Ep 52 Harlan Rlly Said “his Arms Were Cut Off, His Legs Were Cut Off, His Ears Were Cut Off, His Tongue

He died doing what he loved. Being fatally injured.

Weekly what

What

LET'S GET TO KNOW EACH OTHER BETTER

tbh im a huge fan of the Jackbox games, and in autumn 24 i delved into the fandom and drew a LOT of ART WITH HOSTS. most of them were with Felicia (as you might have guessed i love MSM a lot…) maybe someday i will dare to post some more of my designs hehe oh and look who's there at the very end of the post… OH IT'S MEE!!:D

that's it. too many of these eldritch spooky bitches need therapy and a LOT of it. somebody call

UP & ADAM!

(This is about Kayne and Jon Sims, mostly.)

The sooner you reblog this, the funnier it is

This was episode 51 btw.

Arthur:

Alia:

Lillith:

Evrard's adventure squad:

life is so unfair. why is the fucking splorkbub in yellow my second chair now. i should be at the club. unfortunately there's only one option and the manager of the waylay banned me.

“we face it head on, just like oscar’s letter said ay?”

hello friends! i'm getting back into the swing of writing, so here's a teaser for my malevolent vampire au. enjoy! :)

1934 – Arkham, MA:

A quiet dripping echoed in the dark office of Yang & Lester: Private Eyes. From the smoky door window, muddled yellow light trickled into the room where it fell upon Arthur Lester slumped in a crumpled kneel. His head lolled loosely, chin drifting from shoulder to sternum as a heavy fuzz filled his ears. Shapes and colors slowly came into focus as he stirred.

Mostly one color: red.

Pooling blood had spread thin across the hardwood floor, staining the air with a metallic tang in its wake. Arthur couldn’t pinpoint the source—was it him? His upper body was wet—he could feel the damp, clinging fabric without looking. He couldn’t feel the fresh pain of a wound, but a wooziness weighed on him and his aching limbs. The heaviness hung over him—around him? Gravity was unstable as he tried sitting up, and he would have fallen face-first onto the bloody floor if not for a sure set of hands gripping his shoulders.

His eyes widened. I’m not alone.

“Where am I? What’s happened?” Arthur whispered, scrambling for his memory and trying desperately to shake off the grogginess lacing his bones.

“Don’t you remember?” The bemused voice was deep and resonant. It didn’t sound familiar.

“Who are you?”

“Who am I? I’m a friend. The best friend you have right now...” The broad hands held his shoulders firm, leaning Arthur back until he rested against the solid torso behind him. “...the only friend you have right now.”

Only friend? But I have a friend, I have—Parker! Alarm bells rang over each other in Arthur’s mind. Memory eluded him, but emotion erupted within his chest at the name—affection, shock, loss, guilt. Parker was a cherished friend, but something went wrong and he was gone. (Dead?) Flashes ricocheted in Arthur’s brain—a strange book, a great shadow, so much blood, and the ragged sound of strained breathing. (Parker’s breathing? He couldn’t hear it now. Oh god, was Park still breathing?) An urgency struck Arthur then, his veins lighting up with adrenaline as he tried again to sit upright, to get his feet underneath him and stand.

Instead, his muscles simply shook from the effort. Arthur wanted to cry in frustration—he was weak and dizzy and confused and increasingly ashamed of whatever part he played. Specifics escaped him, but guilt and remorse welled inside his chest all the same.(And now he’d lost Parker just like he lost his parents, Bella, F—) His breath quickened, whimpering lungs succumbing to hyperventilation as he trembled in the stranger’s hold.

“Relax, take a deep breath, relax,” the voice soothed, and, almost against his will, Arthur’s body instantly eased back from its fright, taking forcibly measured breaths. The shock of the immediate calm nearly sent him careening into another panic all over again. What in the world?

“Calm down, friend. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.” The hands cupping his shoulders gently shifted, pressing warm palms against his biceps, then his elbows, and back up again before repeating the motion.

“Oh, okay,” Arthur mumbled. Despite himself, he found the gesture reassuring, and he sagged further against the upright chest behind him. Within his core, he felt what he could only describe as a pull towards the stranger, as if encouraged to agree with every deep utterance murmured in his ear. Arthur knew better than to trust him, but the desire to do so was steadily growing with each sweeping caress along his arms and shoulders. Leisurely, a sense of comfort swelled within him, promising safety and relaxation to quell his erratic heart.

Lucidity was slippery and fleeting in the face of said reassurance, but a stubborn kernel of guilt affixed itself in Arthur’s chest. He clung to it desperately, a life preserver buoying him just above the rising tide of emotions that were not his own. His shame anchored him to his sense of self as memory thrashed and drowned beneath the calming waters.

The room was steadily losing familiarity when he noticed an oblong shape catching the meager light—the sole of a leather shoe jutting upwards. Shadowed further: a man’s body, limbs flung awkwardly where it lay collapsed on the floor. Jagged tears and dark stains afflicted the clothing, the neck marred by reckless maroon punctures. The face was… one Arthur should have known. Were they acquaintances? No, they had to be more, but Arthur couldn’t remember, couldn’t quite put a name to the glazed monolid eyes. Grief pulled his heartstrings in gradually weakening tugs until all he felt was a mild confusion.

The arm rubbing his left shoulder reached out then, retrieving a book that had fallen open to the side. Sketchy runes glowed like banked embers from the pages within, its hardcover waterlogged with blood. Arthur’s eyes followed the book as the stranger removed it from sight. He didn’t get a good look at it before, but he wanted to see it again. (Again?)

The voice hummed, capturing Arthur’s attention. The sound was all-encompassing, reverberating in his bones as his focus narrowed entirely to the gentle thrum.

Angling his head, Arthur peered back at the figure looming behind him. The movement strained his neck and shoulders in an unexpected way, but the effort was worth it. Inky black fabric cloaked the stranger, its hem lined with gold flourishes glinting in the dim light. Long strands of dark hair slipped beneath the hood to frame skin smooth as porcelain. The man's jaw was slathered in slick crimson, and smirking lips revealed the tips of undeniable fangs. Acute golden eyes openly gazed back, drinking him in.

“My name is John Doe, and you, Arthur Lester, shall be my first thrall.”

reblog if you think sign language should be taught as a language in schools.