#Stream Scuff

[liminalitycarb]

Apparently my setup for trying to have discord noises on my end but not on stream broke today and I didn't notice. I apologize to everyone for every discord push-to-talk noise come through stream today.

[luminachannel]

I saw that Dokibird Apex clip going around and my friend thought it looked familiar.

Now we have a side by side comparison of my realization to TURN ON MY GAME SCREEN SO PEOPLE CAN SEE WHAT I'M PLAYING?

[game-weaver]

((I love that BG3 streams can never start without issues. This is truly a curse run.))

[rt-closetcryptic]

Its going to be scuffed, but going to try and draw out some comics. Maybe some doodles too!

[awesamforehead]

LMAO HIS STREAM CRASHED AS HE WAS GETTING SERIOUS NOOO XD

[voidkittyloona]

More Borderlands!

Join me and my friend t466yislost once again as we live that mad max life in Borderlands 1! Live now!

splash art by @tappytabbyart

[type-a-sentinull]

doing a little dream bbq stream :3

[topbanana-art]

Hello hello all! I'm very excited to host the first home shopping stream 'QVGee' tomorrow! (Aug 9th, Fri 2PM BST)

I - your muppet host - will be showing off some cool artists and their wares!

Physical, digital products, commissions, heck even what next events they'll be at!

(I'm hoping to make this a semi regular thing to showcase other art pals and as a handy resource for people who would like to shop from small businesses, or just find new artists to follow!)

[tehdoctah]

So OBS has refused to cooperate with me tonight and wouldn’t let me start stream, so I’ve unfortunately had to cancel. I don’t know how to even start troubleshooting this…

If anyone has experience with OBS and thinks they might be able to help, please get in touch.

Terribly sorry about this.

[cece693]

Touch Starved

pairing: brahms heelshire x gender neutral reader tags: touch starved Brahms, you're a nanny, not movie compliant, just you delivering kindness to a man who's living in the walls, cute but also concerning, cause who wants a stinky, murderous man

You hadn’t planned on taking care of anyone but yourself for a while, least of all a man hidden away behind old walls and silent halls. But fate has a funny way of leading you to the places—and people—you didn’t know you needed.

The moment you stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the Heelshire estate, a sense of quiet trepidation mingled with an unexpected tingle of warmth. You were met by the echoes of distant footsteps (or so you thought) and the slow creaking of doors that seemed to open by themselves. There was supposed to be a doll, you’d been told. Brahms, a porcelain boy that you were to care for as though he were a real child. But as the days passed, you quickly realized you were not alone. You could feel it—a presence just out of reach. A low scuff against the floorboards when you turned your head, the flicker of a shadow across a mirror.

Every now and then, you caught sight of a shape in the doorway: tall and still, eyes peering through a masked face. Brahms. Not the porcelain doll, but a flesh-and-blood man, heartbreakingly silent and desperately lonely.

It was late one evening when you finally found him in the living room, crouched behind an old armchair. He might have fled if not for how gently you approached—slow steps, outstretched hands, your voice calm but cautious.

You knelt down, heart pounding, meeting those wide, frightened eyes through the mask’s eyeholes. “You must be Brahms,” you whispered into the stillness. Your words lingered, soft reassurance filling the space between you.

He didn’t speak; you hadn’t expected him to. But there was a distinct tremor in his shoulders as though he was holding back a flurry of words—or maybe sobs. Even behind the mask, you could feel the intensity of his longing for contact, for acknowledgment, for someone to look at him and not run away in horror.

So you didn’t run. You didn’t even back away.

You settled into a routine with surprising ease. Brahms was silent as always, but his presence began to make itself known through little gestures: the steady pattern of footsteps behind you as you moved about the estate, the slight tug on your sleeve when it was time for dinner, or a gentle tap on your shoulder in the afternoons when the house felt too big, too empty.

In response, you offered him wordless kindness. Meals at the table, always setting two plates so he’d know there was a seat for him. A folded blanket left on the sofa, just big enough for the two of you to share when the nights got cold. A record player with music turned down low, so he could sit near you without feeling overwhelmed.

At first, he was shy about receiving affection. You’d see his shoulders tense whenever your hand hovered over his arm—but he never pulled away. Slowly, day by day, Brahms let himself draw closer to you. Where he once watched you from afar, now he’d sit at the edge of the same couch.

One evening, you found yourself in the library. The moonlight streamed in through stained-glass windows, painting the shelves in a kaleidoscope of color. You sat on the old, worn rug, a book splayed in your lap. You were reading quietly to him, your tone hushed and steady, when Brahms leaned close—closer than he ever had.

Your voice faltered for a split second, but you carried on. His breathing was unsteady. At last, carefully, you rested a hand on his knee. For an agonizing moment, you thought he might leap up and bolt into the hidden corridors. But instead, Brahms let out a sound—something between a sigh and a relief-filled moan.

He turned just enough for you to see his eyes through the mask, shadows dancing in the moonlight. Slowly, painfully shy, he laid his head against your shoulder, letting you cradle him gently. Brahms felt fragile, like an abandoned creature starved for love.

You ran your fingers through the strands of his hair that peeked out from beneath the mask’s edges. His shoulders relaxed little by little, tension melting under the warmth of your touch. If you had any doubts that your affection was what he so badly needed, they all drifted away in that moment.

Affection became your shared language. Brahms still didn’t speak; you didn’t need him to. The way he tentatively placed his hand over yours—masked fingers brushing yours—was worth more than a thousand words. When he was anxious, you felt it in the trembling press of his body against yours. When he was happy, you saw it in the more confident way he moved, as though it no longer pained him to be seen.

You took pleasure in the smallest rituals: combing through his hair by the fireplace, making him tea, encouraging him to hold your hand whenever he felt uncertain. He was ravenous for the smallest bit of kindness. Every fleeting touch on his arm or gentle brushing of your fingers along his back made him shudder in gratitude. You were more than willing to give it to him.

Eventually, one crisp morning, you convinced him to come outside with you. He hovered in the doorway, torn between the fear of the open world and the longing to stay by your side. But you simply offered your hand, palm upturned, and waited with all the patience you could muster.

He took it.

Once outside, Brahms let out a breath he’d been holding for years, it seemed. The sun’s warmth touched him through the fabric of his clothes, through the slight gap between the edge of his mask and his skin. You guided him to the garden, letting him feel the dew on his fingertips.

He never let go of your hand.

You paused by the rosebushes, a single white blossom catching your eye. You plucked it gently and offered it to him. Brahms stared at it for a long, reverent moment. Then, with trembling care, he lifted the bloom to his mask, as though inhaling a memory of a life he never quite had. Softly, you reached out, cupping his cheek over the porcelain of his mask. He leaned into your palm as though memorizing the warmth, the unmistakable proof that someone saw him, someone cared for him. In that private corner of the garden, with sunbeams turning both your breaths into pale mist in the cool air, you let him rest his masked forehead against yours.

[nkromancer]

Oh thank goodness, I just resolved my first streaming related tech issue XD

I have stream in ~2 hours now, and a few hours ago I decided to test some of my tech to make sure it was working.

It wasn't.

I use an app called Touch Portal to control parts of my VTuber model and some OBS things, and due to a power outage a week or so ago my laptop's IP address changed and thus my devices weren't connected to my PC. Even after correcting it on the devices' ends it didn't work. I eventually thought to restart, and for some reason that worked? Glad it did, tho, and glad I checked well before stream time XD

In case you want to see the stream that almost got cancelled, tune in to twitch.tv/nkromancer at noon (PDT) later today.

[albaake]

Doodle this during @vurelly stream today, and I've been having this stupid joke stuck in my head for so long, and I just see them saying something like this, lol. Also gave them their tail. How do they have a cat tail when they're technically a sheep? Next question :)

Also sorry for the scuff Leshy, I haven't drawn him yet so this is my first attempt-

[naga16]

Prompt 5: Time stream

Batman is lost in the time stream, but he's not the only one. Multiple Batman is just floating in the time stream and being a literal clutter and so, in came Danny, Clockwork's Apprentice!!!

Prince Danny of the Infinite Realms just ushered this Batmans (Batmen?) into his coat like a tour guide/ panini pressing them if they throw a tantrum or just grabbing them at the scuff of their neck and throwing them into his magical cape.

So here's Danny with a mission to return all this Bat people back into their own dimension. So like, Danny just appearing out of nowhere as a teen with a long as cape.

This shocked Tim, maybe even Dick, and then Danny just goes

"Reach out into the void and void may reach out too"

Sleep deprived and desperate, they just stuck their hands in Danny cape, surprised that a hand grabbed theirs and out come their Batman, dry heaving.

Then come some wayward Batman. A 3 feet, clearly a kid Batman, a Batman with fangs and a clearly female Batman and Danny fought with them.

Kid Batman: You can't tell me what to do!!!

Danny: You know what? Here's a cookie, if you go back inside, I'll give it to you.

Kid! Batman: I'll go in just because I want to!!!

He said while grabbing said cookie. Vampire! Batman transformed into a bat and flew, Danny chased him with a holy water in a bottle. Female! Batman just want to take a peak.

[mieluscious]

soulless eyes. ryomen sukuna

⭒⏝2.1k . . . warnings : angst | mdni. narcissistic husband!sukuna, depression, mommy issues ꒰ f.꒱, toxic relationship, slight mention of ed, emotional abuse, anxiety, extreme sadness, not a single trace of physical abuse, sukuna is really insensitive and cruel . . . ໑ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

miel's note : this ff is not meant to romanticize toxic relationships + that's not the intention, so pls don’t see it that way. i'm categorically against that kind of thinking.

── ♡ノ↺ + comments are appreciated ˳ᐟ

"what kind of bullshit are you doing this time?" sukuna rumbled lowly, his deep voice vibrating through the heavy silence as his eyes settled on your small form kneeling before him. you were hunched over a sheet of paper, completely absorbed in your task, the soft scratch of your pen the only sound in the room.

he drew the cigarette from between his lips with two fingers, exhaling a slow, deliberate stream of smoke that curled in the air above you. his gaze, half-lidded and unreadable, drifted downward—tracing the delicate lines of your spine, the gentle slope of your slender shoulders.

"did you eat today?" he murmured, more to himself than to you, the words hanging in the air like smoke. 

"no." the word slipped from your pretty lips in a breathless whisper, barely audible, yet firm enough to carve a subtle tension into the air between you and him. you didn’t look up—your eyes remained fixed on the page, hand moving steadily as if the act of writing were the only thing tethering you to the moment.

sukuna's expression didn’t shift, but the silence that followed crackled like static. he took another slow drag from his cigarette, the ember at the tip flaring briefly, then dimming.

“still defiant,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving the sight of your form. he stepped forward, the soft scuff of his foot against the floor sounding louder than it should have. what a big man. “even now.”

his gaze dropped again to your trembling fingers, then back to the words you guarded so fiercely on that fragile piece of paper.

“what is it,” he asked, voice a velvet growl, “that you’re so desperate to finish before i break that silence of yours."

“a letter to my mom.” you finally whispered, the words tight and brittle between your clenched teeth as you cut him off. your pen scratched harder against the paper, the ink smudging slightly under your hand. he was starting to piss you off.

sukuna stood over you like a storm cloud, his presence thick in the air, oppressive. the faint scent of ash clung to him as he exhaled smoke slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the moment just before something snapped.

he watched the way your shoulders tensed, the way your messy hair—tangled from stress and hours of ignoring yourself—clung to the nape of your neck and slipped over your face. still, you kept writing, stubbornly hunched over your paper, pretending like the weight of his gaze wasn’t crawling down your spine. and that dress you were wearing. it's been days. when was the last time you took a fucking shower?

“why do you care so much about that horrible woman?” he asked, his tone calm, but with a razor’s edge beneath it. there was no sympathy in his voice.

your jaw clenched. the pen in your hand paused.

slowly, you turned your head to glare at him over your shoulder. strands of hair slid across your cheek, clinging to your skin and you didn’t bother brushing them away.

“because you’re better than her?” you shot back, your voice low and bitter.

he placed his cigarette between his lips. the quiet that followed was heavier, suffocating. you felt it more than heard it, the way the room seemed to contract, the air thinning around his still form.

his gaze locked with yours—sharp and darker, like a beast deciding whether to bite.

“careful,” he simply said at last, the word soft but laced with steel. ohh yeah he hated you.

you heart skipped a beat at his tone but you didn’t look away.

“a letter to a woman who would spit on it the second she touched it,” he murmured, his voice level, cold, almost amused, almost. “tell me." he walked toward you slowly, each step deliberate, predatory. and with every inch he closed between you, your head rose instinctively, drawn to him like a thread pulled taut. his smell, his smell was everywhere now. "how many times does she have to rip you open before you stop handing her the knife?” him and his nasty mouth. mean, mean, mean, mean all the damn time.

you didn’t answer. you simply couldn’t. your mouth was tight, your breath held somewhere deep in your chest. you grabbed your hair tightly.

he tilted his head slightly, watching your face for a reaction, but his expression remained unreadable.

“she doesn’t love you,” he continued, still calm, almost thoughtful, and yet you felt your heart sank in a deep black hole at his words. “she loves control. she loves watching you twist yourself in knots for a scrap of affection. and you…” he leaned in just a fraction. "you still call that love.” 

you wanted to vomit. 

you suddenly bit your bottom lip as your throat tightened even more. you hated how much his words hit—how much truth they carried and how much you wanted to cry desperately in front of him right now.

even as he slowly ground the heel of his bare foot deeply into the paper. even as your letter was reduced to a wrinkled, useless stain on the floor.

“you're pathetic,” he said, not cruelly. just factually. like he was commenting on the weather. “but at least you’re aware of it. that’s a start.” 

"like i said earlier sukuna. you're no better." the words tore from your lips, sharp with fury. you glared at him, jaw clenched, eyes burning—not just with anger, but with the sting of something deeper, and extremely fragile.

and he didn’t even flinch.

sukuna stood still, watching you in silence, his gaze heavy, unreadable. his crimson eyes held yours for a long moment, then drifted—slowly, deliberately—down to your full lips. he paused there, like he was memorizing the shape of your defiance, then dragged his gaze back up to your eyes.

you could see it—the brief flicker of something different in his expression. not surprise. not softness. just observation. you were a caged rat under his microscope, bleeding for the sake of his curiosity.

and yet at that moment he thought you were pretty. even like this.

especially like this.

with your messy hair tangled around your face, your lips trembling just slightly, and those unshed tears clinging stubbornly to the corners of your beautiful eyes—tears you refused to let fall, even if it took everything in you to keep them there.

he saw them.

and you hated that he did.

but worse—he didn’t mock them. he just stared. calm. silent, like it was your fault. sukuna was poison in human form. a master of manipulation, a gaslighter wrapped in charm and cruelty. you already had one narcissist haunting your life, your mother. that was supposed to be enough, wasn’t it? no. fate gave you a husband cut from the same twisted cloth. a matching set. the cherry on top of your lovely little nightmare.

but this one was handsome right? oh, please.

and here he was standing in front of you, waiting to see which would fall first, the tear or the mask.

"do you want me to comfort you?"

"no." you bit your lip until it bleed.

"why." and his cruel eyes didn't miss that.

"...becau—"

"you're crying." he smiled at you.

"no i'm not—" 

then, without breaking eye contact, he flicked his half-smoked cigarette to the floor—right next to your bare legs. the ember nearly kissed your skin.

the cigarette landed near your leg with a soft hiss, the ember dying on the cold floor—but the sting it left wasn’t on your skin.

it was somewhere deeper.

you didn’t answer him. couldn’t. you just stared at the blackened paper, then at the empty spot where your letter used to be.

and then it happened.

not a sob. not a scream.

just one tear. silent. slow. it carved a path down your soft cheek like it had been waiting there forever. 

poor you. you were such a sweet person. 

that's unfair.

don't you think?

sukuna tilted his head as if he were studying something curious, his smile fading into that unreadable stillness again. his eyes tracked the tear, then flicked up to meet yours.

you tried your hardest to breathe through it, to hold the rest back, but another one fell. then another. you pressed your full lips tight, shoulders trembling as you turned your face away, shame and exhaustion creeping up your spine like ice water.

he didn’t speak. he just watched you unravel in silence, the way someone watches fire eat through paper.

sukuna slowly dragged his hand beneath the folds of his kimono, fingers grazing lazily along the skin of his waist. the motion was unhurried, indulgent—like he had all the time in the world.

his eyes never left you. not your trembling shoulders, not the way your arms wrapped tighter around yourself, not the silent tears you were so desperately trying to pretend weren’t there.

he savored it.

the quiet, the vulnerability, the way your body was shaking more and more with each passing second. it wasn’t pity he felt—it was fascination.

something in him fed on it. not your pain exactly, but the crack in your composure. the unraveling. the moment someone stopped pretending they were fine.

and he watched.

like he was omniscient.

or a monster.

or both.

"do you want me to comfort you." he asked again in a low voice, but this time, it was more like an order than a direct question. "so quiet. almost makes me forget what you’re capable of."

"yes."

"yes what." he ran his long fingers through his pink hair to comb it back.

"i want your comfort." 

"get up." ahh this man seriously. his tone was so unlovable. 

you rose slowly, head bowed, with your messy hair sliding from your shoulders, shifting your weight from one leg to the other like every movement cost you something. like the sadness was eating you alive and his next words might be the final blow. but sukuna didn’t need you to speak. he never did. he could see it, feel it, in the silence, in the tremble of your breath and in the soulless depths of your eyes.

he knew exactly how to break you, and worse, how deeply his tongue could cut without ever drawing blood.

you moved toward him, each step slow, your body folding forward under a weight no one could see—a burden so heavy it felt like your knees might give out and send you collapsing at his feet. one step. then another. and all the while, he watched, chin tilted up, gaze sharp and cold, looking down on you like you were nothing but a broken puppet. 

his puppet.

you didn’t need to meet his eyes. you didn’t need to look at him at all. you knew him—every cruel edge, every silence that stung louder than a slap. and he knew you. knew just how far you could bend before you snapped.

you wrapped your arms around him, and his body jolted softly as you surrendered completely, letting your entire weight fall against him. 

your forehead resting heavily against the cold, bare skin of his chest, exposed by the loose collar of his kimono. tears slipped quietly down your cheeks, falling without will as you pressed your face deeper into him, craving warmth from someone who gave none. he lit another cigarette with one hand, the faint glow casting shadows on his indifferent face, while his other arm hung uselessly by his side. 

his gaze was fixed on the world outside the window—distant, uncaring, and utterly detached from the silent sorrow you carried in your embrace.

you squeezed him tighter, almost wanting to hurt him, though you never could. your hands clenched the fabric of his kimono, gripping the loose cloth that slipped down his back as if holding on to the last thread of something real. your cheek pressed hard against his cold skin, your breath shallow and trembling as despair curled deep inside you. from the corner of the room, you caught your reflection in the cracked mirror—the fragile, broken shadow that you had become, pressed against a man who was nothing but cruelty and indifference.

and his indifference was a blade.

sharper than any of the words he loved using against you.

he smoked in silence, the ember glowing bright before fading into ash, and you felt yourself fading too — invisible, unheard, unseen. the softness of his skin beneath your cheek mocked the hardness in his eyes, a constant reminder that no matter how much you reached out, no matter how tightly you clung, the love you craved was a ghost that would never answer.

you wanted to scream into the silence, to shatter the distance that stretched like a canyon between you both, but the sound never came. 

instead, only the hollow thud of your own heart—beating for people who would never hold you back.

© 𝙢𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨. 𝙢𝙙𝙣𝙞 — 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭, 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘱𝘭𝘴 ☆

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

We all bleed. Accidents happen and shin breaks. Here is what some of the neighbors would do after seeing you bleed.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Wally, Eddie and Sally when they see you bleed

Wally

★ When he saw you bleed for the first time he didn't know what to do. He's seen scratches, scuffs and torn fabric. But this? This is new. "That's not... Supposed to happen?" He asks, sounding unsure of himself. Watching the dark red liquid bead up.

★ You treated it as nothing out of the ordinary. Washing the red off with a bit of soap. And covering the spot with a bandaid. If you weren't worried about it, then maybe it's not a big deal. Still, he wants to know what happened. So that next time he can help.

★ He doesn't really understand the concept of blood. Your heart, that steady beat inside your chest, pushes it around. Delivering oxygen to keep you alive. That's why you breathe. But if you get injured this same blood leaks out. Can you blame him for being confused?

Eddie

★ It was an accident. Eddie wasn't paying attention to where he was going, and walked straight into you. Knocking you off your feet and onto the pavement. Knees scraping against the yellow asphalt. He panics, freezing at the sight of red liquid streaming down your leg.

★ "Oh!- On no! Neighbor in so sorry!' Sounding quite frantic. It reminds him of a torn envelope. Your blood is like spilled ink against a page. He ends up just hovering above you. Unsure if he should help or continue apologizing.

★ After a moment of panicking, Eddie reaches into his bag and pulls out a handkerchief. handing it to you. Not caring how stained it'll be by the end of this. Even after you patch yourself up, he keeps glancing at your knee.

Sally

★ She's caught off guard. Gasping with her eyes wide. "What is that?!" Moving closer to your side. Hands hovering over you, but not quite touching. "Is this normal? Are you supposed to be doing that?!" As dramatic as always. But this time her confusion was genuine.

★ As you wipe off the small droplets of red, she watches. Gaze focused on you. Expecting... Something. A complaint, wince, or an explanation at the very least. You just say "don't worry about it." Not realizing she was actually serious.

★ After you go home, Sally makes a phone call to Frank. To ask for his expertise on what's going on with your body. Cutting him off as he says "hello" to tell him what she saw. "The neighbor! They leaked!" There's a pause. Then, a clear sigh. "You mean they bled?"

[awesamforehead]

Had to miss the end of Sam’s stream and coming back to those stills got me all kinds of fucked up

Imagine how I felt watching it live and seeing Sam tousle his hair around