#damn i love your art

[nouverx]

Obligatory Alastor and Niffty art because their little moment in the finale was everything to me I can't wait to see them interact more in the next seasons

Also bonus sketch bc I just know he kept the crown on the whole evening

[hexedwithluck]

I did the meme :)

[puppypawbz]

me when i see my most profitable customer

[idliketobeatree]

i'm living the dream, in the dream, i'm buried alive two bed grave, one bath, car in the drive mirrored covered windows block the light feeding back reflection distorts life cut connection — jesca hoop

[dangergggg]

A lawyer and his daughter.

[iceagebaby]

Despondency / Refuge

that's supposed to be Bennys lighter, the Courier is dealing with cosequences of being thrown into a mess they had nothing to do with

the halo was something that turned out on an accident but i love it

Rant below

[cestacruz]

Small studies of Starscream in the Robots in Disguise 2015 design because he's literally perfect☺️☺️☺️ i want to marry him!!!

[airaly]

You're dripping like a saturated sunrise You're spilling like an overflowing sink You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece And now you're tearing through the pages and the ink

It's finally done! My tribute to @altraviolet TFP/IDW crossover fic The Echo Garden, which I kindly recommend once again if you want to read an incredible story with awesome written characters and plot❤️ Look at me squealing for these two gfdsfdsafds Click the image for a better quality!

Some close ups under the cut☺️

[windwenn]

The sillies (they have consumed my soul)

[brainlessbaguette]

Every now and then the stars align to make the ideas that had next to no thought behind them look like cohesive well thought out plans.

Like yeah lets give one of the saddest Links some of my favorite little guys that I can reasonably justify still being alive. Then while watching botw cutscenes for reference, gets hit with that dialogue.

My last three brain cells are really bouncing around rn like:

[lilybug-02]

The actual reason they ditched Chara.

Fan-art because I can draw. And I um.. kinda really love @akanemnon‘s comic…

Kind of a minicomic below…

Please forgive me. I’ve had this in my head forever and just wanted to share my AU meeting yours. That is my Final message. Goodbye. 🫡 jumping in this hole now 🕳️🚶‍♀️

[monstatron]

BIG BOSS LADY

( obasi is a woman and butch lesbian that uses she/her & he/him ! )

some doodles of obasi with her coat, though admittedly, as impressive as her style is, her coat is like a shadow that still cascades her…

some additional yap about this is in the thread under the cut + bonus backstory doodle 🦍

⚠️TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️

obasi’s lore is reflective of some of my own experiences, which includes child abuse/neglect and cptsd. please proceed with caution and stay safe ❤️

mind my very incorrect grammar here lol

dubaku never wanted to be a parent, he enjoyed the illusion of parenthood, but after he lost gabi (obasi's mother), he realized how little he truly cared for family. much like how he raised obasi, he was raised to see family as something dangerous and draining, a chore more than love. so when obasi was born all he could think of was the blood he would shed for her that he did not want to shed. dubaku never wanted to be a father.

he didn’t want the life of a crime lord and he most certainly did not want a child to go along with it. he knew that in raising obasi, he would have no choice but to work until he died, so he chose to be miserable. he chose to hurt his daughter. he chose to make obasi feel all that pain and anguish in every neglectful action towards her.

obasi loathed dubaku as much and he loathed her, and in the end, she did not loathe him as much as she thought. in the end, dubaku is still her father and a part of her wants to love him, and that’s why she wears his coat when she grows older. his coat is the last semblance of some kind of love that vanished the moment she was thrust into his shadow.

deep down i think there’s still a child in obasi that wanted to see dubaku as her father and not a role to follow, she wanted to love him as family and not loathe him for the successful crime leader that he was. she wanted to carve her own path but had no choice but to follow his. and now, by the time the events of the main story happen, she’s about the same age her father was when he was murdered, and she’s filled the shoes she was destined to fill. but at what cost?

obasi’s coat is ultimately symbolic of the hatred, neglect, and pure malice that shaped her childhood. it represents how she is so deeply tethered to an instinctive love of her family but simultaneously, a boundless hate.

she wears her father’s coat like she wears her past upon her shoulders.

anyway im just tweaking over my own oc lore huzzah

[fallenclan]

in my notes for the 4th page i believe my exact wording was "feathersight is sweating so bad"

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[voidsuites]

i want your time (don’t ask me questions)

“SORRY… just give me a sec,” the blond man above you huffs, muscular arms on both sides of your head as he keeps himself propped above you. he adjusts on his elbows with a small grunt, eyes narrowed in enough frustration to create that familiar little crease between his brows. “one second, i promise.”

he’s making you— your body, really— wait. not intentionally, of course, but it’s happening regardless. there’s been a handful of moments in art’s life where his body’s put him in this kind of position; freezing under pressure when he needs it to perform.

it’d happened the night he’d asked tashi to be his coach— she’d said yes, they’d gone back to her hotel room, things had gotten heavy— but of course he’d got caught up in his head and things hadn’t… risen to the occasion. they’d gotten there eventually with tashi’s encouragement, but it’s just humiliating that it’d happened then— and now it’s happening again.

tashi had always been able to coax it out of art with her no-nonsense outlook, and before her it’d been patrick and his devil-may-care attitude. they both knew how to read him in their own unique ways, whatever needed to get done to get art where he needed to be and to get things over the finish line.

so maybe he’s still figuring things out— figuring you out. where you fit in into all of this… whatever role you’re meant to play in the twisted process of getting art out of his own head. are you going to coach him up or goad him into oblivion?

“i’m sorry,” he hisses again, and with another grunt he drops to the mattress beside you and lays flat on his back. it takes all of the strength within him not to just fist his fingers into his hair and pull it out in clumps. “fuck.”

he can’t bear to look at you; you’re probably looking at him like he’s some broken thing that you hadn’t signed up for when you agreed to go steady. you’re younger— younger than he’d normally go for considering he’s got lily and the tabloids are always looking for a reason to follow him around— but you’re an angel and he’s been awful with saying no to the things he can’t have now that he’s retired and single.

long gone are the days of “earning” breaks from trainings and longing looks at the things not on his diet plan (no more need to sneak fries from lily’s happy meals) but what good is having the freedom to do and have what he wants when he can’t even get it up?

you’d signed up for art donaldson, not some middle-aged guy who can’t get it together and make his partner feel just as good as they do with him. what good was his body if it couldn’t perform? he couldn’t be there for patrick, couldn’t continue playing for tashi—

art stands in a huff and pulls the waistband of his briefs up over his hips before his hands rest on his hips. he starts pacing the length of the bed, but not without looking your way guiltily while you pull the bedsheets up over yourself and make his stomach plunge. damnit, donaldson.

“i-it’s not you,” he reasons, because it’s the truth, “it’s me. i can’t get out of my damn head—”

“art,” you try and cut in, but he’s not having it. not when he’s like this. “art, babe, what’s wrong—”

oh, god… here we go again. stop asking questions. “nothing, just give me a second—”

“— art, hold on—” stop prying, stop trying to find a way in—

“— this happens sometimes. i promise it’s not you—”

“art.” he barely has time to protest again when your hand clamps around his wrist, nor does he try to. your eyes have gone wide as they plead for him to make sense; to put words to thoughts and actions to those words. “… baby. talk to me.”

and he melts, broad shoulders sagging before he drops back to the mattress. it should be worrisome to see a man like him practically cave in on himself when he lays back on the mattress, but it’s the rare side of art donaldson that the media doesn’t get a glimpse of. here in this moment, he’s less of the unshakable tennis mogul the public knows him for and more of the mortal man desperate for comfort that lies beneath.

“will you… will you hold me?” art asks eventually, swallowing tightly when he looks over in your direction again. you’d think he’d asked for the impossible with the way he holds himself; hunched shoulders, downcast eyes, and blunt nails digging into the heels of his palms. “please?”

he doesn’t know how you’ll react— if you’ll laugh at such a request, scoff and look at him with disdain— but none of that comes. instead, you scoot his way and let your arms wind around him and your chin settle into the crook of his shoulder.

“i can do that,” you whisper. gentle fingers trace the skin of his side, over the dips and grooves of his ribs. “whatever you need— whatever you want.”

he swallows again, ignoring the guilt in his chest as he nods. “okay.” he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for the “but” to leave you; waiting for the other shoe to fall in return for your patience… but it doesn’t. it’s not going to. maybe that’s where you fit into all of this: being the unwavering support that allows him to bend even when it goes against all expectation.

his calloused fingers curl around your own after another stroke over his torso, and slowly but surely he brings them to his lips to press a kiss over your knuckles. “i love you.”

if he can’t show it to you by following you blindly for years on end or by winning you endless slam titles to prove it, maybe the words are enough. maybe they can be enough, this time.

and maybe he can be enough too. no more tennis to eat up all his time (even if he misses it on occasion) just the things that are important and matter. lily, the foundation, you… and everything else he’ll keep himself open to.

“i love you too.” art’s sure his sigh of relief doesn’t go unnoticed by you, considering the early hour and the air of silence that accompanies it in moments like this. you shift closer and—

… oh. there we go. a snort leaves the blond as he shakes his head, glancing down briefly before he turns to you with that boyish grin of his.

“… were you still up for another round?”

[itadooori]

how do you write a eulogy for someone who isn't dead yet?

(text is from a journal entry from TLOU pt 2)

[mikqchoux]

enlighten me, my dear. why am i still here?