Rn?????????????? - Tumblr Posts

OK so, bear with me here (HAH), I wanted to show how the moltens would be looking since I wanted to know your opinion on them and I'm excited of how they look rn, also a bit of the boiler room and a little extra

(Was trying to channel all my fear towards the funtimes with Ballora, I think it worked out)

AAAAaand the little extra of The Clown (Alive version) because he wouldn't leave my head (save me please).

I should draw something ARI nightmares related sometime...

Oh. my. LORD THESE ARE SO COOL! 8D THESE are my references from now on- You made Ballora especial just so creepy, but perfect!

I'm seriously impressed too, considering the descriptions of the Moltens are basically just 'they're pretty broken'- you did an incredible job capturing them! I'm not exaggerating, I WILL be showing these off anytime I get a chance to or if someone asks, because they turned out amazing! 😁

Also I love the human Ennard 🥺Look at those proud but confused adopted siblings admiring/questioning/rethinking their non-clown clown! AH

And Bianca and Tyson!!!

Thalia Tyson and hazel should go on their own adventure together

I would read that so hard

everytime somebody talks about the big three kids and excludes thalia and hazel an angel loses their wings

CAN PARENTS ACTUALLY TALK TO ME FOR FUCKING ONCE!FFS

grrrrrrr

anyways

art time

also, here's a profile image I made for myself and a new oc. He doesn't have a name yet

TW FOR BLOOD ON THE LAST FRAME !!!

aaand thats the end of the prologue <3 this is an infection au i’ve been having ideas about for like,,, a while!! so. :] i plan to make more, thank you!!

FIRST PART OF THE PROLOGUE!!

Drawing some of my mutual’s Raph’s!! This was so fun :]

the mutuals in question(from left to right): @diona-98 @tsumikis-number-one-fan @probably-not-a-rutabaga @allyheart707 @koolaidashley2 @friskyeee

I know the writers didn’t think much of this, obviously, but two characters just got ran over and didn’t even just brush it off; it didn’t even register. Fuck you, I’m entirely going to take this too seriously. I like how much more thought provoking this is when you realize neither of said characters are human. Does April not think much of stuff like this, because she’s never hurt by it? Thinking back to how immediately she dismissed the deadly chemical brew thing that Mikey spilled on her. Like, wow it’s weird that I didn’t die but I have things to do so- I love that. Her standards for danger and injury and stuff are different to most. Explains why she immediately has no issue handling aliens and shit with no training. She just threw herself into this mess to save her dad. Also that time she bit a Krang bot guy. Love that. But I feel like it’s indicative of a larger pattern of behavior, brought on by the fact she doesn’t recognize the level of danger she’s supposedly in. Her only friends are Casey and Irma. Casey is Casey, and Irma is a Krang in a robot. She surrounds herself with mutants. I think she just doesn’t recognize the amount of damage a fully human person is able to sustain. Getting hit by a motorbike is nothing, and that’s reinforced when Irma is fine too.

the garden of basil rowan moore 🌿

art by me, script by @sunkitty143! (we no longer allow comic dubs!)

some notes:

aside from basil's parents' general design and the implication that they're busy and rich, everything else about his family outside of his grandmother is cat's headcanon!

the flowers assigned to each family member are olive blossom (oliver), dahlia (dahlia), sea aster (oliver's father), goldenrod (elijah), rosemary (rosemary), and azaleas (basil's grandmother)

the flowers in the last part represent the people (new and old) in basil's life!

dahlias are in the same family as daisies and sunflowers!

basil's dream of his family tree/garden is inspired by the meadow in headspace

spirit mari takes the form of her 15 year old self to basil, as he never wants to turn away from the truth again

thank you again for the patience and encouragement as we worked on this!! i honestly wouldn't have gotten through this much work over the months if i wasn't in love with what cat wrote, so i hope you enjoy it! 🫶

"settles his ass" LMAO 💀💀

I love the fact that this is written in various POVs !! Your writing is rllg good 🤩 and Horangi turning ffom a big bad tiger into a domesticated cat??, bruh thats so fuckin clever man 😭😭

Im honoured thwt you hwve been inspired my by fic ... 🥹💖🫶💞💕✨ Loving yoir take on this and would love to read more !<33

“seeing double”

synopsis: könig thought he was the only one that could hear and see you for a while. that is, until horangi mentions someone singing.

word count: 1.8k

characters: könig, horangi, player! reader, reader's unnamed friend

trigger warnings: mention of canon-typical violence, mentions of/thoughts of relapse (horangi’s past gambling addiction), hornagi is like obsessive too lololol (also forgot to add STILL insp. by/referencing @simp4konig 's self-aware könig piece)

notes: uh pov switches from omnipotent third-person könig to omnipotent third-person hornagi. oops lol also the temp. is in fahrenheit in celsius it would be ~26 degrees

König thought he was the only one for a long while. All these operators around him were only given minds through their code and pixels – König was the one with an actual brain in his skull. 

That was, until another operator heard you. 

You – and, someone else, maybe a friend from your world? – were singing along to some song unknown to König, mumbling the parts you didn’t know so well and bursting with energy at the parts you knew by heart.

König was waiting for the mission time to arrive in the armory, quietly listening to you and your friend. He felt some warmth from you – a small percent of what you’re capable of making him feel. Just enough to know you’re there, that you have eyes on him, to know the singing isn’t a delusion.

Horangi was also in the armory, his footsteps light as he peruses the wall of firearms. He plucks a Fennec 45 from the wall before turning it over in his hands and inspecting it – though he seems distracted while doing so. 

He turns to König and adjusts his sunglasses. “Do you hear that?”

König looks up from the stray skid mark on the floor he was looking at. “Hear what?”

“The…” Horangi gestures vaguely around him, then taps his earpiece. His voice drops to a lower volume, like he didn’t want anyone else hearing. “The singing. Do you not hear that?”

König stays silent for a moment. He checks over his shoulder to make sure no one else is in the armory before turning back to Horangi. “I hear it.”

Horangi breathes a sigh of relief, but doesn’t say anything else. He settles his ass on one of the thick, plastic ammo crates, fiddling with the Fennec 45, repeatedly pressing the magazine release before pushing the magazine back in. 

The singing stops, leaving only the music playing. Then, a voice is heard – “I’ve never seen Horangi do that. What is he, nervous?” 

And then, your voice – “Hey, don’t bully him!”

Horangi’s back snaps straight up as he looks around the armory. “What was that? Is someone else in here?”

König pulls at his hood so he can see Horangi better. “You’re really hearing them?”

“Yes.” Horangi looks at König. “Where are they?”

König shakes his head. “It’s best if we discuss this later.” In reality, König was dying to discuss this with another person – it was as if this heavy burden had been lifted now that he could talk to someone about you, about this video game they lived in, about everything while actually having something to back him up. 

Only a few seconds later, the siren sounds and it’s go time. Footsteps hit the ground and operators rush to the rooftops to be taken away to the hot zone. 

When both Horangi and König are secured on the helicopter, they don’t talk for a while, only sharing occasional glances (silent promises that no, the other is not insane, and no, this is not the start of a mass hysteria outbreak).

When boots hit the ground, König feels that oh-so-familiar warmth flood his body, blooming like a lotus from his chest to his limbs. He nods to Horangi to stick close. 

The music was turned down and all focus was on the battlefield – your silent guidance gave König commands to carry out, while your friend did the same with Horangi. 

Commands are barked out by the operators, you and your friend give excited praise, and the battlefield is a mess of noise. Bullets fly every which direction, sprays of brrrrrr-AT! echo off the abandoned buildings, some of which were still in the process of being built. 

This is urban warfare. 

As a SpecGru operator turns the corner, König pulls Horangi back behind a concrete half-wall (half because the rest of the wall had been sloughed off by explosions). To König, the touch is nothing, but to Horangi? Oh, that touch felt like bliss. 

It was you, striking a match and tossing it into the full burning barrel that was his lungs. Horangi pumped air into them like he was having a goddamn panic attack so that when his lungs caught fire, the rest of him did too. Your fire was slow, yet burning and hot all the same. It made him want to collapse in your white-hot flame and be consumed by you and not even care that he was ash and –

The feeling was gone, and Horangi was normal again. As normal as he could be when shivering in full tactical gear while it was eighty degrees out. 

König’s voice breaks through the haze. “Horangi?”

Horangi shifts so that he’s sitting with his back against the concrete half-wall. “Yes, sir?”

“You solid?”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. “The voices… our voices. The ones…” he gestures to his earpiece. “I heard them. And then I had a hot flash when you touched me.”

“Focus,” König hisses. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. He peeks out from behind the concrete half-wall, then ducks back behind it. 

“Ready, sir?”

“When you are.” 

The battle is easy for König and Horangi when a benevolent being and a lesser one are controlling their every movement. It doesn’t hurt that the warmth serves as adrenaline, a body high that keeps them both alive and bold. Battle chatter fades into the background when that song and your rushed praise fills their ears and makes them feel warmer than you already make them. 

When the last opposing operator falls, the message is relayed until every KorTac operator is back at the helicopters. 

“Wheels up in two!” the pilot calls out. 

König and Horangi move together up to the cabin of the helicopter and silently sit next to each other, hands working deftly to buckle themselves in. 

Horangi tilts his chin up and lets the back of his helmet hit the headrest. He takes his sunglasses off and wipes them of dust and a spurt of blood. His eyes wander over the ceiling of the helicopter, quietly listening to you and your friend celebrate. 

“Who are they?” he quietly asks König. 

König leans closer to Horangi, the hem of his hood brushing Horangi’s shoulder. His voice is quiet. “I call them players. I know the one who told the other not to bully you. We… I don’t think we exist on the same plane as them. I think of them as a god. They help me – us, now.”

Then, König leans closer and whispers your name like a single-word prayer. 

And, fuck, how Horangi wants to fall back into gambling so he could whisper your name into his cupped hands while he’s shaking the dice just as he rolls that blessed seven. His breath falters for a split second as he thinks of the divine luck you’d bring him at the craps table, your fingers – assuming you were even human, or humanoid – trailing down his arms, touching his wrist to imbue his hands with your power. He’d happily worship you if it meant feeding that rush when the payout is high, and… shit. Hornagi takes a deep breath before he quickly corrects his thoughts and directs them elsewhere. 

He doesn’t even know where those thoughts came from. Well, he knows where the thoughts of relapse come from, but he doesn’t know where the thoughts about you stem. He’s barely felt your warmth, yet in your presence, he doesn’t want to be the big bad tiger – he wants to be the housecat that rubs up against your legs and gets away with knocking pill bottles off the counter. 

“Can you feel them?” König asks in a hushed whisper.

Horangi nods. Your fire is a dull thrum in his chest, but your heart is beating right next to his nonetheless. “Yes.”

König knocks his knee against Horangi’s. “Focus on something small. Circular. Like a light. That’s how I see them.”

Horangi hums and looks at the ceiling. He focuses on a small red indicator light, his eyes unfocusing as he keeps eye contact with the tiny LED. And, slowly but surely – just as König said – something else came into view, slowly creeping into his peripheral vision. 

It was a small bedroom – a shoebox, really. Dimly lit by fairy lights. A bed, a desk, a dresser… Someone was on the bed, and the other person was in the desk chair. They were both holding game controllers, facing each other. Talking. 

“We need to play their Thanksgiving album,” the person in the chair says. 

“To what, pregame for Thanksgiving?” the person on the bed laughs. “That’s months away.”

And with that angelic laugh, Horangi knows that’s you. The person laying on their stomach on the bed, with your perfect smile, perfect fingers holding the game controller. 

You reach for your phone and unlock it, the screen lighting up your face. You tap at it a few times before too-loud music starts playing – a man yelling about how dangerous gas station tweakers are.

“Ay, turn that down!” your friend protests. 

You grunt and turn it down a little. The music is hard funk-trap, and you and your friend sing along. It’s something like – “Closed casket funeral, but Imma have to peek in; tryna get real, like, sorry, I was sleepin’!”

Hornagi quietly listens to the rest, keeping his eyes still so he can keep you in his sight. You and your friend prattle off the rest of the song, even going as far as vocalizing the instruments. 

When the song ends, you roll on your side and face your friend. “We should listen to their Halloween album next. Then their Christmas album. Then their Valentine’s Day single. And then start up their Thanksgiving album again.”

God knows how Horangi would let you. He’d love to watch you do anything – even if you’re doing nothing. He’d do anything just to reach out and touch you. Run his hands over your face and watch your nose scrunch up at his touch, your eyes squeezing shut. Your smile would be just like the one you’re wearing right now, accentuating the apples of your cheeks perfectly. 

And he’d love to sit with you as that artist’s Halloween album, Thanksgiving album, Christmas album and Valentine’s Day single play, even if he didn’t understand the slang the men used. He’d rub his hands up and down your back – anywhere he could touch you, really – as you explained what they meant when they said they were gonna “pop a thirty an’ get real sturdy.”

And maybe one day he’d make that a reality.

@puppetpals

yippee :)

younger me, trying to figure out if I'm trans: that would be so expensive though

no thoughts mind empty LAKSAKSASK HE’S SO HOT

The feetish tag never fails to deliver beautiful feet 😵‍💫

HHHHH HHRHEHESHE KUNIANGO ON MY DASHBOARD

Taking this opportunity to upload some Kuniango doodles from past art hangouts that i never posted. Aah, nerd love...

I saw a really cute short-haired fem!kunikida design that I used as inspiration, sadly I don't remember the artist :(

no DONT APOLOGIZE ITS MUCH BETTER THAN MINE and whoever complains about its longevity better worry about their own tbh

The hero feels dizzy. Unsteady on their feet.

The villain, their best friend, glares at them unmasked.

They know. They know. This is a curse.

"You seem rather surprised."

"You're..." my best friend. My dearest. My love. "Plainer than I thought."

"And not as young, I bet."

"Yeah."

It morphs into silence. The hero's heart beats like a hammer, into their organs, dropping down past their stomach like a weight they're too weak to lift. They feel sick. They haven't eaten. There's bile clawing up their esophagus.

The hero heaves in a breath and turns away.

"I've unmasked several heroes before," says the villain. "And villains alike. There's something dispiriting about seeing their face, isn't there?"

"Yeah." The hero's vision won't focus. Do they know? Do they know now? The hero's fingers curl into fists and they force the nausea down. "I'd rather continue the chase pretending this never happened."

"But it did happen. You'll never let this go, you'll search for me. Won't you?"

Like the searching hadn't been done. Like the hero doesn't know their favourite fruit, how they cut their apples, how they like it when the hero feeds them oranges, damn it. How they can be cruel sometimes and the hero expects it. How they watch them like a hawk when they're holding the kitchen knife, chopping up onions and garlic and chillies like they'll stab them.

Do they know? Did they always know? Were they just waiting for the hero to know, too?

The hero kneels down on wobbly feet. Untie the ropes with cold, numb hands.

The villain stares down at them. Their friend. The sweetest thing they had until a minute ago. The cruelest, most viscous thing they have. Their dearest. Their love.

The next day the hero falls ill, sneezing into tissues. The villain presses the paper against their nose, clogging the airways until the hero has to breathe through their mouth. The chicken soup is just a tad saltier. Their hands are just a smallest bit more rough. Their quips come more easily. They stare longer. The villain never leaves their side for a moment.

This is a curse. This is torture.

The villain wipes away a tear, pretending the hero's eyes are dry because of the cold weather. They pretend their sniffles are from the sickness.

"Hard, isn't it?" they say, tracing lines into the hero's palm. "Being an undergrad. Working so hard knowing damn well this is all fruitless work. The truth is rarely so kind."

"I've known."

"But it punches you in the face and you fall ill."

The hero pretends they're talking about their failed project. They take the villain's hand and squeeze hard. So hard it is past the strength of their civilian identity.

I love you. I love you. Is this what ends us?

It is a kindness that the villain does not acknowledge it.

"Thank you," the hero says, even though what they want to do is sob into their friends chest and feel them card their fingers through their hair. I love you. I love you. Isn't that enough?

The villain takes a tissue and suffocates the hero with it until their mouth opens again. "You're welcome."

All throughout their life, all that they were was just a pair of actors, weren't they?

wanna post about kevin x angel. does anyone wanna hear about kevin x angel? please tell me to stfu about oc x canon before i lose my shit

wow Ace attorney doodles two days in a row?

yes 😔

I finished the first case of the second game and boy it was surprisingly queer

A little comic ive done, dont ask how she even got there i dont have an explenation shes just special like that

(I love how i accidentally made it look like she called the Tallests like wtf bro how would she even know how to do that???)

here’s that comic