🍦You Scream. I Scream, We All Scream For Ice Cream….kitty?🍨🐈

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!

Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

Look buddy, i’m just trying to make it to Friday.

music mishap

Childhood Bites Chapter One: The Taste of Something Forbidden

⚠️TW: Blood⚠️

꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒦꒰ঌ‪‪𐂯‬໒꒱꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Glass Shard Beach was never truly quiet. The waves crashed against the shore, the salty air thick and ever-present, while the laughter of kids carried on the breeze. But beneath the carefree energy of the season, shadows lurked. For twelve-year-old Ezekiel “Zeke” Cutter, summer was supposed to be an escape. A break from school, from expectations, from the gnawing hunger he didn’t fully understand.

He had always been close to Stanley and Stanford Pines. They were his best friends—the only ones who really mattered. Stan was the loudmouth, always getting into trouble, always bruised but never broken. Ford was the brain, always thinking, always planning. And Zeke? He was the protector, the one who made sure no one messed with them. Which is exactly why, when Campelter started picking on them, Zeke saw red.

Campelter was the worst kind of kid. The kind that smelled like sweat and cheap cologne, who thought he was better than everyone because he was taller, meaner. He had it out for Stan from the moment they met.

“Hey, loser! Where’s your freak of a brother?” Campelter sneered, shoving Stan forward.

Stan stumbled, barely keeping his footing. Ford wasn’t around to bail him out—he was probably off reading somewhere, oblivious.

Zeke clenched his fists. “Back off, Campelter.”

Campelter just grinned. “Or what? You gonna cry about it?”

Zeke’s breath hitched. He could hear it—his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. It wasn’t fear. It was something else. Something deep, something hungry.

Stan’s lip curled as he stepped forward. “I can handle myself, Zeke.”

But Zeke wasn’t listening anymore. Campelter shoved Stan again, laughing, and something inside Zeke snapped.

It happened fast. One moment, Zeke was standing still, watching Campelter grin like he ruled the world. The next, his body moved on instinct. He lunged, teeth bared, sinking them deep into Campelter’s arm.

The taste—

It was—

Indescribable.

Blood filled his mouth, warm and metallic, coating his tongue. Campelter’s scream barely registered as Zeke bit down harder, his entire body trembling.

Then, just as suddenly, he let go.

Campelter stumbled back, clutching his bleeding arm, eyes wide with terror. “WHAT THE HELL, YOU PSYCHO?!”

Zeke wiped his mouth, breathing heavily. His head swam, heart racing. What…what had he just done?

Stan and the other kids just stood there, frozen.

“Zeke…” Stan whispered, eyes darting from him to Campelter’s wound.

“I—” Zeke swallowed hard. “I didn’t—”

“You BIT me!” Campelter howled, staggering backward. He was bleeding badly, but it was just a bite. It wouldn’t kill him.

Zeke’s stomach twisted. Not in guilt. Not in fear.

In hunger.

He ran. Didn’t wait for Stan. Didn’t look back. He sprinted toward the bordwalk, lungs burning, hands shaking. His mouth still tasted like blood. It wasn’t disgusting. It wasn’t wrong.

It was good.

But it wasn’t normal. He wasn’t normal.

Zeke gripped his head, breathing hard. “No, no, no. I can’t—I won’t—”

But he wanted no he needed more.

And worse?

He knew exactly where to find it…

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

To Be Continued…

Sneak peek of what im working on, i don’t know what im gonna call this Stanford or an au for him but i have a small idea

We love and appreciate a protective Dipper here ❤️

He is just waiting for someone stupid enough to say or do anything to his sister, he is ready to throw hands

Childhood Bites Chapter Two: The Hunt

⚠️TW: Blood, violence, implied abuse⚠️

꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒦꒰ঌ‪‪𐂯‬໒꒱꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Zeke didn’t sleep that night.

He lay in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of his family’s rundown beach house. The air inside was thick with the stench of alcohol and cigarettes, the walls too thin to block out his father’s snores from the other room.

His stomach twisted in pain, but he was used to that.

His father’s latest punishment had been a week without food.

Zeke had learned how to ignore the ache, how to push through it. But today, it was worse. Because now, he knew what could make it stop.

His tongue ran over his teeth, the memory of Campelter’s blood still fresh in his mind.

It had been a mistake. An accident. A loss of control.

That’s what he told himself.

The taste hadn’t disgusted him.

It had made him hungry.

He turned onto his side, gripping the old blanket tighter, trying to will the feeling away.

I won’t do it again.

He repeated the thought like a prayer.

I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.

But his stomach growled. His hands trembled. And in the darkness, his eyes flicked toward the corner of the room, where his father’s metal bat leaned against the wall.

The same bat his old man had used on him. Dried blood stained the tip. His own blood.

It had always belonged to his father. A tool of punishment. A reminder of Zeke’s place in the house.

But not tonight.

Tonight, it was his.

The Boathouse

Zeke walked the empty streets of Glass Shard Beach, the bat gripped tight in his hands.

The town was quiet this late at night, only the occasional streetlight flickering. The summer crowd had thinned out, leaving only the locals.

Leaving kids like Campelter free to roam.

Zeke knew exactly where he’d be. The old boathouse near the dunes wasn’t much—just a crumbling shack covered in graffiti—but it was where the older kids went to drink and mess around.

That’s where Zeke found him.

Campelter sat on the dock outside, flipping a lighter open and closed, the flame reflecting in his bored expression. His friends were long gone, leaving him alone.

Perfect.

Zeke stood in the shadows, watching. His heart pounded.

He could still turn back.

He could go home. Forget this. Try to be normal.

But then Campelter shifted, his injured arm catching the moonlight.

The same arm Zeke had bitten.

And just like that, the hunger roared back to life.

His grip on the bat tightened.

Campelter sighed, shaking his head. “I know you’re there, freak.”

Zeke stepped forward, the wooden planks creaking under his weight.

Campelter rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”

Zeke’s voice came out quiet. “I don’t know.”

Another lie.

Campelter scoffed. “You here to try and bite me again? Jesus, dude, what is wrong with you?”

Zeke didn’t answer.

His body moved on instinct, stepping closer, closing the distance. The bat in his hand felt heavy. Solid.

Campelter frowned, finally looking at him—really looking at him.

Something in his expression changed.

“…Wait. Are you serious right now?”

Zeke’s breath came faster. The hunger clawed at his insides.

Just go home.

Just walk away.

But his father’s voice echoed in his head.

“You’re nothing. You don’t fight back. You don’t stand up for yourself.”

Zeke’s fingers twitched on the bat.

“You’re weak.”

His jaw clenched.

“You’re always gonna be hungry.”

Zeke swung.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

To Be Continued…

Look at this distinguished gentleman just listening to the radio and enjoying the fresh air