#warning: weirdness

[primelight]

Erdtree forgive me for what I'm about to do (WNM mini fic, that's not the title but sorry not sorry)

SO as some of you may be aware of, I've written...rather far ahead in 'Who Needs Maidens.'

In light of RECENT TRAILER DEVELOPMENTS my creative brain is going rabid, and to temporarily sate it I'm going to post a mini part of one of those thingies here. I might toss it out. It's rough. I might not pull the proverbial trigger, which is why it's going nowhere near AO3. It...kinda works as a standalone fic, though.

WARNING: Dubious consent (not super graphic), WEIRD imagery, Miquella's dilemma about being an ancient eldritch being stuck in, first, a child's body, and then whatever Mohg turned him into. Basically he's a dream-walking adult/demigod/eldrich abomination.

And, uh, spoilers.

Working Title: To Burn Alone, Once Again

Miquella’s body was cursed with delicacy, with beautiful, sterile youth. His life was but a moment, frozen in time. But Miquella’s mind grew old. In his dreams, he was free. His abundance was unrestrained. 

Trina was a useful mask. Beautiful, like him, mysterious and wise. He shrouded himself in mist, and traveled in shadows. He lived through others, gathering memories like flowers, slipping through the shadows of their dreams. 

But sometimes, when power flowed through him, and a dream was so strong that he could touch it, Miquella would cast Trina aside, and dare to reach for the raw blood and emotion burning in the world. He took up the sword with hands as large and dextrous as his father’s. He crossed the rolling hills of Altus in the dreams of soldiers, and waded through the despair of Tarnished Hunters in Limgrave. He donned grand, red-and-black vestments plucked from his half-brother’s mind. He loaded his body down with rusted iron armor, and stuffed linen into his boots to cushion the blisters on his heels. 

He tasted faint, alluring memories of ale and greasy, tavern-fried duck. He caught the scent of blood and shit on the Caelid battlegrounds, but also of hot honey-tea and warm bread. He felt – 

Miquella did not dare draw close enough to truly feel. He risked discovery, reprisal, and then retaliation from forces beyond his control. 

And guilt. To experience the terror and thrill and pain of battle alongside a dreamer was to touch the softest, most vulnerable parts of them. More joyful memories were worse, for Miquella longed to sink deeper.

He told himself that he simply wanted to share such things with the dreamer. But when it grew cold and dark in his cage, and when the days before and after, before and after, before and after the burning of the Erdtree stretched on for too long, Miquella knew the truth. He wanted those precious moments for himself. He wanted everything.

Miquella embodied Abundance, after all. He was meant to sow his seed, to reach out to the very corners of the Lands Between, and to fill the cosmos itself. If not for the curse, his legs would be long, his shoulders would be broad, and he could join his other half in battle.

You will always be my blade, Miquella thought, because he knew that Malenia would not have it otherwise. So I will be your shield. 

Waiting was hard. Miquella soothed himself with his own dreams, his own plans, and watched, unable to do more than suggest, to hint, occasionally prod a sleeping mind in the right direction. He got better at it each time the Erdtree burned. 

He could not truly interfere. Yet he could not turn away from the Volcano Manor, not when he realized what had happened. 

What should not have happened, not with — 

Miquella cursed Mohg with every fiber of his ancient soul.

…and Bernahl dreamed. 

Keira crossed the room once more. He relived the moment when she realized that he was watching every move she made. And then, again, when her laces loosened, and his gaze snared on the dip between her collarbones, and then slid lower as her shaking fingers twisted in her tunic, unknowingly teasing him. And in hindsight…oh, if he’d known, he’d have taken more time to draw the moment out. 

But it continued. A rush of anger, then the crush of his mouth to hers. Blushing, stammering, and then heavy breaths and soft moans.

Their clothing lay in a heap on the rug as he coaxed her with his hands and words. But too quickly, the searing heat of her had him gasping in his sleep.

His dream pulsed and lingered, stretched and indulged. Bernahl’s hands squeezed and soothed in turn. He was still tangled up in her warmth and scent, more than enough to inspire him once again. 

The dream urged him on, demanding that he look closer, squeeze tighter, fuck harder, for it could almost see, and surely then, it would almost feel… 

…Not enough. 

Miquella moved on, and dreamed of another life.

…Malenia’s Cleanrot Knights imprisoned Mohg at the first hint of his betrayal. Only the Haligtree’s treaty with Leyndell spared the Omen demigod. Rumor had it that Morgott the Grace Given had set a quiet, isolated cavern aside for Mohg, and left him to his blood sorcery and cruel prayers.

Instead, Miquella emerged tall and strong from the Haligtree roots, wings trailing behind him like a gossamer veil. Malenia had been waiting for him, wounded and still twisting in Rot, but overflowing with joy. Miquella held her close, excessively careful of his newfound strength. The top of his twin’s head rested just below his chin. They were a matched set, at last.

Together, Malenia and Miquella conquered the Rot, brought it to heel like a rabid dog, and spat in the face of its foul god. The Haligtree remained hollow, as he no longer had need of it, but Elphael grew nonetheless. Albinaurics, Misbegotton, and Tarnished alike flocked to the Haligtree alongside the Grace-blessed humans of the Lands Between. Miquella’s power grew with every life he took under his wing. 

Miquella dreamed that Keira found her way there as well, and offered her help, first to his knights, then to his builders, and finally to the gardens growing from the roots. She kept her sword at hand, but she claimed a greenhouse for herself, and used half-forgotten knowledge to help her fellow travelers. Soon, many of Miquella’s devotees would come to her for instruction, and her scarred hands would fill Elphael with green and gold. 

Perhaps he would hear tales of the strange Tarnished who could make the most stubborn plants grow. Perhaps her teachings would spread to his inner circle, or the fruit of her labors to his table. 

Perhaps he would decide to thank her himself. 

Miquella would come upon her by a carefully arranged accident, his wings hidden under a simple robe, and appearing as simply a very tall, very comely man. He’d find her hard at work in her garden, clad as lightly as decency would allow, spots of earth dusting her face and blackening her hands, her skin gleaming with sweat.

Perhaps he would sit beside her, heedless of his attire, charmed by her passion for her work. Perhaps his heart would ache when he saw how she missed her First Tree, but then nearly burst from his chest when she offered him half of her lunch.

She’d work out who he was, of course, perhaps on their second meeting, if his eyes gleamed too bright, or if she saw his wings. 

Would Keira be frightened? Excited? Mortified? Flattered?

Miquella rather liked the thought of all of them, depending on his mood.

Regardless of her reaction, he would give her some time to think. A day or so later, he would find her again. He would curl over her, cup her face in his hands, and make his intentions clear. 

No-one would dare watch if he lay with her among the lilies. Not that Miquella would care. They could stay there as long as he wanted, wrapped up in his opalescent wings, their bodies lit by the soft glow of unalloyed gold.

A lovely dream. Perhaps he was a romantic at heart.

…

…Or upon establishing his rule, Miquella could simply summon Keira to his chambers. The God of Abundance and Lord of the Haligtree would, naturally, want to personally interview a Tarnished with such an unusual passion for growing things.

His attendants would bathe her in steaming water infused with sacred oil, and cleanse her with soap formed from Trina’s lilies, known for relaxing the mind and softening the skin and hair. Her woes would be smoothed away, fragrant oils massaged into her skin until it glowed with health and softness, and her hair combed until it shone, and left to flow down her back in dark waves. 

Her face needed no paint, no adornment, and after Bernahl Miquella barely had the patience to hide her body in the lightest of moth-silk.

But for the dream, he would, if only to draw it out. 

Keira would be nervous, though she would hide it well, wouldn’t she? Bernahl hadn’t realized that she had never had a man until he’d been knuckle deep inside her. She would likely be considering whether or not to lie about her lack of experience, as only a complete imbecile would mistake his intentions.

Would she lie? Miquella would, of course, take her at her word, for what Tarnished would lie to their god? Then he could allow himself a little bit of greed, could press his suit quickly, roughly…and surely she would open for him so easily that any pain would simply heighten her pleasure. 

And despite her clear anxiety, Bernhal had made her so very wet…

She’ll be wetter for me, Miquella thought, in the garden or in my bed. He groaned at the surge of sense-memory, and curled long, powerful fingers in thick, dark hair. He tugged, and the sharp cry he received in return cut a line of fire down his spine.

Honeyed seduction melted into a frenzied claiming. Silk thread spun and writhed about Miquella’s bed as he pinned Keira beneath him, his smile as beautiful and terrifying as a blade. He smelled blood on her hands, and smoke in her hair. Erdtree smoke, from the dozens of times it had burned, each time bringing him one step closer to freedom — his little champion —

Miquella grasped for the pieces of sensation he’d cobbled together from thousands of dreams. Here, he tasted the power, the strength he craved. Every atom of his divine flesh pulsed with health. His curse was a memory, a vague, unpleasant dream as he cupped Keira’s face in hands that could crush her skull like an egg, and promised to be gentle. 

A lie. This way of love was not soft, and would never be safe. 

Miquella dreamed on, enfolding himself in borrowed sensation. He bid her cling to his shoulders and hips, and as it was his dream, she dug deep, and cried for him.

She wept until her eyes ran red, pleaded until she grew hoarse. She told him that next time would be the very last, that he would be free. He would ascend. She begged him to stay with her, to speak to her, to take her with him, anything – please —

…It was just a dream, so Miquella simply told her yes, and yes again, and took her.

Keira cried out, and he knew from the wet, lewd sound of their bodies that he barely fit inside her. And it would likely be worse — better, he needed more — in reality, considering what Mohg had made of him.

“You’ll forget him,” Miquella whispered.

Keira buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

[egophiliac]

just something I wanted to try! (tumblr please don't absolutely destroy this, thank you)

[boiled-bronze]

Day 27. The (I think) universal experience

[inkskinned]

before you know about women, you hear that you do not need to love the man, just that you need to love him through his manhood. which is to say you have seen the future painted in lamb's blood over your eyes - how your mother shoots you a look about your father's inability to cook right. how your aunt holds her wineglass and says i'm gonna kill em. men, right! how your best friend bickers with her boyfriend, how she says i can't help it. i come back to him.

you learn: men are gonna cheat. men aren't going to listen when you're talking, because you're nagging. men think emotions are stupid. they think your life is vapid and your hobbies are embarrassing. men will slam things, but that's because men are allowed to be angry. if you get loud, you're hysterical. if a man gets loud - well, men are animals, men are dogs, men can't control their hands or their eyes or their bodies. they're going to make a snide comment about you in the locker room, about your body, about how you're so fucking annoying. you're going to give him kids, and he will give you the money for the kids, and you're going to be running the house 24/7 - but he gets to relax after a long day, because his job is stressful. the man is on stage, and is a comedian, and says "women!"

and you are supposed to love that. you are supposed to love men through how horrible they are to you - because that's what women do. that's what good women do. wife material. your father even told you once - it'll make sense when you're older. it was like staring down a very lonely tunnel.

it feels like something's caught in your throat, but it's all you know, so. it's okay that you see sex as a necessary tool, a sort of okay-enough ritual to keep him happy, even though he doesn't seem to care about happiness as-applied-to you. it is relationship upkeep. it is kissing him and smiling even though he didn't brush his teeth. it is getting on your knees and looking up and holding back a sigh because he barely holds you as you panic through the night. it's not like the sex is bad and you do like feeling wanted. and besides! he's a man! like... they're another species. you'll never be able to actually communicate, right. he isn't listening.

you just don't get it. you don't feel that sense of i'm gonna climb him like a tree. mostly it just feels fucking exhausting. you play the part perfectly. you smile and nod and are "effortlessly" charming. and it's fine! it's alright! you even love him, if you're looking. you could have good life, and a good family, and perfectly happy.

in the late night you google: am i broken. you google i'm not attracted to my husband. you google i get turned on by books but not by him. you google how to get better in bed.

the first time he yells at you, it almost feels like blankness. like - of course this is happening. this is always how it was going to end up. men get angry, and they yell, and you sit there in silence.

you mention it to your friend - just the once - while you're drunk. she shrugs and says it's like that with me too, i just try to forget and move on. men are always gonna hear what they want to. pick your battles and say sorry even though he's in the wrong. you play solitaire online for a month. you go to your therapist appointment and preach about how you're both so in love.

after all, you have a future to want. nobody lied about it - how many instagram posts say marriage is hard. say real love takes work. say we fight like cats and dogs but the best part is that we always make up. how many of your friends say happy anniversary to the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. if you really loved him - loved yourself too - you'd accept that men are just different from you.

the first time she kisses you, it's on a dare at a party. something large and terrifying whips through your body. you wake up sweating from dreams where her mouth is encrusted with pearls and you pick them off one by one with your teeth. fuck. you sit at the computer and your almost-finished game of sim city. you think about your potential perfect life and your potential future family. you google am i gay quiz with your little hands shaking.

you delete each letter slowly. you don't need to love him. you just need to keep going.

[tpwrtrmnky]

lockdown

[ID 1: Three-panel comic, first out of four, with crudely drawn stick people.

Panel 1: The sky is blue and peaceful, with some clouds. Someone says "Ah..."

Panel 2: An orange person with dog ears is laying on the grass.

Orangepup Dogsaturated: "Despite the weirdness, it's nice here.

I think... I'm enjoying my fate as an orangepup dogastur-"

They are interrupted by barking.

Orange: "Huh?"

Panel 3: A green person with dog ears and a tail, who is holding a gun, stands over Orange. There is a tree in the background and some windmills on top of a hill in the distance. The barking continues.

Green: "Comrade Hot Pink is sounding the alarm. Come quick. We're going on lockdown."

Orange: "Huh? What are we-"

Green: "No time. Now."

ID 2: Three panel comic continuing from above.

Panel 1: Orange is led by Green down some stairs from outside.

Orange: "What's going on? Expository doctrine please?"

Green: "It's too dangerous. Safety first, explanation after."

Panel 2: Green shuts a vault door as Orange and a blue person with dog ears and sunglasses, as well as some sort of bandolier and a walkie-talkie, watches. The room is a plain beige with a simple ceiling light.

Green: "There."

Orange: "ok can someone explain now"

Blue: "Allow me."

Panel 3: Zoom in on Blue, who looks down dramatically.

Blue: "You must understand, young Orange. As much as we wish to trust you, there are circumstances where safety for the commune comes first.

We are aware that you have certain... Rhetorical susceptibilities, and so could not risk having you make contact with them."

Orange: "Who? Who are they?"

Blue: "One who destroys discourse."

End ID 2, begin ID 3.

Three panels once again.

Panel 1: A split view of a loft and the bunker. A hot pink person with fluffy ears is speaking on the walkie-talkie, while an onyx-colored person with dog ears and long claws is aiming a rifle out the window.

Hot Pink: "Comrade Blue. Onyx is ready. Do we have majority ethical consent?"

Blue: "Take the shot. If we later vote against, I will take accountability for the decision myself."

Orange: "What"

Panel 2: A view of Onyx staring down the scope of the rifle from outside of the window, as Blue narrates.

"You must understand, Orangepup Dogsaturated.

There are many who despise us. Many who would do anything to see us destroyed."

Panel 3: The narration continues from a view from the outskirts of the farm area. A mountain is in the distance, and a pair of grayscale legs are in the foreground, framed by some tree trunks.

"The horrific lesson we have learned...

Is that there is no low that outsiders can be trusted not to sink to.

And the danger of this interloper lies in their ability to provide others with all the excuses they need to justify their hatred."

Interloper: "I..."

End ID 3, begin ID 4. You know what this image is by now.

Panel 1: The Most Illiterate Person Alive, a grayscale individual wearing a book on their head, emerges from the woods, saying: "I am the most illiterate person ali-"

They are cut off by a view of Onyx pulling the trigger, which results in a view of the bullet going straight through the head of the most illiterate person alive, emerging in a shower of gore.

This continues to be a crudely drawn stick people comic.

Panel 2: Inside the barn loft, Hot Pink and Onyx are contacting the others.

Hot Pink: "Comrade Blue, we've confirmed a direct hit! Target eliminated!"

Onyx: "Wait. There's movement."

The Most Illiterate Person Alive: "Holy.

Fucking.

Shitfuck."

Panel 3: A front view of The Most Illiterate Person Alive, blood seeping out of the hole in the front of their face. They are framed in darkness and surrounded by a menacing red glow.

The Most Illiterate Person Alive: "I cannot believe"

The text color is inverted and changes to a more hostile font.

"You actually thought that you had any chance of killing me?"

End ID.]

Start - Previous - Next

[notnights]

Youtube automatically age-restricted this. og

[thatonegeekygirl]

Shane and Ryan Become Urban Farmers • Weird and/or Wonderful World Season 3

[moxidi-fanarts-and-sketches]

WHEN THE WORLD TELLS YOU TO ALWAYS KEEP SUCKING DOWN...

[titenoute]

Meme redraw OG Rayman prefers to choose kindness whenever he can...

V.2 :

But sometimes, you gotta send a message.

[kyuhu]

love is in the air or maybe not idk

[dcxdpdabbles]

Demian is a clone of Bruce and Talia son whom died thanks to his grandfather actions. The pit failed to bring him back. Well back to them the timing of him being placed in the pit was the second time Jack and Maddie Fenton got their Portal to open just long enough to spit out a very hurt boy.

"I do not see why the Superboy being a clone is such a problem, Kent," Damian grunts, cutting off Clark mid-vent of Conner. He had come to part take in his first ever Sleep Over with Jon.

While the boys have gone upstairs to set up Damian's sleeping place Bruce once again tries to speak about mentoring Conner. It's not as bad as when Conner was first found but things were still strained between them.

It didn't help that whenever Clark fought against Lex's newest scheme, he would fall back to his mistrust of Conner. Tim's mood continually worsened around that time, too, since his boyfriend always returned to him slightly more broken by Clark's inability to trust him.

"You can not tell me the man of steel is so close-minded?"

"Damian," Bruce warns, but his son only raises a brow. He crosses the room to stand before the man of steel, crossing his arms over his chest to copy Alfred's disappointed stance.

"I'm not close-minded for being weary of a clone." Clark starts, face shifting into a defensive scowl.

"I am a clone, and you do not seem to mind my presence. Why is Superboy so different? Surely not the fact he has a boyfriend. I remind you said boyfriend is my brother-"

"What do you mean you are a clone?" Clark cuts in, voice laced with shock. Even Bruce seems baffled by his words when Damian glances at his father.

He squints at both men, trying to figure out what they are playing at.. "I am a clone. You are aware of this."

"No, I certainly am not aware," Bruce grunts, taking a threatening step forward. "What happened to Damian?

"Nothing happened to me, Father. I am standing right before you," Damian gestures to his healthy body. Jon chooses to fly down the stairs with a cheer, and he gives him a look that has the super son pausing. "Our fathers are behaving strangely."

Jon doesn't hesitate to blast his laser eyes at Clark with a quick "Sorry, Dad!"

"Johnathan Samuel Kent!" Clark snaps, having dodged the surprise attack but only barely. The boy freezes in the air, staring wide eyes at his parent, but Damian snaps out his arms and moves to lift his friend into the air with a quick

"I'm sorry! You can ground me when I get you free of mind control!" He shouts, flying right out the window. Bruce tries to stop them by flinging a net at them but Damian counters with his own batarang. The two are dots on the horizon as Damian's voice fades.

"We shall free you soon, Father!"

Bruce narrows his eyes at them but holds up his arm when Clark plants his feet in a position he usually makes when he's about to take flight. It speaks of the trust and years of friendship that the other man stays rooted to the kitchen tile instead of chasing his child.

"What is it, Bruce?" The man asks with slight impatience.

"They seem convinced we knew of Damian's status." Bruce holds up a hand again when Clark opens his mouth to argue. "Let me check something."

In quick motion, he pulls out his phone and places a call. Placing the speaker on, despite the fact Clark could have easily heard every word without it, Bruce holds the phone between them as Tim cheerfully answers.

" 'Sup B."

"Chum, is Damian a clone?"

".....ugh yeah? You know that."

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do. He said so when he first showed up. I mean word per word, "I am not like the rest. I am a copy of perfection, made from the DNA of Father and Mother in an artificial womb." Tim says mockingly, repeating what Damian had said the first night Bruce and the rest met him.

"He meant a literal copy. " Bruce repeats, mystified. "Does that mean I have another son out there?"

Tim goes silent, as his boy tends to do when he knows something but is unsure how to say it. Bruce barely refrains from snapping at him to tell him everything. Tim has a bad reaction to what he sees as disapproval. They talked about it plenty together and with Dinah on what triggers his issues stemming from his upbringing.

"B......Damian was made because Ra's killed the original. In a mock duel when he was nine." Tim's voice is gentle, but it does nothing to soften the devastating blow his words cause. "They tried to save him in the Lazarus, but he never rose. They had enough of his DNA around to make Damian two years later and forced him to match the original's age. Ra's had everything in his files, and Damian has talked about his original plenty of times. I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

Clark places a firm hand on Bruce's shoulder, speaking softly, but he can't hear him. All he can hear is the ringing in his own ears as he realizes that, once again, he has lost a part of his family. Distantly, he knows Clark has helped him into a chair, but he can't really understand his surroundings.

It's like he's watching himself from outside his body as Clark takes the phone out of his slack hold to speak to a distressed Tim, who frantically asks if he's alright.

"What-" he chocks after a moment. "What was his name?"

"Oh, Bruce," Clark whispers in a sympathetic tone as Tim answers.

"Danyal. His name was Danyal."

It's a lovely name. He weeps into his hands for the boy it belongs to as his best friend holds him through grief. They tell Tim to find Jon and Damian so he can break down in private.

A few states over, Danny Fenton sneezes violently three times. His friend Tucker gives him a teasing smile.

"Oh, some girl is crying over you!"

"As if" He laughs punching the other in the arm "Who would cry over little old me?"

Master Post Link

[egophiliac]

I love your unhinged energy of your comics it's just *chef's kiss"

I wanna ask how you rig your chibi characters if you use a program or an app ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ

thanks! 💚💜💚

I use Spine (professional version)! I'm pretty sure it's the same program the Twst devs use for the chibis; I decided to try reverse-engineering 'em basically because my license was just sitting around gathering dust, and I thought it'd be fun practice (this was before I tried to rig Meleanor's cape). it is an industry-standard program and, unfortunately, is priced accordingly, so it's a bit expensive if you're not planning on using it professionally -- there is a free trial, though I think you can't save/export anything in it? BUT it is truly excellent and can do a ton of super cool stuff, plus is genuinely just fun to mess around in, so I 10000% recommend it to anyone who is serious about getting into 2D rigging!

behold...the BONES...Najma and her billion discrete tassels...don't pay attention to all the extra bones from my desperate attempts to control Meleanor's meshes

[spacechannel6]

New Spring haircut new Spring fit

[gert-the-disaster]

meanwhile on may 2nd 1974..

stupid idiot cartoon ass thing i slammed together yesterday in about four hours, i originally coded and shared it on scratch but whatever ill put it here too lol.

UNHAPPY 50TH “CAR WRECK THAT CAUSED EVERYTHING TO GO TO GARBAGE” ANNIVERSARY.

the “og” link btw (it’s turbowarp) https://turbowarp.org/1011983760

[creepycoffins]

Inspired by this post 🔫🔪

still (and grayscale) under the cut

[parasocial-hermit]

Ramshackle gifs 3/4

(1,2,3,4)

♡ ☆ STONE ☆ ♡