this is puppy, and this is puppy's puppy

Check out @overlords-au :3c

😊😊 Glad you like it so much! Maze House is an endless cycle of abuse for everyone but Bill 😔

To answer your question, Bill orchestrated the whole situation so he could eat :) The type of poltergeist/demon Bill is in this AU feeds off of emotions, and negative ones are strong. Bill torments those who come live in his house, feeding off their torment and despair and fear. Usually Bill just drains them dry like that until they die.

But Ford was different. He was the first person to come live in the house knowing something was there, and trying to actively communicate with Bill. Bill took a liking to Ford and decided he didn’t want Ford to die. Problem was, Bill still has to eat, so he searched Ford’s memories and found the perfect solution in Stan.

It’s been shown in snippets and art pieces of the AU that there’s something wrong with Ford’s mind and memory. That’s Bill’s doing :)

Bill convinced Ford to call Stan to the house to “reconcile” and the like. But Bill’s true intentions were to create a setup that allows him to feed from Stan (and a bit from Ford still) while being able to keep Ford alive. Having Ford abuse his brother creates the fear and torment Bill enjoys consuming. It’s basically a constant feedback loop for Bill.

Finally! proper presentations! though Stan doesnt get it at all.

It wasnt a murder basement! yipieeee!

(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)

yes it is

Ford's fork hit the table hard. "When."

"He came by the other day, I answered the door and--"

"You're not to answer the door. Whatever ideas my ex-associate has given you are completely false and you are apparently unable to see that, so you're no longer permitted to answer the door."

"That's bullshit, Ford! I'm going through enough shit as it is with this stupid collar around my neck - and I'm only keeping it because of your weird anxiety - you can't just--"

"I can and I will. This is my home, you will respect my rules." Ford said sternly.

"Listen, Sixer, I'm trying to talk to you man to man here."

"Maybe that's the issue." Ford picked up Stan's plate, dodging his half-hearted swipe for it. He stood up, walking to the corner of the kitchen and putting the plate down. He turned and Stan had just stolen his plate, and was loudly chewing Ford's potatoes.

Ford prided himself on being better than his family, but in that moment he knew his father's anger. He stormed over, grabbing a handful of Stan's hair and dragging him out of his seat. Stan yelled, flailing and kicking like a rabid animal, but he was emaciated where Ford was meticulous with his physical health to not burden his muse. It was easy to drag him to the corner, dropping his face onto his plate and putting a foot on his back when he tried to get up.

Stan made the sweetest little breathless noise as Ford pushed him into the floor, into the food Ford had provided him. "Do you know the intelligence quotient of a dog, Stanley?" He asked while Stan struggled to inhale under the weight on his back. "A mere twenty points maximum. No more intelligent than a toddler. There is an 80 point difference between a dog and an average man. I have an IQ of 183. Do you know what that means?"

Stan wheezed. "Means you're a dick."

Ford pressed harder. He could break a rib this way. "It means you are a dog to me. Able to be instructed but incapable of higher logic and reasoning. Easily swayed. Stupid. Anyone who sees a dog behave the way you do would put it down. You have no utility and you're starting to really piss me off, Stanley. You will not comment on things you do not understand. You will sit there in the corner and finish the dinner I gave you and I might not tie you off outside to bark yourself sore."

Stan stopped entirely, looking up at Ford with one wild eye. "Fuck you."

Ford took his foot back and kicked Stan in the stomach hard enough his back hit the wall. Stan wheezed another curse and Ford kicked him again. And again. And again. Watching Stan curl into himself shakily, like a shivering fawn.

His final kick had Stan throwing up the dinner he stole. His stomach turned and he stepped away. "Do you understand?"

Stan nodded, pale and heaving.

"Good." Ford helped him up. "I'll clean you up, just leave it to me." He said gently, helping Stanley with his stagger to the bathroom. "I won't put you down for a few rabid tendencies, I love you too much." He pulled Stanley out of his sweater, huffing when Stan wouldn't let go of his stomach to get his sleeves off. "Even if you need a guiding hand." He bit, and Stan moved his hands obediently. Perfect.

OUGGGH I LOVED THIS ONE VERY MUCH lil something that i had issues with and refuse to look more my screen when i could re read this masterpiece

THANK YOU SO MUCCCH CHEERING CHEEERING AAAA me when me when anons leave this amount of talent in my askbox ougggh TY

Ford and his "logical" explanation og why Stanley is like a dog to him. ough, chef kiss. and making him eat from the floor???? yes yes give me my fave

Quiero

Close up d los bebitos

si dimos medio bases de como s verian pero quiero verlos dibujados pero a mi m da paja hacerlo asi que

Bebitos

si a ti t da paja imaginate yo que no sé hacer fanchilds

So I decided to half illustrate my idea about the Ford clone.

I had this idea going around in my head since the moment I write the first part, so, if the Ford clone is very happy living life next to Stanley, they managed to make their Stanco something legitimate and they are doing very well!

He no longer has debts, he lives in a nice apartment, his brother has forgiven him and loves him again, so much so that now the stan-o-war is in his plans.

life is good

Well until someone who clearly has the wrong number wanted to ruin everything,

Ford’s ears, which had faced forward as he concentrated on writing his journal, twitch at the sound of Stan’s voice, which is uncharacteristically serious. Ford, he says—not a nickname, not an insult, just his name. Ford feels a little jolt of anxiety just strong enough to get him to look up from his book and at his brother, who is lounging on a nearby couch.

Stan has been staying at Ford’s cabin for about a week now, and he’s really made himself at home. Ford feels his chest swell at the sight of Stan; his coat is shiny and clean if still a little patchy. That’s alright, those spots will grow back given time and attention, which Ford will be able to give him once he’s brought his Muse into this realm. Until then, Ford’s attention is unfortunately split, which means Stan is sometimes slightly neglected.

“Yes?” Ford asks, a tad impatient now that he’s been pulled from his task.

“You’re doing that thing where you kick your leg out over and over trying to get something unstuck, but the thing is still there so you just kick it again like twenty seconds later. It’s been almost an hour. Will you just check your damn fur?” Stan huffs and turns his attention back to the comic Ford had brought him from the corner store.

Oh, dear. Ford hadn’t even realized he’d been doing that. He tries to hide his blush as he leans down and tries to remove whatever irritates his toes. Now that Stan’s pointed it out, Ford can feel just how annoying the burr is, and he’ll definitely be unable to focus now.

Ugh. The damn thing is at a bad angle—Ford tries to adjust, leans out of his chair to get it, contorting to reach it and—

Falls out of his chair.

“Shit, Sixer!” Stan hurries to help him up, and Ford can’t help but laugh at his own foolishness, which puts Stan at ease. “Moses. You could just ask if you need a little help.” Stan points out, rolling his eyes as he guides Ford to the couch he’d just been laying on. It smells distinctly of Stan, since he’s basically taken up residence here while Ford is working at his desk, which is often.

“I thought I had it.” Ford whines as he brings his paw up for inspection. It’s been a while since he’s clipped his fur, and thus the fluffy appendage has managed to pick up a good amount of debris. “Ugh.” Ford flops backwards, tootsies up in the air as he voices how extremely unhappy he is about this turn of events. “Why’d you have to say something? I didn’t notice until you pointed it out.”

Stan just snorts, and grabs Ford’s paw in his.

Ford can’t help the full-bodied shiver he feels as Stan touches him. His hands are so different from Ford’s. The number of digits, yes, but also their construction—the claws, the paw pads, all evolutionary advantages when hunting prey with soft, tasty flesh just like Ford.

And yet, there’s no fear in Ford’s shiver; he relaxes against the couch as Stan dutifully begins to clean his paws, as if they were little kits again.

First, Stan drags a pleasantly dull claw between an accumulation of matted fur, carefully pulling just-so before bringing the spot to his mouth and expertly slicing the fur away from Ford’s sensitive skin with a deadly fang. The relief is instant, but Stan isn’t done yet. All he’s done is relieve some pressure from the bur stuck up between his toes, now he has to actually remove it.

Stan tries to use his claws again, but it’s too deep; instead, he brings Ford’s paw to his mouth again, and nibbles single-mindedly at the burr, wetting the fur around it with slick spit, lubricating and softening the burr so it can be removed with minimal pain.

Indeed, when Stan finally pulls it free with a triumphant little growl, Ford feels no pain, only relief. Still, Stan leans forward and licks the whole paw clean, soothing any lingering soreness.

Ford hasn’t taken his eyes off Stan for the whole ordeal, a warmth coiling low in his stomach as he watched Stan so competently and confidently slobber all over his foot like it’s no big deal.

Ford doesn’t push it for now; his brother is worth the wait of doing things right, doing things for keeps. So, when Stan lowers Ford’s paw, Ford just voices his gratitude and goes back to work.

AAAA THIS WAS SO CUTE i loved it so so much, ugh, them being domestic killed me im in your walls.

lil extra of my reference of wolf Stanley and Bunny Ford, this came from a discord convo about it. for the record, idk how to draw animals

This Is A Gift, It Comes With A Price chapter 16 snippet

Stan has had Enough™️

“Calm down, Stanley.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Stan yelled loudly. “I’m sick of you telling me what to do!”

He swung with his other fist, and Ford caught that one too. He pushed Stan backwards lightly, making him tumble down onto his bed with a little bounce. It didn’t hurt, and it only made Stan more angry that Ford wasn’t bothering to fight back.

“You have so much excess energy this morning. I figured this would happen at some point.” Ford observed him thoughtfully, then stepped back and spread his arms out wide. “Alright then, get that restlessness out.”

Stan stared dumbly until Ford crooked his fingers in a beckoning motion, then he leapt up and all but flew at his brother. If he was getting a free pass to hit Ford then he wasn’t going to decline. Ford didn’t let Shermie hit him, so Stan was surprised that he was being allowing to do so—especially considering the spiels about “respect” Ford had gone on about. But whatever. Stan didn’t care about Ford’s reasons for allowing it; he only cared about landing a good left hook in Ford’s smug face.

It didn’t do much. Ford’s head barely tilted from the impact, his expression unchanged.

Annoying.

Ford grabbed Stan under the arms and gently tossed him onto the bed again.

“You know better than to leave yourself open like that,” he chided. “Keep your guard up!”

“Shut up!” Stan yelled, bouncing to his feet and bull-rushing his brother. “I don’t need your ‘advice’!”

He went for Ford’s middle, landing a few rapid hits to the solar plexus, trying to knock the wind out of Ford.

Ford grabbed him under the arms as soon as he was done and gently tossed him onto the bed.

Stan rolled back to his feet with fury. Ford was playing with him. There was a glint to his eyes and a curve to his lips that betrayed his amusement at Stan’s efforts. He was treating this like a game. The same way he treated everything else. Like Stan and the family were toys Ford could play with, and not people with their own agency.

“Take me seriously!” Stan shouted, lunging for his brother with his hands outstretched, intent on simply trying to strangle him in frustration.

Ford grabbed him by the arms and swung him in a circle, then gently tossed him onto the bed. “You don’t want me to take you seriously. Trust me.”

Stan bounced up and tried to tackle Ford to the floor.

Ford let it happen, playfully rolling around on the floor with Stan, wrestling him. Stan fought furiously, dead set on trying to do some sort of damage to Ford—or at least wipe the smile off his face—but he was easily overpowered and pinned down.