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Stan could only assume that Ford pissed off a witch. He could only assume because Ford couldn’t talk and had, in fact, taken to growling at his own reflection for the past minute.
Things had been fine in the morning. Soos and Melody, using Ford and Stan’s return to Gravity Falls during the Arctic Winter as an opportunity to honeymoon somewhere a lot warmer and sunnier than Oregon, left around eight o’clock. Stan had made Stancakes, which had drawn Ford from his room at eleven. Ford remarked he was going out into the woods and said something about a coven— no, Stanley, witches, not vampires— and disappeared. Stan lounged in the living room—he’d missed his old chair—drank Pit Cola, and caught up on Ducktective.
He woke up at six to find it was dark outside and Ford was nowhere to be found.
It took him an hour to finally track down his brother. Ford was huddled under a tree, covered in mud and scratches. Half his clothes were gone, even though it was fucking cold as balls outside. Anger immediately won out against relief, but as soon as Stan started yelling, Ford had pinned him with a look that was…wrong: too-bright, too-alert, too-empty. Most alarmingly, he didn’t speak, not even to snidely correct Stan’s grammar.
Getting Ford back to the Shack had been a whole other ordeal. Ford wasn’t wearing boots or pants and showed no understanding when Stan asked where they'd gone. He clung to Stan like a koala— which was as cute as it was completely disconcerting— pressing his head into Stan’s neck, a low rumble in his throat.
By the time that they made it inside and got Ford clean, warm, and dry (getting Ford into a bath was harder than bathing a cat, somehow), Stan was wondering if those witches had somehow stuffed a wild animal into a Ford-shaped skin, as grotesque as that thought was.
Stan didn’t know shit about witch curses or when they wore off. He didn’t even know how he could help Ford. So yeah, he was worried. But for now, he was exhausted and sore and ready to enjoy the dark oblivion of sleep.
Ford’s furious snarl jerked him out of his thoughts. His brother was still posturing against his mirror self, who was growling back just as avidly.
“Ford,” Stan sighed, massaging his brow. “Buddy. It's a reflection.”
The words meant nothing to Ford. After all, on a good day, his brother barely listened to him. Stan grabbed a blanket from the closet and threw it over the glass. Ford sniffed at the sheet with a suspicious squint, peering behind the mirror for his adversary. Stan snapped his fingers. In an instant, Ford’s bright eyes were fixed on him, sharp and assessing.
“Bed.” Stan smacked the mattress. Ford grumbled under his breath. He turned back to the mirror.
“Ford! Get your ass—oof-” Ford slammed into him, driving the breath from his chest like he’d been gut-punched. Well, there goes my back, he thought as he fell backward. Then he hit the mattress. Any relief he felt was short-lived. Ford was crouched atop him, teeth bared, growling, pressing him deeper into the blankets. Stan stared at his brother and wondered how his life had come to this.
“Can I help you?” he asked, dry and annoyed as if he wasn’t hyper aware of Ford’s predatory stare, nor the way his breath was hot and his face was way too close, and why the hell was he pressing his nose to Stan’s neck—
It was only sheer willpower that stopped ‘Stan Jr’ from stirring. The last thing Stan needed was to be popping a stiffy in front of his witch-cursed brother because he was being pinned down. It was shameful. Ford wasn’t even conscious enough to consent, for one.
After what felt like an eternity, Ford sat up, moving to the side of the mattress with a small noise. Stan turned his head to look at him. His brother looked awfully proud, his lips curled in a smirk. “What the hell are you looking so smug about?” he groused. Ford nudged Stan’s shoulder with his head. It was less of a nudge and more of a headbutt. Evidently, whatever inspection had just taken place, Stan had just gotten top marks.
So, finally, with this passing grade, Stan managed to get Ford in bed. He watched his brother make a nest with the blankets. Decidedly ignored the sad sound Ford made when he turned off the lights and left. Went to his own room. Fell asleep almost instantly.
Woke up with Ford cuddled up against him.
Sure, why the hell not.
Ford was a nuisance.
Stan decided he never wanted a dog by the end of day one. The first thing he’d done after breakfast was to try to find the witch who had done this to his brother.
Ford insisted on coming.
Rather, he grabbed Stan and all but refused to let go. At least, right up until the moment he heard some innocent woodland creature (or not-so-innocent gnome) deep in the shrubbery and took off like a bat out of hell while Stan’s back was turned.
It took Stan an hour to find the bastard. His hands and face were covered in blood. Stan damn near had a heart attack until Ford presented him with a half-eaten rabbit.
Also, he’d lost his pants again. Somehow.
When Stan got home, after the rabbit was discarded, and Ford was washed and clothed, he looked up “full-time werewolfism" on the Internet to no avail.
On the second day, Stan had the displeasure of watching his brother piss on the ground.
Perhaps in another context it wouldn’t have been that bad. Hot, even.
Here, though? On the deck? Whilst glaring at the departing mail truck? Not really doing it for Stan.
Ford was territorial. Stan caught him rubbing himself (not in that manner, thank Moses) against the walls and chairs, lifting his legs in corners (until Stan yelled at him), and dragging Stan’s clothes from the laundry basket to his bed.
Stan was just glad that Soos and Melody weren’t here to be mortally scarred.
(It also gave him time to figure out the best way to mask the scent of urine.)
Stan grabbed every book on lycanthropy he could find from Ford’s materials. He read until the words were nothing more than unintelligible black blurs against a white page, and his head ached like he had slammed it against a metal pole.
He considered doing it just to compare the pain levels, but he needed all his brain cells (or what was left of them) to solve this.
He gave up on trying to wrestle his brother into pants on day three. Around the shack, at least. Because of the weather, pants were non-negotiable outside. As was the harness and leash that Stan had shambled together from rope. Ford hated it considerably, but it kept him from slipping away after every sound. Mostly. When Ford really wanted to go, he went, dragging Stan along with him, rope-burn be damned.
The only consolation was that he seemed very sorry about it later, grumbling apologetically and licking the tips of Stan’s fingers while Stan bandaged his stinging hand.
After his hand was wrapped and Ford was tucked into his blanket nest, Stan all but tore Ford’s room apart. Surely his brother, who took notes like a damn court scribe, would have even a single scrap of paper that disclosed where he had gone— a name, landmarks, fucking coordinates even.
When he found nothing, he rummaged through the boxes in the attic until he found a black light.
The room lit up like an alien light show. Ford was a nasty motherfucker, but that was nothing new. There was nothing new.
Exhausted and clueless, Stan went to bed.
Four days in, Stan wasn't sure what to do anymore. The damn witches in the woods didn’t seem inclined to appear any time soon, and taking Ford out wasn’t currently an option. Neither was leaving Ford at home— Stan had tried and returned to find that Ford had trashed Stan’s room and left a live raccoon in his bed.
Stan was now sleeping in Ford’s room.
Stan tried not to be perturbed by the fact that every time he woke up, Ford was staring at him through half-lidded eyes and purring like a well-oiled motor.
At breakfast, Ford kept chirping at him. Stan heaped more eggs on his plate in hopes of getting him to stop. Ford showed he did not approve of this by regurgitating his second helping of eggs on top of Stan’s half-eaten pancake.
It had been five days, and Stan was beginning to think that he would never get Ford back. He’d barely had Ford back for a full year, and now he was gone again. No more annoying, over-protective chiding or dopey smiles after bad puns or gentle kisses under the cover of night. He stood under the too-hot spray of the shower head. Tears welled in his eyes. They stung more than the water. Trembling, he bit down on his hand to muffle his sobs. There was a loud snuffling noise at the door, and beneath the small slat, Stan could see Ford’s shadow moving.
“Go away, Ford,” he shouted, pressing his head to the tile wall. “Everything’s okay.”
He felt as convinced by his words as Ford did, judging by the way that Ford cuddled up to him on the couch after. Ford headbutted him, rumbling quietly as he pressed his face into Stan’s side. His posture was relaxed, his eyes closed, but Stan noticed how he stiffened at the slightest noise.
Somehow it all came to a head the morning of the sixth day. That had to be ironic, or a coincidence, or something. Either way, Stan woke up to Ford clutching his leg, shifting around furiously.
Stan yawned, still half asleep, as he gently pushed Ford away. Except, Ford didn’t budge. Instead, he growled soft and low between breathy pants, his grip growing tighter. Ford’s hips rolled down. Stan blinked. Something hard pressed against his thigh.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that it was Ford’s erection. And that his brother was in a mood.
If this were any other morning and Ford woke him up like that, he would have captured his lips in a kiss and obligingly pulled his boxers down with a laugh. Ford was a pest sometimes, but Stan was always eager and willing to give him what he wanted. But now, Ford wasn’t in his right mind. He probably didn’t know who Stan was to him. He certainly couldn’t consent. Stan didn’t know if he would even remember this. Stan’s heart raced in his chest. He knew what he should do.
He knew what he wanted to do, too.
He could feel the slow swell of his cock in his briefs. Ford’s quiet, ragged breaths were hot against his skin. Stan knew that he should push Ford away. He knew it. But he didn’t.
Ford’s tongue flicked against Stan’s bare collarbone, affectionate and hungry all at once. He rocked down again, and Stan’s breath hitched as he realized that Ford had shed his own briefs at some point during the night. Ford shuddered, growl deepening into something needy. His fingers flexed against Stan’s thighs, nails digging into the soft flesh there.
“F-Ford,” Stan managed, swallowing the moan that threatened to erupt from his throat. “We can’t. You don’t…you’re not—“
Ford drew back his lips, face twisted in fury, before burying his face into the sweaty crook of Stan’s neck. His hips never stopped moving, his length leaking steadily into the fabric of Stan’s boxers. He nipped— it was too rough to be a nip, really, more of a bite— Stan’s throat, and Stan simply accepted that he was a horrible person as his resolve cracked. With a sharp exhale, he reached for Ford’s hips. To push Ford away, he told himself. He was a horrible liar. He curled his fingers, pulling Ford closer.
He knew it was wrong. Ford’s pupils were blown, animal noises of desperation leaking from his mouth. His face crashed into Stan’s own as he attempted a kiss that was more teeth than anything else. Stan hissed as he tasted blood, but Ford didn’t stop. Instead, he bit lower and lower, only growing more and more fervent with each punched-out noise from Stan’s mouth.
Stan buried his face in his hands.
Fuck. He was horrible.
He heard Ford snuffle at his crotch, breathing in lungfuls of Stan’s scent like it was the only thing that mattered. He lapped at the head of Stan’s erection, drawing wet fabric into his mouth as he licked at the head.
“Ford,” Stan groaned, spreading his thighs like a butterfly’s wings. Ford’s tongue rasped against his clothed cock a few more times before he seemed to grow impatient. He growled at Stan, his tone inexplicably chiding, before he ripped off the offending boxers with his teeth. Stan shouted, pushing Ford away. Sorry, Sixer, but there was no event where anyone’s chompers should ever be that close to his dick.
Ford reared back, eyes wide. He didn’t move, staring at Stan. Stan stared back, chest heaving like he had run a marathon. Ford sniffed carefully, his gaze falling to Stan’s face, his chest, his stomach. He seemed to be searching for something, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
He inched closer hesitantly. He pressed into Stan’s side, gentler than he had been the whole time. Had Stan scared him with the yelling? No, Ford was carefully looking at the red bites he had left. Stan’s stupid heart swelled when he realized what Ford was doing.
“I’m fine, you knucklehead,” he grumbled, clumsily patting Ford’s cheek. “You didn’t hurt me.” He sighed, leaning against the bed. He’d ruined the mood with his theatrics.
Good.
Right?
Why did he want more?
He loved how Ford ravaged him like some savage animal, as if sex with Stan was the most desirable thing in the world. When he jumped Stan’s bones like a starving lion devoured a zebra. As if it were something he needed. As if Stan was something that he needed.
He stared at the ceiling. His erection was still throbbing between his thighs. He glanced at his brother.
“Fuck it,” he grumbled, reaching over to his bedside dresser to get lubricant.
Ford’s nostrils flared at the snick of the bottle’s cap. He watched with dark eyes as Stan slicked his fingers.
Stan hesitated for a moment. Was he really doing this? He could be spending this morning trying to find a cure for Ford’s condition. Or literally anything other than dragging his dripping fingers down to his own entrance. Ford’s growl was deep enough to make Stan shiver as he pressed a finger inside himself.
This was infinitely better than looking for a cure. Stan crooked his finger, biting his lip to stifle his own moan. He rocked back, pressing himself into the mattress. Heat coiled in Stan’s gut. One was not enough. Ford seemed to agree, whining low in his throat. Stan rushed to add a second, searching for the place that made his toes curl in pleasure every time.
Ford suddenly lunged forward, knocking Stan’s wrist aside before burying his face between Stan’s open legs. Stan yelped as Ford’s wet, hot, tongue laved over his hole. “Sweet Moses, fuck-”
He arched off the bed as Ford’s tongue pressed inside him. His hands clamped around Stan’s thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading Stan wider, his nose flush against Stan’s skin as he licked hungrily, relentlessly, inhaling deeply between licks. It was too much. Stan’s fingers tangled in Ford’s hair as Ford tongue-fucked him. Ford snarled, grip tightening as Stan tried to squirm away. His teeth snapped in the air as if telling Stan to behave.
Suddenly, Ford drew back. For one moment, Stan could breathe. Then, Ford was grabbing Stan, pulling and pushing until Stan’s ass was to him. A pleading, guttural noise escaped him. Stan didn’t register what was happening until Ford was climbing atop him, his weight resting on Stan’s back as his cockhead pressed insistently against Stan’s hole.
“Wait, Ford. Wait!”
Ford did not wait. Stan’s protest died in his throat as Ford sheathed himself to the hilt with a single brutal thrust. His nails raked against Stan’s back and sides, digging into his soft flesh. Stan gasped, desperately trying to adjust. Ford set a punishing pace as he shoved Stan into the mattress.
He had mounted Stan, like his brother was a bitch in heat.
Stan was so horny (and ashamed) that he could have died.
Ford’s breath was damp against Stan’s nape, a dog’s pant as he slammed into Stan with single-minded desperation. Each thrust of his hips elicited a too-desperate, too pathetic, moan from Stan’s throat. Stan clawed at the sheets, twisting the fabric in his fists as Ford rutted into him like an animal. Ford’s lips grazed Stan’s shoulder, then teeth sank into his skin. Stan gasped, white pulsing at the edge of his vision. He was going to have marks for weeks, and the thought made something dark and pleased coil in his gut, something that made him shamelessly push back into Ford’s erratic thrusts.
The wet slap of skin on skin was obscene. The whole thing was wrong, but that just made Stan all the harder. His groans raised in volume and timbre. “I’m your bitch, Sixer. Fuck. Fill me, buddy. Claim me.”
Ford’s responding growl was approving, his grip tightening imperceptibly as he thrust impossibly deeper into Stan. His rhythm was uneven, feral, but each stroke grazed Stan’s prostate in a way that made his neglected cock sloppily drool into the sheets beneath them. Stan had no idea if Ford even knew what he was doing, or if he was chasing his own pleasure blindly, but damn if he wasn’t hitting all the right spots anyway.
Ford’s breath hitched. His cock twitched inside Stan, and his hips began to stutter erratically. He buried his face into Stan’s shoulder, hands clamped around Stan’s waist as he came inside his brother. Stan shuddered, thighs trembling as he clenched around Ford.
But Ford didn’t stop. Even as his orgasm ebbed, he kept shallowly rutting into Stan like he couldn’t bear to stop, couldn’t bear to pull away. Eventually, overstimulation got the best of him and he pulled away with a soft groan. One hand settled on the sweaty nape of Stan’s neck, possessive, as the other wrapped around Stan’s untouched cock. Ford stroked him like he’d fucked him, rough, relentless, impatient.
Stan came with a cry, bonelessly sprawling into the sheets as his cock spilled. Ford held his twitching member, purring approvingly. He licked a slow stripe up the length of Stan’s spine.
Stan groaned, burying his face into the pillow. “Enough,” he grumbled, though there was no real bite to it. Ford huffed before rolling off Stan with a satisfied look.
Stan lay there, catching his breath. What the hell had he done?
Ford was purring again, a low rumble that tickled Stan’s skin.
Fucking typical.
(They spent the rest of the day cuddling and having sex. Mostly cuddling.)
Stan woke up alone.
Not particularly unusual under normal circumstances, but in this case? Extremely worrying. He scrambled out of bed, praying that Ford hadn’t somehow figured out how to use the outside door.
Starting down the stairs, Stan called, “Ford! Fooord!” When there was no immediate response, Stan resorted to pulling out the big guns. Come here, buddy, and I promise you can have some jellybeans.”
As expected, Ford rounded the corner. For the first time in days, he was actually wearing clothes. Stan didn’t have time to get his hopes up about what that indicated before Ford pointedly cleared his throat. “Really Stanley? Jellybeans as the first meal of the day?”
His voice was a bit dry, perhaps from disuse or from all the growling, but it was Ford. Finally. Stan could have fucking cried. He wanted to leap at Ford and kiss him silly, grinning like a giddy schoolboy.
He forced his mouth into a loose smirk, but he knew he didn’t bother to hide the relief in his tone as he retorted, “And you’d have loved it.”
They talked over breakfast. Stan plated eggs and bacon for both of them. Ford breathed in the steam rising from his coffee with a pleased sigh.
“Axolotl, I’m glad to drink out of a mug again.”
“Not like I didn’t try to get you to,” Stan grumbled. He had made many attempts, in fact, but Ford grew frustrated that he couldn’t properly lap his water like he wanted. “What the hell happened? I mean, you came out of the woods all—“
Ford slapped a palm to his face, shielding his brow. He resolutely stared at his plate. “I remember, Stan. Ugh. I remember everything.”
Oh no. Stan’s stomach twisted sharply. If Ford remembered everything…
How the fuck was he even going to explain things to Ford? How did he even begin that conversation without making it seem like he was blaming what happened on Ford?
Maybe it was just easier to jump out the window.
Oblivious to Stan’s internal turmoil, Ford continued, “I’m…I can’t apologize enough for my behavior. Especially yesterday.”
“It wasn’t like you could control yourself, could you?”
Please say yes and absolve me from my sins.
“No. Unfortunately, I was a slave to instinct—“
Fuck.
“—but I never should have put you in such a situation.”
Stan shook his head, shame reddening his cheeks. “If anything, I owe you an apology. I was the lucid one. I took advantage of you.”
Ford blinked. “Took advantage of? No, you most certainly did not. I wanted it.” A silence fell between the brothers, Stan staring at Ford, Ford staring at literally anything else. “I mean, I…I was under the impression that you were my mate. You smelled like me, you were living on my territory, and you were trying to take care of me so it seemed logical. I tried to take care of you too— chasing off interlopers, marking our territory, and making you a safe nest. You were such a good mate. I wanted to—“ Ford coughed. “Breedyou,” he admitted in a quiet, scandalized breath. “Make you pregnant with my pups.”
Ford had thought he was a good mate? Enough so that he wanted Stan to fuck him until it took and Stan became soft and round, chest leaking milk and belly curved with the swell of his child? It wasn’t biologically possible, but Stan felt faint for a moment as all his blood made a beeline for his dick.
“Ford, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Ford spluttered, cheeks flushing red. “Lee.”
“I’m just saying! And I certainly wanted it too.” He leaned closer, placing a hand on Ford’s knee. “Fuck, Sixer, I was begging for you to claim me. You marked me up so good.”
Ford’s gaze lingered on the bruises on Stan’s neck. His breath hitched. “Yes…Indeed I did.” Then, he squeezed Stan’s hand and removed it from his knee. “However entertaining this is, I have to record my findings immediately, before I forget anything.”
Stan’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? But Ford—“
“It won’t take long, I promise. Be back shortly, Stanley.”
Ford was such a damn tease, Stan thought as he walked through the woods behind the shack. He didn’t smoke a lot, but the past week had been hell on his nerves. He knew better than to do it on the porch. One whiff from Ford and he was subjecting himself to a lecture on the dangers of lung cancer.
A flash of movement caught his eye.
Stan dropped his damn cigarette, then quickly stepped on it before it could catch fire to the dry leaves.
Now wait a damn minute.
Stan wasn’t the type to make any assumption based on appearance, but he was pretty sure that this young, dark-haired woman in the woods gathering berries in a basket, clad in black and wearing a genuine, bona fide, pointy witch hat, had to be a witch.
“Hey lady!” he shouted, taking a few steps in her direction.
She turned to meet Stan, lips curling in a smile that revealed sharp canines. “Oh, you’re back,” she said in a manner way too casual for encountering someone whom she thought had been cursed to behave like a wild animal for a week. Stan faltered. She cocked her head, as if expecting Stan to say something. When he didn’t, she finally prompted, “How was it?”
“What?”
“The curse. The one you asked for? I don’t know much about, um…what did you call it? Weirdology, or whatever. But I hope it was useful to your research.”
Stan closed his eyes, counted to ten, and imagined strangling Ford. “My idiot brother asked you to curse him for research?”
“If you’re not him, then I guess.”
“Why the hell would he ask for a spell that only wears off when he has sex?!”
The witch stared. Her lips thinned as something like realization, judgment, and then finally disgust dawned on her expression.
“...It was a curse with a seven-day duration.”
Forget imagining strangling Ford. Stan was actually going to do it.