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District Four’s chariot outfit

You know when parents make their kids match for family photos? This is that, but worse.

I cannot let go of the absolutely ridiculous chariot outfits for the tributes in the hunger games. They are all so perfectly corny and it looks like they’re all trying out for Miss America but like. Badly.

I also had to give Stan bellbottoms. I put Darlene in a dress, it’s only fair

And bonus:

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🏳️‍🌈 🤔 ????

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pocket possum..

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Stanleys through the years

My precious old man

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I can’t stop thinking about Filbrick in your hunger games au. Like I absolutely need to know what’s going through his head throughout all of this because he seems like the type of guy to… not necessarily want his children in the games, but definitely to want the eternal wealth and glory of having a victor in the family.

Like… your son screws up. You kick him out of the house. You don’t see him for over a year. Your other son, the one you consider useful, gets reaped, and he’s a genius, sure, but you don’t think of him as exactly hunger games material. Then your son, the one you threw out like trash, volunteers to take his place. You fully expect him to die, but then he charms the whole capitol and makes it through the entire games through wit and strength and skill… and then your genius son tears it all down to save his brother and you’re living in, like, a crappy dirty underground resistance base while your kids and their friends try to take down the government.

I’m just desperate to know where you think he stands on all this, I cannot stop thinking about it.

Ohhh man. Filbrick Pines. I am about to make yall feel things about Filbrick Fuckass Pines.

You have three sons. One, your oldest, has settled down. A family man. You're a little disappointed, sure, but you understand. There was a time when some might have called you a family man.

You have twins unexpectedly. Two children at once, bringing your family to five, is far more than you were prepared for. Than you wanted. You keep the names simple.

You raise them to the standards that you were raised, hold them to the standard that you were held to. They grow up strong, sturdy. They are Pines, after all.

One is a genuis. The other pales in comparison.

In your own way, you love them both. You never say it.

One day, the genius comes home speaking of grandeur. Opportunity. Its something you never had. Something you will not let slip through your-his fingers.

It slips anyway, and seemingly, the other son is to blame.

You will remember the feeling of his shirt under your hands as you yelled in his face and threw him into the dirt of the street. You will remember his face, pale and scared and small, as he stares up at you. You will not remember the words you said.

He does not have a car to speed away in. You watch him, from the window of your pitiful shop, as he walks away.

You must learn to be content with this tiny hovel in which you live, once you've had a taste of the chance of freedom.

This is district four. There is not many places for your son to go.

You see him on the docks occasionally. Scraping barnacles or throwing nets out to sea when you go to trade. You know that he ignores you.

Somewhere in your chest, there is pride.

Your son looks to be doing well for himself. He is stubborn, more stubborn than even you, and he has found himself a job. A place.

He has, effectively, done the thing you hoped. He has pulled himself up, and you tell yourself that its a good thing that he did not come wailing back to your door. You tell yourself that this is the best possible outcome. You tell yourself that seeing your son working, alone on the docks, does not spark pain in your chest.

You tell yourself that you are a Pines. And Pines to not regret.

You tell yourself that it does not keep you up at night every night for a year, wondering where your boy is sleeping.

You tell yourself a lot of things.

Your youngest boys, and you still count that you have two, are in the final year that they can be reaped. They will be men, truly, proper men, without the fear of the games hanging over your head.

You stand near the other men for the ceremony. Your neighbor, Mr Crampelter, is one of the richest men you know.

It brings you some satisfaction that he has to stand in the dirt next to you, even if his suit is nicer than yours.

The bowl of names is brought to the stage. The crowd is silent.

You remember your last year of childhood, the last year you could have been reaped clearly. You remember the feeling of relief that took your breath when your oldest son was spared.

You prepare yourself for that feeling again.

And then your son is called.

Your boy. The genuis, small and weak and he never took well to boxing lessons, not like your other sons, and he never did well in standing up for himself, and he's never going to survive.

He is ahead of you, your son. You watch him stiffen from million miles away.

You wonder, distantly, if the reason they separate the adults from the children is because they are scared of what the parents might do.

Your ears pick up your wife starting to cry from over the crowd. You cannot make a sound.

There is a beat as your son, your boy, your genius, shuffles forward.

You cannot breathe.

And then.

There is a shout.

There is a moment of pure relief. You live in District Four. You draw in a shuddering breath. District four has volunteers, every year, at least one. Your son, your genius, has been plucked from the jaws of death by one shout.

You turn to see who it is.

The boy who volunteered is being shaken to the front. The crowd is busy, there is movement up ahead and you cannot see. You push forward, and other men, other fathers, let you pass to the front.

You hear your child start to scream.

You hear your boy, your genius, begin to shout. To yell. You can hear him from a distance, you can hear him like he's standing right next to you because you can't hear anything else.

You have never heard your son yell like that. It does not sound like a Pines, it sounds like desperation.

The spot in your chest knows who has volunteered before you see your second son's face on stage.

He looks scared. He looks utterly stoic, stone faced, and he says something to the Capital representative that has them grinning, as the name rings out over the crowd.

Stanley Pines.

That is your son. Your boy. You remember the day he was born. When you laid him down next to his brother, swaddled in the softest and second softest fabric you could trade for. You remember when he ran to you, before he learned to be afraid of you, when he'd lost his first tooth.

It feels like yesterday.

You remember the feeling of his crumpled shirt under your hands when you threw him backwards out into the street. When he never came home.

His brother is screaming. Stanley isn't even crying.

You are still for the rest of the ceremony. You are still until a Peacekeeper touches your shoulder and tells you to follow, to say your goodbyes.

You meet up with your wife, and your sons. Your oldest, and your genius.

Everyone's eyes are red rimmed.

You slip your hand into your wife's. She cannot stop crying enough to speak.

They lead you into a wooden building that you have been lucky enough to have never entered. The peacekeepers usher you into a hallway, with your rich neighbor.

His daughter has been chosen too.

The peacekeeper forces your wife, your oldest son and your younger into the room.

You do not go.

Instead, you stand outside the door, a vigil.

You can hear your life cry. You can hear your son cry.

You stare at the peacekeeper ahead of you. You watch him count down the minutes.

Hes on a schedule, you can tell.

But you are a Pines. And you are a father. And a husband. And if you cannot be a good enough father or a good enough husband than you will be a good enough Pines, and you will stand guard outside of the door like a dog and buy your family more time.

Your oldest son leaves the room first. Then, your wife.

Your sons are in the room. They only have a minute.

Instead of letting the peacekeeper in to pry them away, you open the door yourself.

Both of your sons look to you.

You usher Ford out of the room, and he goes willingly. He is crying.

There is a moment, a single beat where you are alone again in a room with your son.

With Stanley.

You remember when your wife told you she was having a baby. You remember when the doctors told you that it was twins. You remember the first time they called you Pa.

You remember the first time Stanley had come with a black eye, whimpering but standing tall, all to protect his brother.

Your son, your boy, Stanley looks at you from across the tiny room that stinks of grief, of loss and chrysanthemum.

You take off your sunglasses and look him in the eyes.

You are a father. And you try to memorize your sons face, because you never did his entire childhood.

Your eyes are red too.

Stanley nods at you. Just once. Just one dip of the head.

You nod back.

He is stronger than you. And you hope, when you close that door with the knowledge that your boy, your son, will be loaded onto a train and sent to fight and die, you hope,

That he knows that you are proud of him.

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I've never even read the Hunger Games or watched any of the movies. Everything I know about it comes from cultural osmosis. Why did you do this to me.

Anyway, I imagine that at some point after Stan and Emma-May team up and before Stan figures out the glasses, there's a night where they're just sitting around the fire (is that a thing that could happen? Again, no actual knowledge) talking about... the end.

"What will you do if you make it?"

Stan looks up from where he's poking a stick into the fire. It casts shadows on her face, and she looks... well, they all look tired. And scared. Emma-May usually doesn't, though.

"Make what? Another net? Because I'm almost done with this one." He tosses the stick into the fire and resumes work on his net. You can never have too many nets, especially when you're not too keen on the whole murder thing.

She looks up from the fire to glare at him. "You know. If you make it to the end. Hypothetically."

Stan's hands falter, just for a moment, but he forces them to move again and puts on his smile like a mask.

"Psh, we both know I'm not making it that far, doll."

"That's why it's called a hypothetical, knucklehead." If Emma-May notices his wince at the nickname, she makes no indication. "What if it was you and me?"

Stan looks up at her, looks her in the eyes this time, and she can see how fake his smile is.

"I hear the Gobblewonker isn't a bad way to go, nice and fast. Or the sirens. I could go out having fun."

Emma-May can't meet his eyes anymore, and she looks back down into the fire, wishing it could burn away memories.

(Ford really hopes Stan is just playing it up for the camera. He really wants Stan to take the time to finally see the message on the glasses. He sort of wishes Emma-May was gone.

Fiddleford appreciates the sentiment, he really does, but he'd like for Stan to stop, actually. Stop flirting with his girlfriend, of course, but also stop giving his new best friend reasons to glare murderously in his direction. It's not his fault Stan is like that! Stan's in the games at all because he was being a self-sacrificing idiot! What is Fiddleford supposed to do about that!?)

Also I can see Rico constantly calling Stan the wrong name.

Rico: So Steve– can I call you Steve?

Stan: Well it's not my name.

Rico: So Hal–

Stan: Where did Hal come from? That's not even close?

Rico: Now Andrew–

Stan: I'm starting to think you don't actually know my name.

Hey im just gonna hold space for this for a second. Because somehow this makes me soft. And sad.

Emma May can't wrap her head around not? Really trying your hardest to make it home? She doesn't have family to really return to, she has Fidds, and she has a LIFE ahead of her, and thats enough

But? What is Stan fighting for? Hes not fighting to win, he's fighting to play.

He's fighting for what?

Im not sure Stan even really knows. But still, he lives. He keeps going.

GOD I can't imagine Ford or, fuck, anyone really HEARING that conversation (because there are cameras EVERYWHERE) and just hearing how. I dont know. Numb Stan is. To it all.

Hes going to help Emma May win. Hes not sure what hes going to do after that

Also I am absolutely yoinking your Rico headcanon that is absolutely amazing. AND ITS ALL STANS FAKE NAMES FROM CANON?@? YOU ARE SO SMART

It just goes to show how LITTLE Rico actually cares. Hes just in it for the possibility of fame, and when Stan starts to get popular, Rico intends to hitch the ride all the way

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Ok so my mom read the hunger games books back when they were popular

And she loved telling me about them

And one thing I remember be telling me is when Rue died they cut the camera feed so the people of the capital wouldn’t feel things for the contestants

I fully believe that would happen with Stan

However I also fully believe someone (probably fiddleford if we’re being honest) hacked into the camera feeds so they could watch Stan and Emma may

And who’s to say they wouldn’t keep the scene on screen for the capital to see

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I love Clois so much I had to draw the new Clois! I think I like the sketch more 🫣

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darlene stan duo makes me sick also. here's a doodle i'd literally JUST finished when i saw your latest post

GOD. FUCKIMG DAMN.

Oh mybgod you NAILED THEM. Oh its beautiful. Oh I'm staring at this this is so amazing

Wow its so great that theyre going to be besties forever and when they both go home Stans gonna fight Crampelter for Big Brother Privileges and everything is going to be okay!

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Happy birthday to the hubby

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Any dog parent knows that Kal-El is gonna lose this argument.

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life lessons with grunkle ford

you can support my work on kofi!

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bonding activities

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Mabel and Stan parallels

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Thinking about how the Stan twins were both taught from a young age that life is a matter of transactions. How they were valued only for the money they could bring their family, and how this shaped their lives in such different ways.

Ford was the intelligent one, and this made him valuable. He knew what he had to offer. He knew he was important. (He had to be. Experience had shown him that love was conditional. He had to earn it. He had to be enough.) When Bill Cipher approached him, he confirmed everything Ford wanted so desperately to believe about himself. Imagine that sense of excitement, of accomplishment, of pride and power and relief. Imagine having that final, unshakeable source of external validation - that this being that knew everything and could have chosen anyone, chose you. Imagine knowing exactly what you could do to please this being and, with the understanding that love is conditional, knowing that you could fulfill the requirements for that love. Imagine knowing exactly how to ensure you would be loved, not just by that being but by the family you uplifted and the future you created. All you had to do was satisfy your own curiosity… all you had to do was build a portal. Is it any wonder that Ford fell for Bill’s tricks?

Then we have Stan, the failure. If love was transactional, he could never pay the fee. He knew people only helped you if you had something to offer. And he had nothing to offer, so why would anyone ever help him? Why would anyone care? Of course he didn’t fall for Bill. He couldn’t. When Bill promised gifts and power and happiness, how could Stan believe a word he said? In a world without altruism, such promises could never be trusted. There was always a price to be paid - and Stan had never been able to pay it.

And so the end of the world was triggered and then averted, all because one brother thought he could earn the world’s love, while the other knew he would never earn anything good.

A+ parenting, Filbrick. Truly.