#a tale of two brothers...

[novemberisland]

TW: skin.

♪ I’ve grown bored of recent gameplay so I turned Oasis Springs into a world of crime and debauchery. Enjoy :)

[ravmycupine]

Poppy Avenue's special guest [and also an unlikely reunion]

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Doodle dump because I have too many thoughts about them </3

Stupid shenanigans during their college era referencing this. Harold used to have a stupid moustache and goatee in that “I just started growing facial hair and idk what to do with it” kind of style.

Giving Melvin friends but also making him the shortest and the angriest out of the gang. He is friends with George and Harold and he hates it so much, he is entrenched in denial about it. His only two besties are each fathers of two and very much married, OF COURSE he's going to be mom/dad-friended to death.

They are judging you.

[artistdove]

Which path will you choose? Paint the world or Thin it to nothing?

Unlike the normal game, this universe's challenges are trickier as it seems some of his help only makes things worse for the toons. Almost like some of the trouble is staged to backfire.

[skaamit]

@ Josef Fares

🔵 x-twitter

Ну время и силы потрачены не впустую. Да и фотка классная.

[inkyrainstorms]

The Martian Stan AU - The Beginning

“Is that it?” Stan asked, his voice burning and rising like the coming tide, vicious and overwhelming and inevitable. Ford’s shoulders tightened involuntarily, and he threw his brother as scathing of a glare as he could manage. Couldn’t Stan see that this, Ford’s problems, were important? “You call me all the way here after ten years, just to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?!”

If Ford was any less exhausted, if the hole in his left hand and the hole in his heart  were any less gaping, and the fresh scrapes and cracked fingernails ached any less, he might’ve taken a step back to apologize. To explain that it wasn’t about what Ford wanted, or what Stan wanted. It was about stopping Bill, and saving the world.

If Ford were a different man, he’d reconsider his approach and find a way to fix the chasm that seemed to yawn wider with every word that came out of each of their mouths. But as it was, Ford was not a different man. He couldn’t even fix himself.

So Ford instead felt indignation sting like hot coals in his gut and urge him to step forward, closer to Stanley. His brother took an involuntary half-step back. “Stanley, you don’t understand what I’ve been through!”

“What you’ve been through!” Stan kept talking even as Ford pushed past him, fury etched onto every word like a brand. “No, no, you don’t understand what I’ve been through! I’ve been to prison in three countries, and I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car!”

He got up in Fords face when Ford turned back, his brows drawn low and finger jabbing into Ford’s abdomen. He didn’t realize it, because of course he didn’t, but he’d pressed right into one of the bruises on Fords ribcage from his trip down the stairs earlier that day. Ford grit his teeth and glared back.

“You think you’ve got problems? I’ve got a mullet Stanford!”

Why couldn’t Stan take Fords problems seriously? Was he really cracking jokes at a time like this? 

Ford couldn’t take it anymore. 

Oblivious to the dangerous precipice Fords stability had drawn close to,  Stan got bitterly sarcastic. “Meanwhile where have you been? Holed up in your fancy house in the woods and living it up, selfishly hoarding all—“

Ford went still. If he’d been a slightly different man, a slightly more composed man, perhaps, he’d have fired back another jab at his twin, because how could the man that ruined Fords life and betrayed his complete and total trust call him selfish?

There was a different voice, at a different time altogether too recent and a lifetime ago. His monstrous Muse, his most trusted friend, taking his body on a fucking joyride and then having the gall to look him in the eyes and say “YOU’RE PRETTY SELFISH IQ”. 

Ford had just kept on weeping blood. 

As it was, Stan didn’t get a chance to finish his rant. He was much too busy receiving a solid punch to the face and staggering back against the force of it. For a moment, all was quiet. Ford was shaking, he realized distantly, staring blankly at his brother. His knuckles stung from the impact.

Stan took more time to recover than Ford would’ve thought, but when he finally did, it was with a new layer of dark fury that Ford hadn’t ever seen from him before. Stan lowered the book from where he’d clenched it to his chest, and pulled out a lighter. “Fine.” He whispered roughly, though it echoed in the cavernous room anyway. Louder, then, “Fine! You want me to get rid of it so bad? I’ll get rid of it right now!”

A challenging fire burned in Stan’s eyes, and with a flick, it burned in his right hand too. Ford’s journal dangled above the hungry, all consuming light. 

Ford couldn’t breathe. Every piece of himself he’d had to let go of, that he’d lost to Bill and all that he was giving up to rectify his own mistakes, all to see Stan get rid of part of his life’s work right before his eyes. 

How dare he.

Ford let out a guttural shout and lunged for the book. Stanley, evidently not expecting this, stumbled back and tried to move the lighter before Ford and him could get burned from it in the tussle.

He only partly succeeded. Ford hissed at the momentary new pain shooting up the underside of his hand as he tried to grab for the book and Stan flat out dropped the lighter in response. His brother faltered for a split second, his brow creasing. 

“Sixer, I—“

Ford didn’t let him finish. The second he heard the nickname, some part of him blanked out entirely, and the buzzing in his ears sounded like an angry hornet in his skull. “Don’t,” he grit out, and he’s sure his voice was much too thick and angry and he wasn’t being rational but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Call me that!” 

When Ford lunged for the journal anew, he tackled Stan to the ground as his brother instinctively tightened his own grip on the book. Ford’s book.

“Why not?!” Stan cried out, trying to pry Ford off of him and only succeeding in rolling the two on the ground away from the portal. Ford couldn’t figure out if he sounded more hurt or concerned. The hurricane in his chest kept him from thinking on it too much.

Ford let out a wordless grunt in response, as the two of them, having grappled up to stand, slammed straight through the door and Stan tried to pin him down onto one of the control panels, before Ford managed to gain enough momentum to roll Stan off of him. They were throwing punches and shouting insults they probably didn’t mean, and after a minute long struggle where they surely broke every damn thing in that control room —and good riddance, Ford tried to think but he was too tired to think much at all— Stan had shouted with all the ferocious desperation of a drowning man, “why can’t you listen to me, damnit! You ruined my life!”

Ford had retorted, because of course he did, with “You ruined your own life!” as he finally got a good grip on the book and kicked Stan away with enough force to shove him against the side of one of the control panels. 

Stan’s scream was abrupt and guttural and horrifying. It cut through the haze in Fords mind with all the precision of a scalpel, dropping a rock of dread into his gut. Ford backed away as quickly as he could, and didn’t even register his journal slipping through his slack fingers to land facedown on the ground. He felt sick.

“Stanley! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” 

For a few, horrible, horrible seconds, Stan laid there, slumped and unmoving from where he’d hunched onto the floor. The burn— the brand on his shoulder looked angry and hot against his skin. It had burned clean through his coat and shirt.

Ford took a few hurried steps closer, shaking so hard he could barely walk, when Stan groaned. “Stanley…” he started, but trailed off as Stan pulled himself to his feet. His eyes were darker than Ford had ever seen them before. Stan was shaking too.

“You really want your dumb mysteries that bad?”

And Ford wanted to say, no, no he didn’t, because Stan still held his shoulder stiff as he could and his grip was knuckle-white where he’d used it to brace his arm against his side, because Ford had branded his own twin.

But the words stuck in his throat, because he realized with a start that Stan and him weren’t the ones shaking. The room was. His eyes shot to the portal.

His magnum opus and his curse, his Dadaleus’s Labyrinth, was activating. 

A sudden movement from Stan snapped Fords attention back to his injured, angry brother. Ford took a few cautious steps out of the control room and held up his hands placatingly as Stan advanced. His brother was blocking the doorway, but Ford needed to get in there, he needed to activate the shutdown procedure. “Stan, please,” he said weakly, not sure what exactly he meant. Let me through? Wait? Let me help you?

He didn’t get the chance to find out, though, because Stan continued talking, hefting up the journal he’d evidently picked up from the floor while Ford was distracted. “Well you can have ‘em” Stan said viciously, and Ford could hear the pain in it clear as day as he moved to shove the book into Ford’s hands.

Ford dodged Stan attempt, careful to not touch Stan’s injured shoulder, and weaved around him. “Stan, please, wait.”

Stan laughed, turning around. His grin looked painful. “I’m tired of waiting, Si— Stanford. I really am.”

Ford didn’t have time for this. His heart ached in ways Ford didn’t have the time to decipher as the humming in the room got louder, and he turned to move back to the control room. “Just a moment, Stanley, I just need—“

When Stan latched onto his arm and tried to whirl Ford back around, Ford reacted on pure instinct and deep seated paranoia, that kind that can only be born from aftermath of pure devastation. He followed the momentum and shoved Stan back as hard as he could, turning and sprinting to the control room before Stan could recover and try to stop him again.

“Stanford?”

He never got there. Stan’s voice, suddenly small and scared, ground Ford’s pace to a halt. The humming was louder now, reverberating through his chest. 

“Ford, what’s happening?”

For a terrible moment, Ford didn’t turn around. He just stared at the door of the control room as if he could stop time if he tried hard enough. He didn’t want to see. Seeing made it real. It meant his worst fears had become true, it justified the cold sinking in his chest. 

“Ford!”

Ford whirled around and let out a hoarse cry. There Stanley was, greasy hair floating in a halo around his face, one hand outstretched and the other holding Ford’s journal tight to his chest. Ford had pushed him over the danger line.

The look on his twins face was worse than Ford could’ve ever imagined. 

The anger had drained out of him, the closer he floated to the all consuming blue light of the portal. The was naked terror in his eyes, and he cried out for Ford again.

“Stanley! Hold on, please!” Ford said, before making another break for the control room.

He needed to shut it off right this instant.

“Hold onto what, brainiac!?”

“I don’t know, Stanley! Anything within reach, just don’t let yourself go through the portal.”

Ford input the shut down code. He input it again. He then realized that they’d knocked the cords out of alignment and frantically began adjusting them from where they were wired into the top of the control panel. Shit, they really broke everything in this room, didn’t they?

The third time he input the code, the light flashed green, and the keys made themselves known on a panel adjacent to Ford’s position by the window.

Three keys. Of course. Why did he have to make it three keys, all turned simultaneously?

Metal screeched in the portal room, and when Ford dared to glance up between trying to maneuver himself to turn all three keys, a jolt of horror swept through him and nearly knocked him off his feet. 

Stan has nearly entirely consumed by the light now, clawing at the edge of the portal he’d managed to reach. Ford cursed himself when he realized that the metal plate Stan was holding, as well as  over a dozen others, were loosening to the point of nearly falling off entirely from the main frame. The other objects he’d scattered across the floor of his lab, everything from basic tools like screwdrivers to bigger machine parts floated through the portal at increasingly high speeds.

Ford wouldn’t need to do anything, he realized, and it wasn’t the comfort he wished it was. The portal was destabilizing. Judging by the erratic pulsing the portal light was doing, it’d be closing soon.

Ford ran out of the control room and stopped short just as Stan locked eyes with him again. 

“Stanley!” he called, another desperate idea beginning to form in his panic addled mind as he scanned the room for spare rope and found none. The spare rope from the first portal test must’ve gotten caught in the portals expanding gravitational pull. His brother was barely a shadow in the light now, but Ford knew Stanley had heard him. “If you toss me the journal, I can—“

“The journal?” Stan gasped out, frenzied. “Is that still all you care about!?”

“No, no, if I just had the instructions, I could fix—“ this, fix everything. 

The screeching of metal and thundering of the portal reached a deafening crescendo, and Ford could see Stan open his mouth to interrupt, to say something, assent or argument or—

But Ford didn’t get to find out what Stan would’ve said. A particularly violent jolt shook the metal frame of the portal, and Stan, with a wide-eyed final look that Ford didn’t know how to decipher, slipped.

His brother disappeared into the light just as the portal collapsed in on itself with enough concussive force to send Ford crashing to the ground. He slammed onto his back hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Silence fell over the room. It was dark.

Ford stared at the ceiling above him, then dragged his eyes, slowly, painfully, to the portal. 

The deactivated, half missing and half obliterated portal.

For a long, long time, Ford sat in the dark under the full weight of every bruise and scratch and burn he’d sustained, and it was like he was underwater, head swimming with nausea and pain and bewilderment. He was numb. 

A faint plip-plop sound echoed suddenly through the deathly silent basement, and Ford squinted at the sound through his crooked glasses, trying to identify the source. 

A dark substance stained the edge of the portal, right where Stan had been holding on. Ford watched blankly as the liquid slowly rolled along the curve of the portal entrance, before reached a jagged gap in the perfect circle and slipping through. It slid down the jagged and crumpled panels, weaving until it gathered at the tip of a particularly jutting sheet of metal. 

Another drip.

Another.

Ford shifted closer, simply trying to breathe. He pointedly didn’t think about how the other side of the portal had driven Fiddleford to seemingly the brink of madness in moments, he didn’t think about the glimpse into the Nightmare Realm Bill had given him when he first revealed his true hand, and he certainly didn’t think about the final look Stanley had given him, grief and rage and betrayal all rolled into one.

He finally got close enough to see the liquid for what it was. It wasn’t oil, like he’d figured, like he’d hoped and prayed with every inhale and exhale to the gods he didn’t believe in. It was too thick, congealing with familiar splatters on the floor. It was a deep crimson.

Stan must have cut his hand on the metal with how hard he’d been holding it, Ford realized, and the thoughts were the first crack in the dam Ford had buried himself beneath. This was Stan’s blood.

Stan was in the Nightmare Realm, bleeding from one hand and burned on the other shoulder and begging for Ford to do something, asking Ford what was happening because he didn’t know, because Ford didn’t tell him, and—  

It was all Fords fault.

All of it.

Oh Moses.

The dam creaked with warning, a death rattle and a laugh rolled into one, before Ford was swept into the undertow.

Ford had killed his own brother.

All alone in the dark basement with the machine he’d turned into his brother’s grave, Ford buried his burnt, bloody hands in his hair and bowed his head until it hit his knees. All alone, Stanford Pines cried for the first time in years.

Alternate Titles: The Worst Conversation Ever

Or: Ford started disassembling the portal early and everything went to shit accordingly.

Tags! @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @empressofsamoyeds @littlelilliana15 @pinefamilycatsau @thejaxindianrizzler (I saw your comment in the og post and it made me laugh cause I was in the middle of working on this when I noticed it) (I hope you don’t mind the tag :))

if I missed anyone I’m sorry about that! The tag is always a fair option to follow too (#martian Stan au)

[ziggysspiders]

Imagine being Stanley Pines: All your life you’ve been compared to your brother who not only was your best friend, but your only friend. And then he has the opportunity of a lifetime, and out of both fear and desperation, you mess up his one chance. He hates you for the rest his life until one day he wants you back. The both of you are now face to face with your trauma and a fight ensues.

After your brother shoves you, you receive a scar. That scar will serve as a reminder as the failure that comes. You shove your brother in his own creation, trapping him. For the next 30 years of your life you will live as him, trying desperately to fix what you broke. And once you finally achieve your goal, your brother reminds you of all the things you’ve failed to do.

[a-vibing-potato]

Okay I listened to episode 40 and I get why we all love Heinrich Unheimlich now. He needs to be protected at all costs. He seemed interested in Alice at the end, and if she has to get touched by whatever fear Heinrich has so that I can get more content with him, so be it. I love a man who has a spooky rhyme as his theme song and brings the classic Grimm Brothers fairy tale vibe to the table :)

Also, THE CHAIR. SIT IN THE CHAIRRRR. I GET WHY EVERYONE WAS TALKING ABOUT THE CHAIRRRR.

[omnipresent-menace]

Working on my fic and just noticed while looking at a scene from the Tale of Two Stans episode that Ford didn't install the 3 key mechanism that Soos, Dipper, and Mabel activate in Not What He Seems. Ford only had the big lever. STAN installed the keys. So that begs the question, who did he think would be there to help him start the portal? He'd been mostly alone up to the point before Dipper and Mabel.

So there's a few likely options.

1. He installed the mechanism after meeting Dipper and Mabel. He planned to explain and have them help at the end with the last step, but then the CIA shows up and throws his plans off balance (could be likely, but he only planned to explain right before being arrested. If that was always the plan it wouldn't have felt so impulsive narratively)

2. The mechanism was meant for Soos. Soos had been close to him since he was 11 years old, basically a pseudo father figure. The mechanism only TECHNICALLY requires 2 people since one person can use 2 hands. So I think that Stan mightve told soos if the kids hadn't shown up. (Seems like the more likely candidate)

3. Stan has a 3rd arm we've never seen.

[diazmaximoff]

“We are the reluctant heroes in tales of loss, our youth the price paid for the safety of souls too tender for the world’s harsh embrace.”

[guawowow]

Going crazy thinking about the complexities of Donatello and his relationship with his emotions in tottmnt just auuaua !!!!

Like, he's outwardly and unabashedly kind in this iteration and I'm SO here for it !!! And it doesn't diminish his ability to be snarky and witty, he still throws jabs at his brothers, but I feel like this donnie is a return to form in the sense that the center of his character, the motivation for his intelligence and penitent for creation, is kindness- more importantly, empathy.

routinely he is described as thoughtful, 'non-threatening', and usually very placid; we see mention of his temper when his computers are messed with, but he's extraordinary patient- polite, even- with the killer robot chasing him, subway security, and the blind conductor, all while under high-pressure stress. When confronting the Mechazoids for the first time, he keeps them at a distance and straight up complements the engineering ingenuity! Same when confronting bishop in the subway! He talks enthusiastically, respectfully, with her about her system setup! His first instinct is to diffuse the situation, approach her with humility and establish common ground. Dude like even when running away from the Mechazoid he was always thinking of the people around him.. he was telling everyone to get out of the way, waited for cars to clear (his brothers just straight ran through traffic and jumped over moving carsss), tried to usher people away from train cars he was fighting in, etc. And in the narrated recaps between episodes, donnie is the first brother to consider bishops motivations in an empathetic manner, "maybe she has a tragic back story". Of course that serves as thematic foreshadowing buy he was still the first to offer the kindness of reason to bishops character, maybe there's a reason she's doing this, not just anger that she is.

Not to mention he full ass built a robot to protect his brothers and took the extra time to program in impeccable manners. just for funsies heheh. eueueu Metalhead my beloveddddd😭🙏💙💙💙💙

ALL THIS and yet still, in episode 10, donnie considers himself non-emotional. He says he's 'all left brained' and implys that he operates differently from his brothers who he considers more outwardly emotionally expressive. And yet, in the same episode, he spends a majority of it comforting wingnut. He lends his ear and speaks to her kindly even when her panic exasperates their situation, he doesn't get mad when she freaks out, he takes the time to talk things through with her and make her comfortable whenever able. Even when they think Leatherhead has unmutated, he's sad but tries to put himself in her situation and understand her actions. HES SO SWEET IT HURTS DUDE ❗️❗️❗️ main point being, I dont think he considers himself emotional because he operates on a mode of empathy that is reason driven. He's emotionally logical, of that makes sense. It shows an INSANE amount of emotional intelligence and maturity, I just don't think he understands that because to him, this is logical, and his brother are anything but.

For a majority of his life, the only other people he has to compare himself to are his brothers. When up against anxiety riddled Leonardo, chronically angry Raph, and Mikey's carefree disregard, of course he sees himself and goes, 'ah ok. I must be less emotionally prone because I don't react like they do to these situations'.

I think he just understands the whole social song and dance of understanding better than he thinks.

I know the whole thing with tottmnt is the aspect of unreliable narration, but even then! Like if Leo wrote donnie like this then it probably because he routinely displays this kind of understanding behavior. Plus idk bout yall but I kinda consider the events of tottmnt as like a blurry semi-cannon? I think there are nuggest of truth in there, the broad strokes yk? Like the flood arc referenced 'the bishop situation' like it was a thing that actually happened, albiet in passing, and not just something to poke fun at Leo. It's got legs, there's ideas there to work with ajaja

[hatred-n-hav0c]

"Hey! C'mon! Us blotty Oswalds gotta keep an eye out for each other!"

I got bored and wanted to do something funny, so Blotwald's bothering @artistdove's TO2B Oswald!

....Hopefully not lookin for a heart.

[obois-alive]

I am so sorry that @artistdove's amazing King Oswald character/Tale of Two Brothers au had to be put next to my abomination, but it was the only way I could draw him and I wanted to. It's litterally the abomination's fault that I have art block and can only draw if it involves him- ≈v≈

The abomination:

I'm not even in a Fresh Sans mood! Not even a Sans mood! OR UNDERTALE!!! I'm in my planes and Oswald hyperfixation ark! I haven't thought of Fresh in years! WHHYYY?!??

(revolver varient requested by a friend)

[artistdove]

Can't have too much Mickey and Oswald now can we, lol. I drew these a while ago, so designs for these alternate universe may/will change

Y'all are welcome to ask about them cuz these will collect dust

[absolutehumandisaster]

Something I feel like we don’t talk enough about is that Ford still thinks Stan ruined the perpetual motion machine on purpose. That of course doesn’t justify everything Ford does in return, his ego and pride gets in the way a lot, his last attempt at contacting Stan was to use him, and even if Stan did it on purpose he didn’t deserve to get kicked out and Ford definitely should have done something. but like. At 60+ years old he still thinks his only childhood friend, the only person he could trust for nearly 20 years of his life, intentionally hurt him, ruined something he’d worked so hard for, something related to what he perceives as his only positive trait, for his own gain. We know that’s not true, and Stan knows that’s not true, but he never tells Ford. He just tries to play it off as “hey, that just means we can go treasure hunting now, yeah?” which just makes him sound more guilty. [Edit: I misremembered how the interaction after the science fair went, he does say it was an accident, but I stand by my point that Stan isn’t very convincing]

Sure, most of Ford’s issues with trust are caused by that triangular fuck, but not all of them.

(I just realized Stan might have explained it being an accident when retelling the story but we know he lies for some parts of it so idk. Maybe he omitted some things, maybe Ford thinks he’s trying to save face in front of the kids, but I don’t think Ford fully knows it was an accident.)

Can you imagine how different everything would have been if Stan had said something like “wait it broke? I was upset but I didn’t mean to break it”. [Edit: I’m stupid. Post cancelled] Filbrick might still have kicked him out but the resentment wouldn’t’ve been there. Or even better, can you imagine Stan telling Ford post-canon that it was an accident? Imagine the guilt Ford would feel know he’s wasted the last 40+ years of his life hating Stan because of a mistake.

I’m losing my mind. Alex Hirsch how dare you write sad old men this well.