Goodluck Pikachu

A light hue of red dusted across the teens freckled cheeks as he looks away feeling a little embarrassed “Ah r-right its just i have never met anyone else with the same condition as me well except for the heterochromia thing.” It seemed Asher would avoid making eye contact with Stanford when he spoke along with seeming to fidget with his lose sweater sleeve “Its a great honor to meet you Ford, I know I probably seem like some dumb kid and maybe i’m being too straight forward but it means a lot to me to have found someone like you I don’t really have anyone and while my sketches, journaling, and paranormal investigations keep me company it does get rather lonely…” as he spoke he seemed to realize that he has been rambling and probably saying too much to someone he just met “Ah geez I’m rambling aren’t I?” Asher awkwardly adjusts the collar of his sweater to which Ford would probably notice right away the jagged scar on the teens left hand.

(Please ignore my last ask I was wayyy too excited lol, anyways this is Asher the teenager I was talking about.)

“Hi! I heard that someone had Polydactylism like me I almost couldn’t believe it, I thought I was the only one! Especially with my mix of 6 and 7 fingers.”

"Ah, greetings!"

"Well… this is certainly a surprise! I knew polydactyly wasn’t exactly uncommon, but to encounter someone with a similar trait— that’s… quite remarkable!"

Old college project that literally made me sick doing due to the stress but im proud of it

Edit: 20 points to anyone who can decipher the code in the background…might be a bit difficult

I have been graced with the death omen on my page

Befriends the local dog

God he is so girl dad coded! I love them so much 🥰 ❤️😊

Crimson Collapse- the story behind Bakon’s scars

Trigger warning: gore and mentions of death

Setting: a few days before Stanford reached out to Stan.

(Old artwork at the end)

The job should have been simple—a quick in-and-out heist in a crumbling old building said to house a fortune in abandoned goods. Bakon and his crew had scoped the place out for weeks, but on that fateful night, things fell apart in the worst way imaginable. The building, far more unstable than they had planned for, became a death trap.

The air inside was heavy with the stench of mildew and decay, the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the silence. Bakon moved cautiously, his flashlight flickering against the cracked plaster walls and rusted pipes that jutted out like jagged teeth. He could feel the structure groaning under its own weight, the faint tremor of instability rippling through the floor beneath his boots.

Then it happened.

The ceiling gave way in an instant, unleashing a hellish cacophony of splintering wood and screeching metal. Bakon didn’t even have time to scream. A massive beam crashed down, driving him to the ground as his legs folded unnaturally beneath him with a sickening snap. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he let out a ragged gasp as sharp debris rained down, tearing into his flesh. A jagged piece of rusted rebar impaled him clean through the abdomen, bursting out of his back with a wet, nauseating sound.

The pain was beyond anything he had ever experienced—an excruciating, fiery agony that sent shockwaves through his entire body. Blood poured from the wound in heavy gushes, pooling beneath him in a sticky, crimson puddle. He tried to move, but the weight of the debris was crushing him. His ribs bent unnaturally inward, cracked and splintered like broken glass stabbing into his lungs.

Bakon’s cries for help were hoarse and broken, each breath a struggle as blood filled his mouth. His flashlight had fallen to the ground, illuminating his twisted, mangled body in cruel detail. He could see the jagged bone of his shin protruding through torn flesh, the white stark against the red. His hands, trembling and pale, weakly clawed at the rubble pinning him down, but it was no use.

Minutes dragged into hours, and Bakon’s screams turned to whimpers, then silence. The blood loss was making him lightheaded, his vision darkening at the edges as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The cold, metallic tang of blood filled his mouth as he coughed weakly, spitting out a thick, congealed glob that stained the ground beside him.

He called for the others—desperate, pleading cries that echoed through the empty corridors—but no one came. His crew had abandoned him, fleeing the moment the collapse started. Even Stanley, the one person he trusted, was nowhere to be found. Alone in the suffocating darkness, Bakon’s thoughts grew frantic. Anguish and rage churned within him, mixing with the raw, primal terror of death creeping closer.

When they finally found him, Bakon was barely alive. His skin was pale and waxy, his lips blue, and his body convulsed weakly as his pulse flickered on the edge of nothingness. They rushed him to the hospital, the paramedics’ voices a distant murmur in his ears. He could feel their hands on him, the searing pain as they moved the rebar from his side, and the choking sensation of a tube being shoved down his throat.

In the operating room, his body gave out. His heart stopped, and for over an hour, Bakon was dead.

Death was not a peaceful void for him. It was cold, dark, and suffocating. Time warped, stretching into an infinite expanse of emptiness where Bakon felt the weight of his failures crushing him all over again. The silence was maddening, his own thoughts clawing at him like feral beasts. He was utterly alone, trapped in a limbo that felt like an eternity.

And then, against all odds, he was pulled back.

When Bakon woke, his body was a patchwork of scars and pain. Tubes snaked out of his arms, his chest, his throat. His legs were in heavy casts, and every shallow breath sent a sharp, burning pain through his shattered ribs. His face was gaunt, pale, and his sunken eyes stared blankly at the hospital ceiling.

The weeks that followed were a nightmare of their own. The physical therapy was brutal, each session leaving him sobbing in pain. His hands trembled as he tried to grasp a spoon, the simplest tasks requiring monumental effort. The rebar had shredded vital nerves, leaving parts of his body unresponsive, numb yet searing with phantom pain.

Worse still was the isolation. No one came to see him. He lay in that sterile room day after day, the hum of machines his only company. He thought of Stanley often, the bitterness festering in his chest. Stanley had abandoned him, left him to die, and now Bakon was trapped in this ruined shell of a body with nothing but his anger to keep him going.

Months later, when he finally left the hospital, Bakon was unrecognizable. His once-proud posture was hunched, his gait stiff and uneven as he limped out into the world. The scars on his face and body told the story of his suffering in jagged lines, and his eyes were cold, hollow, and filled with a simmering hatred.

Bakon had been given a second chance at life, but to him, it was no gift. It was a curse. And as he walked into the cold night, his mind turned dark with thoughts of vengeance. If the world had left him to rot, he would return the favor tenfold. And Stanley… Stanley the young man he loved will pay the price for abandoning him.

Mullet Stan my beloved~

Hmmm alright i’ll take your little idea and run with it because its a damn good one

“Death of a Pines” AU hope you don’t mind that I gave it a name @leo-artista

The plan was simple: fake his death, disappear, and finally be free from Rico’s gang. Stanley Pines had spent too long on the run, always looking over his shoulder, always scrambling for cash, and always one bad deal away from a bullet to the head. The moment he got wind that Rico’s men were closing in, he knew he had to act fast.

A wrecked boat. Some personal belongings left floating in the bay. A perfectly timed storm to wash away the evidence. Just like that, Stanley Pines ceased to exist.

It should’ve been easy. No more bounty on his head. No more desperate cons to make a living. Just a fresh start somewhere far away. But what Stan hadn’t accounted for—hadn’t even considered—was that news of his “death” would actually reach his family.

And that they would mourn him.

The Funeral of a Ghost

The news spreads fast. The body is never found, but the police rule it as a probable drowning. His name makes the papers—Local Man Presumed Dead After Boating Accident—but to the people who once knew him, it means a final, gut-wrenching truth: Stanley Pines is gone.

Ford finds out from a letter his mother sends, written in unsteady, grief-ridden handwriting.

“Stanley is dead, Stanford.”

At first, he doesn’t believe it. He can’t. His twin brother, the force of nature who had always been larger than life, couldn’t be gone just like that. Not after years of silence, not when they had unfinished business, not when Ford had spent so much time resenting him, regretting him, missing him in some twisted, unresolved way.

But then there’s a funeral. A small one. It’s just their mother, a few distant relatives, and some old childhood friends. The family doesn’t have the money for anything extravagant, and frankly, most of them had written Stanley off years ago. But their mother mourns. She clutches a framed picture of her lost son, crying quietly into her hands.

Ford attends, but he stands apart, watching from a distance, unsure if he even has the right to grieve.

And yet, he does. More than he thought possible.

Because if Stanley’s really gone, then that means they’ll never reconcile. Ford will never get to tell him how much he hated him, how much he loved him, how much it still burns that their last words to each other were thrown in anger. It means that all that’s left of his twin is memories—some bitter, some bright, but all of them tangled up in knots of guilt and love.

And now, it’s too late.

Meanwhile, Somewhere Else…

Stan is alive. He’s alive, and for the first time in years, he’s not running.

He takes odd jobs here and there, keeps a low profile, and tells himself this is a good thing. He’s out of his family’s hair. He’s not a burden anymore. They don’t have to deal with the screw-up son who lost everything. Hell, they probably don’t even care. He figures his mom would be a little sad, but she still has Ford, the golden child, the one who actually made something of himself.

And Ford?

Ford probably didn’t even flinch.

So Stan keeps moving, never checking the news, never making contact. He drinks a little too much, sleeps in cheap motels, and tells himself he’s free.

But deep down, in the quiet moments between grifts, he wonders why this freedom feels so much like being buried alive.

Random au idea: what if mullet Stan had decided to fake his death so that he'd stop getting chased by Rico's gang? And then it somehow ends up on the news and his family believes that he died- there's like a funeral and everything. Nobody is happy about it, but by far the one who takes it the hardest is Ford. After years of not hearing word from his twin he suddenly finds out he just died, and he has no idea how to feel about that. It's almost like a part of him died along with Stanley

Meanwhile Stan has no idea about what his family is going through because of his faked death. He just assumed that they would probably be fine, since it's not like anyone aside from maybe his mom would care anyways. He even considers it like he's doing them a favor, getting rid of the "useless" son who couldn't even make the fortune he said the would

Idk just an idea. If someone wants to use it or expand on it feel free to do so!

Oh boy I can't wait to see what kind of posts are in my favorite character's tag! :D

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Yay I’m so glad you like him! He was really fun to draw, I might do one with him and Fiddleford later because I need some Fiddlestan in my life

@gfthe-fearsome-foursome

*manifests in front of you shoves this in your hands and vanishes into thin air*

Seriously though i love this blog and i love your art-style! And i hope i did Stanley justice i tried my best to make him exact, anyways i hope you have or are having a wonderful day.

Ooc: I LOVE HIM??? THANK YOU SO MUCH WOW! He looks amazing AWWW-

Ooc: Honestly thank you omg this means so much to me

♪ Let’s head for south-southwest and keep the party going on ♫