#bc ultimately thats what this is

[redbean-nom]

Mand'alor and Fett

also a plain color and lineart version

(seriously every generation with a named Fett features at least one of them being the Mand'alor's best friend or family)

[bacchuschucklefuck]

okay unironically I love so much that porter is like this world SUCKS its BAD here and it HURTS you why do you care abt it!!! and literally every single bad kid is like ngl we just hate ur ass it does not matter what ur philosophy is

[starry-bi-sky]

more incorrect quotes for the stillborn danyal au - dpxdc

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Student: so like,, *gesturing to Plasmius* is he like,,, your dad or...?? Phantom: he would be if he wasn't such a BITCH Plasmius: excuse me Phantom: YOU HEARD ME

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Under the Bleachers: Danny and Dash smoking in solidarity Dash: Danny: Dash: do you have notes from Lancer's class today Danny: since when do I ever have notes from Lancer's class Danny: I can ask Tucker but only if you have notes from Abernathy's class Dash: deal

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Sam and Tucker: *making s'mores with Danny's lava hair* Danny, as Phantom: >:I Sam: you're just mad because you didn't think of it first Danny: yEAH

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Danny, freshly ghosted: .... Danny: well. at least i dont need to waste money on lighters anymore

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Tucker: with how long your hair gets we may just have to start calling you rapunzel Danny: don't you dare Sam: rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your lava hair Danny: NO

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Danny's hair tie breaks in the middle of a fight Danny: fuck Skulker: language child Danny, pushing lava bangs out of his face: fuck you! just for this im turning your suit into molten slag Skulker: waitholdonwecantALK--

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Danny: you know, by your logic Maddie is equally as guilty for abandoning you as Jack. She also never visited you while you were in the hospital. Vlad, had put his infatuation with Maddie aside but still kinda had feelings for her: Vlad: you're right Danny, not used to an adult agreeing with him: I-- huh, I am? Vlad: yes. If Dr. Walker had cared about me -- even if only as a friend, she would have tried to remain in contact with me. But she didn't. She is also as equally guilty for the accident that took your life too since she also failed to properly check over the portal for flaws and any improper wiring. Danny: wait- wait, i mean-- Vlad: this means only one thing Danny, bewildered: ??? Vlad, extinguishing all lingering feelings: I have to kill her too (somehow) Danny: nO.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[OLD ART ALERT] A COLLECTION OF SCENES FROM THE GILLIONS CATSCRATCH ARC THAT BROUGHT ME GREAT JOY. i love fishy chips especially when its just gillion being delirious and violent and hostile

[starset-sarsaparilla]

fun fact: when i first went to the fort to kill caesar i completely forgot about the bunker. it was a stressful return trip

[agentgreenbean]

i think Silo is easier for me to watch than most post-apocalyptic stuff because consistently, throughout the series, the people in the Silo are people. they have hobbies, and interests, and natural human curiosity. it's not all gritty and dark for everyone all the time, there's moments of lightness and humour and happiness for the characters. which is something a lot of shows leave out (which is fair, if the tone set is meant to be so dark), so it's nice to see

[pasta-pardner]

spotify | john marston's revenge quest, set to music from 1960s spaghetti westerns.

Fun detail: the opening cutscene for Red Dead Revolver (2004) features an instrumental version of "His Name Is King". The lyrical version is oddly fitting for John, given that it's a song about seeking vengeance for a dead brother.

[shortnotsweet]

QUIET ON THE OLD FRONTIER (excerpt from THE THRILLING AND NOT AT ALL REPETITIVE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN MAN AND KID DANGER: “A CHRONOLOGY OF ENTIRELY TRUE AND HEROIC EVENTS COINCIDING WITH THE END OF HISTORY”) [1] [2] [3] [4]

Well, you know how it goes down in Hollywood: the sun never sinks on the West Coast, and no one can ever die for real.

[ Henry’s expression is frozen, part acceptance, part trepidation. A stallion stands in the forefront of the second panel, backlit by the stretch of desert and a yellow sun. The horse’s front leg is dotted with red; below, Ray is mid-grin with his arms outstretched, hands cut out of frame. The horse, mid-motion, flees toward the horizon. It won’t make it. ]

“I just can’t quit you,” is the kind of thing he would say, big hands outstretched to clasp the back of his neck or to fit over Henry’s windpipe like a noose. It’d be a bit, with a Southern drawl and eyes not quite meeting his, but there would be just enough substance that Henry could pause and think, Well. Maybe you should.

Somewhere underneath that ego is a person capable of letting go, of cutting their losses. Henry’s seen the Old Westerns in their grainy film and open desert, and knows the kind of look good men get in their eye when their horse buckles. It’s the same guarded expression he wore when Drex came barreling back in, looking like Henry might in a few years time—angry, bitter, and stuck in the same place after all those years. Drex came back on his own, but still holding the old reins. Maybe that’s a difference between Ray and the good man; when Henry breaks his leg, he gets benched and pulled from the field. He’ll be back out again the moment his femur mends because he won’t see the break for the escape it could be. A fracture is never just a fracture, and a boy is never just a boy.

A horse with a bum leg gets taken into the field. It can’t return because it never leaves. Oh, well. It was a good beast, a good ride while it lasted.

PANEL NOTES:

The first chapter of the fic “bite your tongue” by ao3 user irregularsatanist (slavishtrust) motivated this significantly, although this is not explicitly lifted. I am obsessed with their mind! Every time I read and reread, my fingers get the itch to storyboard. Much to say, and more to come, surely. (I’m actually being so, so, so serious, the levity of their work is what incepted me into this hyperfixation and every version of the characters I have in my head is inadvertently colored by the blueprint of trauma, codependency, and exploitation in the aftermath of young adulthood that their continuity of portrayal has lain out. I’m not kidding I’m being so real about this rn)

Something about the Wild West motif is just really, really compelling to me: empty space, inherent isolation, man in nature, evocative of incoming change sweeping into the country and devastating those that lived before and in the now and yet still feeling stagnant in the hugeness of the land, and the kind of vulnerability that the wilderness digs out of you. There is no difference between the civilized and the uncivilized here. I don’t think I’m super subtle about it.

There is an anonymous mark on Henry’s neck in the top panel. It could be blood, a bruise, dirt or dust, inflicted or coincidental, etc.

Three instances of hands, or hands in omission: Ray’s hand gripping Henry, the implication of his hands extended outward/upward, and the hand holding the gun in the bottom right panel. In the former and latter, they are highlighted with yellow lines.

Henry does not reach back for Ray, but he doesn’t retreat, either.

Henry and Ray’s respective paneling colors differ.

The horse represents freedom & captivity, cyclical tenancies, dehumanization, and escape into the natural.

Here, Henry may even identify with the gun itself. Ray’s hand over his face + neck mirrors the grip over the firearm, and the line where flesh meets object (or, in this case, Henry) is highlighted by the same line work.

The horse envisioned is a wild one that was groomed into captivity and subsequently domesticated. In most ‘horse’ narratives, the struggle culminates in the question of freedom—or return to nature—as opposed to the human need to keep. By allowing a creature of nature, which was not born into civilization but rather introduced into it, to return to its motherland is a humanist act and therefore a rejection of corporate or urban conformity. The horse exists as an objectified commodity, one to be used or paraded. To relinquish the horse demonstrates more than love, arguably something more important: respect. To respect nature is to relinquish the grip of expansion.

I feel like this is the moment when Henry returns and they both reunite with one another after a period of time. Ray’s expression, while still ambiguous, is much easier to parse than Henry’s. Henry, of course, considers himself the defective horse, and weighs the three possible routes: escape (back) into the wild, to be taken into a field and shot (real Old Yeller style), or to be ridden again. Each carries their own merit and implication of autonomy.

The reality of each unfolding is still dependent on Ray: if he lets him go, if he decides Henry must be discarded, if he utilizes him still—or, if he is defective at all.

Ray’s problem isn’t that he’ll be tempted to shoot the horse, but instead that he wouldn’t. The good man takes the creature out of its misery if he can’t heal, house, and release it. This guy would rather have a bloody horse in his house until the end of time than admit he shouldn’t have had it in the first place. From Ray’s perspective, the reunion is best characterized as the return of the prodigal son. To Henry, this is more of an ego death in slow motion.

Ego Death: “The disappearance of an individual’s sense of self, or the removal of one’s perception of oneself as an entity separate from one’s social or physical environment.” (Britannica)

Prodigal Son: “…a man or boy who has left his family in order to do something that the family disapprove of and has now returned home feeling sorry for what he has done.” (Cambridge Dictionary)

The chapter title, “QUIET ON THE OLD FRONTIER” is a reference to All Quiet on the Western Front, the English title of Erich Maria Remarque’s 1929 novel about the traumatic aftermath of World War I. The term, “all quiet on the Western Front” is a colloquialism referring to a lack of progress, or stagnation. “Front” is interchanged with “frontier”, Americanizing the phrase to refer to the Old West and settlement. California, on the Western Coast of the U.S., is assumed to be in close proximity with the location of the narrative.

Of course, “I just can’t quit you” is the iconic dialogue between cowboys Jack and Ennis in Brokeback Mountain (2005), the epitome of the modern Western movie (based on a novel of the same name). Here, the context is not exactly the same, but still (uncomfortably) adjacent. Sometimes, quitting is good. It can help you grow up big and strong.

[liixlabrat]

ive been thinking recently and in my pursuit of "how fucked up can i make the blorbo" (shadow) and also my tendency to make overly elaborate "what if" aus i have thought: yeah so what if shadow died in the void in prime when he tried to enter boscage. bc that'd change SO much shit

[koschei-the-ginger]

This has been marinating in my brain for a while, but it was honestly so crazy from quantum leap to spoil you the ending by episode TWO (three if you dont count the pilot as a single ep). They establish right at the beginning 2 most important aspects of Sam's personality and that is 1) Sam will ALWAYS go out of his way to help people and 2) He cares about his loved ones so much he will do that without thinking of the CONSEQUENCES. He fucked up his own timeline completely during his 3rd leap by helping his ex fiancée and their whole relationship got erased from existence. We don't know how that could have possibly changed his life had he come back home. Definitely A LOT. But he had to help her. Out of his free will. Just because he could. And just because he loved her so much. That's why later in 5x22, when he gets told he can do whatever he wants he...

[yellowjackets-1996]

(do you love me like that?) you're a reckless driver (I'm a reckless driver) and one day it will kill us if I —

[bacchuschucklefuck]

it's hans trapp! from drawfee! hans trapp the straw crab!

[queerdraws]

saying goodbye (again and again)

[aroace-poly-show]

new pjsk ask game give me a song and i’ll give my opinions on the chart

[telesodalite]

Woe, unfinished, mildly edited, fulfire fic tid-bits be upon you

-

Like a magnet, his optics kept drifting back to Misfire's face. His stupid, strangely charming face.

For a short while, after Clemency, it had been that face that haunted some of his nightmares. His recalls blurring the lines between the strange reality of Misfire's hands reaching into him to lock his fuel pump back into the very spot he'd pulled it from, and the fear that just as easily he could pull it out again. They had been bloody dreams. Dreams that had him startling awake, gripping his chest in the vain attempt to close what wasn't open, before spending the rest of the day avoiding Misfire's optics.

But now things were different. Not Misfire's face. No, that hadn't changed much. But Fulcrum's dreams had definitely changed. To say the least of what all rolled around in his processor as he slept nowadays.

Some of those newer dreams had crept to the forefront of his mind as he sat there on the couch, staring as the lights of the screen reflected dully across Misfire's plating in hazy blues and greys.

The lighting made his colors seem muddy and faded, but Fulcrum didn't really care, nor did he care to think what it made himself look like. He was too busy bringing an empty engex can to his lips while he watched the crinkle of Misfire's nose as he barked a laugh at something Fulcrum didn't catch onscreen.

He'd started noticing it months ago, all the ways the silvery mesh of Misfire's face would scrunch up with his emotions. Those little crinkles along his optics and nose when he laughed or glared. The creases indented along his cheeks when he grinned. Fulcrum found himself quietly logging away these little details. Idle notes and observations that had suddenly started piling up in the corners of his processer.

He… He'd never really done that before? He'd never really noticed those sorts of things in other mechs.

The faces and expressions of his past colleagues never seemed terribly important. All the details of every smile and frown were never worth filing away, outside of few notable moments where those expressions reflected his work performance. But besides the smile that meant promotion, and the frown that meant he'd screwed up, nothing else was noticeable. Nothing was worth remembering.

But now the memory of every genuine laugh that bubbled out of Misfire sat comfortably besides memories of warm joyful optics that Fulcrum found himself collecting every time Crankcase cracked a rare half-smile for him, or when Krok placed a reassuring hand against his back, or the times Spinister spontaneously pointed out something odd but ultimately nice about his stupid frame.

He didn't really know why he was doing it, memorizing all these mundane little things, just to have them flit through his processer randomly. Maybe it was because those expressions, those details, felt… comforting? Comforting in such a strange and unfamiliar way. But, a good way. A good sort of strange, much like the mechs themselves.

-

-

He had stared for a long moment, the credits and their rolling tune playing somewhere in the background as Fulcrum stared back. But Misfire was never one for personable silence, even as the sound of some likely long dead Iaconian orchestra filled the room.

"What is it?" He asked, a small chuckle escaping him as he brought a hand to his face, "Don't tell me I've poured it all over myself again."

It had taken Fulcrum longer than usual to unstick his glossa from the roof of his mouth as he watched Misfire run a thumb over his lips, but eventually he had coughed out a small, choked, "No."

That had earned him an odd look at first, but with their fields loose and open, Fulcrum could almost feel the exact moment something clicked in Misfire's mind, as the idle comfortable static he projected in pulsing waves evened out into something openly curious and almost subdued.

It wasn't often Fulcrum felt him that clearly.

Misfire tended to keep his field fairly close, though, maybe not as close as the others did, what with how Crankcase kept an iron grip on his, and how Krok's always held an air of strained control, even when it slipped from him. But still, Misfire's was always hard to read, no matter the reach or depth of his field.

Even then and there, with it loose and unfiltered and buzzing with the engex running through his system, there was an ever present undertone of something indescribably jumbled about him, like too many feelings at once, each too vast and hurried for Fulcrum to really feel or understand.

It always seemed to stir the passive anxiety Fulcrum must've been forged with when Misfire's field brushed against his own. As facing the indescribable vague mess of Misfire felt like trying to untangle a pile of live-wires he couldn't even see.

It was almost frustrating in a sense, the need to try and sort and understand what wasn't even his to begin with. But at the same time it was almost exciting as well. It was like a game, like a puzzle he had yet to solve.

-

-

Finally letting his own can go tumbling to the floor to join Misfire's, Fulcrum had brought a hand to cover his face as he drew his legs up and leaned back against the arm of the couch, trying to suppress the fit as the sly look slipped from Misfire's face at the sounds.

While Fulcrum had laughed, and… snorted, embarrassingly, he had felt Misfire's field change again, brushing something fizzy and almost warm against his plating as Misfire's features softened.

"I'm looking at you," Fulcrum had said then between gulps of air, letting his hand fall from his face as he reached out to poke at Misfire's chest, "Dumbaft."

His finger had lingered over the thick plating there for maybe a little longer than necessary, drawing Misfire's attention as it slid down a little before pulling away.

Looking back up again with his helm angled slightly, Misfire had followed the sight of his hand leaving his plating to where Fulcrum let it fall between them.

"Wow…" Misfire had chuckled a little dryly, "I was gonna make it real easy for you. I was going to say something like, ''Do you like what you see?'' or-… or something like that. But now you've ruined it. Good job."

Meeting Fulcrum's optics again as he pulled his own hand back from Fulcrum's shoulder, he brought it to rest between them as well.

"And you're laughing at me," He said next, faking a small pout as his hand drifted closer to Fulcrum's, "Which totally ruins the whole vibe I was going for really. I mean, it's sort of hard to be all nice and suave-like when you're being laughed at. Total vibe killer. Bit of an ego killer too if I'm being honest. So thanks for that loser, thanks for saying I have a funny face."

With Misfire's fingers brushing distractingly past his own, Fulcrum didn't think before the words stumbled out of him.

"I like your face."

It came out almost matter of fact sounding, Fulcrum's laughter having died down while Misfire complained about it. But at the same time the words felt so simple, they came out so easily, and in a weird way they felt nice to say. But Misfire's optics had widened in surprise, his frame frozen and his field suddenly struck quiet, and despite the engex numbing his usual nerves, Fulcrum felt a sudden pang of anxiety because of it.

The silence in Misfire's field was terribly alien. It felt wrong, and something in Fulcrum spiraled to think he had caused it. But slowly, almost as if it were creeping forward, an odd almost scrutinizing uncertainty fanned outward in a careful wave. Misfire moved with it, leaning closer as he searched Fulcrum's expression for something.

"Oh yeah?" He'd said lowly then, and that sly look returned. But that vague uncertainty didn't fade with it, if anything, Fulcrum felt it strengthen. Caught between what he saw, in Misfire's easy smile and dimmed optics, and what he felt, in the growing hollow distance within their fields, Fulcrum found himself frowning and pulling back.

-

-

Growing frustrated with himself, and wanting that feeling back, he had pushed forward, shifting onto his knees as he reached for Misfire's face before the other could pull away from him entirely.

"I like your face." He said firmly, maybe too firmly. His expression still drawn into a frown as he pressed his fingers into Misfire's helm, brushing his thumbs across the silver mesh he'd been staring so intently at before. "I like your optics, and your nose. I- I like the way you smile. When you really smile, and when you laugh. I do. I'm not lying."

And oh there it was again, that little curl of warmth in Misfire's field. Almost a tangible thing, like a brush of ventilation, but Misfire wasn't venting. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, but no breath left him as he stared at Fulcrum with widening optics.

Spurred on by that tiny bloom of warmth, Fulcrum chased after it with slightly slurred words and clumsy hands as he tried to fix whatever he'd done wrong, hoping with each word that Misfire might soften and smile again.

"I like your expressions, and- and I like your voice," He said, glancing down at Misfire's parted lips, and laughing softly, nervously, as he continued, "Even when you say something so stupid. I like- I like the way it sounds. I like your accent, I like the way it makes your words sound. I- I like your- your mouth?"

Once more that weird but nice feeling settled in Fulcrum's chest. Those simple words felt good to say. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, like an admission he'd been waiting to say. About what and why? He wasn't really sure. But the warmth grew, and Misfire took a sharp vent inwards, and that felt right, so Fulcrum kept on.

"I like your helm," He said with a smile, reaching up to brush his fingers over the jutting finials there, before dropping his hands to settle lightly over Misfire's chest. "I like your frame, the colors of it. I like your-"

Before he could finish, Misfire was surging forward, knocking their helms together and nearly bruising the mesh of their noses as he tried for, and just barely missed, Fulcrum's lips.

-

👁👁👍

[snobgoblin]

i think maybe I've figured out i don't actually want to have a kid after all i think what I wanted was to see if i would be able to raise someone kindly and erase a little hurt from the world or some shit like that