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It was a little past midnight when Stan woke up with his stomach feeling empty and cursing that very fact. It’s been a few hours after dinner already, and while he’s usually able to sleep through anything, his sleep schedule in the last few months in particular has gotten screwed to the point of no return. With all nighters lost to poring over aged and yellowing paper, tucked by the wheeled chair and desk in the basement until he’s slump over and getting a blessed three hours sleep before snapping back when the next day greets him and he has to squeeze himself into his suit and girdle like a sucker and put on a show for a bunch of other suckers with unbearingly little amounts of shut eye.
Stan’s body is just used to it now and it’s better to indulge one need over the other.
It’s how he finds himself in the kitchen, sifting through remnants of the fridge, trying to find anything filling enough to eat amongst Mabel’s collection of barely edible concoctions (seriously, why do those marshmallow-cookies have googly eyes and glitter of all things?) she makes for sharing and at least two-week-too-old ingredients that Stan hasn’t gotten around to cook with yet. Scanning and scanning, his eyes trail boredly through the options until his gaze lands on a plastic bag tucked in the back and snorts.
Ford’s jellybean stash.
It’s been three weeks, almost a whole month of his brother’s return and he’s been making himself scarce to Stan’s presence as much as he could, which was probably for the best anyway since they couldn’t stand to be in the same room for any longer than five minutes before devolving to arguments and getting all up in each other’s faces. It wasn’t pleasant, Stan thinks, sharing a roof with a man who punched his face and told him he was kicking him out by the end of the summer in the place of a thank you after spending decades trying to bring him back.
Stan thinks if he were more considerate, he’d imagine that the other side of the conversation is just a must have to the guy who accidentally broke a science fair project and accidentally pushed himself into the portal and sacrificed thirty years in the most isolated mission known to man. Well, he just had to, right?
Good thing he isn’t though, so he has no guilt or qualms with staying out of Ford’s way and is definitely happy it’s reciprocated. He has Dipper anyway, the little twerp is a little too happy to spend time with Ford in his stead and Stan’s fine with that as long as he isn’t in danger. So that’s where they stood now.
Still , Stan thinks, reaching for that bag and a box of poptarts, It’s kinda funny, he muses a little bit. Ford’s sweet tooth for those things never went away. He probably thinks he’s so slick, hiding it at the back of the fridge and not even realizing there’s a beer or two there Stan keeps from the kid’s eyes. He pops a jellybean in his mouth, just out of spite.
A loud THUMP breaks him from his reverie, and Stan glances up. Probably a big rat in the walls again , he shrugs. After having the last poptart (it’s Mabel’s, so he’ll have to get another box before she finds out. Stan’s praying she doesn’t conveniently crave it that morning), Stan pops the creaks in his neck and wraps his robe tighter around himself, tying the straps around himself preparing to shuffle back to bed. It was warmer when he went to bed, so he hadn’t slept with his tank on. Briefly his mind wanders to Ford, how one time Stan had dropped by his brother’s room to change his bedsheets when he thought his twin would be holed up at the basement all night again, and found him jaw slacked and horizontal on the room’s couch instead, still dressed in all his layers.
It was ridiculous. Either the guy finally exhausted himself with all the nerd bullshit, or he was more like Dipper than just the nerd bullshit, who couldn’t bother to change into more comfortable (and cleaner) clothing. But at least Dipper would be in more comfortable shorts. At the time Stan considered carefully relieving his brother of the constricting layers, but stopped himself before he could let the thought linger any longer.
He and Ford didn’t have that kind of relationship. Not anymore. Despite knowing better, Stan always finds himself nailing that strict reminder to the front of his skull when every other one rusts a little too soon. Unbuckling Ford’s belt for him might’ve earned Stan a lustful smile and a thankful peck (and maybe more acts of gratefulness) in the past, but things were different now and Stan doing that would mostly get him a nice new shiner in the face if he tried it. If Ford wants to sleep in his restricting pants and long sleeves on a hot summer night, Stan’s oughta let him. With the way he still wears an outfit that covers up practically every inch of skin at every moment Stan sees him in, he’s got an inkling Ford didn’t really want him to see anything more these days.
Not that it matters to Stan, after all.
THUMP
Stan glaces up a second time. There it is again. Scratching at his chin, Stan figures it’s probably either that rat or another damn pervy gnome that snuck in and wandered in their (sorry, Ford’s ) bathroom. He thinks of having Dipper look into it in the morning when—
CRASH. That was probably the mirror. Or something else that’s breakable in that room. Stan sighs tiredly, moving up the stairs. No point in waking the kid up when he’s still asleep and as much as Stan finds it obnoxious, he’s got nothing else better to do but lie awake thinking about Ford, which is the last thing he wants to do despite his whole life of practice.
Climbing up the stairs, the noises from the bathroom kept growing louder, little by little. Stan’s thankful the kids can sleep past gravitational relapses and still can’t hear this from the attic because whatever the hell this is, it’s almost like it was purposefully trying to be as loud as it can before suddenly quieting, like it was afraid to be caught. The light was unexpectedly on, though. Stan grabs his trusty broom for warding off pests (or Gideon, same difference) before approaching. Knowing this town, Stan prepared himself to expect anything from the other side of the door, including…
“Fuck…”
Stan blinks. The sudden, heavy sigh was enough to stop his tracks, but the voice … he knew that voice, especially when it sounded like—
“Hngh…!”
Stan’s stomach swoops. Before he has time to process that, a sudden thump of what can only be described as a back hitting the toilet’s tank and “ow..” and his protective need to help his family moves his body for him, pushing the door open to—
“ Stanley!” Ford gasps, letting out an embarrassed, high pitched squawk. “What the hell are you doing, you idiot?!”
Stan could only stare.
It was hard not to, with the bathroom nothing less than a goddamn mess. There was something that shattered, like Stanley expected earlier, and it was the glass cup holding the toothbrushes, with the kids’ and Stan’s that presumably dropped to the floor now found home by the shelves, with pieces of broken glass by the sink and it’s the least of the problems here, really.The closed off room had a slightly tangy smell and even taste to it. The laundry basket Stan kept near the doorway was toppled over, scattering girly sweaters and one orange shirt on the floor, looking thoroughly sifted through. Stan’s own clothes created a trail from his usual tie, to shirt, to pants, leading all the way to…
Ford, seating on the toilet. The wife beater Stan had dumped there that night being clutched in between six fingers alone might’ve earned him enough looks from Stan, but that wasn’t the thing Stan was staring at, no. No, that was by all accounts, normal compared to—
“Sixer… what the actual fuck?”
Stanford’s red face was practically turning purple, sweat clung to his forehead and stuck bits of his hair to it, shining under the fluorescent light. His sweater was still on, but his pants were shucked down to his ankles and the most glaring detail of all was that he doesn’t have a dick.
No—
He has one. It was a thick, long, purple, squirmy thing stuck in Ford’s fist, half being smooth and shiny and half covered in a parallel rows of suckers , white and poring open and if his own were any more blurry, they’d look like a row of empty eyes staring at Stan if the whole thing wasn’t thrashing wildly around. It was a tentacle, right between Ford’s legs where his dick should go. As Stan glances down, he notices two more, slightly smaller but looking no less, uh… enthusiastic, just a bit over a normal looking pair of balls, which looks more bizarre in comparison to the rest of it.
Stan can only gawk at it— at his brother. Ford is still breathing heavily but Stan can tell he’s worried.
“N-now, Stanley, I know how this looks—” Ford starts, raising his hand and letting the tentacle cock wiggle up in the air in what Stan assumes is arousal or whatever it is Ford is feeling.
It’s when Stan thinks: what if this isn’t his brother? What if it’s just another one of those weird monsters, trying to get one over Stan by luring him with his brother’s face? His real twin could still be tucked in the basement, while this one was attempting to… well, Stan doesn’t know what it’s hoping to achieve but Stan won’t fall for it. Point is: this could be bad, and it could hurt the kids. A surge of anger comes over him and Stan hefts the broom upward, ready to strike while ‘Ford’ waves his free hand frantically.
“Whatever you are, you got three seconds to get the hell out or I swear to God…”
“No! No no no, you idiot!” ‘Ford’ exclaims. “It’s me! Stanley, put that thing down and I’ll explain everything! I swear.”
“Talk.”
‘Ford’ rubs his face in between his free hand, still red from the furious flush, and at the same time, had returned to desperately handling himself down there , while all Stan could do was watch him attempt to pump the wet and slimy thing up and down. The movements and description stirred aweird feeling in Stan, one he couldn’t ponder on much longer when Ford starts speaking.
“When I was traveling across the multiverse, I came across this tribe of piglets who worshiped octopi,” Ford explains like that was a normal thing to say out loud, so it probably is Stan’s brother. “They took me in for a bit, and I ended up spending a nice few years with them for a bit.” He looks up, expecting some snarky reply but Stan’s still staring, making him release a shaky groan, twisting his fist over himself. “They took their worship very seriously.”
Stan lowers the broom, the story sounding believable for Stanford so far. “What’s that got to do with all of that ?”
“I’m getting there,” Ford cuts. “They often would replace their limbs and appendages with tentacles as a sign of honor and respect, as well as a way of modifying their bodies for fighting and protection, and… It’s just– I couldn’t very well stay part of the tribe as one of their own if I didn’t…” Ford makes a so-and-so gesture, ducking his head, clearly humiliated. Understanding what Ford is refusing to say, Stan leans the broom against the wall and crosses his arms.
“Alright, so you got in a cult of walking, talking pigs–”
“Tribe.”
“–And had to change a body part for one of those ,” Stan gestures to the tentacle. “And you chose your dick of all things? Are you stupid?”
“It’s not like I had many other options, Stan!”
“Couldn’t you have changed your–” Stan stops himself before saying ‘hands’, not wanting to breach a sore spot. “–your feet or somethin’? Or a toe?”
“I need my feet to walk, Stanley. Moving from one place to another is important when you’ve been pushed into a portal and transported across dimensions,” Ford says condescendingly, and it takes Stan a whole lot of willpower to stop himself from reaching for the broom handle again. Not because he doesn’t believe that’s his brother anymore, oh no, Stan definitely knows it’s him. “It has to be bigger than a toe too, so…”
“Pff, not that much bigger, sounds like,” Stan smirks when Ford glares at him. His argument was unconvincing, but Stan won’t pry further.
When they were teens, Ford always was a little jealous by the slight size difference they had that was leaning towards Stan’s favor. Length and thickness, Stan had about an inch over Ford, and Ford tried to hide how bothered he was by that fact. He had his complaints though. He found his outlet to bitch about it when he claims he has a sore throat one day from getting his mouth fucked the night before even though it was him who snuck to the bottom bunk the night before and went between Stan’s legs. The memory of velvety warmth of Ford’s mouth on him floods in, and Stan tries squashing it as he asks:
“So what’s all this about?” He looks pointedly across the bathroom, the mess made out of it. “Did it try to tear the place apart or somethin’?”
“No… That was my doing, sorry.” Ford admits guiltily. “I’m experiencing some… side effects of the body modification.” He looks at Stan’s curious face, clearly forcing himself to say it out loud with a shred of dignity. “My body thinks it’s mating season.”
Wait… “You’re in heat?”
“Crude, but yes.” Ford grits his teeth, because for some reason the damn thing hasn’t gotten any less excited yet. “Octopus mating rituals is something that varies a bit in the dimensions I’ve traveled to, so it came a little earlier this year than I imagined. Octopi generally live in a strict time period up until it’s time for reproduction, and both males and females from the dimension I’ve had this display aggression during that, so it’s—”
The smaller tentacles, clearly having been neglected far too long, wrap themselves around Ford’s wrist, yanking his hand down in some desperate plea for attention. Stan watches in awe as his brother tries to wrangle them off his hand and fuck– he’s really jerking off infront of Stan, isn’t he? He hasn’t stopped, actually, the movements looking mechanical and practiced but clearly not enough for Ford because his sweating hasn’t subsided, the familiar look of concentration coming back to his face as slick and wet sounds fill tight space again. He isn’t getting much pleasure from this, and Stan would know.
The cogs in Stan’s brain roll back a bit to a strict time period.
“Are you going to die?” Stan asks urgently, meeting Ford’s eyes, which widen in surprise.
“What? No.” He says, then adds. “I’m not an actual octopus, Stan. Ill be fine as long as I get rid of the hormonal desire to reproduce– which I was doing and should be getting back to, if you don’t mind–”
“What if you don’t, huh? What’s going to happen then?”
Ford contemplates this, looking unsure of it himself. “I… I don’t know. I haven’t exactly had time to prepare this time, and… I won’t exactly die if I don’t mate, but I assume I’ll likely tear myself apart or cannibalize myself with aggression like octopi do if I don’t. This hasn’t happened off schedule before, but I’ll…” he stops, then narrows his eyes at Stan, trying to look venomous after the lapse of vulnerability. “I’ll be fine . Just leave me the hell alone already so I can get this over with, Stanley.”
He’s clutching at Stan’s tank again, obviously flustered and exhausted. Stan’s mind is whirring. Okay, so Ford won’t immediately drop dead if he doesn’t fuck something, but the whole process sounds pretty damn painful for the sea creature itself to have to go through, let alone a regular human pumped full of its steroids and hormones. And that bit about eating himself— Moses, he can’t be serious? One look at him and Stan knows he is. Shit.
Ford is asking him to leave him alone and just let him deal with it by himself, and if Stan had any sense, he’d just listen. Seriously— a tentacle dick. Ford brought this on himself and this time, Stan has no obligation to help. Let his asshole twin brother accidentally kill himself because of his own stupid choices for something this dumb all over again.
Too bad for the both of them, Stan can’t.
He pushes himself off the wall to approach Ford, who’s mewling with his eyes closed, cheeks still red, and Stan wonders how he hasn’t passed away just yet. Leaning down, his own hand encircles the base– and holy shit is this thing slippery . Stan’s heart pumped in his chest, fear threading with a sudden adrenaline burst, almost like…
“Stanley,” Ford gasps, eyes flying open. “W-what are you–”
“Shut it,” Stan says, carefully getting on the cold, hard floor with his knees. Oh, Ford owes his old ass big time for this. “I spent thirty goddamn years trying to bring you back, Sixer, and I ain’t letting that go to waste just because you’re into getting too freaky with your own hand.” The big tentacle wiggles in Stan’s hand, the smooth part feeling slippery and the suckers already sticking and sucking lightly onto his skin in a way that makes Stan shiver in a confusing rush of emotions, with heat overwhelming the rest. Ford lets out a shuddering breath as Stan continues, pumping his hand in a slow, even pace, redirecting all attention back to it. “Seriously, you got this thing and couldn’t bag any aliens hot enough with it?”
“For your information, I’ve had my methods of dealing with it throughout the years.” Ford says sharply, in a way that leaves ‘ I don’t need you’ unsaid. Like he doesn't look like the most helpless, horny stricken man Stan's seen in a while.
“Oh yeah?” Stan’s gaze flashes to his stained tank top again, the one he only recently decided was too filthy to keep wearing around, days of sweat and body odor rolling off it. With the muffled way Ford was moaning earlier, it doesn’t take too many guesses to know Ford has had his nose buried into it while he jerked off. “That one of your ‘methods’?”
Ford’s ears turn bright red (though maybe it had been the whole time, Stan can’t tell anymore) and he mutters defensively. “Shut up. It’s to, um, increase my arousal and make the process easier,” Sweat clung to his neck, staining the collar of his sweater. Stan watches the bob of his Adam’s apple while he swallows nervously. “It’s familiar, alright?”
Well that was a whole case to unpack. Before Stan feels himself bask a bit in pride at the idea of still being able to turn Ford on by the smell of him, the tip of the tentacle brings him back to this unreal reality, swiping at his chapped lips and Stan has to look at his cock again.
And man is it a sight.
The purple monstrosity is longer than any cock, still as energetic as when Stan first walked in and Stan wonders briefly how Ford hadn’t gotten massively bored yet in the midst of their conversation, until one of the smaller tentacles start trailing onto Stan’s stubbled jaw, and Stan glances up to see Ford staring intently at him, almost like he was daring Stan to go through with it.
Ah, hell. As if Stan hadn’t seen or sucked on worse.
He opens his mouth and lets the tentacle slide in. Stan makes a sound of surprise at how much more it moves, making its way pass his lips into his mouth on its own, and fuck if the haggard breath Ford had wasn’t an indication of how lost he is to his own senses. It’s weird, no doubt about it, Stan thinks when his tongue swirls over the tip in tandem, almost like a another tongue if his own hadn’t run over the little suckers, the damn things leaving spaces for Stan to encircle each of them with curiosity and a sudden aching need to know how they feel, and how they taste— and Stan is surprisingly pleased to realize that it almost tastes entirely like Ford. His sweat and heavy musk dancing familiarly across his tongue with, bringing back memories that get Stan’s skin hot till this day and mixing with something else Stan can’t name but knows so deeply in his psyche. Suddenly, a few of them latches onto his tongue, pulsing and sucking suddenly and instinctively, Stan closes the hollows of his cheeks around it and sucks back gently.
“O-oh, fuck, Stanley…” Ford groans, fisting Stan’s hair hesitantly. He’d been so stiff when Stan got down on his knees, but now his hips inched towards him, letting Stan grab a hold of his thigh, Ford tugging him forward. “That feels… good…”
For a guy with so much to say, he couldn’t string together enough words to show his true appreciation, because when his cock lets go of Stan’s tongue, it pushes its way further in to the warm wetness of Stan’s mouth, slithering all over the place when it trails over dentured teeth, inner cheeks, the groves of roof of his mouth, all sending surprising jolts of electricity through Stan’s nerves that he realizes feels good . The damn thing— Ford — is subconsciously playing with Stan more than Stan is with him, and Stan’s got no wish to lose this game.
Bold and encouraged, he squeezes the base of the tentacle as it jolts and squirms excitedly, and moans around it, the vibrations going through the whole damn thing. It spreads even to the smaller ones crawling over Stan’s cheeks, neck, the back of his ears and latching themselves on patches of skin— somehow sending the vibrations back in a loop that feels almost good as Ford’s grip tightening and pulling on his short hair, tugging on his scalp roughly that feels good only in the way Ford and only Ford has made it. None of Stan’s clientele from his homeless days ever used the other hand to comb the other side affectionately while the other was giving its rough treatment. None of them ever felt as complete as the six fingered pulling and massaging on his scalp.
The tentacle is again pushing deeper into Stan’s mouth, and fuck, Stan wanted this didn’t he? His head starts bobbing in tandem to the pumps of the tentacle inside his mouth, feeling smooth and wet as it moves front and back at a gradually quickening pace. The thing is doing all the work for him already, clearly happy just to have a warm wet hole to get off in, but damn it, Stan doesn’t know if he could stop the pleasure he gets from feeling it move in its mouth, from hearing Ford losing it from up above, the wall of composure and condescension crumbling in the heat, from Stan .
“–So good, you’re so good for me Stan…” Ford gasps, his hips twitching and he moves on the toilet seat to get closer to Stan. “You have no– hh– idea how badly I’ve wanted you to– oh God. It’s been so long…” He thrusts into Stan’s mouth and he recognizes that tone, the twitch in his fingers. In this state Ford gets too eager, too damn excited and all thoughts disintegrating to the goal of fuck Stan like a god damn animal, and right now he practically is, the aggression he mentioned earlier showing in the droves of rolling hips and deep grunts.
In Stan’s mouth, his cock was very eager to do the same and close the gap between, sliding deeper into Stan’s mouth, and pumping and pulsing itself in a rapid pattern, occasionally brushing against the back of Stan’s throat and if Stan had been less experienced, he’d be gagging by the sheer size of it already. His mouth feels heavier, wetter , the tentacle is oozing with some slick fluids that Stan thinks is this thing’s equivalent of pre-cum but twice as much as a normal cock and filling his mouth quickly. He laps it up with his tongue, his head sinking towards the base subconsciously and bracing himself, hooking the back of Ford’s knee on his broad shoulders while Ford throws his head back. He takes in more than he should but damn does it feel good to have it slither inside his mouth, soft and long yet somehow not choking him like a normal cock would and in a slightly alarming second, Stan thinks he could get used to this. Swirling his tongue around the base, the tentacles both in his mouth and on his neck twitch erratically in return, the suckers sucking back on him almost affectionately. The bathroom walls bounces with squelching, and “ Oh, fuck, oh, God,” as Ford’s hips ruts desperate into Stan’s mouth, his tentacle going deeper and deeper into Stan’s throat, sliding smoothly into his esophagus, pushing walls and stretching just enough to jolt nerves inside him he had no idea were even possible, and shit that’s good, that’s really good. He sucks hard , Ford’s whimpering following right after and Stan would’ve beamed if he could, knees weak at hearing his older brother turned into a mess.
Or maybe he’s just older himself. Too old for whatever this interdimensional-or-something freak show this is, but too eager to have his twin in his hands again and took the chance as soon as he could.
Stan breathes sharply through his nose, only now realizing that Ford’s heavy musk, the scent he couldn't pin down, smells like salt water , and the revelation crash lands him to even further into the past, his buried fondness for the sea, for Ford mixing with his simmering arousal, and Stan finds his hand finally reaching towards his own neglected erection, feeling it leaking a dark spot through his boxers. Getting a couple strokes in, the memory takes over, with the cold bathroom dissappearing as he finds himself on his knees on soft, warm sand and Ford sitting on a crate, underneath in the shadows of the deck they keep Stan’ O War next to. The ocean a couple feet away, but Stan could smell it anyway. The rest of his senses were occupied by his whimpering brother. He closes his eyes, groaning around Ford and knowing he isn’t lasting long as the tail end of the memory hooks him in.
“Stanley–” Ford gasps, twelve fingers all gripping on longer brown hair. The crate beneath him was ricketing as he ruts into Stan’s hot mouth. “I-I’m gonna– you’re g-gonna have to–”
“Relax Sixer,” Stan says, pulling off to smile at his brother. No matter what happens: “I got you.”
“Stan– Stanley–!” Ford finally, practically shouts, finishing into Stan’s mouth with quivering hips and thighs— and shit that’s a lot. Way too much cum fills Stan’s mouth immediately and thank Moses that thing is even more slippery now, because Stan pulls away as quickly as he could, coughing and hacking, spilling clear fluid on the floor and onto his robe.
Yeah, Ford’s cleaning this mess up when they’re done. It’s his house and his tentacle dick, after all.
Stan's still coughing, muttering curses and contemplating life choices when his hearing finally comes in.
“... Should’ve warned you–I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” Ford is looking at him with genuine concern, and shit is that actual appreciation? What a first.
“Sixer,” Stan starts, coughing again before continuing. “Tell me your cum isn’t poisoned or filled with ink or whatever. I think I swallowed some.” Most of it really. Pretty impressive for his first time with a tentacle cock, Stan should say.
Ford’s eyes darken slightly at hearing that, but he answers. “No, no. My seminal vesicles and spermatozoa remain completely the same even after the alteration, I made sure of that. You should be fine.” He adds quickly, “I think.”
“Good,” Stan says, choosing to ignore that last part and because the limp tentacle looks even more jarring than when ‘erect’, he closes his eyes and rests his head on Ford’s thigh, the other man running his fingers through his hair again, all gently this time, and using Stan’s abandoned tank to wipe his face of cum and sweat. His knees are giving out and he thinks he’s cummed in his boxers (after a few strokes, man, he’s had better days) and wants to change out of them. His robe is sticking to him with his sweat too. His lack of sleep is catching up.
Still, there's a warm pool right in his stomach at his brother's touch.“‘Least that’s over with.”
“Actually…”
Stan’s eyes rip open when he feels Ford’s cock twitch in his face. The big tentacle slowly looks like it’s coming back to life, the smaller ones following suit. Stan looks up to Ford’s sheepish face, scratching the back of his head. He doesn’t look ashamed enough .
“Did I mention that the octopi tend to mate for five hours? That seemed to carry over…”
Stan rubs his face. Thank fuck the kids can sleep through anything.