A Comic I Did During A Stream A Few Days Ago! Referenced From This Panel Because I Sure Do Love Making

Sea Grunkles surprise the kids by picking them up from school

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.

one off gag from my notes

Sound on !

Warnings : violence/gore, flashing lights, spoilers for Gravity Falls/Journal 3/The Book of Bill

Saw someone suggesting Your Wicked Company by Harley Poe as a Billford song and then I blacked out for two months

music mishap

Siberian Tiger

Bashful motherfucker 🥰

I have been graced with the death omen on my page

Befriends the local dog

The Forgotten Pines

👁️⃤

* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The Mystery Shack was alive with the usual sounds of summer.

The front door jingled as tourists came and went, their voices blending into the background noise of the gift shop. Dipper was at the register, struggling to explain to a skeptical customer why the so-called “Real Bigfoot Toenail” was definitely authentic. Mabel was draped over the counter behind him, doodling in her journal and occasionally chiming in with exaggerated claims to boost sales.

Soos, humming to himself, was fixing a squeaky floorboard near the entrance while Wendy leaned against the doorway, idly twirling an ice pop between her fingers. It was, by all accounts, an ordinary afternoon in Gravity Falls.

Inside the living room, however, things were much quieter.

Stan lounged on the couch, flipping through TV channels with his usual dissatisfaction.

“Two hundred channels, and they’re all garbage,” he grumbled, clicking past an old western, a soap opera, and a conspiracy documentary narrated by a guy who definitely sounded like Ford.

Ford, seated nearby, barely acknowledged him, too engrossed in one of his notebooks. His brow was furrowed, his pen tapping absently against the page as he reviewed old calculations.

It had been a year since Bill Cipher’s defeat. A year since the Rift was sealed, the universe restored, and Ford had finally come home. For the first time in decades, life had slowed down. No interdimensional chaos. No apocalyptic threats. Just family.

And for the most part, it was… nice.

Until the ground shook.

The vibrations rattled the entire shack, making the overhead lamp sway and knocking a picture frame off the wall. The twins heard it from the gift shop, their heads snapping up in alarm.

“Uh… was that an earthquake?” Dipper asked, already reaching for his journal.

“Or a ghost earthquake,” Mabel suggested, eyes wide with intrigue. “Which, statistically, is way less likely, but way more fun!”

Before they could speculate further, a faint blue light seeped between the floorboards, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.

Ford froze.

His breath hitched as his gaze shot toward the basement door.

Stan noticed. His brother had the exact same expression he’d had the day they first activated the portal.

“…Oh no.” Ford’s voice was barely a whisper.

Then, without another word, he bolted.

“Hey! What the heck is going on?” Stan barked, scrambling off the couch. But Ford was already halfway to the basement.

Dipper and Mabel exchanged glances. That was definitely not a good sign.

“C’mon!” Dipper grabbed Mabel’s wrist, dragging her along as they chased after the two older men.

Ford practically threw open the basement door, his heart hammering. His stomach twisted as he took the stairs two at a time.

Please don’t let it be what I think it is.

But the moment his feet hit the basement floor, his worst fear was confirmed.

The portal was active.

The impossible blue glow bathed the room in eerie light, reflecting off the rusted machinery that hadn’t been touched in over a year. It should have been destroyed. It should have been gone.

And yet—

A figure stepped through.

They moved slowly, deliberately, as if unused to solid ground. A thick, tattered cloak clung to their thin frame, hood pulled low over their face. Their boots—patched and worn from years of use—scuffed softly against the concrete as they took another step forward.

Stan and the others arrived just in time to see them emerge fully.

The tension in the room thickened. The air felt wrong.

Then the figure raised their head—

And Stan’s heart nearly stopped.

The hood fell back just enough to reveal a familiar, shaggy mullet, streaked with premature gray. Haunted, chocolate-brown eyes flickered between them, distant yet hyper-aware, like a cornered animal assessing its surroundings. Their posture was stiff, defensive, shoulders hunched slightly inward.

They weren’t just thin. They were scarred.

Burns, jagged and cruel, peeked out from the frayed edges of their gloves. The faint outline of an autopsy scar was just barely visible beneath their turtleneck.

But worst of all…

The jagged, glowing marks around their wrists and throat.

Stan swayed slightly, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.

“…Lee?”

The name barely made it past his lips, his voice raw and disbelieving.

Ford was silent, his entire body frozen in place.

At the sound of his name, Stanlee flinched.

His hands twitched, one instinctively moving toward his forearm, where an old tattoo was partially hidden beneath his sleeve. His fingers pressed against it—an old grounding habit, though his hand still shook.

His breathing was too fast. The glow of the portal cast shifting shadows across his face, making it hard to tell if he was trembling from exhaustion or from something deeper.

Then—a flash of movement.

A photon pistol was in his hand before anyone could react, the barrel leveled directly at Stan and Ford.

Everyone froze.

“WHOA, HEY—OKAY!” Stan threw his hands up immediately. “Easy there, runt!”

Ford’s heart clenched. The way Stanlee held the weapon—his grip too tight, his stance unsteady—it wasn’t aggression. It was fear.

“Lee,” Ford said carefully, keeping his hands where Stanlee could see them. “It’s us. Stanley and Stanford. Your brothers.”

Stanlee didn’t lower the gun.

His shoulders shook. His fingers twitched. His breathing was too fast.

The blue light of the portal flickered across his face, illuminating something new—

The faintest glisten of tears.

“…I can’t trust this,” Stanlee rasped. His voice was barely there, hoarse from years of disuse, but the raw emotion in those few words shattered something inside Ford.

Stanlee’s hand shook violently.

Then—

“…You can trust us,” Mabel’s voice, softer than usual, cut through the thick tension.

Stanlee’s eyes darted toward the source—two teenagers. One with an earnest, hopeful expression. The other, a young man with hesitant but intelligent eyes, scanning him carefully, as if trying to understand him.

They weren’t illusions. They weren’t tricks.

They were just kids.

Real kids.

His grip on the gun loosened. His posture sagged, years of exhaustion crashing into him all at once.

The pistol slipped from his fingers.

And the moment it hit the ground—

Stanlee collapsed.

Stanford managed to catch his little brother before Lee could hit the floor

Stan quickly moved to support him as well, gripping his brother’s shoulders firmly, grounding him.

Stanlee trembled violently. His fingers curled into the fabric of Ford’s coat, his breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

“Don’t leave me again,” he whispered, the plea barely audible. “Please…”

Stan’s face crumpled “Aw, kid…” He pulled him in, his grip fierce but careful. “We ain’t goin’ anywhere. You’re home, Lee. You’re home.”

Alright hear me out…just…J-JUST HEAR ME OUT!

What if Stanley Pines never existed and Stanford was an only child but to him he wasn’t to him he was born with a twin.

Allow me to elaborate

As long as Stanford could remember he always had a twin brother they did everything together Stanley protected him from bullies, comforted him, helped him with the Stan-O-War. Everything goes almost according to cannon but one thing is missing and thats Stanley because he is just a physical manifestation of Stanford’s imagination that means only Ford can see Stanley but he assumes everyone else can too, and well his parents didn’t see much to be concerned about a lot of kids Ford’s age had imaginary friends so they…mostly Caryn let her son believe while she forced Filbrick to also play along because Stanford is just a kid.

But everything comes to a head when the science fair rolls around and for once it wasn’t tampered with by any human anyway, but more along the lines of a rat chewing the wires but Stanford is admit that Stanley sabotaged his project but his twin brother so when he heads home madder then a hornet and excepting to see Stanley there but his brother is no where to be found so he tells his parents and well…lets just say Filbrick didn’t take the information well assuming that Stanford destroyed his own project and costing them potential millions, he decides to finally shatter Stanford’s whole world by telling him Stanley never existed.

Now Stanford is mad at his brother sure but even he thinks his father saying Stanley no longer exists is a bit harsh and argues with his father till Filbrick takes out a photo album and slams it open on the coffee table revealing a bunch of pictures which were supposed to be of Stanford and Stanley but something wasn’t right…

Stanford’s blood would run cold when he sees he is alone in every picture Stanley isn’t were he is supposed to be which can’t be right because he knows his brother was there he remembers everything they did together his father had to have tampered with the pictures!

Long story short Stanford is kicked out of the house he is no longer considered a Pines due to his stupidity as his father puts it.

Feel free to expand on this if you like, this all was just something i thought of during the night and just had to get it out there