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#they wouldn't be wrong
annanuna-arts · 4 months
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me: ok, I need a break from bg3. I need to clear my head. Time for some drawing
also me:
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a couple scribbles i cleaned up. also i think i like drawing him in varying states of distress
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lotus-pear · 7 months
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double black
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elegantmarigold · 26 days
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Sam being immediately called out for lying about being done with the "Magnus stuff" is so funny. Absolutely no one believes you. The computers don't believe you. Alice doesn't believe you. You don't believe yourself. You are in a series titled "the Magnus protocol". This is the most obviously incorrect statement in the entire podcast so far.
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fairycosmos · 2 years
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god i love being at home!! catch me at HOME!!
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 2 months
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Swapping tips on how to be a bestie in the bath.
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stil-lindigo · 1 year
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the sunset.
a comic about two outlaws who loved each other, despite everything.
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--
all my other comics
store
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anakinh · 8 months
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endless ffvii → (32/∞)
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radiance1 · 9 months
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Alfred Pennyworth has in fact, perhaps, in the slightest of chances.
Picked up his Master's habit of collecting children as if they were on sale.
He was spending his time on one of those rare vacations he decided to take, it was nice, to relax with only the vague overhanging worry of something going wrong back at the manor that he's gotten very good at ignoring.
Only to come across a child bleeding out in an alley, heavily injured.
He would not be able to live with himself if he didn't at least try to help them however he could.
Such is how he acquired a child he later found to be a meta who whished to learn the ways of a butler.
---
Danny had escaped from a GIW compound, after having been handed over by his family a while after his reveal. He felt, completely and utterly betrayed, when it happened. His parents, while hurt, he was at least capable of actually seeing them do it, but never would he have thought Jazz would do so as well.
They did it so happily, that he wondered if letting him go really was the greatest thing to happen to this family.
He chained, muzzled, all the ways to bind him they pulled all the stops too, knowing how dangerous he was. He wouldn't have even done anything then, too stunned by his families apart willingness at handing him over to the government.
He hated them.
He hated them so much.
The GIW facility was a terrible, cold, unfeeling place. One where they drilled thoughts into his head again and again until he found himself unconsciously repeating them when his head felt empty, one where his body gained a new mark day by day and pushed through tests, he had no clue of even hoping to comprehend what they would gain out of it.
It was a cold, unfeeling place. Placed in a cell of white and nothing else, with low walls and chains binding his body in place until the time came for another experiment.
It was a room he grew used to. One he even held some kind of strange, twisted affection for.
It was a room that held a tiny piece of safety, of rest. It was a room that taught him to hate.
A deep, powerful, disgusting, twisting hatred that crawled from the depths of his cells, corrupting his blood and carving itself deep into his bones. Forcing it's out of his pores until it practically oozed from his flesh.
It drowned his mind, tainting each and every thought, every memory, every dream, every waking moment until he could feel nothing but hatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehate.
When he was taken out of that he could feel nothing, with the drugs swimming their way through his blood that snapped the thin string keeping him between a person and an emotionless puppet.
He thinks that's what the GIW thinks he is.
And when he was placed back in that room, he could only hate.
It was a cycle. Stuck between feeling either nothing or hatred.
He hated feeling nothing, it made him feel like he wasn't real. Like it snapped the thread that held him between what a real person was and a dream.
So, he allowed himself to drown deep into his hatred. Until the white walls of his far to small room seemed to fade, until whatever sound he could have heard became nothing but dull noise.
Until the passage of time seemed to become just a blink.
He didn't know what day it was, when he saw it. Saw them. He didn't know the time, the date, the day, the hours. He knew nothing.
But he could recognize his family. Recognize one of the objects of his intense hatred that he forced his thoughts too. The people who willingly gave him up just like that and one of the causes for his current life.
He didn't know why they showed him them, he felt it some sick, utterly cruel joke. A joke he didn't know the punchline for, a joke the universe sent his way to make his life all the more miserable.
There were multiple of them. Multiple clones of his family. Som within test tubes, some being pulled out from the tubes, some walking around in lab coats. A waste of talent, they called it in his dad's case, a waste of intelligence in his mother's, and a waste of intellect in his sister's case.
His original family was already dead, he was told. Replaced by clones, clones that took over the legal decision to change his guardianship. Clones walking around twisting and desecrating his family.
'At least it was painless.' One of the clones said, talking with his mother's face. 'Far more than they deserved for having keeping a thing like him' spoken by his father's imposter.
The drugs pumping through his system to keep him calm, to keep him feeling nothing was suddenly pierced through by an intense feeling of horror, hate and self-loathing.
He should've known it wasn't his family. He should've done more! More to protect them! To keep them safe! The could've still been alive if he just knew.
In that moment, watching imposters speaking, walking, talking, breathing, with his families faces. He exploded. Exploded with a power fueled by nothing but his intense hatred for every. Single. Living being in this goddamn facility.
He killed whoever stood in his way. Managing to get his hands on relatively newly designed weapon, an ectoplasmic scythe (that also apparently could revert into an everyday item). Which he used to rip and tear throughout the entirety of the facility. He got injured, of course, he couldn't dodge everything, but he didn't care.
A body stuck between life and death, incapable of fully going one way or the other no matter what happened. Gifted supernatural powers fueled by wrath and twisting hatred and a weapon made by man yet in the range of the supernatural.
They didn't stand a change. He killed them all. No matter who it was, man, woman, clone. He didn't, couldn't care. He could only kill, only maim, only hurt.
And that's what he did.
It was then, when the facility was blanketed with silence tainted by despair, death and hysteria. When previously white walls were covered by blood, and the halls turned into rivers of blood and corpses. That he broke down, the overwhelming hatred he felt replaced by relief then sadness then self-loathing.
His family didn't give him up! But they were killed. Kill because of him. He couldn't stand being in this place, anymore. His body felt as if it were moving on unseen strings as it walked through the halls, the scythe shrinking back what it was when out of combat, his mind too occupied by thoughts and feelings.
It walked through a portal, one to the ghost zone, and then promptly into another portal and spat him out into an alleyway. Which he then promptly collapsed and curled into a ball, curing the shrunken scythe in his palm and he was out like a light.
A few days after he woke up, he found himself growing attached to the human that found him in that alleyway. An old man, maybe, but a nice one. He didn't want to meet anyone, besides that man, so he turned invisible when anyone else come into contact with him.
Alfred Pennyworth.
It was a name he clung onto mentally and a man he clung onto physically as well. He wanted to be like that man, someone so nice and caring, someone who didn't mind that he turned invisible at the sing of another person, who let him cling onto him both invisible and not whenever he wanted to.
He did panic when he heard Alred saying his vacation was over, and such that he had to leave. He didn't want to be left alone again, he didn't know what he would do if he was left alone again.
Until Afred said we were going home.
We. As in, him plus another. Alfred plus Danny.
Home.
Heat blossomed in his chest, seeming to replace the constant, low hum of hate sitting beneath him skin.
Home.
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copypastus · 6 months
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Feyre's selective hearing is the origin of my villain arc.
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leupagus · 6 months
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On Voting in America
So one of the most profound comments on routine chores that I've ever encountered was, hilariously, the Pickle Rick episode of "Rick & Morty," where (after a lot of shenanigans have already ensued) this therapist absolutely lays Rick out:
"I have no doubt that you would be bored senseless by therapy, the same way I'm bored when I brush my teeth and wipe my ass. Because the thing about repairing, maintaining, and cleaning is: it's not an adventure. There's no way to do it so wrong you might die. It's just work. And the bottom line is some people are okay going to work and some people, well, some people would rather die. Each of us gets to choose."
I think about this at least once a week — usually while I'm doing my laundry or sweeping or some other task that needs doing and won't get me anything more than clean clothing or a dog-hair-free floor. There's no Pulitzer for wiping down your microwave or scrubbing your toilet; no one's awarding you for getting all the dishes out of the sink. At best you have the satisfaction of crossing it off your list.
Voting is very much the same (and I'm talking about the US here, as an American). Sure, you sometimes get a sticker; but nobody's going to cheer for you. There's no adventure here, no potential for anything more than crossing something off of a list. It's a chore, something that needs doing in order to repair, maintain, and yes even clean. So I get why people don't like doing it.
And I've decided I don't give a shit.
Do it anyway. Your country takes astonishingly little from you — taxes, the once-in-a-blue-moon jury duty, and a theoretical draft that hasn't been used in over half a century and likely will never be again — but it asks you (asks! not requires! not demands!) to vote once a year. It's not always easy; especially in conservative states, the impediments to vote can be ridiculous. But it is once a year and unlike in our nation's all-too-recent past, you will not die if you do it.
In fact, the worst outcome from voting these days is that the person or issue that you vote for loses — but you won't know if they lose until after the election. Polls are less accurate now, for a whole host of reasons; you cannot know until after the election who or what will win. This makes your vote more valuable than possibly ever before.
Use that power. Not because it's exciting or even rewarding, but because your vote is what keeps our country's metaphorical teeth from falling out and our metaphorical ass from stinking.
Brush, wipe, vote.
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egophiliac · 8 months
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so on the subject of the "Crowley is secretly Revaan/Laverne/Levin/please Twst give us his name" theory, I think my feelings are best summed up as "I don't really buy it, but it's funny". like, in all seriousness, I'm not opposed to it; I have enjoyed the writing in Twst so far and I'm willing to trust that whatever happens will, you know, make sense and not be terrible. but I'm just not really convinced by the current evidence! maybe that'll change once we learn more, we'll see!
with that said, may I propose a few alternate theories about the possible Crowley/Revaan connection:
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#art#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland spoilers#twisted wonderland episode 7 spoilers#twisted wonderland book 7 spoilers#on this installment of things nobody asked but i'm going to talk about anyway#disclaimer that this is mostly a joke please don't get mad at me#(legit no shade to anyone) (speculation is one of the fun things about an ongoing fandom and you never know what'll turn out to be true!)#more seriously i do think there may be some connection that just isn't clear yet#but the more little breadcrumbs we get about what revaan was like the more i think crowley just doesn't act like him#i adore crowley don't get me wrong#(yes he's a dipshit. this is a feature not a bug.)#but like.#not to harp on the scene about lilia's nrc invitation (i am absolutely going to harp on it)#i do not believe that crowley would go through the trash to fish out the pieces and put them back together and save them#just because it was lilia's. just because lilia might want it again someday.#crowley can ✨yasashii✨ all he wants but we know what he's like#and i REALLY do not believe that lilia wouldn't recognize him. i didn't believe it before and i extra don't believe it now.#then again i do tend to be incredibly off about speculation so! who knows! i will trust the writing for now!#i do 100% believe that meleanor would fall in love with the world's biggest dumbass and then double down super hard. that part tracks.#that said i have decided that ambrose being revaan is actually the funnier option just because it would make crowley SO mad#it wouldn't make sense for him to be mad about it and that would just make him madder
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nelkcats · 9 months
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The King's last gift
Danny was tired, tired of being responsible for protecting the world. At first it was just Amity but the ghosts began to explore more and the halfa was exhausted. He was the only hero available and it was taking its toll.
He knew he couldn't go on like this, let alone with his coronation around the corner but he didn't know what else to do. He knew he couldn't interfere with the world after the crown was on his head. The world would fear him (maybe even more than now) and protecting them with so much power in hand could do more harm than good, but if he didn't protect them, who would?
His core ached at the thought of all those people begging for a hero who wouldn't come, so Danny took desperate measures, and cheated a little.
He visited Desiree; she watched him with a raised eyebrow, curious. And Danny did what he forbade long ago, he wished. He wished for the future and for humanity itself, he uttered the words he had wanted to say ever since he knew he would not be able to visit earth for a long time.
"I wish for the world to be safe even when I no longer live in it, I wish for there to be someone who can protect it, even if it's just a human."
Desiree blinked in surprise not expecting the King who had "forbidden" her to do such a thing. She smiled and nodded. Her power grew exponentially but neither she nor Danny said anything about it. The halfa would not undo that wish after all.
In New Jersey, Thomas and Martha Wayne were celebrating the birth of their son. Neither of them noticed the spark of magic entering the baby, nor the boy's unusually blue eyes. Bruce Wayne, the Ghost King's latest gift to mankind, had been born.
And years later, when the Justice League was formed and everyone was talking to each other, John Constantine looked at the dark knight curiously, wondering if he was aware that he was death's favorite.
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inkskinned · 2 years
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it takes a really long time to unlearn but there's no such thing as "cheating" or "half-assing" being a person. if you need to leave the cabinet doors open, leave them open. microwave your tea. sit down in the shower. buy the eggmaker. use your phone to calculate tip.
it's mostly fake posterity rules. who cares if you microwave your dinners. who cares if you use instant coffee. who cares if you stop watching the show that got boring. we all have a different set of skills and a different life and taking care of yourself is fucking hard.
at the end of your life there will be no final scoreboard. nobody is going to judge you because you brushed your teeth in the shower. there will be no final count of the number of times you had the same meal five nights in a row. there will be no fanfare or party because you won at being a person - and no one will be disappointed that you never understood the point of using paper towels to dry your hands off after washing them.
yeah, in this world, people will put up a fuss. i've noticed some of the biggest fusses are over what you'll put in/on your body. the fact that i will regularly eat deli meat straight out of the bag makes a lot of people genuinely concerned for me. but here's the thing: sometimes that's the only way i'm getting any protein. my doctor says i am doing fine. i'm sticking to my weird snacks and calling it deconstructed charcuterie.
they'll say they're horrified because you take a shortcut. that's fine. it's just that it looks like a shortcut to them because they're on a different life path. these kinds of things stand out to them as important. that's fine too. but for you? you've got other things that already make you pretty hard working. and these tiny things - well, they're just clutter on your journey.
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dnpbeats · 1 month
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im sooooo normal about this actually like the most normal anyone has ever been (x)
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onesidedradiostatic · 2 months
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i dont know much about hazbin but whenever i think of radiostatic i think of the "i'm not gay greg" meme
I MEAN.
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IF THE SHOE FITS.
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