#people im proud of this one

[ratguy-nico]

And here it is Genuary Prompt Family and Alternative Universe. People you don't know how happy I'm with how this turn. This is what I mean when I say sometimes I get bless by the drawing gods.

You already knew about this one so I hope there wasn't much expectation, cause even if I'm proud I know is not perfect and could be better. But Im really happy I swear.

Y comenzamos con las ilegalidades. This is a little out of the rules cause I don't know if Genie's really the main focus, in my defense I got distracted.

This is a heavily reference to the episode "Sliding Bobs" from season 6 (one of my favs seasons) and well I got over carried with the dynamics between all the characters XD

I hope you can still enjoy my baby boy (and yes in this alternative universe Gene is a cis boy, the horror, oh and Tina is ace)

And why does he have that face? He's experimenting every multiverse at once. He's seeing different universes with thousand of version of himself, one is a genderfluid musician, other is Bruce Willis in that movie, one is a butler and another one is him with wieners for fingers. So yeah he's having a blast.

Oh and I don't know if the joke is right, I tried to say he is a sad wiener I didn't want to use the word hot dog one cause is long and two for the wiener a.k.a penis joke. I know Gene would like it.

[murmurmurl]

I'm back on my bullshit I guess

that redraw I was talking about.. previous versions under the cut

I like how it's less stiff now

[aaaaaaafrogs]

Finally finished my most ambitious Hatchetfield project yet. Every box in the border represents a different Nightmare Time, as well as Hey Melissa, Trail to Oregon, Workin’ Boys, the BBQ monologues and Peanuts the Hatchetfield Pocket Squirrel. The three large boxes at the bottom represent the three main musicals. It’s 18x24” and made with sharpie :]

[rekkabo]

domestic otasune... save SAVE ME❗️

[pigeonkill-pile]

Squirrelflight Squirrelstar

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[romanceddawn]

Puzzleshipping: "You gave me your heart, you know..." [Insp.]

❕ Please do not repost to any other sites ❕

[anaphoraholic]

instagram antis r a different breed 💀 first of all the "you cant just change a character to accommodate to your liking" thing is so sad to me.. have u no imagination?? no whimsy or joy?? allow urself to partake in fiction..

second, why do they want other people to be pedos so bad???? this whole comment section was talking ab how still having a crush on a younger cartoon character as an adult is the same thing as pedophilia....which...it is not 😭 saying that someone still giggling over their old childhood cartoon crush as an adult is the same as being attracted to ACTUAL children is a CRAZY take

one thing ab cartoons is that they don't resemble real people? they are very obviously stylized and unrealistic 2-dimensional drawings, and they usually don't look to be any particular age (a 15 and 30 yr old could look the same age depending on the style; in some cases, the 30 yr old may even look more youthful). anyways. my point is that being attracted to a 2d cartoon with cat ears, inhuman proportions and gigantic purple eyes (which typically don't even resemble a realistic human eye) is not the same as being attracted to a real, 3-dimensional human child.

[lazydreamartryn]

LIGHTS OFF

REDRAW!! -> Check all pics!!

There is two of each!!

I decided to redo my most adored drawing in the new style!

Im first showing the new ones and underneath will show the before so you can compare!

Before:

[deserthusbands]

cody, handing out stickers to his men: aright, troopers, excellent work today. you all get a gold star sticker for your exceptional performance.

obi-wan, watching with a fond smile: cody, that's positively adorable.

cody turns to see obi-wan approaching, and he chuckles.

cody: i figured a little morale boost couldn't hurt.

obi-wan takes a sticker from cody's sheet and gently places it on cody's chestplate, smoothing it over with his thumb.

obi-wan: and you, my dear commander, deserve the biggest gold star of all.

cody's cheeks flush slightly as he looks down at the sticker, then back up at obi-wan with a small, crooked smile.

[valgeristik]

Ничего не останется от нас, Нам останемся, в лучшем случае, мы

hi. hello. listen to this song

i have so many thoughts about these two. oh my god. maybe i will write it out some day, but for now drawing it out will do

translation will be under the cut! knowing the words does add to the work so i do recommend reading it. or just enjoy the art <3

Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser List

E-sims donation

heres the translation, color coded according to how i broke it up for the art. just in casies

first page:

Love is scarier than war

Love strikes more true than steel

second page:

More true, because of your own volition

third page:

You run towards all the winds

Let there be pain and eternal battle

Not atmospheric, not earthly

fourth page:

But definitely with you

caption:

There will be nothing left of us,

we will be left with, in the best case, ourselves

[elliotruinsresidentevil]

A much, much better version of Chris! What difference time and practice can make when learning to draw on black canvas!

[a-whispering-echo]

"Quick, act natural!"

Killer was instructed to 'distract the Stars'

it was very affective

[deoidesign]

Hey when your art friends share their work with you, please take note to not turn that into a vent session about how your own stuff sucks... It's just gonna make your friend feel like their art is hurting you, and they're not gonna share anymore.

[moeblob]

Harvey telling the farmer it's their time for the annual check up before knowing them for a year is always funny to me. But the fact I keep drawing Asmodeus♡ with a big mouth and fangs made me read the dialogue more like "that's scary, please stop" rather than "okay onto the next part".

Anyway, I have never drawn Harvey before so please enjoy my attempt. (gives him a lil gray. as a treat. to me. the gray is for me.)

[feelo-fick]

Au where eating the demons desire makes Laios immortal

Demons Curse

—

WHYYYYY WHY WOULD YOU SAY THIS TO MEEEEEEE WHYYYY SNIFF SNIFF IM SO SAD. IMS O SAD. I DREW THIS WHILE FALLING APART AT THE SEAMS. uaogh okay let me get my thoughts out about this

i originally was sorta happy in a bittersweet way cause i thought, well at least marcille has company, they have eachother to lean on now!

...but then i realized marcille isnt immortal. shes gonna live LONG, but shes not immortal. AND I GOT SO EXTREMELY SAD

can you imagine, trying to convince your friend not to extend everyones lifespans to a scarily long degree. and then having to help her deal with that fear and grief of losing her loved ones. AND THEN REALIZING YOURE IMMORTAL AND OUTLIVING ALL OF YOUR LOVED ONES INCLUDING HER. imagine being marcille as she gets older watching laios experience the same exact fear and grief she knows so well and knowing she cant do anything other than reassure him itll be alright. imagine being so scared to die and now suddenly you know someone who CANT die and realizing thats SO MUCH WORSE paces in circles. AAAAAAUGH

additional thought of this au, what if this was part of the demons curse to never allow laios' greatest desire to be granted? i mean laios is a very simple guy with simple wants, he wants to be loved, to eat good food, to study monsters, to be around his friends, and generally just live a normal life. being immortal would definitely complicate things... he'll be able to see and experience so many things but he wont be able to do it with his loved ones, not for long.

and also, being king, he'd probably be in that position for a long long time - maybe he'd willingly retire at some point but even after that where would he go then? what would he do? he cant go and find monsters to study, they all avoid him. i guess, explore the rest of the world? watch everything move on without him?

speaking of, imagine if he lived up until a time like modern day. so many years so many friends (gained and lost) and so many changes... that would be insane. THIS IS SPIRALLING INTO ME JUST GOING "WOULDNT IT BE FUCKED UP TO BE IMMORTAL" AJDNSJXBAH

anyways, final note, im reminded too of this "hand my my shovel, im going in!" animatic that haunts my mind forever AUGH its so good, and captures my immortality thoughts perfectly