#stan twins

[willow-does-stuff]

yall are either giving the stan twins (specifically stanley) too much accent or not enough accent. yes there’s no way they wouldn’t say cawfee (coffee) and dawg (dog) but they’re not like incomprehensible. i don’t think you’d immediately know they’re from new jersey just by hearing their voice yk? also … WATCH THE SHOW their voices don’t have obvious accents 😭 i’m kinda sad alex hirsch didn’t add that detail in tbh

[artsymeeshee]

Don’t know why they’re making me so emotional tonight but hugs be upon ye!

[helloneighborabridged]

Honest Opinion; They seem kinda similar 👀

I've watched Gravity Falls as a kid more then playing Hello Neighbor alphas as a kid. But the Stan twins seems had a good family bond like the Peterson brothers. I cannot be the only one to witness this. 💀

But still pretty cool. ✌️😘

[kayiiin]

I mean, I had to draw this, right?

[ecchima]

I've consumed so much Gravity Falls content this week between fiddauthor week and fics I passed by here or were reccomended to me (plus some I re-read from 10 years ago) and YET my brain is buzzing with more ideas, more plots, more AUs than ever before, the brainrot is real and it's shaped like a pine tree...

ANYWAY

I'm starting Theseus' guide now and at the begining there's a line about Stan's hearing aid not surviving the trip through the portal and I'm reminded yet again that canon never adresses Ford learning about that hearing aid so now I'm thinking about Sea Grunks, Stan's hearing aid running out of battery faster in the cold and him not noticing at first. They just keep taking notes on the deck in casual silence until a big creature screeches in the overcast skt above them, Ford looking up, his reflexes kicking in, expecting Stan to do the same, only for him to not notice and keep taking notes.

Ford yells at him to get down but Stan is too slow, doesn't pick up on the panic and when he finally glances up at his brother, Ford is already launching himself at him. They roll on the deck, all the way under the nook formed by some of their outdoor equipment and Stan watches, frowning as Ford is angry yelling whispering at him. His hand reaches up to his hearing aid and takes it off, showing it to Ford. Sure enough, the light is off, out of batteries.

Once the creature has gone away and they've shuffled inside, Stan can recharge the batteries and the first thibg he hears when he can out them back on is Ford yelling "YOU'VE GOT HEARING AIDS AND YOU DIDN'T THINK TO TELL ME???"

Holy Moses, he wishes he could turn them off as Ford goes on and on on a rant about safety and trust.

That Christmas, Ford gifts Stan homemade hearing aids that never runs out of batteries and are so powerful, he can hear ultrasounds with them...

[kayiiin]

I have to draw cat stans once in a while, it's a medical condition.

[sprstarwatcher]

Little thingy I wrote last night because I felt like this needed to be created. this is stancest and they are killing me

But Stanley does. He does because he knows firsthand how divided androgynes must have felt; how they wandered the earth, trying to find their lost part, dying of hunger and sadness, not wanting to do anything separately. Sounds so familiar.

.......

People are born whole. The legend of androgynes — once powerful beings, whom God cut into halves as a punishment — is just an ancient fairy tale. In modern society, nobody believes you have to find yourself some "other half" in order to be complete.

Maybe it was his punishment, too. For being the worse one of the duo, for always dragging his brother down and eventually screwing his future up. Stanley was the anchor of the ship Ford was trying to sail — sinking deeper each year. It was only natural he would want to cut Stan loose someday.

And he did. And Stanley hasn't been whole since then. The half of his heart, his better half, was gone.

He had been dragging through life like a cripple, inferior, lacking something that would make him human again. Life had worn him down, chewed him and spat him out a million times. Time had softened some hard edges in one place but created new ones in another. He was Frankenstein's monster, a broken vase, clumsily reassembled from shattered pieces of porcelain — put together, but all in the wrong order.

Stanley didn't recognize himself anymore. All he could see in the mirror was Him. Stan wondered how He had changed, how his life must be so much better now without him interfering. It was a torture, and he stopped looking in mirrors.

And when Ford reached out to him that day, he — God — he was so stupid for hoping it was to reconnect. Who would want to reunite with a parasite after it was finally gone? Stanley prayed that Ford would. That Ford would still love him and want him back and —

Stanley let these silly hopes run through his head and the next moment they were crushed, brutally murdered, and he was so angry and so desperate. They were inseparable growing up — what the fuck had changed? He remembered Ford promising they would always be together, just two of them, forever.

A liar, a goddamn liar, I'll —

Then Ford hit him and it burned and he fought back and soon it was over and he was all alone again.

He had been alone for a long time — for what felt like an eternity — trying to bring his lost part back. He needed it to survive. He needed Ford close to him.

But Stan was scared. Scared that when he'd finally see Ford again he'd find out that they didn't have anything in common anymore. That they were so altered by time and its horrors that they would no longer match. And when he met Ford again after thirty years, his fears started to make sense.

Stan had lost his younger shape, the one Ford had known. He was butchered and glued together, and so was Stanford. He could have been a total stranger to him now. But the most painful thing was that he wasn't. He was still his Ford — older and tougher, but his voice, his eyes... They never changed. And Stanley just couldn't look at him.

Some things just can't be fixed. But Stanley was still trying. That was all he was capable of — trying and failing and trying again.

And then one day, one terrible stormy evening, Stanley just couldn't let Ford be. Couldn't let him disappear into his basement as he always did when even a tiny possibility of dialogue appeared. He was too tired and too old to deal with this childish bullshit any longer.

It turned into another verbal skirmish, and Stanley finally got that words just wouldn't work for them. Maybe it was because Ford couldn't trust anything Stan said, and maybe he shouldn't, because Stan had said too many things that weren't true — too many awful and silly things.

Go fuck yourself, Stanford! I hate you!

So Stan took action instead. Ford's first thought was that he'd shifted so close to hit him, to start a fight yet again. But Stanley didn't. He did something unbelievable instead — something long forgotten. Something Ford still dreamed of, despite common sense, morality, everything. He kissed him.

And it worked. It all clicked together, like many years ago. Their bodies intertwined — two pieces of a ridiculously complicated jigsaw puzzle falling into place.

And with Ford's lips on his, Stanley finally felt whole.

[kale-of-the-forbidden-cities]

N is for...

Nearly Dead

- Stan Twins, take your pick.

TW: nearly dying, blood, nondescriptive vomitting, suicidal ideation

no beta, no reread, we nearly die like this guy <3

Ford woke up to ringing in his ears, blood in one eye, and pain all over, he couldn't even begin to pick out where it was coming from.

But it was bearable. It was the way he'd woken up every single time he'd slept since Bill's betrayal.

Which wasn't much.

He was angry at himself for sleeping, but that didn't do much at the moment. He would just have to try harder.

Ford knew he'd have to assess the damage, but he took his time, trying to orient himself, to figure out where he was without opening his eyes just yet.

It was easy to tell that he was inside. The wind may be howling through the windows, he may be slightly cold, but it didn't bite into his skin or gnaw at his core.

As expected, his glasses weren't on his face. It was like a fun little bonus game that Bill liked to play - fun for the demon, anyway. He'd left them all over the house, or sometimes outside of it. He probably got a kick out of watching Ford stumble around, injured and blind, trying to find them.

Ford took a painful deep breath, and finally opened his eyes.

He was in the living room. Nothing special- Did Bill have another tape to show him?

He lifted his hand above his face to inspect the damage from Bill's last joyride, but his attention was caught by the dark stains coating his sleeve.

Adrenaline spiked, and he sat up in an instant.

It wasn't just on his arm- blood covered the entire front of his body. Half-dried and sticky, but his coat was too thick for it to have come from the inside.

Ford came to the horrifying conclusion: This was someone else's blood.

He held onto the nearest wall and dragged himself up. He'd be dead if he'd lost this much blood, for sure, or at the very least, he wouldn't be able to walk.

Dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him, but once his vision cleared, his eyes darted around the dim room. Luckily, the blood was quite easy to see on the carpet, dark footprints that led to where he had laid just a moment earlier.

His heart pounded in his ears as he followed the trail. The blood that coated the bottom of his boots stuck to the floor with every step, a sickening sensation.

Ford picked up his pace and reached the kitchen sink, the smell of his own sick alone enough to make him gag, but the thought that Bill had puppeted him to take someone's life had him spitting more vomit into it.

He turned away from the stench and leaned against the counter to get his bearings, when his eyes landed on the floor of the kitchen.

Shards of broken dishes. That wasn't new. Bill had taken it upon himself to wreck everything a couple of days ago.

But now, these too, were covered in blood.

And it was concentrated around a dark, blurry figure that laid on the ground.

Pooling from it.

This was the person Bill had killed.

Ford swallowed as more bile rose in his throat. He had to think rationally. He had to see who it was.

Was that rational?

A single thought remained that was backed by both logic and emotion.

Ford was dangerous.

He should not be allowed to be alive anymore.

He'd thought he could wait until his brother arrived, but this changed everything.

Stanford crept closer to the body.

Closer.

Closer...

He knelt down, ignoring the shards that dug into his legs. He was wearing pants, he would be fine. He squinted at the figure in the dark, then reached out to carefully brush their hair out of their face--

No.

No.

No, this could not be real.

He was met with his own features, but not perfectly identical.

He'd had dreams of dying, Bill had tormented him with visions of his potential fate, always in the third person, he'd seen himself dead.

This was not Ford.

It was someone who looked like him, but was not him.

This was...

Ford scrambled backwards, hardly feeling the broken glass that sliced into his already injured hands. A strangled cry escaped his throat.

Stanley.

He'd invited his brother to his death.

Worse, he'd died thinking it was Ford who'd killed him.

No.

No.

No.

He couldn't...

He wouldn't...

It wasn't just blood that flowed from his eye. Tears were pouring down Ford's face at an impressive rate, considering how dehydrated he knew he was.

He pulled himself back over to his brother, squinting to examine the wounds that his hands had inflicted.

It was hard to tell. He was covered in blood. More concentrated in some areas... Stab wounds.

Ford leaned closer to look at his brother's face. Eyes closed, laying still.

He couldn't breathe.

With no glasses to shield them, red-tinted tears fell from his eyes onto Stanley's.

As he traced his fingers along the edge of his brother's face, he realized he wanted nothing more than to lie down and die beside him.

Ford's face grimaced painfully as the sobs began to fall out.

Shouting, crying, pleading.

"Stanley!!"

He grabbed his brother's shoulder, shaking him as if he was only asleep.

His fingers were met with something warm and wet. Blood. More blood. Still bleeding.

He tore his hand away, instead bringing it up to his head, grabbing at his hair, he doubled forward and screamed.

Over and over, he yelled himself hoarse. Mostly incomprehensible, but he got a few words in there.

Stanley. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I didn't mean it.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

He screamed and cried until he had nothing left.

He just sobbed over his brother's dead body.

Then went quiet.

Until his brother's dead body made a noise.

It was small, choked, wet- he had blood in his mouth, but he'd tried to say something.

Or he was crying out in pain.

It didn't matter, because he was making the noise and his eyes had opened slightly, and he was alive.

He was alive, but he was injured, and Ford had been sitting here and doing nothing about it.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

Panic and guilt clouded his senses as he took hold of his brother's hand.

"Stanley," he breathed, addressing him, trying to keep him there.

"I'm going to take you-"

Take him where? To a hospital? With what car? In this weather?

"I'll call-"

With what phone line, with what power?

"I'll get you-"

What, a medical kit, bandages? He'd used all that on himself- he'd be lucky if he even had disinfectant left.

"Just stay there!"

He let go of Stan's hand and got to his feet, only wobbling slightly as he rushed out of the room. Before he did, he turned back and gave Stanley one last promise.

"If you die, Stanley, I am going to kill myself."

He knew that was true. Ford could not live knowing his brother had died by his own hands.

But for now, he was alive, and so Ford had to be, too- he had to set this right.

He ran to his bedroom, where he had clothes in his closet. Of course, where else would they be? He rummaged through, finding things he could easily tear or cut up, to create makeshift bandages or to act as gauze to stuff into the wounds.

Preventing further blood blood loss was vital, and so was preventing infection. He set the clothes on the cleanest surface he could find in the kitchen, then rummaged through his cabinets. He didn't have any of the strong disinfectant that he usually used, but he knew of some mixtures with natural antibacterials - it was certainly better than nothing.

Ford forced his lungs to inhale, take deep breaths, he had to keep his hands steady.

Stanley was breathing when he started.

In a daze of blood and pained cries, his brother's wounds became haphazardly dressed with torn up pieces of clothing.

Stanley was breathing when Ford finished.

He had been incredibly lucky. Bill had somehow managed to miss all of Stan's vital organs. The main problem was blood loss.

Stanley was breathing.

Ford wouldn't be killing himself after all.

---------

and i'm gonna end it there because i don't know jackshit about how to treat stab wounds or anything medical really. does not come in handy when i want to cover the characters in blood but oh well