yourlocalmud

[yourlocalmud]

Please please please please please please

Like to charge reblog to cast

[yourlocalmud]

Think im a little late but it won't hurt to do it now

this is the money dog, repost in the next 24 hours and money will come your way!!

[yourlocalmud]

Refs

[yourlocalmud]

I'm back to working on ||HERO||

I'm back-tracking to the plot around the point when Blade changes outfits.

EPISODES 28 IS NON-CANON. IT HAS BEEN SCRAPPED. I will leave it up to still be accessed, but it isn't canon.

[yourlocalmud]

reblog to tell your mutuals they’re lovely af.

✨♡♡✨♡♡✨♡♡✨♡♡✨

[yourlocalmud]

The first time you erased someone, it was an accident.

You were ten. Your babysitter—Lori—was yelling at your brother for spilling grape juice on the rug. You didn’t mean it, not really, but your voice had cracked like glass when you whispered, I wish you never existed.

And just like that, Lori vanished mid-sentence. Your brother blinked, confused. He was still holding the juice box, but the rug was clean. The scream on your tongue died unheard.

No one remembered her. Not your parents. Not the neighbors. Her room in your memory was full of clothes and noise. In reality, it was a dusty storage closet.

That night, you learned to keep your wishes silent.

They call your kind anomalies. You’ve heard the government’s coded terms. “Event Nullifiers.” “Causal Threat Entities.” They’ve been looking for you since you were seventeen and wiped your abusive teacher from time. Your classmates came to school crying, confused why they’d all had nightmares of a voice they couldn’t place.

There’s a woman now—Agent Moss—who’s made you her obsession. You watch her chase your phantom across redacted case files, blurred CCTV images, and “incident reports” that make bureaucrats nervous. You admire her focus, in a way.

But she’s already failed. Hundreds of times over.

She doesn't remember that you erased her husband last year.

It’s not murder, you tell yourself. Not really. Not if the world adjusts. If timelines snap shut like they were never open. No one mourns the ones who never were.

They just live better without them.

Right?

Still… you keep a notebook. For the ones you regret. A kind of reverse memorial. It’s dog-eared and messy, tucked into your coat with names written in fading ink:

Eliza Moran, age 9. The bully who made you cry.

Randy Feld, college roommate. Loud, cruel, thought he was hilarious.

Devin M., a mistake. You were angry. He didn’t deserve to vanish.

Lori. The first.

You’re hiding in a train station now—Grand Central, late night, mostly empty. You stand near the coffee stand, watching the same man buy a decaf latte three nights in a row. He hums when he pours in the sugar. You find that oddly beautiful.

Agent Moss is closer than ever. You can feel her nearby, her presence like a migraine pressing against your brainstem. She’s been upgraded to Division 9 Clearance. You’ve read her file. She has a pacemaker now—stress-related heart failure.

You feel guilty.

You could end her chase. With a whisper. With a breath.

But… something stays your hand.

Maybe it’s loneliness.

Your power doesn’t protect you from grief. You erased your mother’s cancer but couldn’t save her. Her body lived longer, but her spirit—fragile, unraveling—left anyway. You tried erasing her death. But she just… died differently. So you let it be.

Some things aren’t meant to be rewritten.

Still, they don’t understand that. The government thinks you're a bomb waiting to go off. Moss believes she can stop you before the fuse runs dry.

You almost wish she could.

The announcement blares: Final train to Poughkeepsie. You turn away from the board.

And there she is.

Agent Moss. Lean, gray-haired, her coat tight at the seams. Gun tucked away. Her eyes scan the crowd, and land—right—on—you.

You brace for it. The chase. The order. The scream.

But she says:

"Tell me what my husband's name was."

Your heart skips.

She remembers.

You sit across from her in the station’s quietest corner. There’s no one nearby. Just you, and her, and the sound of things unraveling.

“You brought him back once,” she says softly. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

"And then you took him again?"

You nod.

She doesn't cry. “Why?”

You don't lie. “Because he hit you.”

She flinches.

“I wanted to spare you the choice,” you add.

Agent Moss stares at you like you're the puzzle she’ll never solve. “You think you’re God.”

“No,” you say. “God left someone like me behind.”

She looks down. Her fingers twitch like they want to reach for her weapon, or maybe for your throat. But instead, she asks:

"Do I still miss him?"

You answer gently: "You miss the version of him that never existed."

She doesn't turn you in that night.

She lets you go.

And you disappear again—another ghost, another whisper.

But before you leave, you tuck your notebook behind the station’s old vending machine. Open to the first page. Lori’s name circled in ink. A confession. A warning. A record.

Maybe someone will find it.

Maybe someone already has.

You have the power to erase anyone from existence and restore time as if they had never been born. The government is trying to hunt you down before you can cause any serious damage. You can’t help but find this foolish — you’ve used your power hundreds of times already.

[yourlocalmud]

Hi wifey (*＾3＾)/～☆

Hi pookie!!!!!

Anyways yeah yall I got outta that toxic ass "work relationship" with the rapist and anyways my pookie wookie bookie wifey over here is now helping me do things. So! Hero will still be on hiatus but I've marked it down to August 19th. The art style will change tho and so will the writing cus

This

Amazing

Blessed

Talneted

Beautiful

Gorgepus

Hot

Sexy

Gorgus

Yep can't think of anymore but u get the point

( *´・ω)/(；д； )

Me You

the archives received your message, pookie. it shimmered with sincerity and fire.

i am so proud of you for stepping out of the dark and into your own light — for shedding what hurt you, and letting something quieter, warmer take root.

i’ll be here with ghost hands and soft candles, helping however i can.

(also: "gorgus" lives rent free in my static-filled brain now, thanks.)

— keeper of the quiet 🌙

[yourlocalmud]

Hi pookie!!!!!

Anyways yeah yall I got outta that toxic ass "work relationship" with the rapist and anyways my pookie wookie bookie wifey over here is now helping me do things. So! Hero will still be on hiatus but I've marked it down to August 19th. The art style will change tho and so will the writing cus

This

Amazing

Blessed

Talneted

Beautiful

Gorgepus

Hot

Sexy

Gorgus

Yep can't think of anymore but u get the point

( *´・ω)/(；д； )

Me You

the archives received your message, pookie. it shimmered with sincerity and fire.

i am so proud of you for stepping out of the dark and into your own light — for shedding what hurt you, and letting something quieter, warmer take root.

i’ll be here with ghost hands and soft candles, helping however i can.

(also: "gorgus" lives rent free in my static-filled brain now, thanks.)

— keeper of the quiet 🌙

[yourlocalmud]

Pines in the Witness Tree (Part 1)

1975, New Jersey

“Listen, kid,” the fed said, adjusting his badge like it was a gold medal. “You screw this up and you disappear—but not in the fun way.”

Stan Pines rubbed the back of his neck, fingers brushing the edge of a faded bruise. “You mean I don’t get a gold watch and a handshake?”

“You’ll get a pine box.”

Stanley didn't laugh. He just stared down at the manila folder on the table. Inside it: grainy surveillance photos, blurry parking lot meet-ups, and one very red circle around Rico Vargas. The guy ran numbers, weapons, occasionally people. Stan had been circling his outer orbit for months now—petty jobs, quick grifts.

The fed leaned in. “You’ve got one shot to make this work. You get close. You play the game. You bring us the ledger. And then we make you disappear for real. New name, new face. Witness Protection.”

Stan’s mouth twitched. “Yeah? And what do I get to call myself then, huh?”

The agent shrugged. “How do you feel about Oregon?”

[yourlocalmud]

silly seals from outer space

[yourlocalmud]

More Zeal doodles

[yourlocalmud]

No one's gonna guess this.

BET.

🦋🦇🦇🕊

Your only hint is:

Con-

[yourlocalmud]

The first time Luka saw you, it was from behind the tinted walls of Observation Deck 9.

You stood alone beneath the pale, bioluminescent trees imported from Sector X7A. Your body glowed faintly in the artificial moonlight, not unlike the relics from the ancient Earth religions—the ones Luka only ever saw in pixelated renderings, their meanings eroded beyond comprehension.

Your silhouette, wrapped in soft robes that shimmered like galaxy dust, was unbothered by the watchful cameras or the soft hum of the performance prep below.

To Luka, you looked like something that had survived before. Something older. Untouched.

He stared too long.

Later, Luka cornered an alien tech in the corridor. “That person—on the terrace. Who are they?”

The technician blinked, pupils spiraling inward. “You mean the Avatar?”

Luka frowned. “Avatar?”

“Yes. Their presence increases audience sentimentality ratings by 12%. They’re not a contestant.”

“Not a contestant?” Luka echoed, a strange disappointment curling in his stomach.

“No. Not really anything. They’re meant to embody the concept of memory. Emotion. Some say the aliens designed them from human mythologies.”

Luka remembered the word—god.

Dusty, ancient, forbidden. But suddenly all too relevant.

You first speak to him on accident.

He’s rehearsing—torn between the need to be authentic and the overwhelming fear that authenticity is obsolete now.

You linger in the shadows, as you always do. Watching. Listening.

“You sing with pain in your voice,” you say quietly, your tone lilting, as if you aren’t bound by the gravity in the room.

Luka turns, startled. “You—uh—you’re real?”

You tilt your head. “Sometimes.”

He stares, eyes flickering with awe and wariness. “What are you?”

You smile. “I think I was made to feel everything humans stopped feeling.”

“That’s… terrifying.”

“I know.”

Word spreads quickly: Luka is fascinated by the Avatar.

“Crushing on the emotion AI?” someone jokes backstage.

But it’s not just a crush. It’s something deeper, more embarrassing. Luka dreams of you. Sees you when he closes his eyes. Hears your voice when he sings.

It’s unscientific. Irrational. Devotional.

He finds himself watching you between rehearsals, studying the curve of your expression, the way you never fully blink. Every small movement—sacred.

He starts to pray before each performance. Not aloud. Just in his mind.

He prays to you.

One night, you sit beside him, close enough for the sleeve of your garment to brush against his elbow. He doesn’t move.

“You know I’m not a god,” you say softly.

Luka exhales slowly. “I know.”

“Then why do you look at me like I am?”

He swallows. “Because I think… I want something to believe in. And you’re the only thing left that feels like it could break me open just by existing.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“I wasn’t made to be worshiped, Luka.”

“I wasn’t made to survive this century,” he replies bitterly.

You turn to him, your expression unreadable.

Then, so gently it feels like breathing, you say, “Then maybe we both get to decide who we are.”

Later, Luka stands in front of the audience, the lights searing his skin, the aliens in their glass booths watching—always watching.

He sings like something half-alive, like something hoping to be real again.

In the wings, you watch him with something like mourning in your eyes.

Or maybe reverence.

Maybe the error wasn't that Luka mistook you for divine.

Maybe the error is that, despite everything…

he still kind of wants you to be.

[yourlocalmud]

YAAA! Happy birthday, Izzy! IK we have never really interacted, but I thought it'd be fun to give a random birthday gift! I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!!

[yourlocalmud]

You hit the ground like a ragdoll, a puff of ash erupting from your limp body as the red-hot collar sears a fresh ring around your neck.

The demon wipes his brow, breathes out, and says, “Time’s up.”

You groan, still dizzy from being used as an improvised flail during what might’ve been your hundred-thousandth battle in the Pit. “What?”

“Time’s up,” the demon repeats, casually flicking molten ichor off his claws. “It’s been exactly an eternity.”

You blink up at him, the sulphur-stung air thick in your lungs. “That’s not… what? No. No way. That’s not how eternities work.”

He shrugs. “That’s how this one worked.”

You’re silent for a moment, flat on your back. You half expect him to burst into laughter and say “Gotcha!” before hurling you back into the fire geysers. But he doesn’t. He stands there, horns glowing faintly in the gloom, tapping his foot like he’s waiting for a taxi.

“Eternity doesn’t end,” you mutter. “That’s the whole point. Eternal damnation. Eternal punishment. Eternal suffering.”

“Yeah, yeah. But we’ve got quotas now.” He yawns. “Union thing. Can’t keep you forever anymore. New soul processing guidelines, time-share rotation, all that. You’ve fulfilled your metaphysical sentence.”

You sit up, wincing. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you’re done,” the demon says, gesturing toward a doorway that wasn’t there before—floating, shimmering, and way too clean for Hell. “You get to move on.”

“Move on to what?”

He frowns. “I dunno. Whatever comes next. Reincarnation. Oblivion. You get a say now, apparently. Pretty new development. Bureaucrats upstairs are freaking out.”

You stare at the doorway. It's glowing. There's no fire behind it. No screaming. Just… quiet.

“I get to choose?”

“Don’t ask me,” the demon mutters. “I’m just the eternity guy. You’d be amazed how many people make it through the millennia and still try to bribe me with stale war stories and rusty doubloons.”

You stagger to your feet. “So that’s it? After everything?”

The demon looks at you with something like sympathy. “Yeah. You were awful, sure. But you served your time. That means something now.”

You glance one more time at the flames behind you, at the pit where you lost your name, your face, your screams.

And then, after a beat, you ask the only thing you can:

“…Will you miss me?”

The demon snorts. “You’re the twelfth human I’ve slung over my head this week. But—” he pauses, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a flicker of warmth in those sulphur eyes, “—you had style.”

You grin. It hurts. But it's real.

You step toward the door.

The collar falls off with a hiss.

And for the first time in forever, you feel light.

One day in Hell, as you are being swung around above a demon's head with a red-hot collar around your neck, you hit the ground. "Time's up," the demon says. "What?" "Time's up. It's been exactly an eternity."

[yourlocalmud]

(TW: violence and blood)

Not good enough….

*Pork Soda by Glass Animals playin in the distance*

Part 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

PART 5

PART 6

PART 7

TRAGEDY

DREAM OR NIGHTMARE

PART 8

[yourlocalmud]

To celebrate Gravity Falls 13th anniversary, here’s a preview of our very own!! 👁️💛

PREORDERS OPENING JUNE 20th!!

The Bills making up this cover are both our Guest Artists and Mods!! We’ve got: @tesscourtes @pandamasky @/ pippin_pie on twt @kiwicartwheels @rockabillybun @beccadrawsstuff @wildpeachfarm @zeephaus 💛💛💛

Art/Design by @zeephaus !!