#idk if this is shit or not we'll see

[fuckingwhateverdude]

12.17.23

[dangerous-advantage]

jin ling, having done some stupid shit: my uncle's gonna kill me!

lan sizhui, serenely: it's ok, your other uncle's a necromancer

[doodleodds]

Me? Uploading a Halloween comic on November 18th, almost four whole-ass weeks late???? Yeah that’s uh. yup. yeah

Thanks for reading! :) <3

[slocumjoe]

Anyway do you ever think about how piper is given weight in the main plot only to be shoved into a ditch to make way for Nick Valentine Synth Detective, who has large presence in the main plot + a personal quest + a whole ass DLC

[sylveon-official]

just using my terrifying ability to justify mpreg in any fandom universe

oh also i come with an offering, just a brainworm that may become a fic if i decide to stay in huskerdust hell

-

“You’re hellborn?” The doctor states more than asks.

Affronted, Angel almost spits out a ‘no’ but thinks the better of it at the last second.

“What’s it to you?”

The doctor shrugs, bored. “You’re pregnant, doll. Surely you must’ve suspected something by this point? 3, 4 months along, probably. Not sure why you’re comin’ all the way over to the Pride Ring for OBGYN visits but, eh, I guess you must have your reasons-“

Angel sits stunned, eyes staring unblinkingly as the doctor rattles on.

No fucking way. No fuckingway. This should be impossible. In fact, it is impossible.

“Show me,” Angel demands, cutting off the doctor’s rant.

The doctor gives Angel an impatient look, then rolls his eyes and sticks the wand back to Angel’s lower belly.

“There,” the doctor points to the screen, “See that? It’s already got your creepy little spider legs, clear as day.”

And it fucking does. Angel isn’t an expert or anything, but he knows what a fucking fetus looks like. There on the screen before him, is a curled up, black blob of a fetus with 3 little nubby sets of legs. As if on cue, the blob shifts and with it, a bubbly sensation lights up his lower gut.

“What the fuck?” Angel whispers, hand shaking as he dares to touch the edge of the bump.

“Not so happy accident, huh? Shouldn’t have skipped the condom, though I guess they’re kinda hard to come by in Pentagram City of all places, not much need for ‘em here. Probably best to get back to whatever Ring you came from, no use comin’ here to escape your baby daddy problems,” the doctor rattles off again as he clicks a button that sends the images to the printer in the corner. 

The doctor grabs the images from the printer and turns back to Angel with a hand on his hip. “Do you even want these, or-?” 

One of Angel’s limbs reaches out without permission to snatch the photos. Momentarily surprised by his internal response, Angel freezes. 

“Jeez, I get it, sensitive topic. Good luck with the little bastard I guess,” the doctor mumbles and takes his leave.

[itseghost]

silly but,, i saw a post going around with that passage and well. visiting halsin post epilogue, plenty of room for this joke to happen lmao you're always considered a young man when you're with full elves i guess!!!

[puppyeared]

Been LOVING your lil magician folks recently please continue they're beautiful and very cute and cool and also very well-designed!! 🥺❤️

thank you for the kind words !!! im not much of a writer, but i do have some sort of story in mind for them.. theyre bitter rivals who end up as roommates bc of their scatterbrained elderly landlord lol

[thewuzard]

fuck it *posts*

[niyana-the-ambiguous-mobian]

I can't believe that damn fourth chaos emerald got sent into the Sonic version of Super Hell /j

[mandycantdecide]

i miss their sibling dynamic from season one so much

[jopzer]

okay. i have finally finished my rewatch and i think i've finally made sense of my thoughts vis a vis ted and jamie's relationship.

i think it's very interesting that the exact moment ted pulls away from being directly involved in jamie's development is when he realizes that what jamie needs is a father. like in season one and arguably the first half of season two he is very hands on in trying to get jamie to realize his potential/the error of his ways but like. things are noticeably different after he sees him and james through the door, and then after wembley they do not really interact again in a meaningful way until mom city. roy literally picks it up as ted sets it down, like. he can't be what jamie needs he doesn't Want to, he can barely even handle what he feels for henry like we see in mom city, he's not picking up a bonus son you know

i really do think it's a very interesting way to handle their relationship specifically. they're so so intertwined in their character arcs and they're constantly setting each other's off but they can't really meet in the middle because ted can't/won't connect with him on that level. they're a son without a father and a father without a son and they can't click into that relationship because ted pulls away from him the minute it becomes clear that's what jamie needs, and we see it come full circle and see why in his monologue during mom city

[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[fossilizedhysterics]

me when anything i like: ...ok but what if they were cats notes abt the hypothetical au these designs exist in below the cut :3

-still deciding on where exactly darkclans territory and camp will be, either in an alleyway or in a dilapidated house/greenhouse... either way theyre very close to thomas's house! -speaking of thomas, he is the owner of the 4 cats that make up lightclan! -they arent reeeally a clan, being made up of kittypets and all, its basically just them roleplaying -this makes darkclan really mad -"erm, why are these KITTYPETS pretending to have the hard life of a WARRIOR" -even though they themselves r basically just rogues and also have a kittypet for their healer. theyre just petty -rattlestar does NOT have 9 lives no matter how much she says she does -also, her warrior name was rattleshade! (probably... this is subject to change if i ever think of a better one) -virgil (warrior name a wip, probably gonna have something to do with storms and spiders), used to be a member of darkclan, before being adopted by thomas -the cloak rattlestar wears used to be virgils :(

-thomas has tried several times to befriend roadkill and rattlestar, to no avail -he is also just very confused as to why it seems that his cats and those strays seem to have a very personal beef. he swears he sees them arguing -yes he is still allergic to cats here. its funny

-roadkill has HELLA fleas and ticks -as such, he must sleep on the couch (in a seperate nest from rattle) 😔 one like equals one flea and tick medication for roadkill

[bylersrise]

I've decided that i cant do this. they start filming in like a few weeks and i am simply not ready

[ichorblossoms]

i have GOT to draw yarrow as this image. he's been around for ten months what am i even DOING

[jade-of-mourning]

the problem with mako is that once you realize just how many insanely Layered Issues™ the guy has, you realize that you cannot shove them into a single oneshot like you'd planned and that you may possibly have to write about him for a very extended period of time to expand on all the many ideas that are rotting your brain.

(he's just so. so easy to give Fucked Up Brain Things to.)