#idk where this came from man...

[deyageka]

.

.

No srsly I can’t believe they’ve actually done this:

(+)

[paper-bag-arts]

“That she controls me, and this company, and all of us. It’s disgusting.”

[curiouscatastrophe]

ANNOUNCEMENT: him

I want to crush him in my hands. If not for crushing in my hands, why crushing-in-my-hands sized?

[vultursvolans]

(click on image for better quality)

Her room was a portrait of his longing. Books left askew. Pages crumpled in haste. Clothes forgotten in his rush to reach her. At long last, the scribe had no need for ink or quill. For in the warmth of her hands, he was reconciled with something words could never capture.

Commission by @/Puri24A on twt. Do not save or repost.

[gingermintpepper]

Fuck it, I'm not gonna pretend anymore.

The rawest, most metal 'Apollo as a father' story is the one where he dooms a whole town to a child-killing plague after sheepdogs tear apart his son because his lover, Psamathe, had an abusive father, Krotopus, who would've never let her keep the child.

In a bid to keep the child safe, Psamathe exposes the babe (that is, leaves him outside in the wild without any protection; think Atalanta) and shepherds take him in and raise him as their own until his untimely Actaeon-esque death. Psamathe, hearing that her son died in such a gruesome manner, is near inconsolable and her grief cues her father onto the fact that Linus (the boy's name) was Psamathe's child all along whereupon her father sentences her to death for harlotry and lying about Apollo.

Apollo, evidently, was not very fond of that.

The alternative version of this story is even more metal because it's Krotopus' own dogs who find and tear apart Linus as an infant leading to Apollo immediately sending Poine to personally take babies from their mothers and kill them until the people made amends. Argonian Coroebus rose up and slew Poine to free the people of her curse but Apollo simply retaliated by personally plaguing Argo then and refusing to lift the curse until Linus was properly buried and his spirit was soothed.

In both versions, the dead is eventually quelled but in the version where Krotopus kills Psamathe, the plague rages on until the king himself gets an oracle where he's ordered to leave Argo forever and found a new city to live out the rest of his days. Coroebus, in his version, had to travel to Delphi to find out what his punishment would be for slaying Poine.

[newvegascowboy]

"Hur old men who date women half their age are cringe" STOP im the woman half his age and you're scaring him off!!!

[2isted-chocol8-art]

As a drawing request.

I finally got around to read Interpolation (thanks to your comics).

Perhaps you could draw some of Hatchling photos?

May it be Esker from the side, Tuff in space, or the Star kids, or Sed's pinning by the scout...

This was such a fun practice to try and do something different!! And I am SO glad to hear that my comics got you to read @tippertot's Interpolation, it's such a good fanfic <3 (psstt, if you haven't read it you should go do that right now -> here).

Reminder that my requests are open!

-> More Outer Wilds Art!

[wishchip106]

lil gayboy pose what’s up with him

you ain’t fooling nobody i see right through you i know what you are

Erik was your second option, wasn’t he, Charles?

going straight to Erik’s room right after Moira rejected him 😭🤚

[project-sekai-takes]

Hold. Down. The. Cum note. Kaito is NOT going to break into your house and make you sing ifuudoudou with him. You just lost us the entire cheerful show because you don't want to hold down a note. DUDE

-a pissy Anon that just came from an ifuudoudou cheerful show where three people didn't hold the note

.

[apricustar]

Eddie answers the call without opening his eyes.

It can't have been more than an hour since he had finally fallen asleep; he had spent the day in an odd state, waiting and checking his every notification, hoping it was Buck.

He knows Buck is on shift, of course, but Buck usually always finds the time to respond to any number of Eddie’s messages, even if it’s just with his selected heart emoji of the day, or a call on borrowed time to save waiting for a response, both their voices mingling as close as they can while he’s here.

He wasn’t quite asleep, truth be told. There had been a restless itch under his skin all day; a sort of tingling sensation of wrong that had only been exacerbated by not hearing from Buck—an ache that went back to those first few struggling days of him being in El Paso, where he began to silently wonder if everything between them was constrained to Californian borders. But then, Buck texted, and Eddie FaceTimed, and now they haven’t gone a day without either.

So, when Eddie’s phone rings at an ungodly hour, he swings his right hand out to an estimation of where his phone is on his nightstand—score—then answers without the need to look because who could it be but Buck?

“Buck?” he rasps, “Everything okay?”

There’s a pause at the end of the line, a quiet exhale, then a throat clears, and Eddie knows he’s miscalculated.

“Diaz,” Tommy’s voice rings out, far too close to his ear for comfort. He pulls the phone from his ear, and yep, there it is: ‘Tommy Kinard (x)’

With the hand not holding his phone, he puts the call on speaker, then pushes his thumb and first finger into his eyes, half-hoping this is some weird dream.

“Kinard,” Eddie says, voice flat, almost monotone. He doesn’t have it in him to muster anything warm for Tommy, but he can’t bring himself to be outright cruel either—not with the ghost of Buck’s disappointed eyes lingering in his mind. So he settles for something like neutrality with. Well, with Kinard, who, in his opinion, is an idiot undeserving of any of B—his time.

“Look, Eddie, I know you don’t want to hear from me, but it’s Evan,” Tommy says.

Eddie sits straight up in bed, heart in his throat, “Explain.”

“Shit- I mean. I’m sorry, Evan is not hurt. Not physically, I should have led with that…” Tommy laughs a bit ruefully, “I- Eddie there’s no easy way to say this. Bobby is dead.”

Bobby is dead Bobby is dead Bobby is dead Bobby is dead

It repeats, like a mantra. A cruel one. As though his brain believes that in saying them, they’ll start to make sense.

They don’t.

Eddie opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

He blinks—squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as possible—trying to reign in his emotions; Kinard called for a reason, and he needs to figure out what happened to Buck.

He blinks again and suddenly he’s standing, body moving on its own accord. Somehow, he’s gotten a pair of pants and a shirt on without realizing. He pauses, inhales slowly, trying to feel less like a reanimated corpse and more like a person, thinks of Buck beside him at the dinner table, sunlit and golden in the kitchen, asking:

‘Eddie did you know we breathe 22,000 times in a day? And, also, I read last night that when you take the time to become aware of your breaths it can help when you feel panicked? Like-‘

Eddie had cut him off there, quirking a half-smile, and told him he didn’t panic. He remembers. He remembers.

Buck had sighed, loud and theatrical, rolled his eyes—but finished his spiel anyway. Of course he had; listening to and learning from Buck were some of Eddie’s favorite pastimes.

He falls into that memory.

A kitchen filled with years of love and laughter. Crumbs on the counter from Chris’ after-school snack. A fridge full of things both he and Buck had picked out. Feels himself there in that moment: heart slow, face warmed; Chris safe in his room, and he at the table with—

Buck.

Brighter than everything, at the center of it all, haloed by the setting sun, smiling that I-know-you’re-entertaining-my-whims-smile—the kind where his lips curled to the side, like he was tucking a secret away. It made him look boyish, years younger than the truth, lighter than the world ever let him be.

The Eddie of the past ached with something unnamable. The Eddie of now aches with too much knowledge.

He exhales slowly, blinking back to himself, the warmth of the memory crashing against the cold of the present.

He fishes his phone out from where it’s buried in the covers, feeling off-footed by the sudden want—need—for Kinard to still be on the line.

Somehow, impossibly, he is.

The screen glows: call still active, minutes still ticking by.

Eddie grips the phone hard, slightly swaying on his feet for a second, unsteady, then braces a hand against the wall. His breath stutters. He tries to count them like Buck told him—one, two, three—but they catch in his throat, shallow and fast.

His other hand curls around his phone, knuckles white, “What happened to him,” Eddie says. Not a question. A demand.

Then, before Tommy can answer, “Buck—where’s Buck?” he asks, voice cracking like a fault line. “Is he—?”

“Evan is alive.” Tommy reassures, voice coming fast, “He’s alive, Eddie, but he isn’t okay. None of them are, but—”

Tommy hesitates, then continues, “I’ve never seen him cry like that. I watched him fall apart in a hallway over security footage. He collapsed, screaming. I’ve never seen—God. I’ve never seen someone grieve like that. Evan—he’s always so sure, you know? Always so bright and—and okay. He tried to explain once what Bobby meant to him I guess I didn’t fully realize it until…”

Eddie’s jaw locks, the ache in his chest flaring with something sharp and hot. A part of him aches to be cruel, to push back against Tommy’s casual expression of knowing Buck, how could he-

He bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper. It’s not fair. It’s not rational. But it burns all the same. He inhales instead. It comes back out shaky.

“I know I shouldn’t be the one calling,” Tommy admits, voice thick with something unspoken. “But I saw him and I just—“He swallows audibly, “I know he needs you, Diaz. I’ve never seen a relationship like the two of you have and whatever my feelings about that are, I think you’re the only person who can get through to him right now.”

Something twists in his chest. He doesn’t respond right away. Doesn’t trust what might come out of his mouth if he does. His hand is still braced on the wall, still trying to keep him grounded, but it doesn’t help the way his body feels like it’s vibrating with too many things at once—grief, fury, fear, love.

Finally, he says, low and hoarse, “Send me where Buck is. Get him to answer when I call.”

He ends the call without waiting for anything more, phone still clutched tight in his hand as he crosses the room in three long strides.

There’s only one thought in his head now, clear and steady:

Get Chris. Get home. To his family.

[narfin-frood]

What do you think wander lore would be like if we had a third season ?

i really don't know, it would depend on how much of his backstory was ever intended to be revealed. like he gets close to talking about the other names people used for him in the past, and he's excited to show sylvia what he was up to a thousand years ago, but like, would we get an explanation for that little shaking wander he's so afraid of in the wanders? would we get to know what made wander so helpless he wanted to make sure nobody ever felt that way again? would we see a home planet, or a family, or any old traveling companions? or is he doomed to be vague because it makes him more magical?

honestly i think it would probably include like. a couple of little lore-drops to expand on a little more, but it wouldn't leave the audience without like a hundred more questions. i think the speculation is really fun, anyway, so i dunno if i would rather know his full life's story or if i'd rather keep guessing at whatever is most interesting to me. im just like these people except cooler and less wrong (slash j)

and tbh i don't have any real headcanons for wander's actual origin point because everything i think about feels a little unsatisfying and makes him a little too dr who. in my head, wander's been around for however long it takes the universe to forget the imprint of whatever brought him into existence in the first place, and that's all i can speculate on without feeling like melodie and her expansive tale of family and feels or whatever

[futuristicdoormats789]

come and get it

[moonxpalace]

Yeah, I agree! Iris is the WORST!!!

How dare she risk her own life to save Ash whenever he is in gave danger

How dare she cheer him on and support him during their journey across Unova?

How dare she cheer for him during his gym match against Roxie, and go so far to play instruments, dress up, put on make up AND make Cilan cheer for him as well?

How dare she help Ash figure out his troubles with his pokemon (Oshawott and Scraggy)?

How dare she cheer him up when Ash was sad about his loss against Trip?

How dare Iris treat Ash and Pikachu ice cream during their date in Nimbasa City?

Speaking of Trip, how dare she be mad at the blond trainer whenever he was rude to Ash or his pokemon?

How dare Iris to tell Ash she loved travelling with him to his face?

How dare Iris call Ash out on his bs?

How dare Iris bond with Ash by eating food, play around in the forest, talk or geek out about pokemon?

How dare Iris tell Ash she was super excited and couldn't wait to meet him again in Journeys, MULTIPLE times during her cameos?

How dare Iris breathe around Ash? How dare she use up his oxygen!!!

Yeah, Iris is the WORST I hate her ughhhh

[qin-qin16]

I think a lot of people disagree, but I would prefer it if the characters that are in Undertale and appear in Deltarune didn't have an importance to the final plot of the game, but from what we've been shown so far it seems like this is inevitable (yes this is a target for all the theories that say that Sans has some relevance to the story)

[brekitten]

Bruce doesn't dream.

He never has, really - at least, not that he can remember. He never even had nightmares from the night his parents died. Maybe that's why; maybe he just subconsciously trained himself to not dream after that night, in fear of the nightmares that were sure to come. But the point is that he does not dream.

And yet.

The dream always starts out the same, every night, every time he closes his eyes and slips into the embrace of sleep. He's in a pitch-black room, one so dark that he can't see his hands even when he raises them right in front of his face. He knows, somehow, that he can walk for hours without coming into contact with anything - walls, furniture, anything at all to indicate that he was even in a room. Yet he knows that he is, although he's not sure why, as there really is no reason for him to know that.

The dream changes, after a while of walking. He knows that he won't find anything, no matter how far or how long he walks. This place is empty, desolate even. It fills him with dread every time. The change is never consistent, always bringing him to a different place each night.

(Once, it was a dusty old bedroom, one that made his heart ache, although he didn't know why. He had taken notice of the various space-themed decorations, the model rockets and NASA posters and stars on the ceiling. It was clearly a child's bedroom, but it hadn't been used in a long time. Another time, it was a darkened lab, illuminated only by the strange vials of green liquid lined along the many, many shelves. Bruce had wondered, after he had awoken, if it was Lazarus Water, but that felt wrong. It was something else. Something more. It had made him uneasy, and he got the feeling that something terrible had happened there. He didn't get a chance to investigate the gaping hole in the wall before he had been whisked away to another part of the dream.)

This time, he is in a brightly-lit white lab, and he has to blink stars out of his eyes at the abrupt change in lighting and color. He looks around; it seems like a typical lab, but everything is pure white, except for a green stain on the table. He can feel bile rising in his throat at the sight of the cuffs on the table, and though he still doesn't know what the green substance is, he gets the horrible feeling that it's blood. A lot of it.

He uses what little time he has to investigate the lab. There is an abundance of medical supplies, but many look unused, with the exception of the scalpels. The pit in his stomach continues to grow. Why were there so many? He reaches toward a vial of red liquid, wrong wrong wrong this is wrong, when the dream changes again.

Now he's in what is clearly a cell, except even the cells in Arkham aren't this bare. The only thing it contains is a familiar white-haired teenager, who is chained to the floor with cuffs that glow the same green as the vials of Lazarus Water that he's seen before.

Though Bruce has never learned his name, he has been in every dream, the one constant (besides the empty room, of course) in each one. The kid has never spoken, never done more than watch, but Bruce has always gotten the feeling that he was the reason for these strange dreams.

He knows that he should be more worried. If some kind of meta has managed to get inside his head, there's no telling what could happen. But he can't bring himself to be. Something is wrong, and it's not the teenager.

He can't help but think of his own children.

Something feels . . . off this time. The kid isn't looking up, isn't even moving - he seems limp, almost, as he kneels on the ground, weighed down by the chains keeping him there. Green blood - Bruce knows it's blood now, it has to be - drips from his still figure, pooling on the ground underneath him.

Bruce can't move. He desperately wants to, what could he even do? but it's like he's frozen in place. He can only watch as the teenager slowly, agonizingly, looks up at him, his bright green eyes dull and filled with fear and desperation and hope and -

Bruce wakes.

[sugarcoated-lame]

KRICKET PLEASE GOD GOD GOD—

especially the, “are you going to come again for me?” and “you can take more.” 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

hhhhhhhh seb 💗 right tho I feel like it’s giving soft dom!Joel vibes 🫠🫠

and YEAH… Joel Miller + “good girl” makes me absolutely WEAK in the fucking knees 😵‍💫😵‍💫🫠🫠

You know he’d be the sweetest, softest dom, always checking in with you to make sure you’re okay and comfortable and feeling good.

smut under the cut* ❤️

You’re sat in Joel’s lap, instantly left feeling empty and whimpering at the loss of him as he gently lifts you off of his cock. Your thighs like jello from pushing yourself up and down his length while you rode him, practically melting against him after he’s just pulled your third orgasm out of you—your arms around his shoulders and face buried in his neck.

“Doin’ so good for me, darlin’,” he praises, and you can’t help but mewl against him as the tip of his still-hard cock bumps against your swollen, sensitive clit. “How’s my good girl?”

“Think ya got one more in you?” You nod against him, and one of Joel’s large hands moves to the crown of your hair to gently pull your head from the crook of his neck so that you can look him in the eye.

“Use your words, baby.” His stern tone eliciting another gush of wetness between your thighs. “You gonna come again for me?”

“Yes, daddy… want more”

And once he gets that confirmation, Joel’s right back to absolutely ruining you. Pulling your tired form in closer for a brief, but firm kiss before flipping the two of you over on the mattress so that he’s hovering over you. Lining the tip of his cock back up with your entrance and filling you with one swift thrust of his hips, harsh in comparison to the featherlight kisses he trails along your jaw before whispering into your skin,

“You can take more.”

Whewwww I need to lie down 🫠🫠🫠❤️❤️