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When the urges began, Stan did not fight them.
He knew he should have— that what he was doing was wrong. That he was abusing Ford’s trust, that he was tainting his unsullied, perfect brother. Despite this, he could not bring himself to stop. In fact, it only urged him on.
Neither of their lives had been daisies and sunshine, but Stan could not help thinking— no, he knew— that he had gotten the short end of the stick. The unwanted twin, constantly sneered at by their overbearing father, just to be kicked from the house at seventeen over an accident. A stupid accident, all because he had wanted to be with his brother.
From West Coast Tech to the portal (which had been another accident), Ford was always trying to leave him. He’d seen him as dead weight, even when Stan tried to prove his worth over and over. And it had hurt so, so badly that the one person he had been put on earth with, his other half, had hated him so much and thought him useless.
Things were better these days, out on the open water. It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes Ford got caught up in his research. Stan didn’t always remember where he was. Both of them had nightmares.
Stan tended to drink after his.
There was a reason why their fingers slotted so perfectly with each other, Stan mused as he finished the last of his beer. They were always destined to be together, a set, soulmates, reunited again as they defied their fates. Ford was meant to save the world, but he had damned it and himself. Stan, destined for ruin, had saved it and his brother. He had spent thirty years doing it.
That was the one good thing about losing his memory. Ford had, perhaps, finally found some worth in his worthless brother.
He was guilty for the way he had treated Stan.
He would never abandon him again, no matter how much Stan screwed up.
At some point, Stan started sleeping in Ford’s bed.
“Shove over, Poindexter.”
“Aren’t we too old for this?” Ford asked, like he did every time, but rolled over nonetheless. Stan slid under the sheets next to him.
“Does it matter if we are?” Stan retorted, and Ford just shrugged. Stan didn’t think Ford really cared. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure that Ford liked it. They both had nightmares, and it didn’t take an idiot to notice that the frequency of night terrors had decreased since they began sharing a bed.
One could argue that Stan was being charitable and selfless, not a complete perverted freak.
With his hearing aid out, Ford’s breathing was muffled and soft— it made it hard to discern when his brother was asleep. That being said, Stan knew when Ford was conked out because Ford was cold. He always seemed to run a little colder than Stan had— something about difficulties with temperature regulation. He even wore socks when he slept. And as soon as he was in dreamland, he started cuddling up to Stan like some sort of heat-seeking missile.
It took weeks for Stan to work up the nerve to touch Ford. Most of the time, Stan would stare, squinting in the darkness to make his brother out. He would study the line of Ford’s jaw, the bridge of his nose (their nose— they had the same nose), the way that he seemed to smell like smoke all the time despite (apparently) no longer using fire to shave his face.
And as Stan lay there in the dark, he realised he couldn’t control himself any longer. He didn’t want to.
He reached out, brushing a hand against Ford’s stubbled cheek. It was fleeting, soft, and somehow enough to have Ford’s eyes flying open.
Stan didn’t even give his brother time to ask. “Thought I saw a bug,” he muttered gruffly, and turned over. His heart was pounding in his chest.
The next time they docked, Stan went to town and bought sleeping pills.
He felt bad about drugging Ford’s food. It was easy to. Ford drank a cup of tea every night before bed. Stan brought it to him and tried not to look too interested when Ford downed it. He knew if his brother ever figured out, he would probably never eat anything again. It had been hard enough to get him off those nutritional pills.
He just had to be careful and make sure Ford was none the wiser. Too much could be harmful. Not enough and Ford would wake up. Stan was no expert in biology, but he felt he knew enough about math to properly estimate an effective dose based on Ford’s height and weight.
“Six, you up?”
So far, it seemed to be going well. If Ford was pretending to be asleep, he was doing a damn good job.
Stan tentatively placed a hand on his side. Ford didn’t so much as flinch.
Emboldened by the lack of reaction, Stan slowly rucked up his twin’s shirt. He was determined to commit every curve of muscle and every raised scar to memory. He only ever got to see Ford from afar. He had more fuzz on his chest than Stan imagined, thick and gently curled and likely salt and pepper like the hair on his head. The trail thinned as he inched toward the hem of Ford’s boxers. He didn’t go any lower.
He could be a patient man. There was no need to rush things now.
But within the first week, he grew tired of just innocent touching. He wanted to taste Ford.
He peppered kisses on Ford’s slack face. Pressed their lips together and dipped his tongue into Ford’s parted mouth. The stale peppermint of their mouthwash lingered on his breath. Stan needed more.
He licked a stripe down the length of Ford’s sternum. His brother really needed to shower more frequently. He tasted faintly of sweat. Stan breathed in the heady scent with a low groan, nuzzling his head into Ford. When his cheek brushed a nipple, he sought it out with his mouth. He splayed a hand across the other side of Ford’s pectorals, squeezing the soft flesh and finding the small bud.
Ford groaned quietly, the first noise he had made all night. Still, he didn’t wake as Stan sucked his nipple, roughly flicking the peaked nub with broad strokes like it was an ice cream cone. And he just shivered when Stan pinched the other one, working it between his fingertips until it grew hard.
Ford would never know, Stan told himself, as he wrapped himself around Ford’s leg, stifled any noise in Ford’s chest, and rutted until his hips stuttered and he came in his pants.
The next morning was business as usual— Stan navigating them to the next anomaly that Ford wanted to see, Ford holed up in his study doing research. Stan made dinner. Ford complimented Stan’s cooking and cleaned his plate. He had lemon tea around nine o’clock.
This time, Stan let his hands wander further. He jerked off his brother through his UFO-patterned boxers, then did the same to himself. He tasted Ford through the cloth, hands spreading the other’s thighs as he sucked at Ford’s twitching and over-sensitive member until Ford pulled away with a sleepy cry.
Of course, Ford didn’t mention anything in the morning.
“Something up, bro?” Stan asked that night as he went to pull back the covers and Ford didn’t move. Ford had that frown on his face that said he was thinking big thoughts as quietly as possible.
“Hm? No, nothing Stanley.” Ford scooted over and Stan reclaimed his spot in their bed.
“I, uh…” Ford trailed off. “Have you noticed anything amiss when I’ve been sleeping?”
“Amiss?”
“Yes, Stanley. Have I been making any-“ Ford was slowly turning pink. Stan pretended like he didn’t notice the flush climbing up his brother’s face. “Any odd noises? In my sleep?”
Stan barked a laugh, raising his eyebrows. “I dunno, Six. I’m asleep when you are,” he lied as easily as he breathed. “Why?”
“Ah, it’s nothing at all,” Ford murmured. He turned over. “Goodnight, Stan.”
And maybe Stan would have pressed more if he hadn’t known that he was the culprit.
Did Ford have dreams about what he was doing? Did he ever imagine that Stan was the one doing it to him? Or did he wake up with a mess in his boxers and shame on his face?
Stan considered this over the next few days. He watched Ford change his routine, showering before bed, presumably wanking down the drain in hopes of dispelling the ‘dreams’. His brother was real quiet— he probably bit his tongue as he jerked off. But Stan knew that it was his name that escaped Ford’s mouth, hissed through clenched teeth under the rush of the shower.
It better have been his name, at least, Stan thought, nose pressed to the coarse hair on the base of Ford’s cock as Ford thrust once, twice, and he came into Stan’s waiting mouth.
He didn’t know when he decided that he wanted Ford to know. Like some switch flipped in his brain, and his thoughts went from “take this to the grave” to “Fuck Ford awake.”
It didn’t matter if Ford wanted it. Stan deserved it. He deserved it for how patient he had been when he first started this whole thing, after all the years he had taken care of his brother, after the sacrifices that he had made. But even if Ford didn’t want it, Stan was not a cruel man. He’d make sure that his twin enjoyed it.
So, yeah, he was going to fuck Ford. He was going to ram his cock up his older brother’s ass until Ford spilled all over the sheets beneath them.
Stan halved the dose, waited for Ford to shower. He told Ford he’d retire a bit later and not to wait up for him. He turned on the lights and peeled back the comforter. Ford was on his belly, huddled under the blankets in his weird way of his. Stan gingerly straddled him. He was not made to move lightly or quietly, but he was rising to the occasion.
Ford never checked the bedside table drawers. Thus, he was none the wiser to the handcuffs Stan had purchased. And Stan always kept lube in his pockets, these days.
He quickly clicked the handcuffs closed, securing Ford’s wrists behind his back.
He’d had the foresight to toss the gun Ford kept under his pillow. He was right to, because even in his half-asleep state, the first thing Ford did was reach for it.
Ford’s eyes flew open, every muscle tensing as he immediately struggled under Stan’s weight, trying to buck the other man off his back.
Stan knew his brother was no wimp, but the force of the resistance still surprised him. He knew he had made the right choice to half the dose of the sleeping pills instead of forgoing it altogether, or Ford would surely have overpowered him. He clamped a hand on his twin’s cheek, smashing the side of his face deep into the pillow.
He had the upper hand right now, and he did not intend to let it go. Nothing would stop him from getting what he wanted.
“Chill, Ford,” he kept his tone casual, like he wasn’t halfway to a hard-on while pinning Ford down. “It’s me.”
Ford’s breath came in quick and rough pants. There was a slur to his voice, the traces of the Jersey accent he tried so hard to hide slipping out in his drugged state. “Stanley, what the hell are you doing?”
“Getting the jump on you.”
“Very amusing, Lee.” Ford shook his head, once, twice, three times— evidently trying and failing to shake off the grogginess. Stan didn’t need to see his brother’s face to know that he was blinking heavily. “What time is it?”
“Uhh…I dunno. Dark.”
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Shouldn’t you, Poindexter?”
“I was asleep, Stanley, ‘til you decided to climb atop my back! I-“ Suddenly, Ford seemed to gain awareness all at once. “Are those handcuffs? ” he asked incredulously, annoyance creeping into his tone. “Would you get off me?”
Stan hummed low in his throat. “I’ll get you off.”
“Stan!" Ford always sounded so scandalised when Stan made jokes like that. It was almost funny. "That’s extremely inappropriate.”
“Hasn’t stopped me from doing it all the nights before.”
“…Stan. What are you…?”
Ford fell silent. Stan watched the gears start to turn in his brother’s head— watched him come to slower-than-usual conclusion about the weird dreams he had evidently been having, then dismiss it because it was ridiculous. It was a ridiculous notion that Stan would be assaulting him during the night.
Wasn’t it?
“This joke has gone too far. This is no longer humorous. Let’s go to bed.” The statement was flat as an iron. A command.
Perhaps it would have worked if Stan hadn’t heard the tense undercurrent of trepidation. He was in control now, and they both knew it.
Stan hummed noncommittally. “I have always had the better sense of humor.” He splayed a possessive hand over the small of Ford’s back.
Ford shuddered, squirming to no avail.
“Stanley, I don’t know what’s gotten into you. We’re on the boat— the Stan O’War— it’s the year 2014-”
“I know where we are and who we are. And I know what I want.” The hand that hadn’t settled on Ford’s back tugged Ford’s legs apart. There was a pregnant pause, a moment of realisation— then Ford was spitting and hissing, slamming his thighs back together as he spluttered and turned bright red.
“Get- stop- this is wrong! We’re brothers, for Moses’ sake!”
Stan used his weight to push Ford deeper into the mattress, drawing close to his brother’s ear.
“No, Stanford, you know what’s wrong? Spending ten years of your life on the street, homeless and sucking cock just to get enough money for a burger while your arrogant brother squanders his big research grant. Then, on top of that? Spending another thirty years trying to fix his mistake. And he comes back, and he doesn’t even say thank you.”
“I’m…I’ve apologised, Stanley. I’ll do so again. I know I haven’t been the best brother and I’m sorry.”
Ford was desperate, and it made Stan all the more excited.
“I’m sorry, Stan. I’m trying to do better. This- what you’re doing, it won’t fix anything.” Ford took a deep breath, trying to regain control over the situation. “We can discuss things in the morning like rational adults when we’ve both had the time to think.”
“Nah.”
“Be- be reasonable, for crying out loud! I- I know I hurt you in the past, but hurting me like this-”
“Look, Six, I’m not doing this to hurt you. I don’t care what-”
Maybe he should have used a slightly higher dose. Ford jerked sharply underneath him and the suddenness nearly threw Stan off. The floor wasn’t far, but his back wasn’t what it used to be and falling would hurt like a bitch. Snarling, Stan gripped the base of his brother’s neck with a hold like iron.
“Goddamn it, Ford! Stop struggling! Fuck!”
He smacked Ford on the back of the head. Hard.
Ford sank back down with a hiss. The combination of the pills and the blow to the head was surely unpleasant— and for all of a moment, Stan felt bad. “If I have to tie you up…”
He didn’t finish the threat. He knew his brother didn’t do well with being restrained after Bill. Handcuffs were the most he could tolerate. It wasn’t Stan’s intention to cause Ford any undue distress.
“Don't make me hurt you. I don’t want to.”
“Please, Lee.” Ford sounded so small, his face curled into his pillow. “Why are you doing this?”
There were a number of things he could say. That he knew what Bill had done to him, how he’d forced cries from his lips until he was a shuddering mess. That it was because Ford deserved it, deserved to feel an ounce of the pain Stan had felt over the years. That he wanted more than the stray touches he had snatched. He wanted to hear Ford howl his name underneath him. That Stan loved him in a way no brother should.
He did not know how to respond, so he did not.
Instead, he slid down until he was behind Ford. He slotted himself between his brother’s legs. Grabbed him by the pelvis, forcing his hips up. His skin was too warm, hot, even through the band of his boxers.
“Please don’t do this. Please. I’m begging you.” Ford’s breath hitched. He was angry and scared, voice cracking in his throat.
“Stan,” Ford said.
“Ford,” Stan replied, and tugged the shorts down.
He had never seen Ford’s hole, small and puckered and furled between his two firm cheeks. Ford must have done squats regularly. Stan was achingly hard, cock tenting his boxers. He held himself and groaned, rocking forward to rub himself against Ford. Ford made a noise between a gasp and a whimper. It sent a shock down Stan’s spine. That was the downside of touching Ford while he was sleeping— he didn’t get to hear the sounds he made. They were sweeter than he could have imagined. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t done this earlier.
“Don’t do this,” Ford repeated, trembling.
“Oh, Six,” Stan sighed reverently. “You have no idea how badly I’ve needed this.”
He parted Ford’s cheeks, drawing close. Stan felt Ford flinch beneath him as he exhaled, heavy and hot on his skin. He flattened his tongue over the ring of muscle, laving with a single-minded focus. Ford tasted faintly of soap, but that didn’t stop him. He slid his tongue over Ford’s tight rim, enjoying the way that Ford gasped and twitched and shivered.
With a sluggish kick, his brother tried to close his legs again. Stan dug his fingers into the meat of his thigh until he felt it would bruise and Ford grunted in pain and allowed Stan to pry him wide open.
He shifted his attention to Ford’s cock, half-hard and only growing harder with each passing second. Ford cried out, muffled by his pillow. His hips jerked back, seeking Stan. Stan took Ford into his mouth, drawing his tongue over the length and head until it wept pre-cum.
He pulled off Ford’s member with a slick pop. Panting hard, he rubbed his face inside the other man’s thighs, peppering the scarred skin with bites and kisses.
“I love you, Ford,” he said breathlessly between kisses. “Don’t ever forget that. I saved you because I love you, even after you abandoned me. I’m doing this because I deserve it, for what I’ve given up. Because I deserve you. We belong together.”
Ford made a noise that sounded like a sob. Stan grabbed him by the shoulder and flipped him onto his back. He’d decided he wanted to see Ford’s face. No more hiding in the pillow.
“And even if you leave me again, even after everything I’ve done, at least now you’ll always remember that you’re mine. And I’m yours, Ford.”
Ford’s eyes were wet with tears. His face was the colour of Stan’s favourite beanie. Grief and guilt and fear twisted his expression. There was no hatred. “You’re sick, Stanley,” he uttered tremulously.
Stan just grinned. He was too pleased with the way things were progressing to allow any words to get under his skin. He took the lube from his pocket and watched Ford’s mouth narrow into a straight line.
“You’re just as sick as me, then,” he retorted as he squirted lube on a finger. “If you don’t want this, then why are you rocking into my touch?”
“It’s an involuntary biological- ah!” Ford’s nerdy excuse was cut short as Stan pressed a slicked digit into him. And Moses, Ford was tight. His muscles clenched, actively trying to eject the intrusive finger as Stan only pushed in tighter.
Ford gasped, screwing his eyes shut. His cock throbbed against his belly, the tip slowly leaking on his skin. “S-Stan,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Stan soothed as he prodded deep inside Ford. He took his time opening his brother up, careful not to tear. “This really isn’t to hurt you. I’ll make you feel real good, I promise. Take a few deep breaths, yeah? It’s okay.”
He used more lube before adding a second finger alongside the first. Stan worked his fingers deeper, searching for- there. Ford wailed, back arching off the bed.
Ford was sensitive. This was decidedly hot.
It was less hot when Ford clamped down on his own lip, biting the flesh to stifle his moans. Stan paused.
“Stop that. I wanna hear you.”
Ford replied by sinking his teeth in more, hard enough to draw blood.
“Hey!” Stan barked, and Ford jolted. “Look at me, Ford. Stop biting yourself or I’ll gag you. I know you don’t like being unable to speak, but I won’t tolerate you hurting yourself.”
It really would be a shame to have to stuff Ford’s mouth with cloth— Ford’s moans were so pornographic, but Stan needed to take care of his brother at this moment. As much as he wanted to be selfish.
Ford stared at him blankly. Stan stared back. He wasn’t sure if Ford had heard him and his staggered reaction time was just a side-effect of the drugs, or if Ford was simply choosing not to react.
“Understood?” he asked, pinching Ford’s side. Ford blinked out of his stupor and nodded jerkily. Good. Stan smiled a disarming smile. He leaned down and kissed Ford, lapping the coppery tang from his lips. Ford met him halfway, mouth falling open as he submitted to Stan’s whims.
When they tore apart, they were both panting, Ford’s lips red and shiny with spittle. Stan could taste blood on his tongue.
He crooked his fingers and was satisfied when Ford screeched like a cat being strangled. He was almost ready.
“Three fingers now, bro. You ready?”
“Stan- Lee, I can’t. It’s too much,” Ford cried, thin and reedy, but he was meeting every jerk of Stan’s digits with a thrust of his hips.
“You can take it. You will take it. You’ll take anything I give you, Six.” And when Stan slipped a third one in and pressed hard where he knew Ford’s prostate was, Ford all but howled, the sound echoing off the walls of their small room. He was so hard it looked painful.
“Please.” The plea was plaintive and broken. “Stan, please.” He didn't know whether Ford was asking him to stop or to continue. It didn’t matter.
Stan’s neglected cock throbbed, begging to be freed from its cloth prison. Stan tugged his fingers from Ford. Within the same breath, he was hastily ripping off his boxers and lining himself up.
“No,” Ford moaned. Then he shrieked as Stan pushed forward, inch by excruciating inch until he was fully seated in Ford. Ford writhed in a manner reminiscent of a beetle on its back and scrabbled for purchase he wouldn’t find as Stan moved.
Panting, Stan held his brother down. He was fighting his orgasm— he didn’t want things to end too soon. Ford felt divine. His hole was so warm and tight, the walls gently clenching the girth of Stan’s cock.
Ford was crying again.
“Fuck,” Stan murmured. His hips snapped as he fiercely ploughed forward as if he could go deeper, laying claim to his twin for once and for all. “Taking your little brother like you were meant for it. You feel so good, bro. A perfect fit.”
Ford didn’t respond, but that was fine. Stan didn’t need a response. Ford’s thready whimpers and laboured groans were answer enough.
“Stan-” Ford choked out as Stan dug his fingers into Ford’s hips enough to leave bruises and pounded his brother’s prostate with unrelenting accuracy. “I need- Stan!”
Ford looked wrecked, debauched, blotchy with blush and stained with tears. His erect cock bobbed between them, leaking like a faucet onto his belly. Stan wanted to lean down and lap it up.
It was filthy. Obscene. And it felt so right.
Stan’s orgasm surprised him. He clenched his teeth, shuddering as he pumped hot ropes of cum deep into Ford. With shaky breaths he slid out, watching the other man’s hole flutter and clench, seed trickling out. Finishing Ford off was easy. All he did was wrap a calloused palm around Ford’s weeping member and Ford was shooting off like a rocket.
Ford’s broad chest heaved as he came down from his high. His softening cock laid gently against his thigh.
Stan wiped his hand clean on Ford’s stomach. It wasn’t as hot as licking it off, but he’d never much liked the bitter taste. He tucked himself away in silence, listening to Ford breathe.
Finally, as Stan rose with the intention to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, his brother cleared his throat.
Ford wouldn’t meet Stan’s eye. “Uncuff me, Stan. Please.”
“You gonna leave?”
Stan knew Ford didn’t like feeling like a prisoner. He had considered what would happen if he forced Ford to stay— if he tied him to the bed until Ford stopped crying and cursing. But he couldn’t leave his brother restrained forever.
Ford gazed at the wall behind Stan for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then something like tired resignation and shame settled on his face. “Where else would I go?” he asked quietly— but his thoughts were plenty loud to Stan:
‘I pushed Stanley to this. I hurt him. He’s unwell. This is all my fault. He could be a danger to himself, or others besides me. I can’t…it’s my responsibility…’
Stan wouldn’t leave his brother restrained forever because he knew that Ford wouldn’t leave.
Ford would never abandon him again, no matter how much he screwed up.