Chapter Text
“Not you,” Stanford says and grabs Stan by the arm, stops him from leaving the kitchen with the other Stans. While the old man doesn’t look or sound angry Stan still immediately knows he is in trouble. He was so glad to have been saved, spared the fate of those being rented by Ricks for a little while longer but now he knows he celebrated his luck too early.
“Do…” he swallows, forces himself to smile, to look up and make eye contact with the man who kidnapped him as the other Stans scurry past him, pointedly avoiding him. Thanks for nothing, dickbags. “Do you need something? Want me to bake you a cake or something?” he quips. He can’t bake for shit but he doesn’t need to because humor is how they all deal with their fucked up situation. Only it's hard to be genuinely funny when your heart isn't in it but generally more in the vicinity of your throat, he supposes.
Stanford doesn’t answer. Just gives Stan's arm a firm tug that forces him to stumble back inside the kitchen and before he knows it he has been hoisted up. He squawks, startled that the old man can lift him this easily, and sat on the table where he had breakfast with the older kids and young teen Stans like himself just a few minutes earlier. His pulse is pounding in his ears and he thinks about that older Stan who wouldn’t listen. The one that constantly complained and insisted that he be sent back home, that Stanford was evil. The one now floating lifeless somewhere in space.
Stan clenches his eyes shut, reminds himself that he did nothing wrong, that the Stan who took charge of the kitchen offered himself. On his own. He didn’t ask for that, it’s not his fault! It-
Stanford lifts the boy’s hand and turns it over, thumbs over the number written in black marker on its back.
“You’ve been here for 8 months and you still need to write it on your hand to remember it?” It doesn’t sound all that accusatory, a little sympathetic even, yet Stan feels embarrassed when he is called out. But he doesn’ apologize or deny it. He knows what this old Ford is trying to say but 051 is an ugly number and hard to remember. He isn’t stupid. Well, not that stupid anyway.
And he isn’t naive either. He knows all too well what this place is, what happens here every day but just like everyone else, he decided to turn a blind eye when he himself isn’t involved. It makes living here easier. Up until the point when it’s your turn, when you are the one looking for help and you find yourself in the blind spot of those you share everything with. It’s strange, imagining himself in the place of one of those Stan’s this Ford pays special attention to. One of those others try to comfort when he comes back, looking like…
Looking fucked.
A shiver runs through his chest but he doesn’t have much time to think himself into a panic. Before he can decide whether or not fighting it is even an option he feels big, broad hands on his round shoulders squeeze him tentatively.
“You’re always so soft…” Stanford murmurs as his hands slide up to cup Stan’s face and Stan recoils ever so slightly tries to turn his head away because he recognizes the gesture. And for a moment Ford actually lets him get away with that before gently tugging him back into place. Still, Stan doesn’t look at him, keeps his gaze fixed on the chair at the far right of the table.
“I know I’m kinda fat, why you gotta-” he grumbles but is interrupted by a fond sigh. Thumbs brush over his cheekbones, palms squish his cheeks together in a way that seems to delight the old man and almost drives the tired annoyance constantly stuck on his face out of his eyes.
“…Am I in trouble?” Stan pries carefully, deciding he’d rather know and be mentally prepared for whatever happens today.
“Do you want to be in trouble?” And now Stanford smiles. It feels unusually genuine for his captor and Stan isn’t sure he likes it. It feels wrong, even though the man appears to be actually a little happy for once.
Stan shakes his head and when the old Ford leans in he squeezes his eyes shut, tenses back up. He tries to pull away again but this time the big hands framing his face hold him firmly in place. Lips touch against his forehead, linger for a moment before they draw back.
“Then you’re not in trouble, Stanley.” the deep voice hums and Stan feels goosebumps rise on his skin. He doesn’t like where this is going and he doesn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t be here. He should be at home where the only person to ever kiss his forehead is Ma. This isn’t fair! He knows he isn’t a great kid but he hasn’t done anything to deserve this! He is only 14! He shouldn’t be in this sort of situation!
“Can I go then?” he tries voice hopeful but can’t muster up more than a shaky grin.
“Do you know what Ricks do with Stans?”
It’s out of the blue and takes Stan by surprise. “… S-sex?” he stutters out hesitantly and feels an unnerving warmth climb to his cheeks. Under other, better circumstances, the word would make him giggle like mad. Here and now it feels threatening.
“Sex, yes. In 65% of cases that is their goal. The other 35% are made up of equal parts lonely old men just looking for someone to talk, drink and have fun with who isn’t a Morty or another Rick, and Ricks who think about much darker things than fucking you.”
A jolt like electricity runs through Stan when the old man says that last bit like he is talking about throwing fruit into a blender. The alarm and uncertainty that make his pulse race in his ears must show on his face because Ford slides a hand up from Stan’s cheek into his hair, slowly rubs the pads of his fingers over his scalp to the back of his head. The way he lightly scratches him there feels strangely enough rather pleasant but he still doesn’t want any of it, would rather Ford dropped it and let him go join the others already.
“Does that scare you?” the old man inquires and Stan doesn’t know how to reply to that, swallows with some difficulty and attempts to will the rising heat out of his eyes. “What do you think would this Rick have done with you if 039 didn’t step in?”
Stan bites his lip, tries not to think about what is happening to that brave Stan right now. “Nothing good,” he mutters because specifics are the enemy and all too suddenly the hand that lazily ruffled the hair at the back of his head becomes a tight fist, painfully pulls his head back and before he can even think to yelp, to protest Stanford is on top of him.
A warm mouth seals his lips, a grown man’s hands hold his face in place, a broad body cages him against the table. Stan fists both hands into the older man’s sweater, forces himself to keep them there and remember the long row of empty graves outside of the base and imagine what being spaced must feel like. Stanford’s mouth works lazily against his lips and for a brief moment he can’t help but think ”ah, so that’s what kissing is like” and feels sorry for himself. He doesn’t want a part in this yet fighting it isn’t an option either.
Stan clenches his jaw shut as hard as he can when he feels Ford’s tongue work between his lips, shudders when it touches and rubs against his gums, surprised by how sensitive they can be, and almost distracted enough to not notice that those big hands aren’t framing his face anymore.
Hands hands hands hands everywhere! Touching him, squeezing him, stroking him. Stupid fucking HANDS!! Fucks those hands, fuck the perverted old man, fuck everything he does! He tries so hard not to think about any of this but especially the hands groping him but he just can't his mind far enough away from the situation. Think. Think about anything but those hands. Think about the other Stans! But in his mind even they talk about nothing but the man behind those damn hands.
‘The old Stanford isn’t very hard to figure out’, that’s what everyone here keeps saying. Most Stans say he does it all in the pursuit of the perfect Stan, the perfect brother. And until he finds what he is looking for he will keep going, until a Stan can give him what he needs, can be what he needs he will drag more and more Stan’s into his little hell. Others say that the man is simply insane and has no reason and hence will never stop or understand. There are even some who think the old man created this place simply to gain influence with the Citadel of Ricks, maybe to pay for his expensive hobby of dimension travel.
But right now Stanford’s reasons don’t actually matter, do they? Even if someone could figure the man out, even if Stan himself could, nothign is going to stop those hands.
Still, if there is one thing Stan is sure of, it’s that what this guy wants isn’t just someone who willingly does all the naughty stuff with him, he knows for a fact that some of the Stan’s here genuinely enjoy it and when Ford nibbles on his bottom lip, tugs on it before he tries once more to coax Stan into opening up for him, one hand resting on the boys pillowy hip and the other cupping a plump breast and gently massaging it, Stan can see why. He doesn’t want it but he can see the benefit of surrendering to it. And it’s not like resisting will do him in any good. Quite the opposite.
Slowly, hesitantly Stan opens his mouth and Ford doesn’t miss a beat, kisses him deeper and harder and for a second the boy forgets how to breathe, overwhelmed by the sudden taste of bitter coffee, the intensity of the sensation of a foreign tongue in his mouth and struggling beneath the bigger body blocking his escape. His fingers dig into Ford’s shoulders but he does his best to try and not fight the old man. When Ford finally relents and pulls back Stan gasps for breath and Ford looks incredibly pleased with himself.
“It’s alright,” he whispers and pecks a kiss onto Stan’s lips. “You’ll be fine.” and then another. “I won’t do anything bad, okay?” and another small peck followed by a longer but still rather chaste kiss that Stan slowly melts into despite his awareness of those six-fingered hands that alarmingly won’t stop groping his chest and stomach.
It’s strange and maybe he feels a little queasy as Stanford’s tongue swipes back into his mouth and he tries to keep track of everything that is happening to him, of all the new sensations. And then the hands stray down further onto his thighs, push them open. Stan immediately turns his head away and does what he told himself he wouldn’t do. He fights it.
Unbidden images of a Stan much younger than himself curling in on himself and crying hysterically as he’s being carried out of Ford’s study by an older Stan flood his mind, of sitting in front of the TV with a few others and hearing a Stan’s moans and sobs and the smack of skin against skin not far behind him, walking in on a Stan grimacing as he ‘preps’ himself in the bathroom because the old Ford was irritable and violent that day and someone “had to take one for the team” and lift his mood.
And finally, finally, the stinging in his eyes turns into tears.
NO! No, he doesn’t want that! He presses his thighs together as tightly as possible and turns his head to avoid that ravaging mouth. Stan breathes fast and shallow as the man above him tries to tug him into a more advantageous position causing Stan to try and kick and punch Stanford.
“HELP! SOMEBODY!” he shouts desperately, keeps struggling against the body above him but all Stanford does is try to hold him still, hold him down and… wait. Wait until Stan can feel he’s just tiring himself out. “COME QUICK! HELP! HELP ME!” he continues with panic rising from his gut to his throat until eventually, he stops, wheezing and gasping, lungs burning and feeling… terrified.
“Are you done, you knucklehead?” Stanford chastises in a disturbingly gentle tone and lightly kisses Stan’s jaw, before slowly working his way down the side of his throat until he reaches the boy’s clavicle. And all Stan can do is shut his eyes tight and try to quell the burning in his lungs with air as his limbs tingle and feel shockingly heavy.
Nobody will come for him. How many times did he hear this exact voice out of the mouth of another, knew what was going on but willingly ignored it? Looking the other way to protect himself seemed like a reasonable thing. Everybody does it. Everybody. That’s just how it is. That is what is best for all of them.
“Somebody!” he sobs and coughs as a big strong hand lets go of his wrist to disappear between their bodies and he feels the button of he jeans pop. The garment is tugged down just enough to expose him before the other hand lets go of Stan’s wrist in favor of helping to push Stan’s shirt up and over his chest until it bunches together under his flabby arms.
Twelve fingers close over his chest and Stan glances up at the man above him in time to see him lick his lips as he squeezes Stan, see him hesitate before he mutters “Love your tits, baby.” Stanford doesn’t sound very confident, almost stutters but Stan doesn’t get to contemplate that before the old man slides lower between his legs to swirl his tongue around a dark little nipple and suck on it, squeeze and rub Stan’s chest just hard enough to be uncomfortable and make this amazing warmth pool in his lower half.
Stan knows exactly what that means and he is terrified which conflicts harshly with the parts of him that seem to… to enjoy-
Stanford takes the nipple he’s been tending to between his teeth and Stan almost jumps, kicks his legs again, wiggles his hips as he whimpers and moans before the old man lets go and gives it one last lick before coming back up to kiss his mouth.
“So sensitive…” he all but purrs and then Stan feels something hot and hard against his doughy belly, rubbing back and forth against the soft yet slightly hairy skin covering his chubb and Stan realizes the old man must have pulled his dick out while Stan was busy trying not to get overwhelmed by- well, the- the tits thing.
Lazy but steady is the rhythm Stanford builds as he rocks against the boy, pressing against the pliable body beneath him, breathing wetly against Stan’s ear and occasionally roaming his hands over the kid’s ass, brushes a finger through the crevice or spreads the round cheeks and every time it happens Stan holds his breath, expecting to be penetrated but it doesn’t happen.
Eventually, Stanford grinds himself to completion, spills hot and sticky between their bodies and forces a harsh kiss on him, pushes his tongue in sloppily before transitioning into long almost sluggishly chaste kisses as he winds down until he is relaxed. And then, suddenly, he stands back up straight, eyes taking in the sight of Stan as his breathing evens out. Stan imagines he looks pretty messed up and sniffles once, wondering if he can leave now, if it’s safe to jump up himself and bolt for the door.
Ford swipes through the cum with two fingers and holds it up to the kid’s face. The gesture makes what he wants from Stan obvious but Stan- he can’t- He can’t!
“Stanley,” Stanford sighs and pushes his fingers more insistently against the boys plush lips, red and swollen from all the kisses he endured. Stan almost shakes his head when one of Stanford’s hands grabs the boy by his hair and tugs on it hard, holds him in place as he shoves the wet fingers between Stan’s lips and Stan grimaces, opens his mouth to complain but the fingers push in deeper and press onto his tongue.
Stan almost bites him. Almost. It tastes disgusting. He tasted worse things in his life but that doesn’t make this taste any better. It’s salty and rather bitter, acidic even and Stan gags. That’s semen, the old Stanford’s nasty ass semen, he thinks which only fuels his nausea and he waits for the fingers to retreat but they don’t. Why? What is he doing wrong now? He blinks and looks up at Stanford who starts to smile and rubs his fingers over the boy’s tongue.
Oh. Stan closes his mouth around the fingers and tries to suck, gags and coughs again which accidentally manages to make him tear up once more, makes his nose run but Stanford doesn’t seem all that bothered. He continues feeding Stan the spunk from his stomach like that until he is finally satisfied and lets go of Stan’s hair.
And just like that, he turns on his heel and leaves the kitchen and with that Stan behind. Sitting bare-assed on the kitchen table with his jeans and boxers still clinging to his thighs, his face swollen and wet with a mix of tears mucus and saliva, nipples erect and dick still half hard, and he feels like he might throw up any second but simultaneously kind of removed enough from the situation to feel numb to it all.
This just happened. This really just happened. He lowers his head and looks at the ink on the back of his hand, the 051 that is so hard to remember. This is his life now.
It doesn’t take long for about a dozen Stan’s to come in, some almost jogging to check up on him, others keeping a distance, not wanting to crowd him but ready to assist when needed and Stan assures them he’s fine even though he knows he isn’t, feels like used gum that’s been spit on the floor. It takes him far too long to get off the table and remember to hastily pull his pants up. Another, older Stan with pretty long hair rolls his shirt down for him and advises him to take a shower.
“Long hot showers always make me feel better afterward,” he says and hesitates to ruffle Stan’s hair before he takes his hand back, suddenly unsure whether body contact would feel comforting or threatening after what happened.
Stan just nods stiffly and leaves the kitchen but to his surprise two little Stans follow him, and once the older Stans are out of earshot one of them keeps asking “Did he stick it in your butt?” over and over and comments on it with an unnerving nonchalance “Hurts when he does that, doesn’t it? Did he blow a raspberry on your belly? Yeah? Did he stick it all the way in or just a little? Because sometimes he does it just a little when I cry a lot! Did he stick it all the way in your butt? Did it hurt?”
The little boy asks it in such a cheery and excited voice, with such innocent curiosity that Stan starts to feel lightheaded and a little faint, he staggers and the quieter boy has to jump out of the way when Stan can’t hold it in anymore. He vomits his breakfast onto the shiny clean wooden floor before he is anywhere near one of the bathrooms.