#they hit diff

[cxlrose]

is it bad that when i look for ai bots i look for the ones that aren’t overly in love w the user and instead i loook for the toxic ones

[mebssann]

P-bubs, the woman in STEM ever

[samijey]

sami and jey got less than 4 seconds of screen time in this ad and still somehow managed to bump hands and get their arms intertwined is this a joke

+ bonus wholesome behind the scenes moment

[dreamaboutwhathappens]

here's to all of us having at least one serious moment in the past year where we thought rep tv was coming. and to 2025!

[twentytworoses]

It feels too fitting for Phainon to be idiotic enough to accidentally engage in a Kremnos courtship ritual and court Mydei without his notice with how battle and strength is so tied to Kremnos culture HSHSH

[chichapalabok]

what if yuri... sonoko never got that injury and conan didnt get that antidote lmao

[euniveve]

I like my men the way i like my cheese

Aged.

Anyhow, here are the anomalies (or alternatively, older brothers)

[kooki914]

Decided to experiment a bit with how I draw these two and got these doodles out of exaggerating their proportions and stuff

GOD i missed my men <- never stopped thinking about them not even for a second

[wackywatchdotcom]

hi i compiled a bunch of unfinished tadc art/sillier stuff ive done within the last while that im p sure ill never get around to polishing

[jays-supersonic-dynamo]

some survivalshipping wrow

[amaranthdahlia]

i think someone's gonna be murdered 2nite

[linka-from-captain-planet]

obvi the hurdle - and the appeal - with Clea/Lune is that Clea doesn't think Lune is a person... or does she...

walk with me

(entire game spoilers)

Clea thinks that Alicia needs some looking after in the canvas, but you really think she'd just make a beeline for that meatbag wearing their brother's face? No way. Early on, she deigns to check on "Maelle" herself.

Naturally, every moment she spends lurking around "Lumiere", the cursed diorama that it is, is excruciating. But Clea is also a curious woman, and this place has... well, she shan't call it it culture. Customs, perhaps.

They make art. Play music. Craft beautiful clothing, weapons, technology. They developed folklore, even (much of it blaming Aline for things she, Clea, did, which she finds amusing). And is it not Clea's impossible dream to see all of the world's art and collect all of its fables? This place is decidedly not 'the world', but so long as Clea is shackled to this canvas, babysitting her entire family of adults, mind you, and thus cannot even savor the theatres and salons and galleries of her beloved Paris, let alone anywhere else...

Well, when she pops in once a canvas-year or so to make sure "Maelle" isn't toddling herself off the dock (she is duly unsurprised when her dear sis is deemed a dud and relegated to the lowest rung of this place's child labor strata - typical), Clea also takes a look around. Why not - she's already here.

So picture, say, Monolith year 40ish when a tall woman catches Clea's eye on her annual survey. Clea doesn't keep tabs on the menagerie, but her eyes trail carefully over a tattoo she doesn't recall seeing before. Chroma ink, clearly; a talisman of some sort, probably...

She knows what such a long and deliberate stare, one woman to another, would signal in her usual haunts in Paris - Le Hanneton, Le Souris, Le Rat Mort, places women of a certain inclination carved out for themselves in a man's world. It doesn't cross her mind that it might signal the same thing, here, until the woman stares back - at Clea's eyes, her lips, the notch of her collarbone exposed by her loose shirt collar - and smiles and approaches.

(Clea assumes that sapphism arose as a natural variation among these creatures, the byproduct of Aline's facsimile of humanity. Certainly Aline didn't do it on purpose, considering the man that her own face-wearing meatbag was involved with...)

But anyway, Clea hadn't bothered to speak with a Lumerian since those fools in the first year, and she isn't particularly interested in speaking with this woman, either. But. She'd never admit to feeling lonely, let alone pent up, but... Well.

It only takes a few minutes of conversation to realize this is a mistake. The woman is charming, intelligence and drive - and hunger - brimming behind her dark eyes. Her fingertips are blood-warm, trailing up Clea's arm as they chitchat. As if she were flesh-and-blood after all, and not chroma mimicking such.

She's a woman. Human. A person, but not real.

Clea had distanced herself from it before - the abomination Aline wrought in this place of wonder. The reasons why it's wrong - and against the Council's rules - are obvious.

But it's different - not so obvious - when the wrongness is in front of her, smiling, whispering an invitation in her ear. She thinks of her father's effigy of her, hunched over, crushed under the weight of the world. In comparison, the woman's hands are light, discreetly guiding her down the street and up into to a quaint apartment, passing her an open bottle of wine, brushing a hand up her calf to stroke her knee...

Clea reminds herself that this is her mother's sin, not hers. Aline made these people, and made them people. (And Clea knew that, all along - why else would she feel the need to check on Alicia if people weren't people? But she hadn't thought about it much, and that makes her feel like a fool, which means she profusely rejects it.) Aline gave these people free will, and this woman used it to pick her up, and that's that.

And anyway, why should she be the only one taking no temporary comfort from this canvas? Her whole family lost to her, alienated from her social group, hardly able to paint or sculpt or sing for pleasure for all her responsibilities...

Clea takes, and gives - nice to be appreciated again, to hear that's perfect panted in her ear again - , and it all blurs together and there are no gods here, aside from her and her parents, nor is she a believer, but Clea nevertheless thanks God that the kind of woman who picks up another off the streets here is just like the kind that'd do the same in the real world. The offer to have supper after washing up is sincere - but so is the relief in the woman's eyes when Clea declines, says she has somewhere else to be and other things to do.

Which she does.

She wasn't wrong, but she'll have no more of it - these people. Won't make the same mistake twice. She's already done her part; her pets are already doing what righteousness and the rules say she must. Aline may have stretched the time in this canvas to a ridiculous dilation, but it will only be several more days, real-time, maximum, before Renoir wrests control. What must never be done shall be undone well within the remediation period the Council would prescribe, if it ever discovered her family's transgression.

She considers stopping at Esquie's Nest, considers saying hello - or goodbye - to Francois. But she reconsiders. Attachment is Aline's vice, not hers, and it's cruel to taunt a living thing with its impending doom. The macabre puppet wallowing underneath her mother's glowing number is torture enough for the beings of this world.

So her pet sails and soars around until she finds it - him- , the meatbag wearing her brother's face. He's different from the last time she saw him - more tired, more inclined to listen to reason. Good - this time, he might finally make himself useful.

[sandflakedraws]

:33ccccc

[dizzybizz]

some doodles

[the-impulse-to-love]

figuring them out

[pix-dust]

More 🤠 🐓

Too see the second image in full click here