#the birth of a new tag

[felixisfruity]

I’m like tumblr user ash swagaythor the way im making a billion g(illion?!??1?)azillion posts that people will probably never look at :3

this tag, btw ↓

[nevvn]

12.09 - Happy Birthday Solomon!!!!!!!! 🥰🫶

[usagifuyusummer]

Timmy with his found family your honour. *sobs furiously*

[white-weasel]

Headcanon: Zep Hindle’s actual first name is Shepard or “Shep” for short (and that’s how he introduces himself). Someone in the hospital started to jokingly call him “Zep” since he was an orderly (or as they might see him, a glorified janitor) and was using the the Zep cleaner pretty frequently. The joke became so pervasive that by the time the movie rolls around, no one even thinks about it anymore and just assume that’s his name

I know that in later films his file is labeled as “Zep Hindle” implying that’s his legal name, but these are the same films that have stuff like “D. Hoffman” and characters sharing the same finger print profiles, so I think it’s okay to throw this little detail out lol I feel like the intention of the first movie is that Zep is not his first name as shown by the line “Or as they called you around the hospital, Zep.” As another pointed out recently in the tag, this is such an odd thing to say if his name was well and truly Zep

Additionally, it makes Zep’s butting in of “He’s a very interesting person. His name is John” a bit more telling. Like, he see Dr. Gordon simply referring to John as “the patient” and stripping him of his life outside the confines of the hospital, just like the name “Zep” has stripped him of his identity outside of his job as orderly. I just think that’s an interesting angle to think about things!

[starfishir]

Kinito animatic wip ( ͈ര ̫ര ͈) ⊹`𓈒

A little nibble, a little snack

Genuine question: should I color it bc I am kinda lazy to go back and fill it out

SONG NAME: hello world (by Louie Zong) ⊹₊⟡⋆

LYRICS:

oh, creator, please don’t leave me waiting-

[ghostieblr]

Okay, so. I'm working on something inspired from this post of mine. I'm almost done, I think, so I'll post by Saturday evening IST on ao3!!! If you're interested and want me to tag on the corresponding post here (because ofco i'll post about the fic here as well) lmk in the comments!! <3

here is a sneakpeak pic (yes i write on tumblr drafts):

[humanundead]

PENIS BLAST

[howdoyousleep3]

never in my life have i wanted a Daddy more than i do rn 😭

[seldompathic]

And then a really fucked up AU was born 🫠

[violant-apologia]

Checkup

or; an Introduction to Marian Agnes Cook

featuring @waterlogged-detective's wonderful darcy doe!

words: ~1k

give it a read on AO3 or below the cut!

The surgery is out of the way. Discreet, one might call it, if the words “DOE CLINIC for those with ECLECTIC TASTES, INTERESTING DEFORMITIES or TOO MANY LIMBS” weren’t emblazoned on the door in dramatic boldface. She doesn’t bother the bartender as she makes towards the door to his erstwhile cellar. He, in turn, keeps his eyes down and continues cleaning glasses. A simple tomb-colonist  is surely one of the least odd visitors to a clinic such as this. Or she would appear the least odd, at least.

She takes the handle in her bandaged hand (her left, though she’s practised enough that she feels almost ambidextrous) and pushes it open, revealing a damp stone stairwell. Snippets of conversation echo from below: half in posh English, half in burbles. When Marian reaches the bottom of the stairs, a Tentacular Surgeoness is waiting for her.

“Thotharoorithee!” she welcomes. Marian nods, distracted by the clinics interior.

An operating table takes centre stage: rich wood accented with flecks of amber and blood. Behind it there are cabinets upon cabinets, with labels ranging from the expected (“TOURNIQUETS”) to the worrying (“AMBER LEECHES”) to the worryingly vague (“EMERGENCY TOOLS”). On top of the cabinets are myriad jars, contents variously still, bobbing, beating and blinking. Marian’s always had a strong stomach, but curiosity is not nearly enough for her to examine the jars in detail. Instead, she turns her attention to the other figure in the room — a fellow bandaged individual in an apron and gloves. He washes a bonesaw over a sink.

“Dr Doe,” Marian says.

“Just a moment,” the surgeon replies. “My previous patient had the most fascinating blood. While I’m sure it would further the plight of Science to test its reaction with your own humours, I have an inkling that you’d prefer my implements clean.”

Marian doesn’t respond, simply waiting with tapping feet and ignoring the eyeballs which scrutinise her from their prisons of glass and cork. At last, the doctor turns to her.

“Ah, a fellow tomb-dweller!” he says. “What do you need, my darling? A cure for rotting? A spare set of ears? Or perhaps,” he mutters, scrutinising Mariam’s arm, “it has something to do with this—”

“Don’t,” Mariam says, snatching her arm away from Doe. He shrugs.

“I was only asking,” he says, nonchalantly. “It doesn’t take the Honey-Addled Detective to notice the lumps beneath those bandages.”

Marian maintains a straight face and unbunched fists.

“But where are my manners?” the doctor says with mock concern. “I’m speculating about your horrifying deformities when I’ve yet to even introduce myself. Doctor Darcy Doe, at your service.”

“Rithoree!” comes a burble from behind Marian.

“And you’ve met my assistant already,” Darcy adds.

“Marian Cook,” Marian replies. “You’ll pardon me for not offering you my hand.”

“I was right, was I?” Darcy cackles. “Well, let me have a look at it.”

“Prepare yourself,” Marian warns, beginning to unwrap the bandages on her arm.

“Whatever it is, my dear, I’m sure I’ve seen something an order of magnitude more gruesome.”

The final layer comes off, revealing a dark green mass beneath. A tangle of stems, thorns and leaves that rustle as she unwraps. They keep the form of an arm and hand, but the cut stems are clearly visible: pruning, to keep the bramble in line.

“Ah,” Darcy nods, “You’re a veteran. I never did get involved in that ghastly campaign myself – the whole ‘fighting for one’s religion’ thing is all rather gauche, wouldn’t you agree?”

Marian suppresses a sigh and stops unwrapping.

“I don’t see the issue, though,” says Darcy. “I hear these growths have a tendency to return when clipped. And you seem to be keeping the whole thing quite adequately under wraps. Ha-ha.”

There’s a pause before Marian speaks.

“My condition isn’t typical, even for a vet,” she says. “Their stems are painful, but they’re more like brands. They’re static. Mine…”

“Yours…?” Darcy prompts.

“The Law-Furnace that got my patrol left the others as topiaries. I thought I’d escaped with only my arm as casualty, but soon learned otherwise.” She peels back bandages on her hip, revealing leaves and the beginning of a bud. “When I bleed, I scab over in bark. When it falls away, there’s plant-flesh beneath.”

Darcy ponders for a moment, stroking his chin for effect. “I may have a solution for you. It might seem outlandish at first, but I bid you hear me out. Have you considered… not getting injured?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing for forty years!” Marian retorts, “and I am bloody sick of it. I joined the army to see the Neath, for chrissakes. I can’t spend the rest of my life cooped up in some old mausoleum, never risking a scratch or bruise. I will get injured, thank-you-kindly, I’d just like to heal instead of turning into a damned rosebush!”

Marian’s outburst over, she calms herself. The thorns on her arms turn back inward, having jutted themselves out when her anger flared. Darcy, who was waiting patiently for her to finish, speaks again.

“There’s no need for theatrics. I’ll cut to the chase: I’m not able to help you. But I know some people who might be.” He turns and rummages through a draw for a moment, before producing three business cards. “They’re rather far afield, but given your stated aim to explore, that shouldn’t trouble you overmuch.”

Marian takes the cards. Some list places she’s never heard of; some are in languages she does not understand.

“…Thanks,” she says, moving to leave the clinic.

“And I’ll offer you an echo for some cuttings.”

Marian rolls her eyes.

“Make it two.”

[tricoufamily]

visiting the hometown

(want everyone to know this edit came to me in a dream and i changed the lore just to do it)

[rollerderbydropout]

[ MISSION DEBRIEF, CORSAIR-A004. ]

[ LOG #004-1, POST-DEPLOYMENT INTERVIEW WITH CORSAIR "BISHOP, MYLES", CALLSIGN "LAND-SHARK" "SHARKO". ]

[ BEGIN LOG; ]

((CW // DESCRIPTION OF INJURY AND ADDICTION.))

[ Sallow and sunken-looking, the unmistakable silhouette of Myles Bishop sits, folded over himself, on the edge of a cot. His slipsuit hangs off of his almost skeletal frame, half-removed down to his waist, exposing gaunt ribs and red, inflamed chemical ports. His skin blisters and welts around the black circlets embedded into his wrists. With each breath, his chest makes a sickly rattling sound; With each exhale, his face regains an ounce of color. Thick, black hair sticks to his slick forehead, partially obscuring wide, bloodshot eyes. Each breath seems to cause his shivering to quell for little more than a fleeting instant. Trembling, shaking, pulling at the edges of his fingernails until his nailbeds become pink and puffy, Myles chokes down another gulp of air. ]

HANDLER — "After that, Bishop? Do you remember what happened after Frontliner was jammed?"

[ Just off screen, the Handler's voice is level, laced with practiced calm and the delicate, precise way that one speaks to a reactive dog. Confident, infallible, devoid of weakness. Myles's fingers twitch as she speaks, a hitch in his shoulders indicating surprise- and little else. It's as though he assumed that, if he sat still and silent for long enough, she might move along. Forget about him. ]

MYLES — "...No. Not really. The cockpit got hot— really hot— and it all seemed to just, pan out. Pull away, you know? Like at the end of a movie, where everything starts to, uh, fade out. The music gets real faint and distant, whatever conversation the characters are having becomes background noise, and their faces get smaller, smaller, smaller... until they, pop!-"

[ Myles pushes his palms together in front of him, his arms crossed over his bent knees, and lowers his head until he's eye-level with his fingertips. With a rather lackluster, anticlimactic gesture- he abruptly parts his hands, only an inch or two. ]

MYLES — "-Blip out, cut to credits. Then, you're staring at yourself through a black screen, trying to see your own eyes past the white text to figure out, uh, if it's too late- or, erm- if you can go another episode. Right? Late night, watching movies on your shitty old Omnihook, Cradle movies, if you're lucky, because they really don't make them like they used to. Movies about huge monsters and shitty boyfriends and the magic of holidays that nobody really celebrates anymore. I just watched one, one movie, something about a princess and— I mean, the importance of that is lost on me, I haven't got the slightest idea what a princess actually is, but sh—"

HANDLER — "Bishop."

[ Sharp, like the crack of a whip, or a ruler to the back of a child's outstretched hand. Myles winces back as though he had been struck. His eyes dart upwards, not towards the Handler, but towards her lips. The source of the sound. Feverish, bloodshot, hallowed eyes watch her mouth as though expecting more, but nothing follows. ]

MYLES — "Everything... pans out. The cockpit is heating up, the walls are starting to glow, my fingers lift from the controls and come away wet and sticky. I put my hand on my face, to try my helmet's internal commslink, but that's dead too. My fingers come away wet and sticky. I breathe in, and it's, wet and sticky. The cockpit smells like slag and blood and I can't pick out if those smell the same, or different somehow. In front of me, the glow of plasma and automatic gunfire; Behind me, motion, a collection of blips on the sensors and they're all moving, moving towards me."

HANDLER — "Your squadmates."

[ Though she doesn't mean for it to be, her tone is accusatory. Explorative, too, in a similar fashion to a mother trying to gode a confession out of her guilty child. ]

[ This time, Myles doesn't flinch. He only parts his fingers, and holds them like that. Open. Splayed in front of his eyes as though he were parting the tall grass. ]

MYLES — "Yeah, but I didn't know that at the time. I mean, I did know that, sort of. But not right then. Not when it started to heat up, started to stink like iron. I think my nose was bleeding, but you can lose a lot of blood when you're wired into one of those things— an Enkidu, a warmachine, whatever— and the stims will keep you awake. It took R&D two weeks to find a chemical concoction I wasn't resistant to, did you know that? Opiates don't work on me anymore. Adrenaline, I've been told, too; Not that I've built a resistance to adrenaline, I mean, but that taking it in a concentrated form might be what finally puts my heart out of its misery. 'Horse with a broken leg', someone said; An Enkidu pilot who can't take concentrated adrenaline, is like a horse with a broken leg. I laughed— you can laugh, too, it's okay— but I don't think they were joking. They looked sad. Sorrowful. Like they felt sorry for me. Like-"

HANDLER — "Don't start. Stay on topic."

MYLES — "-like they hoped I'd never touch the field. Okay, there's four targets behind me, and three in front of me. The cockpit starts to heat up, and, by now, my blood is probably 30% methamphetamine. For the first time in a good few years, I'm not in pain. I'm focused. Breathing deeply, eyes forwards, counting each round the blip in front of me fires until, finally, his gun clicks dry. Then, he looks at me. Lifts the helm of his mech, I mean. It was half the size of me, maybe less, probably the size of a Caliban but that's not really what I'm looking at. I'm looking at him. Looking at me."

[ Myles stops to take a breath. His chest seems to heave slightly, his collarbones a little deeper than they should be; His lips are colorless, the same shade of porcelain gray as his eyes. A bead of sweat rolls off of his shivering jaw. ]

MYLES — "When I was still attached to my Tokugawa, the only way my old squad could get me on the field was a fancy, hand-adjusted Full Subjectivity Sync. They spent a few weeks making sure it was as finely-tuned as possible to minimize the shock between perspectives, otherwise I'd spiral again. I protested, even then, and insisted I never wanted to spend a waking moment trapped in the claustrophobic gullet of a mech's cockpit, but the Sync made it- manageable. Too manageable, probably. It eased some of the pain of my still-healing burns, lessened the ache in what little Fireman left of my legs. So, I broke it. Pulled a few cables, cut a few wires, and made it so I couldn't feel my body at all while I was tapped in. Made it so I only saw what the Toku saw, felt what the Toku felt. That's why my burns never healed, I guess; I kept reopening old wounds, baking my abandoned body on the inside of my new, shiny chassis until the arteries in my stumps burst and I had to relearn how to walk for a third, agonizing time. After that, they removed my Sync port; Drilled the metal right out of the scrapheap of my spine, melted it down, and filled the holes in my teeth with it."

[ Myles snaps his teeth as though punctuating his words. His head remains low on his shoulders, bent over his lap, eyes averted towards some unseen point in the room, or, perhaps, just outside of it. ]

MYLES — "No Subjectivity Sync. No reason to look for the pilot in front of me's eyes, but I find them nonetheless. He's looking at me, and I'm looking at him, but neither of us can really see eachother through the stained glass, so when I lunge, I wonder if he even saw it coming. Nobody does, I guess. Plasma Talons move faster than the human eye can immediately register, if you get them going fast enough. It's the after image you remember. Like a crack of lightning, where it's burned into your retinas, and you can remember the path its branches took- but that's an afterthought. A blur. Motion, light, a flash!—"

[ The Handler makes a quiet, stifled sound. Clearing her throat, shifting her boots, she doesn't bother reminding him a third time. Though Myles doesn't know it, this interview is already over. ]

MYLES — "It's hot. Really hot. My fingertips are slick and I don't know if it's sweat, blood, or whatever is leaking out of the port in my inner elbow. The glow dims just enough for me to look out through the central HUD, and the blip on my motion detector disappears. Everything goes still. If a mech could breathe, Frontliner would be panting, shaking, swallowing the air like a rabies-ridden hunting dog. My own shaking quells a little. Each kill, you know, floods your system with, uh, 'endorphins'. The stuff that makes you feel like you just snorted a line. I don't know if that's the drugs, or just an effect this particular machine has on your mind. Feels good, either way. Keeps you moving. So the shaking starts up again, and I look back at the motion tracker. Can't hear nobody, and nobody can hear me. I look. Five blips, three behind me, two in front of me. I have a job to do, but, by then, I can't really remember what it is. Clear the board, I think. Take all the pieces off the table so that someone else can come in after and clean everything up. Become the last thing moving. I think if you put an Enkidu— all riled up, two or three kills in— in front of a mirror, it would try to attack its own reflection."

[ Silence lingers in the air. An expectant expression lingers in Myles's eyes, as though he were expecting some specific response. The Handler, however, doesn't seem willing to give it to him. ]

HANDLER — "Do you remember, Bishop, what happened after you got jammed?"

MYLES — "I already told you, I don't."

[ END LOG. ]

[catboygirljoker]

as an example of my beef with the kh wiki:

"citation needed" well sometimes when you play a video game and you watch a cutscene you can see information with your eyeballs and you can listen to the words characters say and connect them to the things that are being shown on screen and you can think about them in your brain and look at it and think about it and then you can know things about the game youre playing

[crystallizsch]

JAMIL VIPER SIR??? ON ROOK HUNT’S BIRTHDAY???? THANKS FOR THE GEMS???

<- prev login || next login ->

[fountainpenguin]

Trying to find the Marcus & Antony Wells relationship tag? First you must pass through the gauntlet of Marcus Antonius | Mark Antony.

[alicornze7]

-EMERGENCY INTERRUPTION POST/hj-

idc if it’s 4 days late have this April Fools special!!

this took longer than it should but it’s more of a treat for myself so win-win

I don't actually have an official persona so have this lil’ guy I made in 6th grade instead (he's gonna represent me until I design my actual sona)

Close-ups :

this drawing single-handedly destroyed my workflow

-we will return to our regular posting schedule shortly-