#rotating bar

[of-fear-and-love]

Man's Favorite Sport? (1964)

[pissfartboy]

spinoff where Denise and Cooper go to the club (still directed by David Lynch)

[infinitelystrangemachinex]

Mel and Viktor are both in an Oculorum

The prison the Black Rose have put Mel in is what "Kino" calls an Oculorum, where "According to legend, the ancients built specialized chambers to seal away false prophets." It's unclear whether this place is real and physical, but it certainly seems to be to Mel. It's built like a puzzle box that seems to probe Mel's innate abilities as a mage.

Note that these runes are like yet also unlike Hextech runes with long connected lines and hard angles, like Mel's Art Deco aesthetic, and like the prison itself and its walls.

In Zaun, something was bothering me about Viktor's home - until Jayce blew a hole in the top of the chamber, creating a spiraling tunnel of debris. So now there is a hole in the top of Viktor's chamber with a "tunnel," the same as there's a hole in the top of Mel's Oculorum:

The aesthetic of Viktor's chamber is opposite to Mel's. No squares or hard angles, only circles and fractal-like spirals, curving like Zaun and Viktor's Art Nouveau aesthetic.

But how do we know Viktor's chamber is an Oculorum, specifically? Vi and Jinx give us our biggest hint when they find the wall where their heights were marked as kids:

Which Vi and Caitlyn found in season 1 deep in the undercity, near the Shimmer addicts that Viktor later "cures":

Which was underneath a giant neon Eye of Zaun:

What does the word Oculorum mean?

"ocu" comes from the Latin "oculus," meaning "eye." "Oculorum" means something to the effect of "of the eye." Viktor's chamber stands right by where the Eye of Zaun stood.

Mel is imprisoned while Viktor appears free, but is also in effect trapped. Mel is "the child" the Black Rose was searching for, possibly with magical or even semi-divine heritage. Viktor is a regular man made into a magic user whose religious imagery was not what it appeared to be. Mel and Viktor are both magic users confined to a chamber meant to hold "false prophets."

[frownyalfred]

imagine being the random guy running the rigged “hold onto this bar for 100 seconds and win!” game at the Gotham carnival, only for an entire family of strangely fit, beautiful people to come up, try it one by one, and hold on for the entire time — every single one of them, even the grandpa.

[dailygihun]

day 12 || underrated trio in my humble opinion (just lineart under the cut cuz im stuck on which to post)

[thebrainrotsreal]

EVIL MARK, EVIL MARK, EVIL MARK!!! I want to be coherent about this season but please picture me foaming at the mouth and running on the walls. S2 being what if Mark's just like his Dad? Insanity. I love this show. Anyways, AU where an Evil!Mark tries to make Our!Mark worse, and Our!Mark tries to make the other better. Something something confronting your idea of the worst version of oneself. Plus, tweaked black and yellow costume because I saw it and immediately went murder hornet lookin' ass and knew I had to draw it. Evil ass Mark. Horrible. I think he should be dragged kicking and screaming into redemption.

[oxventure]

💀 DEADLANDS RETURNS THIS FRIDAY💀 When sinister forces threaten one of their own, our party leaps into action on a new adventure they may not all survive! 🫘 🤠 Tune in to Oxventure: Deadlands weekly on YouTube and The Oxventure Podcast! 🔗 Get notified when the episode drops

[bryverros]

couch theory, we are really going through it rn

[lostintranslaation]

Can’t shake the thought of Zelda slipping into a depressive episode after the Calamity… she never thought she’d live past the Calamity to begin with and yet, here she is, in a Hyrule she doesn’t recognize, and everyone she knew and loved from before is either dead or Changed. She Knows she should be happy but she just. Isn’t. She’s aimless, trying to fall into step with Link who’s trying his best to fall into step with her and it just. Doesn’t work.

And then Link, after the events of totk is just a reeling mess. He’s just defeated the incarnation of evil for the second time in his life and he’s so tired. He’s been running on adrenaline and anxiety for the past year, after waking up in a strange place after being in a coma for six plus months. He’s doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t comb his hair or shave and the villagers in his hometown don’t even recognize him, or maybe it’s that they don’t recognize him alone, without his second half. He sets out to slaughter the demon king or die trying because he can’t stand the thought of Zelda’s sacrifice being for nothing. When he survives the battle he’s surprised, but not nearly as surprised as he is when Zelda rematerializes in front of him and then they’re falling again. He dives for her and clutches onto her, curls himself around her as they hurtle to the ground and if they die like this at least he got to hold her one more time. But they don’t die, and he didn’t die, and she’s not dead. They’re alive, they’re alive, and what are they supposed to do now?

And now Zelda has a new lease on life, her researcher’s brain fueled by all the new experiences she’s just had and people she’s just met and the fact that she’s back, she’s back in a time she knows and she’s back with Link who won’t let go of her hand anymore. He tries to sleep but he just sees her fingers slip out of his grasp over and over and over again. She wants to adventure and see and do and experience and live, but all Link can imagine doing is hiding the two of them away in their Hateno house and barricading the doors before the next great evil comes to steal their peace again.

[tlirswriting]

[They Colonized Mars, entry 4 // start here]

Venus:

Second planet from the sun, rendered uninhabitable 

Roman goddess of love, beauty, and sex 

> Atlas walks down the steps into Cythera’s, crossing the energy disruption field's threshold — a series of simple devices set up around the perimeter of the club to cancel out the city's artificial gravity — and he feels lighter, nearly weightless, the pressure lifting from his bones. 

> The air is warm and sweet in the hazy basement room, thick with candy-flavored nicotine and THC vapor. A tall, four-armed Venusian dances on a small stage against the far wall for a sparse crowd, glowing pink and glittering in the spotlight as she mouths along to the old 2260s pop hit Acid Rain. 

> The music thumps through Atlas, the beat reverberating up from the floor and settling into his chest, pulsing in his lungs. He unzips his jacket and makes his way to the bar at one side of the room to order two of his usual drinks; something strong and fruity with tiny paper umbrellas in it. 

> “This is what people do,” He says to SaM-B, talking over the bass as he sets one glass on top of it. 

> “I cannot drink; I have no mouth.”

> “That's okay, you just have to stand there, maybe you're… moody, and mysterious, or something. Or maybe you're shy, ‘cause it's your first time coming here.” 

> “And this is normal? I am doing it correctly?” 

> “Sure, yeah.” 

> Atlas leans his elbow on the bar and sips his drink, watching the spots of light spinning across the walls, watching the people — mostly Human — bobbing along in ripples or sitting at tables. Two bored-looking lesbians chat quietly in the same corner Atlas always sees them, but he never caught their names; nor the man in a leather harness with scars across his chest, or the girl with green hair that might have been natural. 

> “This place is usually packed tighter when I come here,” He explains. “Saturday night, people are rubbing against each other, snorting zidge in the bathroom…” 

> “This is fun?” SaM-B asks him.

> “Well, I like it.” 

> He downs the rest of his drink and makes his way to stand by the stage where a handful of people are crowded, staring up at the Venusian; she's ethereally androgynous, shimmering like a mirage, larger than life in her heels and moving like gravity forgot her. She calls herself Majel Stardust. 

> Alcohol works its fingers through Atlas, relaxing his shoulders, easing the knots in his back. He breathes — digs through his wallet for a 1.0 note — reaches out to her, hands touching briefly when she takes it, leaning close enough to smell her perfume and she tucks it into her bra. She's electric, dripping glitter, commanding attention; she's mile-long legs and hands you can't keep track of, she's power and grace, you'd almost believe the blasting music was her own voice. 

> It's all an illusion, but Atlas loves the show, dazzling lights mirrored in rows of bioluminescent spots along his cheekbones and down his arms, only visible when his defenses and inhibitions are lowered. 

> SaM-B holds perfectly still beside him, watching intently, its lights blinking in time with the rhythm. 

> She finishes her set, and disappears behind the curtain as the people cheer. A moment later, she's behind him, a hand lightly brushing his shoulder to spin him around. 

> “Atlas, baby!” Her voice is deep and rich like honey. “It's a Tuesday, what are you doing here?” 

> “Supporting artists,” He jokes as she leads him away towards a table near the back. “What are you doing, stealing me from the other queens?” 

> She laughs. “The next one's Mz. Tuna Piano, that bitch is always late.”

> He hums. “Yeah, she is.” 

> “But honestly, really,” She puts a right hand around his shoulders, and another right hand on his waist. “Talk to me. What are you doing here? You look like the train caught you.” 

> He sighs. “I, uh… I had a weird day at work, I couldn't go straight home. Needed to clear my head.” 

> She gestures to SaM-B after they sit down. “Who's your friend?” 

> “My weird day at work.” He grabs the drink balancing on top of it and takes a sip. “That, and somebody died again.” 

> “You gotta get out of there, honey; they'll eat you alive.” 

> “I will, soon, it's just…” He shakes his head. “And go where, y'know?” 

> “Here, maybe.” She sucks on a thin metal tube and blows a ring of pomegranate-scented clouds. “Anywhere. Doesn't matter much, does it?” 

> Atlas chuckles. “I'm not built for entertaining.” 

> “Some people like Martians, with your big brown eyes. You could grow your hair out…” 

> “No, really, I can't.” 

> She studies him for a moment, something knowing in her compound eyes. 

> “I'm gonna get out,” He repeats. “I have plans, I just need a little more time.” 

> She hums. “You want a hit?” She offers. “I hear sometimes humans get a kick out of CO2, makes ‘em dizzy — wonder what it'll do to you.” 

> “No, thanks; I'd feel kinda bad taking your air.” 

> “Suit yourself.” 

> He watches her curl her mandibles around her electric cigar, draw in a deep breath, and beckon him closer — he obeys, leaning in, and she tilts his chin up to press her mouth to his and blow; he breathes in concentrated oxygen, carbon filtered by her lungs, fresh and crisp, artificially sweet. He pulls away and giggles.

> “There,” She says. “You don't have to be guilty about it.” 

> SaM-B emits a high-pitched whine. 

> “Poor thing,” Majel chuckles. “Is it sentient?” 

> Atlas begins answering, “I'm pretty sure, yeah—” 

> “I wish I was you,” It beeps. 

> “I get that a lot, honey.” 

> He sips his drink and thinks about what it meant by that. 

> The night rolls on, soft around the edges, pleasantly dark and spinning like galaxies. 

>>

> Walking home, still buzzing, Atlas leans on SaM-B as they go — his body feels leaden and too-loose, metal pins digging into his flesh to keep his legs on straight — and he slurs: “D'you understand why I took you here?” 

> It beeps, “I think so.” 

> “My point…” The words swim in his head and roll clumsily off his tongue. “With all of this, is that there's more to being alive than your programming.” 

> They can see Mars’ two moons meeting in the middle of the sky through the top of the dome, dancing among silver ribbons of noctilucent clouds. 

> “I want a name,” It says.

> “Yeah?” 

> “I think Selene would be nice.” 

> “Yeah, alright.” 

> A beat. “Can I be a girl?” 

> “Sure, why not?” 

> “Thank you, Atlas.” 

> “You don't need my permission.” 

> It’s true, but she needs to hear it.

> They wobble along the street under holographic advertisements shimmering in the artificial sky. 

> Atlas vaguely remembers getting on the train — rising up over the streets, city lights glowing trails around him — dozing off, and waking up when the brakes squeal at his stop. 

> Staggering out into the cold air again, he's hit by the wind, particles of sand scratching his face and sticking to the corners of his eyes. The storm is habitable inside the dome (outside, the winds are harsher, kicking up dust clouds miles high) but unpleasant enough that he quickens his pace the rest of the way home. 

Next >>

[madnessiseverything]

oh hermes, fluttering bird in a gilded cage:

Your love is scheming, irritable, angry; a man forever itching to pull the strings of those around him. Coins spent here, a thread tugged there, lives cut short with but a look—your love wears Atropos’ mantle like his own birthright, his self-claimed destiny a shield against those with other plans. His eyes never rest, forever calculating even in the dark of night, with only fire to reflect his ideas.

Your love is terrified.

You see it plain as day, though the words never make it out into the tentative space between you and him. Fear stretches across his skin like spiderwebs, floats in the air around him like ash. He paints it red, calls it justified fury, wields it like a knife—but your love is afraid.

He shakes with it, wine spilling past his lips like blood—like he’d finally bitten off his brother’s head only to find it as poisonous as the viper lurking in his brother’s home. For once, no plans rest in wide eyes, narrowly escaped death carving deep enough to show bone.

Your love snarls like a caged beast, like his beloved ghost lion rattling the bars somewhere below, mouth bloodied and eager for more. When he turns to face you, his teeth seem sharper in the firelight.

You abandon warm silk for cold marble floors, dig out his reasons from between growled threats and despair. Your hand reaches over the snapping fangs of his mood, soft and gentle when it finds his throat.

Your heart rests on your tongue. All you can think of is the frantic beat of a bird’s wings, never fast enough to escape your love’s bow, forever doomed to try still.

Your love is a schemer, a smith of usurpation and bloodied paths. His fires of ambition sputter between your hands. With a bird-wing heart and your own ambitious words, you make yourself a spark for his flame.

Your love kisses you gentler than ever before. His lips curve in a smile you can’t help but replicate, relief and hope filling up your lungs like ocean air.

You lock your fears of the man you call love away behind them both.

[spraynd]

god ive never seen this picture of him with the mustache, this look was sooooo good

[lefttoesucker69]

Thinking about those weird british faggots isn't enough I need to chew on them

[artificial-hope]

It’s giving when an artist (me) doesn’t know how to draw characters interacting so they just exist next to each other LOL

[dippers-search-history]

Okay I'm coming around to fiddleford. Accidentally joining a throuple with your college bestie and his insufferable nightmare situationship, breaking up with your bestie/true love, immediately having sex with his twin brother to get back at him, and then accidentally falling in love with him also is um. Hilarious. Gay rights for him only.

[lanternlightss]

i think venti and dahlia should kiss