Invader Zim Steel Ball Run??

ALL MY FORMULA 1 AU ARTS

A thread 🧵

Zosan for the start

S: they’ve changed the regulations concerning the air boxes and the wings. And still, you and Luffy are the fastest this week. How do we do it?

Z: we have big balls.

S: … no wonder …

Zoro and Luffy win

“And here are our first and second pole positions celebrating their FIRST WIN in this season! Monkey D. Luffy and Roronoa Zoro! What a beautiful combination of strength and talent they showed us in the last three days!”

Sanji is Zoro’s operator (he’s so done with what Zoro is speaking on the radio)

Z: hey, curly, tell Luf i see Law and Kid right behind me, and they are furious, looking like mad monkeys lmao

S: im NOT telling him that! concentrate, zoro!

N: do they know we are live?... like an entire world can hear it?

Zosan again in the paddock in the middle of the stream (start of the day 1 practice)

Me with this au and plotting over 2 pixels

The first interaction of ZS in this au

And ofc zosan almost kissing (again in the middle of the stream)

Z: so now you don’t really care about the cameras?

S: … shut up!

“A chef’s knife is not a katana” - a slice-of-life comic between Sanji and Zoro about blades, trust, and desire to eat nashi pear 🍐

Tried a new pen to sketch | diff style? Probs cuz of pen and the ref I used ah

those who do not remember history are doomed to repeat it

OK OK OK WAIT

ccquackity sent out a tweet that cquackity is just "chilling in las nevadas", implying that cquackity is the sole survivor of the dsmp finale , or at least for the people that were presently on the server

cwilbur went to utah and somehow managed to avoid all of that bullshit.

imagine. cwilbur goes to utah to heal but always feels like something is missing. empty. he checks his communicator every day for a message from tommy, from phil, from anyone. as time passes by he begins to give up. time must have passed on without him, they must have all healed and gone down their separate ways. he's happy for them, really; the gaping hole in his chest is inconsequential. meaningless. just like he was. the entire time. really, had he ever even mattered to any of them? moods swinging from depressed, to angry, to numb about the whole ordeal -he should really get medicated- he begins to wonder when things got so complicated. he missed home. he thought he'd be going home by returning to utah, but as time passed, he began to realize home wasn't a place. it had been people. and he- he had left them all to die. his home was tommy, and he'd abandoned him. the growing pit of guilt left him feeling heavy, filling his stomach and making it hard for him to eat most days. it was fine. he was fine! he was getting better. but then- the paranoia strikes up again, telling him that maybe it wasn't all fine, maybe tommy wasn't okay, he never should have left in the first place. after all, a mad man was on the loose! he could have hurt- could have killed- his little brother, and he never would have found out. it eventually becomes too much for him and, late at night, in a panic driven haze, he grabs a few of the things he'd managed to earn here in utah and goes back. his blood freezes. he stops, frozen in time, looking at what happened, feeling... nothing. or was it too much? he feels like a puppet who's strings had been cut, like he'd never really escaped from the narrative at all, like he was right back at the head of the story, witnessing himself in an out of body experience. the server was gone. and he'd never know what happened. he would never get closure. he falls to his knees and weeps.

then, you have cquackity. the sole survivor. cwilbur disappeared and everyone else- everyone else died and forgot him. he has nobody left, he's alone, with not even cfoolish there to help him now. the country he built for his fiancés is empty, as it always was, but now it's the most populated place on the server- it has him. the legacy he fought for, clung to with his broken, bloodied fingernails, is now witnessed by no one but him. he's numbed to it over the years; nobody is coming for him. why would they? even if they did remember- even if they did remember, he wasn't exactly the best person. why would anyone come back for him? he would be left to rot, in this man-made desert, in this city of smoke and mirrors that rose from gilded dreams of a man and would crumble with him. he was fine with it, he decided. there was no use crying about it to anybody, especially since there was nobody to cry to. he goes throughout the motions of life emptily, attempting to fill the silence of the city all by himself, trying to carry on tasks day to day as normal. he talks to himself, boisterous and loud like he did when times were... simpler, back when he had no scar on his face and when love came to him so easy. but there was nobody left to love, and nobody left to love him, and over the years the silence suffocated him. stifled him. he stops talking, and eventually, he forgets how to use his voice at all. he feels like a puppet who's strings have been cut, like it's not him living day to day, and he wonders if he had died years ago. if he had ever really been alive at all, and if so, when he'd forgotten how to live.

after cwilbur returns to the smp, and finds it gone, blown to smithareens (he would never know what happened) just like l'manberg. and really, wasn't that fitting? what goes around, comes around. it always ends with an explosion. always. he picks himself up after a while, beginning to wander around the perimeters of the explosion. he resists the urge to wander into the thick of the crater and begin picking through the wreckage, looking for corpses. he doesn't think he has it in him to handle if it was the face of anyone he cared about.

after what feels like days of ceaseless wandering- and maybe it was, god knows that cwilbur knows what its like to wander endlessly, it was just limbo, he had never really left, he was never really alive- he comes up upon a place he never thought he'd see again. and he laughs, maybe, shock and disbelief that turns to a sort of bitter anger. because of course, of course it was las nevadas, of course it was quackity. it was always quackity. quackity was the sun, in a way, a star with things always centering around him.

but if quackity was the sun, wilbur was a blackhole.

wilbur marches into las nevadas, head held high, faltering at the emptiness and state of disrepair. even if quackity was still here- and, wilbur realizes, fear panging his heart, that the idea of quackity being gone is so much worse than quackity having miraculously survived that- he hadn't been able to do everything himself.

cwilbur searches. by god, wilbur searches. he tears the city apart, brick by brick, looking for the man that had the answers. or not. wilbur honestly wasn't sure what he wanted with quackity- to fight him? he knew what had happened last time. but quackity was one of his biggest what-ifs, maybe in another life, another time, they could have been more.

but he might have been too late.

as wilbur was beginning to lose hope, beginning to consider collapsing to the ground and screaming his lungs out, the unthinkable happened.

he was going through one of the many casinos, checking in every room, no stone untouched, all nooks and crannies searched. he had just been finishing up, opening the door and stepping forward when he walked into something.

no. not something. someone

and god was it so fucking good to see quackity. wilbur. wilbur felt like he could breathe again, air filling his lungs. "quackity?" he asked, voice cracking. you're here. you're here. you're alive. i'm alive. i-

cquackity looked... confused. is this a trick? quackity thinks. am i hallucinating him again? this isn't funny. you're not funny, XD. but his voice had left him years ago, and he couldn't even tell the hallucination plaguing him to fuck off. figures. he scoffs and tries to shove past it, freezing when he realizes it is solid. no. can it be? but he could just be- imagining- is he dreaming?

wilbur grabs his wrists. "quackity?" he inquires again, voice fading off. that was one thing quackity had trouble believing. wilbur had looked so happy to see him- wilbur would never look that happy to see him. it just wasn't possible. "quackity, i'm talking to you." irritation shot through quackity. i can see that, asshole. god, he'd forgotten how fucking annoying wilbur was. whatever- whatever this was, it really wasn't messing around. "talk to me!" wilbur barked, shoving quackity into one of the nearby walls, pinning him. quackity was stunned, head hitting the wall behind him. that- nothing had ever done that. all his hallucinations over the years, they'd only been out of reach, whispers at the edges of his vision or they'd solely been there to mock him. and this felt mocking, god, it felt like life was spitting in his face, but it felt real. more real than anything had in years.

quackity shook his head, trembling. he couldn't. he opened his mouth and closed it, aware of how foolish he looked, but he hadn't needed to speak in a long time, and now, he couldn't remember how. distantly he was aware of a thumb brushing his face. "quackity, you're crying," wilbur's voice distantly reached him, and oh, oh. when had he started to do that? that didn't feel right. but he was, he was crying, and wilbur was alive, and god, he wasn't alone anymore.

distantly, he was aware of wilbur leading him to a chair, babbling on about something, the words not quite reaching his ears. but he relished in the sound of his voice, in his touch, god he missed being touched, and he slumped in the seat he was put in.

he was startled back to reality at harsh tapping on the table, flinching and blinking at a pen and paper that wilbur had gone and scrounged up. oh. smart. quackity wouldn't have thought of that, but to be fair, he was in shock. "can you speak?" wilbur asked. quackity shook his head. "right, then, uhm, use this paper to communicate."

quackity nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off wilbur as he reached forward tentatively, afraid wilbur would dissipate like smoke, and he'd be left with nothing. alone. again. but nothing happened, and he had the pen, and paper. he stared down at it numbly, not sure what to write. "what, can't remember how to write?" wilbur teased. "little baby can't pick up a pen? come on, q, you're not a kindergartener."

quackity scowled. he changed his mind. he'd rather be alone. he hated wilbur, the stupid asshole. hands shaking, he wrote a shaky: fuck you. and then, as an addendum: hi :]

wilbur grinned, a genuine smile spreading across the man's face. "oh, ever so eloquent. hello to you too, big q."

quackity smiled back.

they'd be okay.

Exile Arc but make it on Alternia

The Big Cool Rad collab I did with @technobaddie​ !!! 

For all you FILTHY HOMESTUCKS I see in my tags or might have just stuck around from when I did Hiveswap art~

We thought about how the hemospectrum would add a lot to the dynamics already in the DSMP, one bit in particular about how c!Dreeam’s obsession with c!Tommie would begin sometime during the early Disc War where he discovered that c!Tommie’s a mutant candy redblood, and later on come up during exile as a means of earning c!Tommie’s trust.

awkward hug with an awkward height difference

russian classical authors like guys from high school 

(just some of them, both novelists and poets)

Pushkin: popular guy who’s  good at freestyle rap, untrustworthy lady’s man, the main editor and the founder of school’s newspaper, fluent in french

Lermontov: Emo, loves the most popular girl in school, but also hates her (and the rest of the school too), reckless, likes mountains and the idea of spirit of freedom, good at painting, but nobody knows.

Leo Tolstoy: teachers hates his essays bc they’re too long, writes text in half-page long sentences, cheated on his girlfriend several times.

Gogol: some dudes are mocking him bc of his nose and haircut, has good sense of humour, writes satirical articles for school’s newspaper, loves everything his mom cooks.

Dostoyevsky: likes to stay in the shadow, had difficult childhood, once forgot to return a pen he had borrowed and can’t sleep well at night ever since, poor, hates bright colours

Kuprin: desperately falls in love with everybody, constantly writes lots of love letters, buys expensive jewlery to his girlfriend.

Griboyedov: natural born diplomat, sharp-witted, mood swings, travelled to middle asia once, wears glasses and fancy scarfs.

Bulgakov: smokes tobacco pipe, likes black cats and tweed suits, wears monocle and lots of hair gel, mysterious, walks a lot at night.

Esenin: underage alcoholic, an actual hillbilly, girls always love his hair, spends at least one month in the summer in the coutnryside with his grandparents, always ready to fight.

Mayakovsky: tall and loud, talks about weird futuristic shit a lot, always makes up new strange words, good at debates and discussions, depressed deeply inside, somehow handsome.

drawing my fav dsmp moments pt 2 of ???

(yes this actually happened, 2:55:30)