#might be tumblr exclusive...

[h0ly-cr0w]

god I love bloodborne

[rottenapplefae]

willow unfinished/sketch dump! I don't think I'll finish these so I might as well just post them instead of opening them and staring at them angrily like this >:/

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo: Can people please stop putting Roier's ass on my screen? Is that like a crazy ask? That feels like a crazy ask.

Phil: It's pretty crazy during Pride Month, I would say, yeah.

Tubbo: WHY– WHAT DOES HIS FCKIGN ASS HAVE TO DO WITH GAY PEOPLE?!

Phil: [Snorts]

Tubbo: Like, does he like it up the bum? Is that why? I don't under- wh- why- [Stammers] Why is it wrong of me to be like "Please stop putting your ass on my screen," why does it matter that it's Pride Month?!

[s7ven-art]

Lover's embrace

[fantasykiri5]

I think I will be a curly-haired c!Mumbo truther until the end of my days ngl

[frommybedroom]

inspired by this post

Even after he turns in his essay, he can’t stop. It’s not like he’s never written anything before, but those were the silly daydreams of a little boy with his head in the clouds, who dreamed of movie stars and damsels in distress. What he’s doing now is important. What he’s doing now is necessary.

On the third day in a row that he’s late to dinner—so late that Soda has to reheat his plate—Darry says, “What you been writing about, Pony?”

“Yeah,” Soda says, bringing the plate over and setting it down. “You’re always still up when I try to go to bed. I’ve had to replace the batteries in your flashlight twice now. Are you writing another story?”

Pony shrugs. Suddenly, all the words that pour out of him so easily onto the page get lodged in the back of his throat.

How to describe it to them? The urge—to not forget, to hold onto what was. To wring out the words and distill them into a watered-down version of his friends. Those measly words the only things left of Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston.

“Hey, Ponyboy, what’s wrong?”

Pony blinks, and Soda’s blurry face peers at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Darry scoot his chair closer to the both of them. Both wear matching expressions of concern.

“I just—” He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I just want to remember them.”

His brothers don’t say anything. So he keeps going.

“I—I can’t let them just disappear. They were here. They were real. And now they’re not. And I can’t let what their tombstones say be the only thing people remember about them. They were more than just a date.”

Soda leans over and ruffles his hair. It’s starting to grow out again finally, the natural dark roots beginning to peek through. “Don’t worry about that, Pony. You’ll never forget them. None of us will.”

“Yeah,” Darry agrees. “Dallas and Johnny were family, and family don’t—”

“I can’t remember what Mom’s perfume smelled like,” Pony bursts out. “I don’t remember what her high heels sounded like on the floor or the slight burning smell when she would curl her hair. And I try real hard to remember what it was like waking up and hearing Dad make coffee, but it’s gone. They’re fading. Like they were never actually here at all.” He clenches his fists, and there’s still a faint ache in his wrist. “I’m not gonna let that happen to them.”

He doesn’t tell them that sometimes at night, after Soda’s fully asleep and snoring like some dang bear, he sneaks out of bed and into the closet where they’ve kept Johnny’s clothes folded in a neat pile. Sometimes he holds them, brushing his fingers over the ripped jeans; sometimes he can’t bear to sully them. Which doesn’t even make sense because the shirt’s still got some of Johnny’s blood on it so it’s plenty dirty already, but he still feels like he’ll ruin it if he touches them too much or for too long.

He’s broken out of his thoughts by arms wrapping around him. A moment later, another pair of arms joins the first. And then he’s clutching onto Soda’s elbow and Darry’s forearm, and once again they’re all holding each other.

He wonders what this scene would look like to an observer: three boys in a rundown kitchen with grime caked under their fingernails and wearing clothes that don’t fit quite right. Unwanted tears escaping from tightly squeezed eyelids. A forgotten plate of food sitting on the table. No parents or friends anywhere to be seen.

He thinks they would see grief. And heartache and loneliness and pain. But maybe also hope. Maybe also love.

[reginalusus]

Pick up your copy at any Cyber City newsagents!

(Re-draw of an old piece from last December).

Image description: Fanart of Spamton from Deltarune in his Big Shot Era. The piece is designed to look like a magazine cover. Spamton poses to its right side, grinning, one hand in his pocket, the other aimed upwards. He twirls a car key around his finger. The backdrop of the cover is a peach colour, with '1997' written in a large size. It's also faded. There are numerous pieces of writing on the cover. To the upper right is the mag's issue date, which is 'issue 7, June 1997'. To the upper left is the large title of the mag, which is 'Salesman's Weekly'. Above it is a sub-caption, which reads 'for all your capitalist needs!' Below both the title and sub-caption, is Spamton's full name in large, colourful writing. Further below that, there's more writing, which reads in order: 'exclusive: how to become a big shot! Once, just the email guy. Now, he's living large. What's his secret? Plus, the best fashions from Mr. '97 himself! Out with the old, in with the new: is the new cungadero worth your delicious kromer? We answer that and more! Inside... quiz with Queen - are you getting enough potassium? Pg. 5. Interview with Spamton - "I'm 100% self-made, yes!" Plus, juicy Addison gossip! Pg. 2." End of image description.

[orangeno]

oh shit almost forgot to reveal this to tumblr

big things are coming...

[mune-mice]

Have some HLVRAI. because I'm rewatching it and I love them.

[desertduality]

She’s Dead. You Won.

————————————

He looks for her. He had seen her fall, in that brief moment before the zombie had distracted him. She’d been telling the truth, about that. He follows her over the edge.

He calls for her. It's not over yet. He looks for her. It can't be over yet. He hasn't died.

He can smell the faint scent of ozone and scorched earth as he jumps down into the hole. Is she hiding? Running? It is far too late in the game for that. Pearl knows that. She wouldn’t. But then where was she?

He stands there, sword in hand, calling her name. She doesn’t answer.

The wind picks up, blowing at his cloak and knocking his hood back, revealing grey-streaked hair. His skin prickles, the feeling of eyes on the back of his head, and a quiet voice finds its way into his ears.

“She’s dead, Scar,” Grian tells him, echoey and distorted and everywhere. “You won.”

Oh, he thinks. 

Winning had never really felt like an option, to him. He had made too many enemies and too few friends for it to feel like something within reach. No one had been on his side, and he was still the only one left standing, alone in a trench with a zombie. He kills it on autopilot at the last second, still half waiting for Pearl to pop back out and stab him. 

But she’s dead. He won. 

It’s quiet.

Scar pulls himself up out of the trench, his clothes stained with blood and dirt, and he looks out across the field. All he can hear is the wind. The world is all craters and ghosts and empty bases, eerily still. He stumbles on his first few steps forward, about as injured as it gets. His own base is right there, right to his left, and he spends a few slow seconds staring at the sunflowers, all facing him. The wind blows, and he moves on.

He passes by the empty grave of Lizzie. They like to pretend, sure, but there are never any bodies. People die, and it’s like they were never there at all. Pearl is dead, and there is nothing to bury but his guilt.

The Secret Keeper looks the same as always, untouched and pristine and looming. It’s waiting for him to press the button. He’s succeeded, after all. 

Scar stands there, staring blankly up at the statue, and remembers the days where they would all gather around the button, laughing at their ridiculous tasks. There’s not even an echo of it left. The blood is drying on his hands, and he is cold, and he is still alone. 

“The villain’s not supposed to win,” Scar tells the Secret Keeper, voice hoarse and emotionless. “You got the story wrong.”

The Secret Keeper does not reply. 

Scar presses the button.

[faggotroronoazoro]

he just like me fr (based on that one picture of hideo kojima)

[aunteat]

T | Children of Satan One-Shot | Day 3: Eucharist for @vamptember WARNING: depictions of torture, religious symbolism, implied sexual conduct

Santino visits Armand in the dungeons.

Impossible to know how much time had passed without even the rise and fall of the moon as a guide but he knew it must’ve been near time for his next victim. The hunger was growing terrible again — not just bodily anymore, it infected his mind. He struggled to distinguish sleep from wakefulness, couldn’t tell if he suffered dreams or memories or some amalgamation of both but the subject was always the same. One moment, he was lying in the dripping dungeon of that terrible Venician brothel, near death with fever, and the next he was in one of the grand Turkish establishments, being fawned over, massaged with oil, stroked and caressed till he was blind with pleasure. Then he woke again in the dirt cell, still feeling the warmth of their hands against his thighs. 

He didn’t know how long he lay there, face to the dirt, grasping for the sensation when the chorus of shrill squeals finally registered to him. He rolled over and, sure enough, there was Santino, standing at the edge of the cell, with his hoard of rats like familiars streaking through the bars of the cell and over his bare feet. 

“Blood.” His voice was raw with thirst but he knew already that Santino had brought him no victim. He would’ve smelled it.

“A thankless child always asks for more than he knows he deserves. The lowest of vermin know only to take what they are given but you, foulest creature of them all, would demand more,” Santino said. Armand could see he had something in his hands. He tore it, ripping from it a piece no larger than a coin, and cast it at Armand’s feet. The rats swarmed it, crawling over his ankles, tickling his soles with their whiskers so, wincing, he drew his knees to his chest. 

They didn’t sicken him outright the way they might’ve a mortal but the sight of the hoard, the writhing mass of wire fur and fleshy tails, still left a terrible gnawing feeling in his stomach. Perhaps it wasn’t the rats so much as how closely he associated them with Santino. 

“You dream of whores. You lay awake longing for earthly pleasures. Do you think we have not noticed?” Santino asked. He sounded almost saddened, a priest who had listened to the confession of a grievous sin. The rats parted seamlessly for him as he knelt. “God has transformed your body, taken from you the fleshly pleasure of lust, and yet still you lay in want — always in want — and so I have brought you what you want.”

It fell from Santino’s grip onto Armand’s chest, the thing he had been holding. It was a severed hand, lean with long fingers and trimmed nails, bloodless and white but still malleable, still fresh. Despite all the gore he had seen, had created in his desperation to rid his cell of the rotting bodies, he gasped. He grabbed it to throw it out of the cell, but Santino’s hand fell over his and pinned it there. 

“This is what you dreamed of, is it not? The touch of your whores?”

“Get it away from me.”

“Tell me is this not what you asked for?”

“Get it off!”

And, to his surprise, Santino did. He lifted his hand off Armand’s chest and took the severed hand with it. 

“She said she would please me, this woman, even looking as I am. The whore would defile herself for a creature such as me,” Santino lifted the hand to his mouth and let a finger, her ring finger, slide into his mouth in a gesture that seemed almost obscene. And then he bit down. Armand could hear the cracking of bone, the tear of her skin, his vampire sense spared him nothing. Santino plucked the finger from his mouth as though it were but an orange rind. “Did you take Holy Communion, child?”

Confused, stammering, Armand nodded, “Yes.”

“Then you know what to do.” He held the finger before Armand’s lips. “Take it.”

His eyes were bulging, wild, trapped between horror, amazement, and mortal confusion. 

“Open but do not swallow. Even such a Eucharist would be wasted on you.” And when Armand still did not move, Santino tilted his head. “Would you rather I fit it elsewhere?”

Choking a sob, Armand opened his mouth and Santino, breathing a soft sigh, placed the finger on his tongue. It tasted of nothing, not blood, not sweat, perhaps faintly of the dirt from Santino’s hand, if anything at all, but the revulsion swelled in him all the same. 

“Do you see, my son? To hold their flesh in your mouth, to see them devoured by rats, this is how you will take pleasure in whores now. Do you understand?”

Then, as if flicked by an invisible switch, they came, the rats, crawling up his tattered hose and shirt, his chin, his lips, his very gums. Armand choked a cry, tried to reel back, to bite down even and sever their little heads, but Santino held him, squeezing his fingers so viciously into Armand’s cheeks that he couldn’t. 

He heard the snapping of their little jaws as they devoured the finger, their fangs scraping down to the bone. Their fleshy tails wiped his face and he felt their little tongues on his cheeks, licking away the blood tears that he hadn’t even realized were falling. It wasn’t just the revulsion — that alone he might’ve managed — but the indignity, the sheer cruelty of the act, he couldn’t bear it!

It seemed an eternity they were there before Santino released his face and the rats fled as if of one mind. Armand rolled to his side, gagging, spitting out the bones, the little hairs, the bits of grit their little paws had tracked into his mouth. He pushed himself up on his elbows and his body convulsed in retches. There was nothing in his stomach to vomit up and yet on he went retching until his body gave beneath him and he fell back to the dirt, panting and exhausted.

“Demon!” He heaved for breath and, once again, with all his might screamed, “Demon!”

“No, child. Nothing of the sort.” Oh, how saddened Santino seemed by this. He shook his head gently and laid his hand on Armand’s thigh. He tried feebly to kick him off but he had exhausted his strength. “You would still believe I take delight in this torture but I do not. Would that I could relieve you of this suffering… But what a disservice I would be doing to you. We learn, all of us, through pain. We grow into the beings that our Lord would us to be. No. For all the begging in the world, I would not deny you this.”

[pivsketch]

special technique

[feal-the-grinch]

“I don't want you to go", Yanfei mutters into the crook of Yelan's neck as the rising sun sets in their bedroom.

“I know, love”, Yelan murmurs. She passes her hand, and buries her head, in Yanfei's hair. “I’m not sure I want to go either…”.

Yelan’s eyes close again. Her breathing slows down to a gentle rhythm. Soon enough, snores are the only noise filling their home.

[functionalasfuck]

Canon Merlin is so villain coded.

Hear me out. It’s actually something that bothers me a lot with the canon show how there were a lot of inconsistencies with what they wanted the audience to believe versus what they were actually showing.

For example, the show heavily relied on the “prophecy” to tell the audience that Arthur was worthy and the bestest boy to ever live and that Merlin was the savior of his people.

But the content of the show didn’t show Merlin doing the Hero thing: sacrificing the ones he loves and the desires of those closest to him for the greater good or the many. Instead, the show was filled with the opposite: Merlin prioritizing the wellbeing and happiness of his close circle (specifically Arthur) even at the expense of the needs, survival, or benefit to the people who are dealing with consistent genocide and have put their faith in him.

But the show tried to override this by making the prophecy say “by keeping Arthur alive and happy and well, you are helping your people” and I just needed this show to COMMIT

Either make Merlin a villain without some prophecy writers cop out, or make him a revolutionary and committed traitor for the good of his people, even if it means turning against those he’s come to care for. Pick one and COMMIT