again to an empty room.
It was late noon, he realised from the orange glow in the room. Stanley must be somewhere in the motel building.
That or he just left for ‘work’.
The reminder of his younger siblings' job only did more to sour his mood, a throbbing headache settling in his temples at the thought of Stanley wearing those ugly rags that barely covered his balls when he bent over. Honestly, it was disgusting, surely his charismatic brother was made for more?
Did the customers know? Did they know how funny Stanley could be, how when he smiles he gets a little dimple on his chin but when he grins mischievously it seems to disappear? Did they know that he can dance to practically any song, and is unable to keep quiet (was he quiet in the bedroom?), can make any tension come and leave as he wishes and knows a worryingly amount of fun facts that aren’t actually fun just like Stanford? Did they know Stanley was a little freckled boy (does he still have freckles anywhere on his body?), that he has a birthmark on his lower back (they must have seen, do they care?) and that he bites his lip when he tries not to cry?
Did the customers deserve to know?
No.
Immediately a sort of red hot anger electrocuted through his brain down his nervous system and before he knew it, Stanford was already up. He doesn’t exactly remember putting on his clothes, much less making his way out into the streets but he was here now.
Honestly, finding Stanley wasn’t that hard, all it really took was thinking about where sex workers may be and that’s where alcohol would be to which would explain why the motel was so close to the bars (had Stanley been using a spare room there? Had he been sleeping with others in the same building as Stanford?). Then, all he needed was to turn and find a good street corner and there he was.
Same filthy dress, posing for others in a nonchalant way to not seem desperate, already talking to a potential customer who clearly isn’t gentlemanly enough to get them a room and simply leads Stanley to a back alley.
Stanford stalks forwards, footsteps silent out of habit and hand reaching for a gun that isn’t there. Of course, the one time he needs it, it is usually gone it seems.
… Hm… Now that he thinks about it, it wasn't in the pile of his belongings.
“Clever boy” Stanford chuckled, realising his brother had confiscated a bit too late.
He thinks he hears them talk, heavy panting and practised breathy moans. Turning the corner only solidifies this… anger.
This stranger, sinful dirty thing, has his hand up his little brother’s thigh, it mouths at his neck and humps him like a wild animal. It’s disgusting.
Stalking closer, Stanford sees the moment his brother notices him. Heavy eyeshadow fluttering open to reveal widening eyes, hands pressing the man closer instead of away, trying to keep their privacy a second longer or is it to aggravate Stanford more?
It did not matter. The alley smelled of piss and rot, the walls dirty with time and most likely people who had done this very thing against it, this was no place for his brother.
Without much ado, Stanford laid a heavy hand on this thing’s shoulder and tugged the leech away with a mighty shove towards the opposite wall. He thinks he hears Stanley protest, feels his hand against his arm trying to pull him away, turn him, but he doesn’t bat an eye.
“Hey! What the fuck!” it cries.
“What do you think you are doing?”
“Wh-”
“I mean, honestly, not even taking hi- her to a room? Having your way right out here? How indecent!” Stanford scowled, ignoring the thing as it spouted nonsense about how it was ‘none of his business’ and that ‘he paid for it, dipshit’.
Turning to Stanley at last, Stanford pointed at the rotten thing as he began to scold his clearly far too clueless younger brother.
“Has your eyesight gone bad? Just yesterday you were whining about ugly men- look at him!”
“Whin- I was not whining!” his brother, funnily enough, whined.
“Right. Don’t even get me started on his awful sense of style, not to mention the goatee- I mean, really?” Stanford went on, ignoring said man in favor of fully facing Stanley in order to scold him “I would think you were smart enough to at least pick your customers, Sta- Stella”
‘Stella’ rolling ‘her’ eyes at him were not welcomed, much less the crossing of the arms considering it just pushed the fat and muscle in his chest together provokingly. The scoff could be ignored, for now, considering Stanley had always been stupid and stubborn.
“You certainly can do better than that. It is offensive enough having to sell yourself but selling yourself to that thing? Just how much did he pay you?” it better have been millions because the thought of that disgusting thing touching his brother was simply impossible for any other lower amount.
“Oh yeah- like you know what’s best for me” Stanley scoffed, nose scrunching in what may have been intimidating once upon a time (now it just looks adorable) “I’ll have you know that it is thanks to me that we still have a room”
“I certainly know best” Stanford stood tall, towering over his brother just barely due to his stupid big heels “I know you ought to have someone who doesn’t look like that-”
“Hey!”
“Someone smarter, someone who can actually provide for you and please you!”
“Hey! I liked him enough! He’s…uh.. He’s…”
“Seriously?” The man looked offended as Stanley struggled to come up with one thing good about him whilst all Stanford did was smirk. Gotcha.
“Rugged! Yeah!”
“Fuck it, I’m outta here” the thing finally left, allowing Staley and him to have a proper private talk at last. Took it long enough.
“Rugged? Really?” Crossing his arms, Stanford lifted a brow at his little brother, copying his stance as Stanley puffed his chest out with a huff.
“Well if ‘rugged’ is what you want, I’m sure you can find someone who is capable and rugged. Someone much smarter”
“Oh yeah, can’t forget perfect too”
“Exactly!” Stanford pointedly ignored the very obvious sarcasm in his brother’s tone and nodded.
“You do realise no such person exists, right?” Stanley rested on one leg with a sigh, poor thing, he probably has long given up. No matter, Stanford will help him find someone who meets all those qualities, someone perfect for his little twin, Stanley.
Stanley needs someone who knows him best, someone who can guide him the right way and understands his humour, someone who can provide and protect him so he doesn’t have to be the protector ever again.
“Sure they do” he was honestly getting more irritated with Stanley by the second, why couldn’t he just understand?
“Right!” Stan feigned clarity, much to Stanford’s annoyance. His smile widening with a slap to the forehead and a laugh.
“This is serious!” Stanford uncrossed his arms, hands fists by his sides as he held back the urge to shake some sense into his brother.
“I forgot, you’re so perfect!” The smile on Stanley's face didn't last, turning into a scowl as he barked “Of course! So what?! I should just find someone like you?!”
“Yes! Proscicely!”
Finally, Stanley seemed to quiet down and listen. Good, Stanford didn’t know how much longer he could listen to all that nonsense about money and the motel and customers that are no good for his brother.
His hands seemed to try to strangle the air as he attempted to catch his breath after the outburst, his own voice still ringing in his ears like an echo in this filthy alleyway. From where he towered over Stanley, Stanford could see his little brother’s wide eyes and stunned face.
It began with Stanley’s ears, the mullet curling around the shell of it bringing attention to the way his ears grew bright red. His cheeks quickly followed just as he pressed his bright red lips together in a tight line and, finally, he broke eye contact just about when his whole face turned a wonderful red that travelled down to his neck. Stanford wondered how far it went.
It was only then did Stanford realize the implication of what he had said. He wondered if he was as red as Stanley.
it...it was supposed to be a one-shot (◞‸ ◟) Anyway! I will post the rest on Ao3 probably! Here is the summary:
Running away from danger, Stanford decides to take a leap of faith through a rift whilst time travelling. It is only his luck he ends up in some dimension where men wear skirts (Spoiler: Men don't wear skirts in this dimension)
Stanford Pines is no idiot, even he would recognise the time travel gadget disguised as a tape measurer now that he knew to look for the signs.
Using the device was quite easy, just tug the measuring tape to the time frame you wish to travel to and press forwards or rewind. What was not easy was getting chased by a bunch of prison guards while selecting a time frame, escaping from a prison in some universe where humans were banned from.
Time travelling would not get him away from this particular dimension or planet but the small rift ahead would.
In one desperate last attempt to escape, Stanford Pines hopped right through the small portal, feeling a stinging sensation pierce through the side of his waist just as the world around him wrapped.
Stanford Pines is no idiot but as the time tape slipped through his fingers, he couldn't help but wonder if he was one.
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
The familiar bustle of a city did nothing to drown the drumming in his ears and the cymbals of the falling rain.
Face pressed to the pavement, he watched the bright neon colors across him, each flicker flashing his vision into a nauseating white. He must have stumbled when he landed, he doesn't quite remember it.
Gulping for air, he feels like a fish out of water, forced to breathe the disgusting intoxicated air as his last breaths. He's in an alley, he realises all thanks to the smell of piss and trash as well as the darkness that covers him like a fishnet, pulling him away from the bright lights at the mouth of this corridor.
Many legs walk past, from strong sturdy ones to elongated elegant ones, the only pair of legs to stop is a mix of both.
Graceful kitten heels click to a stop, reflecting the bright lights of the street, slowly turning his way. The kitten heels haul a travel bag behind that seems to have seen better days, a bit of the fabric pokes out from where the zipper fails to do its job.
The next steps aren't careful or hesitant in a way anyone who is approaching a suspicious individual should be nor are they hurried and panicked in the way someone who has found a man bleeding out might react. In fact, the steps carried on the same click and clack as they had been before walking down the street.
As kitten heels get closer, Stanford picks up the smell of strong perfume, it isn't floral in the sort of spicy way his mother liked to wear but instead overwhelmingly sweet. As the prickly legs of growing hairs get closer, Stanford's vision swims, watching the figure near him, bright red lips on a blurred face the only feature he manages to make out as he finds his eyes slipping closed with the pain pulling him under freezing waters.
Distantly, he thinks about how lame it would be that the life of Stanford Pines ended here, without any significant accomplishment under his name.
Distantly, he hears waves hit the shore and a voice cheerfully calls his name. His chest tightens and regret washes over him like those waters wash upon the white sands.
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
When he comes back to, shockingly enough but not that shocking cosidering he is Stanford mother-fucking Pines, it is a big struggle to get his eyes to open. His body feels numb, pins and needles all over his arms and legs as he twitches one of his many fingers in hopes to soothe the uncomfortable feeling.
Voices travelled around, hushed sounds from his right and the low volume of a novella playing somewhere in front of him although his brain refused to process any words, everything sounding like gibberish or platinatyriumism (an alien language he just couldn't get).
A soft click of a door, no footsteps but a sound of a door opening on his left several moments after. Whoever was here was a quiet walker, soft on their feet, as if the fact there was someone nearby wasn't worrying enough.
Squeaky pipes keened before the sputter of a shower began, a low echoing off the acoustics of the walls in a familiar tune he couldn't quite place.
Finally, after several painful moments of eyes fluttering open and closed, Stanford managed to keep his eyes open long enough to allow his vision to focus as much as it possibly could without his glasses.
Curtains fluttered into the room with a nice breeze, shielding the warm sunlight from his sight and creating an illusion of a glow to them. The room itself smelled old and dusty but didn't appear to be so unclean as it did look unloved in.
A motel, he quickly realised, one with kitten heels and a travel bag besides the door.
The white noise of the shower is turned off and Stanford can't fight the flinch and animalistic instinct to put his defenses up. Logically, this individual saved his life so they wouldn't put him in any danger. Probably.
There is movement from the other side of what must be the bathroom door before the door is carefully open. Steam pours out of the room and out steps a figure wrapped in a towel and brushing fingers through shoulder length hair. They appear to be human and female from his blurred vision, the shoes by the door and towel wrapped around the torso supporting his belief.
“Agh-!” A hiss tears out of him the moment he tries to sit up to try to get a better look, a sharp pain pulsating from the side of his waist like fire spreading over his insides.
“Woah” a low voice calls, striking something in his brain as familiar “don't move”
It's a command, one Stanford does not appreciate so he fights the pain and sits up anyway, teeth gritting and nearly cracking under the pressure. He sits back against the headboard of the bed, trying to catch his breath as he stares at the blurred colors of the TV.
“Yeesh, talk about stubborn”
“Glasses” Stanford croaks in what he hopes sounds much more commanding than a plea.
“What?”
“Where are my glasses?”
“Ah, right” the voice is deep like a man's, scratchy like a smoker and it tugs down on Stanford's eyes, attempting to put him to sleep again. He fights it.
When he opens his eyes again, the stranger is back and already placing the glasses on his face, startling him.
What startles him the most is the face peering down at him.
Stanford stares, eyes wide as the stranger freezes and stares back with the same expression. Perhaps the same exact face, even, if they were the same age, for the person he's looking at is-
“Eugh- you look more like my pa with those on” Stanley pulls back because it is Stanley he is looking at. His brother. His twin.
He looks just like the last time he saw him or- well- perhaps a few years younger and much more clean with the fact his jaw is newly shaven and he just stepped out of the shower smelling of cheap bubblegum hand soap for kids.
“Anyway” he stands up and heads for the travel bag near the door, bringing Stanford's attention back to the heels. Was there someone else here? Stanley's partner perhaps?
“Don't move too much, took me forever to stitch that up and I must say-” he huffs a small laugh, bringing the bag over and throwing it on the bed next to Stanford “I did a pretty good job in comparison to this”
Suddenly he pulls the towel down until it's on his waist, gesturing to an ugly stitch work around the same area Stanford is injured in. It's jagged and uneven and short-lived as Stanley suddenly throws on a top over himself.
As his brother ruffles through the bag, grabbing a change of clothes, Stanford looks down to access his own injury. It… certainly looks better- don't get him wrong, it's still ugly and tender but it's not on the level of that scar his brother is sporting.
“Who knew it's easier to botch it up when you're stitching yourself” he hears him say as he leaves to the bathroom, feeling a sense of dread at those words. Why…would Stanley need to stitch himself up?
Not to mention all the other scars… Why was he covered in them? What exactly had happened to his twin?
Not for the first time, Stanford wonders what happened during those years apart when Stanley left home. He had thought he knew right until he was thrown through a portal and had time to look back and access.
He had thought his brother was living it up, a businessman with a business plan, gambling and partying every night in Vegas. Looking back… that seems much more unrealistic than the Stan ‘O’ War ever was.
Shortly after, his brother steps out of the bathroom, hair up and sporting a long skirt- wait what.
“I'm going down to grab some coffee from the lobby” he announces, throwing that ratty red jacket on while Stanford's brain fights to catch up with what he's seeing. Stanley Pines is wearing a skirt. Manly Stan is in a skirt.
If their father could see him-
“I'm feeling nice and humble so I will ask if you want any- not because the lady offered free coffee after seeing the state you were in earlier but because I'm humble” his twin twirls and bats his lashes and all Stanford can do is open and close his mouth like a fish.
“Black? You look like a black coffee sort of guy, all star” Stanley decides, attempting to stuff his wallet into pockets that don't exist in the skirt before placing it in the pockets of his jacket.
Stanford slaps a hand over his neck where the embarrassing tattoo lays, face flushing just as his twin disappears through the door.
So he's in the past in some ‘men wear skirts’ dimension. Okay…
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
It feels like forever for Stanley to return with coffee, holding a foamy one in one hand and handing Stanford the black liquid he much needed.
“Sugar?” He offers but Stanford is already downing the drink.
The two sit in silence, sipping their coffees while idly watching TV, the silence would be comforting if not weird.
Stanford asks for his things, needing his dimensional tracker to find where he is and Stanley hands over a pile of his top and coat, the watch sat on top neatly. The clothes looked folded perfectly, shockingly enough.
It's as Stanford begins to mess with his tracker that Stanley sits next to him on the bed instead of the lounge chair nearby, sitting sideways to look curiously at the device. Stanford puts a hand on the side, shielding it from Stanley's prying eyes.
“You know, I thought about selling that” his brother says “but doubt anyone would buy such an ugly thing”
“Excuse me?” offended, Stanford looks up, ready to argue but finds Stanley already leaning in, a stupid smirk on his lips as he lays on his side, looking at Stanford instead of the device in a familiar expression of trying to annoy or rile someone up. Stanford feels his stomach swoop at the familiarity, unable to form any annoyance at his brother's clear attempts to get his attention.
Stanley's eyes do the squinty thing he remembers finding so endearing, chuckling about something only he seemed to know.
“You're weird”
“Wh- you-!” He couldn't help the surprise and wave of anger that took over at that claim, nor could he withdraw from the way his hands subconsciously curled into fists, unable to hide his deformity behind his back.
Had Stanley simply spewed all those comforts when they were younger? Had he lied about liking his hands?
“You wake up in a motel with a stranger and yet ask no questions” his brother eyed him, brown doe eyes taking him in. Ugh.
“I could say the same about you” Stanford hissed “you rescue a stranger with a bolt in the stomach and ask no questions yourself!”
“That's not true, I did ask one” Stanley's brows shoot up “I asked if ya wanted coffee”
“That's hardly important!”
Despite Stanford's clear bafflement and offense at the ridiculous question, Stanley laughs, seeming to enjoy annoying Stanford. Some things never change, he supposed.
“If I ask anything, would you even tell me?” His younger twin smiles, a knowing look in his eye. Stanford was unable to answer.
“What about you?” He asked accusingly to which his brother shrugged.
“I’d answer what I could”
Eyeing his brother, Stanford decidedly put his device away near him (and way from Stan) as he thought this through.
“Why didn't you take me to the hospital?”
For a moment, Stanley looked taken aback by the question before something seemed to click in his head and he nodded to himself.
“Usually people ask for introductions” oops, it hadn't crossed his mind considering he knew who he was.
“But I'm sure you know why” his brother continued “you're laying for dead in a shit town in an even shittier alley with a bolt on your stomach. If you ask me that's not a situation someone innocent finds themselves in, it's a situation of someone being persued…”
“I get you in an hospital whoever shot you” his finger pokes his side to which Stanford jumps at with a hiss “and they quickly locate you. Also you get a bill and cops on your ass”
That… made sense. It was shocking how aware Stanley was even aware of the situation, he had always taken his brother for a thoughtless oaf but suppose even he can come up with accurate predictions.
Who is he kidding? Stanley always had this social awareness that Stanford did NOT lack but hadn't been quite as developed as him in certain areas. He wonders if this is just an extension of that.
“Alright then, why did you save me?” He finally asked the question that had been itching away in his brain.
For the record, Stanley didn't seem quite surprised by the question. Instead, his gaze lowered into one of longing as his fingertips gently brushed over his knuckles and down his extra pinky. He shivered at the gentle touch, feeling his heart flutter in his chest with nervousness.
“...No reason” Stanley's voice came in a croaky whisper “no reason at all”
Silence stretches between the two of them, Stanford unable to look away from the way his brother caresses his knuckles with a feather-like touch. His hands have small scars all over them, some barely noticeable, and the palm of his hand and knuckles were calloused… overall it was a manly hand apart from the slightly longer painted red nails.
The color reminded Stanford of their mother, of a home he hasn't seen in what felt like eons. He never did like the color, having to agree with his father that the long bright red nails made her hands seem like a hooker's… but she always told that's just how she liked them and he couldn't exactly argue with his brother about how nice it felt to have her run those nails over their scalps.
Stanford wondered now if it would feel similar to having his brother brush his hair, running those baby claws over his scalp and massaging in a similar manner.
“Ah- sorry heh-”
Suddenly the moment was gone, his brother pulling away with a light tint to his cheeks to scratch at the back of his neck and clear his throat nervously. He watched him, feeling his chest squeeze painfully at how familiar it all was.
“So uh… think I can ask your name?”
“Ah” crap, he has not thought of an alias yet. Should he…just reveal that it is him? But how will his brother react to finding out he is his twin brother from the future? This Stanley still hasn't met with him… would this Stanley even meet him? This was a skirt dimension afterall.
“Depends. Will you tell me yours?” Stanford settled on, buying himself more time.
“Usually a gentleman introduces themselves first” Stanley sits up, legs over the side of the bed with a huff “but sure- I'm Stella, nice to meet you even if introductions are late”
“St- Stella??” Stanford repeated, looking at his brother who certainly wasn't named Stella “but you're a man”
Stanley furrowed his brows, lips downturned in a familiar scowl that, now that he was older, just looked adorable. He stood with a huff, gripping his long hair behind.
“And you're a flirty gal but you don't see me rubbing it in”
“Wh-”
“Actually don't tell me your name, I know you'll make something up anyway” he continued, clearly salty about it “I'll just keep calling you Flirty Gal”
“You will not address me as such!” Stanford felt his ears and cheeks heat up as he glared at ‘Stella’.
“Or you'll what, old man?” His brother spun, hands on his hips hauntingly “get shot in the ass next? Hm? Flirty Gal?”
There was that shit eating grin again that Stanford wanted to rub off his face again, feeling his hands clench and unclench with the need to grab at Stanley.
“Yeesh don't pop a vessel over that, I didn't put in all that work just for you to die over your anger issues” Stanley softened, looking genuinely worried for a fraction of a second.
“I won't call you that then” he sighed “plus, I prefer All Star anyway”
“My name isn't-”
“Sure sure, All Star, whatever you say” Stanley just waved him off “now be quiet, my favourite novella is on and I missed last episode thanks to you”
Grumbling, Stanford settled down, crossing his arms as he glared between the screen and his brother who returned to the lounge chair and man spread in a very unlady-like way. Stella, he scoffed, yeah right.
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
Night had approached sooner than he thought would be possible. Stanford must have fallen asleep at some point through that surprisingly entertaining show of Stanley's. There were just so many plot twists and accidental incest where one revealed they were actually cousins that were siblings who were parents?? He doesn't know, it's confusing. Entertaining nevertheless.
It was hot, the blankets over his bare torsos almost suffocating now that the small window was closed to keep the nightlife noise out. Throwing the blanket off to the side, Stanford reached for his glasses on the bedside table, Stanley must have removed them for him, and put them on before turning on the lamp nearby.
Stanley wasn't here. The bathroom door was open, revealing it to be empty, and the lounge chair had the clothes his brother had been previously wearing but no Stanley.
Perfect. Now Stanford could check his whereabouts in his dimension tracker.
At least, that had been the plan right until there was a jingle of keys on the door. Whoever was trying to come in was taking a long time, Stanford could hear the metal of the key hit the door rather than the keyhole a few times and sighed in frustration.
Was it some drunkard who got the wrong door? Honestly, the places Stanley picks-
The door unlocked and in came a stumbling hooker. Or rather- it was his brother, Stanley, in clothes that were too short and showed too much skin and hugged his body almost in a sinful way.
“Oh” his brother paused, hair a mess as he looked up to reveal smudged makeup, his lipstick was smeared over his cheek and there were mascara tear tracks down his eyes. He looked miserable… but the sight still sent Stanford's heart ablaze.
“You're awake”
“Good observation” Stanford watched his brother clumsily close the door behind him, strutting in tall heels the same color as his nails. The heels made his calves more defined and endearing, it was then Stanford noticed he'd shaven his legs.
He looked like a baby fawn walking in such heels, probably because of how drunk he was. Stanford scrunched his nose, expecting to smell alcohol but was surprised to just smell the same strong perfume along with sweat and smoke.
As he neared the bed, he left a heel behind with each step before collapsing right beside Stanford and shoved his face in the pillow, most likely messing the pillow case with his makeup.
Where his brother laid, the dress rode up, revealing just the bottom his- well… bottom where the lacy underwear disappeared between. A thong-
“You look like a hooker” Stanford couldn't help quote his father, quickly looking away from the offending sight. His pants felt uncomfortable.
“Heh…” his brother laughed, pulling his face off the pillow, hugging it instead as he turned to face him, laying carefree as though he was not next to a stranger. So carefree as though he wasn’t dressed like THAT, as though no man wouldn't pounce on him.
“Good?” He lifted a brow, amusement in his downturned eyes.
“Good? Good?!” Stanford looked over his brother in disbelief, eyes roaming his body and the way his chest pressed together when he laid on his side, the way his fat thighs squished together, the folds of the dress hiding what was between said thighs, the hand marks-
He stopped.
Stanley had small bruises over his neck, red hand prints over his thighs.
“Really?” He felt something heavy settle in him like rocks in his stomach “selling yourself? Really?”
The idea of others having their way with Stanley was… revolting. Just even having to think about his twin laid out for the others to consume… Stanford had to stop himself from ripping the blanket, instead holding it in a fistful.
“Have you no shame?”
“Excuse me?” Stanley lifts his head, an ugly sort of smile curling up “shame?”
Suddenly he was up, sat up on his knees, Stanford tried to warn him that he could see…well…everything with the way he was sitting but got a pillow to the face.
“Fuck you! You have no idea what I've been through!”
“I must doubt selling your own body would be necessary” Stanford grunted, fixing his glasses that hit the bridge of his nose with the impact “just get a job-”
“Shut up!” Another pillow to the face and Stanford fell down on his side with the power of it, the sudden movement tugging at the stitches on his side.
“You don't know anything!” Stanford managed to not look at Stanley's lap that was directly in his view and rolled on his back. Now he had a full view of his little brother lifting the pillow high just mere moments before slamming it into his face.
“Oof-”
“You think I didn't try that?! You think I wanted to sell my body?!” another hit.
“They're not even handsome! They're ugly-” SLAM
“Fucking” SLAM
“Pigs!” SLAM
Stanford tried his best to breathe with the pillow on his face, having half a mind to try reach and remove his glasses-
“UGH!” Nevermind, Stanley was hitting him again “I hate them! But I hate starving even more! I hate not being high! I hate the texture of these sheets! And I hate this cheap dress! And I hate your stupid face! And-” finally the constant abuse with the pillow slowed. Instead the pillow was being pressed down onto his face- uh oh. It seems Stanley wants to kill him afterall, perhaps he expected him to be like their ma and not try to kill him after such a comment.
However, Stanford's thoughts all came to a halt at the sound of sniffling. Carefully, Stanford reached over and pulled the pillow away from his face, ready to take in a much needed deep breath.
The sight before him, though, stole his breath away.
Stanley hovered over him, brows trembling between a glare and a hurt look he tried to mask. His hair gently kissed and tickled Stanford's face, surrounding his brother like a halo.
Stanford stared, eyes wide as blackened tears plopped onto his face, heart rate picking up abnormally.
“...most of all” his brother managed to say through wobbly lips, voice wavering before breaking into a whisper “I hate myself”
Hate? How could anyone hate Stanley?
Actually, scratch that, Stanford remembers harboring strong feelings towards his brother but… never hate. No, Stanford could never truly hate him even if he told himself and tried to make himself believe he did.
A sob tore out of Stanley as he lowered his head and closed his eyes, something vulnerable, something Stanley would never allow anyone to see. Stanford cannot help but wonder if this is an image his brother would even allow himself to see… Judging by their last spat, he doubts it.
Delicately, Stanford raised his hand and neatly placed it on Stanley’s cheeks, thumb tenderly swiping over his cheek to wipe away the offending tears and leaving a tar colored smudge on his fingertip and his brother’s cheek.
“You’re beautiful” his voice came in a whisper, chest in a pinch when those big brown eyes opened to look at him, lashes together in clumps from the wetness of his eyes. His brother’s lips parted the slightest, seeming to still register the words just before he broke into quiet stifled cries.
Careful, Stanford pulled his little sibling in, allowing him to hide his face in his chest while he warbled things that he, admittedly, could not understand. It all really sounded like nonsense, like a little kid crying and talking at the same time, but Stanford didn’t let that bother him.
It wasn’t long until Stanley cried himself out, completely passed out and drooling on him with loud snores. Some things never change, it seems, as his brother seemed to still have a knack to nearly strangle someone in his sleep.
“Agh-” Stanford yelped at the burning pain in his injury when his brother threw a leg over him. Him, essentially a stranger to Stanley. Honestly, he ought to teach his brother about stranger danger.
Sighing, Stanford stared at the ceiling, afraid of looking down after the quick peek from earlier where Stanley’s dress had already risen past his stomach, it was more of a shirt at this point if anything. Laying here with his brother keeping him captive, Stanford couldn’t check the dimension tracker at all and his brother’s house shaking snores were already lulling him to sleep.
“Operation Coffee Spill is a go.” “You’re going to spill coffee over our teacher? On purpose??” “Relax. It’s iced, I'm not gonna hurt them. Although… Maybe a bit of worry would make for a nice dramatic confession...” “Oh, absolutely not. Forget what I said.”
“Look. They’re eating lunch together.” “Is it lunch… or is it lunch?” “Don’t say it like that.”
“What if we send flowers to A in B's name?” “You're a genius. We just need their adress.”
“Did you see the way Mx. A looked for Mx. B during the drill?” “Oh, yeah. I've dreamed about someone having a look like that in their eyes for me.”
“Mx. B, Mx. A said your speech at the summer festival was brilliant.” “Oh—did they?” (students high-five in the back row)
“You're never gonna believe it. This morning, A did not let go when they handed B a book, stared in her eyes and asked if she enjoyed it.” “Oh my god, they are so doing it.”
“So, is it true that they were sick on the same day?”
“Oh my god, they just called each other by their first names.” “In front of students? Oh, they might as well do it on the desk.”
“You're not gonna believe it. Mx. A was wearing Mx. B's jacket today.” “No.” “Yes.” “No!” “Yes!” “Oh my god.”
“Mx. A teased Mx. B about being late. And they smiled.” “…They smiled? I've never seen them smile before. They can do that?”
“So are we all in agreement?” “Yes.” “100%.” “They’re together.” “Or they will be.”
[Prompt Calender: May 8th, Teacher Appreciation Week]
Virgin!Stan x More Experienced!Ford
It's a bit of a stretch sure but Carla could have never put out, his marriage to Marylin was for only 6 hours and technically he was in the non touching areas of the sex-industry. It's possible! I just really want to see the dynamic flipped ok? 🤤
HIIII another one of my asks i left sitting for far too long 😅
but ough okay. ill be honest, at first i wasn't too taken with this idea but. it kinda kept growing on me. and growing. and now I'm kinda insane about it
like, stan that talks a big game and flirts but is actually?? pretty nervous if its returned? ESPECIALLY if its ford??? and like, once they get past expressing that they both have feelings for each other, tough. stan being nervous at the idea of their first time??
like, yeah, its everything hes dreamed of but what if it sucks for ford? he doesn't know what he's doing anyways and he's worried it'll be so bad for ford.
but oughhhhhhh god. what if ford only somehow finds out like. in the middle?? or at least once he's inside stan?
"Relax," Ford practically coos at him, which Stan would find patronizing if it didn't actually help soothe him. "Relax, Stanley. I got you."
His nerves are shooting way higher than he ever thought possible, but at the same time, it's mind-numbingly good. It's good to feel Ford inside of him, to feel so full.
Once Ford is completely buried inside him, Stan feels him still completely for a few moments. "There we go. That's a good boy," Ford murmurs, making his cock twitch. "You're taking me so well, Stanley," he utters with a fond smile, kissing his forehead. "Especially for your first time with a man."
Stan's heart beats against his ribcage harshly. Everything is so overwhelming and it's almost too much, but he wouldn't trade it for the world.
"Heh. More like my first time with anyone," Stan mutters on impulse.
He feels rather than sees Ford go rigid against him, and it's only then that Stan realizes what he just slipped out.
Fuck.
"Hold on a moment," Ford starts, staring at him. His smile is long-gone and has now transformed into something deathly-serious. "You've never—with anyone? I'm your—?"
Stan wants the bed to swallow him whole. He could try to lie of course, but something tells him that that's not gonna fly. For one of the first times in his life, he chooses to tell the truth.
"...Yeah. I just—never saw the point in it," Stan confesses, voice quiet. "Not if it wasn't with the one person I wanted for my entire life."
The air hangs between them, heavy and thick. Stan refuses to look at Ford, turning his head away. He's half-afraid Ford's gonna call everything off.
Ugh. Vulnerability fucking sucks.
"Fuck, what am I sayin'? I'm sorry, Sixer. It's not important, just forget about it, I'm killin' the mood. Let's just—"
But then Ford grabs his face and turns it forcibly to make Stan look directly at him, and in his eyes, Stan sees—
Hunger. Desire. Want.
"You're perfect," Ford whispers, stroking his cheek with his thumb. "All mine. Perfect, just for me. Just mine, forever."
"Oh," Stan says, intelligently. He blinks. "This is a thing for ya, isn't it? Of course it—"
Ford shuts Stan up by starting to thrust slowly in and out of him, making him gasp.
"To think," Ford says in between pants, "I'm the first one to ever see you like this. Touch you like this. Feel you like this." Ford lets out a loud moan. "Fuck you like this—"
Ford's cock hits him just right and Stan sees stars for a moment. "Fuck, Ford—right there, please—don't, don't stop—" he babbles, gripping hard into Ford's back.
Ford increases the pace, fucking into him faster and faster like a damn animal. Stan keeps making noises he never thought would ever come out of him, louder and needier than he's ever heard himself be.
"Mine," Ford growls out as he presses kisses to Stan's throat. "You're all mine."
And it's true. Stan is Ford's, Ford is Stan's. And it'll stay that way.
Something fun I found in my notes and polished into a ficlet.
This is stancest. (it always is)
Summary:
Prompted by an unexpected visitor arriving in Gravity Falls, Ford documents an unwelcome revelation about his personal tastes.
Journal entry
Gravity Falls, Oregon
Wednesday, October 1977
For the record, let me set something straight—I am.
Heterosexual, that is. Though it's a label that's generally irrelevant to my work, I find myself reflecting on it due to unfortunate circumstances.
I wasn't into men. I truly wasn't.
I am not into men.
They don't catch my fancy in any shape or form.
In mutual endeavors of science or regarding significant historical texts from male authors, yes, I have shown interest.
But my interest does not lie in lingering gazes. There is no thrill that runs down my spine at the sight of broad shoulders. I don't spare an extra glance at any chiseled jaw, rough with stubble.
Members of the fairer sex are appealing in their own right, though pursuits of the flesh do not entice me.
So, most certainly, thick, fuzzy arms and strong wrists do not entice me. The rough gravel of baritone vocals does not beckon to me like a siren's call.
I should know; my documented research on the local nixie population is tucked away in this very book, after all.
In conclusion, I am not into men.
Never do I find myself reacting to a male specimen in a manner that might indicate attraction.
Never, under regular circumstances.
However.
There is a problem.
I have noticed a discrepancy.
There is a man.
My reaction is incongruent with what I know about myself. All past data has been contradicted.
Below is my written account of the encounter that transpired:
Location
“Greasy and Sons Dinercar”
The third table from the front, seated in the booth facing the entrance
The bell chimed, alerting the establishment of a new patron.
A male entered.
I had not seen him around Gravity Falls before. This was not altogether unexpected. It's a small, tight-knit town, but I am not familiar with its inhabitants. I may be considered something of a hermit, not often venturing into civilization unless of utmost necessity, such as supplies or anomaly research. The limited interactions I've had with the townsfolk resulted in… undesirable outcomes. Due to my propensity towards bad first impressions (honest mistakes on my part; they fail to understand my methods), it's entirely possible they purposefully avoid me.
Such was my initial rationale for not recognizing this individual.
I will attempt to describe my first impression of said man. (I deemed a modicum of poeticism necessary, diverging from purely factual descriptions.)
He walked in. His stride was somewhere between a saunter and a strut. Something about his demeanor was flashy, confident, and brazen. Irritating.
He had the build of a redwood, limbs like tree trunks. His sternocleidomastoid muscles were defined, like galvanized steel cords beneath the skin of his neck.
He spoke to the waitress while leaning his elbow on the counter. Though I could not discern their conversation from that distance, his laugh was too boisterous to miss. It was as tough as a chainsaw and warm as the summer sun. A rowdy sound.
His hair was unfair. A rich chocolate fudge color. Tousled, wavy and long, an untamed mane that cascaded from his red beanie.
His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing forearms dusted in hair. He wore layers. A dark, heavy-duty field jacket on top, a rusty colored knit sweater over a button-up shirt beneath. The top button was undone. A peek of his collarbones was displayed from between the collar points. Said points were askew. I ached to straighten them, to restore symmetry. The itch made itself home inside my veins, simmering not unpleasantly beneath my skin.
I watched him turn to walk in my direction.
He was certainly a man.
So much man.
Entirely too much man.
As a result, I should have thought nothing of him. Or at the very least, my thoughts should have been unbiased, practical observations, generic, logical deductions.
Should have been.
…Not unlike the black coffee in my mug, his eyes were a deep, intense brown, swirling with the hint of a sharp, bitter taste. Relentless. They drew you in. Deep-set eyes shaded by thick, bushy brows. Faint bags beneath his eyelids implied the weight of some worldly burden. Yet his gaze was sparkling with mischief, lighthearted yet dangerous. Something hiding in their depths, something up his sleeve. All charm and ulterior motives.
He entered with his hands in his pockets- thankfully so. I had already seen too much.
Worst of all, below those fierce, unapologetic eyes-
The faintest smirk. A slight upward tilt at one corner that was dripping with an unnerving, roguish confidence. Fearless. Reckless. Asking for trouble. The kind of smile I'd seen on fae before they revealed a jaw of wolfish teeth and came upon me with vicious gnashing.
It's impossible to write this without embarrassment.
My higher functioning thought processes shut down.
It is true that my saliva glands were in a state of overproduction. I felt my mouth fill. A subtle gushing sensation that triggered me to swallow.
The forces of the universe, forever allied against me, cursed me with the most audible gulp imaginable.
At the squelch of my throat, he finally looked my way.
It was like the sun flared out from behind a tree, or the unpredictable, cold draw of the moon penetrating the forest leaves. Either way, chills wracked my body. I was suddenly pinned beneath that unyielding gaze.
Except…
Within moments, yield it did.
Our gaze held.
…those sharp, merciless eyes softened.
I've never been thrown for such a loop. In a second, I was observing solid oak morph into oozing honey. A thick layer, a hardened exterior of bark, a second skin was peeled away in an instant. I was entirely unprepared for-
“...Sixer?”
It began to click.
That raspy alto. The big brown eyes. Fluffy, unruly locks of hair. The Pines' jaw and prominent nose. The formidable stature that had only continued to develop.
He worked his jaw.
I must reiterate, I am not into men.
I am compelled to state, with utmost insistence, that I am not.
Subsequently, in addition, it goes without saying to assert that-
(gets a lil NSFW. only a little, but warning bc is there)
Ford fantasizes in high school about what it would be like if he were a teacher.
It's somewhere between a wet dream and a nightmare.
Drooling at the thought of being authorized to correct people's grammar without getting his head shoved in a toilet afterwards. To essentially have a profession of telling people they're wrong and he's right and why.
Yet he's apalled at the thought of being confined to a life of dumbing down concepts. Surrounded by lesser intellect and academic apathy.
And sitting in the desk right beside him is the exact kind of student he'd dread having to teach.
Yet, it's different because that's his brother. Except that makes it worse.
hMmmm.
Teacher Ford x Delinquent Stan
I wonder if there's a way I could get that dynamic without it being a Mr. Forrester fic. Like maybe there's an honor role of excellent students who tutor? And it's extra credit so of course Ford begrudgingly accepts.
And of course the school's biggest problem child is paired up with their highest ranking star pupil.
I'm making sense, yeah??
And Stan's totally not into it at first and does not take it seriously. Likewise Ford is frustrated and now HIS performance grade is affected by how shit Stan's is- Tensions raise but, but but but...
Imagine the breakthrough when Stanley finally gets it. When a concept clicks. When he gets his first B grade and comes running to show Ford. The way their bond would deepen when they find a middle ground, meeting halfway until there's a shared understanding. And Ford has always taken great pride in his own efforts and academic prowess- but NOW SUDDENLY that pride is EXPANDED to include Stanley. Stanley's become an extension of his beloved studies. Now he's invested in Stan.
And now he gets Stan's full attention. He gets treated with some amount of respect and authority. Feels a spark of something whenever Stan completes a problem correctly. Feels a buzz when Stan repeats back an acronym accurately. Feels restless when he uses the correct grammar. Dizzy when Stan asks a question and hangs on his every word. And when Stanley makes genuine little offhand comments like, "You're a genius. You're so good at this" Ford straight up pops a boner. LOLLL I get carried away.
Meanwhile, Stanley gets to experience what it's like to have someone proud of him. What it feels like to overcome a roadblock that used to trip him up. He gets to have his big brother shower him in approval and show genuine glee whenever Stan pays attention and tries. His other half being so supportive when he applies himself. Saying, "Good job, Stanley, you worked so hard for that, didn't you. I'm impressed with you." And it's enough for him to have to excuse himself, run to the bathroom, lock the stall, take himself in hand and-
Okay.
Yeah, anyway. This is my problem. I can never write one story because- look at this. I'm immediately starting on another concept and I'm not even done with the rough draft of the first one.
