
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5161364.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gravity_Falls
  Character:
      Stan_Pines
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-07 Completed: 2015-11-22 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 3910
****** Perditus ******
by thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary
     t his is like 10000% darker than i had intended lmao sorry content
     warning, dubcon, intimated cchild abuse? technically not underage but
     within earshot, stan just utterly fucking suffering
     this was going to be a series but *does a handstand* it occured to me
     i fucking suck at assembling a cogent narrativeawwwoooooowoowowooo
***** Chapter 1 *****
Perditus; Latin (adj) lost, ruined, desperate, abandoned, outcast (n) wretch
If_you_see_me_dancing_in_some_caberet
that's_just_my_way_of_forgetting_you.
While_you_were_the_one
there's_a_new_one_each_day
but_that's_just_my_way_of_forgetting_you.
He had five dollars; the clothes on his back plus the jacket and socks stuffed
by someone into his duffel (not Ford, he thought urgently, riot, typhoon, blind
by tears, not Ford); some candy, some chips, and mercifully, the asylum of his
car (a third a tank of gas, thinned picnic blanket recovered from the pit of
the trunk, a mummified wasp, ghostly brindle in the upholstery where Carla
McCorkle once mewed under his timid ministration, crumbs and scum, paddle ball
and disco gold glittering marble, Ford's odor -- astringent soap and eraser
rubber, the milky mark in the passenger seat window where Ford liked to rest
his temple, the echo of their rambunctious laughter and comfortable quiet) and
that was absolutely all, all in the world after his own skin.
So he drove to the sea -- he always did this when he thought he might cry, only
tonight Ford wouldn't pursue to soothe him with toffee and calming palms and
beautiful platitudes (except he might -- mighn't he?) So he crushed himself
into the slipshod driftwood shrine he'd once put up on the sheer stone crests
as a child (with his brother, his brother, mousy, gentle Ford, who once talked
their father down from beating him to death,) tucked up like larvae in the bed
of trash and odoriferous sand out of the draft of the oppressive night, he
remembered when he'd hold Fords hand (thin, cool, soft against the sinew and
calluses Stan boasted even as a tiny child) to draw Ford out of the scholarly
solitude he wanted to fester in, to lead him, to reassure him, his big brother
who was so shy and loved him so much, who looked down at him in his misted
upturned eyes and closed the curtain. Stan did cry. It was cold.
He sat up before the sun, abruptly from a dream of a sparrow struggling against
gusts of a blizzard and hit his head on a limping salt-eaten beam -- he looked
all around in alarm, blinking in the myrtle dark ununderstanding, looking for
his blanket, his brother, before he remembered -- he kicked the corroded beam
until the entire wreck tumbled down around him -- cutting his arms, cracking on
his bowed head, putting up a stinking plume of silt and soured memory in the
dim green dawn -- before descending into a sort of serene despair absolutely
alien to him. The sun was a dull egg at the apex of stone-still sea. Ford
hadn't come.
His money went so fast. He bought a quilt, a thicker coat (the nightmarish cold
he'd endured had consumed an essential childish lobe in him -- the betrayed
faith his family would protect him) -- he fed his car -- he bought a lot of
candy for breakfast, pizza for lunch, a burger for dinner, he played pinball
and pretended he was going home at eight, and when it occurred to him to find a
motel at which to stay the night, he found he didn't have enough.
He'd always sort of enjoyed at the way adults slit their eyes at him. He
thought they found him raffish, wild, cool. Now, returning to his car beneath
the disinterested eye of the suspicious motel clerk, he only felt withered with
humiliation and very young.
He lay his heavy head on the sequence of his knuckles gripping fast the wheel.
He wanted to go home. His mother would let him in, wouldn't she? At least,
she'd give him some food -- some money for food -- his brother, at least, would
--
It was the thought of Ford (Ford's narrowed mouth, taut temple, empty eyes when
he shut closed the curtain) that steeled him. He left the town he was born that
night. He drove and drove in a narrow fervid rush, radio static and rainbow of
gray, until he began blinking out of the waking world, when he pulled over to
the sludgy shoulder in the ribbon umbra of a desolate overpass and dozed on the
heater until a patrolman shined a light in his eyes and told him he'd be taken
in if he didn't move along.
He wandered in this daze for some miserable days -- he afforded some more candy
and one cardboard boat of fries he ate off his lap as he drove determinedly
north up the featureless thoroughfare, he slept parked in the dark of lots and
parks, shivering in his quilt and dreams of being very small -- when his gas
and funding ran completely dry, he was a state away, nowhere he'd ever been
before -- he had, he thought viciously, leaning on the cold hood of his inert
tin caravel eating around blossoms of mold on a slice of bread he'd lifted from
a dumpster beyond a gas station grocery, finally escaped.
He wasn't quite eighteen, but he looked younger still -- he was large, tall and
broad, very muscular in his thick, buoyant, boyish way, but his face was soft,
sensitive and intuitive, uncertain smile, childish eyes -- his shivering unsure
hands, his tripping coltish gait, the fine fit rosy breadth of his candid
collar and shoulders -- perhaps, as he thought, the city he hid in was older,
colder, unkinder than the nest -- or perhaps he was only never out late or long
enough to experience something that exists wherever human men do.
He was creeping up the long blue shadow of some industrial assembly complex to
the den of his car, jealously drinking half a soot-black banana he'd discovered
trodden on in the gutter (the closest to waifish he'd ever been, filthy, pale,
his hair as long as it'd been as a child) when a beautiful new car pulled up
alongside him and slowed to crawl that matched his pace -- as Stan stiffly
strode imperceptibly quicker, the mirrored window drew down and an adult's
hoary voice in the fragrant dark called him "sweetheart," and asked him, "How
much?"
Stan (faint with hunger, numb with cold, and very, very nervous) scowled
ferociously and flipped him the bird -- the man called him stinging things and
pealed away, leaving Stan choking in exhaust and finding himself (astonished at
himself) wishing he had considered -- at least considered, just considered -
- going with that disgusting man in his beautiful, clean, warm car.
He probably would have fed him, Stan thought fitfully, redoubling his coat
tighter about his shoulders against the razor edge of vicious wind. At least
he'd have given him money for food. He thought of his mother's hamburgers. Ford
could never finish his -- he'd slip half on Stan's plate when their father
turned to fill his whiskey. His mother'd always make Stan's plates
extravagantly large (Stan was extravagantly large) -- piles of fried potatoes
and boiled vegetables she'd insist, insist, insist he'd eat -- he thought of
all the limp spinach he'd spooned into Ford's napkin (grinning and giggling,
playfully prodding pontifically frowning Ford) and experienced a jarring thrust
of pain he couldn't account for with his hunger.
Sleeping at all hours, wrong hours, almost never eating caused days to smear
into a panorama of purposeless behavior -- napping, hiding, scrounging, very
occasionally eating, being ill, begging when he dared, and little else.
Somewhere below a canopy of lurid electric lights ending with -ville, Stan
faded away for a while in a merciful beam of sunshine beneath a tree in a
threadbare square park until the afternoon -- he found nothing in the caged
trash receptacles, not even wax paper which had contained fast food to lick
clean -- swallowing with trouble his pride he stood a while at a street corner,
putting out his hand to passerby to fill with pennies until he saw the frowning
(particularly familiar) officer approaching -- he fled, he hid a while (furious
at how afraid he was) in the mausoleum of his car, tucked into an alley
obscured by a boarded up bar, until the dark brought cold which would settle in
him if he held still -- he went out, wrapped up, diffused and faint, feeling
asleep, to look again for garbage.
This time, that night, the car that paused by him was only moderately new, only
nice -- that night, the man (older, more conventional, perhaps more moral)
seemed abashed, unsure -- he laughed a little at himself like he was prepared
to pass off his proposition as a joke -- but Stanley had prepared for this -
- he wasn't able to winningly smile, like he'd practiced, but only loped around
and hopped in the door opposing the driver, who looked him up and down
appraisingly, grinned in a way Stan didn't recognize, didn't like at all, and
drove him up a few blocks (he was literally living under these people!) to his
apartment.
It was so warm. It smelled so familiar, so familiar, wholesome human skins and
the slurred residues of many conflicting meals -- Stan realized, apathetically,
he stank. He might of been frightened but he moved as through a colorless mist
-- a dominating dreamy weariness -- he only did what he was told, led like a
lamb limping through a hall of butter-yellow electric light to a big blue bed
in a narrow blue room (it smelled so good! It was so warm!) where he sat
impassively where he was put and wished for something to eat. It was so warm.
The man insisted on undressing him, casting aside his jacket and peeling his
shirt (Stan winced to see it was drastically discolored) inside out over his
head like a child -- Stan saw with a shock his ribs -- the man, standing over
him (seeming so tall) touched Stans cheek, his chin, his collar, the auburn
down between his pectorals, his chest, cuddling and cupping it like a girls
breasts, which was really, really weird -- Stan turned strawberry red to the
tips of his protuberant ears and the man laughed unkindly at him -
- ridiculously, Stan thought of the Orion of scarlet acne on his chin and
wanted to hide his face in his hands.
The man tried only once to touch him between the legs -- Stan leapt away in
alarm and he seemed to think better of it. Instead he put Stan's (shivering,
unsure) hand on the robust lump in the front of his trousers and instructed, in
brisk gestures and curt words, Stan rub it -- so he did. The mans hands were
disgustingly moist and warm on Stan's neck, his prickling naked shoulders --
(Stan should deck him, put his lights out, take his wallet and his car, he
could, he could) -- the man pushed him over, crawled over him, kneeling over
Stan's face he extricated himself, and it was hooded, purplish, and ugly -- he
rubbed it insistently on Stan's cheek, smearing something to his wincing lips,
which were forced open by the man's thick, sticky fingers -- the head of his
prick Stan licked timidly, and shuddered.
Stan had comforted himself by thinking the man looked ordinary -- he looked
nice -- he rather looked like the butcher his mother bought from, homely and
pleasant -- he was wrong, he thought, (he should call -- who? His mother? The
police? They'd arrest him) as the man crushed his head between his knees,
forced apart his jaw, imposed his organ past the tender shell of his pallet,
the wings and teardrop of scarlet flesh at his siphons too far, too fast,
harming him -- "You like the taste of that?" -- the flailing fledgling of
Stan's tongue crushed against the horrible hot mineral cylinder, cut against
his teeth, the yarn of his jaw onerously distended, the mans damp testicles
pressed against his chin, Stan tried to gasp and realized with singular horror
he couldn't breathe -- "Watch the teeth, I haven't paid you, yet," -- the mans
hand was stroking his throat and Stan thought in a paralyzed instant of
electrifying terror he was going to throttle him before realizing he was only
feeling the bulge of his cock distending his esophagus -- Stan was prepared to
sock the son of a bitch in the eye when he withdrew, letting precious silver-
sweet air seep in around the prick rested like a shushing finger across Stans
wincing lips, and Stan coughed miserably as the man chuckled.
"New to this, huh?" he asked, wiping a profusion of sticky spit and something
else across Stan's cheek with his thumb. Stan wanted to glower at him but -
- just -- he really, really, really needed the money. He only nodded.
"Cute," the man commented -- his hand was winded in Stan's hair, he realized,
as he lurched to his side, dragging Stan by the roots with him -- while the man
gripped Stan's ears to stab him (again and again and again and again) with his
horrible bludgeon-like cock (it tasted terrible, so dirty, so personal, like
the smell of his house) Stan remembered vividly once, one Saturday when he was
very small, his father (who had been drinking since eight in the morning)
stopped him as he toddled past his favorite chair (oak and gold, an eyeless
idol in a pillar of brilliant sunshine) -- his father picked him up, his father
sat him on his knee, his father who was in Stanley's eyes as awesome and
terrible as the living Lord pressed Stanley gently to his chest and patted his
back and kissed his hair, and Stan remembered so well, so well, his heart
clamoring almost outside its parameters -- his father replaced him so gently,
so gently on the floor and told him in the kindest voice Stan'd ever heard him
use (would ever hear him use) to go play, and be good.
The man's semen was a texture not dissimilar to rotting vegetables -- it
smelled similar, too, fetid and hot -- it inflated Stan's cheeks and stung his
sinuses, so much, so much, a noxious squall which seemed to fill him to his
eyes -- the man forced it flush against the tender florid end of Stan's
struggling gullet, plugging it, forcing him to swallow or drown. He felt its
slippery, stinking heat suffusing his stomach. He was afraid he'd vomit, afraid
it'd stay down.
The man let Stan go (torturous hours) and let Stan roll away, urgently gasping
(he couldn't seem to close his mouth properly, he couldn't recall how his teeth
fit together, he couldn't calm his riotous nausea or saliva from running but he
didn't cry,) and nearly inhaling the wadded fifty dollar bill the man inserted
in his mouth.
"You need practice," the horrible, horrible, horrible man told him. He was
sitting up, smoking, withered prick a white worm in a dark wet bed of soil.
Stan could still sock him. He was confident he could kill him with only his
fists, if he needed to. In the sterile silence Stan (shivering, resisting the
amazing luxury of the clean and sweet-smelling sheets) rolled over, halved
himself, and told a story about how he put down that evil man -- he found in
the house a spilling over lockbox (a treasure chest, gold coins and rubies) he
brought home beaming to his mother (she kissed him, dressed his skinned knees,
exclaimed oaths and affectionate reprehension at his state,) his father, the
baby (it cooed and crooned in his arms, it'd missed him bitterly,) the other -
- they embraced him, held him up, carried him home, where he washed, rested,
ate -- he slept beautifully, dreamlessly, in his cot in his room and woke to
(his brother's) sound.
"It's my birthday," Stan said very softly.
"What the fuck are you still doing here?" the man demanded -- he applied the
broad sole of his foot to Stan's shoulder and shoved him sprawling to the
floor. "My wife is coming home. You got your money. Get out."
The first thing Stan ever stole was a loaf of white bread in a cellophane sack
he saw on the kitchenette counter as he fled the man's home. Walking towards
the neon motel sign brazen on the horizon of the dingy, consuming dark, he ate
voraciously, one slice after another, but couldn't enjoy it at all -- he could
only taste the man.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     this emoticon ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ in size 10000 font
Nobody_wants_me,_I'm_blue,_somehow
won't_someone_hear_my_plea?
Come_take_a_little_chance_with_me
because_I'm_nobodys_baby_now.

The blue-eyed man (he'd once introduced himself but Stan intentionally,
sensibly never remembered names) in his fine blue clothes and pocket thick with
beautiful cash brought him a paper bag containing a long amber bottle (half
empty) a sandwich, an apple, a carton of chocolate milk (Stan prickled at being
treated like a little kid but drank voraciously any way) and sitting smoking by
the tiny, chintzy bed Stan pickled in told him he was getting too old.

"I'm eighteen," Stan said incredulously.

"That's too old," he said -- the remark was frank but not quite unkind -- he
passed his hand over Stans emergent jaw, the tender cleft of his sternum where
hair grew in greater and greater profusions, his malumal limbs and abdominals
which persisted beneath the voluptuous lobes of pubescent plumpness, "you
aren't selling like you did last year. You won't sell so well for a few months,
soon not at all."

"Are you saying I got to leave?" Stan asked. He didn't dare raise his voice but
it was thin and stiff with acrimony.

The blue-eyed man exhaled a plume of pale smoke in Stans face (it smelled like
garbage and raw wood) and looked a while at him (Stan having successfully
smothered the shame in him aware only in a small way of his nudity) offering
the blunt, which Stan declined (the pinched acrid skin of his long hand sallow
in the dim electric light, very ugly) and sat forward with plain intent.

"Not yet," he said, "but soon."

"Where will I go?" Stan asked himself out loud, but the blue-eyed man replied:

"Don't know, but you can't stay here."

His hand was high on Stans thigh, strained to encircle it, a pale garter cut
into the ruddy plumpness -- he shook it firmly to watch it wiggle. Stan's sigh
(arid and hardly audible) sounded like an old mans. He didn't withdraw. He
didn't dare.

Stan drank hardily (he didn't wince, he hardly even tasted it any more) as the
man hung over him -- the mattress depressed, fled from him like a flowering
seawave -- the man kneeling between his thighs insistently parted, pushed him
over, arranged Stan like a doll in his soft, clean, paper-white hands,
prodding, pushing, (he had been killed already then many times; laid out on the
altar, knives and swords put in him, turned inside out and filled with bitter
bad water) Stan was stuffed with him, and he was grateful the man kept his
hands to himself, grateful he put his cock in him gradually, considerately, not
so quickly he'd rip -- the man patted his belly in a nearly friendly way and
bent double to touch mouths, bloating Stan with foul-smelling smoke, and Stan
was grateful for that, too, he guessed -- he pinched the unopened pansy of
Stans penis (cut, plump, brief but robust, pretty popular), gripped Stans
substantial and yielding buttocks in both his hands (it hurt where he crossed
the sore floridity defining many other fingers and thumbs but not very much,
Stan could stand it) he wouldn't be out on the street again, he just fucking
wouldn't, he'd promised he'd never wake that way again, swooning, moonsick,
drinking from storm drains and hallucinating the end of the world -- he'd
sooner never wake again -- he drank and drank -- the mans thin, fair, hairy
hips audibly crashed into Stan, he called him "baby," he spilled with stuttered
exclamations his magmatic miasma in Stans abraded and barren intestines which
crawled away in displeasure -- he hung on Stan, hugging him (his hands dimpled
Stans shoulders, soothed the nascent cinnamon down which bled there, the
truncheon of his chin on Stans collar bothered him) then let him go -
- disentangled, he stood, wiped clean his offending organ and shut it away.
Stan sat up on the bedboard and ate an apple.

"Don't push your hair back like that any more," the blue-eyed man instructed
(only a little out of breath, dabbing his dewy forebrow) he drew Stans fringe
down, combing it in his fingers and arranged it fussily around Stans temple,
"this looks much nicer."

Stan didn't resist, but he hated it. He wished he would bring him caramel or
chocolate or toffee, but he was encouraged to lose weight. He was a little
drunk.

"And for Chrissakes," the hateful man persisted, pausing in putting on his coat
to pat Stans cheek briskly, something very like a slap, his awful silt-soft
palm, "go wash it before the rush, would you? You smell like shit."

Stan thought about the baby, his baby. It was sensitive, spooked easily, really
sweet -- it loved when Stan tickled it, when he sat it on his hip as he did his
chores, when he sang -- did it miss him? He couldn't help but wonder if his dad
was still raising his voice abruptly and alarming it -- if his mother was
forgetting to test the temperature of its formula on her wrist, to roll it on
its tummy when it began to doze, to tuck in next to it the babys favorite fuzzy
yellow duck...

He set aside the skeletal insides of the apple with the rest of the refuse
(cigarette ends, condom wrappers, deliquescing jewels of suckled candy) on the
painted crate against his bed that served as his table, chair, and cupboard.
He'd better wash. He'd get hit if anyone complained.

There was no need to lock the door to the narrow whitewash alcove described as
his room (he didn't own one thing) and no way to. Barefoot and barely clad, he
passed in suffocating quiet a phantasmal tall man, only dimly visible in his
solemn black raiment and the decayed light secluded by the slender hall,
standing in an open door -- the man looked suspiciously around at him with only
one eye until he was drawn into the room by an absolutely minuscule hand Stan
looked uncomfortably away from.

The girl from the room a few doors down was there, shut into the gloomy
communal shower, beneath a canopy of pungent mist, folded up nude and wet on
the tiled floor close to the chipped and discolored floor mirror, surrounded by
open pots of cosmetics and examining a spinel pustule burgeoning in her chin.
She was pretty, and when she caught over her reflections shoulder Stans eye, he
reddened and shyly smiled. He felt breathless when the smile was returned.

"Come here," she said, and her voice was so small, so high, so sweet and pretty
Stan couldn't understand it -- he did, shutting the door behind him, and her
hand (so small, like a dolls! the nails bright and opaque, a color like
teacups!) popped up like a crocus to him, and in it, Stan saw a scarlet pill
like a bud of crystallized blood, and the extremely pretty and beautiful-
smelling girl (the clumps of her long, long, starless hair, her breasts Stan
was terrified by), distractedly stimulating individual pores in the agitated
jasper wings of her nose, asked him "want one?"

"What is it?" Stan asked.

She smiled, smiled, her teeth were crooked but bright white, Stan liked her so
much -- "try it. It'll be fun."

He did; it wasn't.
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