Gravity Falls || Stanley Pines/Stanford Pines || 5420
notes: This is, for all intents and purposes, song fic. I tried my best to avoid the mistakes I made in my youth, when I was but a wee lass navigating fandom for the first time, but alas! I am mortal and flawed. Also, I want everyone to know how insanely difficult it is to write porn to 1960s swamp rock. There’s masochism and then there’s this. Many thanks to @bus for the beta. ♥
¶ Please note that this story is set vaguely within canon before Stanley was kicked out of the house, so Stan and Ford are seventeen. Stan is also dating Carla; I realize she and Stan probably dated after Stan was kicked out (as Stan was depressingly not pudgy in his flashback), but I wielded the mighty power bequeathed to me by artistic license and pushed their romance back a few years. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
¶ also available on AO3.
¶ @shootaimedstars and @mister-nebula have drawn AMAZING fanart for this story! I am eternally blessed. See A.M.’s wonderful arts here and here, and Timmy’s nsfw-ish art here. @gravity-what also doodled this; it’s super adorable and may help mitigate some of the angst. ♥
warnings: sibling incest, jealousy, unrequited love, angst, mild self-deprecation, mild internalized homophobia, off-screen Stan/Carla, masturbation, sexual fantasy, car sex, and frottage. also there is dancing
In August of 1969, Stan spends all his pocket money on Creedence Clearwater Revival’s album Green River, and plays it until Ford contemplates murder.
The music itself is not what drives Ford to the brink of insanity. He likes what he hears despite having heard each song approximately ten thousand times—this is only a slight exaggeration—and, when the mood takes him, he will hum along with the long memorized lyrics. The twang of the guitar and the steady rhythm of the drums suit the waxing heat of summer, and it makes Ford want to close his book, lay back on his bed, and let the sound wash over him.
February is a worn out vinyl record with battered edges that keeps on playing a broken tune. Where I’m writing these words on an empty café as my bones shifted in my skin. It is where you have set me free- as I flew aimlessly wondering if you’ll come back. February smells of you - what’s left of your lingering scent-blown into ashes and dust.