Woah, first post of the black and white Stan twins
The title is a joke from a bunch of drawings i made of the stan twins being platonic until...it wasnt. Anyways, in this scenario
Basically Bill has to get along with the idea of having Stan around otherwise Ford will go nuts, this dosent stop him from being a terrible influence to Ford already obsessive tendencies
Stan has a shock collar to not go too far. Ford promised they will take it away if Stan behaves. Andddd Stan just has to cope with the fact his brother is a creep, has a demon boyfriend, and now cant go away + the humillation of the collar
I keep coming back to the Maze House AU and it gives me so much inspiration<333
Thought about making an animation inspired by it (if you don't mind ofc<3) and was wondering if Bill just messes with Stan through shadows in the corner of his eye or by whispers and planting doubts in his head by said whispers or something like that?<3
☺️☺️☺️🫶 we’re flattered you like it so much! Super interested if you do want to make an animation inspired by it 👀👀 that would be amazing!
@nonplatonicguy and I decided that before Stan figures out who Bill is, it’s mostly just shadows in the corner of his eye and indecipherable whispers, and on rare occasion a decipherable line like “do you think you can escape?” to really mess with Stan and scare him, making him wonder if he actually heard something or is going crazy in the beginning.
Later on when Stan realizes the situation he’s in and learns about Bill, Bill is more obvious in his torment of Stan. More prominent shadows and creepy whispers, but just single sentences and stuff like “if your genius brother couldn’t get out what makes you think you can?”
But Bill never elaborates, and won’t respond to Stan if Stan gets the courage to try and talk back. Bill only holds actual conversations with Ford (something that also freaks Stan out). Stan just gets horrible whispers that mess with his mind and wear down his mental state :)
Ford scoffed. “Honestly, Stanley. I wouldn’t have to if you’d just listen to me the first time I tell you to do things. You’re always trying to make things more difficult than they need to be.”
“It’s not—It’s not my fault! You can’t blame me.”
“Of course not, you’re completely innocent,” Ford said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “It takes two to fight, Stanley. I may have ended it, but you started it. Don’t try to brush the blame off on me now because you don’t like the consequences.”
Stan sniffed and muttered, “Didn’t start nothing.”
“Didn’t start anything, not nothing,” Ford corrected. He clicked his tongue condescendingly. “You can’t even speak right.”
Stan balled his fists in shame and anger. “Oh, shut up, you—”
Ford struck him open-palmed across the face, right on his already bruised cheek.
“Don’t you talk back to me!” Ford snapped, practically screaming at Stan.
Stan shied away from his brother like a skittish animal, one hand coming up to cradle his aching cheek. It felt like it was beginning to swell. He glared at Ford in hurt disbelief.
Why was he putting up with this? Why was he letting Ford treat him like this?
Mustering himself, Stan said, “I can talk however I want.”
He then went stumbling backwards as Ford shoved him, bumping into the nearby coffee table and falling. Stan grunted as he landed on the floor, then flinched as something crashed down right next to him. A glance to the side revealed the now shattered remains of Ford’s empty mug, having been knocked off the table by the collision.
Stan made to sit up, but a firm hand landed on his head, fisting in his hair and shoving his face down until he was inches away from sharp pieces of ceramic.
“Now look what you did!” Ford shouted.
What he did? Ford was the one who pushed him!
“Apologize!” Ford demanded, a scowl clear in his voice.
“It wasn’t my—” Stan hissed loudly as Ford’s hand twisted tighter in his hair, yanking at his roots until they burned. His hands flew up to grab at his brother’s wrist. “Ow! Alright, alright, fine! I’m sorry.”
The punishing grip immediately loosened, fingers rubbing gently on Stan’s scalp to soothe the ache left behind.
“I forgive you,” Ford said. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Stan slowly straightened up so that he was no longer dangerously close to the broken mug, Ford continuing to stroke his hair as if he were an obedient pet. He eyed his brother warily, lips pressed thin together.
Ford withdrew, nudging the broken mug with the toe of his shoe. “Now clean it up,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
And then he walked away, as if he fully expected Stan to simply obey him. As if it really had been Stan’s fault.
Stan scowled as he carefully began picking up the larger pieces of ceramic. He didn’t want to, but it wasn’t as if Ford would clean it up if he left it. (And he didn’t want to find out how else his brother might hurt him if he disobeyed.)
@nonplatonicguy and I bring another collab piece for the AU. Overview and explanation for the AU can be found right here.
TW: physical abuse, strangulation, victim blaming, manipulation, emotional abuse, mental instability. Dead Dove, Do Not Eat!
(art by @nonplatonicguy)
At the time, Stan hadn’t realized he’d made a terrible mistake. Looking back, his first mistake had been coming to the House at all. His second had been letting Ford smack him around and yell at him.
His third ended up being talking back.
“You’re a horrible brother,” Stan said bitterly, rubbing his arm where Ford had just hit him.
Ford, who had started walking away, froze. “…Is that so?” He turned back to Stan slowly, one hand reaching up to loosen his tie. His face was entirely neutral, devoid of the rage that had been on it a moment ago. “Do you want to see a horrible brother?”
There was something about how casually he said it that sent chills up Stan’s spine, and he found himself torn between bristling angrily and backing down. Unfortunately, his indecision left time for Ford to approach him, and Stan tensed and raised his arms to block another punch.
He was not expecting to be slammed back into the wall instead.
Surprised, Stan didn’t react in time to Ford grabbing him by the hair and bashing his head against the wall. Pain bloomed across his face as Ford slammed his head into the wall once, then twice. Through gasps of pain, Stan pushed against Ford, trying to get him off. Unexpectedly it worked, Ford backing away and letting go of his hair.
Stan stumbled to the side, dizzy and reeling. He tried to put some distance between them, his head pounding.
“Ford, what the hell?” he grumbled, using the wall to keep himself upright as the room spun. “This is abusive.”
He only made it a few steps before something thin and soft looped around his throat from behind and tightened.
Stan tried to gasp for air and choked. Fear shot through his system in a rush and his hands automatically flew to his neck, trying to grab at whatever was choking him. His fingers scrabbled over fabric material, which tightened even more in response to his attempts to dig it away from his throat.
Stan thrashed hard in panic, all rational thoughts emptying from his brain, replaced by the base need to breathe. Strangled, indecipherable noises of terror escaped his lips. His pulse pounded in his ears.
A solid warmth pressed up along his back from behind, limiting his ability to move. Stan struggled hard against it—Ford, some part of his brain realized distantly—but his body was quickly weakening from the lack of oxygen.
“Gu—Mmph!” Stan grunted out, nails scratching at his own neck in desperation to free himself. There were probably better things he could be doing to fight back or escape, but logic had no place against pure, animalistic fear.
Stan felt faint. Sweat beaded on his brow, his vision going hazy and dark at the edges. His limbs felt numb and clumsy, mouth open and gasping uselessly for air that wasn’t coming.
He was going to die like this.
He was going to die.
The realization gave him one last surge of adrenaline, and Stan flailed aimlessly, too overtaken by the need for oxygen to figure out what to do. But it got him nowhere, and his legs wobbled beneath him, strength leaving him.
Ford was going to kill him. His own brother was going to kill him!
Stan’s head felt light and tingly and stuffed with cotton and his vision wavered and fuzzed and went black—
And then suddenly his lungs raggedly gasped in a huge breath as the pressure around his neck disappeared. Stan crashed down to the floor hard on his knees, shaky arms doing their best to support him as he panted for air. His throat hurt like hell, each breath aching and pained.
Through his swimming vision, tears of relief pricking his eyes, two shiny dress shoes appeared in front of him. Stan followed the legs they were attached to upward, staring at his brother warily.
Ford looked furious. His chest heaved like he was the one who’d been deprived of air. His lips were pulled back in a nasty snarl, nostrils flared and eyes sharp. In one raised hand was his black tie, looped around his fist.
The same tie he had almost just strangled Stan to death with.
Everything in Stan screamed to get away, but he couldn’t make his body move, too occupied with trying to gulp in as much oxygen as it could. He barely even flinched as Ford’s arm lowered, his shoulders slumping. Stan watched the fury drain out of his brother in seconds, Ford’s face falling back into that neutral disinterest.
“See how nice I am to you usually?” he said, dispassionately watching Stan shiver and gasp on the floor. “See what I could do if I wanted to? But I don’t. I don’t want to hurt you like that, so don’t make me. Calling me abusive? You don’t even know what abusive is. All I do is correct your bad behaviour. You should be grateful I’m usually so nice about it.”
Stan couldn’t speak. He was too afraid to. Ford had almost just killed him. Ford had almost just killed him.
Ford’s voice went softer, but there was nothing nice in it. “I’m not a horrible brother, Stanley, but I could be. You don’t want me to be, trust me.”
He knelt down suddenly and reached out, and Stan couldn’t contain the scared whimper that escaped him, flinching away hard. But there was nowhere for him to escape to, and he didn’t dare try to fight again. He simply trembled with fear as Ford took the very tie he’d just strangled Stan with and casually put it on Stan, tying it properly for Stan to wear.
“Don’t you ever talk back to me again,” Ford whispered to him, fingers ghosting across what Stan was sure were some nasty bruises blooming around his neck.
(art by @nonplatonicguy)
Ford stood and stared at him for a long moment, as if searching for something. Then he turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.
Stan ripped the tie off as fast as possible with badly shaking hands. He threw it as far away from himself as he could manage, a wretched sob tearing from his aching throat.
(Because despite there being two of us, we can’t think of a better name.)
Introducing a new joint AU between @nonplatonicguy and I 👀 A dark Ford AU that’s very dark, so mind the tags and TWs.
TW: physical abuse, emotional abuse, gaslighting and manipulation, psychological torment, mental instability. Dead Dove, Do Not Eat!
(Art by @nonplatonicguy)
After years of silence between them, Stan is called up to Gravity Falls by a postcard and a “please come!”. Whatever Ford wants from him after all this time sounds serious and urgent, so Stan makes his way there as fast as he can, expecting the worst.
What he gets is the opposite: a nice cabin near the edge of the woods, and a brother who acts happy to see him.
Maybe a bit too happy, though. Ford says he could use Stan’s help, but then never specifies with what. In fact, he seems rather content to fall back into their old roles as brothers, as if nothing had ever happened between them. It’s too good to be true, really, but it soothes a hurt in Stan that is years old. He wants to believe this is all Ford wants of him; wants to believe Ford just wants to be brothers again.
But the cabin is creepy. Stan can’t pinpoint why, but he swears sometimes things move on their own. He swears that sometimes the halls seem to twist and loop on themselves. It shouldn’t be a big house, but he finds himself getting lost in it constantly. He can never seem to easily get to the room he wants to be in, and he swears that sometimes the shadows in the corners of his eye form different shapes.
Ford tells him he’s imagining all these things, but Stan can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong—and not just with the house, but with Ford.
Ford is… different. Strange. Friendly and warm but in an almost off-putting manner. He’s always trying to keep Stan inside, dissuading him from going out for any reason. He makes good excuses, but the longer it continues, the more Stan sees that they are just excuses, and the stronger the feeling of wrongness grows.
It’s not until Stan tries to call their mother, wondering if she knows anything about Ford’s odd demeanour, that his gut feelings are proven right.
The phone line is cut.
Stan decides he needs to get out. Something weird is going on in this place. He wants to help his brother, but he needs some space to clear his head first.
The decision brings the realization that… Stan doesn’t think he’s seen the front door since he entered the house. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but the entrance hall basically just disappeared.
Stan goes searching for it, but he can’t find it. It’s almost like the house itself is trying to stop him. And this time he knows he’s not imagining it; the halls keeping looping him back around to the same rooms. The rooms themselves change each time he opens a door, but never to the front entrance.
When he sees Ford, Stan tries to tell his brother all this, but Ford shrugs him off. “That’s very imaginative of you, Stanley. Are you bored? Are you feeling sick?” is all Ford says. “Come watch TV with me and get your mind off it.”
It takes Stan a few days before he finally finds the front door. He’s relieved. The house freaks him out. Ford freaks him out. His brother is acting like everything is normal when it’s clearly not. He needs help.
Stan tries to leave. The house won’t let him.
And then everything changes.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Ford tells him. He looks disappointed. “I thought you were enjoying playing pretend.”
Stan will look back on that moment later and wish he had played pretend for longer.
It’s as if some sort of spell breaks, like the nice, forgiving Ford was only ever an illusion. The brother who greets him the next morning is stern and cold. He gives Stan a list of work to do out of the blue; chores to complete and tasks to get done for the day. It’s a little ridiculous, and Stan doesn’t take it seriously.
When Ford’s fist meets his face for the first time that evening, he learns to regret that too.
Suddenly, nothing is the same. Stan barely recognizes his brother. Ford is neurotic, unstable, prone to violent mood swings and outbursts of anger. He’s cold and demanding, ordering Stan around. Stan doesn’t accept it at first, refusing to be controlled by his own nerdy twin. He stands up for himself, he tries to fight back.
He learns just how far Ford is willing to take things, when Ford takes off his belt and beats Stan with it. When he wraps his tie around Stan’s throat and chokes him to near unconsciousness.
Fighting back becomes less appealing after that.
Stan does the chores. He cooks and cleans and then cleans again and again and again, being sent back to the same task over and over until Ford thinks he’s done it well enough. Complaints are met with sharp words and sharper fists. Stan’s skin becomes a canvas of blue and purple and black.
And the house gets creepier. At the same time Ford’s act dropped, so did the house’s. Apparently something else lives there, some creature called Bill. From what Ford says, it’s some sort of poltergeist. Whatever it is, it’s old and strong, controlling the house to the point it seems like it practically is the house. The shadows Stan used to spot from the corner of his eye he starts to see openly.
The shadows watch him constantly. Sometimes shaped like eyes, sometimes like triangles, sometimes like a mockery of a man. Bill watches Stan, and it doesn’t take long for Stan to realize Bill reports back to Ford about him.
Because Ford has rules. Rules he lays out for Stan to follow. Rules that seem to change based on Ford’s mood. Rules with consequences if Stan breaks them—and unfortunately, he breaks them a lot. Even when Ford isn’t around, Bill is watching. It seems to take great pleasure in seeing Stan get beaten. It tattles on Stan and sabotages his work, messing up rooms Stan has already cleaned.
Bill torments him, trapping Stan in closets or small rooms, looping him endlessly in hallways to prevent him from getting to where he needs to go, or repeatedly sending him to Ford until Ford gets annoyed by his “interruptions” and punishes Stan.
But worst of all is the classroom.
Every night Ford calls Stan to the classroom. Stan can’t avoid it, Bill forces him there even if he tries to refuse going. So every night he ends up sitting at a desk and staring at a large blackboard, his hands shaking.
It’s blackboard Ford set up to track each of Stan’s mistakes. For every infraction he makes, a mark is added to the board. And each night, Stan is forced to sit there as Ford tallies up the marks, then doles out whatever punishment he sees fit for however badly Stan messed up that day.
It always hurts. The ruler, the belt, Ford’s fists. Stan is beaten and hit and kicked and screamed at. Every. Day.
Everyday is something, no matter how little the mistake. Everyday Stan begins to regret his life. Everyday Stan wishes he’d played along with whatever game of house Ford had been putting on at the beginning. Everyday he wishes he were somewhere else.
But he can’t leave. Ford won’t let him. Bill won’t let him. Stan can’t find a way out.
He learns to endure, to be quieter, more obedient, to say sorry and try to mitigate Ford’s anger before it gets out of hand. It doesn’t always work, but Stan has nothing else he can do. Ford is… scary. And isn’t that something? Stan, scared of his own nerdy brother. But he has reason to be, and Ford has shown how far he’s willing to go if Stan puts up a fight.
It’s not worth it. All being obstinate ever gets him is pain.
But if he’s good, if he’s real good, sometimes Ford will be kinder. Sometimes Ford will put on the facade of a normal brother again, and let Stan pretend that things are okay. It’s… it can be nice.
Except even when Ford allows an illusion of peace between them, Bill is still there. And Bill frightens Stan more than Ford does. Whatever it is is unnatural and creepy, and Stan can’t get away from it. The eyes are always watching, always following him. It drives him to Ford for some sort of relief, even if there is little comfort to be found from his brother. At least Ford is human.
…But something is wrong with Ford too, something beyond the abusive and controlling behaviour. He gets frequent headaches and nosebleeds. Sometimes he’s spacey and forgetful, repeating himself without realizing it. On occasion, Stan catches him wandering the house, going round and round with seemingly no destination in mind and a lost expression on his face.
Sometimes Ford is jumpy. Stan accidentally slams a door and gets yelled at, but Ford looks more anxious than angry. He mutters to himself a lot, claiming to be talking to Bill. And one evening, Stan finds Ford on the phone, seemingly in a conversation with their mother, looking happy about it.
But the phone line is still cut.
(Art by @nonplatonicguy)
Ford doesn’t seem to notice that the cord of the phone he’s holding just dangles in the air, unattached. He doesn’t seem to notice that “Ma’s” voice sounds strange and distorted. And he doesn’t believe Stan when Stan tries to point those things out to him. All he ever does is get mad at Stan for it, claiming Stan is triggering his headache with “incessant and pointless questions”.
Stan doesn’t know what’s going on, but it isn’t normal. Nothing about this house is normal. Nothing about Ford is normal anymore either. But his brother is too violent and mentally unstable to try and reason with. There’s nothing Stan can say to him, no action he can take, no help he can give, and no way he can leave.
@nonplatonicguy and I present another collab piece for Maze House 🎉 Overview of the AU can be found here.
TW: abuse, implied psychological torment, Dead Dove; Do Not Eat
(art by @nonplatonicguy)
When he finally noticed the still figure on the other side of the kitchen, Stan spooked so badly he dropped the plate he was holding into the sink with a sharp clatter. It didn’t break, to his heart’s relief, but it also didn’t seem to disturb the figure.
The figure that was the back of his brother, Ford, who was standing as still as a statue, staring at the clock on the wall.
“…Ford?” Stan called quietly.
He was afraid to get Ford’s attention. He couldn’t tell what Ford was thinking, what he was feeling, how he would react. What if he got mad at Stan for distracting him? What was he even doing? He was just… standing there. Entirely still, entirely creepy.
He did not answer Stan.
Stan tentatively approached, reaching out a hand before pulling it back. Ford might react badly if he touched him. Stan’s cheek throbbed with a ghost of pain from the last time he’d touched Ford unexpectedly.
“Ford?” he whispered again as he got closer, every muscle in his body tensed to flinch back at the first sign of aggression from his brother.
But Ford didn’t move. There was nothing about him that indicated he’d even acknowledged Stan’s presence.
Worried. Scared. Confused, Stan crept up around Ford’s side, trying to get a look at his face while giving him a wide berth. What he saw made him reel back with a silent gasp.
Ford’s eyes were open but unfocused, staring at the clock with a blank expression. Thin rivulets of blood trailed down his cheeks like tear-stains, and dripped from his nose like a leaky faucet, staining his lips and chin.
He gave no reaction to Stan.
The fear in Stan’s voice was audible as he shakily said, “Ford?”
Ford kept staring at the clock.
There was a small, yellow post-it note on it, Stan realized. A crude drawing of a dead mouse in a trap. Another one of Bill’s macabre “jokes” it seemed.
But that didn’t matter. Why was Stan even thinking about that right now? His brother was bleeding from his eyes.
Stan found the courage to lay a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Stanford? Ford, what’s going on? Are you okay?!”
At first there was no response. But then Ford blinked, and with the blink it was like his whole body animated again, and he turned to Stan with a perplexed look.
“What is it, Stanley? Didn’t I ask you to tidy the living room?”
Stan drew his hand back quickly, not wanting to test Ford’s patience. “I—yes, you did, but—”
“But what? You decided to slack off instead? I don’t ask for much, Stanley, but you make me feel like a slave driver sometimes.”
Stan stuttered to try and explain himself.
“I finished the living room,” he wanted to say. “I was going to wash some dishes. I’ve been doing what you asked.”
He couldn’t get anything out except a panicked, “Ford! You’re bleeding!”
“Hmm?” Ford raised a hand and wiped under his nose curiously, examining the blood that stained his skin. “Ah. So it seems.”
Stan pressed his fingers together nervously. Ford was being too blasé about it. “Are you okay?” he asked again, hunching in on himself.
Ford scoffed and waved him off. “You know I get nosebleeds from my migraines sometimes.”
“Your eyes are bleeding!” Stan nearly shouted, freaked out. “Migraines don’t make eyes bleed! Eyes shouldn’t bleed at all! What’s going on?!”
“Don’t you raise your voice at me!” Ford immediately snapped. He turned on his heel sharply, hand raised to strike Stan. But he wobbled on his first step, as if his legs couldn’t hold him, sending him staggering to keep his balance.
Stan, stupidly, jumped forward. “Ford!”
Ford groaned, rubbing at his eyes as he let Stan support his weight. Blood smeared on his face and hand from the rubbing, but he didn’t seem to notice it as he blinked and looked up at Stan.
“Stanley?” He sounded confused. “Didn’t I ask you to tidy the living room?”
What?
Stan something cold unsettle his whole body. Reflex told him to drop his brother and run, but he held tighter. He didn’t know what was going on, but Ford didn’t seem to either. This time, though, he was able to croak out an answer.
“I-I finished with the living room…”
“Oh.” Ford straightened up. “Excellent. You may find something to read until you have to start dinner, then.”
He began to walk away, like nothing had just happened.
“…Are you okay?” Stan hesitantly asked yet again.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ford gave him an odd look. He grabbed a bottle of painkillers from the cupboard.
Stan didn’t move from his spot as Ford took two, put them back in the wrong cupboard, and left with a muttered, “Need to get more of those soon.”
Oomfie enlightened me with the idea of vampire Ford kidnapping his brother due to not wanting to be inmortal alone and I couldn't resist
Stanley was meant to drive Ford back home so Ford can go away with all his weird vampire stuff but. That's not an option. Stanley doesn't know about rescuing feral animals, but Ford does!
