#dead end oc

[angelicdudles]

God whenever I draw these guys it reminds me how far I’ve come as an artists and I start crying T^T

[saints-end]

[boberttawog]

Hey so I finally found out how I want my dead end oc :D

She the silly wife of temeluchus

Don't ask. Yes she's skinny as she is a borzoi, BORZOI ARE A LITERAL SHEET OF PAPER. AND THEY HAVE A BROAD...BROD...BRAD...Bsrararrar CHEST.

[lattenights21]

Fun doodles w/ @artificerstimetable the other day

[criminalcinnamon]

Radomest art dump to ever grace this planet maybe

[toonspirits]

"Welcome to the Galaxy of Animation Art : Snowy night under the sign of revolt at the "Iweeks Palace" " ❄️✊.

Some of the imagitoonyx that have appeared in this work are not of my creation, their respective creators are:

@angoraram

@wmdiscovery93

@Frazzy_Bear

@HazelNut3562

@Caucusboi

@oobbbear

@Scarfasaurus

@brianmoranteart

[deeva-arud]

Omg. the light... they're finally seeing it......

Wrong movie, boys!!! The twin thieves don't flip boats during the romantic scene, get your roles right!!

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And just a liiitle painful extra:

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Names

[no-more-a-mime]

**BASED AFTER SHIBUYA ARC TIMELINE**

: angst, heavy angst, gojo x reader, sad ending, gojo did something wrong

Gojo didn’t cry. He didn’t cry even when he killed his best friend with his own hands. He didn’t cry even when your soul-less, poorly bruised, dipped in cuts, body laid on the stretcher with a white cover on it. You looked peaceful, probably in some meadow, running barefooted on the fresh grass with a giant smile Gojo would kill to see again. Your eyes were shut close, he knew he’d never see that sparkle in your eyes when you ate dinner together. Your skin was pale—out of blood, he knew he’d never see your flushed cheeks anymore when he threw cheesy lines at you. Your hair spread on the stretcher, he knew he could never practice hairstyles on them, for your daughter, if you ever had any chance to have one.

He stood there with blank eyes looking down at your corpse which was a little strange because he would always make you stand/sit on the highest platform so he could look up at you and admire you like a lover he is was.

Right now, he stood still, probably reminiscing all your memories with him, all your dates, how you came into his life and became his personal sunshine, how you pulled him into your chest when his best friend died, how you kissed his cheek when you would try to make upto him and how it didn’t work the last time he saw you alive, How he got nervously angry and stormed out to Shibuya after he found your positive pregnancy test in your bathroom sink, and how you hid the fact that you were pregnant because you didn't want to "stress him out even more". His heart was sinking somewhere below the deepest point on earth. He was supposed to protect you, be with you— instead of storming off Shibuya.

All he aches now is death. And he doesn’t care if its peaceful or not, because to him, his peace is waiting for him after the death. He doesn’t care if he has to go beyond the universe— time itself—or even the gods— he will do anything just to see you alive and happy again. Even till his last breath, he will always consider himself the culprit for you and your unborn child.

A/N: guys idk this was the first time i wrote smthing???? 😭 ik its bad but whatever. I wanted to read angst but didnt find it so i wrote it myself😭😭

[sun-marie]

So the other day this post by @/carabas hit me like a truck, and I really wanted to explore how Lydia and Lucanis resolve that. I really like the idea that a part of her isn't fully convinced Lucanis being alive isn't more of Solas's mind magic, until Solas leaves after binding himself to the fade and Lucanis is still here. She'd braced herself to find that he was truly gone after defeating Solas, only to turn and see he's right by her side, still here <3

[roddity]

so i've been trying to design some stunticons to play around with and i think i might like this drag strip

[angelicdudles]

Been working on Fate’s End again so have a Clone Az redesign on the house

[saints-end]

A doodle that turned into a sketch with colouring for Mermay or whatnot

[kaayyyys]

Hey there! I would like to ask for a request? I was wondering if you could do a Daryl angst. So it’s set in the prison because I like just like Daryl when they were back there. (Sorry for my bad English, it’s not my first language) so what I was thinking is that fem reader has a crush on Daryl so she’s always like around him and wanting to help him especially after they left Merle on the roof. Daryl then lashed out at her for being too clingy and needy which she then tearfully apologised and started avoiding him, when he’s around her, she would lower her head and scurried away from him. He felt bad for lashing out at her so he planned on apologising when she came back from a supply run but when she did came back, she is unconscious (or dead, up to you :3) because they were attacked by a random group, Rick held her in his arms while yelling for Hershel. The rest I’ll leave it to you, tag me if you’re finished. Thank you!❤️

Oh my god . I absolutely love this request. Sorry it took so long I wanted this to be as good as I could .

@yanokokuboo

Would you like a part two ?

The prison loomed against the Georgia sky, a stark monument to survival in a world overrun. Inside, amidst the ever-present tension and the ghosts of the fallen, a different kind of battle was being fought – the silent, internal struggle of a heart yearning for a connection it wasn’t sure it deserved. (Y/N) watched Daryl Dixon from across the yard, her gaze drawn to the lean strength of his form as he sharpened arrows, his brow perpetually furrowed in concentration. She’d admired him from afar since they’d arrived, captivated by his quiet intensity, his unwavering loyalty, and the aura of untamed wildness that clung to him.

After Merle had been left on that rooftop in Atlanta, something inside Daryl had seemed to break. He became even more withdrawn, more guarded. (Y/N), her heart aching for him, found herself drawn to his side, offering silent support, a comforting presence in the storm raging within him. She’d bring him water, offer to clean his crossbow, or simply sit nearby, mending clothes, the quiet rhythm of her needle a counterpoint to the turmoil radiating from him.

She knew he was a loner, a man who preferred the company of silence and the hunt to the chatter of others. But she hoped, foolishly perhaps, that her presence was a comfort, a small flicker of light in his darkness. She’d seen glimpses of a softer side – the way he protected Carol, the gruff tenderness he showed to Judith. Maybe, just maybe, she could break through the walls he’d built so high, brick by painful brick.

One sweltering afternoon, after a particularly grueling scavenging run, (Y/N) found Daryl cleaning his crossbow in the shade of the watchtower. She approached hesitantly, offering him a canteen of water. "Here," she said softly, "you must be thirsty."

Daryl snatched the canteen, his movements jerky, his eyes dark. He took a long swig, then slammed the canteen down on the concrete. "Why are you always around?" he growled, his voice rough. "You're like a damn shadow, always followin' me. I don't need babysitting."

The words hit (Y/N) like a physical blow. The air in her lungs seemed to evaporate, leaving her gasping for breath. She stared at him, bewildered and hurt. "I… I just wanted to help," she stammered, her voice trembling.

"Help?" He scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. "I don't need your help! I don't need anyone's help! Just leave me alone!"

The anger in his voice was like a physical force, pushing her back, shrinking her spirit. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. This wasn’t the Daryl she’d imagined, the one she’d built up in her heart. This was a raw, wounded animal, lashing out in pain.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words catching in her throat. "I... I didn't mean to bother you."

Turning, she fled, the tears streaming down her face, a silent testament to her shattered hopes. She didn't stop running until she reached her cell, collapsing on the thin mattress, the sobs wracking her body.

From that day forward, (Y/N) made a conscious effort to avoid Daryl. The hurt was too raw, the rejection too painful. She still admired him, still cared for him, but she couldn't bear to be near him, to risk another outburst, another shattering of her fragile heart. She focused on helping the others, tending to the garden, learning to defend herself. She tried to bury her feelings deep, to convince herself that what she felt for Daryl was just a fleeting infatuation, a silly crush.

Days turned into weeks. The prison life settled into a grim routine. (Y/N) noticed Daryl watching her, his gaze lingering longer than necessary. She saw a flicker of something in his eyes – regret, perhaps? – but she quickly looked away, unwilling to reopen the wound he’d inflicted.

Daryl, meanwhile, was wrestling with his own demons. He’d pushed (Y/N) away, lashed out at her kindness, and the guilt was eating at him. He saw her helping others, her laughter echoing in the yard, but her eyes never met his. She was polite, distant, a ghost of the girl who had once shadowed him with quiet devotion. He missed her presence, the unspoken understanding that had passed between them. He missed her.

He knew he had to apologize. He had to tell her he hadn’t meant to hurt her, that his anger was a reflection of his own inner turmoil, not a judgment of her. He planned to talk to her when she returned from the next supply run, to swallow his pride and beg for her forgiveness.

(Y/N) volunteered for the supply run, needing to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the prison, to breathe fresh air, to feel the sun on her skin. She walked alongside Glenn and Maggie, the familiar weight of her rifle a comfort. The run was uneventful, but the emotional toll of the past weeks had taken its toll. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

On the way back, they were ambushed. A small group, desperate and crazed, emerged from the woods, brandishing knives and makeshift weapons. Glenn and Maggie fought bravely, but (Y/N), weakened and distracted, was quickly overwhelmed. She screamed as one of the attackers pinned her to the ground, the harsh fabric of his clothes scraping against her skin.

Hours stretched into an eternity. As dusk began to settle, casting long shadows across the prison yard, the gate creaked open. But it wasn't you who stumbled through. It was Rick, his face grim, his arms cradling a limp figure.

A strangled gasp escaped Daryl's lips as he recognized you. Your face was bruised and bloodied, your clothes torn. You were unconscious, your breathing shallow and ragged. Tears streamed down your face even in your sleep.

“Hershel!” Rick bellowed, his voice laced with panic. “Get Hershel, now!”

A wave of nausea washed over Daryl. He pushed through the gathering crowd, his heart pounding in his chest. What happened? Who did this to you? He saw the torn fabric of your shirt, the angry welts on your arms, and a white-hot rage ignited within him.

"What the hell happened?" Daryl roared, his voice a feral snarl. He grabbed a nearby survivor by the collar, his grip tight. "Who did this to her?"

The survivor stammered, "They… they were ambushed. A group of them… tried to take their supplies."

Daryl shoved him aside, his eyes fixed on your still form in Rick's arms. "Damn it!" he screamed, the raw anguish tearing through him. "Damn it all to hell!"

He watched as Hershel rushed forward, his face etched with concern. They gently lowered you onto a makeshift cot in the infirmary. Daryl hovered, his body trembling with a mixture of fear and fury.

"Get out of the way, Daryl," Rick ordered, his voice firm. "Hershel needs room to work."

"No!" Daryl refused, his voice defiant. "I ain't goin' nowhere."

He watched as Hershel examined your wounds, his movements swift and efficient. The silence in the room was broken only by your labored breathing and the occasional murmur from Hershel.

Daryl felt a wave of guilt wash over him, so potent it almost brought him to his knees. He had pushed you away, rejected your kindness, and now… now you were lying here, broken and bleeding. He had been so consumed by his own pain that he hadn't seen the danger lurking around you. He had failed to protect you.

"This is my fault," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "All my fault."

Rick placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip surprisingly gentle. "Don't do that, Daryl. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was!" Daryl snapped, shaking off Rick's hand. "I should have… I should have been there. I should have protected her."

He paced the small room, his frustration building with each passing moment. “Why wasn’t I there? Why did I let her go on that run?”

He knew, deep down, that his anger wasn't directed at Rick or Hershel or even the scavengers who had attacked you. It was directed at himself. He had pushed you away, silenced his growing feelings, and now he might lose you.

As Hershel continued to work, Daryl remained by your side, his eyes never leaving your face. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his fingers trembling. He didn't know what the future held, but one thing was certain: he wouldn't let you go again. He would protect you, even if it meant facing his own demons head-on. He would spend the rest of his days trying to earn your forgiveness, to prove that he was worthy of your love. He just needed you to wake up

[stayatsam]

It's letting go.

[catsharky]

I'm sobbing and clawing at the screen begging Larian to just let my Tav give more hugs because so many of these characters need it.

WIP cause this is getting colours, I just like how the lines look

Edit: Colours