MAZE HOUSE MASTERPOST (take in account this is more stan twins focused! interpret it as you want but remember only im the incest guy)
My art: #nonplatonicart
Dark! Ford asks: #nonplatonicasks (it has Au things but usually is for non-AU related dark ford stuff)
Fanfics: #nonplatonicfanfics
Anything abuse triangle Au related: #nonplatonicAU
texts posts/yaps: #nonplatonictext
The askbox is open for anything you like: request, asks, yaps, etc. Only condition is not sending me underage or scat related content, i wont answer since is a personal boundary.
Stanford felt somewhat awkward and uncomfortable—mentally that was. Physically he was perfectly comfortable. He just wasn’t used to prolonged, close contact with another person. It had been a very long time since Stanford had done anything like cuddling with anyone. Not since he was a child, certainly.
Yet here he was now, a fully grown man all but cuddling another fully grown man. Although, said fully grown man was not mentally a fully grown man at the current moment. But it was still awkward regardless.
Unfortunately, it had also been the only way to calm Stanley down. He’d had the biggest meltdown Stanford had seen so far shortly after dinner, and none of Stanford’s usual tactics worked in helping. Stanley had regressed to a much younger age than usual, and could not be consoled by any means.
Until Stanford had tried to hug him in a desperate, last-ditch effort, and Stanley had clung to him like a limpet, unashamedly seeking comfort and wanting to be held.
That had been half an hour ago. Stanford had since successfully moved them to the couch, and Stanley had fallen asleep in his arms after crying his eyes out. Sleep was now also pulling at Stanford’s lids, the couch beneath him feeling plush and cozy. Stanley was like a heavy blanket on him, his upper half in Stanford’s lap, cradled in Stanford’s arms as he slept.
Practically rocking his grown brother to sleep had not been something Stanford had ever wanted to do, but a sleeping Stanley was better than a screaming, crying, and overwhelmed Stanley. Stanford was just glad that breakdown was over. He’d clean up the mess Stanley had made during it in the morning.
Part of him wondered if he should wake Stanley and try to get him to bed—so that Stanford could go to bed too—but he was loathe to disturb the peace he’d worked so hard for. Surely it wouldn’t be so bad to just close his eyes for a bit where he was. He could move them to their rooms later. He’d just rest for a little while first.
Yes, a good idea.
Stanford let his eyes drift shut, his arms tightening ever so slightly around Stanley, who sniffled in his sleep, nosing further into Stanford’s sweater. With an exhausted sigh, Stanford’s head thumped back against the couch and he slumped further down, holding his brother as sleep took him.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping for the day,” Ford said. “It’s about time to head to bed anyway.”
Stan glanced towards the nearest window. They’d all been covered by blinds, but he estimated it was nearly dawn. “But I don’t sleep during the day?”
“Not naturally, of course not. You’re still human.” Ford looped their arms together and began more or less dragging Stan along. “But since you’re staying here with me, it only makes sense that you adjust to my schedule. I can’t be up during the day, so you’ll just have to get used to being up during the night.”
Stan wasn’t sure what he’d thought really—or he hadn’t thought about it at all, to be honest. He’d just assumed he’d be up during the day and Ford would be up at night, but he supposed it didn’t make sense for them to be on different schedules. Stan had been called here to help his brother, after all. What was the point if they didn’t really see each other much due to new species differences?
“I guess that makes sense,” he mumbled.
Ford flashed his fangs in a smile, and Stan tried not to let the sight unsettle him. He’d agreed to let Ford feed from him, so he’d have to get used to those fangs. And Ford… Ford wouldn’t hurt him. (Right?) Vampire or not, he was still Stan’s brother.
“Now I understand it’ll take you some time to adjust to your new circumstances, but I’ve kept that in mind while planning things out, so don’t worry about that,” Ford said.
“Uhh, okay?” Stan wasn’t really sure what he was talking about.
“Ah, here we are.” Ford stopped them in front of a door. He dug around in his pockets, pulling out a key and unlocking it.
Kind of weird that the door locked from the outside, in Stan’s opinion. (And why did it lock from the outside?)
“This was the guest room, but it’s your room now,” Ford continued, opening the door and ushering Stan inside. “Apologies for not having a regular bed. There was an old pullout couch in here, but it broke so I threw it out. And since I had to make myself a new place to sleep, I figured I’d just make an extra rather than go shopping.”
Stan froze at the sight of the “bed” he was meant to sleep in.
A heavy wooden coffin sat in the middle of the room, the top open. The inside was lined with plush material and held a pillow and blankets. The coffin was large enough for a grown man to lie down with some wiggle room, but Stan did not fail to notice the latches built into the wood on the outside.
(Why did the coffin bed have latches? Why did the room lock from the outside? Why was Stan starting to get a horrible, dreadful feeling about all this?)
“I promise you it’s quite comfortable,” Ford was saying in a light tone. “I’ve been sleeping in mine for a while now, and they’re just as nice as regular beds. Maybe even better, perhaps, since they provide a quiet, dark environment that’s conducive for—”
“Ford,” Stan interrupted, feeling lightheaded as he stared at the coffin. “I’m not sleeping in that.”
Ford just cocked his head with a smile. (Stan shuddered at the sight of those fangs.) “Of course you are. I don’t really have anywhere else for you to sleep.”
“I’ll just take the couch.” Stan started backing up slowly.
Ford frowned. “But this is your room,” he insisted. “You can’t just sleep on the couch forever.”
“Not forever. I’ll get my own bed tomorrow or something,” Stan said. For some reason, he felt jittery.
Ford huffed. “The coffin is a perfectly acceptable bed! Just give it a try for the night.”
“Uh, some other time maybe.” Stan would normally just say no outright, but weirdly, something in him didn’t want to make Ford angry.
Except Ford was already scowling. “Don’t be so difficult.” He stomped towards Stan. “I’m providing you with a room and a bed and a place to live, and you’re being picky about it? Talk about ungrateful.”
Stan put up his hands defensively. “That’s not—hey!”
Ford had grabbed him by the wrist and began to drag him to the coffin. Stan felt his heart leap into his throat.
“Ford, stop! No!”
He struggled to pull away, and felt a pit open up in his stomach as he realized for the first time just what Ford’s new vampirism meant: Ford was strong. Stronger than any human, and Stan couldn’t get free.
“Honestly, Stanley, how much more rude could you get?” Ford grabbed his other arm and began to wrestle Stan into the coffin. “I know it’s a vampire bed, but I didn’t think you’d discriminate against me like this. Sorry I couldn’t get you a human bed, but the least you could do is thank me.”
Stan’s back hit the soft insides of the coffin, and he swore all the blood drained from his face. Memories of the last time he’d been shoved into a small, enclosed space flooded his mind and he panicked, fighting back like a rabid animal.
“Stop! Stop! Don’t!” His voice cracked with fear. “Ford, please!”
Ford pinned him down easily, wrapping a blanket around Stan’s flailing limbs. “Well, I suppose if you can’t say thank you, please will do.”
A clawed hand reached up for the lid, and Stan released an embarrassingly shrill, “NO!”
Ford paused.
“Don’t close it!” Stan begged, near to tears. “Leave it open, please. Please. I’ll try the coffin for the night, I will! I promise! Just don’t close it!”
There was a moment where Ford stared at him with unnerving scrutiny. Then, he laughed.
“Oh, Stanley, do you think I’m a fool?” Sharp claws delicately brushed aside some hair that was stuck to Stan’s sweaty face. “I know how flighty you are, and I know how off-putting I am to humans now. It’s in your nature to be afraid of me; your brain registers me as a predator.
“I’m aware that there’s a chance you’ll get too unnerved and try to run out on me—you’ve always been a runner. I told you it’ll take a while for you to adjust to all this, and that I planned in advance for your adjustment period. This is just a part of it. You’ll stay in here for the day, where I know you’ll be nice and safe while we sleep.
“Eventually, once you’ve adjusted to all this, I won’t need to worry about you giving in to your instincts and running off. But until then, these are the protocols I’ve put into place to help you. So just try to relax and get some sleep, and I’ll come get you when it’s time to wake up, okay?”
Stan already felt like he couldn’t catch his breath, like there was too little air and his throat was being choked. The only noise he managed to get out was a pathetic, strangled squeak, and Ford chuckled at the sound of it.
“You’ll adjust,” he said, voice lowering to a hypnotic croon. “I promise.”
He closed the lid of the coffin.
Immediately Stan felt rough rope around his wrists and ankles, his body growing hot as the trunk he was trapped in began to heat up under the blazing Arizona sun. He was trapped. He was trapped!
(Vaguely, some part of his brain that was still aware registered the sound of latches firmly clicking shut; of a door closing and locking from the outside.)
Terrified and desperate, Stan began to scream.
———
Ford had not slept well. His newly sensitive vampire hearing had been subjected to his brother’s screaming for hours. He’d been half-tempted to go to Stan’s room, either to tell him to shut up or to ask what the matter was, but ultimately he’d decided it would ruin Stan’s training. Stan had to learn to adjust, and Ford knew that things might be rough until he did.
He wished Stan wouldn’t be so dramatic about it though. The screaming was a little much.
Grumbling to himself, Ford unlocked the door to Stan’s room and entered. It was time to get Stan up for the night, though he was sure Stan would still be tired. The screaming had eventually petered out, so Stan must have gotten some rest, but his human body probably wouldn’t take kindly to being forced awake at a time it was used to sleeping at.
“Alright, Stanley.” Ford unlatched the lid of Stan’s coffin bed and lifted it. “You can—”
He recoiled in surprise.
Stan was already awake, but his eyes were staring unseeingly at the side of the coffin. His breath came in rapid gasps, like he was fighting for air. Tears and snot coated his face, but a sharp, acrid smell hit Ford’s nose and made him gag. At some point Stan had vomited all over himself. It was crusted in his face, his hair, his shirt, and the blankets.
Stan didn’t even seem to notice Ford. Distressed whimpering sounds escaped his lips every so often, and his hands twitched where they were cradled to his chest. Ford hissed between his teeth at the sight of them; the nails were torn and fingertips bloody. A glance at the underside of the coffin lid showed desperate scratch marks in the wood.
Ford had not expected Stan to react this badly to his new bed.
Cleaning up his brother had certainly not been on his planned to-do list either. The blankets would have to be laundered, the inside of the coffin cleaned, Stan’s clothes washed. Ford sighed just thinking about it.
“Stanley.” He reached down, shaking Stan’s (non-vomit covered) shoulder. “Are you feeling unwell? Do you have the flu?”
Stan flinched violently, curling up and mumbling frantically under his breath. “No! Rico, amigo, no me haga esto! Déjeme salir! Por favor!”
Ford frowned, not understanding what Stan was saying. He didn’t like not knowing things. Since when was Stan able to speak Spanish anyway?
“Get up. I need to clean the mess you’ve made.” He drummed his fingers impatiently against Stan’s shoulder.
Something in Stan’s vacant gaze cleared a bit at that, and his eyes finally locked onto Ford.
“Ford?” he whispered, his voice hoarse from all the screaming he’d done.
“Yes, Stanley, it's time to get out now.”
Fresh tears filled Stan’s eyes, and Ford was unprepared for his brother to scramble up on shaking limbs and throw himself at him. Ford made a noise of disgust as Stan clung to him in all his filthy glory.
“Ford, I’m sorry!” Stan sobbed. “I’m so sorry! Please, don't put me back in there! I’ll be good, I promise! Don’t lock me in, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll do whatever you want!”
Ford had a feeling that Stan wasn’t apologizing about the mess, but he wasn’t sure what else Stan would be apologizing for. This was all a huge overreaction to a new bed.
“You’d think I tortured you or something,” Ford muttered.
Stan broke down into pitiful cries and incoherent mumbles, holding onto Ford desperately. Part of Ford wanted to shove his brother off because Stan was gross at the moment, but it was too late for that. He’d already been smeared with everything Stan was covered in, so there was no point. Instead he sighed and patted Stan’s back.
“Honestly, Stanley, whatever is the matter? Surely the coffin didn’t scare you that badly?”
If Stan wasn’t sick, then vomiting in such a situation could be an indication of something like extreme stress. But sleeping in a coffin couldn’t be that stressful, could it? Ford simply couldn’t fathom Stan being so incredibly frightened by it.
And yet.
Perhaps there was more to it that he didn’t know. He hated not knowing, but he would have to wait until Stan had calmed down in order to ask him. In the meantime, cleaning everything up was the current priority.
“Come on then,” Ford said, leading his brother out of the room.
Stan was not particularly cooperative, stumbling over his own shaking legs like a newborn deer. With some exasperation, Ford swept him up into his arms. It would be easier to just carry him to the bathroom and dump him in the tub.
(Despite the vomit that turned his nose, Ford found his fangs itching. There was something in his brain that was delighted to have such vulnerable, easy prey in his arms. Something in his new nature that enjoyed seeing a human cower before him. Something that saw Stan’s fear and tears and wanted to bite.)
Stan was slowly quieting down and Ford stroked his claws through his brother’s hair.
“So you had a rough first sleep. That’s okay,” he reassured. “You’ll adjust. I’ll help you. We’ll work something new out.”
Ford would get to the bottom of the situation and figure out how to fix it. He wasn’t cruel, after all. Stan had so graciously agreed to stay with him and let Ford feed off him. And while Stan would have to learn to grow accustom to his new life, Ford understood his brother was still just human.
If he wanted to eat from Stan regularly, then Stan would have to be maintained at a certain level of health. That meant it was Ford’s job to monitor him and take care of him so he stayed healthy enough for Ford to feed from.
Stan would have to adjust, but Ford was willing to accommodate him to a certain degree. Locking him up to sleep was non-negotiable, as Ford didn’t need Stan trying to change his mind and run away during the day. But if the coffin bed was going to be too much then Ford would figure something else out.
