Actions

Work Header

Sea Burial

Work Text:

"Okay. Look," Stan says, when stuttering denials doesn't make Ford stop staring. "I wasn't going to be using it on the boat, alright? I just didn't want Soos to find it when we left, and I figured I could, y'know, bury it at sea."

Ford, still a bit wide-eyed and even faintly blushing, looks from Stan to his own hand. Carefully, delicately held up between his finger and thumb is Stan's good ol' friend, Fisty.

Fisty is a sex toy. It's a sex toy shaped like a fist, if that wasn't evident, and out in the sunny, open air, on the Pacific Ocean, between Ford's fingers, Fisty is very evident. Lurid red and rubbery, it stands out like a sore thumb. And a sore pointer, sore middle finger, sore ring finger, sore pinky, and —here's the kicker— sore extra pinky.

There's no way Ford hasn't counted. Stan suspects if it had been a normal fist-shaped dildo with the normal amount of fingers, he would have reacted by now, probably to call Stan gross or irresponsible or whatever. It's definitely that sixth finger, rendered lovingly in silicone, that's turned this into a three-way staring contest between Stan, Ford, and Fisty the fist.

"I don't know what to tell you," Stan says resignedly. "You don't have a mind eraser on you, do you?"

"Certainly not," Ford says, the first time he's said something since the fist came tumbling out of Stan's bag. He's still staring at the toy, and he's still holding it. Directly compared to Ford's very real hand, Fisty's small, arguably more modeled off a woman's hand. Stan hadn't exactly had a wide range in size to choose from. Fisty was basically the only six-fingered fist he could find; apparently, someone had made a design mistake, molded a couple hundred of these in the Ukraine, as you do, and then needed to unload them. The existence of Fisty isn't really the difficult thing to explain.

How Stan's supposed to explain owning it is the problem here. Obviously. Obvious like a bright red fist in the middle of a grey boat.

"So, it's actually a funny story," Stan says, improvising by starting with part of the truth. He can only talk and hope that something comes to him while he does. "There was this manufacturing error, see; some intern made a mistake and printed off —molded off, you know— a few of these babies and—"

"Why do you have it?"

"It… was funny?" Stan suggests. He goes with it. "I got it for a laugh. I figured you'd find it funny. Yeah. That's it."

"For a con man, you're a terrible liar at times," Ford says flatly. He just won't look away from the damned thing.

"I…" Stan looks around, but there's nothing to help him. Boats going to and from Newport float by in the distance, and even if Stan couldn't catch one, they're still within a few miles of the marina they set sail from. Stan could probably make it to land eventually if he jumped overboard right now.

Sure, that would be giving up on his lifelong dream and losing his brother for a third time, and it would basically kill him inside, and he'd probably lose the will to swim or even float once the reality of destroying everything that ever mattered to him set in, but at least it'd be easier than explaining himself. Soul-crushing might be preferable to soul-baring.

"Can we just not talk about this?" Stan asks, and a little mental voice like Mabel comes to him with a suggestion. "Please?"

Ford finally looks up from the fist. His eyes meet Stan's, and he says, "No, we cannot, Stanley."

"Look, I'm begging ya, here," Stan says, and he weighs whether dropping to his knees would be too pathetic, but really, isn't he just pathetic at heart anyway? He drops. Ford blinks at him. "Don't kick me out of your life again. I couldn't take it and I'd probably—" he says, only to be interrupted before the groveling can begin for real.

"Stanley, stop being dramatic," Ford says. He turns back to Fisty, Stan's intimate friend of three years —ever since he realized the one good thing about the internet might be finding something to uh, tickle his fancy— and flings it casually over the side of the boat. Stan doesn't see it go dropping into the ocean, but he does hear it plop.

Stan gapes. Ford steps close and holds out his hand to Stan.

"You just tossed it," Stan says, eyes a little misty.

"It appeared stable. It shouldn't have any adverse effect on the local ecosystem."

"What? Like that was—"

"You said you were going to bury it at sea. Well, there you are. Get off the deck before you hurt your knees," Ford says. He keeps holding out his hand until Stan takes it to be pulled up. He doesn't let go when Stan's standing. "Now, can I ask again why you had it?"

"I—" Stan says. He looks down at Ford's hand holding his and by some unknown miracle, doesn't lie. "I've got a fascination, I guess."

"With polydactylism in general or my specific instance?"

Stan rolls his eyes. "What do you think, Sixer?"

Ford's grip tightens, and he says, "Does that extend to other areas as well?"

"Like what?"

"This," Ford says, and he kisses Stan.

His other hand comes up to hold Stan's cheek, and it's a damn nice kiss while it lasts, wet and soft and borderline romantic. It doesn't last long enough. Stan's left trying to follow Ford's mouth when it pulls away, only to be held back by the hand on his face.

Ford gives him an expectant expression. It takes Stan's brain a second to realize why, and when it does his almost groans.

"Yes, okay? That, too," Stan says. "You gonna do it again or was that an experiment?"

"I'd like to assess the scale of the fascination," Ford says, clearly just to yank Stan’s chain. They kissed. Ford kissed him and is still holding his hand. And yeah, sure, they're brothers and that's wrong, but aside from ordering a sex toy, Stan's been on the internet just enough to know the twin thing is this whole genre, so he's not going to dwell on it. Not as long as Ford might kiss him again.

"The fascination is full scale. The fascination is life-sized. Could you just—" Stan stops as Ford pulls their shared grip down to the front of his pants. Ford's hard. Stan lets his hand be pressed flat against that bulge, and he laughs. "Oh yeah. That, too," he says, too high on, "Holy shit, Ford's hard for me," to give a fuck if he sounds dumb.

Stan gives Ford a gentle squeeze, and Ford's eyes flutter closed for a moment. He lets go of Stan to hold his face on both sides, guiding him into another kiss that sets off firecrackers in Stan's grey matter. The damage might be permanent, and that's fine with Stan. Who needs a functioning brain when he can have his brother's tongue in his mouth and his dick in his hand?

"Do you want to go to bed?" Ford asks softly when their lips part again.

"It's barely ten," Stan says, proving the brain damage aspect before he catches up. "No, wait, you meant sex. Yes, that."

Ford chuckles and rubs their foreheads together, the top rim of their glasses clicking gently. Stan's breath catches, and with his voice all over the place, he says, "This is too good to happen to me."

"Oh hush," Ford says. He actually pulls back and scowls, like Stan's said something stupid. Stan doesn't care. He gropes Ford more until the scowl fades into flushed panting, and then he drops his other hand to reach for Ford's fly.

"No."

"No?"

"Not out here. It's broad daylight," Ford says. He grabs Stan's hands and brings them up to kiss them. Stan's heart flutters, like he's a heroine in a romance novel that maybe got adapted into a great movie with beautiful gowns... Or something. Not that he knows firsthand.

"So let's go where it's not daylight, genius," he says to save face.

"That was my suggestion, yes." Ford rolls his eyes, and he lets go of Stan's hands to lead the way below deck.

The sleeping cabin was almost the sticking point when they bought the boat because it's not really big enough for two adult men to have their own space in. That's not an issue yet, though, because Ford invades the hell out of Stan's space the moment they're inside, grabbing him, kissing him, yanking at his clothes like they've personally offended him. Up top, he was gentle, and now the closest he's coming to soft is the moment when he pauses to carefully pull Stan's glasses off, setting them aside and out of danger.

"I can't believe you had that," he says, pulling Stan's sweater off.

"What? Glasses?" Stan asks, knowing what Ford means but prepared to fuck with him.

"Stanley."

"Hey, you're the one who complained about me getting them updated and every—" Ford grabs Stan's ass to pull him close, bringing their covered dicks in contact for the first time, and Stan groans over whatever else he was gonna say. Jokes? Jokes schmokes. "Fuck."

"Do you want the real thing?" Ford asks in Stan's ear. His hands knead Stan's cheeks. "Say 'yes,' Stanley. Please."

Stan chokes against Ford's neck. Fuck. Fuck. "Yeah, Ford. Yeah, you wanna?" He reaches back to put his hand over one of Ford's and make it squeeze harder through his pants. "Do you—"

"Do you have any personal lubricant?" Ford asks, pulling back suddenly. Stan's caught off guard.

"Uh…"

"You did have the device."

"Yeah, but I meant it about not using it," Stan says. "Do you see any private space here? I wasn't gonna stick it up my ass with you two feet away."

Ford blinks. Stan sees his throat work before he says, "Well, I don't think we have anything suitable in our provisions." He gets a considering look that probably means trouble, and then adds, "Not in its current state anyway..."

 

So about ten minutes later sees Stan's leaning against the tiny counter in the kitchen, watching Ford stir a giant glass beaker of clear gel suspended over one of the burners. Boxes and bottles of raw materials cover the counter behind Stan.

"How is this in your skill set but I gotta help you make a meatloaf?" Stan asks.

"It's just chemistry," Ford says. He lifts the glass stirring rod out of the goop and watches the brand new lube dribble off it with an evaluating eye. "And I'm perfectly capable of bringing foodstuffs to temperatures necessary for disease prevention; you mostly seem to object to the taste." He turns off the burner and sets the stirrer aside. "This needs to sit and cool."

"Thank you for not boiling my ass, yeah," Stan says. He crosses his arms over his bare chest and leans back to look up at the overhead. "How long?"

"At least a few minutes. The viscosity will increase during that time as well."

"You maybe wanna make out some more?"

"I think we can clean up and secure the boat while we wait," Ford says instead, the killjoy. He looks Stan up and down. "I don't suppose there's anyone near enough to care that you're shirtless. You should drop anchor at least."

"God, you're going to be hard work as a lover, aren't you?" Stan says, but he can't, even with a lifetime of lying under his belt, make it sound anything other than borderline adoring. He can't even make himself not smile.

"I'm managing our time wisely, I think," Ford says primly. He starts recollecting the various ingredients he dug out of his science supplies. "Anchor. I'll clean up."

"Yeah, yeah."

The September air isn't uncomfortable, and dropping anchor isn't exactly difficult. Stan finishes and takes a moment to stand on the deck of his boat —their goddamn boat— and marvel.

He's looking out over the water with a goofy grin when Ford comes out a few minutes later, rubbing his oddly shiny thumb and forefinger together. "I think it's— Why are you smiling like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like…" Ford shakes his head and comes to stand next to Stan at the rail. He says quietly, as though someone out on the ocean is going to hear him. "You look good. Happy."

"I dunno, best day of my life or something," Stan says with a casual shrug.

"Hm," Ford says. He leans in and, to Stan's total delight, puts his head on Stan's shoulder. He stays like that while Stan puts his face in Ford's hair and the boat sways in place. Lust is still bubbling in his blood, but he's not stopping this moment just yet. It's too much like something out of a daydream. The kind of thing Stan might make up in his head, lying awake in a freezing car on the side of the road and wishing he were on a sunny boat with Ford, watching the waves and—

Stan's not wearing a shirt to have a sleeve to wipe his eyes with, so he looks away and does his best with the back of his wrist.

"Stanley?"

"Seawater on my face," Stan says. He laughs. "Don't mind me."

"I don't mind you in the least," Ford says. The way he says it changes the meaning. It's too earnest. Stan can't handle that much sincerity right now —no one's dying and the world's not ending,— so he bumps Ford's hip with his own.

"How's the lube, Mr. Mad Scientist?"

"That's Doctor Mad Scientist, if you must, and—" Ford reaches over with his shiny fingers and pinches Stan's nipple. "—you tell me."

Stan gasps. He's not even a little bit paying attention to the lube situation compared to the fucking jolt of sensation that gives him. "Fuck."

"Alright?" Ford asks.

Stan swats his hand away. "'Not in broad daylight, Stanley,'" he says, mocking Ford's voice and adding enough nasally whine to it for Ford to frown at him.

"Oh honestly," he says. "That doesn't even sound like me." He wipes his slick fingers off on Stan's shoulder and manages to trail them down Stan's arm while pulling away. "Coming?" he asks, walking back towards the cabin.

"Notyet, Ford. You got some work to do," Stan says, following immediately. He waggles his eyebrows and gets an eye roll for it, but if Ford was going for "annoyed" he shouldn't have laughed, too.

They go back down, Ford grabbing a very large glass bottle of lube in the way. Stan's got the delightful feeling they'll be using most of it, and his head is buzzing like it's full of wasps— excited, horny, and maybe a little bit worried wasps.

"Gimme a sec," Stan says, below deck when Ford carries the bottle into their sleeping quarters. Stan instead goes to the head to use the toilet and wash up the best he can with the sink and toilet paper that falls apart with the water and leaves little pieces of itself behind in his crack that he then has to wipe away with more paper. It's a mess.

He's a mess. Stan looks himself over in the mirror and shrugs at his reflection. Nothing he can do about the rest of him, unfortunately, but maybe Ford's into old and saggy.

He walks into their quarters naked and finds Ford sitting on one of the bunks with his sleeves rolled up.

"No," Stan says.

"What?"

"Nuh-uh. Shirt off. Pants off. Underwear off. I'm not getting a hand fucked up my ass while you're still dressed."

Ford looks down at himself. "Honestly I just thought I might save myself some trouble cleaning up after. Lubricant is going to get everywhere."

"Awesome. Looking forward to that. Get naked, hot stuff."

Sighing deeply, because it's such a hardship that someone wants to see him naked, Ford stands up and begins pulling his sweater off, but then he stops, looking thoughtful. He drops the fabric back into place, beckons Stan closer, and says, "How about you do it, if you're so keen?"

Stan doesn't let the light mocking stop him from grabbing the sweater and pulling it off; he likes arguing with his brother as much as any guy should, but he's not an idiot. For the moment anyway, sex beats bickering.

With Ford's top off, his bare chest is Stan's to explore. He's seen flashes of Ford's body since he got him back, but never for long and never so close. He's got a dumb star on the side of his neck and a string of odd symbols under his collarbone, and he's a little less hairy than Stan. He's also got a large scar that looks like he was burned by hot liquid over his ribs.

"What happened here?" Stan asks softly.

"You're going to laugh," Ford says with a wince.

"That looks like it hurt, Ford," Stan says, not able to think of anything that bad that could make him laugh.

"It did. You're still going to laugh." Stan stares at him. Ford shrugs. "First year of college, the engineering department, such as it was, threw a party. In the interest of being cool enough to warrant an invite, I decided to build a better alcohol distilling system."

"And?"

"It, well, exploded. Slightly."

Stan snorts. Fine, so Ford was right. Big deal. Shaking off that minor loss, Stan puts his hand over the burn and rubs it. The skin's smooth and hairless, and he can imagine a young, nerdy and eager Ford trying to impress everyone with some utter disaster. Stan wishes he'd been there to tease Ford about it and watch him heal.

"Guessing you didn't make too good an impression, then," he says.

"Well, it was the engineering department. Complete and total design failures were something of an initiation," Ford says. He covers Stan's hand on his side, and then he slides up Stan's arm to his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. "I thought you wanted me undressed."

"Give me a minute to enjoy his," Stan says. "It's gonna be another couple days before I can get it up again after this, even if you want to go again sometime."

Ford shakes his head, and then he leans forward and puts his mouth on Stan's chest, right above his nipple and sucks on the skin. Stan inhales sharply, threads his fingers in Ford's hair, and groans.

"Fuck," Stan says. "Oh, wait. You still got pants on, let me— Ford, c'mon."

Ford lets Stan go and straightens, gestures at his pants with his hands before crossing his arms. The "Get on with, then" all in the expression. Stan grabs his waistband and gets the fly undone —Stan deserves a medal for not just ripping the button off, in his opinion—, letting the pants drop to the deck. Stan's left with another new piece of information.

"When did you become a boxer briefs kinda guy?" Stan

"I've spent quite a lot of the last thirty years running. I like the security," Ford says, like it was a serious question and not just something for Stan to say while running his fingers along the edge of his underwear. The briefs aren't even the thing Stan's paying the most attention to because he's thinking mostly about what's stretching them out right now. Ford's hard-on is straining underneath the fabric, and Stan can see a small wet spot growing at the tip.

Stan drops hard to his knees for the second time today, and fuck old age that it hurts, but he's not going to focus on that. He puts his mouth over the head of Ford's dick through the underwear and more than anything else, just breathes in the taste of him. It's dirty, and Stan's got way too many ideas about what he wants all clamoring in his head. Suck Ford off, rub his face all over Ford's cock until there's pre-come on his cheeks and his fucking eyelids, hold him in his hands and kiss the tip until Ford comes on his lips and—

"Stanley," Ford groans. "Stop. You're—" Ford's hands rub across Stan's scalp and his ears and his neck. He yanks a lock of Stan's hair. "Focus."

Stan pulls back and says, "I am very focused here."

"We've got other things on the agenda." Ford pushes Stan back even more, and then he strips out of his underwear himself, right there in front of Stan's face. It's a nice show. Stan refrains from clapping. "Bed," Ford says with his dick bobbing right there, so Stan ducks forward and gives it a kiss before doing as he's told.

Ford's put a blanket and a pillow over one of the bare mattresses. They haven't even slept in their bunks yet, and here's Stan lying down on one to get a hand up his ass. There's something wrong with this picture. There's easily four or five things wrong with it, but who's counting?

"Want me like this?" Stan asks, on his stomach with his ass angled up in what he hopes is an inviting way and not a "Dear god, what was I thinking, I can't possibly be intimate with this sad old creature" inducing way.

"However you feel most comfortable," Ford says, not sounding like he's going to run screaming. He rubs one hand on Stan's back, pausing for too long at the old burn on his shoulder. Stan swallows and tries not to think about it much.

The hand moves on eventually, coming to Stan's ass and giving it a squeeze. Ford slides it lower, to between Stan's thighs and pulls them further apart before getting on the bed between them.

Holy shit, this is actually happening. Stan almost can't believe it, and if some guy with a camera crew popped out right now and told him this was a prank, he'd probably accept that. He'd be heartbroken, yeah, but it'd make as much sense.

"How do you normally start with yourself?" Ford askes, breaking into the little miserable daydream of crying on camera Stan's got going in his head, and thank fuck for that.

"A couple fingers, lots— lots of lube, and then three and I would kinda—" Stan lifts one hand and demonstrates spreading his fingers apart. "And— Fisty was kinda small and kinda pointy, y'know, so it worked."

Ford pauses, as if taking that in. "You named it," he says flatly.

"Yeah?"

"'Fisty.'"

"'Unresolved Incestuous Feelings' seemed too on the nose," Stan says drily.

"I— I can't necessarily argue with that, though I think you probably could have left it unnamed. It was your toy, I suppose," Ford says, moving the bottle of lube off the deck beside the bunk. Stan feels a couple cold drops drip onto his back as Ford probably slicks his fingers and then—

There're two fingertips at Stan's hole, rubbing the lube around and pressing in only slightly. Stan shivers and shifts his hips on the bunk, getting his knees under himself while trying to expose himself a little more.

"Do let me know if anything hurts," Ford says before pushing his fingers inside Stan, not stopping when Stan gasps and his ass clenches automatically. He goes in all the way to knuckles and twists around inside for not at all long enough before pulling back out.

"One moment. I have an idea," he says, and then he gets off the bunk and leaves while Stan's still not over having the fingers in his ass, let alone out and not even in the same room anymore.

Stan stares over his shoulder at the door until Ford comes back, fiddling with something tube-shaped.

"What the fuck, Ford?"

Ford holds the object up. It's… more or less a turkey baster. Smaller, about the length and thickness of a finger, probably science-y, but still something that Stan's way more ready to associate with dead birds than sex.

"I think this will be useful," Ford says brightly, like he had some clever idea and is proud of it. Knowing Ford, he'll probably take rejection of said idea personally. Stan doesn't know how to respond, so he looks away and drops his face into the pillow.

"Yeah, okay, brine me," he says.

"I hardly think a thorough application of the lubricant is going to be a nega—"

"Ford, shut up and put something back in my ass."

Ford gets back on the bunk between Stan's legs, muttering, "And I'm the one who's hard work?" and slapping on cheek lightly but clearly still game so Stan's not going to object.

The glass bottle and the glass tube clink against each other, and then there's a genuinely funny wet, sucking noise that Stan stifles a laugh at. He's five, what can he say?

The laughter goes well away when two of Ford's fingers touch him, not going inside but spreading his cheeks apart. Stan feels his hole twitch, anticipation thrumming through him until the cold, hard, slick tip of the tube touches him. Without pause, Ford pushes it in. Stan grunts, maybe whimpers just a little as he's invaded. Obviously, he's stuck a thing up there before, but there are some key differences here. First of all, Fisty was soft, squishy even. Not cold and hard.

Secondly, it's Ford doing it. Ford's one penetrating him with a whole new item, and Stan could almost cry.

"You gonna fuck me?" he asks as the thought comes to him.

"With this? Hardly, I—"

"No. No, I mean with your dick. Sometime. We're doing the hand, but maybe after? Or, some other day. Just. Do you wanna?"

"Do you want me to?"

Stan nods into the pillow and says, "Yeah. Yes. I want it."

"I'll…" Ford clears his throat, the tube still paused inside Stan's body. "I could certainly manage that," he says. Stan thinks he means to sound dry, but it comes out too enthusiastic for that.

Good. Good. Now that that's established— "That turkey baster ain't exactly doing it for me, right now. You gonna do something with it or—" Stan stops with a startled gasp as cold lube shoots inside him. It warms quickly, but the new feeling leaves him twitching all over. "Ah," he says faintly.

The tube slides back out of him, leaving his ass feeling pretty damn odd while Ford says, "Let's do that again, for good measure. Also, it's a pipette."

Knowing what's coming doesn't make the hard, slick reentry any less novel, doesn't make the cold splash inside any less shocking.

"I think that should help," Ford says, pulling the tube back out while Stan squirms. He even pats Stan's ass as if saying "Good boy."

"Remind me to punch you again at some point," Stan says, though he goes ignored. Ford's too busy rubbing his fingers over Stan's hole, then pushing back in with two. They rock and probe inside Stan while excess lube rubs down his balls and his throat makes embarrassing noises.

"Much better," Ford says, pleased, and he spreads his two fingers apart, scissoring them until he can press in a third with ease. Stan can feel the other two fingers and the thumb outside, nestled between his cheeks. Ford's thumb rubs his skin softly while he gives Stan just a moment to adjust.

When Stan starts squirming again, Ford resumes his movements. He thrusts in and out at first, even pulling all his fingers free before pushing them back in to Stan's grunt. Then Ford begins twisting inside, spreading his fingers and crooking them. Stan tenses up, knowing what he's going to find any second now, and he'd like to not embarrass himself screaming or anything, if possible, but it's always so good when—

"Ahh!" Stan gasps, his hips jerking. He abandons dignity and whimpers for more. "Yeah, yeah, Ford, there—"

And Ford gives it to him. Properly, with jabbing thrusts that make Stan see stars. He keeps that up, for so long that Stan thinks he might fucking come like this, and while that would probably be amazing it's not exactly what they set out to do here, and then— right between thrusts, Ford shoves another finger into Stan's stretched hole.

"Fuck," Stan says, trying to squirm but he can't seem to decide if he wants to get away or not, so it just makes the next, fuller, tighter thrusts that much more interesting. Ford hasn't let up on his prostate, but the addition makes things too new, too tight, too much, and Stan's pulled back from the edge of coming by it. "Ford," he whines.

"You're doing fine, Stanley," Ford says, rubbing over Stan's spine with his free hand. "You're doing so well."

Oh no, Stan likes that. "Yeah?" he asks, like the total sap he is.

"Yes," Ford sighs. He keeps pushing, and then he—

His fingers spread. Stan shakes in place as his ass is opened even further, and it's going to be opened so far. He'll probably break, but what a way to go.

"There, there, you can take it," Ford says softly. He sounds completely fascinated by whatever he's seeing and feeling. "Not much more."

"That's a fucking lie," Stan grits out. He means to laugh about it, but that is just physically beyond him so the words come out harsh.

"You'll be fine… Won't you?" Ford asks. He starts off sure but that last bit comes out almost vulnerable. Like Ford's worried Stan will say no, call it off or ask for something else.

Stan would be tempted, if it was about literally anything else but his hands, to say that Ford's just being kinda selfish about what he wants. That'd be fine, even; Stan can't fault a man for wanting whatever gets his rocks off, but he doesn't think that's quite it. This is about Ford's hands. That's always something different. "Say 'yes,' Stanley. Please."

"I can take it," Stan says, gathering up some courage and some certainty to make sure he sounds sure. "I want to take it, Ford. Give— give it to me." He bears down and tries moving on Ford's hand, to make the words stick, but it's hard. He's relieved when Ford pushes him against the mattress and takes over again.

Ford spends longer on four fingers than he did three. He rocks in and out, spreading gently less often than he aims to stroke Stan's prostate. His fifth finger stays outside, pressing against Stan's taint while his other hand traces circles and patterns on Stan's back, and probably like, chemical formulas or something.

Stan lies still and breathes through it. He's so full already, but he does want more. He just needs his ass to cooperate with him.

Ford pulls completely free after a few minutes of that. Stan's left open and wondering if he's going to come back with another finger, but then cold glass touches him again. The fucking turkey baster slips back into him, incredibly easy now even though it's still cold, and the lube it squirts into him is still cold. Stan appreciates the thought behind it, he does, but he appreciates the warm fingers when they come back into him even more.

Ford plays with his ass, thrusting, rocking, and teasing his prostate until Stan's gasping wetly and wriggling underneath him. He pauses, only the tips of his fingers inside Stan, and he sighs. The four fingers spread again, and then the fifth joins them. The spare finger, really, since everyone's got a thumb. It pushes in with the rest while Stan stays frozen in place.

It hurts. It definitely hurts, but Stan doesn't think he's tearing open. Not yet anyway, and not enough to make this not worthwhile. He holds still while Ford slowly slides in, and no, the sex toy was never quite like this. Rest in peace, Fisty, but you won't be missed.

"How's that, Stanley?" Ford asks when his knuckles touch Stan's rim, hot and stretched tight. Ford talks too quietly for Stan to hear much of his tone, and that's probably on purpose.

"Keep going," Stan says. "Keep—" Ford's knuckles pop in, and Stan's words turn to a whimper. Oh fuck, oh god.

"Shh," Ford says, stroking Stan's back, his hip, his balls while his other hand holds still. "Shh, you're amazing. You've got this."

"I—" Stan starts to say, but he doesn't know what to follow it up with. Words are leaving his head, like having something this wide, this big filling his body is pushing other things out. He's not fine. He's wrecked, he's split open, he's crying into the pillow, and he's some kind of broken because even all that doesn't make him want to stop.

He wants this so bad. He's always, always, always wanted this. Ford with him, in him, abnormality and all, and there's not a toy in the goddamn world that could give it to him. There's only Ford.

"You look incredible," Ford says, talking total nonsense. He slowly starts turning his hand. Even that, with Stan pulled tight on the width of his palm, is overwhelming. Stan's ass throbs, and his rim burns, but Ford keeps moving.

"Oh, let's—" Ford says, and then he pours more lube over his hand and Stan. The cold liquid actually feels welcome this time, his opening as hot and stinging as it is. Stan sobs. Ford pets him more, even reaching down to his slick-covered balls and playing with them. He rolls them in his palm and gives them small tugs. It's not enough to drown out the more pressing sensations, but it helps.

What really helps is when Ford's hand turns enough that he can stroke Stan's prostate again. It's enough to make Stan clench painfully, but when he unclenches again it feels easier.

In a wonderful, terrifying haze of pain and pleasure, Stan makes himself tighten and relax on Ford's palm. The pain is worth it; the stretch gets easier, while Ford keeps groping him inside and out. Stan even gets so far as rocking back and forth, all his muscles straining.

"You're incredible," Ford says.

"Shut up," Stan says. He can't hear that right now. He's already too full, and the words fill him up, too. "Put it in."

"Are you—"

"Ford, I can't— you have to. I want you to, I— with the lube again, really?" Stan asks breathlessly while more cold liquid is poured over his ass. There must be a goddamn puddle of it underneath him, a lake, an ocean of lube.

"You need it," Ford says, and then his thumb is rubbing at Stan's hole. Stan holds still and holds his breath, waiting for this last piece, but it doesn't come yet. "Do what you were doing. Tighten and relax for me, Stanley."

Stan buries his face harder into the pillow and tries. It feels like too much work now, his muscles wearing out and—

"Fuck!" Stan shouts, ass stretched too wide, too fast as Ford puts the thumb in, all the way in while Stan's shouting turns to a broken scream. It hurts. He's left scrambling at the mattress and crying while his abused hole twitches on Ford's wrist and—

"Oh god," Stan chokes out. Ford's hand is in him. All of it, all six impossible fingers inside his body, and not even the pain can stop the wave of sheer wonder. "Oh my god," Stan says.

"Stanley? Are you—"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Talk, move, anything," Stan says. He's impressed with himself for getting the words out. He flex and relaxes again, and it doesn't help, so he keeps trying, and trying, his body so fucking confused between the pain in his ass and the utterly mad joy in his head.

Stan breathes and sobs, and he keeps trying to relax. "Fuck. Fuck, Ford. Help me."

"Shh, shh, I'll try," Ford says, and he reaches under Stan to grab him by the cock. Stan's gone mostly soft, but Ford grabs hard, strokes him tight and slick with lube, and Stan erection comes slowly back, probably as confused as the rest of him.

Stan's ass twitches more, and to help himself out, Stan reaches down with both hands to pinch and twist his own nipples. He rolls them in his fingers, going too hard and hurting, but it feels good anyway.

His hips start moving. He lets them.

"I'm going to move," Ford warns, and his hand turns inside Stan's body. Fingers shift, and Stan realizes that he's making a fist.

When his knuckles grind into Stan's prostate, his wrist thrusting in gently but firmly, Stan shouts, and he keeps shouting as he's fucked like that, open and too full and full of Ford until he comes.

Stan shakes and loses his goddamn mind and shakes for so long that it feels like his body has just completely malfunctioned. This is it. This is where Stan just breaks down and gets left in a dumpster somewhere, and that's fine. It's probably for the best.

"Stanley?" Ford asks softly, while Stan's still shaking.

"Mm?"

"Are you alright?"

"Can I get back to you on that? Tomorrow or… next week?"

"Are you currently in pain?"

"Fuck if I know."

"You could certainly try being a little more cooperative, I must say."

"What, you need a hand with something?" Stan asks. He tries —he really, genuinely tries— not to laugh at his own joke there, but he fails completely and winds up caught between snickering and hissing as he moves his ass too much. Ford's still inside him, holding carefully still but completely, undeniably still there.

"Are you always this absurd post-orgasm or…?"

"You really gotta stop asking me difficult questions right now."

"I do need the answers, though." Ford rubs his free hand under Stan's stomach, soothing kinda. "Do you think you could relax more?"

"I'm basically a jellyfish right now, Ford. I don't think I have bones or, y'know, muscles," Stan says. "If you're gonna pull—"

Ford does. Pull out, that is. He goes slowly, and Stan really doesn't think it's humanly possible to be more relaxed than he is now without chemical assistance, but it still stings. Once the knuckles are out, the rest is embarrassingly easy, and Stan's left feeling empty and raw and possibly the most satisfied he's ever been about anything in his entire life.

"Mmph," he says. "That's— that's going to be sore for a bit."

"Well, hopefully not long," Ford says, and then he fucking sticks the goddamn tube up Stan's gaping ass again.

"What the hell, Ford?" Stan asks, high pitched as his voice breaks. "Why—"

"Damage control," Ford says. "I didn't want to add any painkilling properties, as pain's a useful brain signal for avoiding injury, but this should—"

"Wait, wait. Did you make healing lube?"

"Only a slow acting one. I could probably come up with some different formulas if—

"You nerd," Stan says. "You total— get up here, would ya?"

"There's a bit of a mess."

"Yeah. I'm the mess. The mess is me. Get up here."

"Very well," Ford says, he shifts around on the too-small bunk to wedge himself between Stan and the bulkhead. It puts their heads on the pillow together, and Stan turns to finally get a look at Ford. He stares when he does.

"Hey," Stan says gently.

"Don't start, Stanley," Ford says with a wet laugh and wet eyes. "I left you in peace about your moment on the deck."

"Fair enough," Stan says, though he doesn't exactly want to leave Ford in peace, fairness be damned. He settles for flopping one arm over him, unable to pull him any closer but ready to just cover him up in the event the rest of his body starts working again anytime soon.

Ford lets him, too, so that's nice. They stay like that until Stan starts drifting off, but as his brain throws out random thoughts in preparation for sleep, he realizes— "Wait, did you come?"

"Hm?" Ford asks sleepily. He sounds so soft that Stan almost doesn't want to repeat himself, but there's some honor at stake here. Well, maybe not honor so much as the selfish desire to make sure Ford wants to have sex with him again sometime in the future. Close as Stan gets to honor these days.

"I said, 'Did you—'" Stan abandons talking about it as being too much effort, and instead he reaches down and fondles Ford. He gets a yelp and a definite reaction from Ford's cock, one he couldn't be getting this soon if Ford did get off.

"Stanley, I'm fine. You don't—"

"I want to. Let me give you—"

"If you say anything hand-related, I'm leaving."

"It's literally called a 'handjob', Ford. I can't do anything about that," Stan says, snickering.

"You're awful," is what Ford says, but he doesn't push Stan away. Stan strokes him to full hardness and watches his face.

"I really am quite content," Ford says, while pushing into Stan's grip.

"Yeah, you look it."

"There's more to sex than orgasms."

"Uh-huh."

"You already—" Ford inhales roughly and stops protesting to grab Stan's hand in both his, make him squeeze tighter. "You already gave me something precious," he says quietly.

"'Precious,'" Stan repeats blankly. If he could get over the ridiculousness of that word, he'd probably feel caught out by the sincerity of it. Luckily for both of them, he manages to laugh it off. "Now who's being absurd, huh? C'mon, Sixer. Lemme see you come."

"I—" Ford says, but instead of talking more, possibly saying something even worse, he grabs Stan by the back of the neck and kisses him, wet and panting. The hand still helping Stan's is the same one that was inside him, Stan's pretty sure. It's still sticky with lube, and if Stan were capable of getting it up again anytime in the next twenty-four hours, that'd do it for him.

"Where's the slick?" Stan asks.

"At the foot of the bunk." Ford kicks around a little, until Stan feels the bottle hit him in the leg. Making a huge sacrifice for his brother, as always, Stan lets go of Ford's cock to reach down and grab it. He pours out the rest of the bottle on Ford, and while Ford fails to react to the cold, it's more than enough to watch him fuck his own glistening hand. Stan enjoys the show for a little while, even looking up to find Ford's eyes closed tight as he bites his own lip. Stan would rather be kissing him, though, so he does.

Ford comes with his mouth over Stan's, gasping into him, come splattering Stan's hip, and Stan kisses him through it, loving this, loving everything about it. What a hell of a way to start what's got to be the best part of his life.

"You're amazing, Stanley," Ford says as he lies back. His sticky hand lands on Stan's ass and stays there.

"You really gotta stop that," Stan says, chuckling and reaching down to slide his fingers in the come on his hip. He doesn't know why he does it; he just wants to. Feels nice. "If you keep saying it, I might end up believing you mean it."

"But I do."

"Shut up, Ford," Stan says, and he puts his face into Ford's shoulder, rubbing his nose against the skin there. Ford does actually shut up. He even rubs his own face into Stan's neck, leaving a small kiss there and another on Stan's ear, the edge of his hair, down to his shoulder.

It's not words, so Stan can't accuse him of saying anything. Probably the point. Stan can't think of anything he can do but lie there and let Ford treat him like… like he's good or something.

 

 

"I don't see how this is a bad thing, to be honest," Stan says, awake again after a nap, lying on his stomach on the second bunk while Ford prods his private bits in non-sexy ways. Well, not intentionally sexy. There's some adjacent lust being inspired right now, but as far as side effects go today, that's a minor one.

Ford mutters, for maybe the fifth time, "The lubricant really shouldn't have done this."

"So why did it?" Stan asks, rolling his eyes.

"Well, in the technical sense, aging is a kind of long-term damage past twenty-five or so, but—" Ford slides his hand along Stan's inner thigh.

It's not noticeable at first. In fact, they didn't notice when they first woke up and unstuck themselves from the bunk and each other. It wasn't until Stan wandered into the head that he noticed his junk was all a bit more… vibrant than usual.

So are random patches of his skin on his legs and back, the hand he used on Ford, both of Ford's hands and his cock as well. That and Stan's right nipple.

"So you made a youth potion for my ass. Is that even the weirdest thing you've done?" Stan asks, even as the fingers examining him move upwards to the uh, root of the problem.

"Whether it's the weirdest thing isn't the point," Ford says, fingers still exploring. "Without knowing why this happened, it's difficult to say what kind of unintended consequences could arise."

Stan, arising between his stomach and the mattress when "twice in one day" hasn't been an option for him in about two decades, says, "Still not seeing the bad thing, here."