#hope you like it anon

Here’s those drabbles I promised, anon! Sorry they took longer than I thought, I’ve been working on LaNEitM a lot this week so these kinda took a backseat. So here, have two cute drabbles, one sad as hell one, a badly hidden pot pun, and a couple shitty 80’s-esque cutscenes because I can’t write sex in less than 2k, lol. Anywho, enjoy!

AND PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY KEEP THOSE REQUESTS COMING FOLKS.

Three drabbles beneath the cut, original request here.

Keep Trying

(teen stan shotgunning with ford in the stan o'war- established relationship, they’re 16 here.)

“Hey, Ford, can we try somethin’?” Stan asked as Ford coughed out his hit. He took the joint from Ford’s hand, passing him the water jug they had hauled with them to the Stan’O’War that morning. It was a cool fall day in Glass Shard Beach, and Ma Pines had gone off to a Psychic convention in New Jersey, and the boy’s father was off smooshing some big banker friend of his in an attempt to pull out another loan for the pawn shop.

Finally calming down from his coughing spell, Ford choked out, “Sure, what exactly did you have in mind?” Stan squirmed on the blanket in the cabin of the small ship, searching for the right way to present his idea to his brother. He took his hit and passed the joint to Ford before beginning.

“Welll ya see I saw this thing the other day… Ya know that bar on the far side of town next to the docks? Was’it called, uh Tempert or somethin’?”

Ford coughed again, quickly handing the blunt to Stan and gulping down more water before stammering, “Tempest? Stan, what the hell were you doing over by the-the-” He stuttered to a stop before whispering out the next word, “gay bar? Pop would skin you alive if he knew you were even over there!” Stan sighed out his hit and passed back to Ford, annoyed at his twin’s overprotectiveness.

“Cool it, Sixer, I was just on a jog after boxing practice and I took a wrong turn, ok? I know I’m no poindexter like you,” He reached out to poke Ford’s forehead, “But I’m not a dumbass, alright?”

“Stan! Language!” Ford looked around furtively, as if one of their parents would materialize out of the hazy air. Stan chuckled, setting the dead roach in the ashtray and gently punching his brother’s arm, “Ford, relax, you’re gettin’ a lil bit paranoid over there. We’re in the Stan’O’War, in the hidden cove, and it’s low tide. We’re beached, no one’s gonna find us here, alright?” He grinned over at him, hoping that his off-hand air would spread to his tensed twin. Fortunately, it seemed to work, and Stan watched as Ford’s shoulders visibly dropped, his entire boy laying back onto the blanket lazily.

“You’re right Stan. I’m sorry. You know how I get.” He sighed, closing his eyes and bobbing his head to the faint music streaming from the 8 track player. Stan followed suit, deciding to let the matter go and simply enjoy this time with his brother. They lay listening to the song on the soft blanket, Stan fisting it every once in awhile to revel in the sensation of the woven cotton, imagining the slow roll of waves beneath them. When the song ended, Ford sat up suddenly, peering down at Stanley.

“Oh yeah, I’m sorry, what was it you wanted to try again?”

Stan looked away as he felt heat rising in his cheeks. He sat up, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Well, like I said, I was jogging outside Tempert-”

“Tempest.” Ford corrected. “Go on.” His eyes, while bloodshot and a little glazed, were attentive, and Stan was lost for a moment, staring into the pools of his blown pupils. He shook his head, forcing himself to look away before continuing.

“Right. Tempest. Anyway, I saw these guys smoking in the alleyway, and they called out to see if I wanted a toke. I was a little nervous, ‘course, cause I mean, other than all the hell to pay if I was seen over there, some of the guys were huge. Like, twice the size of me.” He paused, expecting Ford to cut in to reprimand his reckless behavior like he normally did, but Ford was staring on, rapt with attention. Stan cleared his throat, continuing.

“A-anyway, I just kept walkin’, and after a minute they kept talkin’ but before I lost sight of them I saw…” He trailed off, unsure for a moment how to continue. It was weird, right? Ford wouldn’t want to do that, would probably think it was ‘unsanitary’ or ‘unhygienic’. Ford blinked, taking a moment in his state to realise that his brother’s story was yet unfinished. “Keep going.” He asked, his voice dropping to a low, husky rasp that drove Stan wild. He did his best to ignore the heat pooling in his stomach as he quickly finished the story, explaining how it worked and what it was called. Ford sat back, running a hand through his hair before reaching over to grab another blunt and the zippo they had nicked from the pawn shop. He crawled back over to Stan, who gulped as Ford straddled his hips, unlit blunt hanging from his lips.

“So you’re saying you want me to take a hit, and instead of exhaling into the air, you want me to kiss you and blow the smoke into your lungs?” His eyes were lidded and Stan could see the buldge forming in his pants. Stan gulped before responding

“…Yes?” He looked into Ford’s eyes again and saw how blown his pupils had become, the dark orbs allowing only a thin ring of chocolatey-brown iris to show.

“Stanley, that is irrefutably the most fucking hot thing you have ever asked me.” Without another word, Ford flipped open the zippo and lit the new joint, inhaling as much as he could before threading his free hand into Stan’s short brown hair and pulling Stan’s face to his own.

For a moment, Stan was almost too shocked to move, tendrils of smoke leaking from their loose press of lips. Then his mind went into overdrive, and he grasped Ford’s back, fisting his shirt in his hands, inhaling as deeply as the position could allow. Ford pulled back, staring expectantly at Stan’s face. Stan grinned a bit before slowly letting out the breath, Ford’s smoke exiting his lungs in a rush.

“Fuck.” Stan cursed emphatically he finished, “Ford, jesus, that was so- so sexy, christ, where the hell did you-” But Stan never got to finish that thought, as Ford tapped out the joint safely in the ashtray before attacking his brother in a lustful ardor.

…

Stan and Ford lay naked and panting on the floor of the cabin, Stan reaching out to grab the previously forgotten joint to relight it and passed it to Ford. He took the offered light gratefully, pulling deep and exhaling slowly. They lay in silence for a beat then:

“Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s keep trying new stuff.”

Stan laughed a giddy, full-bodied laugh.

“Yeah Sixer. Let’s keep trying.”

This I Can Do

(mullet!stan smoking in bed after getting fucking POUNDED by ford- previous relationship in their teens, set about a week after they meet again after the 10 year separation)

“Sta-an-ley!” Ford keened loudly as he came with a final thrust, his whole body shaking for a moment before collapsing on top of Stan. Stan hummed and stroked Ford’s back lazily as they both panted and waited for their heartbeats to return to normal, doing their best to ignore the sticky residue of Stan’s orgasam stuck between them. Ford turned his head and gently kissed Stan’s neck once before slowly pulling out and they both groaned from the loss.

Ford rolled to the side to lay on his back next to his twin with a soft smile on his face. He snaked a hand down the bed to intertwine his six fingers in Stan’s five. They laid like that for another minute or so, still panting as the sweat on their bodies slowly cooled. Stan shivered, and reluctantly released Ford’s hand to grab a fist-full of tissues from the nightstand. He handed Ford half of them while he cleaned himself up as best he could, tossing away the used tissues in the general direction of the trash can. He missed. Ah well, he’d pick them up in the morning. Or later, whenever the mood struck him.  

Stan let out a slow breath, willing himself to sit up. Finally, he grabbed the comforter from the floor where it had carelessly been kicked away and tossed it over both of them, leaning over to kiss Ford deeply. Ford reacted in kind, grasping his forearm and threading his free hand through Stan’s long brown hair. Stan grinned as he pulled away, “That good, huh sixer?” Ford flustered for a moment, heat somehow rising in his wrinkled cheeks.

“This was…  always has been good with you, Stan.” He looked up into Stan’s eyes nervously before turning away. Stan nearly called his bluff with a quick retort but he bit down on the words before they could leave his mouth. It was rare that Ford was genuine. He liked it. So instead he kissed him again, with less heat this time, just a gentle glide of lips and tongues. He pulled back again, placing a last chaste kiss on Ford’s lips. “Same with you, Ford.” He made sure to make eye contact, letting Ford know that the words were not in jest.

He released his brother, grabbing a pillow from the floor and tossing it against the headboard. Ignoring the blooming pain in his lower back, he pushed himself into a sitting position and opened the drawer on the nightstand, pulling out a packed bowl and a book of matches.

He lit one, cornering the bowl as he inhaled deeply. His hand drifted down to rest on the comforter as he exhaled slowly, blowing slow, fat ‘O’s in the air. He turned to Ford, holding out the pipe.

“Want a hit?” Ford stared dubiously at the paraphernalia, and after a brief internal debate, he sat up and grasped the offered bowl, lighting a match of his own and taking a long hit. He coughed as he exhaled, and Stan graciously offered him the glass of water that he always kept on his nightstand for dry mouth.

They continued smoking in relative silence, communicating only to ask, “My turn?” or “Matches?” As they neared the middle of the bowl, Ford took another long hit, coughing once and passing again to Stan. He sat back, watching his brother inhale the lit cherry slowly, his eyes drawn to the way his lips tantalizingly pursed around the mouth of the pipe, the bob of his adam’s apple as he inhaled, the drop of his bare chest as he exhaled. Stan lazily handed the pipe back, stretching to pop his back, the pain previous pain dimmed into a soft, pulsing burn. As Ford took his pull, Stan turned to watch him, uttering, “Kinda like old times, huh?”

Ford hummed as he exhaled, remembering the stolen weekends when their parents hadn’t been home back in Glass Shard. Those were some of his fondest memories of the town, entire days spent high out of their skulls, fucking like bunnies, eating like pigs, and laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.

The memories hurt less now than they had before Stan had showed up in Gravity Falls, the pain of the lost relationship somehow easier to stomach now that he sat in bed with Stan, repeating a version of those same bittersweet actions.

They finished the bowl in silence, Stan setting it off to the side after cashing it. They stared off at the opposite wall, lost in their own thoughts for quite some time before Ford cleared his throat.

“So. We, ah, can we do this again, maybe?” Ford ventured, looking off to the side again to pointedly avoid eye contact in an attempt to steal himself to the potential negative answer. Stan reached out a heavy arm, gently cupping Ford’s face and turning it toward his own.

“ ‘Course Ford. Whatever you want. ‘Cause I don’ know about you, but I missed you like crazy for the last ten years. I’m… I’m really glad you even agreed to this. I kinda thought it was a one-time thing. But, yeah. I’d like it a lot if we could just, ya know.” He leaned forward, guiding Ford’s lips to his own in a slow closed mouth kiss. “So long as you want that.”

Ford smiled a bittersweet smile.

“I’m still… I’ve still got some things to think through Stan. We’ve still got more than our fair share of baggage to work on. There’s things I’m not ready to forgive, and I know it’s more than likely you feel the same. But this?” He reached forward to place a chaste kiss against Stan’s own lips.

“This I can do.”

Never Forgotten

(stan hotboxing the lab- HERE COMES THE ANGST TRAIN TOOT TOOT, can be read as gen)

Stan had disabled the alarms in the basement pretty much the day he had moved into Ford’s house. He’d had half an Oz on him the day of The Incident, and had smoked himself cannatonic that night in the lab, staring at the broken portal and hitting dysfunctional buttons here and there in a desperate hope that something would magically bring Ford back. It hadn’t worked, of course.

So the next day when he was relatively sober, he began reading. And reading. And reading. The first four or five years in that house, every waking second not spent on making money from the Murder Hut was spent reading books about Theoretical Physics, Universal String Theory, Multidimensional Plasmatic Trans-whatever. The list went on. That time, relative to now, was probably the best. Even when his material was frustrating or seemed impossible to grasp, he still had hope that with enough effort and research that things would work out.

Then, after literal years of study and effort and re-reading Ford’s journal so many times he had memorised the thing, it clicked. He still remembers the moment sitting at the small work desk, the Journal propped up on the wall and a book on String Theory in his lap. He was doodling absently in the margins of his notebook, pausing every so often to hit a small pipe. He watched distractedly as he doodled an old singer sewing machine, of all things, just like the one his ma used to make their clothes when they were little.

Then the realisation had hit, like a mac truck with a ton of bricks.

The symbols, which had never been explained in the journals were not pointless flair or decoration. They were needles. Needles that held the distinct ability to sew together the very fabric of the universe, the all-elusive Strings that he had been reading about for years but never grasped. But as he understood, he balked at the comparative genius of his brother.

Stan always knew that Ford was smart. A genius, in every right of the word. But this? This was mind-blowing. Ford hadn’t just created this portal. He had created his own branch of science to do so. He had single-handedly discovered clumps of space-time strings in the same sense that astronomers discovered constellations of stars. The portal wasn’t just a plasma warp to a specific dimension.

It was a sewing machine that could recreate the opening to any dimension, any alternate universe so long as the tailor had the correct pattern.

And the Pattern that he needed to get Ford back was in another journal.

Stan had throw the journal across the lab that night, rage filled his heart as tears streamed down his face. He had understood! He’d cracked the damn code, he actually fucking got how it worked, and it was pointless, just fucking pointless.

So he had tried harder.

Stan had looked everywhere in the entire house twice, turning every piece of furniture, prying up floorboards, looking in every cabinet and every box, drawer, desk. Nothing. Two fucking years of searching, and he had nothing to show for it, except the pointless knowledge of how to work the portal. That he didn’t have fuel for. That he didn’t have coordinates for. It pained him in indescribable ways, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, like being stranded in the middle of the ocean without a drop of water to drink.

And he didn’t find the journal. Not even a hint or clue or mention of it anywhere, in any of Ford’s things or notes.

And he was tired. Too damn tired of all this hope.

All this effort.

All this loss.

Every day that he failed finding the journal, it was like loosing Ford all over again. Because he knew, deep down, that Ford was gone. Wherever he went, the probability of him being alive was so, so heartbreakingly low. The universe was infinite, Stan understood that now more intimately than he cared to. And with infinite possibilities came an infinite number of horrific fates his tortured mind could cook up for his twin. He could have simply warped into empty space, dying instantly. Or to a planet that didn’t have enough oxygen in its atmosphere for his body to fully function, causing him to die a slow and painful death. He could be stuck in the dead space between dimensions, fated to be the plaything of otherworldly creatures more lost and powerful than him. Or he could have discovered a universe where Stan never existed and simply chose to stay there.

Stan tried not to the think about the last option too often. It didn’t work near as much as he wished.

He grabbed two joints and headed down to the lab for the night, settling down at the desk chair with the closed notebook on one side and his own, simple spiral-bound next to it, filled with his own notes, calculations, and musings. He bowed his head a moment before spinning away from the pointless tombs, beginning an old ritual he had picked up when he ran with Rico: to give an offering to the fallen. It was common, apparently, in gangs that functioned as ‘families’. A way to mourn the lost and honor them, even after they are gone.

He lit the first joint, leaning back in the chair and staring morosely up at the ceiling.

He dropped it ceremoniously to the concrete floor after exhaling the single, deep draw, and stomped it out with his boot before turning back to the desk to light the other. He leaned back again, staring at the dead joint on the floor for a moment. What was it Rico always said after making an offering again? Oh yeah.

“For our fallen. Gone, but never forgotten.” He uttered quietly, the silent smoke rising from his joint the only witness to his mournful concession.