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tinfoil-jones · 1 month ago

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Jerk Ford AU: The Stan Twins

[Context: I, II, III, IX]

It cannot be understated, Jerk Ford and Stan love each other so much it's kind of pathetic. With the premise of this AU being Ford is a jerk to everyone except Stan, this isn't surprising.

Jerk Ford and Stan have a twin bond which they refer to as a "twinstinct" - they feel each others emotions, physical sensations, and inherently always know where the other one is located. Assuming, that is, they are conscious and in the same dimension. It's not a full or even split, it's 80% emotional and 20% physical. Meaning that they never get the full brunt of what the other one is feeling, and it's more geared towards their emotional state rather than their physical one.

How do they have this? There's other reasons, but mainly they inherited it from Caryn; she was a real psychic just very minor. Just like how twins run through the maternal line, so do these abilities, which is why her sons Stan and Jerk Ford have this ability, yet her great-grandchildren Mabel and Dipper do not.

The twinstinct is a big part of how Stanley can see right through his brothers abrasive personality and mean, petty attitude. This is also how Jerk Ford cannot be caught off guard by Stan's duplicity and/or lies.

But, throughout their lives the the twins have been very manipulative creative when it came to their ability to share emotion and sensation with each other.

Having opposing inherent mental illnesses (Stans depression vs Jerks anxiety) that they recognized in each other in the sense that you literally cannot lie to someone who has at least an inkling to your emotions, they were especially proactive in their younger/teen years because its not like the Pines family was known for advocating for professional mental help.

For example; just like Canon Ford, Jerk Ford absolutely despises toffee peanuts. Even with such a massive sweet tooth, he has 'standards'.

But lets say back in their high school / middle school days, Stan's having a low day and can't take himself out of the funk. Maybe he just needs a quick pick-me-up.

So you have teen Jerk Ford staring hatefully at a bag of toffee peanuts telling himself 'Do it for your brother. Do it for your brother. It'll be quick, just stop being a pansy and do it.'

And he forces the entire content of the bag into his mouth all at once, and over dramatically chews while doing his best impression of a person biting down on a block of wood while their arm gets sawed off. Stan can't literally taste it because that'd be pretty gross, but he gets that rapid fire serotonin rush because he's reminded of That Thing He Really Likes.

And it works the other way around - Stanford in school was still one of those genius gifted kids doing the most. Canonically, he was the Spelling Bee Champion, and on the Chess and Debate teams; one of the reasons the school hated him so much was because his personality sucked but they couldn't find a good enough excuse to kick him out because he was their best student.

But gifted kids often get burn out from ignoring their baseline needs for breaks, sleep, food, and social bonds. So it was not uncommon for Jerk Ford to come to their room straight from school and be up until zero dark thirty studying even when he's frustrated, tired, and pacing around the room agitated.

Even before the poetic justice he received from the Cat Dimension, and even without anemia, Jerk Ford has always ran on the colder side; that's why he was usually wearing layers. Stan, of course, usually ran hot.

Its late at night and Stan knows his brother should be sleeping, and of course Ford finished his homework hours ago but he can't sleep yet he needs to study this, this, and this-

Even though Stan knows he's going to be sweating his ass off all night, Stan piles a bunch of blankets on top of himself to hit Jerk Ford with the sensation of warmth and being weighed down. Which calms the overachieving anxiety enough to make that to mfer calm his tits and actually sleep.

Because they can't utilize the connection while they're unconscious, this is one of the few times one twin can ambush the other.

Jerk Ford, of course, is usually the one who does. He was basically just a domestic house cat in human form long before the Cat Dimension Incident, and much like a domestic housecat, 95% of the time he will reject any and all affection. And then the other 5%; not only will he want affection, but he will be extremely offended if he does not receive it instantly and without question.

-Backupsmore University circa 1970s, at one in the morning-

Stan: *sleeping in his dorm*

Jerk Ford, popping up out of fucking nowhere: Stanley..? Stanley.

Stan: Zzzzzz

Jerk Ford: *flops on top of him with his entire weight*

Stan: Zzz-! Hrrk-! Holy shit!

Jerk Ford: *doesn't say anything just spawls out*

Stan: Ford. S'not that I don't mind visits, but could ya really not knock first? My dormmate is getting real sick of ya breaking and entering.

Jerk Ford: *says nothing*

Stan: … *sighs and moves to the side to make room* Good night, Sixer.

Jerk Ford in his own dimension was already wilding with his behaviour and antics, but his bullshit really ramped up when he went through the portal and was displaced in the multiverse. Why was he lashing out so much, especially when quite a bit of it was directed at alternate versions of himself?

The twinstinct doesn't work (for the most part) when Stan and Jerk Ford aren't in the same dimension. When Bill was kicked out of Jerk Ford's mind and body by going through the portal, Jerk Ford came to and realized several things were wrong.

The very first thing he clocked in on was that he was now left alone to his own thoughts, emotions, and senses.

Just his own, after a lifetime of feeling enough for two people. After a lifetime of always knowing someone was there who he understood so thoroughly, a lifetime of having someone who always understood him on a fundamental level. A lifetime of having somebody who could see past his social anxiety and difficulty with communicating.

Losing your soul mate is bad enough. But it's even worse when the fallout feels like the equivalent of losing a limb, a sense, a whole set of sensory input and layer of reality itself.

Jerk Ford was half of a whole displaced from it's other half, and he was going to make that the multiverse's problem.

Theres a lot of things to Stan and Jerk Ford's dynamic but a big thing is why they need each other.

Jerk Ford is ambitious and always has his head in the clouds (Icarus complex). Stan is down to earth but cautious and plays things safe.

Stanley grounds Stanford, brings him back down to Earth and keeps him from melting his wings in the sun because no, flapping harder wont work.

Ford brings whimsey into Stans life, taking him out of his comfort zone and reminding him theres a big world out there to explore and he should expand his horizons.

Can they survive without each other? Of course they can. They did for thirty years.

But they dont want to.

Stan is the reason Ford never flies too close to the sun. Ford is the reason Stan looks up into the sky.

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tennessoui · 17 days ago

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freudian slip au: vacation blues (3k)

@promise-from-the-force-itself requested a snippet of the freudian slip au aka be careful not to choke on your admirations on ao3 (the au where anakin is the kenobi nanny and falls in love with his boss, obi-wan kenobi, who refuses to sleep with him until he's no longer his employer) as a fic-for-donation trade on my ko-fi! this is set pre-obikin getting together, so it's mostly just 3k of 19yo anakin being horny, cockblocked, and saying a horny innuendo the wrong thing to his hot boss who is hanging by a thin moral thread trying to resist temptation even when the resort staff messed up your room reservation so temptation has to sleep with you in your bed every night for like two weeks.

“I despise weddings,” Mr. Kenobi says, not for the first time, leaning back in the white plush poolchair next to Anakin and disdainfully pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“I think that’s a bachelorette party,” Anakin replies as helpfully as he can manage when he’s trying his hardest not to glance sideways at his boss who is also most probably the grand love of his sad little life and who is, most annoyingly, shirtless and sunning himself in the Scarif mid-morning light.

When he’d accepted Mr. Kenobi’s invitation to travel with him and Korkie on their summer vacation to a famous Scarif beachside resort, he’d forgotten to factor in exactly how much time he’d have to spend with Obi-Wan Kenobi, shirtless and muscular and hairy just within his line of vision.

And with Korkie having been enrolled in the week-long child day camp that the resort boasts as being one of the best in Scariff, it’s hard to even remember why Anakin’s here if he’s not even really watching Korkie for Obi-Wan. For free.

Or, technically, he’s getting paid for this.

Paid to suntan and swim in the shallow pools of the resort, in the crystal clear blue waters of the beach just outside the resort’s gates. Paid to eat his weight in fancy oysters and sip frozen cocktails sitting at the underwater bar on one end of the resort’s pool. Paid to shyly offer up his bare back to Mr. Kenobi’s hands so he can slather sunscreen onto his unprotected skin, as if that’s something Anakin’s capable of building up an immunity against.

It’s not fair. At this point, he thinks there’s a good chance he’s going to end up being the first nineteen year old to ever die from sexual frustration.

“Been paying attention to them, have we?” Mr. Kenobi asks archly, sunglasses slipping down his sunscreen-greased nose as he raises an eyebrow at Anakin.

Anakin stares harder at the group of women on the far end of the pool. It’s either that or give into the urge to count the moles dotting Mr. Kenobi’s shoulders. The one he’d seen yesterday just to the left of his heart and right next to his nipple had been devastating. Any other blow so early in the trip will surely put Anakin at critical levels of system failure.

Especially seeing as how due to a mix-up of rooms and reservations, as well as an inundation of bachelorette parties, Mr. Kenobi and Anakin are sleeping together.

In the same bed.

Not—like, sleeping together, sleeping together.

Purely professional.

They really have kept it incredibly professional, which is more a miracle on Anakin’s side than probably even a consideration for Mr. Kenobi.

That first night they’d arrived, jet-lagged out of their minds from the thirteen hour flight from Coruscant, Korkie already grumpily asleep in his father’s arms and Anakin handling his own bags because he’d felt too awkward to let one of the bellhops take them from him, had been a test in his self-control. When they’d entered the rooms—rooms—in the resort only to find that, apparently, the reservation had been improperly recorded and there was only one king-sized bed in the main ensuite for Obi-Wan and a child-sized bed for Korkie, Anakin had been the first to insist that the fancy couch stretching across half the sitting room—because this hotel room had multiple rooms—didn’t look so uncomfortable.

And when it was, because rich people can, apparently, do many things except make a comfortable couch, Anakin had been the first to suggest that he bunk down with the resident seven year old.

“Nonsense, he’s always kicked something awful,” Mr. Kenobi had said, running an exhausted looking hand over his beard while the other one carefully adjusted his sleeping son. “Satine scheduled an early delivery by two weeks. Told the doctors she thought her ribs couldn’t take it anymore.”

Anakin, almost desperate at that point and definitely on the verge of panic, had been about to suggest that, well, one of the sunbathing chairs by their private pond outside looked particularly comfortable. He’d sleep there—

But before he could say anything at all, Mr. Kenobi had said with the sort of finality that Anakin is sure has ended countless board meetings and starred in countless interns’ jerk-off fantasies, “You’ll share with me tonight. We’ll see if we can’t get something sorted tomorrow morning.”

And then they hadn’t. And then the next night, they still hadn’t. And now it’s their fourth day into the vacation, and Anakin is running on very little sleep and a level of fruitless horniness he hasn’t felt since the first few weeks of being employed by Mr. Kenobi.

Except then, there’d been a four year old running about in need of his attention and protection, and Mr. Kenobi had spent a lot more time comparatively not near Anakin. It’s like the exact opposite right now, and it means that Anakin wants to die.

“You’re red,” Mr. Kenobi observes, turning back to look down at the book in his hand. “Surely not because of the bridesmaids?”

His tone is just cutting enough that Anakin, who is, it has to be said, running on little sleep and a lot of sexual frustration, snaps, “You’re hot.”

His mouth clicks shut a moment later, but the words are already out and, if the way Mr. Kenobi’s hand stills in between flipping pages, being misconstrued. His boss turns his head and peers at him over the rim of his sunglasses.

It’s devastating, really, because Obi-Wan Kenobi—hand-to-heart—is actually the hottest thing Anakin’s probably ever seen in his entire life. Definitely hotter than any of the other people currently lounging poolside, and really, that’s saying something.

But that doesn’t mean Anakin has permission to just say that. To his boss. Korkie’s dad.

“I meant, like. It’s hot. When you get hot, you get red. Or—one, a person, like—you. You as a person gets red. When they—you get hot. So of course I’m—red. Independent of the bridesmaids.”

Anakin is quite sure if he was red before then he must be scarlet now. He thinks he can really, honestly feel the heat radiating from his face.

Really, Anakin can probably sue someone. Make a formal complaint or something. About all the—shirtlessness he’s had to put up with over the past few days. Shirtlessness and bedsharing. It’s highly inappropriate behavior. Anakin’s here to do his job, which is minding Korkie. Mr. Kenobi is, at best, a dangerous distraction and at worst, a no-good cocktease.

Or is it the other way around?

Anakin isn’t sure, and clearly he’s been getting too much sun. Because he’s all red and hot and his skin feels too tight.

“Actually, I’m gonna take a break in the room,” he decides, pushing himself up from the plush poolchair and faking a long, languid stretch to hammer home how very unbothered Anakin is with the whole situation.

When he glances back at Mr. Kenobi, the man’s eyes are once more fixed firmly on his book.

Of course they are.

“Alright,” Mr. Kenobi tells him, sounding actually unbothered in a way Anakin is incredibly envious about. His voice is level, cool as a fucking cucumber. “Oh, and Anakin,” he adds when Anakin is five steps away from their chairs and that much closer to the relative safety of Not Right Here Right Now For The Love of God Please, “if you could make sure to pick Korkie up from the Kids Club this afternoon and mind him for the evening. I’ve plans to get drinks with the owner tonight.”

Anakin scratches at the back of his neck. Knowing Mr. Kenobi, his plans could be getting drinks with the owner of a yacht at the marina, the owner of the resort, or the owner of the fucking island. “Well, yeah,” he says. “‘S what you brought me here for, isn’t it?”

Mr. Kenobi looks up at him, sunglasses hiding his expression. Anakin manages, through sheer force of will alone, to keep his eyes appropriately on his boss’s face. Even though his chest is right there. And his thighs, which are barely covered by the swimshorts. And his ankles, which are surprisingly delicate and incredibly endearing which is how Anakin really knows he’s in love. Or, well, obviously he’d known before this week exactly how in love with Obi-Wan Kenobi he is, but it definitely proves just how far gone he is that he finds the man’s ankles fucking…endearing.

“Quite,” Mr. Kenobi says, returning his attention to the book in his hands. He uncrosses his legs and then recrosses them. “I just thought a reminder wouldn’t be…uncalled for. Given potential…distractions posed by the…other resort guests.”

Sometimes Mr. Kenobi says stuff that makes Anakin think maybe he’s not as smart as he looks. Like when he implies that Anakin is going to spend the rest of the afternoon drooling over women in tiny bikinis and plastic penis crowns, when it can’t be more obvious that Anakin’s escaping inside to jerk off for the seventh time so far this week. Probably over something really embarrassing too, like the scent of Obi-Wan’s aftershave on his pillow or the memory of his stupid fucking ankles.

“Roger that, Captain,” he manages to say before he turns tail and flees.

—------------

For being his only support system at the moment, Padmé is being both unsupportive and terribly unsympathetic.

Anakin paces the length of the ensuite room, feet hardly making a sound as they trek the plush rug that the indecently huge bed rests on. His phone is tucked in between his shoulder and ear so that he can have his hands free to gesticulate. Not that it seems to be helping.

It’s nearly midnight. Obi-Wan isn’t back yet, but Korkie’s been asleep in his room for the last several hours. He’d gone down easy, which makes sense. As far as Anakin can figure, the main point of paying what is surely an exorbitant price to send your kid to the Kid Club at the resort is to exhaust them so much that they’re ready to fall asleep before it’s even dark outside and you have the whole evening to yourself.

But still, just in case, Anakin has the doors cracked so he can hear if the little monster stirs. So far, all he’s heard is a gratuitous amount of kicking.

At first he’d tried to fall asleep when the hours ticked into proper night and he’d read as much of his book as he’s allotted himself for the day, but he’d felt wide awake the moment his head hit the pillow.

When would Mr. Kenobi return? What was the other man doing? Was drinks with the owner really just a euphemism for something else he was doing with the owner? Who has drinks this late? Isn’t Mr. Kenobi old?

Isn’t it past his bedtime?

“I don’t understand,” Padmé admits, stifling her yawn. “Why can’t you just go to your room and shut the door if you’re afraid of your boss waking you up when he comes in?”

Anakin turns and paces his line back towards the sliding glass doors leading out to the private patio. “Because we’re sleeping together!”

Padmé, for once, seems stunned into silence. But not for long. “Wha—”

“I mean, professionally,” Anakin says, pinching at the bridge of his nose and fighting the urge to hang up so he can just duct-tape his mouth closed. Forever.

“Alright,” Padmé decides. This is accompanied by shifting on her side of the line as she presumably stands as well to begin pacing through her house. “I think you need to remind me what exactly it is you do for the Kenobis again.”

Anakin splutters. “I’m Korkie’s nanny!”

“And what do you do for his father?”

“Mind Korkie!” Anakin snaps, voice far too loud for the stillness of the night around them. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Padmé, Christ! He’s my boss!”

“Right,” Padmé says. And then, unrepentant, “Look, Ani, darling, I have to go. It’s far too late in the night for me to listen to this kind of delusion. Go sleep with your boss. Tell me about it later.”

“It isn’t like that—” Anakin starts to protest in defense of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s morals more than his own, given that it would absolutely be like that if Anakin had his way. “Whatever,” he says when he realizes she’s already disconnected the call. He falls back into the soft hug of the mattress. It offers little comfort.

But sleep must eventually come to him, because he drifts back into consciousness an indeterminable amount of time later to feel the linen sheets being dragged over his body.

He makes a noise, half questioning and altogether too trusting, even as he refuses to roll onto his back, staying instead on his side. A hand, broad and callused and familiar, falls to rest on his shoulder as the bed shifts. Someone climbs in it, careful not to jostle him too much.

“Korks?” Anakin mutters, even though he knows that’s not right—can’t be right. The touch is too sure, the hand too big.

It’s Obi-Wan who replies, because of course it is. Who else would Anakin ever willingly share a bed with? “Mm, I think you’ll find that I kick less.”

The touch on his shoulder does not fall away. The fingers slip further down his arm, tracing along the line of his bicep instead.

Anakin is suddenly, irreversibly awake, as if he’s just injected caffeine straight into his bloodstream. Obi-Wan is touching him. It’s late at night, and the man is at his back. Closer than he ever has been before.

“The way you talk, you’d think you don’t have any bad habits in bed,” Anakin whispers.

The words drag a rough sort of chuckle out of Obi-Wan that Anakin finds devastating. The hand rests on his elbow. Obi-Wan’s forearm is touching Anakin’s naked side. If the heat radiating from just behind him is any sort of indicator, then the man must have discarded the shirt he’s usually worn to bed over the past several nights.

“Mm,” Mr. Kenobi drawls, and Anakin knows he must be drunk. Tipsy at least. He’s only really ever seen him like that a handful of times, but his voice always goes syrupy slow. He likes to touch, trace his fingers over whatever happens to be close by as if the sensation is heightened after several whisky cocktails.

He’s touching Anakin right now.

“I’ve been told I like to bite,” Mr. Kenobi murmurs. His breath hits the back of Anakin’s neck and it makes him shiver. It makes him ache, cock chubbing up at such a fast pace that he’s sort of afraid of passing out.

He grabs onto the distraction that is Obi-Wan’s response with both hands, holding himself carefully still so he doesn’t give into the temptation to roll his hips back. To see just how far away from him Mr. Kenobi has chosen to rest his body.

“You’ve bitten people in your sleep?” He asks, because that sounds ridiculous.

“In my sleep?” Mr. Kenobi repeats, and his hand moves. His hand drops from his arm, lands on his stomach instead, longer fingers just skirting the dip of his exposed belly button. “No.”

It takes all of Anakin’s concentration to not buck his hips up into the touch. It’d be like taking advantage of the man, if he were to roll over and beg him to touch him more, touch him lower, get him off. He’s drunk. They’re both tired. Korkie’s just in the next room, and Anakin would bet a sizable chunk of Obi-Wan’s fortune that the man hadn’t thought to close any of the doors but the first upon entering their room.

“Mr. Kenobi,” Anakin whispers into the darkness. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say, what he’s planning on doing, how he’s going to finish that sentence. Please more? Please keep talking? Please tell me what you like in bed because apparently we’re not talking about sleeping habits?

But before he can wet his lips and decide—commit—Mr. Kenobi is letting out a sigh, like Anakin has just reminded him of a pressing meeting that he has on his calendar.

His hand moves again, though this time it falls away from him completely as the mattress shifts once more and Obi-Wan rolls away.

Anakin blinks into nothing, holding himself perfectly still just in case lightning decides to strike twice. Meanwhile, he tries to talk his dick down from spontaneously imploding. It’ll be much too telling to go to the toilets now, and a shower is definitely out of the question.

The best case scenario would be Mr. Kenobi rolling back into his space and finishing what he started, of course.

But a handful of moments later, his boss begins to snore the song of the drunken men who have had the misfortune to fall asleep on their backs.

Like his stupid ankles, Anakin still somehow finds this incredibly endearing.

Though, he decides sometime after the night has ticked over into the very early hours of the morning and Anakin still hasn’t managed to convince his body to unclench and fall asleep, he’s going to riot in the morning if the hotel reception staff can’t find a trundle bed for him to sleep on for the remainder of the trip.

Hell, he’d put up with Korkie’s knobbly knees instead of…of whatever this is.

He might even risk the bachelorette party.

#obikin #the freudian slip au #you just know obi-wan spent half his time with the owner of the resort #(bail organa probably)#complaining about the riff raff that gets let into this place now #and bail is like what ever do you mean they're all paying customers #and obi-wan can't be like well my barely of age employee nanny who i paid to come on this family vacation #is NOT looking at me all the time even though i am shirtless and right next to him #because of all these bachelorette party groups around instead!!#so he's like. 'youre right. nvm. but !!! the reception staff messed up our room reservation so i've been having to share a bed #with my nanny!'#and bail is like oh no im so sorry to hear that old friend. i will personally find a fold-away bed to bring to your room tomorrow #if we can't find another room for him to stay in #and obi-wan is like. 'oh. no dont do that actually. never mind. another round of drinks?'

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