#he's so pretty... wrow...

[spicyliumang]

First date kinda nervous 👉👈💛

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Hi! I just wanted to say how much I adore the comic and art you make. You’ve put so much work into making this a long term project and your dedication really shows!

I hope you have a nice day! Here is a little sketch I am handing you a guy

Hands you a wwx that is so squishable.....

[sixerstanley]

OK i have to tell someone my favorite hc that I have in my back pocket which is: Manly Dan’s bisexual awakening was Stan Pines. He isnt gonna like, pursue it or anything, but he’s not shy about liking a MAN. wendy KNOOOWS this and uses it to drive Ford CRAZY. like “oh man maybe i should tell dad to call stan…he seems lonely”

ford: TELL YOUR FATHER STAN IS OFF LIMITS

Wendy: lol maybe say that to Stan? before i tell my dad what flowers to bring Stan?

WAIT HELP THATS PERFECT AND SO FUNNY.

can u imagine if like. manly dan was kinda checking ford out a bit but he was like "nah, too scrawny" but then the switch happened and stan was taking ford's place and then he was like "…wrow…" hes like wow he changed….huh…he's also pretty funny now...interesting...

wait help can you imagine if this is why wendy has a job at the mystery shack 😭

FORD WOULD GET SO CRAZYYY ABOUT IT. he'd get SOOOOO jealous like u said

honestly this would make a hysterical fic i am considering it

[girldriveroscar]

Oscar is so so pretty. People are finally starting to catch up on it 😭 the burger video did him justice😭

DUDE THIS IS WHAT I MEANNNNN like he has so much Hot Potential its just in the details like actually looking hydrated and combing his hair. Why Does My Sandwich Not Gaf. when he is all flushed and alive looking mhm mhm mhm.

this pic is Infknsane but like WROW! even skin complexion! Eyebrow arch! plump limps! longer im staring at this the more im reminded That One Fact About Guys Lip Colors and i actually Do have to end this here oh yea

[emby-m]

Troubadour and Trobairitz

Sixth in the “Putting Alice into Nort’s Skin Lines” project

A partimen between a trickster and an “innocent lady”

Domna, what is a pretty woman like you doing in these woods?

Amicx, I am crossing these woods to visit a friend.

Domna, you have a bad friend if they make you come through these woods.

Amicx, I would visit my friend if it meant crossing through brambles.

Domna, who is it who moves your heart so?

A dearest one, Amicx, a dearest one.

Will you let me be your friend instead, ma Domna?

Who’s to say you weren’t already, m‘Amicx?

Design and backstory under the cut:

Setting/text notes:

A troubadour was a specific type of poet in Occitan France, roughly in the 1200s. They have a very specific style. A trobairitz is the female version. For interesting renditions, check out Alkemie’s work. (Love to my Liking for period-accurate renditions, A Fine Companion for modern)

This is a partimen, or a type of poem that’s essentially a conversation. A lot of translated works sound similar to this.

Domna is “my lady” – often used with the subjects of courtly love. Amicx is “my friend” – used for lovers by the trobairitz, sometimes to a great understatement.

Norton’s design:

WHAT ON EARTH IS THIS OUTFIT NETEASE!!! THE LONGER I LOOK THE WORSE IT GETS!!!

Ok. so. Pageboy cap, fine. The tailcoat. Ok. Even the breeches. Ok. BUT WHY IS YOUR SHIRT UNTUCKED AND YOUR COLLAR UNDONE!!!!!

Someone trying very hard to look fancy but also be rugged enough – just enough of the outfit says “hunting” that his traversing through the forest makes sense. I imagine he’s kind of a Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood figure here, offering “benevolently” to help out a poor wandering lady…

Alice’s design:

Trying to go for a similar vibe… Dignified but sporting. A military/riding-jacket type coat, a riding skirt in plaid, gauntlets suitable for riding… 

She will very much surprise Mr. Troubadour when she corners him and pins him up against a tree (WROW u/////u)

[pwurrz]

For the ship bingo!

Yakumond, Quinte (you know me 🙃), Kuyamond, Olimond, Yakuoli, YakuOliMond (all 3 of them), Kuyarei, Quinrei, Quinyarei (Quincy-Kuya-Rei), YakuDante, BladeDante, Blademond.....

Should I even add Quincamo? I already know you love it 🤭

wrow that’s a lot of images!!! ok so basically:

yakumond my babies. my cutie patooties. my first polyclan ship. they’re so so good together and so cute and perfect and mwah chef’s kiss 10/10 perfect ship. and quinte… man. listen technically yes all of them are fucking the same guy but this is relevant in this case because that one quinte fic i read where quincy teaches dante how to be better at sex blasted my eyes WIDE OPEN and they have refused to close ever since. also the way you draw them??? peak. if i didn’t already ship them i would after seeing your art

kuyamond, kuya and edmond. truly a freaky ship if i’ve ever seen one /pos. i think edmond might actually explode the second kuya suggests he has any interest in him so actually getting them together would be. difficult but just. lock them in a room together or something. they’ll figure it out ♡ and olimo!! my sweeties <3 i’ve known their dynamic is as sweet as pie since idol fest. so cute, so supportive. the best of friends and also they kiss and have freaky sex sometimes.

yakuolimond is basically just my thoughts on olimo and yakumond combined but kuyarei??? holy shit. if quinya didn’t exist these two would be THE divorced ship of all time. literally cannot go three seconds without bickering with each other. it’s on sight with these two. they have SO many problems. they should make out about it

quinrei is good, very cute very chill. they work very nice together. enjoy each other’s peaceful company. but quinyarei?? man i just feel bad for quincy LMAO. i added the bits about codependency and devotion because of quinya.. they may act like they hate each other but they truly can’t live without one another. throw rei into the mix and well. sex probably wouldn’t fix this problem. in fact it would probably make it worse… they should still have sex anyways

blademond… another peak edmond ship. i truly love their dynamic. blade is so confident and loving and shameless about the way that he loves and he encourages edmond to also be more honest about his feelings and it’s good. it’s good stuff. and my opinions on yakudante and danteblade are pretty much the same but YAKUDANTE. WOW. that sure is a ship i didn’t even CONSIDER until from the earth, nectar. everyone should go read that btw. right now. even if you don’t like dante very much. trust me it’ll change your mind. holy shit it’s hilarious seeing yakumo from dante’s perspective and also eiden truly is the best wingman.

[the-tropes-are-hungry]

5 - The Worm Laughs

So, you know that bit in the previous chapter that was literally about not using a crown if you aren’t at your personal peak?

Yeah…

count the memes I dare you

---

[First] / [Prev] / [Next]

Wrow. Wrow! WROW—! WROWROWROW— WROOOOOOOOW!!!!

FLYING WAS SO MUCH BETTER THAN DIGGING!!!

Heart pounding, feet kicking, his claws grabbed the branches and flung him at the sky. Mouth open, bird in sights—

And the CRUNCH!!

His landings were never (Wrow!) good. But bouncing into the forest (Wrowwro!) floor never phased him either, the snap-snarl-shine (Wroro—!) of his crown ricocheting him from tree to (Wowoworr!!) tree was almost more fun than the flying that started it!

“Ehe—eheeh! Heheha!”

He came to a rolling, tumbling stop, flopping over tree roots and kicking his feet as his tail stretched long and his spine gave a loud pop!. He swiped away the feathers caught between his dripping teeth on a furry wrist.

The worm was used to the smell of himself, but knew better than to let the blood dry and get itchy and sticky on his fur. He crunched the fragile bird with his big teeth, pulling the pulp further into his gullet where the small teeth could grind and grind and grind, the vibration making his head tickle as he rolled off the root and scampered under brush and leaf and over rock and stump.

Good summer sunshine, hot summer wind, best summer weather. Summer better than winter, which was short and dark and full of sleeping. Winter less fun than spring, with the fresh shoots and sweet roots and plenty of little eggs and tiny critters. Spring nicer than fall, despite the sweet fruit and the nesting leaves and the fat fish and the sleepy hares and burrowing toads.

Summer. Summer the best of all. And this was the worm’s sixth summer.

He lifted his head and sniffed through the heat, something new on his pallet that he didn’t like. Sour, like bad blood left in the sun, hurt like thorns in the throat. Bad, but the same direction as water. Fresh water by the sound, sweet and crisp, good for washing and splashing and fish. Thin summer fish still better than no fish at all. Something silent beyond the water. Not enough noise in that direction. Same way as the smell. Odd. Wrong. Bad.

But different. Different meant new and interesting and fun and for eating.

And if it was not for eating, then there was the crown, and the crown made things fun fun.

Nice feathers the worm tucked into leaves, broad and cut with his claws to fold into layers, tougher than normal leaves, and not the best for eating. He’d seen woven leaves on other worms (fought them too). He’d seen pretty things on other walking beasts (fought them too). These feathers were nice, so he wrapped them in the leaves, and slipped the leaves in his belt (not fought this, made this), and took off running through the forest, up the tree, across the branches, and leaped!

“Wroworow!!”

He knew the right path through the branches, flashing through the canopy and counting shards of blue summer sky as he went. Eighty-four, eighty-three, eighty-two, eighty-one! He counted down from a hundred. Last year he had counted down from twenty, but this year he would count down from a hundred.

The ants had taught him counting when he burrowed into their hill for winter. They had tried to eat him, but he had eaten them instead until they walled him away. So, he ate their food, and slept in their hill, and in the spring they had told him they would not try to eat him if he did not try to eat them and that they liked his crown and wanted to know what he liked too. And he had almost said food, but he had seen the paper in the ant’s hands, and he had not smelled a smell like the marks on the paper (paper is just wood with the tasty bits washed out, not good for eating).

The ants had taught him counting, and wording, and in return he had not eaten the ants. Instead, he had eaten the other ants that tried coming into the hill when he was learning counting. He had eaten fifteen and a half other-ants before they ran away.

Then his ants had given him something white and wispy and more than food and better than counting and it tickled more than the hardest bones and sweeter than the ripest fruit. And it had closed his wounds, and dulled his pain, and cleared his sleep, and sated, for once, his hunger.

He liked spending winter with the ants. He got to sleep in the warm and the dark and grow more arms and more fur and eat more other-ants if they woke him up. He got to counting and wording and making, like his belt and his purse, and the little metal clasps on the belt and the purse that only his ants could make.

He liked the ants.

He liked flying too.

Across the branch, dash the length, claws dug deep, arms flung wide—“Wroweeee!!”

Into the bright sunlight and above the sparkling water and the grey river rocks and through the waterfall mists and under the ugly oak’s nose? Ugly oak??

Nose???

The worm landed on his head in the water and trumpeted alarm, claws flexing in the cold as he spun his body down, touched his toes to the rocks, and sprung back up.

The water was fast, the falls right behind him (safe falls, had fallen many times, easy squishy rocks for crown to bounce off) as he bobbed like a clump of leaves under the mammoth snout of a wooden beast resting over his river. The nose was dripping with moss and ferns, attached to a face broad as a hill and sprouted with an oak tree, a massive oak tree, a mountain of an oak tree that went back and up and high too far for the worm to see all the way to the top. The canopy stretched too far, not too far for the horizon but too far for a tree.

The face of the tree was marked with a gold halo around its brow, pulsing with light like the sun if the sun was sterile and blinding and bad.

The water carried him over the falls, and the sleeping oak did not see him. He flopped like floatsam on the rocks below, curling himself up and kicking through the white rapids, for once not enjoying the bubbles tickling his belly or fizzing at his mouth.

He only got a few strokes away from the falls when he had to kick hard and dive.

There was a new rock in the river, attached to the ugly oak. Not a foot, more a toe, a boulder of swollen burl that blocked his river and sent the water screaming at a sharp bend and carried him with it. He slammed his back into it with a gurgle, toes curled to keep his claws from nicking the bark as the water pulled him along.

The sweet water was bitter and gross where it touched the ugly oak, and two more harsh diversions later the worm had enough and kicked his way to shore, retching at the unholy ichor bleeding into his river.

“Worm?”

“Oh, Worm!!”

Voices and the pleasure of devotion pulled him into the tree line, and a moment later he was looking up at Caterpillar and Dave, who looked exactly like Caterpillar but was called Dave. They were both worms like him.

He pointed back at the river. “The fuck?”

“Real bad,” said Dave.

“Champion Oak,” said Caterpillar. “Seven-toed Oak.”

“Trees don’t have toes,” the worm said. Trees also didn’t show up in one day, or one night, and become bigger than mountains. “Do they?”

“Oak does,” Caterpillar said. “Can we eat it?”

“Tastes bad,” he said, and let his tongue unroll from his gullet, wiping the aftertaste of ichor off on his fur.

“Oh well,” sighed Caterpillar.

“Guess we’ll die,” agreed Dave.

“What? No.” That was stupid. The worm was dumb but he was not stupid. “Oak got here. We can get oak to go away.”

They laughed at him, but they also wept that aroma he couldn’t smell and filled him with the flavor he couldn’t taste. His bones felt stronger and fur thicker and claws sharper.

“We? No way,” said Caterpillar.

“Me then,” the worm decided. And the feeling got stronger, the devotion seeped into his teeth. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do it?” Dave asked, pushing the fur out of their blue eyes.

“I’ll do it,” the worm decided.

Dave’s eyes went pearly white, and the vibration that built in their gullet rocked them so hard they made a purr the other worms hadn’t heard before. Listening to it, leaning into it, feeding from it, felt so good.

“Okay, you do it,” Dave said. “Get a name first.”

“Why?”

“Gotta tell the Queen after, right?”

This was so complicated. He could have just eaten Dave but Dave smelled too sweet for eating.

“Ant Queen calls me latchkey.” Because it was a thing in ant tunnels made of metal that click-clacked, and he liked the click-clack, even if his ants didn’t like if he click-clacked the clickity-clack when they weren’t with him to clackity-click it after.

“Lackshee?” Slurred Dave, because Dave was stupid.

“Leshky,” tried Caterpillar, who was dumb.

“Close enough,” decided Leshy, who didn’t know why anyone would tell his ant queen anything after he got rid of the ugly oak ruining his river.

It was easy to do. (<- recommended song)

He just went around the Oak first, because it was big, and he counted all the toes, which were more than seven of, and he counted the branches when he got bored on the long flight back to his ants. And his ants were very scared because something very heavy and big with bad roots had destroyed half their outer compounds and was very close to their main entrance and this was bad for some reason although Leshy had counted and they still forty-seven other entrances.

“It’s summer,” he said. “Gimmie metal.”

His ants didn’t want to give him metal, they didn’t like giving metal to anyone, not even him, not even for pretty feathers or woven leaves or when he ate one of them.

“Hmm. Need metal,” he said, disappointed that his ants still tasted like normal ants, pulpy without crunchy and sour instead of sweet. He looked up at his ants’ queen. “What you want for metal?”

“You’d have to get it yourself, Green Crown.”

“Leshy,” he corrected, forgetting to really chew that last leg and hacking it back up for his teeth again. “Where’s metal?”

Ant Queen shook her head. “Far too deep for us to tunnel with this current crisis over our heads!”

Leshy stopped eating the ant leg, stared at his ant queen, and realized she was stupid.

“Okay.”

He put his claws into the floor and dug. He went right through (wrow!) the ceiling of the main ventilation shaft and crown-bounced his way down several meters before finding purchase and tunnelling again. He listened to Mother this time until he reached Warehouse 7-N, because 7-N was too big to bother going around and there was only harvested chitin and glass stored there so it was fine.

He dug until he found stone, startling Mother. She helped him sniff out his ants’ tunnel, and here he used his sharpened claws and strengthened teeth to dig rock instead of dirt. The crown was warm on his head, and made the grinding rumble in his head like a little song he could sing while chewing. He decided that as long as it was still summer when he was finished then this would work.

He brought the stone that tasted different and more like metal back to his ant queen, and told her: “Make metal, I gotta get rid of the Oak.”

Stunned, they asked how he would do it and he told them, so they made the ore into metal. They formed the metal into nails like his, to make it easier. One hundred nails, so he could count them.

One of his ants was dumb and thought he wanted to tie metal nails to his nails, and he said no, but they said why not? And he said:

“Don’t care. Do what you want. Are you done? Gimmie.”

His ants’ eyes were full of white, and Leshy could hear more than he’d ever heard in his life, from the pupae in the nursery two levels down to the ant queen pacing in her chamber above him. He wanted to shed his skin and get bigger, stronger, wormier.

“Come back safe,” his ants prayed. A lot of them. In the converted warehouse 2-H. He breathed in all the air and felt all the feelings and now he would get bigger, he just didn’t know how.

It was still summer when he left his ants.

The Ugly Oak was right over their hill.

Best way to kill a tree was to eat the roots, but these roots were bad, so blegh. Second best was this way, when the air was hot and humid, the best for foraging, but dangerous for flying.

Leshy flew anyway.

Trees don’t care about worms. Big trees don’t care about nails either.

Turns out, they do care about little green crowns worn by little green worms who stick little black nails into their bark. And he had one hundred nails, so he put them in a lot of branches, three and four and sometimes more, bashed in with a rock.

The ugly oak was too big to feel the nails; it was the bashing that woke them up.

[W-H-O-D-A-R-E-S-?]

Leshy didn’t say shit. He was a pile of leaves, among the leaves, being a leaf. Stupid worm on a dumb oak, a dumb oak who was too bloated-huge-gross-big to feel one worm who weighed as much as a worm carrying sixty-four iron nails.

It was getting dark. This was good. A bit of night time dark, but more of the bad time for flying dark.

The wind was blowing. It was blowing more and more, tearing off the Ugly Oak’s leaves, making the smaller branches sway, and forming a crack in their old boughs that Leshy found and drove a line of nails from the dry bark down to the bitter flesh.

[C-U-R-S-E-S-O-F-T-H-E-G-R-E-E-N-E-Y-E-D-Q-U-E-E-N-U-P-O-N-T-H-E-E-W-O-R-M-!-!-!]

“Uh-oh.”

This was hard to do. Now the branches kept moving, and sometimes breaking, and the acorns popped open with hornets and spiders and squirrels and mice and centipedes. Leshy would have eaten a few of them but he was too busy running, scratching, climbing, flying away from all that.

The wind was scattered, left, up, away, in, around. The sky was getting louder, the first spits of summer rain flying cold in his face.

Every jump he put his weight into a nail, driving them in. Didn’t matter where: dead wood, living, any, just wood or leaf or litter. He jumped seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three times, counting and ducking, dodging and driving, and decided he had too much metal.

Crossing the Ugly Oak’s halo was the dumbest thing his stupid worm self ever did. He’d thought he was on the back of the canopy, not the face, and when he jumped—

[T-H-E-I-F-O-F-D-I-V-I-N-I-T-Y-!-!-!]

His crown went hot cold hot hot cold. He screamed, claws splitting to the quick as his bones wracked and his fur tore and he fell thirty, forty, fifty feet.

No ricochet, just smashed bones and torn skin and fear, real fear, horrible bad awful scary fear.

But he broke his body on the ugly oak’s ugly ass fucking nose, and had to laugh at that.

He rolled his bleeding body over, all his inner fruits and bones mucked up as a meal for a baby worm on the ground somewhere, and grinned with his blue blood leaking past his teeth.

He wiggled his broken claws.

“Hi.”

The Ugly Oak’s two eyes were massive as moonpools, glowing yellow like twin suns if the sun had a twin that was ugly as a worm’s ass and pulsed like an overweight pupa.

But the best way to kill a tree was eat its roots.

“Bye.”

Second best was fire. From the sky.

Lots of sky-fire in summer.

The sky broke. Lightning forked hot and delicious toward tidbits of iron sitting in dry summer wood. Lightning riddled patterns in flesh and sand, hence why ants live underground, and where ants get glass. Ants are stupid but they’d not dumb.

Lightning ate iron, traveled through wooden flesh, and found more iron.

Mother’s bounty drove the sky mad and caught the Ugly Oak in its jaws. The ants saw it happen from their observation deck. Caterpillar and Dave had already told Snuff and Sniff and Snarl and Jake. The hornets witnessed everything.

[D-E-V-I-L-!-!]

Leshy laughed on his back on the Ugly Oak’s nose. He clicked his broken claws and gnashed his bloody teeth. He watched the piss-yellow eyes of the Seven-Toed Oak roll and burst in its big ugly head, smoke venting from its screaming mouth as its oldest boughs sheered off.

Flames roared up from its heartwood core. The sap sang pop! Pop! Hiss! And filled the air with sweet. The bitter ichor burned green and purple and white.

[D-D-E-A-M-O-N-!-!]

“Leshy,” the worm corrected.

When their dying face tilted, he rolled off their ugly nose, landed in his river, and floated away.

[Next] <- When it's done. (May 31st)

So mad about the end of last chapter because I was like “this is an incredible moment to introduce Leshy” but then I remembered I haven’t given them Heket. >:(

[tunastime]

12? 👀

wrow hi guys! sorry it took me so long to get back to these again, I had some more free time open up between doing d&d campaign things and submitting applications! let's see what we have

MWAH. another FPC classic LOL. surprised this did not make my top 5 tbh. this song was half the reason I built a d&d character the way I did, but also worked pretty well for my new mcrp character Haunt! they're a hero of the wilds origin knight who is mostly a sentient suit of armor. at least. that's what they say if pressed >:3 featuring also a character of a friend of mine!! haunt and xylem get pretty close in the events proceeding the server, so take a little bit of exposition about them and haunt's past! (851 words)

“Have you ever been scared?”

Haunt smears sealing wax onto the recently fixed drape of chainmail over their knee. It jingles tunelessly against their leg, metal against metal greave as they pause for a moment, gloved hands stained, slightly glossy in the sun. 

“Of course, I’m scared constantly,” they hum flatly. From in front of them, a few feet away, Xylem snorts. He tips his head back in that signature way that implies, more than anything else, that the sardonic response Haunt’s just threw at him as a knee-jerk reaction isn’t really the answer he was looking for. He frowns a little at them, the soft features of his face pinching in a way Haunt has learned to read. It’s a serious question. Haunt didn’t lie—their answer was as serious as the question. Something else, though, hangs slightly with the rest of his question, like a scale balancing.

Terrified? Scared to death? Scared of death? Haunt, have you ever been really, really scared?

Haunt takes in a breath. Sometimes they forget they need to be doing that.

“One time,” they start, hands returning to the familiar chainmail. “At least one time.”

They don’t need to look up to know that Xylem is pinning them with a look that ushers them to go on.

Like stepping into a dream, the pure-white sand of the colosseum spread out before them, below them, as they looked out of their room and into the empty pit below, like a mouth, the rows of empty seats like teeth, like a beast. The colosseum was a beast Haunt alone had learned to tame—or, not tame, per se, but cohabitate with, cosign wins and losses alongside. The seats would be full today, and every voice would ring out their gifted name—the man with no face, no name, nothing to lose.

Haunt. The Ghost of the Colosseum Floor.

Their boots made dull prints in the sand as they stepped into a blinding array of lights, fading to slats inside their helmet as they shut the visor, obscuring the colorful arrangement. The world dulled only slightly as they made their way toward the center of the ring. It was a usual pattern, for a usual fight, for a usual day, and Haunt felt something familiar, and confident, and proud weasel up in their chest as bits of cloth and petals scattered at their feet, as their name reverberated through the crowd in waves. They turned slowly in the sand, the weight of the world resting at the crest of their shoulders, stretching and twisting as they pulled their sword, Requiem, free of its scabbard. The sound of metal rang out across the empty field. They dragged their gauntlet-clad palm over the blade’s fine edge, and the enchantments across the silver-black metal shimmered in time with their own armor—two, pointed, dog like ears curving back from their temples and the sharp, imposing visor over chestplate, pauldrons, deep red cape. A knight, glittering in the sun, soaking praise.

If Haunt had not caught the flicker of movement, they would have been swallowed alive in that moment. 

They turned. Their eyes widened as if it would do anything to help understand the shape that scrambled toward them, snarling and angry and teeth as large as their forearm, twice as wide. The breath they tried to take caught hard in their throat as they scrambled forward, boots hitting packed sand and dust as they pushed themselves. The creature made no move to stop. Its feet raised clouds of dust as Haunt gasped for breath, trying for useless cover in an empty field. Their heart beat frantic against the base of their throat. What a horrible, painful respawn this would be. Blood on the colosseum floor. First kill, and it was them. 

But not today.

They slammed their heel into the ground. The jolt nearly cracked their ankle as they whipped around on their own axis, Requiem still heavy in their hand. In one, jerking, shaking motion, they swung the blade back behind their head, and straight up. The beast slammed into them full force.

As their blade caught buckling resistance, it parted flesh, and blood, and bone, as they were shoved backwards, nearly crashing to the ground, knee buckling as it hit the earth. Haunt skidded several feet as their blade caught the creature’s pelvis and refused to give further. It sunk against the blade with no movement, its guts spooling like yarn. Gore splattered their armor as they yanked free of the massive shape and hit the ground, scrambling back, seeing stars.

Haunt wasn’t sure if they could vomit, but maybe in that moment, whatever crawled up their throat was almost bile. They tried to blink back the vignette of their vision as they stood, shoving Requiem into the nearly-solid earth below them to stand. As they did, they removed the blade, drew their hand across the side to pull gore from its surface. Flicked off the blood. The crowd roared. They spun the sword in their palm, blood still dripping from their helm.

The prickle against the back of their neck told them this wasn’t over.

Not yet.

[sevicia]

Vampire Mary bites you in an alleyway and does not gaf about it unless you activate her prey drive (Agnes moment), in which case she converts you and keeps you in a tower (Agnes moment).

Basically Vampire AU of my characters from my brain cause I realized Wrow.... isn't Mary vampire-like in a few ways already.... Cause I always want her eyes to look intense and that goes pretty well with the whole hypnosis thing... Plus she's meant to look sickly anyways. And have spindly limbs also.

I mean she already makes Agnes "immortal" except he DOES gets to die (over and over), she just builds him back up. Boyfriend of Theseus n all. Honestly the vamp route would be a lot easier on him so I fear he'd jump out of my sketchbook and bite my head off if I decided to implement it for realsies.

[tripleseptet]

Tell us about the Alex origin story :3

So, about two monthsish ago I found a fic on AO3 that I enjoyed! Yall probably know it already if you’re asking, but the important part is that it was the one with fullbody skill portraits at the top of each chapter. I thought that was pretty cool, bookmarked it, then went to tumblr to look for similar content about the skills, cause I hadn’t thought about them in that type of way before and I thought it was cool. I stumble upon! That very same art in the tumblr search! Wrow! So I follow this creator for a while. And I find their NSFW blog. and I follow THAT for a while. Send a few anons, reblog a LOT of their posts, and then realize. Hey uh. you’re startin to feel a lil parasocial there bud. And I hate feeling that about myself so I took action.

That action was actually DMing them. And we hit it off great!! I got their discord and we messaged every day for i think like two weeks? Found out we both live in the same general area, but about 4 hours away from each other. I confess my love to them, tell them its 100% ok if they dont reciprocate, and they say they don’t, but they’d like to still be friends. I say great! And we continue being friends. After a few video calls, writing together, etc. we work out a way to meet up, involving *drumroll please* … The underfunded public bus system. Insert dramatic sound effect.

Now, I’m a bit of a bubble boy. Can’t even drive on my own, so I’ve never really gone somewhere on my own, ESPECIALLY somewhere 4 hours away. But I decide to be brave. After all, they promised me they’d do whatever was necessary to make me comfortable, and wouldn’t let anyone hurt me, and I trusted them. Packed a bag, made cookies, bought them an alligator plushie, and I was on my way. Side note, I gave my bus seat neighbor a cookie to bribe him into liking me. He fell asleep on me 3 hours in and I was too spineless to wake him up so I just let it happen.

Without going into detail, the visit went great. I don’t think there’s a single thing we would change. After I take the bus AGAIN home (the sunset was beautiful and the city lights were so nice) we text every day again. And after a few days they say they want to be my partner, and they thank me for my patience in not insisting on being together.

Since then we’ve visited I think three times? Maybe two. We’re planning another visit soon. I love the time we spend together, I wait every day I’m NOT over there thinking about what it’ll be like to be there. And of course we text constantly. In case yall were curious, our 1 month anniversary was the day before yesterday. Since we didn’t get to celebrate then, I’m making us a cake to celebrate this weekend.

TLDR: AO3 to tumblr to discord to sloppy makeouts pipeline

[danmiles]

i love my boyfriend so much hes actually probably yhe funniest person i know and he's so pretty. and kind and soft and masculine and warm and . wrow ! its so healing to be in a t4t relationship again

[bearsunlimited]

nobody gets u like i do/j

[fagpeterstrahm]

[vaultsixtynine]

scream. the irony of dean saying this to wyn, who is using his own pride and vanity and obsession to mislead and con him in turn (while he believes he’s successfully manipulated both her And avery, which they’ve let him believe on purpose), is simply Too Much

[necroghouls]

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

I think I was right and wrong in the funniest way possible. Because like if we're talking a fight, Sonic pretty much pushed a direct fight off for so long. Like he told Shadow they would both do it but that didn't end up happening. And then Nine and Sonic BOTH started fighting the shit out of each other (kind of fight that makes you go "wrow😳" like the Shadow/Sonic fight in Episode 1 of Season 2). But like I was also right because until the bitter end Sonic refused to label Nine as a traitor and let anyone even think of killing him.

The irony is that Sonic’s the one who fought Nine in S3 but he refused to give up on him and refused to let him die and refused to lose everything.

"I hope Shadow gets to beat the shit outta Nine in s3"

Ha ha ha you think Sonic would allow that? You fool. You absolute buffoon.