#god i’m crying

[oil-rigging]

Spoilers for the last TF2 comic.

A seven year wait for the seventh comic and I couldn’t be happier. TF2 has always been one of my biggest interests— it’s influenced my life ever since I got onto the internet. Some of my closest friends are the ones I met through this community— playing the game, talking about the characters, theorizing and enjoying myself in a space that is so very welcoming.

So this last comic being an ode to life, death, community, and Rick May, at least to me, made it so impactful.

The mercs and Pauling hearing the story of where it all began— how death and hate are a cyclical process wherein each facet of one is just a hair’s breadth from the other, about how something so simple can spark that hatred that leads someone to fully reanimate the dead, just to torment them longer. I got chills when the Administrator said “you know… after all this time… I don’t remember”.

I was filled with a sense of indescribable relief when the both of them disintegrated into dust. The inability to continue the torment that was too unnatural to sustain. Even more when Pauling appeared to agree with Engie that destroying the Australium was for the best. That no one shouldn’t die. Even more when Hale fired Olivia and himself— with the knowledge that both of them had lives to live.

There’s more to talk about here, about how the comics seem to invite you, the viewer, the player, the reader, the community into their Smissmas celebration. About how appreciated you are for enjoying and supporting this journey. About the love that could simply be, bonding over the fact that life happens, and you and many others go through it all.

Seeing the mercs —minus Medic, for different, still unnatural reasons— visibly age in the last few pages brought me comfort. Seeing them evolve and change over the course of their natural lifespans, some have kids and grey hairs and some grow beards and all being faced with the knowledge that they will die someday. Death —natural death— is so much less terrifying when you think about all of the people who’ll do the same and feel the same before and after you.

Not to mention— “What’s The Matter, Mags… You Wanna Live Forever?”

Nobody does.

“You know, I’ve always hated hearing “Don’t worry, a lot of people are going through the same thing. You’re not alone.”

There’s this selfish, barbed-wire inside my chest that coils up at that.

“No! My pain is more tragic! Grander! Deeper! If only you knew!”

That’s not true, of course. I hate talking about it.

Because I hate people who talk about it.

And that’s not very nice. That’s not okay. That’s not how you can be about all this.

It’s not romantic, but at least it’s true.

Don’t worry, a lot of people are going through the same thing.

And that’s what makes it the best USP yet.”

-How Fish is Made.

[luckytaxi]

just watched arrival, genuinely such such such a good movie. it’s a slow start but those last 30ish minutes where everything starts clicking and you realize it’s intentional is just *deep breath*

[davidtennan-t]

*THE GIGGLE ENDING SPOILERS*

EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING

I’ve just read the novelisation of the Giggle and the ending has me on my knees - it goes into much more detail than the show so guess what

THE DOCTOR BOUGHT THAT HOUSE

THAT IS HIS HOUSE

He chose it, he went to an estate agents and said ‘I want this pretty house’, offered them £60, then rang Kate Stewart and discovered he was getting paid by UNIT this whole time, was able to afford the house/mortgage and BOUGHT THAT HOUSE

The Nobles still have a house in London but they STAY WITH THE DOCTOR NEARLY ALL THE TIME

He chose the house with a sunroom so WILF COULD LIVE DOWNSTAIRS COMFORTABLY

[cheese-water]

I was doing so well

[brwnskin-bunnyteeth]

CRYING

what do you mean no one found him??? he was fighting a villian?? and no one thought to check up on him??? 😭😭

that’s so sad tho, like what do you mean your quirk will just “incinerate (you) into nothing” ???? makes me so sad like yeah…this is what would’ve happened if touya had stayed.

he’s so nonchalant about it, his self destruction has only gotten worse under the tutelage of Endeavor. Endeavor doesn’t have the hindsight of his eldest child “dying” to be even remotely concerned or aware of the limits of his children’s abilities.

and even worse then, as a hero the pressure to be #1 or to have worth would be tenfold compared to that as a villain. at least Dabi gets to acknowledge that his upbringing was abusive. Dabi gets time away from Endeavor, he’s not under his dad’s thumb. Dabi has growth, but Touya would remain stagnant.

and ya know what? he’s right for saying that we wouldn’t get it. GOD IT HURTS.

you find pro-hero touya naked on the sidewalk.

face down, ass up, and completely unmoving; it's a little after 5 in the morning, which is maybe why no one has found him or offered him any clothes. or finished him off.

it's nearly december, but all the ice around him has melted into a slick and dangerous sludge, and snowflakes are sizzling when they make contact with his back. skin a tender pink and baby-smooth; another reason you know he's still alive, aside from all the heat he's generating on such a frozen morning.

"hey," you nudge him lightly with the toe of your boot until he grunts and begins to stir. "i don't know how your quirk works, but laying in the cold like this can't be good for you."

some kind of nonsense noise fumbles out of his mouth as he squints up at you, frown etched so deep that it looks like it hurts. it almost feels like he's mega-wasted and is burning off a hangover, but you squat next to him and don't smell alcohol or weed or vomit or even nicotine. just ash, as the early morning wind stings the inside of your nose.

"c'mon man," you scoff when he turns his back to you, like a teenager not ready to get out of bed. "don't make me leave you out here."

pro-hero touya has tattoos everywhere — or at least in his most visible spots, with his costume. piercings, you're not so sure about; the last time you saw his face up close on a big screen, he might have had a vertical bar through his lip and several in his ears, but you vaguely remember a tabloid article about him almost getting his mouth ripped off during a high-speed chase. you know there's something though, a bunch of metal in his face and head.

this touya has nothing. none of it; born fresh right here, in the muck and the ice.

of course the first thing you think is: clone-touya.

some evil ne'er-do-well has obtained pieces of his dna and is trying to create a super weapon to destroy the city, and in a cruel twist of fate, you get to be the one that finds him. responsible, suddenly, for the could-be end of the world. least you can do is offer him your coat.

you try again at nudging him, with the side of your foot this time so as to put more weight into it, and, surprisingly, he complies rather easily, rolling completely over until he's flat on his back. exposed and bare to the elements.

"whoa," you mutter, eyes shooting up to the windows of the department store he's in front of. trying, at least, to offer him the small courtesy. "you're gonna get a public indecency charge at this point."

this is not the first time you've seen pro-hero touya's dick against your will; two years ago, some sex tape he made leaked and your co-worker was so excited to have it in her possession that it had been shoved into your face, sound and all, in the middle of your shift. there had been metal there, too, but this clone-touya is brand spanking new.

only one of his eyes is cracked open, a thin sliver of his icy blues peeking at you through a veil of snow-heavy lashes. something about him sprawled out on the concrete like a sloppy angel makes your heart squeeze, even if you don't particularly care much for him or his heroics.

"alright," you sigh, shrugging out of your coat to drape over his hips. "don't move, i guess."

it's lucky that he's half-alive right outside your job; in the following twenty minutes, you use your key to get back into the building and pick out a simple set of clothes from the men's section that you'll deduct from your paycheck later. when you come out of the back to find him again, he's at least pushed himself up into a sitting position and is coming to against the wall. in his lap, your fluffy jacket is damp and soggy and drooping and now useless.

if someone would have ever told you that one day you'd be here, helping to dress pro-hero touya like a toddler out of the bath, you — don't know what you would have said. laughed, maybe, eyebrows raised, totally lost. you feel much the same now.

a creeping unease has started at the base of your spine at his silence. finally dressed, he simply watches you, hazy, with half-lidded eyes, and you don't know what you're expecting from someone like him, but the cold shoulder is not it. it sucks that he's actually handsome because you didn't think you were the type of person to get caught up in him, but — all his features are sharp, like they've been carved by careful hands.

shorter in person, and, funny enough, that gives you the confidence to poke him in the cheek, like a brat.

"you okay in there?"

pro-hero touya doesn't retaliate to your impishness — which furthers your concern — only swallows and smacks his lips, squinting into the coming day as it dawns.

you take that as a no.

when you loop your arm through his, he lets you, and offers no objection to being led down the sidewalk. he's — warm, which you knew, but winter is sinking through your thin sweater and the plethora of heat rolling off him nearly has you purring. easy to sink in to, to your surprise, more than pliable in this fugue state.

there's a breakfast place not far from the department store and you think maybe he just needs to eat, or something. drink some water. you've been up since late last night with inventory and the thought of a fat stack of syrupy, buttermilk pancakes is motivation enough to hurry him along.

this early, there are very few people out to gawk at him on the street and you're glad for it, because you don't know how you'd explain this to your coworker if you were to end up in some tabloid. the most attention he garners is when you wrench open the doors to the cafe, and even then, the overtired, middle-aged woman just chews her gum and gestures to a table at the back.

when she brings water, you order a breakfast plate for him and yourself, and the first thing clone-touya says to you, after she's gone, is:

"i don't like pork."

you try not to make a big deal about him finally joining you in the physical world, settling for a shrug. "then don't eat it."

he snorts, still a little disjointed as he stares at the fading pattern of your table. you watch him take it all in: the salt and pepper shakers, the napkin container, the dead flies in the window pane, his tall, sweating glass.

all at once, he drinks it down so fast that some of it slips from the corners of his lips and down his chin, and when he wipes a limp hand across his mouth, you just scoot your glass across to him. and he does it all over again.

despite the weather, he wets a hand to run over his face. "what day is it?"

"thursday."

for some reason, he laughs once. huffy and short, scratchy. with a shake of his head, he turns towards the window, leaning into it like he needs to remember where he's at.

you don't think he is, but you still ask: "y'okay?"

his eyes cut to you, alive, and he considers you for a long moment. "you know who i am?"

you shrug, unable to tell if he's asking because he doesn't know, or if this is some kind of intimidation tactic. "think so." and then when he doesn't respond immediately, you tack on: "don't look right, though."

it makes him laugh, sharp and sudden. "yeah, right?" he shoves up his sleeves to trace the bare skin of his arms, rubbing his thumb over his wrist before making crescents with his nails. clone-touya goes silent again, and he doesn't look up until the food arrives.

before he can complain, you snatch the pork sausage off his plate and the quick action brings him back to the physical world again. back to the table and back to you.

he smiles like a ghost, mouth haunted on the pale, untouched skin of his face. "i have to work really hard at keeping my temperature regulated, or else my quirk will just—" he shrugs before downing another glass of water. when he finishes, he wipes a hand over his mouth, sloppy, and then takes an over-large bite of his pancakes. "eat me up."

you — don't really know what to say. this isn't a conversation topic you ever expected to have with him, not that you ever could have expected one to begin with, but you think he might just be — talking. to you, sure, but not to be polite.

"and if i just keep going and going and going," he speaks with food in his cheeks, and you're a little surprised at how bad his table manners are. but maybe he's just really hungry. "it'll just incinerate me into nothing."

so casually he says it, eyes far out the window, trained on the day as it wakes. you want to say that your clone theory is really coming together — how could he know all that, if he didn't actually incinerate himself into nothing? — but you take in his inkless arms and unpunctured nose and your stomach twists.

"so...then what?" when you speak up, his eyes cut across the table again, expression unchanged. his answer is a lazy gesture to himself with his fork. "you just...come back?"

"good news is," he laughs, insincere, "if i get a tattoo and hate it, i can just start all over again."

you don't know how to feel about that — well, you do, but you think your pity will only annoy him, so you say, "sounds like a waste of money."

clone-touya shrugs and you can see the food get caught in his throat, too large of a bite that has him stealing your water again. "got enough of it."

“your time, then?”

he doesn’t bother to look at you, as he shake his head; it feels rude, like some sort of dismissal. “what’s that fuckin’ matter?”

“okay,” you grit your teeth as he chews on your ice, and try to remember your own manners. maybe he’s grouchy because he just woke up from some kind of ash-nap. “what are you gaining from it?”

and that — has his jaw stilling, nostrils flaring as he finally, finally takes you in. whatever he finds in your face isn’t enough, and you’re reminded, again, that you really aren’t a big fan of this guy. he leans close as he whispers, “you wouldn’t get it.”

and you lean in just as close. “so explain it to me then.”

against the nearly empty plate, his cutlery sings when he drops it, suddenly. with food still stuffed into one side of his cheeks, he sits back in the booth and crosses his arms. childishly, you feel like you’ve won something, and your smile makes his eyes narrow.

“and who are you, anyway? some civilian?” clone-touya — or real, angry touya; you’re not sure anymore — doesn’t bother to keep his voice down, not even when the only other table in the cafe turns to look at him. “y’wanna know what it’s like to be daddy’s prized possession? fine. how much time you got?”

you shrug, crossing your arms as you lean into the table. hugging yourself, making yourself warm against the frost outside, and in his eyes. “what’s that matter?”

[amnestyliketaz]

in honor of the nimona movie (it’s so good i’m gonna scream and cry for the next million years) i must share my favorite nimona art ever

drawn by ND stevenson ofc and posted on twitter a few years ago i believe

do i even have to SAY anything? the shark, it’s not rocket surgery, baby nimona, the DOMESTICITY of it all im gonna explode

UPDATE!!!! GAY DADS AU THREAD https://twitter.com/gingerhazing/status/1676058949504892928?s=46

[donutfloats]

Once again fighting with Heket’s design because of her four eyes

Why did you have to have four eyes, why….

[sarcastic-clapping]

claudia BEYOND justifiably hating lestat and louis and dying hating them because they didn’t see her as a person with her own agency and treated her like a child at best and a toy at worst and both are ultimately to blame for her suffering BUT louis and lestat both genuinely loving her (in their own fucked up and deeply inadequate ways) and seeing her as their daughter and being irreparably traumatized by her death and their culpability in her suffering and the knowledge that she died hating them and it’s their fault and they can never make it right ever

[drenched-in-sunlight]

Erdtree’s Sacred Tears.

(discussion of my inspiration to draw this under the cut)

[pixlokita]

A very glazed page 39

Previous - next - first

[wishchip106]

i’ve been using my brain more than its used to

gonna think about gay mutant road trip hope my brain doesn’t explode

[taylorswiftpropaganda]

.

[duckiiieluv]

watercolor trend but make it brocedes

[your-fuccked-up-dad-volume100]

I need to hunt you. I need to rape you. I need you to be scared for your life. I want you hold you down and split that little girl cunt open while you cry. I’m tired of your little games. I’m going to fucking get you. You never should have messaged me, you’re never going to be safe now. I’m going to claim your holes and make you my property if it’s the last thing I do. 🔪

[corneredcopia]

OH. OK….

[etiolatedmutant]

do you ever think about how jarring it must be for laura to see logan healthy?

well, ok, maybe not Healthy healthy, man’s still an alcoholic, but he’s sturdy. he’s not constantly nursing wounds that won’t heal, not wincing with every step like he’s in agony, his eyes are clear (were they always so green? she’d forgotten over the years, in the void, only remembered the bloody starburst that blotted out the white in one of them vividly), and he’s Strong.

she’d only ever seen that strength once, when Her Logan ran to her in north dakota, temporarily unburdened from anguish and injury and sprinting toward her like she was the only thing that mattered, and now this logan is just…like that? he can keep going and going and going, for hours, just like in her comic books

but she still finds herself waiting for the other shoe to drop. she still braces herself when logan coughs, just to clear his throat, and he either doesn’t notice that it makes her go stiff as board or chooses not to comment on it. she’s waiting for the splash of blood on his lips, the heaving, hacking fit that’ll double him over, the wet, asthmatic gasping that sounds like he’s going to drown in his own phlegm. but it doesn’t come

she can smell he isn’t sick, takes deep breaths in through the mouth and scents the air around him — whiskey, cigar smoke, something woody, and something sweet, like a confection (she thinks that’s wade, because he stinks like sick-sweet cancer and sugary body wash). but there’s no bitterness underneath it, not like Her Logan. he reeked of rot, of poison — like death.

so she Knows this new logan isn’t dying. he’s fine, he’s totally fine, and maybe she’s a little resentful of that because why does he get to be fine, why does he get to reside comfortably in his prime when Her Logan was disintegrating before her very eyes? why couldn’t Her dad Logan have kept that strength, that resilience, for just a little bit longer? maybe He would’ve lived, maybe He would’ve crossed the canadian border with her?

maybe He would’ve stayed?

perhaps the TVA wouldn’t have portaled her away if she was firmly attached to an anchor being.

she tries not to think such things. really, she does. especially when this logan, this new one, as broken and mean as he may be sometimes — well, he tries. he’ll never be Her Logan, and they both know that, and maybe that’s ok. maybe she doesn’t need a replacement.

maybe Her Logan would just be happy that she’s got a father at all. two if you count wade (and she does).

and maybe that’s enough.