#(I just think the visual is funny)

[deaderthandoubledead]

TMA AU where everything is the same except Elias has the same lifestyle as the director at my job, who is a sports freak, is friends with a bunch of famous sports people and regularly does marathons as a hobby

[soranker]

TRIGUN BASEBALL AU DOODLES

[jestroer]

Anyways the Docbeef game on the ZITS olympics was insane

[skitskatdacat63]

Every time I read Fernando cursing in fic, I can only think about this clip and then my brain short-circuits

[m1d-45]

i’ve reread duality of man so many times, it’s completely captured my brain and i’m literally obsessed with it….. i’m going insane (/pos) imagining how it would feel for childe to learn that he was wrong, he was wrong and if it weren’t for foul legacy, his god would be dead at his hands!! how horrible it would be to learn that the creator trusts foul legacy over him because of his own actions!! FUCK!!!

inversion of fate

a/n: you are so right. target audience. anon is referencing this post.

word count: 1.8k

-> warnings: childe, major spoilers for his lore, imposter au things, it/its pronouns for foul legacy because it’s childe’s perspective

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yum1x || @esthelily

< masterlist >

childe doesn’t really see foul legacy as much more than an extension of himself, an extra tool he utilizes in the heat of battle, so to be shown that this ‘tool’ was correct? that his bloodlust had blinded him to the one thing that matters??? OUGH

foul legacy’s emotions sort of bleed into his due to the nature of their bond, so he can feel the genuine love that legacy feels for you and it drives him mad. he can tell it’s being genuine, that the claws swiping a strand of hair from your face are only moved by care, and it’s so irritating to him. he has to just sit there and simmer in the adoration from legacy, and he can’t do anything while you’re being so lovingly cared for by a creature of the abyss, only sit in a body he no longer has control over.

when foul legacy finally urges you to stand, he thinks it’s over. he tracks your direction and hears through abyssal ears, following your movement. he’s ready to go the moment that legacy gives up control.

maybe that’s why the moment never comes.

foul legacy closes its eye, spinning quickly to a seemingly random direction. it navigates solely by its own invisible senses, one’s childe’s brain isn’t wired to receive and decode, and he’s stunned into silence.

why is it going through so much trouble to protect you? surely it knows that even if childe isn’t the one, you’ll be caught eventually, right? it has to know that it can’t control his body forever (can it?) and that eventually he’ll get his revenge. it has to.

childe tries to keep himself oriented as best he can, if only to point others in the right direction, but legacy kept stopping to spin and confuse him. it only opened its eye once the sounds of the harbor reached its ears, and even then, childe found himself near the southern end of the harbor, near where the path split to lead up to the golden house.

he’d found you somewhere near luhua pool. he couldn’t tell whether to be impressed or annoyed that legacy managed to get him here so quickly.

standing on shaking legs, childe stumbled into the harbor. maybe it would be wise to get an agent to walk with him: he was always exhausted after a transformation, and this one was more mentally taxing than most.

in the back of his mind, he swears he can hear a satisfied rumble from the devouring deep.

it was rare that childe received a letter.

folders were common, crossing his desk to report on missions he didn’t order and announce things he didn’t ask about. orders themselves were common enough, ‘letters’ of notice in neat packages, a small box with a map and a card denoting what was to be done. he was familiar with both, as all harbingers were, but an actual letter?

childe spotted the bright blue paper from the moment he stepped into his office, slowly closing the door behind him. as he rounded his desk, he saw the bright gold wax seal shimmered under the light, taunting him from the center of his desk. the room was eerily quiet, the creak from his chair bouncing off the walls and back at him. as he picked up the envelope, the textured paper sparking a memory, the seal suddenly felt a lot more daunting.

the seal of the fatui was also a familiar thing. it was stamped on papers and issued on uniforms, badges and reports embossed with the dark four-pointed star. he had a stamp of it himself, in one of his drawers, though he’d admittedly swapped the usual black ink for a blood red. all the harbingers tended to put their own spin onto their paperwork, usually for ease of filing or to show off. signora had the corners of the seal spiked into flames, licking across orange ink. dottore had his in a variety of shades of blue, wire forming the outer ring.

pantalone had the circles in the star changed to mora.

he flipped it over just to be sure, reading the shining golden scrawl, but the writing in the corner confirmed it was from pantalone, the characteristic cursive ‘regrator’ justifying the weight of the paper. he doubted there was much more than a single page inside; pantalone was always rather concise, even if a touch flowery in the way he did it.

with a sigh, childe turned the envelope back over and fit a nail under the wax, neatly separating it from the textured paper. he pulled the letter out and turned it to the side: only one page, though it felt like three.

a laugh slipped from him. it felt forced. in the back of his mind, foul legacy chittered.

‘shut up,’ he muttered, tossing the empty envelope on his desk.

‘you will not wish for my silence much longer.’

childe paused, a finger under the flap of the folded paper. ‘what does that mean?’

‘what do you think it does?’

he shook off the cryptic response—though it’s been months since he ran into you, it’s been in a mood ever since—and unfolded the letter, beginning to read.

he almost wished he didn’t.

there’s only two paragraphs on the page—succinct as always, he thought numbly—but the paper weighed as much as a mountain in his hands.

it was a letter updating him on the hunt for the imposter. a common source of news for him, who couldn’t personally take part in it due to his foul legacy, but this…

no matter how many times he rereads the cursive scrawl, it refuses to register. the expensive paper wrinkles around where his thumb is pressing into it, his grip tightening with every passing moment in an attempt to combat the shake beginning to set in. the same words glare at him, unchanging, shimmering off the page like an oasis of poison.

he feels legacy crawl out of the cave in his head that it has sealed itself in, finally coming forward into the light of reality that childe is washed in. the abyss stares, inspecting the harsh gleam of truth, the shine that pierces into childe’s eyes and makes them water, the one that doesn’t go away even if he closes them. legacy chitters, almost like a laugh, and the paper finally falls from childe’s hands.

‘we were wrong,’ the paper says.

you were wrong, his mind repeats.

legacy reads the paper, cooing sadly at the news that you’ve been missing ever since zhongli cornered you. you’d slipped away in his shock, and he could feel the way it wanted to chase after you. the barrier between their minds was always rather thin, and he can feel it press against it, the sadness and concern bleeding into him.

legacy pawed at his mind, urging him to let it take over and find you, and childe couldn’t even find humor in the fact that a creature of the abyss was whining at him.

it was his fault. his fault, his, if he had just listened to legacy and to the call in his own heart, if he had stopped and thought like he was told, if he had recognized the fact that legacy would never turn down a fight-

something like pride washed into his mind from legacy but it didn’t register, the overwhelming realization that he’d tried to kill his god driving all thoughts from his mind.

and he would have succeeded were if not for the abyss.

the abyss itself, the liquid poison that clung to his skin and made him dream of stars fallen from the sky, the small part of it that he had to permanently take on to survive, that had been more right than his own mind. the very place known for being bloodthirsty and ruthless, that never turned down a fight and was the first to draw blood, had been kind to you. he should have noticed.

he was wrong. how could he be?

his foul legacy chittered, an equal mix of taunting him and asking to find you.

‘give up,’ it cooed, a bitter edge of false affection around its words. ‘you’ve already done enough.’

he hated that it was right.

he hated that were it not for legacy he would have hurt you further. he hated that he had the gall to try and taunt you, you, the one he’d sworn to devote his life to after he escaped the abyss. you who gave him a form strong enough to handle the devouring deep, you who gave him the strength to stand up and keep on, and he repaid you by hunting you down, claws bared.

and he hated that he would never be able to find you on his own.

‘let me find my god.’

‘my god,’ he weakly replied, but bile quickly rose in his throat. were you? did he even have the privilege of calling himself your follower if the only words he spoke to you were threats? could he call himself faithful when he pressed on after the abyss itself cried for mercy?

‘are you the one they held close?’

childe was going to be sick.

he wasn’t, he wasn’t, he was so awful that you had to turn to the abyss for comfort, his hands were so stained that even the highest of the high recoiled, weapon drawn. you, his light, the one thing that he could always rely on, the sole constant in his life, and he turned his back on you when you needed it most. he had willingly thrown it all away, blindly following a fake that took advantage of his faith. even when all the signs asked him to stop—to think—he had pressed onward, so blinded that a creature of sea and stars could see what he could not.

‘let me find them.’

he stared at his desk, at the work he still had to do, at the letter proclaiming his failure, at the wide window to his left that spanned nearly the entire wall, more than large enough for even his foul legacy, and made a decision.

ajax gave up his body, bitter in the knowledge that the only time he could only see you would be through another’s eyes, and sick in the understanding that it was all his fault.

[finalgirlnormanbates]

[sciderman]

Gwen Stacy was 100 gazillion percent not dead before Peter’s web reached her??? What killed her while she fell? THE AIR????

and here begins one of the more hotly debated topics in spider-man comics canon - what killed gwen stacy?

(i could make a video essay about this)

goblin says that the shock of the fall alone is enough to kill her

and honestly, i don't think that sounds fake. like i mean, i've never been thrown off a bridge before but like, the shock of that could probably kill me. i don't think that's fake at all. i'd have a fucking heart attack mid-air. yeah.

but there is the pointed. snap.

so, really, regardless of whether gwen was already dead or not, the snap is a reality. if she was alive or dead, it doesn't matter, so if the shock of the fall didn't kill her, the snap would've.

i kind of don't know why norman would say she was dead before the webbing reached her. it seems more in norman's diabolical brand to double down and tell peter that his webbing IS what killed gwen. but i think maybe this is another case of the writers and artists not being on the same page - same as how it's described as the george washington bridge

but the artists didn't get the memo. that bitch is not the george washington bridge.

that bitch is the brooklyn bridge!!

headcanon that i guess in 616 the brooklyn bridge is called the george washington bridge. sure. why not.

i figure the gwen "snap!" thing is another instance of the writers and artists just being on distinctly different pages. there's this very funny workflow in comics where they kind of give the artist a rough outline of the plot and the final dialogue isn't actually written until the comic is pencilled so there's always, always miscommunications between the writers and artists. where the artist draws the brooklyn bridge but the writer thinks it would be fun if actually it was the george washington bridge after the fact because get it. norman loves money. but in the synopsis it didn't actually matter what bridge it was so the artist just drew whatever the fuck bridge!!

so. i think it's the same with the snap. in the synopsis it probably says "gwen dies in the fall" - artist interprets it as whiplash, and draws it so. writer has the idea that actually, it's the shock that kills her. synopsis says "dies in the fall" and it doesn't actually matter how. point is she dies! however the fuck!

i'm honestly so obsessed with the running gag in spider-man comics where you know the writers and artists are on different pages. in two separate rooms doing two separate things. rereading the comics is so funny when you know that weird workflow and you see a scene where the art is saying one thing and the words are saying another. almost like a 4kids dub.

that's why you get such great moments such as the panel that has caused the most outrage in my activity feed. the brown/blue pants debate.

HIS PANTS ARE BLUE!!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Thinking, sniffing, snooping

[First] Prev <--> Next

[eggcats]

I do have an idea of Alastor taking Vox pet shopping, because Vox mentioned having a dog when he was alive and missing having a companion

Alastor agrees to get him a pet, as long as it ISN'T a dog

Vox cannot believe THIS is the one line Alastor won't cross, not even using his most adorable digital face changed his mind - but Vox still wants a pet, so he agrees. No dogs.

(They haven't been together long enough for Vox to LEARN why no dogs was such a big deal, here - I kind of think that's something Alastor doesn’t talk about until they've been together for like 10-20 years).

So! They go to a pet store, and Vox immediately wants the giant dog-like shark.

(Alastor tries to say no, but Vox is like "C'mon it's not a dog!!! *insert cute anime eyes before that was even a concept* so Alastor relents).

And the poor shop employee is like, trying to figure out how to tell the fucking Radio Demon and the guy who's starting to take over all the media that they probably don't have the ability to care for the shark-dog thing. (Think, stressed PetSmart employee trying to go "No, a baby bunny isn't a good gift for Easter" except to a serial killer actively covered in blood, here. That's the visual I'm thinking of).

[side note: why do I punish poor minimum wage employees constantly, I promise I have also worked a minimum wage job working for the general public, lol]

But when the employee explains that the shark-dog thing needs a large body of water (probably ocean) to swim in often, Alastor is just like "Oh I can summon that, easily. I'll add it to the guest bedroom since Vox no longer uses it." And Vox is like, what do you MEAN that's something you can do?? You can't just drop casual lore like that at the pet store!

Alastor is like "?? Darling, what do you mean? I have a bayou in my room in the closet? A little beach isn't any more difficult."

And it turns out that when Vox moved in, Alastor told him not to go in that closet. Alastor meant it in a "don't go in there without me, because wandering in a bayou could be dangerous if you don't know where you are/how to do so safely" kind of way.

Vox, however, took it in a Bluebeard kind of way and was like, "Easy, I'm not having him murder me, so he'll be stuck with me forever. Win/win scenario, I solved the fairytale" and just assumed he DID because they're dating now.

And Alastor is left staring with the most confused smile on his face, trying to come to terms with the fact that Vox just casually accepted that he was living in a Bluebeard-like scenario, and his response was to play by the rules so he can stay with Alastor.

(They get the shark-dog. Vox names it Vark. Alastor immediately takes away his "allowed to name new things" privilege, but it's too late. It only responds to Vark).

[the-punforgiven]

I love how color coded everything in Elden Ring is, ESPECIALLY the consumables. It's like, if it's green it either protects from or inflicts poison, if it's an off-pinky kinda red it does the same for rot. If it's lavender it's sleep, if it's yellow and red it's frenzy, if it's red it's probably blood, pale blue for frost, more vivid kinda greenish-blue for magic, yellow for lightning, ect.

Really helps discern at a glance what an item is and what it's used for, it's very convenient

And then there's Darkest Dungeon 2

These items have nothing to do with each other

[veinsfullofstars]

💥 Of mice and mischief! 💥

(ID: More Kirby series fanart of Shadow Kirby interacting with Squeakers, with a guest cameo by Dark Meta Knight. Top left - SK clad in the Bomb hat and his Kirby Fighters black-and-purple coloration, dashing by alongside a green Squeaker, both of them carrying lit bombs and laughing with eager mischief. Top right - SK being hurriedly carried off by a group of excited Squeakers, his eyes wide in surprise and little arms thrown back from the speed. Bottom - DMK standing stiffly as a gaggle of curious Squeakers huddles around and even climbs onto him, his fists clenched and his wings slightly curled, his mask tilted down and and hiding his eyes in the shadow of the visor, red lines of irritation zigzagging off of him. To our left, a word bubble sporting Daroach’s top hat reads, “Aww, they like ya! Ain’t that precious? Quick, Spinni, get the camera!” END ID.)

Part 1 | Part 2 (you’re here!) | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 (coming soon!)

Sketch started btw 12/23 - 05/24, render started 05/21/24, finished 05/23/24.

[deaderthandoubledead]

AU where Michael becomes the Distortion but his ties to the Institute are too strong and he just comes back to work the next day

[mblue-art]

man's skull feels like the fkn sun <3

my artjuice is going into shitposting

[martybaker]

Thank you @amielot for tagging me in last line tag game like forever ago 🙈 I’ve been in real life hell with no time to spare for any creative endeavors, but today I took up the proverbial pen once again to prod at my unfinished modern au ice-skating fic (you can find part one here)

and I wanted to share this bit with y’all, because I think it’s pretty funny. Enjoy.

——

Hob laughs out loud. “Wow. Okay, I deserved that one. But how about this one: Say, Professor Endeles, what would a perfect date look like for you?”

Dream pretends to ponder this deeply.

“A nice spring day,” he starts, “not too cold or too hot, we have a picnic on a hill… with a beautiful view of the city of Verona below us.”

He smiles at the image, continuing, “I shiver in the light breeze, underdressed, and Pedro Pascal lends me his jacket-” Hob bursts out laughing at that- “he lends me his jacket, hand feeds me strawberries and italian cheese, we drink Chardonnay...”

Hob laughs so hard it makes him bend in half. “Pedro Pascal??? Pedro Pascal hand feeds you strawberries?!”

Dream gives him a cheeky grin. “Yes.”

“Okay, incredible. I’m skying in the Alps with Keanu Reeves if you even care,” Hob parries.

Dream smiles at him beatifically. “I don’t. Pedro’s taking me to Teatro alla Scala to see Carmen in the evening.”

By this point Hob is straight up wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Oh my god. Okay. You absolute madman, you win this round. I concede defeat.”

——

And I’m tagging @zigzag-wanderer @seiya-starsniper and @omgcinnamoncakes if you feel like sharing :)

[taileaves]

trying to translate wilson into how i usually draw people

[romanceddawn]

big fan of yugi in the usual yami pose of hands on his hips and also the like in-between transition shot showing yugi's hair physically stand up as yami fronts