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Long story short.

I now know why people who do requests use prewritten prompts and don’t let their followers just pick whatever, lol. Some of the requests I got are super confusing. So, at everyone who sent a request. Y’all okay with waiting for something with some actual build up and maybe if I feel like some sort of conclusion? Or would ya rather just have me cut everything not directly relating to your request and have a short fic but fast?

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Aaaaand requests are closed!

Thank yall for your interest. Now I’ll work through what I got and if it’s fun I might do this again, haha.

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I love your Stancest fics! Will there be more in the conjoined twins!verse?

If you write me a sentence under 20 words that you want to see featured in a sequel? Yes, definitely.

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REQUESTS ARE OPEN

I feel like writing stancest (I hardly write anything else anyway lol) so send me a sentence no longer than 20 words and I’ll write something no shorter than 1k words. How’s that sound?

He’s excited so slap the booty if that sounds good. EDIT: when I say send me a sentence I meant one that could come out of a fic and not like a summary of a fic you want, lol. That would be like, hella boring.

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you ever start rereading your WIP to get in the mood and write more and you get so caught up that when you get to the end you’re like “bitch? where’s the rest?” and you realize you’re the bitch and you have to write it

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Friendly reminder to not punish yourself for creating. 

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Thank you, Anon!

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Pairing: Stancest, Summary: PWP, just some stuff I’ll never finish Warnings: nsfw, implied breath play/rimming,

“And you are sure you want this?” Stan asks, slightly perturbed by the idea but perfectly willing if Ford really is okay with this. They are naked in Ford’s small bed and Ford smiles up at him, his head rests comfortably in Stan’s bare lap. “Yes. And... well, th-thank you in advance.” a mild blush creeps into his cheeks but he keeps eye contact and he looks determined. Stan lets out a small snigger. “College really messed you up.” “Oh, like the guy who gets off on getting his ass whooped has any room to talk!” Ford chides, now actually insulted and Stan quickly bends over to apologize. It’s a little awkward what with it being upside down and the way his nose presses into Ford’s chin but the older twin quickly relaxes into it, lifts both hands to frame Stan’s face. They come apart with a sigh. “I’m just teasing, idiot.” Stan hums, content and a little nervous and now Ford turns his head, embarrassed by his overreaction. “So, would you- you-know... now?” he starts and Stan snorts in response, amused by the sudden shyness. “How do I know when you need to breathe.” That seems to catch him off guard, and from the looks of it he hadn’t even thought of the possibility, too caught up in sexual fantasy to consider reality. “I don’t know, I’ll pinch you or something, let’s just-” “So desperate.” Stan laughs and lets Ford’s head slip between his legs as he lifts himself onto his knees. “Laugh it up, knucklehead, you can because you got to cum already,” Ford complains which gets another laugh from Stan. “Yeah I did!” Stan purrs and positions himself over his brother’s face, lets two six-fingered hands guide his hips. “Your smart mouth worked wonders, Poindexter. I’ll dream of that for weeks.” “Only the best for my favorite brother,” he replies rather smugly and Stan rolls his eyes, endeared beyond words. He sways his ass above Ford’s head in what he hopes is an enticing manner. “Okay, ready?” There is a short moment of silence as Ford reaches one of his hands down to grab his dick and lays the other against Stan’s meaty thigh. “Do it.”

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Do you have any unfinished/scrapped fics that you've never posted? owo Just curious, I love your writing aaa

Oh ho, I  have tons of scraps and unfinished stuff! Sometimes I even bring them back to life. As an example of something that is for sure dead though, here is an ancient Billstan snippet that never went anywhere. Nothing explicit happens, but warnings for prostitution and creepiness.

Keep reading

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I love your stancest fics so so much! you are one of my favorite writers who ships stancest. I'm super into this dynamic of your stans. thank you for creating and posting them ❤

Yer welcome, haha. It’s always encouraging to see my filth is appreciated. I may be slow but I can assure you there is more to come and plan on sharing it all.

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Always Right

Pairing: Stancest

Summary: Turns out, you can’t jerk off in peace when you’re never alone.

Warnings: nsfw, underage, is this incests does that mean conjoined twins can’t ever legally masturbate, dub-con maybe

Ford is always right. Literally. Because Stan is on the left. When they were born they were called a two-headed abomination, Ma told them that one of the nurses fainted just looking at them and neither of them has trouble believing it. They know they look strange at best. Two legs, two arms, two heads, and a chest wide enough to hold two interwoven ribcages and what is almost a complete double set of all their organs, narrowing down into one pair of hips.

(Art by Gna) Doctors didn’t give them long to live back then, but from the day they were born, they defied all odds, surviving, learning to move and coordinate their limbs to walk and work together. From the very start, people were rather divided on whether they were two people or just one person. Ma always treated them as individuals, Stanford and Stanley, while Pa addresses them as one person, as Stan. It’s always Stan this and Stan that, teachers do that as well and it is infuriating. Especially since Ford is a lot smarter than Stanley and would deserve all the credit. It’s unfair! If only- “Ford.” Stanley interrupts his brother’s thoughts. “My sleave?” Stanford nods glumly and helps his other half shrug out of his side of their shirt before they pick up their pajama. It’s a practised routine by now. Ford may have no control over the left side of his body but sometimes they are so in sync that it almost feels like he does. Impeccable intuitive timing. Just as if they could read each other's mind. Yet they can’t. One feels the other half move and responds without thinking. Stanford sighs. As interesting as it would be and as much as he wants to believe, there just isn’t anything magical about- “What were you thinking about?” “Nothing much.” Stanford lies because of course he does. He can’t tell Stanley to his face just how sick he is of being stuck together, of needing Stanley for everything, of sharing everything, from their accomplishments down to their skin, that he sometimes feels like he can’t breathe when he thinks about how he doesn’t have to breathe because Stanley can literally do it for him. “You do know I can feel your heartbeat go nuts from over there?” Their hands move fluidly to button their shirt up their middle and over their shared shoulder toward their separate collars. Five fingers on the left mingling with six on the right to push tiny flat plastic discs through equally tiny holes in the fabric. “Let me have my secrets, Stanley,” he replies slightly grumpy and Stan rolls his eyes. “Whatever, I just wanted to help.” Stanley sounds a little miffed himself and Stanford wants to argue, tell him he doesn’t need his help but he does. Now and forever and it’s suffocating. They are only 15 now, just looking at how much they still have ahead of them is... One day one of them will die first and the following small moment of privacy, of freedom, will kill the other. “Ford, you’re panicking,” Stanley warns unhelpfully and this time his twin snaps back at him. “Oh my- would you just let me be?!” he shouts, turning his head to find Stanley staring at his own hand, fiddling with the seam at the bottom of their shirt. “I can’t,” Stan mutters and frowns. “It’s making me nauseous when our hearts beat differently, okay?” Stanford rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath as he tries to calm himself a little. “You are nauseous because you had seconds at dinner.” He shifts his weight over to Stanley and as if he read Stanford's mind they turn and walk toward the bed, no communication needed to make sense of their legs. “Our portions are always so little! Eating is no fun when you get barely enough to taste anything!” he complains, throwing his hand up in a frustrated gesture as Ford lifts their comforter for Stan to slip in first, it’s how it’s got to be since they can only lie on their back. “Don’t exaggerate. Our portions are fine. If anything I should be mad because you’ll not just get us fat but this will mess with our digestion.” If he has to spend more time than necessary sitting on the toilet with his brother, trying to time their abdominal muscles to take a difficult dump and pretend he’s not hearing Stan grunt with the effort before awkwardly deciding who will wipe he will strangle Lee with their belt. Sure, Stanley can’t suffocate as long as Ford still breathes but he bets it’s uncomfortable to have one's throat closed forcefully. Stan blows a dismissive raspberry as he helps to shift their weight the moment Ford pulls his leg under the blanket and they attempt to get comfortable which is less awkward but just as difficult as using the toilet together since their shared torso isn't perfectly straight and forward facing. One of them always has to stuff pillows in his back to avoid putting too much pressure on their interwoven ribs. It takes a few minutes but they manage and like every evening Ford takes Stan’s glasses off first then his own before he lets them switch places with the book on their bedside table and props it up against his knee. Stanley attempts to grab it, hold one side before Ford pulls it away, gives his brother a look that clearly says I can do it myself. Stanley sighs and drops his hand back on his side of their chest. “You know what? Fine. Be that way.” Stanford can feel the phantom of his twins fingertips but it’s different from how it feels when his side of their torso is directly touched. Slightly muted and vague. He can’t feel Stan’s palm at all though, probably not enough of his own nerve endings over there but he still knows exactly where that five-fingered hand rests without so much as glancing over at Stanley. He reads in peace for maybe a few minutes before he feels something pool low warm in their gut but decides to ignore it. It either is random wood or Stanley is letting his thoughts drift and he isn’t going to let himself pay attention to that either. Stanley has the courtesy to try and at least pretend for a while that this isn’t what it is before he worms his hand under the blanket and to the front of their pants, tentatively palms the erection tenting the soft fabric and for a moment Stanford closes his eyes, breathes slow and deep as Stanley groans quietly. He can feel it. Obviously, he can feel it but it’s not as intense as Stanley usually makes it out to be with all those little noises, Ford thinks as he reads the same sentence for the sixth time, ignoring just how much Stanley bothers him. How much Lee’s voice distracts him. That’s always what does him in, listening to Stanley who thankfully doesn’t involve him and pretends he is alone. “Oh...” Stanley bites his bottom lip and throws his head back on a particularly hard grind of his palm before he lets go to lick his hand reaches under their waistband and grabs their member in a loose fist, swipes his thumb over the head in a way that makes both of their breaths stutter a little. Ford wants to ignore this, he wants to pretend this has nothing to do with him but he can’t. They share this part of their body and if this is to be a part of their life it won’t ever be a private one and they both are painfully aware of that. He can’t really deny this to Stan but he can’t just reach down and partake in this either, yet when Stan attempts to buck their hips Ford digs his heel into the mattress and makes the movement fluid. It’s embarrassing how little self-control he has, how good it feels once Stanley gets going, even though his soft palm still isn’t wet enough for Ford’s taste. Wetter is better, the fist could be tighter, the tug rougher, the pace a little slower. It’s pathetic but he still can’t admit to himself how much he wants this and so he turns his head, looks away from Stanley and covers his face with the open book he as if it could shield him from this truth he seeks to hide. He always feels hot when Stanley masturbates. Hot like he is blushing profusely and not just because by now Lee had enough practice to become rather good at it, not so clumsy anymore as he touches their dick, not scared anymore. No, Stanley knows what he wants and while Ford knows it feels amazing he is a little ashamed when it happens because Stanley has to know that his twin can feel his hand down there, hear the pleasure tumble from his lips and yet Stanford doesn’t complain even though maybe he should. Stan slows the rhythm of their hips deliberately as they thrust up into the tightening circle of his drying hand and- yes! Yes, just like that! Any moment now Stanley will lift his hand again and lick it, get a bit of moisture back down there and Stanford waits, slightly excited but nothing happens, Stan just keeps fucking them into his fist in a now painfully slow drag that Ford doesn’t find all that gratifying. And then suddenly the hand is gone. And despite his expectation of slickness, it stays gone even though they haven’t reached climax yet. Ford can hear Stanley panting through the book still laying against his ear and cheek. What’s wrong? He- he can’t just stop there! He- A soft almost hesitant touch on his wrist. Slightly sticky fingers pull Stanford’s hand off the book that now slides to the side onto the pillow as his had is tugged further down, under the blanket and onto their stomach. Lee lays his hand there flat before pushing two of 6 fingertips under the waistband and Stanley gasps quietly, presses his twins fingers heavier against their skin and lets go again. Stanley’s hand disappears into their briefs once more but instead of gripping them again his fingers slide past and he cradles their sack, rolls their testicles and tries tugging carefully on them and, oooh- before Stanford knows it he is reaching for their dick, desperate to cum. Suddenly he thinks he understands what Stan is trying to tell him. He knows Ford enjoys the act and is telling him to finally start pulling his own weight rather than passively receive what isn’t willingly given, isn’t shared because he wants to. It’s dry and Stanford gives it a few awkward tugs before he mimicks Stanley by licking his own palm and tries again but it’s not enough so he has to give it another, sloppier lick and then it finally slides a little better, feels a lot better especially with Stan’s hand fondling their balls. It’s funny how different it feels when it’s his own hand, strange and not quite as erotic as when his brother does it but rewarding in how he can finally do it like he wants it, slow and hard and wet. Unfortunately, his mouth gets dry rather quickly and for a moment he wishes they had anything to lubricate in the nightstand like hand lotion and he doesn’t know why but he can vividly imagine shoving his hand over Lee’s mouth and telling him to lick. Lick the hand Ford licked, the hand he touched their dick with, the hand that definitely has pre on it now, lick it clean an sloppy. Lick all 6 of his freaky fingers, suck on them... The surge of emotion is sudden and he is hit with such an intense need that he jerks them over the edge almost violently. He grunts in tandem with Lee who tries to muffle whatever noises want to claw out of his throat and finally Stanford turns his head toward his twin, can’t help it when he wants to see Stanley’s face as they cum but he squeezes his eyes shut instead, hardly able to handle the pleasure flooding him. Ford pulls them through it until they are completely spent and out of breath, six fingers finally slacking around their softening member. Glorious afterglow, he thinks and slowly blinks his eyes open, more comfortable for the moment and actually feeling rather accomplished. Stan is facing him and he looks... well, satisfied actually and still, Ford wants to ask if he did well, but maybe not right now, maybe when his body doesn’t feel so feather-light anymore. When his mind isn’t so fuzzy. When Stan doesn’t look so soft and kissable... “Better now?” Stan whispers and smiles almost too innocently for someone who just jerked off with his twin / jerked his twin off and Ford’s brain feels too sluggish to try and figure out what Stan is talking about. Stanford’s lack of reaction seems to amuse Stan and he elaborates on his own. “When I feel like shit and angry for no reason doing this usually helps.” And that’s when the other shoe drops. “Oh...” Ford says and he can feel his face blush a little heavier. “I... yeah. I’m good now.” he stutters and Stan chuckles and slowly rubs his hand over their stomach, scratches them sluggishly and it gives Ford goosebumps. Suddenly being together feels a lot more intimate and he is not sure he is ready to handle that, wants to break the moment and get away from this situation. “We should probably wash up,” Ford suggests and Stan groans, annoyed. “But I’m tired!” he whines. “We’ll be stuck to our shorts tomorrow. And it’ll be pretty hard to hide it from Ma once the stains in our underwear dry.” Ford arguments as casual as possible and Stan closes his eyes and takes a long deep breath. “Dammit, Ford... Why do you gotta be always right?”

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TFW People make AUs of your AU

Teacher’s Pet AU

Anon shares their idea for an AU based on Teacher’s Pet by Depravity (+additional thought).

Keep reading

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One of Many  (Extra)

You can find the first/original chapter in my short story collection on AO3 here.

Pairing: Stancest, mentions of Stanchez,

Summary: Older Ford collects Stan’s from different dimensions to play ‘family‘ and finances himself by renting them out to Ricks.

Warnings: nsfw, non-con, kidnapping, underage, generally fucked up

"Not you,” Stanford says and grabs Stan by the arm, stops him from leaving the kitchen with the other Stans. The old man doesn’t look or sound angry but Stan immediately knows he is in trouble. He was so glad to have been saved,  spared the fate of those being rented by Ricks for a little while longer but now he knows he celebrated his luck too early.

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

This just happened. This really just happened. He lowers his head and looks at the ink on the back of his hand, the 051 that is so hard to remember. This is his life now. It doesn’t take long for about a dozen Stan’s to come in, some almost jogging to check up on him, others keeping a distance, not wanting to crowd him but ready to assist when needed and Stan assures them he’s fine even though he knows he isn’t, feels like used gum that’s been spit on the floor. It takes him far too long to get off the table and remember to hastily pull his pants up. Another, older Stan with pretty long hair rolls his shirt down for him and advises him to take a shower. “Long hot showers always make me feel better afterward,” he says and hesitates to ruffle Stan’s hair before he takes his hand back, suddenly unsure whether body contact would feel comforting or threatening after what happened. Stan just nods stiffly and leaves the kitchen but to his surprise two little Stans follow him, and once the older Stans are out of earshot one of them keeps asking “Did he stick it in your butt?” over and over and comments on it with an unnerving nonchalance “Hurts when he does that, doesn’t it? Did he blow a raspberry on your belly? Yeah? Did he stick it all the way in or just a little? Because sometimes he does it just a little when I cry a lot! Did he stick it all the way in your butt? Did it hurt?” The little boy asks it in such a cheery and excited voice, with such innocent curiosity that Stan starts to feel lightheaded and a little faint, he staggers and the quieter boy has to jump out of the way when Stan can’t hold it in anymore. He vomits his breakfast onto the shiny clean wooden floor before he is anywhere near one of the bathrooms.

[depravedly-so]

I just reread my favorite werewolf Stan fic and realized that it’s always werewolf Stan fucking Ford’s bubble butt and never Ford fucking the werewolf Stan’s hairy hole. I’m currently debating whether or not I should be the change I wanna see, lol.

[depravedly-so]

WHEN U SPOT A MISTAKE ON A DRAWING IMMEDIATELY AFTER POSTING IT

[depravedly-so]

[depravedly-so]

Thanks, lol? Not sure if it’s good or bad that when asked for good underage stancest shit I’m recommended twice but I wrote it so I might as well STANd by it. Yes, I just did that. Anyway, I feel rather honored so I guess I’ll break this blog in with a little extra for One of Many now.

Ohmygod BLESS this blog for existing I didn't know I needed ANY of this until I stumbled on your blog and spent over an hour scrolling!! XD I was hoping you could point me toward some good teen/kid underage stancest fics? Again BLESS you for making this blog!!

Glad you’re enjoying this blog! Have a selection of Stancest with young Stans:

Untitled by anon - Teen Stans have painful, dub-con first time sex. Seriously one of my most favorite Stancest fics ever.

One of Many by Depravity - An old Ford rents out Stans of various ages to Ricks. Awesomely nasty.

Teacher’s Pet by Depravity - Teen Stan and Ford get a new teacher who is really invested in their futures. A wonderfully brutal old!Ford/young!Stan story.

First by angularprism - Old Ford deflowers a young Stan. Perfect short fic.

In the Basement in the Shack in the Woods by BrandyFromTheBottle - A Ford lives with many Stans in a house in the woods. Beautiful horror story. Check Brandy in general for great, often dark teen!Stans stuff.