#hashtag owned.

[linkeduniverse]

Central Room pt.1 <<Previous                 Next>> (coming soon)

ComicArchive/ About / Linktree

[scalpho]

so jarring to me whenever someone draws gorgug looking stylish and put together. if his clothes don't look like they're infused with motor oil then that's not gorgug that's his metrosexual cousin jorjuj. and i don't know him

[xinganhao]

🪶 dead poets society!hhu x reader.

i heard the hip-hop unit asked you to join the dead poet's society! ✶ part of my svt university milestone event

⤿ hip-hop unit as members of a poetry society, choose-your-own romance (🙂), poetry references. more content + poll for special chapter under the cut. ♡⸝⸝ prompt from @taeraegyat! + a special shoutout to @biniaiahs, who helped me come up with the plot. that's #oomf <3

SEUNGCHEOL'S WRITE-UP.

i think i still see love as something that's built from the ground up. something you work on, something that can be encompassing and grand. even then, i'd be a fool to think it won't inevitably end. all good things do. (much like this club, though that's a sentiment for another essay.) the fact that it will all eventually crumble doesn't make it any less worth pursuing. and so we build our empires, brick by brick, in hopes that we can have everything our heart desires. that same night when i told you about what i want, i think i could have been clearer. i want everything, yes. but more than that, i want you.

WONWOO'S WRITE-UP.

we need people to live. that seems like a simple, cardinal truth— an echo of 'no man's an island'. it's not always easy to accept, though. i think that's how i've spent most of my days. don't get me wrong. being alone ≠ being lonely. i've always been fine with myself, fine by myself. but love is like a cat curled up in a patch of sunlight. oh-so comfortable in taking its time, coming and going whenever it pleases. much like you. you're a bit unfair, because you've made me less lonely. because now, i don't want to be alone when i can be with you.

MINGYU'S WRITE-UP.

i have a page bookmarked on my google chrome. 'funny, random & weird holidays'. i told you once before that i'm always looking to celebrate something, because that's just the point of living! to find small but certain happiness in our day to day! otherwise, life gets tedious and tiring. so can i be blamed for wanting to mark 'international joke day'? (july 1, by the way.) i think it's a bit of a coping mechanism, really. maybe on 'say something nice day' or 'richter scale day', you'll finally look my way. maybe if it weren't just a random thursday, you'd finally feel what i've always felt for you.

VERNON'S WRITE-UP.

this isn't the best version of me yet. i know that for a fact. there's a lot more that i can still be and i'm sure the same stands for you. on my end: i can probably be funnier, cooler. i could be more honest, too. the closest i've come to the truth is when i slipped and i said i needed to see you. not want; need. i like to believe that in a couple of years, i'll be the type of guy who can sweep you off your feet. i don't expect you to wait. it's just a quiet, blind hope— that i may one day be deserving, if i ever dared to ask.

[avocadoonthetrain]

This might be the most chaotic thing I have ever done in my life

I recently have gotten a coworker's portrait drawn and printed on stickers and button pins, which I then distributed to all our other coworkers, who wasted no time and started immediately showing them off on their bags and tablets. Stickers then started appearing around our workspace. Someone brought them abroad during vacation and left them in public spaces.

This man's face is now slowly becoming viral.

When asked why I did this, all I could answer was: because we love him and having his face go viral seemed like a good way to show him how much he means to us!

[chipchopclipclop]

the undead groom of the necromancer <- their ya romance novel title

[lynnlyrae]

I still don’t have serious content so another meme it is 

[raebonnz]

who up sqlointing they peter rn

apotheosis 12 spoilers below cut

literally finished drawing this right when he died like what the hell dude 😭 im literally so afraid to start the finale tho dude 13 pt2 alr made me cry 😭

[hoosbandewan]

As many of you know, I've been keeping tabs on Aemond's screen time this season of HotD. With the finale now aired, I can share the final tally.

Episode 1 - 158 seconds / 2.63 minutes

Episode 2 - 123 seconds / 2.05 minutes

Episode 3 - 96 seconds / 1.6 minutes

Episode 4 - 159 seconds / 2.65 minutes

Episode 5 - 168 seconds / 2.8 minutes

Episode 6 - 325 seconds / 5.42 minutes

Episode 7 - 93 seconds / 1.55 minutes

Episode 8 - 200 seconds / 3.33 minutes

1,322 seconds / 22.03 minutes

[chiricat]

cat magnet

[kiybee]

henry winter you are so emotional. you are so much of that scared little boy who hated his father, only with skin grown thicker to bear his beatings. you are so desperate for somebody to see you as a human yet you can’t fathom the possibility so you make yourself a god.

you pretended to strip yourself of all feeling, of all guilt. you killed the one man who could make you laugh, who still saw you as a person, and it still wasn’t enough.

you could never escape being a man, being a burning, fiery ball of rage and guilt and fear. everybody looked at you as if you were a god, but if only they knew.

[suru-sketches]

knight Akutagawa (based on the last anime episode it SHOULD mean his memories come back somehow right

(don't really know how to paint metallic shiny stuff but ehhh at least it looks shiny at first glance??)

[800db-cloud]

averaging twenty billion cakehole twins doodles every day

[piowasthere]

MOON SANS! ! !

MOON SANS! :D

fun fact abt me - i'm into speedrun challenges and the more broken the more entertaining they r. SB being ofc the king of that.

so ever since TVA Moon-man i can't get the connection of him and Sans out of my head Moon is literally Fnaf's (post SB era at least) Sans - change my mind.

he knows abt the timeline and protects it, arguably has the most AU's and an entire fandom just for the char alone.

he is sanbs.

[capseycartwright]

oh what a terrible honor it's been (to learn that my blessings are things you call sins)

Hey God, it's me, Eddie. I hope you don’t mind that I’m sitting in your house thinking gay thoughts.

Eddie couldn’t help but giggle to himself as he thought the words. If he couldn’t be a bit silly while having a sexuality crisis in a Catholic church – when could he? 

Christopher leaves for Texas, Eddie goes back to therapy, unearths an emotional lockbox he had been fourteen years old when he buried, and has a lot of thoughts about how Buck is sunshine incarnate. In hindsight, it probably should have been obvious he wasn't straight.

ao3 link

t’s been a long time since Eddie Diaz had set foot in a church – of his own accord, at least. He’d been to the christenings and communions and confirmations of all of his various nieces, nephews, and cousins, he’d sat stiff in the pew as he’d watched friends, and family get married, trying his best not to remember how own wedding day, the way Shannon’s hands had shaken in his grip as they promised to love each other until death do them part, both of them young, too young to understand the covenant they were signing up to. Eddie had been there, for all those occasions, but he hadn’t gone to mass, or even sat in a church, just because he wanted to in a very long time. 

He wasn’t even really sure if he wanted to be there today, but it was a Thursday, and Christopher was in Texas, and Eddie wasn’t working, and he’d been having an extended mental breakdown for the last few weeks, and before he knew it, he was sitting in the pew of St Brendan’s Catholic Church, listening to a softly spoken priest with an Irish lilt to his accent – faded, after years in America, Eddie presumed, but still there, noticeable in the inflection of certain words – recite the Our Father. 

Eddie had never been to St Brendan’s before, but it felt like every other church he’d been to in his life. They didn’t all look the same, necessarily, though they followed the same format, rows of uncomfortable wooden pews and an altar decorated in gold, as opulent as it was suffocating. Eddie had thought it beautiful, before, the way Catholic churches were decorated in gold and jewels, believing for so much of his life that the wealth honoured God – but living life had made him learn the grandeur and displays of wealth were nothing more than indicative of the wealth the Catholic church had hoarded while their devout followers starved, all in the name of faith and of God. True faith didn’t need to be gilded in gold to be sincere, he’d decided.

Eddie had never been to St Brendan’s before, but mass was the same. It didn’t change – though the wording of some of the prayers did. He’d sort of been checked out of being a regular churchgoer by time they had changed some of the prayers, only discovering the difference when he confidently started to recite it wrong at his youngest niece’s communion, his mother fixing him with a glare so icy hell might have frozen over under the power of Helena Diaz’s gaze alone. He’d never learned the new ones, not really, and so Eddie just recited the one’s he’d learned for his own confirmation, the words falling from his lips, muscle memory more than it was faith now. 

Our father, who art in heaven – hallowed be thy name . 

Eddie couldn’t help but laugh, a little, as he murmured the prayer. Hallowed be thy name. He knew the prayer talked about God, their holy father, but the prayer had always made him think of his own father, of the way Ramon Diaz was a hallowed man in his own right, how he parented with an iron fist and expected to be obeyed. 

Things were getting better now, with his dad. Maybe – maybe that was part of the fear. Eddie had always been afraid of letting people down, but more than anyone, he was afraid of letting his father down – of seeing that look of disappointment set into every crease of his father’s face, an expression he’d been on the receiving end of for more of his childhood than he’d like to admit. Eddie had tried so hard to make sure he was never on the receiving end of that look again, but nothing he had ever done was good enough – not marrying Shannon, not the way he had tried to take responsibility for his young family, not the army, not the man he had been when he’d come home from Afghanistan. 

Distance had lessened the number of disappointed looks, but Eddie knew that was because he was simply not seeing them anymore; he was sure his father sometimes frowned at the phone when they’d finally call, silted conversation about Christopher and life at the firehouse the best either of them could muster. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was getting better. 

At least it had been, until his parents had taken Christopher with them to Texas. It hadn’t helped their relationship – but it hadn’t hindered it as much as Eddie had expected either. He was never going to thank them, for the way they had swooped in, ready to take Christopher at a moment’s notice, but he could thank them for giving his son the space that he needed to process. Eddie couldn’t give him that space, right now, but he was grateful someone could. Still – he would be ready to drive to Texas at the drop of a hat when Christopher decided he was ready to come home.

Things were getting better, that was the thing. His dad called, every night, to update Eddie on Christopher’s day. Eddie could hear the familiar sounds of the Diaz backyard as his dad softly spoke, telling Eddie about how Christopher had been to the lake, with his cousins, and how he’d finished another book, and how he was helping Helena to make dinner, right then. It had filled the gap until Christopher had started to call Eddie himself, his voice tinny as he mumbled over the phone, things not quite back to normal, Christopher not willing to talk to him about anything except Marvel and Minecraft and how abuela’s tamales were better than Eddie’s, but better than they were, at least. 

Every time they were on the phone, Eddie reassured his parents that he was working on himself. He was back seeing Frank, every week, and at Frank’s encouragement, he’d joined a veteran’s support group. Eddie wasn’t exactly the picture-perfect military veteran he assumed he needed to be, to join a veteran support group, but the rag-tag group that met at his community hall every month weren’t exactly the flag-wearing, gun-toting veterans he’d expected them to be. James was a 63-year-old man from Massachusetts who ran the group – he had moved out to LA to live with his daughter after he retired and referred to himself delightedly as a stay-at-home grandfather. Luisa was a vet around Eddie’s own age, and she’d gone back to university after she got out of the army and got a fine arts degree. She liked to paint, and talked about her wife with a reverence and openness that Eddie could only admire. 

He hadn’t said a word the first time he went, and Buck had sat in the Jeep in the carpark, a ready-made escape plan for Eddie in case he decided it was all too much. Eddie had sat quietly as the group had chatted, drinking tea and coffee out of flimsy paper cups, and eating homemade biscuits – made by James, who, as it turned out, was quite the prolific baker – and he’d watched. He’d watched as the group had talked about their bad days, and their good days, and how they were coping with life after the military, and not a single glorious war-story was exchanged. 

That was when Eddie knew it was safe to keep going. He was never going to be a man who was proud of his service, and he didn’t want to have to attend a support group of people who’d talk about their time in the military like it was the good old days. He had spoken a little more, the second time he went – Buck doing his groceries, two streets away, rather than sitting in the carpark – and he’d introduced himself, his voice gruff as he tried to figure out what version of Eddie he wanted to present to the world. 

Eddie was still figuring that part out – the version of himself he wanted to be, that is. 

He was figuring himself out. That was the point. He was trying, he was really trying – and people could see that, Eddie was sure. His parents said they could, at least.

Which was why he was here – in a church not dissimilar to the one he’d attended every Sunday in El Paso growing up – on his knees, praying to a God he wasn’t sure he actually believed in for guidance. 

read the rest on ao3

[gelatinzz]

people being disheartened by the fact oj had his voice revoked from him, well have you ever considered that he’s just NONVERBAL here!!

(yes i know oj was supposed to be. a silent character. stop telling me !!! /silly) <-

[campbyler]

i fear will byers is never beating the clothing thief allegations