#dead end edit

[maybe-just-whelmed]

Endless Cartoon intro’s: 21/♾

Dead End: Paranormal Park

2022

[inkbirdie]

Pael moodboard for anon! Sorry this took so long lmao, I wasn't sure exactly what I wanted to do for this. I ended up having a gray/black and white kind of theme, just because I wanted some continuity. Pael and the angels are so interesting to me, and I'm very excited to see how this system is further explored in future seasons! thanks for the ask <3

Photo ID under the cut

[ID start: a moodboard of Pael from Dead End: Paranormal Park, eight black-and-white images in an array surrounding one full-color picture of Pael as seen in the show. Images from left to right: 1: a black moon emanating white light on a black background. 2: a dark gray silhouette of an angel with a halo on a light gray background. 3: a gray cloudy sky. 4: a silhouette of two sinister-looking dark gray hands with long sharp nails. 5: Pael surrounded by its gold wings, a gold bracelet on its right arm. 6: a silhouette of a dark gray hand reaching out as if to help someone. 7: a large feathered wing, edges not in frame. 8: a gray silhouette of a horned devil holding a pitchfork surrounded by a layer of white and then dark gray. 9: a featureless wooden puppet on a black background with its head bowed and its arms held out at a low angle, white strings attached to its wrists. End ID]

[invaderalliangel]

So I thought about this dress design and decided to draw it on Courtney cuz why not

[lovelettered]

yeah in your own time but. seven years is a long time

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[octaviasdread]

Thinking about Carpe Diem and the cinematography of falling leaves to falling snow.

Seasons as cyclical as generations. It's tapestries and banners. It’s photographs on the wall. A structure, a system; tradition in the bones of buildings and boys.

There's a choice to be made - Nolan's hollow, ceremonial Light of Knowledge, or Neil's scavenged, man-made God of the Cave?

They’re children living for the future through a lens of past. Fireside stories embraced by woodland caves. They chant, dance, and recite from a sacred book - the heirloom they claim from a father they chose.

The window is finally open, but time froze at Welton lake. Forever winter. Forever youth. A moment in time, a feeling, a community turned to dust.

It's all so fleeting. Carpe Diem. Teenage years, childhood, a lifetime in three months. It’s a tragedy of classical epics.

The tale is old, but this wound is fresh. Falling to your knees. Shouting at the sky, praying and wailing, and clutching at the earth.

But the snow never stops.

Spring is up to us.

[originalartblog]

I can excuse Dazai not trying to nullify Shibusawa's fog because Fyodor was there, and they really could have just incapacitated Dazai and gone right back to their nefarious plan

but the facts are that Shibusawa was unknowingly keeping himself alive as a singularity and Dazai can nullify singularities, so there was a much less convoluted way to stop him.

[youareabeautypj]

whats his name again i think it started wth a d

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Richard Siken, Unhappy Hour || Charles Rowland, Dead Boy Detectives (2024)

[weskie]

Forgiveness (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

2.9k words | giving wesker his first injection, minor hurt/comfort, pining, mutual pining, fluff, part of the lover, leader, liar series | Fic Directory

'With Love - Albert Wesker'

The side effects of his newfound abilities come in waves.

For a time, Wesker was… himself, really.  Something in him had changed after the mansion.  Your former Captain was certainly still the stoic man you’d worked for.  The same one that wriggled his way into your heart in all those special ways. He was just a little more angry now.  Some days were worse than others, but god help you if he dwelled too long on Chris’s disruption of his plans.  It seemed like a lifetime ago…

But now you get to watch him seemingly deteriorate.  “Unstable,” he’d told you.  Whatever it was that granted him superhuman abilities wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.  It comes in waves.  First he’s simply irritable, lashing out at you and others for even the smallest of perceived slights.  Sweat would bead at his brow, trickling over the bump of a vein in his temple.  Those red, cat-like eyes you’d come to find less uncanny would grow brighter too, as if his fury were fueled by hot coals that lit them just as easily.

Next he’s sluggish– weak, even.  He reminds you of someone stricken with the flu with the way he sweats and tosses and turns uncomfortably in his bed.  Only once has he ever let it slip that his body aches terribly during such times.  You do what you can for him in those moments, patting cool cloths to his brow, fetching medicine to relieve his fevers, bringing him meals that he typically turns away, and even drawing blood samples to be analyzed later… It’s difficult to watch him suffer, even after everything he’d done to you and your comrades. 

Between such spells, he found a solution.  An injection synthesized from the very strain of virus that brought him back from death’s door.  A stabilizing agent to keep him right in the sweet spot.  On the night everything was finalized, he’d staggered down the hallways of the compound to your shared living quarters, knocking at your bedroom door with shaking hands.  

You can see the pain of his wounded pride as he rasps his request.  “I require your assistance…” he all but mumbles, feet dragging as he walks to plop gracelessly onto the edge of your bed.  He runs a trembling hand through his hair and the other extends to offer a syringe, an alcohol wipe, and a pad of gauze.  His head drops into his palm.  

Your heart tugs at the sight before you.  Despite everything, it’s still him.  Still Wesker, still the man you’d grown so fond of in your time as a S.T.A.R.S. officer.  You reach for the syringe, taking a seat on his right side, thighs just shy of flush to each other.  Wesker extends his forearm to you and you ready it with the wipe.

“In a vein?” You ask, nodding to acknowledge his weak hum of approval.  It isn’t at all difficult to find a good one and you slip the needle in with ease.  With a gentle draw of the plunger, a trickle of blood floods the suspension and you inject slowly.  You thumb gently at his skin, an act meant to soothe him in his fragile state.  He watches with hooded eyes as the black flecks pushing through the tube disappear into the needle, breaths a little heavier than his normal decorum would permit.  A glance to his face reveals deep-set exhaustion.

“Captain?”  You announce, peeking into his office.  You find him hunched over a case file, sunglasses tossed aside on the desk.  

Wesker acknowledges you with that signature hum of his, though it carries none of its usual firmness.  You’ve never seen him so tired before.  Even the icy blue of his eyes seems dimmed.  He motions for you to enter and you close the door behind you.  “Blinds,” he instructs.

Once they’re shut, you make your way to his side.  Your eyes fall to the document at his desk, recognizing it as the most recent missing child case that had cast a sorrowful shadow over the city. Your lips quirk into a smile when he yawns, unable to find the display anything less than precious.  You bring a hand to rest at his shoulder, rubbing softly.

“It never ends.” He sighs.  Such an act was rarer than rare from him.  Anything less than perfect composure from the great Captain Wesker was unheard of, but not for you.  Not anymore.

“Can I do anything?”  You ask softly, increasing the area of your ministrations to his upper back, further testing those boundaries that seemed to be falling away more and more with every private interaction.  You swear he pushes into your touch.  

Wesker’s gaze flickers to you briefly, almost as if he was considering even asking whatever was on his mind.  “Coffee would not be unappreciated.”  

You smile at him, turning to fetch a cup from the break room when he snags you by the wrist.

“Bring… two.  And some of your own work.”  He murmurs.  “I could use the company to keep me awake.”

His head rests against your shoulder as you press a tiny piece of gauze to the puncture wound.  For a time you simply stay there, thumb caressing the firmness of his forearm in your lap.  You’re unsure of whether or not he’s watching, but you imagine he’s probably got his eyes shut.  At least you hope he does, anyway.  

You signal to him to lift his head and kneel to the ground, untying the laces of his dress shoes.  You hear him hum above, whether in curiosity or complaint is unclear, but you continue anyway.  “Probably best if you get some sleep.”  You tell him as you tug his shoes free.  He relents without any grief, stopping his descent to the bed only to place his sunglasses atop your nightstand and free himself of his black dress shirt, leaving him in a black tank top.

He regards you with another hum as you stand, arms wrapping around your waist.  Your hand falls to his hair, gently pushing strands back in their perfectly styled place while he buries his face against your abdomen.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Leaves crunch under Wesker’s determined footsteps.  You two must have been walking for an hour now with no sight of, well, anything really.  The Arklay Mountains are huge but not overly populated.  It would take a while before you found a home with a vehicle to ‘borrow.’ 

His arms beneath your knees only tighten, signaling to you that your piggyback ride was far from over.

“C’mon, lay down.” You murmur, fingers scritching at his nape, occasionally trailing down to dance over the curve of his back.

He’s never slept in your bed before.  It’s strange to have him here, but you wager it’s no different than that night you’d fallen asleep on the couch with him.  Still, you feel no apprehension about crawling in on the other side.

Wesker turns to face you and you scoot the littlest bit closer, just until your knees bump his.  You can’t help but smile at him.  After everything, he still has that effect on you.  “So,” you say, “do you feel any different?”

He answers you with a slight nod, looking away briefly as if to contemplate his answer.  He holds his hand in the air for a moment.  You lift yours to entwine your fingers with his.

“That was to show you that the shaking had settled.” He says, pulling your hand closer.  His lips press to your knuckles and you can feel the burn in your cheeks at such a gesture.  “But this is not unwelcome.”

He’s never done that before.  In fact, for all of the times you’ve both danced near the line of such acts, neither of you has ever crossed it.

Wesker holds a hand over your mouth, pressing you into the peeling wallpaper of whatever dark room he’d tugged you into.  He removes it only once he’s sure you won’t make a peep, hand falling to grip your shoulder.  Outside, the sound of snarling growls and the rattle of chains war with one another.  The shriek of a girl, nearly inhuman, follows every loud thud until whatever monstrous beast opposes her becomes little more than fleshy splats.

Your heart hammers in your chest as if it meant to break free.  You wish you’d never set foot in this cursed place.  Had you known such horrors existed in this mansion, you’d have never stayed in Raccoon City to begin with.  To know something like this was in the mountains…  

You want to cry.  The only thing keeping you from giving up entirely was your Captain.  He’s pressed so close to you, practically nose to nose.  His eyes are locked on the doorway, completely focused on the sound of whatever creature slaughtered her way through the hallway.  As petrified as you are, he somehow makes it all less frightening.  His presence has always made you feel protected, whether at scenes of heinous crimes or in a mansion from hell.

“We’re clear.” 

His whispered words ghost over your lips.  Despite all of the fear coursing through your veins, you still find it in yourself to imagine bridging the gap.  But now is neither the time or place

You wonder if you’ll live long enough to see such a moment…

You two stay like that for a while, shifting only to come closer.  He watches you with those inhuman eyes of his, though you can’t help but grin when you see how wide his pupils have gotten.  That was one thing in particular you’d found quite enjoyable about his ocular mutation.  Though perfectly composed in every way, he couldn’t stop his eyes from dilating and giving away how he truly felt.  Well, unless he had his glasses on.  But that was different.

As your mind wanders back to the most traumatic night of your life, you can’t help but settle on that one question that had never quite been answered.  It slips from your lips faster than you can stop it.

“Why did you save me?”

Wesker’s eyes shut and a small sigh escapes him. You briefly wonder if he’s frustrated with you having asked.  After all, the small handful of times you’ve brought it up had been brushed off or the subject changed entirely.  His hand leaves yours and for a split second you think he’s going to throw the covers off, grab his clothes, and leave.  But he doesn’t.  Instead, he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes unfocused but still somehow locked on you.  

“I meant to fire you,” he murmurs, voice low as if the confession were a sin.  “Before the mansion.  Before any harm could befall you.”  His thumb catches your lower lip.  “I…  You weren’t meant to be there.”

But that only leaves you with more questions.

“Do you remember the first time you ever brought lunch to my office?”  

You nod, though you fear he must be changing the subject again.

Knocking makes you exceptionally nervous, though not for the same reasons the rest of the crew feel.  Normally knocking on Captain Wesker’s door means you’re in trouble, but you’re far from it.

He looks almost surprised when you enter with cups of coffee and a bag of sandwiches.  Rumor was that he enjoys the ones from a shop a few blocks over.  Gossip was all the S.T.A.R.S. teams had to occupy themselves sometimes, and seeing the elusive Captain in public was akin to seeing a shaved bear.  The grapevine quickly spread the word that Captain Wesker had stayed overnight at the precinct on two separate occasions this week alone, so you figured you’d do something kind.

He seems almost taken aback that you would do such a thing.

“I had to uh… guess what you might like.  I hope this is okay.” 

Your fingers brush against his as you hand off the wrapped food.  This, as usual, makes your cheeks burn.  For as often as such a thing happens, you’ve never really gotten better at keeping that particular reaction at bay.  In fact, you almost suspect he does it on purpose.  Ever since the first time it happened when you’d handed him a heavy stack of paper, it seemed like every time you gave him something resulted in the same graze of skin.

“I appreciate you.” He says, which sends a wave of warmth right to your chest.  Wesker’s always had such a unique way of thanking you.  Not once have you heard him utter those words to another.

“You seldom left my mind after that.”  That edge to his voice is nowhere to be found in the softness of his confession.  “Even when you should have.”

You chuckle through a wave of emotion that you can’t quite name.  Your hand grips gently at his forearm, thumb rubbing softly just beneath the band of his watch.

“I had planned to find you afterward, though I imagine you would not have been pleased to see me.”  He continues, eyes still locked on you despite how distant they seemed. “Earning your trust back would have been difficult, but I would have done anything.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He confirms, grip growing a little more firm on your chin.  “You mean a great deal to me.  Far more than I ever imagined you would.”

How you wish you could’ve heard those very words back then.  Maybe instead of being hunkered down in some random facility owned by one of Umbrella’s rivals, you would be walking beside him in the park while he tells you all that you’ve longed to hear.  Or maybe you would have been out at some restaurant, or even having dinner at either your place or his.  But no.  Here he is coming down from one of his episodes, courtesy of whatever virus had brought him back from death’s door, confirming that he feels the same for you.

It’s not at all how you imagined it.  You used to lie awake at night picturing the moment one of you confessed and something more than longing gazes and tender touches could finally come to be.  Your heart doesn’t explode and fill your chest with confetti.  Your knees don’t wobble– not that they could, given that you were laying down.  It’s nothing like you imagined, but it’s so much more.

With bravery and joy in your heart, you finally lean forward and press your lips to his.  There’s none of the fanfare or romantic music you used to daydream of, just the occasional sighed breath from him and the gentle pecking of kiss after kiss.  It feels so natural.  It’s as if you’d done this a thousand times without having ever known it.  It’s slow and soft, precise in a way that could only make sense for him.  

The fingers gripping your chin leave.  Instead, Wesker moves his arm to wrap around your midsection and pulls you closer.  Between the intoxication of kisses and your hand smoothing up to his bicep, your mind becomes foggy.  It’s only when he breaks the act that you realize you’d foregone breathing in exchange for losing yourself in him.

You tangle a leg between his and nuzzle against his chest, pressing one more kiss to the exposed skin of his collarbone before letting your eyes flutter shut.  You feel his chin come down to rest against the top of your head and the arm around your waist tightens.

You thumb gently at the bent corners of the card.  On the night before Alpha Team deployed to the mountains, you decided it would be your good luck charm to get you through the mission.  You weren’t entirely sure if it had brought you any luck, but those words meant so very much to you.

‘With Love  - Albert Wesker’

He’s at the other side of the room, picking through a shelf of medical supplies while you sit on a makeshift bed.  You’re so lost in thought that you hardly notice when he’s in front of you again. He kneels before you, thumb slowly rubbing a sticky gel across the cut on your cheek.

“You’ll want to get that cleaned properly once we’re out of here,” he instructs.  “But this will be good enough for now.”

You huff a weak laugh.  “Think we’ll actually make it that long?”

“We will.”  Wesker says matter-of-factly.  He begins to rise, nearly turning from you once more before he halts.  In a rare act, he slowly removes his sunglasses.  It’s then that you see his line of sight.

The card.

“I– Call it dumb, but I brought it for luck.”  You stammer.  “Sorry…”

His hand falls to your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze.  There’s a pained look in his eyes, one you’ve never seen before.  “You and I have got plenty of a future beyond these walls.”  

You pray he’s right.

[fanofspooky]

Scream Queen - Lin Shaye

[blighted-lights]

posting this one again just because i can and i still really like how rodimus' face came out. your honor they are friends (<- cannot be in the same room together for more than a few minutes before arguing)

i drew ravage so comfy looking,, he's a heat thief and rodimus is a walking radiator, so.

[lab-gr0wn-lambs]

Daryl Dixon's impressive range of totally different voices and accents

[ltlemon]

ur blog has infected my camera roll with the weird talking dollar bill

im so glad im spreading my infection. here's another one

[ao-xingyume1987]

Intimacy

( x )

[isthatacalzone]

me: *seeing people yell about how they did Glintshore & Percy's death in the show*

also me: ..................anyway