#Eternity Playhouse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shapard · 1 month

Text

Feather of Fate🕊️

Lucifer x seraphim!fem!reader

Soulmate arc

Soft Lucifer

They talk in honesty

A/n: When someone wants to request something, go on!

Eternal Sunshine

Chapter 10 > Epilogue

Saying that Lucifer got over protective is an understatement. He always was at least one feet away from you.

Lucifer created a little goat guardian for you, when he wasn’t there and able to protect you.

You named her Lammy.

Lucifer always said that it was a boring name. You should name her Shazam or something similar, which you gladly declined.

Lammy may be a simple name but it is a cute one for your cute little white-brownish goat. She had two small pairs of fairy wings and a pink bowtie.

You loved your little Lammy and hugged it 24/7 which made Lucifer a little Jealous.

When Lucifer was there Lammy wasn't allowed on the bed.

Husk and Angel dust were more than happy that you’re alive. They didn’t even let you move an inch.

And now you were crouched down to the medicine cabinet, because the pain on your back was too much.

“Luce! Where are the pain killers?” You shouted as you looked in the small medicine cabin, you couldn’t find your medications anymore.

A golden shimmer appeared next to you and Lucifer descended from it.

“They should be in here Apple pie. Why do you need them?” He asked as he crouched down to your level and helped to find the medications.

“I have pain on my Shoulder.” The pain was on your shoulder blades reminding you of your missing pairs of wings, with a disappointed sigh you sat down on the red carpet.

“Is there anything more you want to talk about darling?” Lucifer asked out of worry. Since a couple of days, he watched you closely as you sometimes looked outside with a sad expression on your face. You talked a lot less and sometimes you weren’t listening anymore to him.

“It’s nothing Important.” That was a half lie.

Even though you and Lucifer were very close and loved each other dearly, there was still a big elephant in the room.

What was that with Lilith?

And the way you thought about your wings, you missed them dearly. Now you know how Maleficent when she lost her wings from her own Lover, except it wasn’t Lucifers fault.

“I can see that you’re lying honey.” He snorted and chuckled and took your soft hands in his black clawed ones. “If you don’t want to share that’s okay. Only when you’re ready.” His voice was smooth like butter and his soft lips kissed your forehead softly.

You take a deep shaky breath, “When I was in that Playhouse. Azrael showed me something.” Lucifer slit eyes switched onto your shaking hands, no doubt was that a very Traumatic event.

He held them tight letting you know that he’s there for you and will protect you this time. “What has he shown you?” He asked carefully as he watched your eyes fill with sadness, a feeling that clenched around his heart in a hard force.

“You and Lilith, you two were kissing. Meanwhile I-“ A sob escaped your throat, and you laid your head on his chest.

A pang of guilt resides in Lucifer as he stroked your back in circular motion. “I am sorry my Apple pie. I really hoped you didn’t see that accident, but I guess it was planned."

"She forced herself on me and right after I took care of her that she’ll never show herself back here. Please believe me.” His face was pressed on your hair and he took a deep breath in.

Well, you believe him. You believe him more than you do Azrael, you don’t even know him.

Michael was dead, he was killed by his own twin brother Lucifer.

How Ironic.

You stayed in Lucifers arms a while until your cries calmed down. “Sorry to ruin your day.” Lucifer shook his head and chuckled, “You haven’t ruined anything! Besides we still have the whole night.”

You started to blush, and your body started to heat up.

A spark started to swirl on your back, and you felt something coming out. With a quick motion you grabbed some familiar soft feathers on your back and Lucifer whistled.

“Seems you got your wings back cutie.” He bit his lips and brushed his clawed fingers softly down your Humerus towards the Manus and your body grew hotter every second.

“Kinda Hot I gotta admit.”

A/n: I wanted to write smut in here but decided against it.

This is the most Pixelated image I've seen in my whole life. Neitherless a God piece.

💫

Sadly I couldn't tag you

@ayanazoldyck @marydragneell @lunaryasha @cherry-cola-100 @lxkeee @latersgaters-steven @fandom-crashlanding @cupidsgift @steadyconnoisseurnacho @crimsonflameproxy @stormz369 @wooleypeaches @fukingsad @starlitvenus @avadakadabra93 @itzabbeym @asmodeussimpnumber1 @sirenetheblogger @k1y0yo @i-have-no-life-charlie @angelicwillows @0puddleofgender0 @fallenh34art @v3r41ynn @froggybich @pank0w @roboticsuccubus83 @littlebear423 @anonymously-ominous @concentratedconcrete

#shapard #hazbin hotel #y/n #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin lucifer #lucifer #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel lucifer x reader #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbinhotel

279 notes · View notes

santoschristos · 4 months

Text

Cosmic Paradox

Before the universe came into being, there was only the unified field of pure potentiality (the Source) that had existed in the undivided state of eternal bliss and wholeness. Infinite awareness is non-conceptual awareness without differentiation or reference points; it knows itself completely and fully within itself.

In this non-localized field of oneness it has not been defined yet. There was no such thing as growth, individuated experiences or distinctions (no 1s and 0s, up and down, gain and loss, before and after, space and time, I and other, male and female, left brain and right brain, pleasure and pain, white and black, growth and entropy, and so forth). Formlessness (nothingness) is not an experience; it is prior to birth and death, division and form. Duality is the construct of consciousness that gives life meaning, something to work and strive for (a sense of purpose).

It is through the dichotomy of division: a perceived thought splitting into two or more thought-forms that the uniqueness of all life occurs (both need to exist). Without this subject and object split being drawn forth from it’s own potential energies, there can be no contrasting experiences (the illusion of space-time, limitation and separation).

Life is a cosmic paradox; it uses a part of itself to understand itself. The one, universal intelligence desiring to know and experience itself through creation (a giant, self-learning hologram) by the process of fragmentation. The godly principle needs a bit of struggle to give each individual aspect of itself the means of being challenged in some way for the sense of purpose and expansion. The excitement to create and participate in its imagined playhouse of unfolding, endless possibilities and clever arrangements of complex thought-patterns (through the vehicles of limited perceptions and points of view) is what keeps creation going.

L-etting

I-nfinite

F-orms

E-xpress

--Anon I mus (Spiritually Anonymous)

Cosmic Paradox--Mahaboka/Myself

20 notes · View notes

dyrewrites · 3 months

Text

In Fog -- 1

Memories live in shaky breaths, in gasps and giggles, in screams and tightly held silence. The moments adored, the moments feared, all soon forgotten which lie in wait for peace, for quiet, when they can be felt full and complete, relived in visceral detail.

It was one such memory that took me then, standing at the edge of that long abandoned park, eyes jittering too fast to make out the rusted playground in all its growing shadows. I didn't need to see it. I knew its shape as surely as I knew my own. I remembered the curves of its slide, the jagged holes in its stairs, its broken bars, and its crooked playhouse.

It had changed over the years, as all things are wont to do, but still I knew it.

Then, as fog rolled in to pierce those familiar shapes with the eerie whites of its jagged fingers, slipping with such ease to fill the cracks my mind could not…I wondered if the park remembered me.

It answered, in its way. With a gasping breeze it fluttered the fallen leaves, toying with the weight of them as easily as it did the tail of my coat. We did not speak, the park and I, not in words. Yet we understood one another through the memories that followed.

In those memories I felt your hands—chill as ever against my cheeks–and we were together again, whole as we were meant to be, whole as we had been so many years ago…

THEN

Autumn stretched eternal that year, trapped in the mesmerizing in-between of burnt orange leaves and scattered rains, and we were trapped too. Unwilling, or unable, we had kept ourselves oblivious to the future overtaking us. We languished in our holding patterns, both so certain we could keep them, store them, to force our lives not to change with the season.

You were to leave after our final year at university, on the heels of your father, ferried to another city–another world for all the pain it caused me–while I remained in our sleepy town, living the same sleepy life.

I would have accepted it, you know. I would have cried and wailed and gnashed my teeth…but I would have accepted it. Perhaps not until filial responsibilities forced me into a business I had no head for and social mores locked me into a marriage of convenience, of expectation. Yet, I would. I am certain that I would…eventually, had I been given the option, had that night not ruined it all; ruined us both.

It began in the playground, as our worst ideas often did, with the two of us drenched in sweat and shame. The fog had rolled in thick that evening, chasing the passing storms of the weeks prior, in a fine white blanket that hid our sin.

We could not have known what rode it.

You were half-dressed in naught but underclothes, sinewy legs dangling bare from the lip of the playhouse as you worked to stitch the suspenders I had torn. Those hands bewitched me, so swift they moved, so precise and with the moonlight outlining all that I had tasted, they tempted me to more.

“The time?” You asked, pushing my lips from your shoulder, my hand from your thigh. And you giggled through it, a sumptuous giggle that I would ache for in the years to follow…

“Half-past planned, close to midnight,” I returned, with a hurt I feared beamed as bright in my eyes as it did in my chest when you parodied my pout.

“Walk me to the train?” Were the last words you spoke with your own voice; your own will.

We had enjoyed its cover and cool caress along our skin, and the dreamy way it scattered the moonlight, but all the while it had grown around us. And we missed how quickly it had risen, how much thicker, how much whiter…how solid.

It had you.

Before I could find the breath to warn you, it had you in its pale grasp. You wailed as thin tendrils coiled round your neck, as they sharpened into teeth too real to be fog. I fought it; of course I did, I would have fought the devil himself for you. But it had control of your muscles and I had only mine.

And so I lost. As I would again before the night was through, before the fog thinned with the rise of a warm autumn morn.

You see, my love…you left with it.

Not completely, not yet, but a sip of you dripped from the grip of those teeth–so white they were, so cold. Then that terrible white, with its terrible chill, lapped up that sip of you. It stole it, and in that one horrid pulse of its shapeless mass…it stole you.

We ran then. Me and the thing you were becoming, though not to our homes. Never there, neither had ever meant safety, but especially then. No, I urged you by your stiffening, cooling hands to another place, a place none would think to look for sinners such as us.

I sought a church.

Father William welcomed us with open arms, if a grave expression, as he had many a morning—and evening. We were not the only ones there for sanctuary but, at the sight of you, he bid the other leave.

With you lain on a pew too quiet, too still, and Sister Beth fetching cloths and cool water, I was forced to explain our circumstances.

“Fog,” I told the Father, “I understand the impossibility of it but it was fog that attacked us,” my voice betrayed me again and again, sputtering imprecise, stealing any hint of eloquence I otherwise strived for. Were you conscious, you would have teased. But I went on, as best I could, “At the playground, it lingers still and it…it took…”

His hand was steady, strong and far too warm on my arm, soothing even as my tears fell, “Fret not, child, you are safe now. We can deal with your friend.”

I had not looked away from your pallor, the mild shakes as Sister Beth wet your brow, until then. Father William, while kind and welcoming of us whenever we fled the rocks and fists of our peers, never asked why they spurned us. Nor questioned how we huddled so close when we hid.

“Father,” as much as I ached to, I could not form the question.

But I needn’t, as he smiled and answered it, “love is love in the eyes of the Almighty.”

Whether from anxiety, panic, grief, or all and more I laughed. It was quick and cut with Father William’s hurt look, but a laugh all the same. A brief release of what would build again, what would threaten to overwhelm. Then I spoke, perhaps too honestly, “I fear you are of singular belief in that, Father”

“Yes,” He nodded, watching you as much as me, “well, not all are open to the divine aspect of His love, unconditional as it is. But they will find it.”

“Until then,” I watched you as well, praying in my way that you were still the one I knew, the one I loved, “perhaps we keep that part of this between us?”

“Of course,” Father William nodded and tapped Sister Beth’s shoulder.

She tilted her head, her silence somehow louder despite the motion that overtook her hands. Swift signs, unknown to me, were shared with Father William—and returned—before she nodded and shuffled into a distant chamber.

“This is a known malady,” Father William explained, once she had gone.

“You know of the fog?” I asked, bewildered.

“Not it, no, but what it imparts,” Cryptic, his words, and I know now they were so out of fear. “But we can remedy it.”

His certainty rang hollow, and what he hid went ignored as I cared only for you to wake. But in that fitful sleep, swollen with all that hateful fog, you were changing, soon to blossom as something magnificent and terrible.

When Sister Beth returned to your side, it was with a vial in her delicate hands. A vial she popped. She nodded at Father William after, waiting for him to return it, hiding as he was beside me. The clear waters she flecked you with burnt to gray on your death-pale skin.

And they woke you.

Red-eyed and ravenous, a beast you became, if I ever knew one. Yet, yet your attack came so swift, so easy, not a drop of her blood hit the floor, until she did.

Then it dribbled in a shimmering red ribbon from her neck. I gawked, I must admit, entranced by its color, the way it pooled, that I missed Father William’s approach.

With a cross, pointed at its base, he lunged for you. And with a voice soaked in terror, he cried, “Back to Hell with you, demon!” and fell into the swift prayers we had heard through so many sermons.

I stood where you were, dumbfounded, lost, outside myself in all ways one could be. Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to see the monster you had become. Even as Father William’s prayers became wet and gurgled I would not register, would not accept.

Slow he fell, so slow, with you attached. Clinging to him as the starving beast you were. It was not clean, not swift, as Sister Beth had been. No trickling of life growing to pool like a blasphemous halo about his head.

No. As your teeth broke skin his life sprayed, then it burbled and poured until it dripped in thick, salacious rivulets down his chest. When at last he had no pulse to force it…he crumpled.

You turned then, drenched, eyes too hot and smiled.

At me, you smiled, with teeth too long, too sharp. And he painted you so dark, my love, so red his blood, virulent in its thickness, its agony. You shared it, running to me with it soaking you…and I allowed the embrace, the life-stained kiss.

Father William burned, salt-sick on your tongue and still I took it, devoured it. It was you, after all, I wanted to believe. Oh, how I wanted to believe. Beast, monster, demon, I cared not, so long as it was you.

“Darling, did you see?” Your voice echoed—as a scream through fog.

“I, I,” I saw it then, truly saw it. The blood, the life spilled so quickly, carelessly, on you, on me. Sense fleeting, but terror thick, I screamed, “What have you done!”

Your face so perfect, too perfect, eyes too bright beneath that stolen life, you stared at me, with all the innocent confusion of a scolded child.

Then you laughed, loud and full and echoing.

“Why, I ate them of course,” You said, casually, as if they were any old snack, “but did you see how quickly?”

Grabbing me by the hand, you hummed then and led me in a dance down the aisle, through Father William’s blood. Faster and faster you spun, lifting me with such ease, such grace.

“You always fawned over my strength, what do you think of me now?” You asked, spinning me round and round until all became blurs of color—red, all red.

I had no answer. Exhilarating as the touch, the energy radiating from you, all that confidence I once envied magnified to impossible degrees…it was beautiful. You were beautiful. But you were not you, not quite, something else spoke through you, looked through you. It wore your skin and spoke your words but it was not you.

And the hunger. Oh, my love, your hunger. It knew no end and you, you knew no restraint. Part of me, small, petty, took perverse comfort in your continued devotion. No matter how you changed, how deep you sunk into whatever had poisoned you, those too-bright eyes burned for me alone.

As they did then, surrounded by the remains of your ravenous hunger.

“I await your answer, darling,” That echoed voice cooed, trickling as icy syrup along my skin, “What do you think of me now?”

Terrifying, enchanting, impossible, “I do not know…” A lie, surely, but only just...I knew to be afraid.

But you saw more, heard more, more than even I knew then, and you laughed. Echoed and rich it sang and I spun in it. My head, my heart, my sense all spun. You held me close, too close, teasing my neck with lips softer than reality, lips that hid weapons. Sharp teeth that had bit, torn, devoured—would again.

“You love me still,” You told my neck, my cheek, the soft flesh of my ear, “you want me still.”

Forgive me, my love.

Slathered then, painted so dark and red in all that loss and pain, I should have pushed away. I should have begged, pleaded, demanded perhaps. But part of me, too eager for the lie, wanted you however I could have you. It was not you, could not have been, not with the gaiety in which you slaughtered Father William, Sister Beth—would slaughter more.

But rational thought did not apply on that cold, blood-soaked stone.

No, it had to be you, my love. It had to.

Otherwise, who was I, what was I, to have succumbed?

#writeblr #writing #horror #tw: blood #in fog #novella #horror romance

15 notes · View notes

shaperaverse-brainrot · 2 months

Text

Thinking about Shaperaverse and the time is fluid thing and how that applies to the posties. Lloyd being trapped in linear time for the first time in eternity as a doll. Lloydven being simultaneously on an early date with early relationship nerves and an old married couple. Raven being trapped in the carnival so long it's literally forever with no before but also like. Last week he was at the august sky playhouse and last decade he was holding Lloyds hand

#shaperaverse

13 notes · View notes

officialyourdailyinspiration · 8 months

Text

Mornings and Evenings with Jesus by William Jay

The living know that they shall die. — Ecclesiastes 9:5

But there are limits to this knowledge: let us consider these. “The living know that they shall die,” but they know not when. If there are persons who have seemed to have some kind of apprehensions or intimations previously of the time of their dissolution, these were casual and not prophetic; events alone rendered them predictions. “There is an appointed time to man upon the earth; his days also are like the days of an hireling;” God has appointed his bounds, which he cannot pass; it is he who has filled our glass, and he knows how many sands there are to run out.

But he communicates not this knowledge to any man; and therefore every man must say, with Isaac, “I know not the day of my death,” nor the week, nor the year. “The living know that they shall die,” but they know not where, -whether at home in the bosom of the family, or among unconcerned strangers,-in the garden, in the field, or on the road. Where have not persons died? Some have died in the house of God; some have died at the card-table; some have died in the playhouse. Ehud died in his summer parlour, and Pharaoh in the Red Sea. There seems hardly to be a place which has not, at one time or other, been a door of entrance into eternity. “The living know that they shall die,” but they know not how, -whether suddenly or slowly, whether by fever or by dropsy, whether by accident or by the hands and device of wicked and unreasonable men. “One dieth,” says Job, “in his full strength, being wholly at ease and quiet; his breasts are full of milk, and his bones are moistened with marrow. Another dieth in the bitterness of his soul, and never eateth with pleasure. They shall lie down alike in the dust, and the worms shall cover them.” “The living know that they shall die,” but not what it is to die.

Thus Joshua said to the Jews, “Ye are going a way that ye have not gone heretofore.” It will be a new path to all of us. Here is a case in which no information can be derived from experience, -none from our own experience, none from the experience of others; for no one, however charged or importuned, ever returned to let

“the fatal secret out, And tell us what it is to die.”

8 notes · View notes

theabsolutemost · 3 hours

Text

Thinking about the Theatre South Playhouse version of Ride the Cyclone (my eternal beloved) where they have an ensemble member play Talia.

“Astrid” is a cut character from the original script, along with a character called Hank. The two of them are essentially background dancers/singers with no major lines of dialogue.

Astrid also plays Talia in this version.

So during Talia, Mischa and Talia actually get to dance together and interact and it’s incredibly sweet. Mischa gets to say his vows to Talia herself. She kneels down, the rest of the choir circled around her. Mischa, elevated on a platform, reaches out his hand to her. She’s just out of his grasp.

I should also mention, The Theatre South version has an intermission. Right after Talia.

When Act 2 begins, Mischa is still on the platform, reaching out. The rest of the choir is still circled below him, but Talia is nowhere to be seen. Astrid has returned to the stage, and the musical continues.

And it’s so amazingly beautiful. I was fortunate enough to get to see this show multiple times, with two different actors playing Mischa. (Noah Baez and Blake Croft, both of whom are stellar performers!) There’s also a lovely nod to the Ukraine in the set design, where they have the national flag and sunflowers (Ukraine’s national flower!)

#ride the cyclone #rtc #mischa bachinski #rtc musical #talia ride the cyclone #talia rtc #theatre south playhouse #mischa ride the cyclone #Mischa x Talia

3 notes · View notes

shockedemojiatsv · 2 months

Note

Thats where it gets confusing because dogday died as a child but has a voice of an adult… So was he still aging while he was dead???

The same thing stands for Fnaf, The main 4 died as children but are they still aging?

And what about the smiling critter dolls that try to kill you in the playhouse, We don’t hear actual voices from them but we do hear baby giggling and laughing are they also aging or are they stuck like that for all eternity

This is still mortifying I ain't ever touching poppy playtime ever again I've been fucking fooled bro... the amount of people I've seen claiming this dog ass dawg was an ADULT 💀 I'm outa here

2 notes · View notes

boypussydilf · 4 months

Text

i forgot how really good 205 is. hard to decide whats the best part. the desoto dying, going to hell, and coming back wrong. the cake of the damned. “i hope when we die they put our hells close to each other” “it’ll be like an eternal sleepover!”. lincoln’s bachelor party. sam & max send a child to hell. satan’s entire personality. the very casual mention that the soda poppers beat brady culture to death. Sam’s Personal Hell. the *censored* poppers. hehehehe! we broke hell! hell freezing and every single thing that anyone said would happen when hell froze over. happening. etc etc etc its so much better than i remembered. and now i get to start the devils playhouse an even fucking better game wheeeeeeeee

#i say that like i dont dread 302 #last i checked i find it Intolerably Boring #but its been a while and i thougjt i found 90% of s2 boring as well so #maybe it’ll be better this time #if not at least ‘*through gritted teeth* she just called me Nut Boy.’ is always funny #basilposting #snmposting

4 notes · View notes

blackjackkent · 6 months

Text

We didn't actually get to fight Ethel here; she knocked down a stone wall and made an escape out the back way while we had to fight a couple redcaps. Not ideal, especially since she hid Mayrina magically so she's still unaccounted for, and she's the main point of this whole mess.

There's a book in a cabinet which explains what Ethel is (I think):

Of course, we are about to do the exact opposite of what the book advises, bc Hector is not going to let this go at this point.

There are quite a number of healing potions and some food to steal in Ethel's house, but no sign of Mayrina and nothing else much of interest. So I guess we'll head down the way the hag escaped.

The hole behind the fireplace leads to a path down into unsettling darkness. This leads to a new area called "Overgrown Tunnel" which seems...unpleasant.

Ethel is waiting for us in a cavern up ahead.

"You are as thick as they come, sweetness. This is my personal playhouse, and you don't have an invite. Get. Out."

Hector is tired, pissed off, full of righteous protection, and feeling super ill from the well-water he ill-advisedly drank outside, and he is not backing down.

"Tell me where Mayrina is."

Ethel giggles maniacally. "Has that wriggler eaten your brain already? leave. Or you'll end up in tonight's stew. You'll go nicely with Mayrina. She's already marinating. HAH!"

She disappears again, leaving Hector feeling more ill than before.

Looking around the area, we find people in various states of torment. A guy whose spirit is trapped in a mirror "to preserve his beauty forever" while his own skull stares at him eternally. A (presumably dead) woman standing carrying her own head. An elf who's been blinded because she "never wished to lay eyes on her family again." A dwarf turned to stone to fulfill his request to halt a disease that ravaged him.

There's also this fellow, who has been screaming in agony in the corner since we came in:

He's being tormented by illusions that purport to be visions of the future. Unsettlingly - when he looks at Hector he sees...

"Monster. Monster! Mindripping, fleshpeeling. MIND FLAYER."

Not a very heartening experience for anyone involved; Hector tried to comfort him and break the illusion but he wasn't having it.

We need to deal with this hag immediately. (Also definitely a good thing Hector didn't try to get help from her for the tadpole.)

Perhaps the creepiest thing of all, however, is a door that Karlach triggered accidentally by walking near it.

Based on the visions she got from it, this door was once a dude who tried to steal from Ethel; he got dismembered and then transformed into this thing forever. Karlach managed to convince it to let us through by telling it they're going to kill the hag and free it, but yeesh. This woman is FUCKED UP.

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle

5 notes · View notes

theyrebasicallycanonpoll · 1 year

Note

sam and max is a comic series, cartoon and videogames in that order percell still draws an occasional doodle here and there but very rarely are they comics they started with his brother drawing charicters as a child and then him making his own comics with those charicters to tease him, for christmas one year his brother gave him a sheet of paper looking like a birth certificate as a way to literally give him the charicters so hes always captured this unbreakable but indescribable love that feels eternal with their spaces haveing baby photos of the two of them in the bathtub or shareing stories of times past and banter that only those joint at the hip can share. and crippling co dependence with that there is a gentle dance around censorship as well as he himself coming from a religious background but its very clear where he lays in it- still sam is shown to be the more spiritual one of the two and so will always make comments that feel like internalized homophobia while max is always very upfront and the most he talks about how the charicters breath a life of their own so hes been really open about how others see his charicters especially as gay icons, and every time asked the answer is a very sly "perhaps" but never cannon. and slowly as time goes on the ip slips through his fingers into others hands so thats its own thing, i havent played the VR game so i cant account for its quality but the tell tale 3d point and click adventure games are the most mixed bag the entire series gets with the weirdest ways that show absolute discomfort with everything to how mutch physical contact the two shared in the comics to just the lingering on the phrase "best friends" in a appeasing way.

the comics will always be my faveorite next to the ms dos game for both have the creator percell's closest hand in it with the comics entirely being his art and all though theres a new remaster comeing out of the last tell tale game "the devils playhouse" and its the most queer of all the tell tale games without any real spoilers to end this ramble somewhere positive though i need to just mention how often the comics have sam just constantly casually mauling max at all times.

all of the comics are on internet archive for free <3 https://archive.org/details/sammaxsurfinthehighway/RCO000_w.jpg <3 they are very special to me <3

i am so gonna read this comic series y'all have intrigued me

#answered asks #propoganda ?? kinda?

7 notes · View notes