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It Starts With a Stone Rolling Down a Hill

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“Now strip.”


The command is loud and clear, ringing through Stan’s ears like their mother’s work telephone. He doesn’t really quite catch the words coming out of his brother’s mouth, or maybe, he doesn’t really quite want to.


Stan has always known that his dependence on Ford borders on unhealthy. Growing up, they had both been outcasts; Ford for his six fingers and Stan for being physically weak. Every kid in town either wanted to bully them, or have nothing to do with them. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise that they were both closer to each other than anyone else. The fact that they were twins didn’t really factor into much of anything besides the way that they were related to each other.


But Ford had his brains going for him. He, at least, had his teachers and his grades and a future to look forward to that was full of possibilities. Stan had nothing but his brother and a life of mediocrity ahead of him.


He latched onto Ford because Ford was the only person in his life who didn’t seem to think Stan was anything less than just who he was and the fear that Ford would one day abandon him to his lonely, meaningless existence terrified him. Without Ford, Stan has nothing.


So when Ford says he wants to conduct an experiment one day, out of the blue, Stan would’ve obliged, even if it had involved surgical knives and him being laid out on a stretcher. As it was, no knives were involved, save for the metaphorical kind; the kind that Stan hated the most.


“S-strip?” he echoes Ford, crossing his arms over his chest as he frowns at his brother. “Why do you want me to s-strip?”


Ford huffs impatiently and turns around, sending a sharp pang of panic through Stan at seeing his back to him (he has nightmares of this happening, sometimes, when he least expects it; Ford turning his back on him and leaving him alone, disappearing out of his life without even a single glance back).


“If you didn’t want to help me with my experiment, then you should’ve just said so, Stanley,” Ford’s saying, snapping Stan out of his thoughts. “I could always just ask Rick Sanchez-“




The vehemence with which Stan nearly shouts the word makes Ford jump and look at him with wide, shocked eyes and Stan colours red as he tries to hide his embarrassment.


“I mean, no, you don’t have to ask anyone else,” Stanley says, looking away. “You know I’d do anything for you, Ford.”


If Stanley weren’t so worried about what his brother thought of him, he might’ve seen Ford’s tiny little smirk at his words; a smug, calculative twist of the lips that should’ve been a warning. But Stanley is Stanley, so he doesn't.


What happens instead is he finds himself naked, save for his boxers, and lying on his back on the bottom bunk bed with Ford on top of him, running six-fingered hands all over his bare torso.


Ford’s muttering things under his breath that Stan can’t quite catch and his hands are everywhere; on Stan’s chest, his bellybutton, running up and down his sides. Ghost-like touches that send shivers down Stan’s spine and slowly stirring his groin to life. He’s squirming uncomfortably within minutes, hoping that Ford won’t notice that he’s getting hard from his twin touching him.


When Ford’s fingers suddenly pinch his nipples, Stan yelps, instinctively shooting up and covering his chest with his arms.


“Ford, that hurt!” he says, and it’s too late to take that back even when he belatedly realizes how whiny he sounds.


It takes another moment to realize how close he and Ford are, now that he’s sitting up. Ford hadn’t moved away, still straddling Stan’s hips, and Stan blushes again at how intensely Ford is staring at him.


“What? What are you looking at me for?” he grumbles.


Ford doesn’t answer him. Instead, Stan gets an eyeful of Ford’s nose when Ford suddenly presses his lips against Stan’s, hands roughly grabbing onto Stan’s shoulders and pushing him back down onto his back. Stan doesn’t even have time to react before he feels a tongue delving into his mouth, running over his own as Ford continues to grope at his chest and his sides.


The sensations are overwhelming, especially for someone who had never been kissed before, let alone like this, and Stan can’t keep his mind straight, can’t get past the thought that Ford is actually kissing him. Kissing him.


Ford’s lips are so insistent and all-consuming, and so soft, and Stan knows this is wrong, but he just can’t seem to remember why.


Ford breaks the kiss when they both run out of air and Stan can only stare up at him dazedly as he pants for breath. Ford smirks at the state his brother’s in. “You’re hard,” he says simply, and Stan gasps as a hand cups his groin.


“Ford!” Stan hisses in alarm when he’s turned over onto his front. He cranes his neck to look back at his brother as Ford grabs his hips and pulls them up so that Stan’s ass is in the air.


“Wh-what’re you doing, you jerk,” Stan groans, trying to wriggle out of Ford’s grasp. He doesn’t quite know what’s going on, his mind stuck on the pleasure that’s blooming through his inexperienced dick.


Ford puts a stop to his half-hearted struggles by sending a firm, hard smack against his right bottom and Stan squeals at the unexpected sting, his whole body recoiling on instinct.


Ford!” he shouts, and he hates that there are tears of pain pooling in his eyes as he tries to glare at his brother from over his shoulder.


Ford just shushes him and pulls his boxers down over his ass, and Stan gasps again at the biting cold. He doesn’t realize that he’s still hard until Ford’s hand grabs at his dick and his eyes literally roll up into his head at the pleasure, a long, low moan escaping his lips. He ducks his face into his arms to stifle the sound while Ford starts to jerk him off, fast and hard. It’s too dry and too rough, but the pain just seems to intensify the sensations shooting through his body and all Stan can do is gasp for breath.


Ford stops suddenly and Stan can’t help but whimper at the loss until Ford spanks him again, this time on his left bum. It sends a trill of pain through his whole body and Stan bites his lip to stop himself from making any more embarrassing noises.


“I thought so,” he vaguely hears Ford mutter triumphantly, and he’s about to ask what Ford’s talking about when there’s a loud, sharp rap on their bedroom door and both of them jump out of their skins.


“Boys, dinner’s ready, stop fooling around and come out,” Ma calls from the other side, and they’re both just staring wide-eyed at the closed door like deer caught in headlights.


They don’t relax until they hear their mother’s footsteps echoing away into the distance and when silence settles, Ford’s the one who moves first, pushing Stan over so that his brother lands on his side on the bed with an ‘oomph’, legs tangled in his boxers and flagging erection smacking against his thigh.


Ford ignores his own dick, still hard as a rock. Unlike Stanley, the thrill of almost getting caught gets more blood pumping to Ford’s dick than anything else and he has to force himself to soften by thinking of old ladies and fluffy kittens.


“We have to go,” Ford says, while Stanley scrambles to pull his boxers back up his thighs.


Stanley’s grumbling under his breath, face still flushed from their… activities, and Ford bites his lip, wishing they’d gotten further than they had. He’d wanted to be inside Stanley, to have him, finally, after waiting for so long. He’d read as much about this as he could and asked as many people as he’d known who were queer, ever since he’d learned what his dick was for, and Ma had to have such crappy timing.


“We’ll continue after dinner,” he declares, and takes pleasure at the alarmed look on Stanley’s face before he leaves the room.