
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2790806.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gravity_Falls
  Relationship:
      Dipper_Pines/Grunkle_Stan_|_Stanley_"Stanford"_Pines, Bill_Cipher/Grunkle
      Stan_|_Stanley_"Stanford"_Pines, Grunkle_Stan_|_Stanley_"Stanford"_Pines/
      The_Author_|_Original_Stanford_Pines
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Consent_Issues, dubcon, Incest, Implied
      Twincest, there_is_so_much_wrong_with_this, I_am_so_sorry, Pedophilia,
      sort_of, non-human_Bill, Non-Human_Genitalia, Possession, Implied/
      Referenced_Drug_Use, 70s, Cigarettes, now_updated_with_correct_names, au
      where_Ford_is_the_twins_grandfather
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Trash_Ship_Collection
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-17 Updated: 2015-06-21 Chapters: 3/? Words: 7867
****** Only the Worst Kind ******
by paranoiapersonified
Summary
     Stan misses his brother in the absolute worst kind of way.
     A collection of (very nsfw) stories about Stanley Pines and his life.
     Please read the tags.
Notes
     I am so sorry. Please read the tags. If incest, huge age gaps, or
     demon genitalia bother you, this is really, really, really not the
     fic for you. Dipper's age is slightly ambiguous, but he's no older
     than 15.
     This first chapter and the next one go together, but after that the
     rest of the story might jump around in the timeline. I'm pretty sure
     chapter 3 is going to feature a teenage Stanford and Stanley. So far
     the tags are just for the first two chapters, but I'll probably add
     or change the tags and relationships as I write more.
***** Messed Up Something Big Pt I *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Stan isn’t gentle. This is wrong, and he knows it—Jesus, doesn’t he—but he
can’t seem to make himself stop. Dipper’s small mouth is soft and warm against
his, pliant and only just responsive. Stan is pretty sure that Dipper’s never
shared a kiss before, at least not a kiss like this. Stan is pushy and
demanding, teeth and tongue and maybe just a bit of blood. Dipper groans and
Stan’s not sure at all if it’s pleased or pained.
For his part, Dipper keeps up like a champ, despite the cheap brandy coursing
through his veins. Stan is aware that, even if it were the only issue with what
was happening here, Dipper’s consent would be dubious at best. But the kid
still manages to kiss back, and when Stan slips a hand under the hem of his
shirt and takes that moment to nip at his jaw, he just tilts his head back and
gasps in a way that Stan responds to in the best—worst—way.
Dipper’s hands—so smooth and small still, fuck—come to rest on Stan’s
shoulders, like he doesn’t have a single clue what to do with them. He probably
doesn’t, Stan knows, and it just adds to the twisted mantra of “You’re fucking
up, you’re fucking up, you’re fucking up …” playing in repeat in his head. He
knows already, he tells himself. He knows he’s fucking up again, but …
The way Dipper’s eyes flutter open lazily, warmly—
Fuck.Stan’s breath catches in his throat as he remembers the exact same way
someone he knew and loved and loved too much years ago used to look at him.
Stans mouth is back on the child—fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s just a fucking kid—in a
feverish way and Dipper just has no chance of keeping up this time, and Stan
has no sympathy for the poor kid with his brother’s eyes and goofy smile and
drunken laugh.
Stan doesn’t bother being gentle, because there is no place for gentleness in
this clusterfuck of hate. He hates himself and how messed up he is, how messed
up he has to be to do something this degraded. He hates Dipper, too, he thinks.
Mostly just for existing like he is, and for having his grandfather’s mouth and
innocence and personality. He knows this isn’t fair to Dipper, not at all, but
it isn’t fair to Stan either. How dare he. How dare he just … just remind him
so much of that man he loved?
Dipper’s shirt is gone and his shorts are somewhere across the room and Stan is
at least attentive where he is unforgiving. No inch of his skin has gone
untouched. Dipper cries out as Stan finds his nipples, small and perked from
the chill and from arousal, and rubs circles into them. Stan knows that Dipper
is hard in his boxers, has felt it for a few minutes now, and the poor kid
starts rutting in an uneven, sloppy rhythm against Stan’s stomach.
Stan’s mouth is trailing up Dipper’s neck, rushed and rattled and he knows that
if anyone saw this, he’d look disgustingly needy and frantic. This is not a
beautiful act. This is less than what Dipper deserves, but it’s far, far more
than what Stan deserves. The kid is making these high, broken noises that send
shocks down Stan’s spine and coil warmly in his gut.
Stan prays to god that Dipper thinks it’s all a nightmare in the morning. Or
doesn’t remember it at all. With how much he drank, it’s possible that he’ll
have lapses in his memory. But he also wants to brand the memory into Dipper’s
skin, like a punishment for causing this. Stan settles for a small bite, right
at the juncture of Dipper’s neck and shoulder. It’ll be gone by the morning,
possibly gone in ten minutes, but Stan pulls back to see the red ring of teeth
marks and the sight goes straight to his half hard dick. He takes a second to
look at Dipper, to commit the sight to memory, something he knows he’ll never
be able to forget, never want to, no matter how much he tries to drink it away.
The boy is beautiful in his own way, and Stan is ruining him. Ruining him like
he did to his grandfather over 40 years ago now. A mixture of nausea and need
rolls heavy in Stan’s gut as Dipper whines and wriggles at Stan’s sudden stop.
Stan knows the kid doesn’t really understand—can’t comprehend, thank the high
heaven almighty—what is actually going on, but he lets himself think that
Dipper knows what he is doing to Stan.
Whatever makes it easier to stomach.
Stan’s hands trail up and down Dip’s sides, and Dipper’s eyes flutter at the
the movement. Stan licks hips lips hungrily and does it once more. He gets a
small puff of air this time and a whine before he drags both hands down to his
waist and sliding a thumb under the waste band of his boxers. Dipper is still
trying to roll his hips against Stan’s torso, but a firm grip stops him and
Stan melts from the whine he lets out. “Fuck, kid…”
A thumb moves a little farther under the waist band, slides it down inch by
inch, and suddenly Stan freezes. This is too much. Too far. It’s too late, Stan
knows, to actually take it back, to pretend nothing happened, but he can’t
bring himself to go any further. Dipper seems to notice the sudden lack of any
movement, since his hips shift impatiently once, twice, then give an annoyed
jostle, like a toddler stamping his foot, and if Stan’s erection hadn’t already
been killed, that thought certainly would have done it for him.
Dipper slowly opens his eyes, but Stan can’t bring himself to meet them. He
instead stares at the dark wall behind him. He opens his mouth to speak,
searches for the right words that Dipper—hopefully, oh god please don’t—won’t
remember anyway.
“Well don’t stop now, Stanley!”
Stan tenses immediately at the echoey, tenor voice that seems to radiate from
every corner of the room. Goddamn it. He squints hard at the wall again, and
what Stan had just taken for darkness was actually the telltale monochrome of a
certain demon.
“Things were just getting good, right Pine Tree?”
Chapter End Notes
     I'm only going to post more if anyone wants more? And if people are
     completely horrified by it, I'll take it down easy-peasy, no qualms
     what-so-ever.
      
     EDIT! So I have the email thing fixed, the next chapter should be up
     within the next week! Yay!! I'm also looking for a beta to read
     through and fix grammar and spelling mistakes, if anyone is
     interested.
***** Messed Up Something Big Pt 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The continuation of Chapter 1.
     Bill wants to join ruin the party.
Chapter Notes
     This is not at all the chapter I thought it was going to be when I
     wrote chapter 1. I rewrote this chapter at least 4 times, and none of
     them were ... exactly right. But it took me long enough, so here you
     go. I'll probably still rewrite part of this and edit, but I thought
     that if I didn't get it up now, it might take another week to get it
     to you all.
     Adding/changing tags to fit the chapters.
     Edit: There are more mistakes than I thought, sorry about that.
     They'll be fixed soon.
     Edit (11/2/15): I added a little extra to the end of this chapter!
     This is actually something that I wanted to write back when I first
     wrote this chapter, but was it wasn't coming out right, and I was too
     fatigued and more interested in getting it published to keep trying.
     But it's there now! Just an extra hundred or so words to flesh out
     the ending a bit more.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The smoke is quick. It appears like a flash, blotting out the rest of the room
like ink in water. It’s thick and opaque, with a corporal weight and an
opalescent sheen over deep murky plum-black. It bellows out in waves that move
unnaturally fast — faster than Stan’s eye can track — for how the fog-like
cloud should move.
It winds around them both before Stan can think to move. And Stan feels it,
slick and very solid against his skin where it brushes—wraps—around his arms,
across his shoulders, and suddenly Stan is trapped.
“What the fuck, Cipher!” Stan yells, struggling against his confines. He’s
pinned at the chest and upper arms, just tightly enough that Stan can’t get any
real momentum to move or break them. Dipper’s eyes grow wide, no longer hazy
with alcohol, and Stan catches them before the child is pulled roughly out of
Stan’s lap with a small yelp. The smoke pulls him up, wrapping around his
waist, before tendrils—fucking tentacles—begin to form out of the amorphic
shape, two of them wrapping themselves around Dipper’s upper thigh, another
winding around his chest, leaving sticky, slick smears against the kid’s pale
shining like an oil patch on asphalt.
Once Dipper is in the air, there is a fragile, stunned silence, and neither of
them knows what to do or say. Dipper’s arms are frozen, up at shoulder height
as if he’s going to reach for something but found nothing to grab. He’s
panicking, eyes wild and widening, taking in the ethereal smoke, which twitches
and jitters as it rests, like a cat’s tail, antsy.
“Dipper, it’s going to be okay,” Stan whispers, quiet but loud in the still air
of the room, and Dipper’s eyes jerk back to him. Sweat, both from his previous
state—humping his great uncle—and from the current fear, has plastered his hair
to his forehead, exposing his birthmark. It makes him look young, back when he
was a toddler, tumbling around with his sister, hair too short and wispy to
even begin to cover up his birthmark. And even though Stan knows that he was
just doing something abhorrent, just ruining this child himself, he is filled
with the desire, the need, to protect him. “It’s going to be alright.”
“I wouldn’t speak so soon, Stanley.” Bill chuckles, softly but growing loud,
voice still echoing from different corners of the room. Before Stan knows
what's happening, a new tendril wraps itself tightly around Dipper’s throat,
and Dipper tries to gasp with a sickening choke and gurgle. His hands, reaching
for the tentacle, are intercepted and pulled over his head, brought together by
one winding, writhing tendril.
“Stop!” Stan watches in horror as his nephew chokes, trying to tug at the inky
smoke holding him back, but it doesn’t budge.
A new tendril snakes up between Stan and Dipper, and Stan watches as it trails
over Dipper’s face, leaving a slick, sticky trail. “He’s so cute like this,
wouldn’t you agree?” Bill’s voice resonates from directly behind Dipper this
time. Bricks, glowing and yellow, tumble down from nowhere, falling into place
in a pyramid pattern until the triangle is complete. Bill blinks up at Stan,
eye creasing, as if he were smiling, even though he had no mouth. He laughs,
placing his hands possessively on Dipper’s shoulders and leans over to look at
Stan. The tendril caressing his face moves to his lips, circling them slowly,
until it pushes into his open mouth with a brutal shove, pressing deeper,
deeper into Dipper’s mouth than Stan would have thought was possible.
Dipper’s eyes squeeze shut, shaking his head as he gags, throat working hard to
try to expel the tentacle as the one around his neck lessens, still writhing
against his throat but no longer constricting. He starts to slow down in his
struggles, arms stilling and throat bobbing less and less, and Stan is worried
that the kid might finally be passing out.
“Stop!” Stan yells again, but all he gets is Bill’s laughter in response. He
bucks wildly to try to break the hold the fog had on him, kicking out with his
still-free legs, but it only makes the tendrils constrict, so tight that his
lungs ache.
“Watch, Stanley. This is the good part.”
Stan glares at Bill, tries to say something again but the tentacle around his
chest tightens even more, and nothing more than a wheeze comes out.
Mmmmmnnnhhhhh.
Stan freezes, looking back at Dipper. The kid’s eyes are now open, heavily
lidded and glazey, cheeks flushed. The tendrils in his mouth is still
impossible deep—Stan can still see it thrusting in his throat—but his nephew is
no longer panicking. Dipper groans again, eyes fluttering closed.
“What did you do?!”
“I taste delicious, don’t you know! He’s just … relaxing a bit more now. He’ll
be fine.” Bill says, right as another tendril starts to sneak up between
Dipper’s thighs, taking time to stroke the pale skin below where the underwear
ends. It snakes its way up into one of the leg holes, and Dipper moans
lowly—practically keens—as it works beneath the cotton.
Dipper groans again, muffled by the tendril in his mouth still constantly
moving. Stan feels sick, fear and anger and nausea churning in his stomach, but
there is an underlying heat that is getting harder to ignore. He swallows,
tries to shift his gaze away from where the tendril was shifting and pumping
frantically beneath Dipper’s boxers, from Dipper’s mouth—now drooling out some
of the oily residue from the corner—but Bill notices. A tendril grabs his chin,
moving his face roughly back into position.
“This is all for you, Stanley. Don’t you like my present?”
“You’re fucked up.”
Bill doesn’t reply right away, his eye narrowing at Stan, menacing but not
dangerous. Not yet, at least. “Stanley, I put more faith in you than this. You
always seemed to have such a great understanding of the psyche. All of this?
It’s all you. I’m only pulling from your imagination. All I’m doing is …
redirecting it for you.”
Stan freezes, cold with realization, with a half-forgotten memory, dream,
something — he wasn’t even sure anymore. “… That was different. This is
different!”
Dipper moans, loud and unabashed, oblivious to the rest of the world, and
nothing, nothing about this is okay, Stanley thinks—knows—as he flinches away,
eyes closed tight.
Bill laughs, nothing but malice in his tenor, and Stan looks back to see his
triangular body slowly fade back into the black fog. “Oh Stanley,” he says,
tendrils once more forcing Stan’s face forward. “We're just getting started.”
Something—maybe the sudden difference in pitch, or the urgency—changes and
Stan’s attention is all on Dipper. His head is tossed back, and his entire body
is tight with tension, like coil pulled taut. His shoulders strain at the
bindings, thin muscles in his chest and arms flexing as he pulls, and his voice
grows more and more frantic, whines and groans as he struggles.
And fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, does Stan know that it’s messed up, but fuck. The
kid … this looks good. Very good. Stan tries to shift, tries to make his own
erection less noticeable, wills it to disappear with repetitive thoughts of
your brother’s grandson, your brother’s grandson, your brother’s grandson, but
the thin cotton does nothing to hide the tent.
Dipper’s head tilts forward again, keen and whine on his lips, but his stare is
no longer hazy and faraway. Stan gasps, catches himself licking his lips at the
sight of the bright, glassy brown eyes that focus immediately on his own. The
tendril in his mouth drags back over his lips, tracing over his cheeks and
lips, and Dipper takes the opportunity to whisper, “Lee …”
Stan doesn’t know when he started panting, but his chest is heaving and
everything feels too tight. He can’t look away, even after Dipper closes his
own eyes tight, mouth open and panting, cheeks flushed and suddenly Stan is
kissing him again, hot and messy, and whoa, the kid just tried to bite him.
“Lee …” Dipper moans, mumbling against Stan’s mouth, “Lee … Please.”
Stan jerks back. That wasn’t Dipper’s voice. That was … He stares the kid down,
eyes still closed from the kiss and eyebrows furrowed in a pout. “Leeeeee …”
“Cipher.” Stan warns, voice rougher than he would like, knot stuck in his
throat from the mixture of need and … whatever emotion hearing his brother’s
voice brings.
Dipper’s body stills, only motion coming from the smokey tendrils, still
throbbing along his small body. He opens his eyes slowly, looking down, face
cast in a sort of dreamy pout. But the illusion is shattered almost immediately
by the wide, toothy grin that spreads unnaturally over Dipper’s face. And the
eyes. The glowing yellow eyes.
“You caught me!” Bill says happily, like an excited little kid. “Oh man, this
body’s into some weird stuff. Ahhhh …” Bill moans, dipping his head back for
show, as one of the tendrils gives a particularly violent twist in Dipper’s
boxers. “Feels weird,” he cackles.
“Bill, I swear to g—“
Dipper’s eyes flash red as Bill glares back at Stan, “To who, Stanley? To God??
God ain’t here, kiddo. He’s got no place here.” Bill laughs as Dipper’s body is
once again pulled away from Stan’s lap, and two tendrils make clumsy work of
removing Dipper’s boxer, eventually just tearing them away from his legs
unceremoniously. Stan can see now the way that Bill’s tendril is handling
Dipper’s erection roughly, tightly. It looks painful, but Bill groans again,
softer this time with a much more genuine tone, as it pulls harshly.
“I bet he’d love claws,” Bill moans, tendrils releasing Dipper’s arms from
their grasp so Bill could reach down and drag nails over Dipper’s chest,
leaving angry red lines all over his skin until beads of blood began welling
up, gasping like it was a shock. “I think something’s wrong with your nephew,
Stanley,” he says, laughing.
“What do you want, Cipher?”
“What makes you think I want anything? Maybe I’m just, hahh, enjoying myself.
MaybeI’m just helping you enjoy it.”
“I’m not—”
“Oh, will you please stop lying to yourself!” Bill laughs, leaning back down
into Stan’s space. “Iknow you, remember? I know what you like, what your dreams
are made of, I’ve been down some of those dusty corridors in your mind, peeked
behind those bolted doors you try to pretend aren’t there.” Bill runs Dipper’s
hands through Stan’s hair, gently scraping his bloody nails along his scalp,
before whispering in Stan’s ear. “Youlovethis. You miss this—miss the old days.
You can lie to yourself all you want once it’s over, but you cannot lie to me,
Stanley.”
The tendrils bring Dipper’s body down, placing it back on Stan’s lap before
retreating entirely. Bill slides up Stan’s lap, pressing himself up against his
body, and Stan tries to turn his head away, to ignore the small length pressed
up against his stomach. But Bill’s gentle hold in his hair devolves into a
sharp grip that pulls Stan back to look him in the eye. Bill’s expression
betrays the demon he is, wild smile and bright yellow eyes that track his as
they to look away, until eventually he leans back in to lick Stan’s ear. “I’m
not judging you. Well, I am, but not in this anyway. A young,naïvething, that
reminds you so much of your childhood lover? I don’t know who could blame you…
“Not when he sounds so much like him, too.”
Stan’s eyes widen at the sound of his twin’s voice and tries to jerk away at
the sound of Bill’s laughter. “Oh I’m having too much fun!” The demon sits
back, hand still holding Stan’s head in place with that supernatural strength,
rolling his hips against Stan’s own clothed erection, drawing a stunted groan
from the man. “Don’t worry, kid, the rest will be easy. All you have to do is
sit back and enjoy it.”
Stan closes his eyes as Bill reaches down with his—with Dipper’s—free hand and
pulls him from his boxers, pumping him twice with a slow, skilled hand. He’s so
embarrassingly hard that it hurts, and he can’t help the relieved groan he lets
out at the feel of bare skin as Bill presses back against him, moving his hips
in small, forceful circles.
Bill doesn’t bother keeping his voice down, humming and gasping pleasurably
into Stan’s ear as his hips pick up speed against Stan. One hand was still in
Stan’s hair, alternating between gentle scratches and rough tugs, while the
other started running up and down Stan’s arm, over his chest and stomach where
the fog wasn’t holding him down.
Bill sits back, still rolling his hips, mouth open and panting, and looks down
at Stan, bright yellow eyes lidded and almost calculating. The hand in Stan’s
hair gives one big jerk, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. Stan
winces at the sharp pain, closes his eyes until he feels Dipper’s tongue,
trailing up his throat, dragging along his stubble. Stan gasps, unable to move
his head, to look, as Bill bites. Teeth sink into his skin, hard enough to
bruise, to exceed Stan’s pleasure threshold and just hurt. Stan feels the skin
there threatening to give, Bill’s teeth threatening to puncture. But instead
Bill pulls back, dragging his tongue none too gently over the teethmarks, just
to move down to the juncture of his shoulder and neck and bite again harder.
“Fuck …” Stan groans, panting harshly at the pain. He gasps as he feels the
dull teeth break the skin this time, feels blood welling up around the wound,
but Bill doesn’t pull away. Stan hears the demon groan, low and hungry as his
tongue licks the back of his teeth, tasting the blood, until finally Bill pulls
back, instead sucking hard on the wound and drawing more blood.
“You know Stanley, I was going to try to … mmf, take this further, but your
nephew seems have a pretty low threshold for pleasure,” Bill mumbles when he
finally breaks away from Stan’s skin, voice sounds less composed than Stan’s
ever heard. He gasps into Stans shoulder, rhythm becoming slightly more
chaotic, more desperate. “Fuck, Stanley, you were never this sensitive.” Bill
moans openly, tongue tracing the wounds.
Stan gasps at Bill’s words—at the memory—but he can’t help the soft grunts he’s
trying to hide. He’s close, fuck, when did that happen? He gasps, tilting his
face into Dipper’s hair. He tries—maybe not hard enough, but still tries—to
remember how terrible this is, how fucked up he is, but it’s getting more and
more difficult. Especially when Bill starts moaning almost nonstop, composure
completely gone and Dipper’s hips working fast and rough against Stan’s.
Something about the sounds he’s making sounds familiar, not entire Bill, but
Stan hardly cares at this point.
“Lee!” Ford’s voice cries as Bill comes, panting and shaking as his paints
Stan’s stomach in waves that match his tremors. But Stan hardly notices, as he
realizes exactly what Bill had done. He isn’t sure which he feels more right
now, hate or need. But Dipper’s hips have stopped moving and Stan feels need
win out, his own hips struggling to thrust back, but barely able to twitch with
the fog wrapped around waist.
“Bill …” Stan pleads—ashamed, but he can worry about that later, he just needs
a little more, just a little bit more…
“Well that was fun!” Bill says, his own voice back as he hops away from Stan,
looking ridiculous with his grin and smirk while naked in shaky adolescent body
covered in his own semen.
“What, Bill …” Stan groans as the cool air hits his erection, overly warm from
the heat of Dipper’s body.
“Thanks for the fun time. I’ll see you in your dreams, kid!”
The room tilts, and Stan is suddenly awake, chest heaving and almost, almost
screaming.
The television is playing some extra terrible late-night show in front of him,
and Dipper is fast asleep on the floor in front of him, still fully clothed,
with the two fingers of brandy Stan had poured for him sitting half-full next
to him.
Stan is … almost relieved—should be relieved—and he almost is. Instead, he is
furious.
He is still achingly hard from the dream, drenched and sticky from sweat. He
feels ... dirty. Disgusting. The slick, oily residue from the smoke is gone—it
was never really there to begin with—but he can still feel, the ghost of it, on
his skin. He needs ... he needs a shower, he needs to get out of that room, out
of the same room as Dipper. 
God, he doesn't know how he's going to look the kid in the eye for the rest of
the summer. How he's going to look him in the eye ever again. 
He tries to be quiet, to not wake Dipper as he steps out of the room, heading
for the bathroom, but still the chair groans and still the old floor boards
creak. He holds his breath, listening to Dipper's for any sound of waking, but
thankfully he only hears the even, slow in and out of sleep. 
The reflection in the mirror is worse than he thought. He's still ... he's
still fucking aroused, still flushed and sweaty, but at the same time, he looks
shaken. Hair mussed and unkempt and deep bags under his eyes. He splashes water
over his face, bitingly cold, and it helps, but not enough. Nowhere near
enough. 
He goes to pull his shirt off, to start undressing for his shower, when
something catches his eye in the mirror. Something on his shoulder.
“Fucking Cipher…” Stan says, dragging his hand over the bruise there, the small
ring of teeth marks broken into the skin that Stan knows would match up
perfectly with Dipper's bite if he had any way to test it. “Fuck!” he says
again, digging his nails hard into the bruise, as if he could pull the mark out
of his skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” 
He doesn't remember deciding to punch the glass. He doesn't think he actually
did decide to. He just couldn't look at he own reflection, at himself, at the
proof of his own messed up mind and the reminder of past mistakes and fuck. He
knows he's fucked up already. He doesn't need to see it.
He remembers pulling bits of mirror out of his knuckles though. 
Chapter End Notes
     It was always supposed to have been a dream, but originally I was
     going to have both Dipper and Stan sharing the same dream, but I
     figured that I wanted to come back and expand on Stan's potential
     future relationship with Dipper after this, and it would just be ...
     depressing and extreme if that had been the case. There will be more
     Stan/Dip, but the majority of the story is going to focus now on
     Stancest. So yay! Chapter 3 should be up in a week, maybe sooner.
***** It Really All Began Again Somewhere In the Middle Pt I *****
Chapter Summary
     Stanley and Stanford have a long history.
Chapter Notes
     Soooo, I’m going ahead and posting the first half of this chapter,
     since it’s been just about finished for a few weeks now. It’s a
     little slow and a little weird, but I’m having a hella hard time with
     the second half, which should be more interesting (and have porn),
     but life’s been kicking my ass, and it’s already been over a month
     now. It’s still pretty long, and hopefully interesting enough to keep
     your attention.
     This chapter takes place in the very early 70s, when the twins are 39
     or 40. It was supposed to be one long chapter that talked about their
     past history, but more about that next chapter, so I guess just enjoy
     the ambience and them interacting, and look forward to more substance
     next chapter?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stan’s not sure at all what’s propping him up. Sure as hell isn’t Larry. …
Jerry? Maybe Gary? Jerrrry?
(“Who the fuck is Jerry?”)
It doesn’t matter anyway, fuck that dude. Stan doesn’t need to know the name of
any deserters. Fucking Larry.
There is that unwieldy sensation of falling without falling, like the ground
beneath you is continuously dropping out from beneath you, only not, and Stan
vaguely comprehends that he might be walking. Or, you know, something
resembling it that probably is not walking. He doubts that he’s doing a very
good job of anything—of breathing—right now let alone something as complex as
locomotion.
(“Jesus, Lee, we’re almost there, man. Just keep it together like 10 more
feet.”)
Stan notices that there’s an arm around his waist, fingers digging into his
belt, hoisting him — Wait.
“L- Lee. Lee? Lee, Lee, Lee, Lee …” What … was it about Lees? Why … why did
someone just use that name, no one except …
Except …
Stan’s missing something. Something important. He knows it, almost has his
finger on it, but it flutters away from him every time he thinks he’s got it.
(“Come on, Lee, we’re here.”)
Stan’s falling sensation is suddenly increased ten-fold as he actually drops
into the car seat. He still can’t shake the feeling of “something is wrong” but
it is so nice to be sitting right now. He sort of forgot about the pain he was
in until some of it was gone and such relief washed through him that he sighed
into the seat. He closes his eyes, and it’s a little disconcerting that the
colors aren’t spinning, but it’s nice. His knuckles are still bruised —
probably bleeding — and his face is swollen and he might have another broken
nose, but he feels comfortable in a way. The seat smells … pleasant. There’s
the odor of stale cigarettes, of dust and of old leather, and something else.
Something familiar. Homey.
Stan sleeps.
 
 
Stan wakes up and everything hurts. He barely moves an inch to move his arm
from off his face and his back spasms up with the aches of bruised muscles and
sprained ribs, shoulder screeching protests. His face feels like minced meat.
Stan sits up, fighting through the worst of the pain. He’s been through a whole
lot worse than this.
“You’re up.” A voice echos from somewhere to his left, and Stan looks up to see
that he’s in some cheap motel room. There’s some of the ugliest matted shag
green carpet Stan’s ever seen, faux wood panel walls, bedspreads that are more
stains than sheets, and his twin standing in the doorway to the dinky, humid
bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel. His hair is dripping down his neck and
his glasses are fogged up slightly, and Stan hasn’t see him in nineteen years.
“Ford …? What are you ...” Stan murmurs, mostly to himself, before noticing the
deep, dark black eye his brother is sporting. “Oh man, Ford, I didn’t do that,
did I?” Stan tries to think back to last night, remembers … remembers not
selling anything yesterday. He almost left the whole set by a dumpster, had
even walked a good twenty feet away before he realized that he had nothing
else, no other options, besides those damn vacuums. He’d gone to the usual bar
where nobody knew his name, but all the bartenders knew his drink, and that’s
the way he liked it. Then … then he’d …
“Fuuuuckk,” Stan whines lowly, his already throbbing head aching with the
forming headache that was his life. He’d been high. His twin, who he hadn’t
seen since they were in their twenties and go-getters and best friends and
more, so much more, had seen him on heroin.
“How’s your head?” Ford asks, not exactly tenderly, but not as roughly as Stan
probably deserves. Stan just groans some more, closing his eyes and laying back
down on the disgusting bedspread, wishing he was dead, wishing that Greg, the
bastard, had just finished the job light night.
Ford moves, but Stan doesn’t look up to see what he’s doing, doesn’t care,
until he hears a rattling right in front of his face. He opens his eyes to see
Ford holding a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. He sits up and takes
them both, popping three pills while Ford turns and unwraps the towel from his
waist, using it to rub some of the excess water out of his hair.
“How’s your eye?” Stan asks, watching his brother rifling naked through a small
brown suitcase for a pair of underwear. Ford aged well, Stan can’t help but
think, staring at his bare ass. It’s been almost two decades, but Stan can
still see the definition in his legs, the strength in his arms. His ass is
still tone and firm, somehow how the fuck is it not sagging. A small amount of
padding has found its way to his stomach, but Stan would bet money that he
still follows the same routine everyday, still has the same abs under that
padding that Stan once spent 10 minutes admiring, tracing with his fingers and
tongue … before …
Fuck.
He looks away when Ford turns around, quickly and ashamed, like the kid caught
with his hand in the cookie jar, eyes fixed to the floor. Ford just freezes,
and Stan knows he’s been caught.
“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Lee,” Ford says with the smallest amount
of humor, but underlaid with so much exhaustion. He sounds tired. Stan wonders
what he’s been doing for the last decade. The last he heard, it was 1962 and
Ford graduated with his PhD in Mythological Studies and a minor in Mathematics.
Stanley had gotten a small, cream invitation, with black trim and gold foil
lettering, inviting him to attend the ceremony. He still isn’t sure how Ford
had found the right address to send it to.
“It wasn’t you.”
“What?” Stan asks, caught off guard.
“You didn’t hit me last night. It was the guys who hit you. They were really
unhappy with you.”
“I owe them some money.” Stanley admits, scratching the side of his face, eyes
finding the puke green carpet again. 
“I figured,” Ford says, stepping into his pale blue boxers. He grabs a white t
shirt and tugs it on carelessly, catching them on his glasses. Stan thinks it
might be inside out, but he doesn’t say anything, just glad for the lack of
bare skin.
“Ford, what are you doing here?” Stan asks, biting his lip. He looks at
Stanford's feet, one of them covered by the dark denim, other in mid air, ready
to step into the other pants leg. Ford’s looking at him, stares for a few
seconds, before he sighs and finishes pulling up his jeans.
“Visiting my twin brother,” he says finally, with a strange air of nonchalance,
like it hasn’t been decades since they were in the same room.
“How’d you even find me?” Stan asks. He doesn’t bother sticking around anywhere
for too long, especially once his debt starts piling up too high. He’d planned
on skipping town soon, anyway, maybe heading back east. Maybe make his way to
New York this time.
Ford doesn’t answer right away, and Stan’s curiosity grows into something like
outrage. Stan was not some child that couldn’t look after himself, that needed
his brother to come save him, to watch out for him. “Have you been following
me?!”
“No, no. Not really. I’ve been trying to find you for a while now…” Ford says,
running a hand through his damp hair, shifting to one foot. “You always tend to
leave a big debt and a woman or two behind wherever you go. A ... nice woman
named Lissa told me you were in Nebraska.”
Stan laughs at that. Oh Lissa. She was a little spit fire and more than rough
around the edges. Stan had actually liked her a lot. A little too much. He’d
been getting too comfortable in Topeka. He almost stayed for her, thought about
maybe asking her to come with him, but that was even more reason to move on.
“How’s she doing?”
“She seemed fine. A little upset, but too world-weary to be heartbroken. She
was a little surprised to learn that ‘Stenly’ had a much more handsome twin
brother.”
Stan laughs at the joke, but this all feels so surreal. It comes out canned and
a little more forced than he would like, before trailing into nothing.
Ford goes back to his bag, reorganizing it slightly after rooting around in it,
like the fucking nerd he was, and Stan mulls over the words that he wasn’t
quite sure how to say. “I should … I should go home. Change, shower, you know?
Maybe fix my face a little.” Stan’s not sure if he plans on really going back
to his apartment or not, if he plans on coming back at all, but he wants the
option. He needs to get away, to think a little clearer, to decide.
Ford looks over with an indecipherable look, and for a second, Stan thinks he’s
going to tell him not to go, going to try to stop him—fuck, Stan would try to
stop himself if he were Stanford—but instead he just shrugs.
“I’ll drive you.”
“No, no. I’m good walking,” Stan says, getting up and stretching backwards.
Pain shoots up his back and before he can stop himself, he curls in on himself.
Ford just stands there, looking down at Stan’s gasping form, hunched over
staring at the green shag. “I’ll drive,” he says again.
 
 
Fat, heavy drops of rain are falling as Stan struggles to get in the car, pain
blossoming in his side and back as he tries to twist into the car. Ford doesn’t
bother to help him, just stands to the side holding the door open, watching to
make sure Stan doesn’t actually fall, and Stan appreciates that. They know how
the other works, and Stan hates being coddled over.
He finally lands in the seat with a thud, car dipping with the weight, and he
sighs, tossing his legs in carelessly. The rain is still falling heavily and
loudly on the car, and Stan runs his hand though his wet hair as Ford shuts the
door.
He still isn’t sure how he feels about seeing his brother. He’s glad, he knows,
at some level, but it’s buried under so much confusion and pride that he also
doesn’t notice. What do you say to the person that you left behind?
Ford, at least, doesn’t seem angry, as he unlocks the driver’s side, getting in
wordlessly. Stan takes a second to look around. It’s not a nice car, but it’s
in better shape than the car he's been half-living out of. The seats are worn,
but they're leather, and the radio isn’t cracked or missing buttons. Ford
confirms that it does work when he turns the key, and the dial lights up—a
murky, dirty yellow, but still lit. It’s playing so quietly that Stan can’t
hear, but he doesn’t bother to turn it up.
Stan looks out the window as Ford pulls out of the space, watching the rivers
of water fracture and warp his picture of the outside. It’s probably 4 or 5 in
the morning and still dark outside, but he catches his reflection in the side
view mirror from the light coming down from the motel.
“Ah, jeez,” he groan, tenderly touching his nose tenderly. It’s got a tell-tale
cut across the bridge, and bruising blooming out under each eye. He winces when
he presses his fingers to it, tender and painful. “Fuck.”
“Broken?”
“I think so,” he grumbles, just as they pull away and Stan loses his reflection
to the darkness.
“Where am I going?”
The ride is uncomfortably quiet besides Stan’s occasional grunted direction.
Almost … professional. Clinical. Ford doesn’t seem bothered by the coldness,
but Stan’s leg starts bouncing nervously about half-way through the ride. He
still doesn’t know what to say to his twin. He didn’t exactly leave on good
terms.
“You’re biting your nails.”
“Oh … oh.” Stan says, pulling his fingers away from his mouth. The cuticles on
his ring finger were already bleeding, and Stan realizes that they missed a
turn a while back, he was so lost in thought.
“Look, I …” Ford starts, eye still forward on the road, “I know this is …
awkward. And sudden. But … it really doesn’t have to be, Lee. I was never- no.
That’s not true. I wanted to punch your face in for a while, but … I’m not mad
anymore. I don’t think I was ever mad. I just- I was hurt.”
Stan looks at him, chewing on his lip. He should apologize, he knows. Or say
he’s not mad anymore either. Or says he never meant to hurt anyone, he’d just …
needed to …
Stan doesn’t say any of that, though. Doesn’t know how. He just sighs and says,
“Make a U-turn up here.”
 
 
Stan’s apartment is … gross. Stan knows this; he almost doesn’t feel
apologetic, but he isn’t an unclean person by nature. The apartment came with
the bugs, the stains in the carpet, the cracks in the wall. He used to care,
but that was a long, long time ago, when he still thought he could afford to
care, when he hadn’t realized how little he actually had.
The fluorescent bulb buzzes noisily to life, casting the small apartment in its
dingy, yellow light. It’s only two rooms, plus a bathroom that isn’t really a
bathroom, just a leaky shower head and a toilet.
“Mi casa,” Stan welcomes, with a sarcastic, grand gesture at the ten by
fourteen mash of couch, kitchen, and folding table. There is a small, decade
old tv on the card table that maybe works on one or two channels—Stan never
actually watches it, just turns it on for background noise some nights—when it
gets too quiet and empty—so he couldn’t even tell you what he gets. He’s got a
stack of books piled up in boxes between the couch and the dirty window, full
of everything that he’s picked up over the years, with the occasional magazine
thrown in. His dishes from this morning—yesterday morning?—are still piled in
the sink, covered by a crawling layer of cockroaches.
Stan really expect Ford to say something about his state of living, has been
bracing himself for it since Ford insisted on driving, but rather than some
disgusted look or piteous comment, Ford just looks around before plopping
himself down on the couch, picking one of the books from the top of the pile.
“Ethan Frome… Any good?” he asks, holding up his worn paperback copy.
“Eh,” Stan shrugs, closing and locking the door behind him. “Slow start.”
Ford just nods, opening it up like he hadn’t heard a thing and settling back to
read.
“There’s beer and coffee in the kitchen, maybe some stuff for sandwiches,” Stan
throws back at his twin, knowing full well that Ford probably hadn’t even heard
him if he was reading. He gets a mumbled reply, automatic and distracted, and
Stan smiles a little.
Stan’s bedroom is nothing more than a lazily made bed—which had come with the
apartment—and the same worn trunk of clothes he’d been living out of for more
than a decade. He doesn’t spend very long in there—never really does—just grabs
a change of clothes, before backtracking to the hallway. He glances Ford’s
way—still sitting in the same spot he was before, now idly chewing on his
thumbnail as he read—before heading into the small bathroom.
The mirror on the back of the bathroom door is scratched, stained with white
calcium deposits that Stan can’t get out. He sees his face again, better this
time, despite the dimness of the bare bulb. He’s got quite a few cuts high on
his cheeks, a few on his temple. Some dried blood is stuck in his eyebrow,
dripping from his nose—which is probably broken, fuck. His jaw is bruised, ugly
shades of purple and yellow. His own left eye is black, swollen enough that it
can’t open the whole way.
Stan sighs. He’s got a first aid kit in the kitchen that he should probably go
fetch, but he wants the shower first. He checks himself for more injuries as he
undresses, worries that he might have a broken rib on his right side from how
bad the swelling and bruising is there. His knuckles are still sore and
swollen, small cuts and bits of torn skin hanging from the worst wounds, and it
takes him a while to work the belt from the loops.
The water is cool, not quite cold yet, and maybe the furnace will even kick in
and warm it up before anyone else in his building gets up—it is fuck-all early
in the morning, maybe, maybe, he can actually get a hot shower for once before
his neighbors steal it from him. Still, he doesn’t waste time waiting for the
water to warm, pouring a little bit of shampoo straight into his hair and
rubbing it in, finding a couple of cuts in his scalp at the sting of soap in
the open wounds.
The bar of soap is trickier. His fingers can’t grip it too hard for too long,
and it’s hard for him to move and twist, back and ribs still stealing his
breath away whenever he moves too fast, but eventually—thankfully—the water
begins to warm, and Stan doesn’t mind so much. It turns hot, and Stan actually
sighs, letting the water spray over his sore back.
By the time he’s done, he feels much, much less tense. His back doesn’t seize
up everytime he so much as twitches, and his eye’s swelling has gone down a
bit. He walks out of the bathroom in the t shirt and jeans that he grabbed.
“Took you long enough,” Ford says from the small kitchen. Stan is met with the
smell of coffee and …
“Are you making eggs?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Stan’s stomach rumbles. He hasn’t eaten in about 20 some hours and eggs sound
really great right about now. He stumbles into the kitchen, scratching his
chest through the shirt, and pours himself some coffee and grabs the small
metal first aid box out from under the sink.
Ford doesn’t say anything as Stan starts to dress his cuts, starting with his
knuckles. He’s almost out of bandages, so he only dabs at them with alcohol,
hissing through the burn. He lifts his shirt to check his right side again,
feeling the bruising carefully with his fingertips, pressing as tenderly as he
could to gauge the state of the ribs. It hurts like a motherfucker, and he
cries out when it presses down on one rib in particular, fingers clenching
around the edge of the table as he breathes through the pain.
“Is it broken?” Ford asks, setting two plates of scrambled eggs down.
“Maybe, I ‘unno. Maybe fractured or something. Nothing I haven’t handled
before, though” he says, picking at the eggs. He hopes it’s not too bad, he
doesn’t have insurance, and he doesn’t know any ‘doctors’ in the area to look
him over.
Ford hums, sliding the ketchup over and Stan smiles a little at how even after
all these years, Ford still remembers how Stan likes his eggs.
Ford finishes his eggs first, grabbing his plate and setting it in the sink. He
walks past Stan and grabs his jacket off the couch.
“Where are you going?”
“I need a quick cigarette,” Ford says, patting the jacket pockets, finally
digging into one to fish out a beaten up box.
“It’s raining, you can smoke in the house,” Stan says, pushing himself up
slowly and grabbing his own plate. Ford shrugs, fishing a lighter out of his
pocket as Stan grabs the ashtray off the top of the fridge and sets it on the
table.
“I thought you quit?” Stan asks, holding out his hand to ask for one. Ford
shakes two out, handing one to Stanford.
“I did a few times. Doesn’t last very long,” Ford says, shrugging, flicking his
lighter to life. He takes a slow drag, smooth and steady, before exhaling and
handing Stan the lighter.
Stan lights his quicker, one sharp inhale. It’s not his brand, so it’s sharp,
foreign as he breathes deep, exhaling downwind as he hands Ford his cheap
lighter back. “I know the feeling,” Stan mutters without thinking.
Ford gives him one quick, wary look, putting his lighter away and taking
another drag. Stan always liked the way Ford held his cigarette, between his
middle and forefinger, right at the knuckle, so that he covers his mouth every
time he takes a drag.
“Do you remember when Ashley first got you to try a cigarette?” Ford asks,
smile tugging up his lip as he looks at the burning embers.
“I was only eleven.”
“I know. You were sick for the rest of the day.”
“Ugh. I didn’t know how to do it back then. You didn’t either.”
“I wasn’t dumb enough to try, either,” Ford says playfully.
Stan laughs, “You didn’t have a crush on her! You’ve done it, too!”
Ford just laughs in response, taking another drag and smiling as he exhales.
“Good old Ashley…”
Stan's laughter slowly that dies down. He takes another hit, and another,
finally feeling the nicotine ebbing away at his headache, loosening up his
joints. They smoke in silence, Stan’s crappy fan blowing the cigarette smoke
into patterns all across the room.
When Stan’s almost done with his cigarette, maybe one, two more puffs left,
Ford sighs. Stan looks back, and sees the set look on his face, staring at the
finished stub. “Lee, I …” he starts, but wavers. He sounds … not quite unsure,
but hesitant. He closes his eyes, and opens them again to look straight at
Stan.
“I want you to come with me,” Ford says, smooth as the smoke swirling around
him.
Chapter End Notes
     Like I said, we'll learn more about their past in the next chapter.
     Sorry if this one was super boring, it ended up being way more of a
     filler chapter than I meant. I'll try to make it up!! :/
     I’m thinking about writing a Stan/Dip oneshot in the mean time, but
     I’m conflicted since I want to use the idea for this story too … so
     maybe I’ll write them with alternate endings and post the one that
     won’t be used in this story soonish. :? Thoughts?
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