#happy anniversary man!

[hypertechnica]

happy 9th undertale anniversary, everyone. :)

[lucabyte]

Yeah, that about sums it up.

[star-shaped-froot-loops]

HAPPY FIRST ANNIVERSARY IN STARS AND TIME!!!!!!! ✨✨

You’re such an awesome game thank you so much for existing!! Ignore that I’m late this took me three days!!!!

Here’s to more years of loving this awesome game! Thank you <3

[toasty-owl-arts]

pov: ur the core and ur about to get ur ass kicked by a polycule of candy colored magical girls

[adamstanheightswife1]

Happy Halloween! This video made me so happy! Leigh Whannell understands us

[andorianimpostor]

THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. SEASON ONE 1.01 | "The Vulcan Affair", dir. Don Medford

Original air date: September 22, 1964

[thefrogdalorian]

Din Djarin + Chapter 15: The Believer

[n1ppthesillyandroid]

—The Boy & the Bird

Suspicious meal

[kia-ko]

Happy b-day 🎉🎉

[koumeowkami]

— PARADOX LIVE 5TH ANNIVERSARY VISUALS !! 💽

[royalarchivist]

Pac: I'm- I'm worried about it! Oh, I don't want to be locked up again! I don't want to be kidnapped again, you know? I don't want to be in prison! [He starts hyperventilating] I just want to do what they told me to do!

Tubbo: [Overlapping] No one will know you did that! No one will know.

Fit: Yeah, that's not gonna happen! It's not gonna happen, it's ok.

Pac: It might happen! It might happen! It happened with my friend! It happened with my son! Why wouldn't it happen with me? [Sighs]

Tubbo: There's gotta be someone left to hold down the fort!

Fit: That's right, you gotta stay strong!

Pac: I'm the weakest of all, you know? I'm the weakest of all the Favela.

Fit: You're not the weakest Pac, don't say that.

Pac: –I am! I am. I am.

[Full Transcript ↓ ]

—

Tubbo: C'mon, just point me in the general direction, and it'll be fine! And–

Pac: I'm scared, I'm scared to say! I'm scared to say–

Tubbo: No, no! Just say it, just say it! Like–

Pac: I'm- I'm worried about it! Oh, I don't want to be locked up again!

Fit: Pac– it's ok!

Pac: I don't want to be kidnapped again, you know? I don't want to be in prison! [He starts hyperventilating] I just want to do what they told me to do!

Tubbo: [Overlapping] No one will know you did that! No one will know.

Fit: Yeah, that's not gonna happen! It's not gonna happen, it's ok. Wait, Pac– when–

Pac: It might happen! It might happen! It happened with my friend! It happened with my son! Why wouldn't it happen with me? [Sighs]

Tubbo: There's gotta be someone left to hold down the fort!

Fit: That's right, you gotta stay strong!

Pac: I'm the weakest of all, you know? I'm the weakest of all the Favela.

Fit: You're not the weakest Pac, don't say that.

Tubbo: Yeah, so why would they take you?

Pac: –I am! I am. I am.

Fit: No no no no– you're strong Pac, you're strong.

Tubbo: [Overlapping] You're not the weakest Pac, you're not the weakest!

Pac: [Overlapping] I don't want to be that guy, I don't want to be the weakest and like, the saddest of all. I wanna be happy! [Sighs] That's why I took the pills also...

Tubbo: You seemed– when–

Pac: I wasn't happy.

Tubbo: I mean, you were happy when we were chatting before about about the railway? Maybe- maybe there's other- other places to find joy, other than a briefcase full of very... unlabeled pills?

[deancasforcutie]

Radio Company, "Watching Over Me" & "Every Light"

[santanartista]

TIME, DR FREEMAN?

(is it really that time again?)

[stoopidstapler]

WOOHOO my part for the @xiaolinreanimated collab! CHECK OUT THE FULL VIDEO HERE, so many cool artists contributed!!!

[cyberwhumper]

It’s almost ridiculous how easy it was to take him. An ironic anticlimax, a sardonically unsatisfying nothingness, like a round of Russian roulette played with a malfunctioning squirt gun. Stupid enough that War can’t help a huff of disbelief, almost disappointment, as he stands on the glossy floor of his throne room, prize in hand, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never does.

Slowly, tectonically, the Horseman’s face splits into a grin.

Victory is his.

⭑⭑⭑

There hadn’t even been a fight.

Victory would probably be ashamed of himself, if shame was an emotion the angel had ever been capable of feeling. He had been drunk, of course. He usually was. Anything to drown out the intractable boredom of the endless campaigns Heaven waged, those sterile scourings of the unclean and impure that were more a science than an art at this point. The cacophony of wingbeats and platinum swords that had once made his heart flutter with anticipation now lulled him halfway to sleep. As long as he was here, there was no contest. Every engagement was a rout, every triumph swift and sound.

It wasn’t fun anymore.

So he drank, and waited, and picked up flowers and shell casings, and stared vacantly out over the gore-splattered squadrons on their fields of slaughter while he stood apart, resplendent and redundant.

War had taken him effortlessly. He had dozed off at some point after running his fingers through already-pristine feathers for the millionth time, floating cozily on champagne and cynicism. When he awoke, however, it wasn’t hungover on a bed of silks, but rather hungover in a burning-hot darkness so total he briefly wondered if he’d somehow failed to open his eyes.

And then there was light—not the searing white purity of Heaven, but a primal, animal sort of glow, fever-hot and ruddy, assuring him that his eyes were, indeed, open, and making him immediately squeeze them closed.

“Ow.”

⭑⭑⭑

War stares down at the angel, crumpled like wet paper on his hall floor, a mixture of curiosity and derision in his carved face.

“So this is Heaven’s lucky charm,” he muses, voice dripping with command. “Look at me. Open your eyes.”

Victory shudders, a little whine escaping him.

War raises an eyebrow. Stubborn. “Open your eyes.”

The angel shakes his head, curling acid-white wings over himself. Whines again.

War draws closer. Victory is completely harmless, dazed and bound in chains built to restrain much stronger beings than he is, but the general still feels, somehow, on edge. “Open your eyes, little angel. Or are you afraid?”

“Not afraid,” comes the grumbled reply. “Headache. Stop talking.”

That stops War in his tracks, blinking. There are few creatures in Heaven or Hell who aren’t afraid of the Horseman, and those few are either very powerful or very stupid.

Victory, War thinks, is very, very stupid.

He smiles, for the second time that day, running his forked tongue over triplicate canine teeth. Ridiculous. Victory is his, easy as breathing.

And if taking him was that easy, well. Breaking him will be a breeze.

⭑⭑⭑

So he’s in Hell.

It’s been days, or millennia. Who’s to say. It’s not as hot as he expected, honestly. Sure, the air itself feels acrid and alien, infernal energy making him feel shaky and nauseous long after the hangover has cleared, and the chains lacing his body are as heavy as lead, and he lives inside a hanging birdcage with bars the same molten gold color as War’s eyes. But it’s not that hot. If anything, he’s actually cold, that prickly kind of bone-chill that comes with a fever, spiking every time the demon lord comes near him.

Such as now.

Victory shivers, drawing his wings protectively around himself as War idly taps the bars of the cage with his pronged tail, setting it slowly rocking.

“Didn’t take you for the bashful type,” he says, voice as deep and smooth as wine.

“I’m not,” Victory responds, feeling very far away. Above him, his halo flickers.

“Then come here. Let me see you.”

Victory cocks his head. “Why?”

“Because you’re mine.” War’s face is impassive on the other side of the bars. “And I command you to.”

Well, Victory can’t argue with that. Literally, can’t. It’s like he’s under some fucking spell down here, the poisoned air, the Horseman’s voice, everything conspiring to make him want to be pliant and obedient. God, he thinks the water’s drugged.

But he wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t shy. He unfurls his wings, baring himself to War, all long lines of muscle under sun-bronzed skin, smears of ash and grime providing more coverage than the few scraps of silk still clinging to his hips.

“Closer,” says War.

Obediently, like a lamb, Victory crawls to him.

He slips his arms out through the bars, the chains on his wrists clinking almost musically against them despite their weight. “Like what you see?” he murmurs. For everything else he is, War is a man. And Victory can work with that.

“Yes,” War says plainly, and something flutters low in the angel’s belly. The feeling strengthens as War reaches between the bars and strokes clawed fingers across his cheekbone, jawline, throat. His halo flickers again, reflected brokenly in War’s eyes, gazing openly at him. “Come here.”

Even if Victory could resist, he wouldn’t have. War is handsome, in a wicked, cruel sort of way, all hard angles and corded muscles that bely the hypnotic grace of an apex predator. The whole demon thing aside, you just don’t get guys like that in Heaven. War unlocks the gilded cage and coaxes Victory out almost gently, letting him stand on unsteady legs as he continues tracing massive hands over the angel’s features, running fingers through his tangled hair, razor-sharp claws ghosting along his skin.

“Beautiful,” the Horseman murmurs. His hand pauses on Victory’s wing, feeling its liquid softness, feathers glossy as pearls beneath the layer of dirt, the intimacy of the touch making Victory have to choke back a moan. “Mine…”

And then, quick and snake-like, War sinks his claws in and twists.

Victory screams.

Face still blank, as effortlessly as if he was plucking a ripe fruit from a vine, War tears the angel’s wing off.

“Beautiful,” he repeats.

Yours, Victory thinks, and then, mercifully, he passes out.

⭑⭑⭑

It really is that easy.

War savors the destruction. He takes his time with the other wing, using his favorite hunting knife to carve it free without damaging a single feather, disarticulating the delicate flight-bones and ligaments with a finesse that would almost seem loving were it not being used for butchery. They truly are beautiful, long and slender and elegant, glimmering with the iridescence of a soap bubble, their stark whiteness absolutely reeking of Heaven. His herald, a primordial demon with an inexplicable knack for interior design, helps him mount them on the wall behind the infernal throne, flanking it, brilliant and ghastly trophies making for a downright ostentatious display of power and dominion.

“You are keeping it?” the herald asks in his lilting voice, poking the unconscious angel with one cloven hoof. The pool of mercury-colored blood he lies in smells like burnt sugar and champagne.

“Of course,” War replies. He hauls Victory up by the hair, eyes running up and down the limp body like it’s a cut of meat. He’s already curious about how that blood tastes, what the candy-coated entrails of an angel look like up close and personal, just how many more pretty little noises he’ll wring from those soft lips when he sinks a claw in and splits that bronze skin from collarbone to pelvis.

Victory is flightless, his divinity staked into the wall of Hell’s war council hall. All War needs to do now is bind him, snap his faltering halo and stain his soul with the sigils that will ensure his eternal obedience. Heaven will be fucked.

And given how easily Victory fell, into his domain, into his arms, well. It shouldn’t take much.

Again, War smiles, wolfish.

“To the winner go the spoils,” he quotes. “And Victory is mine.”

------------------

Fic by the incredible @bxtterflystxtches ! Please show him some love!!!

[OC INDEX]

COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN!

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[herasoufleeart]

"Almost makes you think things ain't changed, huh?"

Happy 12th anniversary Blind Man's Bluff! 🎉

I tried something different... background makes no sense, nor is there sunlight during the scene, but oh well! 😂