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Can you draw Almight giving birth more and Deku comes in to comfort his dad figure? If not do whatever you want I’ve always enjoyed your work when I was apart of deviantArt. Thanks for keeping it up now that’s it’s tumblr!
With emphasis that this is his father figure. First time drawing Deku’s cute ass. Thanks and enjoy :D
No one has permission to use this picture, DO NOT repost, trace, claim to be your own, edit/modify or de-face in any way!
Got covid the end of last month, now have a super bad cold this past week
I knew math would be awful
At a 31%, very unlikely to the pass subject 😂😅
Much fuck my life lol
This one I'm not quite satisfied with, but, it has come a long way in a month.
I had issues with the knee bend on the model, which made the walk end up looking kind of weird. After my initial idea of having a spotlight follow Mery, I had some feedback saying the moving light was distracting, so I put a larger red spotlight over her that stayed still and left the main focus on the animation.
I think if I could start over, it would be a lot easier to go in and fix little details, but for now, this isn't half bad for my first character animation.
i bought book 1 of the partials series 2 years ago for my birthday. i opened it for the first time and read chapter 1 today.
i am disappointed.
What's the game that gif is from? And why is it so Nope? I'm just really curious :D Thanks for your time!
It’s from P.T., which is a demo that was recently released for PS4. It’s actually a teaser for a new Silent Hill game! So I’m very excited for it.
I played it last night and I thought it was really scary! The game is limited to a very small area, but it’s so atmospheric and the tension is way high, even though there aren’t actually many jump scares. It’s just downright unsettling and disturbing.
This game is super nope. You walk around the corner and a scary ghost lady is just chilling out in the hallway with no way to get around her. You HAVE to walk towards her to progress. I actually walked right back around the corner because I was so scared! XD
Definitely check this game out if you have a PS4 and you’re into horror games. It’s free to download! :) Or you can watch a playthrough on YouTube, but I don’t think watching it is going to be as scary as playing it.
Send my character a nightmare and I will tell you if it breaks them.
It’s almost funny to think that in the wake of Seth’s betrayal and the subsequent declaration of war against the Authority, the determination to rampage through the carefully-laid chessboard, and the open glee for dismantling the bands of enforcers like Rusev, like Kane, like Bad News Barrett, like Randy, like the Wyatts —
— it’s almost funny to think that - just for the briefest moment - as he had tried to ready himself to tear down the tyrannical sneering regime that had taken one brother from him, and driven the other as close as he’d ever been to the brink of madness, Roman had regarded the Wyatt Family as just another weapon in the Authority’s arsenal.
Just a rival tag team for Jimmy and Jey. The handicap match with them, just one more hurdle for Hunter to throw between them and Seth.
But there’s not so much as a whisper of the Authority’s names as Eric Rowan plants him so hard into a bank of lockers that the metal screams and his back explodes with agony all over again. Harper is waiting to grab a fistful of his flak vest from behind as he falls, and the bigger man yanks upward as if hauling back on a leash, leaning too close, taking a dainty, quivering, sniff of Roman’s ear.
Roman’s kicking madly, practically blinded with fury, and yelps at the spurt of blood as Luke swings and smashes his face against the wall, opening the long-healed scar just below his hairline.
He can’t fight, can’t see, he feels dizzy.
Luke’s clammy fingers are releasing his vest, playing along his neck, sliding over his shoulder, gripping him in the armpit, and someone’s arm — maybe Rowan’s; he almost hopes it’s Bray’s, because the growing notion that the patriarch of the Wyatt Family is just lurking somewhere, calculating his moment, is somehow worse — coils around his ankles.
For a moment, a tiny, insane, thought wonders if they mean to tear him in half, but there’s a nauseating lurch of height, cold air on his face, and when they fling him back down, hair flying around his face, and the ridge of his spine practically wraps backward around the bench bolted to the floor, the animal scream that fills the tiny locker room can’t be him, doesn’t even sound like him, but his chest is on fire from the raw, tearing, effort of it.
He’s vaguely aware of the ends of cold, sweating, fingers greedily crawling along his upturned face like the legs of spiders, stroking his hair, before trailing away down his arm, and for a moment there’s no sound at all except the blood in Roman’s ears as he whimpers for air, draped limp across the bench, shoulders on the floor.
Luke and Eric don’t move.
Roman struggles to breathe, twitches his fingers, kicks his heavy feet, even as the toes of his boots barely brush the floor, because it occurs to him that they’re waiting for something.
"Hello again, son," Bray Wyatt’s voice floats down — the weird, arrhythmic, crooning voice that always seems to slither up from nowhere and smother the crowd’s usual jeers.
Roman’s face contorts, and he feels most of the blood he tries to spit upward at the other man spatter warm and wet on his own cheek. Bray’s chuckling, and there’s a fond quality to it, like a man indulging a favorite nephew.
"We’ve not had the… opportunity to be so close in a long time, just the two of us, have we? And how you’ve grown… let me take a look at you, my boy.”
Roman’s heels are skidding, resisting, but Luke and Rowan are both dragging him backward over the bench by the wrists, and the deft kick to Roman’s jaw from their patriarch’s right moccasin even has a kind of careless elegance to it.
Bray Wyatt’s hand is warm and dry as snakeskin as it cups Roman’s chin, and even as the bigger man is blinking the blood out of his eyes, he doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see the mad capering glee behind the civil shell.
"Such an interesting creature," Bray practically hums, as if lovestruck. "Such a fine pedigree, such destructive beauty, such… wasted potential.”
The older man snorts, expression briefly twisted as if smelling something sour, but there’s genuine affection in his voice again as he reaches out and tenderly caresses the knuckles of his other hand across Roman’s cheek.
"Poor child. They don’t know you like I know you.”
He squeezes his fingers, and turns his wrist, forcing the big Samoan’s head to one side, as if inspecting a thoroughbred’s teeth, then bares his own crooked teeth in a formaldehyde smile that seems like it should have beetles scuttling in the cracks.
"I know you,” he repeats, in an intense, almost musical, whisper and the devout fervor in his eyes is bright and certain and utterly devoid of anything sane mooring it to humanity. “I know your purpose.”
He leans close enough that his breath stirs the hairs on Roman’s neck, and gently, almost lovingly, assures him, "Every revelation needs a beast.”
Roman wriggles, jerks his shoulders, trying to turn his head — a small, frantic, prey animal is whining in the back of his head, as if it sees something worse in the soft voice and unfamiliar touch than the battering from before, that he has to get up, has to get away;he feels exposed, pinned open, dissected —
Somehow, through the mobbing panic in his brain, he hears them, in the corridor outside; the soft rubber slap of soles on concrete.
Footsteps. Footsteps, someone’s coming.
The dim, glimmering, thought of rescue floods him with new strength, and he’s squirming, blind, coughing on blood and swallowed spit, mad with terror that they won’t hear him, that he’ll have been so close…
The footsteps stop, and he can hear the tacky squeak as they turn on the sticky floor, and the sudden burst of speed as they race closer. There’s a voice, one he’d know anywhere, and his heart lifts.
Seth.
"Hey! Hey! What the hell — who told you to — get off of him, what do you think you’re doin’?”
Seth is practically spitting with anger, his usual coldrolled efficiency spiking into high-pitched, boiling, fury.
Bray’s hand on his chin is gone, and he can hear the rustle of fabric as the older man graciously steps back. Luke’s sweating fingers are still tight on his wrist, and some whispered conversation is happening between Bray and Eric, but it doesn’t matter, Seth’s here.
Seth came back for him.
There’s another squeak of sneaker soles and he catches a whiff of Seth’s aftershave, as the smaller man swears, and the silk lining of his jacket rustles. Something soft wipes at Roman’s face, mopping away the stickiness that had made it hard to open his eye, pressing against the reopened wound on his brow, staunching the blood.
"Jesus, you’re a mess,” he hears the wiry aerialist mutter under his breath, and when he opens his eye, he catches a moment’s glimpse of Seth’s expression - a tableau of sympathy and frustration and guilt - before he’s glowering sidelong at Bray Wyatt again.
The stocky, bearded, patriarch doesn’t say anything.
Just rocks on his snakeskin heels, and bounces his eyebrows, and eyes Seth bemusedly, as if nudging a particularly stupid child toward the solution of a simple arithmetic problem.
No words are exchanged, but some unspoken idea passes between the two men that makes Roman’s mouth feel dry. He tries to croak Seth’s name, and it dies in his throat as Seth slowly turns his head to look at him again, and the pressure on his bleeding forehead gradually slacks.
Somewhere, behind the flat, dark, eyes, it’s as if an unseen scalpel has cut a neat Y-incision over the last vestiges of the man he knew, and that man has fallen away as something cold and black as a frozen corpse has risen in its place.
"Seth," Roman tries again, and it’s barely a whisper.
"Oh, Roman," Seth sighs, and there’s the look of concern Roman remembers, and the same pause to nibble, rabbitlike, on his bottom lip, the way Seth always does when he’s trying to collect his thoughts. "I know what I said… I said you were just one little piece in a game you couldn’t begin to understand."
He eases back on the soles of his sneakers, studying Roman’s face. He purses his lip, and there’s something almost like regret in his face.
"But the fact is… you’re really too good a piece to lose.”
The bottom drops out of Roman’s stomach at the dead man’s smile on his brother’s face.
"You can’t be allowed to go on like this, Roman. You just can’t… but everything’s going to be so much simpler when you get back.”
The tone is soothing, and reasonable, and even as Seth stands up, tucking the folded cloth - bloody side in - back in his jacket pocket, something inside of Roman’s head can’t comprehend what’s just happened, even with some tiny instinctive part of him trying to chain thoughts together.
He wonders if this was how Dean felt, when he’d had to see Seth turn on them the first time, and if it is, wonders how Dean had been able to stand up, much less walk, much less put up a fight.
"How long do you need?"
Seth’s voice is terse and businesslike. Bray Wyatt is smiling at him, looking at him like an animal that’s learned an amusing trick.
"Ten minutes?" the older man suggests, shrugging. "Twenty if he makes a fuss."
Seth’s eye flicks impassively over to Roman for just a moment.
"I can give you twenty."
"Seth!"
He can’t stop himself from choking on the word; this is wrong, it’s wrong — but if Seth hears him, he doesn’t even blink, and Bray is talking again.
"Not that we wouldn’t be… amenable to such a mutually-beneficial arrangement with the Authority, little bird, but what about Dean Ambrose?”
The toothy, laughing, grin on Seth’s face is almost too much to bear. It’s too familiar and too wrong on the face of this cold, dead, thing wearing his skin.
"You let me worry about Dean Ambrose.”
"Seth — what are you doing?” It’s barely human, it’s a jagged, despairing, howl that makes the metal debris whisper and rattle.
Seth pauses from where he’s standing in the doorway, and there’s the familiar look of harmless, puckish, mischief in his eye.
"What am I doing… that’s right. I guess I never did teach you my endgame, did I Roman?”
He folds his hands behind his back, and rolls up onto the toes of his sneakers.
"You’re too valuable to waste, Roman, but Dean…?”
Seth appears to mull this concept over, and find himself at peace with it.
"… Dean’s an acceptable loss."
And he turns away — just a small, grey, shape vanishing down the corridor like a shadow.
Roman is still howling with grief and rage when Rowan and Harper twist his arms behind him, topple him, pin him under their combined weight, and he can hear cartilage snap, over Bray Wyatt’s jittering laughter.
He’s thrashing, desperate, snapping and snarling, even as soft, dry, hands like the skin of a snake muzzle him and he tastes blood in his teeth.
The last thing he even dimly remembers for a long, long, time, is somewhere - distantly - Dean is screaming his name.
crashpl replied to your photo:OMG !??
At first I read this that you’re getting married
Me? Getting married? Ahahahahahah. No fucking thank you.
