#cw: eye trauma

[catsharky]

Create cool summer treats for your vampire with this one neat trick

[steelsartcorner]

BG3 Mini-Comic: They Don’t Belong to You

Ahhh, parallels, my beloved.

Playing a Dark Urge who is a squishy lil' sorcerer, I love the fact that you can choose to say "haha no, fuck what Big Daddy Murder wants" and have your buddies immediately join the 1-v-1 fight in order to win against Orin.

I like to imagine that my durge, Jiril's (she/they) romanced Astarion was particularly proactive about it. The man does not give a shit about rules, only survival.

[thirdchildart]

Tell me, or I will RIP it OUT of you...

[dcartcorner]

Commission for @whitenessgreynessdarkness of their OC Solomon, and their encounter with a hungry creature. For an upcoming fic, the same as the previous pieces of art featuring noodle Jon, and Martin. Thank you for the support!

[windchime-of-teeth]

it’s a bit of a deviation from my normal fandoms- but i wanted to map out a style reference sheet for a little animatic i’m working on!

if you’re a bsd fan, please go check out Magic and Mystery by Allegory_for_Hatred on Ao3 its legitimately so good, like- my favorite fic i’ve ever read.

love a spooky little little guy who has experienced the horrors tm and is now inflicting them- his soulless void eyes are honestly so so fun to draw!

[corvid-khaos]

for such is the price of knowledge

(based on my headcanon that ford has a prosthetic eye)

[arradraws]

∘Absence∘

And another version of it that I toyed with 😊

[delirisse-au]

Day 6

Rivals

This is inspired by a comic I saw on here where Narinder orders Baal to hurt Aym, but I cannot find it rahhhh orz I don't remember who drew it

[atomgecko]

(It's not your turn to die yet)

Uncensored under the cut

[sp00kies]

Deadpool and Wolverine? More like Turbopool and McLeachverine

[gravyhoney]

Who up thinking about Mason ocs? I know I sure am.

‼️TW for blood and eye trauma‼️

Drawings took me literal days, editing took me. Ten minutes.

Rip Blake you would have loved boygenius

Rip Rubix you would have loved being able to see out of both eyes.

Separate drawings under the cut✨

[wildgeese98]

What is that he feels deep down his skull?What are they doing to his eyes? The presence, old and rotten, in his mind?

He can do nothing but watch. - mag 193

[miser-of-miscellaneous]

From 'Dorohedoro'

[v0idspeak]

(Hey, this thought came to me at 4am when I woke up from nightmares, drenched in sweat. The nightmares were unrelated, but it would've been very funny if they weren't.)

(The thought in question is... idk, an idea for a TMA fanfic I guess. It's not really polished or anything, and it's a bit longer than I was anticipating (it's around 1.5k words I think), but here goes. Spoilers for TMA up to... end of s4 I think.)

(CW for blood/gore, unlawful imprisonment, eye trauma, horror, possession, mention of pica, and probably other stuff I forgor)

Jon, strangely, was not all that surprised when he heard the screaming start. It was common, in a place such as this. He had not expected the man in the neighbouring cell to be the one screaming - usually, he was fairly quiet, his silver eyes watching as the other half-people in the... laboratory, or containment unit, or whatever this was slowly succumbed to forces most could not wrap their heads around.

He had explained his own understanding of the situation with cold detachment: not a single one of the people in cells were actually people. Most had never been; some had recently Changed. The ones roaming the halls were a... more complex bunch.

Most were human, strictly speaking, he said. A few were not in any sense of the word, save a thin mask worn over something else. Jon was slowly beginning to understand how his neighbour recognized the latter. It was something in their eyes, he thought, when the subjects-prisoners-whatever were afraid of what they were becoming.

It was a sort of glee. It was a glee the silver-eyed man shared, at that.

Jon wasn't sure why the man was in the cell next to him. He knew why he was, of course. Most did not speak through old tape recorders. Most did not pull mangled thoughts and push them into speakers. Most did not have quite so many eyes as he had, though those had only appeared a few months ago, not long after his previous neighbour had to leave. (It was a shame, too; that man had been the quiet sort, which was peaceful, if thoroughly uninformative.)

His new neighbour, though? He sounded human. He looked human, apart from his eyes. He acted human, if a little cold and detached and analytical. He sounded like a right prick, but a brilliant one, in a thoroughly uncomfortable way. Jon rather thought he belonged on the other side of the glass - or, in the case of that cell, of the bars.

(Jon could not break the glass, and, it seemed, his abilities did not affect people who did not breathe the same air as he did, or perhaps did not see him directly, with nothing reflecting or refracting him. The ones beyond the glass likely knew better than even he did, which only served to make him even more curious.)

So when the screaming began, he first looked across his unit. It took him far too long to realize that he recognized the voice, that it did not come from the distended wolf-thing, or the sentient-and-sapient door, or the man whose tattoos blinked at him as though they were real eyes, but rather from the prim and proper gentleman, the one who never yelled, even as his comments reduced and ridiculed everyone who dared to try and do the same to him, often in ways that left others oddly uncomfortable, so specific they seemed.

When he did, though, he tried to see what was happening through the lightly textured glass. The image wasn't overly distorted, the glass barely frosted at all, but he still wasn't sure what was happening to cause so much crimson to flow from the man's head.

Jon quickly moved to the back of his unit. There was a small button there, to be pressed for emergencies only. It didn't do anything, but perhaps it would make someone look through the facility's dozens of cameras.

Luckily, it worked, but not before the man had crumpled to the ground, blood oozing across the floor. The screaming, which had been agitating everyone, Jon including, had eventually stopped.

Two people - human, Jon thought, people he recognized as some of the interviewers he'd seen before - rushed into the wing with a stretcher. The first walked into the cell, which had likely been remotely unlocked, and assessed the situation, relaying instructions to the second.

The other one tried to lower the stretcher, Jon thought, but something went wrong. It was, evidently, malfunctioning. The faint chill in the air suggested that the malfunction was likely a specific brand of supernatural, though he couldn't be quite certain which; he had so very little information to go off of in the first place.

The first made an odd sound as the second complained, obviously annoyed. Jon approached the glass, but the side panels' frosting was stronger than the outwards-facing one, and, as such, he couldn't do much at all.

"I think something's wrong," he said through whatever he could access: his tape recorder-player, which did not have very good speakers; the speaker that sat right under the door-facing camera, which was very close to his own cell, as he was nestled in the corner; and what he hoped was the earpieces of both workers.

It was exhausting, reaching beyond the glass, but he really did think something was wrong, and the way the wolf-thing was growling and biting at the thick bars of its cage told him he was likely right.

The first worker didn't seem to react; the second hissed a short string of expletives and pulled the earpiece out. He made a quick series of signs to the camera - channel two dead, if Jon's interpretation of their not-so-secret codes was right - and put it back in. When Jon tried to tell him "I think your colleague is in trouble," he could no longer reach the speaker nor the earpiece, and the tape recorder, its sound muffled through the glass, was easy enough to ignore.

Finally, the first stirred. Maybe he was alright after all, Jon thought, at least until he noticed that he was frantically wiping at something red on his face.

It wasn't that Jon liked being in here. In actuality, he thought his incarceration unfair - he was inhuman, yes, but he wasn't in the business of hurting people. He wasn't a monster. That also meant he felt some sympathy for others, and it was that sympathy (and perhaps some baseless optimism, which had always been very uncharacteristic for him, but fear did odd things to him, sometimes) that hoped that maybe, just maybe, the ones in charge of this facility would see how he was helping and consider treating him like a person, which he probably was. Maybe.

The fact that he hadn't eaten much at all since he'd arrived, nearly two years ago, was an argument against that, but, as his neighbour would say with what Jon interpreted as a smile, did humanity really entail eating steak and salad and nuts? Perhaps the fact that his neighbour did, in fact, receive and eat normal food on a regular basis had lessened his arguments to some extent, though. Feeling human without so much as being allowed tea and chips and anything edible, really, and it was made even worse when Jon suddenly remembered that the last thing he had eaten - out of distraction, mind you - was five or six pages from a book of all things. It did not taste particularly good.

Regardless, Jon did not think the red was normal. The worker did not scream, but the streaks were too reminiscent of those on the now-probably-corpse for him to think otherwise. Thus, Jon screamed for him.

Well, he couldn't exactly scream, per se, as his throat hadn't allowed such things in a long, long time, but he pulled from every memory of every screech he'd heard, every sound that haunted his very, very vivid nightmares, and pushed them outwards as hard as he could. He was fairly certain the first worker's earpiece received the noise, as its owner flinched violently.

The second only jumped a little and looked disapprovingly at Jon. "Subject, please remain quiet as we deal with the situation," Jon barely heard him say.

"Something is wrong," Jon yelled through the recorder and anything else that would let him speak. He banged his fist on the glass, which seemed to cause a wave of activity from the other sort-of-people around him, and pointed to the first, whose face looked drastically less bloody, now.

Another string of expletives, and the second was checking on the first. Jon had rather thought there would have been protocols for something like this: don't interact with someone who's been in a cell, so on, but, clearly, this employee was either too new or too complacent (or both), as he helped his colleague to his feet.

A few minutes later, the corpse - Jon knew it was a corpse, now, as it had been wrapped in a black, zip-up bag - had been wheeled out, but not before the first employee winked at Jon, which was, he thought, very unusual and should warrant... something, surely.

He only realized what the wink had meant when he saw what had been left on the floor, in that puddle of now-coagulating blood.

Those were eyeballs, optic nerve still attached. It took a lot of staring, and some dry heaving, which Jon could really have done without, before he noticed why his mind had thought they were more wrong than they appeared, if that was even possible.

The discarded eyes were a deep, rich brown.

The employee's, a cold, crisp silver.

[someweirdladybug]

Fiume Iizali was the princess of Soui, the Tidal Kingdom, when she was younger. While she'd always wished she could do more than simply wander the castle and attend events, an assassination attempt that cost her her eye due to a stray icicle made her realize that she had a lot of potential as a mage, but nowhere near the focus needed to safely utilize it. So thus, she spent much of her time training herself. As a particular request, she wanted her prosthetic eye to not just look dazzling, but augment her abilities by giving her limited precognition, seeing a couple seconds into the future at a time alongside elevating her cryokinesis. It was during her attempts to train in silence, however, she met the man that would help her find that footing, and become the King of Soui. Azulos Riveran was born to a well-off family. They had been among the few who used their fortune to enrich the community, So though they still kept a sizable nest-egg, the rarely lived beyond their means aside from the odd replacement of clothes. While born alongside his twin brother Frostolas, Azulos had been passed over as the main inheritor of the family fortune, something he fears may have to do with both the circumstances of his birth and the perception that he only aspires to be a vain, pretty face for the family. In truth, he wished to be a fighter, a defender of the town like his brother and father, but most wrote him off as too meek and unskilled. While Frostolas had been willing to help him hone himself physically, his responsibilities began to add up as he began to strike it out on his own as a sellsword. And so, Azulos would go out and train on his own, using a spear he had made with what allowance he could manage. In that same glade he had chosen, he met a woman with a sapphire eye and armor blue as the ocean, and after a discussion and a realization that they shared a goal, they vowed to help one another in their training. Training became sparring, and in time sparring turned into a courtship all its own. The two would in time vow to wed one another once the chance presented itself.

[vulpixisananimal]

They call them the God Eater. A blind lamb, born with no eyes destined to die.

And yet they are alive, and have stolen the eye of a god.