#mx will remember that

[jollypilled]

YOOO HOLY SHID, LUCAS BALLIN'!!!!

[thespacecaseace]

woe, submas ggg au be upon ye.

soooooo uh. there's a lot to say about this, me and my pal @artisticwizard have thought up a like entire dlc-like story line. boy separation, boys reunition, the pokemon popularity poll canonized (in a way), etc.

i have more sketches lined up (hopefully) so ill explain more in detail about the au later. for now i'll explain the premise/start of the au below.

In this AU, the twins have been slotted into the premise/plot of GGG as a pair of additional gods.

Ingo and Emmet are the twin gods of transportation: arrival and departure, the destination and the origin, etc. They run a shared two-way train through the towns of the Grove, from BuzzHuzz to the Grove Cove.

Their god room entrances are in the two engine cars located at the opposite sides of the train, yet they share a god space from ascending together.

Additionally, their engine cars can only move forwards; Ingo can only move towards the Spire while Emmet can only move towards the docks. They rely on one another to pull the train back and forth in tandem.

One day, a letter arrives from King that suggests though they've always move together, haven't they always wondered who's the better god between them? Who can pull the most weight, who can run the fastest, who is the most popular between the two? Clearly one of them has to be the best god of transportation.

Ingo and Emmet, who love competition and challenges, had already exhausted most physical comparisons (with most ending in a tie). Popularity is new territory though. Sounds fun, so why not?

Ingo and Emmet host a contest poll for who's everyone's favorite god between them (only between them, because they'd be grossly outpaced by other gods like Inspekta), which is kind of Splatoon Splatfest-like in festivity. The mood starts off great, and the Bizzyboys are a great help with decorating and hyping up the contest.

Maybe a little too good. Over the course of the event, some people start getting a little too hyper and competitive. The poll is now no longer fun for the weird groupies/chronically online sub groups, and they're quickly ruining everyone else's experience. Eventually it gets wayyy too serious. The twins fail to notice how bad it's getting.

Eventually Ingo is announced the winner. Both twins are happy with the results; it's Emmet's groupies who aren't. Harassment between groupies escalates to the point that one day, while the train is waiting to depart from BuzzHuzz's station, someone goes and decouples Ingo's engine car from the train cars.

When it's time to depart to the Grove Cove, the train, unknowingly, leaves him behind.

Now Ingo and Emmet are separated on the two furthest ends of their tracks, unable to reverse and reconnect their cars. They remain that way for what seems like an eternity...

...Until one day, a new Godpoke arrives.

[hoosbandewan]

EWAN MITCHELL and TOM GLYNN-CARNEY CCXP México / May 5, 2024

[visceravalentines]

drowning is only as hard as you make it

bo sinclair x gn!reader

2k words. weird melancholy freak behavior. author's thinly disguised smoking fetish. established relationship (lol). Ambrose is lonely. that's it that's the fic.

He always manages to find you.  Every time.  It’s not a game anymore, not really; there’s no use keeping score when only one side is allowed to earn points.  There are no rules, no satisfaction in the victory.  You’d make your way back to the house even if he never showed up.  Today you’re not even hiding.

The row of vacant windows across the street catches the last lazy rays of sunlight.  A few eager fireflies pantomime shooting stars just above the freshly cut grass.  He mows the lawns regularly, every last one of them, dripping sweat in the sticky air.  You think it’s nonsensical.  He doesn’t care what you think.  At least it smells nice.  Nostalgic.  Painful.  

On an evening like this, there should be kids out.  Riding bikes, running through the neighbor’s yard.  Parents watching from their porches.  People chatting, relaxing.  Hell, maybe a dog or two.  But there is only you, and the fireflies.  

The heat of your cigarette creeps dangerously close to your fingers but you wring one last pull off the thing before you crush it against the step.  Scorch marks dot the woodgrain like initials carved in a tree, only better, because they’re anonymous.  Could've been left by anyone sitting sulking on these stairs and pondering ways to disappear.  Plausible deniability.  

Too bad you're the only one here.

You set your hand on the pack beside you, work another one out with your fingers without looking.  It’s all reflex.  It’s all muscle memory.  That’s all you are anymore, something that survives without thinking about it.  

In that shadowy place called Before, you only ever smoked on rare occasions. At parties or bars, always with friends, always a little drunk. You'd never admit it aloud but a part of you used to pride yourself on your restraint–you could stretch a single pack out over a month or more, until the tobacco had gone stale and the cigarettes tasted like dusty paper. Until it was less of a treat and more like a chore to get through the last few.  

Now you drop butts through the grate of your days like maybe you can fill up the emptiness with smoke.  

You sigh and light up, take a drag and let it sweep you up above the gutters.  You imagine the town might almost be pretty from up high.  Hard to tell from here.  

“Didn’t know this house had a chimney.”  

Some part of you remembers what it felt like to flinch when he got this close.  Another part remembers the way you buried your face in his back before he got up this morning.  You exhale nice and slow.  “Thought you knew everything.”  

“Now, we’ve talked about this.”  He leans against the rickety railing, white paint flaking off at the slightest disturbance.  “You know nothin’ good comes from thinkin’.”  

As a matter of fact, you’ve talked about everything already, but that’s never stopped him before.  You’ve heard all the stories sixteen times, could recount his childhood from memory one miserable year after another.  You know where he got that scar.  He knows all about your first kiss.  Eighth grade was hard for both of you for vastly different reasons.  He’s never been to your hometown but he could probably find your old house.  You’ve never met his mother, but you hate her just the same.  Favorite movie, worst fear, where were you on 9/11?  In a zombie apocalypse, he’d choose an ax.  You’d take the shotgun with exactly two shells.  It’s almost romantic, except, well.  

“Hey.”  He slams the heel of his hand against the railing and somewhere along the line, the wood splits with a crack.  “What’d I just say?”  

You look up, jarred loose from your spiral, and he’s shaking his head.  

“Damn fool.  Gimme those back.”  

He reaches out a hand and you slip one last smoke from the pack before you give it to him.  

“Lighter too, baby, c’mon.”  

You hesitate for a second, long enough he has to flex his fingers to make the point.  You hand him the lighter, keep the spare cigarette, tuck it behind your ear.

He peeks into the pack and his lip twitches. “Fuckin’ glutton.  This was full this mornin’.”  

“Sorry,” you deadpan.  

“Sure y’are.”  

You’ve had this conversation too, in just about every house on the street.  You wonder if he ever feels crazy, playing it all out over and over again.  Probably not. He's composed of repetition, a record that skips in the same place every time it's played. You feel crazy, fucking listening to it.  

You watch him work a cigarette loose, watch him hold it in his lips, watch the tendons flex across his knuckles as he lights up. For all the fucking smoke he blows, you still think he looks damn good as he exhales up towards the fading sun. One of life's little cruelties. 

“Y’know, supper ain't gonna make itself,” he says casually. Like he’s trying to piss you off.  He probably is.  

“You sure?” you shoot back, like you’re trying to piss him off.  You definitely are.  

He chuckles, unbothered. “I dunno, baby. Been wrong before.”

“Yeah?  Tell me more.” You're bold these days. Stupid. Dangerous, and not in the same way as the surgeon general's fine print. Dangerous in the present moment. Shaving seconds off your life like taking a pocketknife to a good chunk of wood. But games are more fun with two players. 

He doesn’t want to play, though.  Probably worn out from mowing all those fucking lawns.  He shrugs.  “Nothin’ more to tell.”  

“Pantry’s empty anyway,” you mutter.  The grocery list on the fridge has wrapped back on itself twice over.  He’s been cagey lately, reluctant to venture into town.  You’re down to canned goods old enough to read chapter books.  

“Guess we’ll starve.”  

“Guess so.”  You flick your rapidly shrinking cigarette and watch the ash fizzle frantically down and disappear. The chorus of crickets crescendoes to a dull roar in the silence.  

“You like these, huh?”

You're not sure what he means for a second before you realize he's talking about the cigarettes. You take another drag like you have to mull the taste over, really consider the question. He’s not a patient man, but he waits for your answer.

“Yeah,” you say finally on the tail of your exhale. “Best ones in a while.”

It’s the truth.  He's got his own brand and you like it too, but he's a fucking skinflint, and he only buys himself a pack when he's really hard up. Most of the time he scavenges off corpses and out of glove boxes. And you live off his scraps, so. 

Regretfully, you stub yours out as the flame hits the filter. Your throat is raw, tongue wrapped in the taste of tobacco. Everything in this town is racing to kill you and you wish something would win already. You can feel him watching you, now and always. 

“Somethin’ you need, sugar?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”  

He exhales with relish.  You think about the taste of smoke on his tongue and tobacco on his fingers and you grit your teeth.  He’s a vice in every sense.  

“You pissed at me?”  

What kind of question is that?  You peel a chunk of paint off the stair near your shoe.  “I’m always pissed at you.”  You mean it and you don’t and you’re braced for retribution either way, but none comes.  

“Fair enough.”  

You steal a wary glance in his direction.  He’s covered in flecks of grass.  He shed his overshirt in the heat of the day but it’s back on now, unbuttoned, the tee underneath smudged with green.  He lifts his hat, rubs his brow with the heel of his hand, tugs it back into place.  His face is a little sunburnt in spite of the thing.  

“You wanna fight?”  

You stop breathing for a second, sit very still.  He looks down at you, cocks an eyebrow.  He’s really asking.  

You think about it, really think about it.  Broken skin, broken glass.  No neighbors to scandalize.  You shake your head.  “No.”  

He shrugs, goes back to staring holes in the house across the street.  You almost want him to be disappointed, but his face is placid, expression impassive.  “Alright then.  ‘Nother time.”  

You furrow your brow, look at your shoes.  You pick at the paint, feel it slip beneath your nail like a splinter.  You’d bet five bucks you don’t have that he’ll be back to repaint these steps within the week.  It makes you want to rip them apart so he’d have more to do.  You’re not sure if he’d take that as a gift or as sabotage.  You’re not sure how you’d mean it.  

“How ‘bout we head inside, feel each other up?  See what happens?”  You look at him sharply.  He’s really asking.  “We can do it how you like it.”  

How you like it.  How do you like it?  Does he know?  Do you?

Your expression must be a funny one because he grins.  “What?  You a prude all the sudden?”  

No.  No, but.

You find the words wedged behind your teeth.  “You a gentleman all the sudden?”  

He snorts.  “C’mon now.”  He gives the railing one last yank, almost pulls it loose.  As he rounds the steps he drops his spent cigarette and crushes it underfoot.  “Scoot.”  

You make room on the stair and he sits down heavy beside you, takes up more than his fair share of space, same as always.  He smells like sun and sweat and grass and smoke.  His sleeve rides up and exposes the pink of his wrist.  He pulls it down without thinking about it.  You almost–almost–pull it back up.  

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out.  Don’t know what the fuck you want.”  

Now that's a dumb fucking thing to say. You want a thousand things.  A meal.  A clock that works.  Cable TV.  An article of clothing that doesn't reek of mothballs and someone else's fear. A normal conversation with a normal human being. Half a goddamn hour to yourself without the urge to lock the doors and set the house on fire. 

Anything.  Anything.  

“A light,” you say bitterly. 

To your surprise, he digs the lighter out of his pocket.  Holds it up to show you, like a peace offering.  He moves his boots down a step, pats his thigh.  “C’mere.” 

You straddle his lap and it’s like you’re walking in and out of a room at the same time.  Your hands find their place on either side of his chest and he’s warm to the touch like a dog lying in the sun.  His fingers play at the small of your back.  You can escape into the maze of abandoned homes or the pattern on the ceiling but you can’t slip away from those eyes at this distance.  They catch you like barbs on wire, as distant and cold as the sky.  

This is how you like it.  His head tipped back, looking up at you.  You run your thumb along the edge of his jaw and he almost–almost–smiles.  

He plucks the cigarette from behind your ear, flips it in his fingers.  You open your mouth.  He sets it on your tongue.  He flicks the lighter, brings it close, and when you breathe in you feel it–the poison of this place, yellow-green, permeating your lungs and all the rest of you.  No use in pretending.  No use fighting the current.  Drowning is only as hard as you make it.  

You wonder if he knows you’d come home even if he never came to find you.  Maybe that’s why he comes anyway.  Maybe that’s why you keep hiding.  So you both have something to look forward to.  Games are more fun with two players.  

It’s not worth thinking about.  Nothing good comes from thinking.  

You start to exhale and he tugs you close, sucking the smoke from your mouth, because he never can let you keep anything to yourself.  Maybe you don’t even want to. 

Your lips touch.  Tangerine thrums behind your eyes.  You’ll go to bed hungry tonight and so will he.  One shotgun, two shells.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he murmurs.  

You’re already working his shirt off his shoulders one-handed.  “Nothing I want.”  

He laughs once, almost breathless, leans back on the stairs so you have to lean with him.  “C’mon now.”  

You toss the cigarette into the dirt to free up both hands.

[mistxmood]

theyre either besties or worsties no inbetween

[devoursbears]

OKAY ITS TATTOO DESIGNING TIME eventually I am going to gt a @narcissistcookbook tattoo and I have decided to document my overly involved design process. Here's the first step!

I am going back through the Whole Discography I can find and writing little notes about how I connect to the songs :> From the things I connect with more and the imagery I like I am gonna start designing stuff I am going to combine into and Unholy Amalgam to put on my body.

For now, Behold! Text!

[dividedsingularity]

It's Subway Masters!

[hyperrealisticblood]

marios madness? marios mad? mad mario? mad mario v2? we are nintendo you cannot beat us? cannot beat us? cannot beat mad mario? we are mad mario you cannot beat mario? mario?

[cottoncandysprite]

Anyway in good news one of my 6th graders gave me a nonbinary charm bracelet today and I nearly cried 🥹

[just-some-guy-joust]

this is my list of rules for how you are allowed to interact with this blog. many of them will be repeated on the poll posts. failure to follow these rules will result in you getting blocked.

do not diss on any of the characters. you are not allowed to be a hater here. hype characters up, don't bring them down.

do not be mean to any other voters, either on a personal level or in general. if you are trying to joke around, you must clarify because we cannot tell the difference.

do not claim a character does not deserve to be here. i spent nearly 10 hours in a row deciding which characters to include and forming the brackets. if you hate it that much, make your own tournament. i don't own this tournament idea you can just do that.

you may respectfully ask me why i included a character if you are curious. if i genuinely fucked something up and did not notice please GENTLY poke me about it. passive aggressiveness will be ignored.

if you are posting propaganda you have to tag us, including if your propaganda is in the reblogs. it is difficult to tell when something is or isn't propaganda. anything not tagging us will be missed.

we see practically everything you put in the tags. don't say some shit that you wouldn't say to our faces. be respectful.

i am not accepting constructive criticism on how i run my tournaments. i am here to have fun and if my way of having fun does not match yours, then you should leave.

i am a human being and i am not your friend.

[atopvisenyashill]

perhaps the thing i’m most excited for with brienne being knighted is if podrick at last decides to stick with “ser brienne” or if that makes his stuttering between ser and my lady worse. like do u think her being knighted trumps the “lady” part bc it seems to trump “lord” for men or do you think the fact that she actually is now both a lady and a knight makes it impossible for him to even refer to her anymore.

[elline]

little hypno and mx doodads. get em while theyre hot

[fuckabledragonoftheday]

Today's fuckable dragon of the day is...

GRAMGRACE from CARDFIGHT!! VANGUARD

[lususnatura]

anyhow, my visual for y'all for today is your muse only finding out that blamore's an excellent gymnast because it performed a move called the ricna (which requires a lot of strength and precision) on a bar they had at a fair to beat someone in a strength competition + it did it while it was as drunk as a skunk too, and not letting your muse ever forget that he DID that. though not to brag or anything on his part, of course, lmaooo

[phightingconfessions]

being a system with phighting fictives (phictives if you will) is so weird sometimes like how dare i not be carrying a scythe/rifle hybrid weapon with me everywhere, where is broker, how dare

but i think something i love is our banhammer fictive who is a complete 180 from canon banhammer. canonhammer is mean and ruthless while fictivehammer is basically those images of super sweet pitbulls

anyways sorry for the ramble i love talking about our banhammer he needs the love

-scythe kin anon (woah actually scythe FICTIVE anon! big reveal)

.

[pokemonruby]

people trying to insist that oras is as bad as bdsp that is CRAZY