#the hot dog did this

[violetsorengail]

back to negotiations :)

[averycutesalamander]

pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He could. He should.)

(He won't.)

[kissingarthurclaus]

A little concept sketch of my Gravity Falls self insert! And as you can see, she's a werewolf! 0u0

She's normally in her first form when she's out and about, and when it's getting close to the full moon she looks like her second form before going full wolf! During that time period she starts getting a powerful craving for raw meat and she gets really itchy as her fur starts coming in, then the ears and tail follow! (At first glance I'm sure most of the townsfolk would just think she was a furry 😂)

In general she's very cheery, and she exhibits a lot of dog-like behavior (getting excited when the doorbell rings, noticing and perking up when she sees squirrels, shaking her whole body when she gets wet) and she has a somewhat irrational fear of rabies so she's not a very good hunter and actually tends to AVOID wild animals in the forest and stray dogs/cats. When she moves to Gravity Falls she opens a curios and oddities shop with her partner in crime, which a certain conman sees as competition, leading him and the mystery twins to go check it out 👀❓️

Taglist♡: @me-myself-and-my-fos @tiny-cloud-of-flowers @sunstar-of-the-north @dearly-beeloved @adoredbyalatus

@changeling-selfship @crushes-georg @cherry-bomb-ships @rosieaurora @rejaytionships @sunflawyer

@in-true-blue-love @tropicalgothships @little-miss-selfships @hotrodharts @cupiidzbow @frozenhi-chews @limey-self-inserts @candyheartedchy

[ollieartss]

I have THREE bsd predictions and i feel as though they will all come true. if they do i am the bsd messiah.

Stormbringer will be animated into a movie between season 5-6 (dead apple style) so the manga can get ahead (I AM NOT READY)

Fyodor is 100% alive. We don’t know his ability yet and the Jesus line before he died was a telltale sign.

Bones will fuck up Stormbringer panels. Specifically the panel of Dazai smiling on the stairs as Chuuya goes to fight the equivalent of Godzilla. that one in particular. they absolutely will fuck it up.

See you bitches in 1-2 years when everything I say is correct 🏂🏂

[rizaposting]

Riza in that paperboy suit from fma03 has had me in a chokehold for years...... ma'am...

[polisena-art]

I’m jumping in to submit a request! I love it when people draw one of the caballeros cooking. I think they all have their strengths and weaknesses. Personally I feel like Panchito is a dream in the kitchen. Part of me wants to make a joke about Donald burning water but he can probably at least make a good fucking sandwich. Zé…. Man I have no idea. He is a mystery to me.

I ended up rambling about headcanons OTL but! I’d love to see you draw a cab of your choice cooking or something like that!

OK SO,, Zé has been shown cooking in his comics and apparently he's pretty decent at it (his nephews do like his food) but, as everything in those comics, it all depends if it's gonna be relevant to the plot.

José might not be a chef but I'm sure he can make the Brazilian classics like rice and beans, strogonoff (the Brazilian remix), pasta with sausages, farofa de ovo, canja, bake a cake AND OF COURSE he can work a grill for churrasquinho of whatever mystery meat he can put his hands on. He doesn't do much cooking because it's "ARGH... work", but for his nephews and when it comes to showing his friends what Rio's cuisine is like, he will do it. Also, I think if he's feeling truly inspired and has people helping him, he can make a traditional feijoada, just... don't criticize it. like, EVER.

Traditional Feijoada is supposed to be rich, it's not supposed to be spicy/hot!

[lotus-pear]

akai art for beloved tumblr mutual @itotypes <33 (it's a bsd x atla au btw if anyone wants to check it out.. although i wouldn't recommend it for the weak hearted)

fic name: akai || author: @/itotypes on ao3

[sugusoko]

my vision that few will understand... :pensive:

[yandere-daydreams]

Wait so geto is what kind of hot then?

i'm still working out the kinks but here's the rough draft. hoping this answers all future questions about everyone's placement.

[bebemoon]

look for the name CANIS (requested by anonymous) | shop925 distressed halter dress piece w/ fur collar, chanel black leather and faux fur hot pants (a/w 2o1o), el dantes brow faux fur point-toed boots, renaissance-era hunting dog collar w/ protective spikes, wretched flowers mace ball candleholder

[redfielddoesthings]

Hellooo! I love your style and I LOVED the Vance and Lucky fanarts very much ❤️ Is it possible to do Lefty please 🙏 ?and if you can't I understand ^_^ happy nice weekend and God bless you 😘 ♥️

P.S.: sorry for my bad english ToT

Hello there!! ♡

I didn't realize I'd get so many asks, but I'm really not complaining. Drawing these has been the most fun I've had in a while, and Bully characters are so cool to draw. THANK YOU for the kind words, I feel honored, God bless ya as well 💛

Your wish is my command. I guess I kind of became the "Greasers fanart girl" at this point lol, curious because I actually like the Preps more. Hope you like the results. Lefty is a cutie.

For the other asks: I see you. And I will work on you soon enough. 💯

[sleepnoises]

just read a book that is not good enough to be named here that mentioned the author's husband taking her on a hike that he didn't warn her was four hours & her having to add snacks to their bag last-second & then the husband started getting annoyed when she was slow. truly many hiking problems are communication problems. or being an asshole problems

[kaizsche]

the correct answer:

GLEN POWELL VS. DAISY EDGAR JONES HOT ONES VERSUS

[utilitycaster]

I think three things ultimately frustrate me about the "you should care about poorly written women" argument.

First: there's well-written women. There's plenty. I'm going to find them, actually, and leave this badly written stuff behind, and maybe the writer will do a better job next time.

Second: you get people passionately defending poorly written women in old favorites in wildly regressive ways. Like just admit LOTR has like 5 named women and only two really do anything. Stop forcing a progressive label it doesn't deserve. Tolkien is dead and isn't going to become a feminist posthumously so deal with the story as it is instead of trying to justify it. They're not well written! It's fine.

Third: you get the argument that people are more accepting of poorly written men. This is almost certainly true but you can't control a fandom, so bringing this up is mostly a waste of time. What you can do is ignore poorly written men even harder than poorly written women. Mourn the women's squandered potential and pretend the poorly written men don't exist and then find works with well written women like I said in step 1.

[wolfram-but-art]

Cześć! (Miło widzieć polaka który lubi TF2 i maluje tak cudownie :D)

Your art is amazing! If I can ask...can you draw Sniper sitting next to a fireplace? You don't have to ofc!

aaaaa dziękuje :'3 jednocześnie przepraszam że odpowiedzenie ci zajęło tak mi długo. nie wiem czemu tak bardzo się z tym rysunkiem męczyłem, mam nadzieję że mi wybaczysz fsieugesyfsey </3

"Hi! (it's nice to see a Pole that likes tf2 and draws so wonderfully :D) [...]" "aaaaa thank you :'3 at the same time i'm sorry that responding to you took me so long . i don't know why i struggled with this one so much, i hope you can forgive me for it fsieugesyfsey </3"

[neunhofferart]

Can you mayhaps share more context about the “HOT DOGS” Sean voice line because lord you have lost me with that LOL

Okayyy.... this is a real big case of 'you had to be there' but...

There was an older version of episode 5 where the script called for Sammy and Ben to pick up hot dogs instead of corndogs I think? But I don't think we had a 3D asset for that/we had the asset for corndogs instead and it eventually had to be rerecorded.

But Sean's line read was REALLY distinctive, and I guess @kngstr thought it was so funny he unplugged his headphones and started playing the 'HOT DOGS?' soundbite out loud several times in a row in the middle of the office and I think a bunch of us started parroting the line read back because it was absurd hours in the afternoon.... and after a while of this I remember @riannimation (who usually worked from home and had made the mistake of coming in on THAT day) turned to me and said "do you guys EVER get any work done in the office?"