#so uh. whoops.

[egophiliac]

idia was an absolute treasure this update. you agree.

Idia really went "time for me to be a hero! but in, like, a super meta way" and if that isn't incredibly in-character then what is.

and of course we can't forget

I kinda hope he and Riddle get to do another game jam again sometime! it's nice to see them get along! and now they have, inexplicably...shared skills and interests???

[outer-andromeda]

Usually I try to better clean up and color these... But I REALLY wanted to share 'em as soon as possible cuz I really like how they look already, sue me :')))

Some story time under the cut for those of you who want context >:000

((EDIT - Small TWs for some negative talk and mentions of grief. Also spoilers for the ending on Chapter 4 :00)

As mentioned in a previous post, Gabby and Doey's relationship is... Very strained after the events of the fourth chapter.

Doey joined the group (Gabby, Kissy and Ava) eventually while they were venturing as subtly as possible to avoid running into Huggy. It was a surprise, obviously - they all thought he was six feet underground since the aftermath of him crashing down. They were all relieved to know he was still alive, but something was different. He wasn't as jovial as his usual self was... He was just... Off. Quiet. Monotone.

(Which is understandable since the guy is literally GRIEVING the loss of the kids of the Safe Haven y'know- and he feels immense guilt for what happened)

At some point, they get separated - Kissy and Ava stick together, while Doey and Gabby venture on their own way, both groups hoping to join each other again eventually. Doey and Gabby still have that quiet dynamic going on, because the human guy doesn't want to make things any worse than they already are. So he tries to be the cheerful one. For both his and Doey's sakes. He tries as hard as he can. But it falls flat. And Gabby, despite himself, grows more and more irritated by Doey's unusual calmness. Something's obviously going on and he won't say anything about it.

Something happens that puts them in a dangerous situation, and everything spills out. Gabby wants to talk, he wants answers. Doey is trying to ignore it, but he's being pushed. And suddenly his anger blooms back out. And he lashes out on Gabby. Shouts all the words he hadn't gotten out. How he was never any good for the kids. How he could've done so much more. How if it wasn't for him, "they'd still be breathing and standing right now". How Gabby can't understand. And Gabby... Takes it. He stands there, listening to every single thing he says. Silently.

He's not afraid. And Doey notices. It's unnerving. It catches him completely off guard. It's like something is starting to break inside of him. Something he's not sure he wants to let shatter much more...

And then Gabby hugs him. And the thing in Doey's core is completely obliterated. And the tears are finally, finally let loose. And his shoulders finally relax to wrap themselves around the short man.

They talk after some VERY good comforting words from Gabby. They find Kissy and Ava after some searching, and they're back on track.

And from then on, their relationship changes back slowly to the small friendship they had formed in the past, plus more. They both understand and trust each other, and Doey feels relief from having someone he can confide in and let himself relax with. And just... Be a kid. Even if just for a bit. All three kids need that so badly, and Gabby tries his best to give that to them. To Doey. Because he, out of anyone, deserves a break the most.

[linterteatime]

Bugs with the littlest pet shops because

[tridentkickflipper123]

he doesn't know how they won either

[submasbrainrot]

^-^

[dontfindmeimscared]

Prologue 0.2

start / prev / next!

[vctrdoom]

happy birthday to eren🙏🙏

ref + sketch + closeup under the break vv

[rbtlvr]

smth for @remedyturtles new fic firefight! the twins ever <3 i'm sure they're fine

[yourlocaltoad]

Happy New Years!

[rats-n-roaches]

ohhhh miss o’sheaaaaa

[toffeesbabbles]

I saw this joke post, and I just had to doodle it really quick LMAO

(killer looks so damn small LMAO)

[thelemonsnek]

graphic interior design is my passion

[image id: an aerial floorplan of Ingo and Emmet's apartment. It is relatively small and not overly fancy. There are only two bedrooms, Ingo's and Emmet's, with a pullout couch to make up for the lack of a spare room. Most of the house is carpeted with a navy blue carpet. Off to the side, a tiny Ingo and Emmet look over at the apartment. End id]

additional ramblings under the cut for reasoning about some of this!!

ingo typically takes night shifts, so he took the room without the window so he could sleep better during the day. emmet preferred the room with the window bc the sunrise helps him wake up easier

their bed colors are based off their ex outfits in masters. emmet's is lighter and ingo's is darker to match the white/black theme

if you happened to notice, ingo's trashcan is beside his desk. emmet's isn't shown because it's under his desk. ingo also has one of those desks with built in shelves, both because it makes up for him not having a bookshelf, and also because i just think he'd enjoy the efficiency of it

for all of the chairs, they're out from the tables to demonstrate the space they would take up if in use. the twins do in fact push in their chairs. the exception is ingo's desk chair, which he leaves pushed out on purpose. freak

the dark carpet helps to hide dirt - important for trainers with so many pokemon in the house!!

speaking of pokemon, the hallway is intentionally larger than i'd expect of real life houses, in order to accommodate large final evolutions

the couch is a pullout, since they don't have a spare room

the rug isn't plain white i'd just rather die than actually design the pattern

there's also a lot of clutter/decorative stuff that i didn't include

the laundry room is sparse for easy access to the fire exit! safety first :)!

there are "floating" cabinets over the counters, i just couldn't figure out an effective way to draw that. the microwave is above the stove

i think that they're a higher up floor in the apartment, but not the highest. maybe like,,,,3 out of 5 or 6 floors?

space for ghosts was originally a little joke comment i wrote for myself when drafting the layout, then kept in. i could've extended the kitchen down and given them more room but the space for ghosts is important to me now. chandelure needs her alone time

[coldbronzemoon]

Dead on Arrival

Stan goes to his brother's house hoping for a reunion.

He doesn't get one.

A Frankenford one-shot inspired by this post by @crypticmushroom

Stanley Pines didn't know what the hell he was looking at.

Well, he did. He was looking at 618 Gopher Road, the address his twin brother supposedly lived in. But that didn't make sense.

He wasn't sure exactly what he would've imagined Stanford's house to look like at this point in their lives—mostly he'd be busy gnawing on his jealousy that Stanford had a whole house to his name—but it would've involved less... barbed wire. Less 'KEEP OUT!' signs. Less of an overwhelming air of mania and fear. The cabin stood stark against the white of the blizzard Stanford had forced Stan to drive through. It looked less like a building and more like an animal crouching in wait, some looming beast with one large glassy eye staring down at him.

Stan almost wanted to turn around and go back to his car, currently abandoned some distance away when the piles of snow had proven too much for an old girl with no winter tires to speak of.

But Stanford had sent for him. After ten years. Even if the last sparks of brotherly concern weren't urging Stan on, sheer curiosity would've pushed him forward. What the hell was going on?

He trudged his way through the snow and up to the front porch, stilling at the door. His fist hesitated in place. This cabin was nothing like what he would've imagined. It unsettled him, left him off-kilter. It made his imagination spiral off to odd places; he thought of this house not even being Stanford's, that he was about to invite a maniac to hurl the door open and shoot him dead then and there.

But no. Stanford wouldn't break ten years of silence just to be a bastard. Would he?

"C'mon," he muttered to himself, just to hear something outside of the howling of the wind. "He's your brother. He won't bite."

He knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He pounded on the door.

Nothing.

Just silence underneath the wind and the whipping of pine branches out in the forest.

His breath rushed out of him in white plumes. He shivered. His jacket was good enough for New Mexico, not a freak blizzard up north in Oregon. If nothing else, Stanford owed him some time in his heated house for making Stan drag himself through this weather.

Stan gave one final round of resounding knocks, ones so harsh anyone in the house had to have heard them.

Nothing.

This was the point were Stan turned around, got back into his car, and gave up on his brother. Or at least, it was the point that he turned around, got back into his car, and found a place to stay the night in town before trying again tomorrow, hopefully with less snow whipping around him and chilling him to the bone.

Stan's hand drifted down to the door knob. In a fit of impulse, he turned it and tried to open the door.

The front door groaned open, something scraping along the frame as it went. Stan almost laughed out loud. All of the fencing, the signs, the frantic desperation to keep people away, and the front door was unlocked? Was Stanford stupid?

No. He wasn't. Not this kind of stupid, anyway.

The unlocked door was suddenly as unsettling as the rest of the house.

Still, Stan didn't have any plans to freeze outside when there was a perfectly good interior right in front of him. Better to ask forgiveness instead of permission, that was always his motto. Right behind 'Never say please' and 'Punching solves all your problems one way or another.'

He pushed the door in even further and let himself inside.

Stan didn't know what the hell he was looking at.

He expected a living room. Maybe one of those fancy 'mudrooms' that just seemed like a waste of building material to him. Something half-way to normal.

Instead, there was stuff. Loads and loads of stuff. Things in jars, giant hulking shapes hidden underneath tarps, a huge fish tank with a skull in it, an anatomical skeleton, way too many medical instrument-looking things. It looked like a horror movie props department and the storage room for a college of science had thrown up in the same spot.

Stan edged into the room, shutting the door behind him. It was nearly as cold in here as it was outside, that was the first thing he noticed. The second was that there were no lights on, and that the place smelled bad.

He knew this kind of smell. It came from a bunch of injured people being in a room together before they got any medical attention that introduced disinfectant to the equation. It was a heavy metallic smell that cut through the dust and rot that also hovered in the air.

Why did Stanford's house smell like blood? Why did it look like this?

Mechanically, he turned to make sure that the door was locked, a well-earned habit. He stopped. The front door had eight locks running down its side.

Stan spent a long moment looking at those locks. Somehow, they were worse than all the signs of paranoia outside.

The outside... it was over the top. It was too much. He couldn't imagine Stanford setting it all up. These locks were also too much, but Stan understood them. He had never wrapped barbed wire around his house, but he had installed more locks on a motel room door in a fit of desperation once.

That was something you did with wild eyes, crouching and ducking and thinking that at any second someone was going to take a knife to your back.

Stan took a deep, ragged breath, still staring at the locks.

He was—afraid. Yeah, afraid. Stan had been afraid a lot of points in his life, but it usually wasn't this kind of slow, sickly fear, one that made him unable to move. Usually his fear was driving his feet to run him straight out of Dodge.

A loud howl of wind scraped along the sides of the cabin, rattling it. Stan flinched away from the door, then lurched back to it to hastily lock every lock he could in one go.

He turned back to the dark cavern of a room he was in, finding a doorway to a hallway with his eyes.

There were two options.

One: Stanford wasn't in the house anymore. Whatever had driven him to the extent of paranoia the cabin displayed had later driven him to run from it, out somewhere Stan couldn't follow. Stan hadn't seen a car, so maybe... but then, he hadn't looked around the cabin too thoroughly, so there was a chance there was a car here he hadn't noticed.

Two: Stanford was here in the house somewhere, and had forgotten it was Stan that was coming and hid himself away once the knocking started. It was cold and dark because Stanford wanted to make it seem like there was no one here.

Option two was the one that gave Stan anything to do, so he chose to believe that one. He just had to find where Stanford had holed himself up, coax him out, and then start a game plan for dealing with whoever had frightened his brother so much he resorted to barbed wire and eight locks on the door.

And then... then they'd go from there. Stan had spent too much of the drive imagining that this was finally Stanford reaching out to him so they could be proper brothers again, but that thought wasn't important anymore. Stan didn't need reconciliation right now. Knowing Stanford was safe would do.

He crept further into the house after giving the first room a cursory once-over. All he found were more weird things in glassy containers, reams of messy papers, and machines and tools with purposes he couldn't divine. He hadn't really expected to find Stanford there.

Taking a bat he found among the stuff for an emergency weapon, he took on the hallway. It was as dark and cold as the front of the cabin, random things strewn around. There were a lot of post-it notes stuck up on the wall, and when he used his lighter to read them, he found a confusing mix between written codes and demands for someone to stop talking.

Unnerved, he stopped pausing to read them. Stanford could explain them when Stan found him.

Beyond that was a room that was maybe a living room before tons of junk had been shoved into it, or maybe it used to be some sort of study. Either way, Stan called out that it was him and sifted through the stuff until he was satisfied that Stanford wasn't crammed behind a desk or something.

The kitchen was refreshingly kitchen-like, as long as he ignored the stupid arrangement of the furniture and the masses of dirty plates and cups. There was even something shattered on the ground and a huge dark stain on the wooden floor and smeared along the wall. Stan chose to believe it was coffee Stanford hadn't cleaned up and moved on. There was nowhere for someone to hide in there.

The wind outside continued to howl and wail as he worked through the dark interior. Snow was driving against the windows. Soon enough it wouldn't matter if Stanford was hiding in this house; Stan would be stuck until the snow melted.

He pushed that thought away and made for another door. A bathroom, this time. The sight of it stopped him in his tracks. The smell was worse. It was the metallic rot of blood, and it was easy to see why. The tiles of the room were splattered with the stuff, rolls of soiled bandages chucked into the small trash can, a bloody six-fingered hand print left on the cracked mirror.

Stan's breath seized in his chest. What the hell had happened here? How had Stanford gotten this injured?

Was there a reason Stanford hadn't come to investigate who was in his house yet...?

No. Stan forced himself to look the blood over again. It was old, having at least a day to dry. Maybe more. If Stanford had been attacked, he survived it well enough to fix himself up and later replace the bandages multiple times and trash them.

All this meant was that Stanford had good reason to give his door eight locks. Someone did want him hurt. But that didn't mean they'd done him in.

The plan still remained the same. Find Stanford, figure out what was going on, get rid of whoever made his brother so frantic and paranoid. Whoever had hurt him.

Stan backed out of the bathroom. He needed to be anywhere else before the room started to really get to him. He didn't want to get lost in thoughts of exactly what kinds of wounds his twin had gotten.

He stepped through the hallway, calling out to Stanford. He was pretty sure his voice was close enough to what it was ten years ago that Stanford would recognize it. He was getting a bit sick of having to search every nook and cranny.

No response but the creaking of the cabin. Stan twitched at every sound, sure it was either Stanford coming out of his hiding place or someone returning to finish the job.

Another door. He creaked it open, expecting another room full of junk.

Not this one. It was eerily open compared to the clutter of the rest of the house, even with all of the papers stacked around. It took him a moment to register the calendar on the wall and the fact that the couch in here had blankets thrown over it.

Stanford used to jokingly claim that couches were infinitely more comfortable to sleep in than beds, and that if he ever got his own room he'd insist on a couch to sleep on. Was this his room?

Stan nudged his way in, surveying the papers from what little he could make out in the long shadows of the night. Maybe there'd be something useful here, notes that helped explain who was after Stanford. It was worth a look.

He took his lighter out and got a better look around. Papers, papers, more papers—

And something else in the very back of the room. A dark lump. Stan had seen too many weird shapes in this house to jump, but he didn't like that he couldn't tell what it was all the same. He stepped over the papers to get a look.

It was the right size...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

The fabric that his lighter revealed didn't look like upholstery...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

The smell of blood was heavy in his room as well...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

"Sixer," he said into the cold air. His voice was hoarse. "Stanford. What are you doing? Get up."

There was a dark patch on the wall in front of his brother.

"Stanford. This isn't fucking funny. I'm tryin' to help you."

The shape on the floor didn't move. Stan's breaths were coming heavy now, more gasps than anything, and he didn't know why, he refused to know why. He dropped the bat.

He stooped down and grabbed Stanford's shoulder, forcing him up into a kneeling position from where he'd been folded over himself.

"Get up, Stanford. I'm serious," he said.

But Stanford wasn't listening. His eyes were wide and wild and unblinking. One of his temples was bloody and caved in like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Dark lines of blood trailed down one of his eyes, out of his nose. He wasn't breathing.

Stanford was dead.

Stan's heaving gasps filled the room. He couldn't hear the wind anymore. He couldn't hear anything.

Stanford was dead.

That was impossible. Between the two of them, Stan should've been the one to die first. He had always known that in the back of his mind. Stan was the drifter, the criminal, the one who got himself tangled up with all the wrong people. He was the one who should've died with no one caring to check on him. Not Stanford.

He should've known, somehow. He should've felt it as he drove up to the cabin.

The blood was still tacky. When had Ford died? It had to have been recently. Had it been today?

Could Stan have gotten here before it happened? If he had driven faster—had jumped into his car the minute he saw the card, not leaving time to pack his meager possessions—if he had rustled up the money for a plane ride—if he'd bitten the bullet months ago, years ago, and just said something after calling Stanford in a moment of weakness—

Then his brother might not be dead.

"Stanford," he croaked. A denial. A plea. "Ford, Ford, Ford—"

His brother didn't answer, merely staring up at the ceiling where his tipped-back head directed him to look. For the first time, Stan noticed the red cover of a book cradled in Ford's stiff arms, a piece of paper crinkled in his hold as well. It was almost like Ford was just looking up at the ceiling in thought after reading another science textbook Stan couldn't hope to understand.

The bloody indent on Ford's head refused him that daydream. Stan couldn't bear to keep looking at it. He looked down at the book and paper instead.

On the paper was the word 'STAN'. He almost let Ford drop down against the floor in his haste to tug it out of his cold hands. There was a note written there, one in their old secret language he still remembered after all this time. That Ford still remembered after all this time.

Stanley Pines didn't cry. He hadn't since he was a child. Crying was useless. But sitting there in the dark with the cold corpse of his own twin brother, he came dangerously close. Perhaps he really did cry.

There was no one else in the house to see it happen, after all.

He held the note bearing his name tightly in his hands.

Later, when he finally mustered up the courage to read the note, it read: IF YOU HAVE THIS, I'M DEAD. MY BODY IS AT RISK OF POSSESSION--THE DEMON SEEKING MY BODY CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO USE IT. PLEASE LOCATE THE NECROMANCY BOOK I'VE STORED BEHIND THE SHIP AND FOLLOW DIRECTIONS TO BAR HIM FROM ME.

Stan read the note at least three times. He came to an easy decision.

He didn't give a damn about any demons. If there was a book on necromancy in this house, he was using it for one thing and one thing only.

Bringing his brother back to life.

[crimsonbonds]

hiii my y2kiss ended up being nyxquinn (my fiancé and i's drifters surpriseee lol) GRAH i wanted to also do a quinn + quincy one to make a set with this and the nyxamir one i did already buuuuut this one took me way longer than i expected so um. maybe quincy later ANYWAYS um. YAY happy nye ✨️

[egophiliac]

I was wanting to try doing an art piece in the style of the signature spell poster art pieces you create. But I’m not really the best at coming up with a composition for such a thing.

Do you have a process for how you come up with the compositions for them?

oh, awesome! it is an INCREDIBLY enjoyable style to work in; I hope you have fun with it! :D

I'm not great at putting my thought/art process into words, so my apologies if this doesn't make a lot of sense, but I'll try! my first step is always to do a LOT of thumbnails to figure out both the idea and how I want to show it; not trying to do a real sketch or anything, just little doodles to figure out what exactly I'm trying to portray. (I also call these "garbage passes" because they're not meant to be any good, they're just there to throw things out. aha. ha. ...anyway.) I think it's important during that first stage to really focus on the idea and the layout and not to get too bogged down in the actual drawing yet!

I tend to save my final thumbnails, so I'll use 'em as examples (I posted the ones up through episode 5 here if you're interested!) (and, uhhh, spoilers through episode 5 also in this post, hopefully that won't be an issue!)

the main thing I try to think about in composition is balance -- not necessarily in terms of symmetry, but in where each element is placed and how much space it's taking up. remember, empty space is still space! it's also really important to think about the parts that don't have anything in them, as much as the parts that do!

personally, I like to divide things up roughly by both halves and by thirds -- there's a lot more in-depth info out there on why the "rule of thirds" in particular works well visually, but in short, our brains tend to focus on things that are placed closer to imaginary division lines, instead of in the exact center of an image. so even when I'm doing something that is very centered and symmetrical, I try to keep that in mind and generally aim around those for landmarks like faces/eyes (or...where they would be, anyway) and other focal points.

it's not a formula of "the character's face should be in this division of this grid" or anything, more like "our minds like to focus on these areas, let's think about how to use that", if that makes sense! and of course rules are made to be broken, art is lawless anarchy, and so on. but it can be a good starting place for deciding where you want to put things!

(blue - thirds, red - half)

and against the finished versions, because they do usually end up changing a lot (including the empty space of the border):

(...these actually lined up a lot better than I thought they would. :') it makes me look like I do things way more intentionally than I do.)

other stuff I just try to keep in mind is that our eyes like following arcs and paths, which can be a good way to guide the eye:

and frame and control the focus:

honestly, composition is one of those things I feel like I struggle with a lot, so I'm not sure how much of this is helpful or actually makes sense outside of my head. but hopefully it helps a little! it's all just stuff to think about while drawing and not anything hard-and-fast, so don't, like, stress out about making sure things are lining up exactly on the thirds or anything. again, it's more "our brains think these are the dopest parts of the rectangle" than anything else! take advantage of the cool parts of the rectangle!

NOW GO HAVE FUN DRAWING seriously though, it is always super cool that other people like this idea and style enough to want to do it themselves and for other/their own characters! thank you! ❤️❤️❤️

[hexxingcode]

somehow accidentally made an animatic(... ish.) so hey rain world downpour enjoyers come get your dubious neighborhood beverage if you want it. there's five pebbles in there.