So, I have a confession to make. @spinetrick made this adorable alien band groupie up for Ricardo, and now we’ve fallen down an OC shipping rabbit hole together. Sorry not sorry, but this is a thing now. Expect to see more art of the Punk Janitor and his smol orange muppet fan cropping up over the next while.
I redesigned Geoff cause I wasn’t happy with the first design. This one is less “paging Mr Herman” and more “paging Mr Ramsey.” And I think this speaks more to his character as an alcoholic that can’t control his team and less of, I dunno, a clown? Whatever lol.
That’s all I have to say about this. Geoff’s run cycle should be up by tomorrow, and after that it’s straight to storyboarding! (hopefully)
@crankgameplays Ever since I was young I’ve struggled with feeling like I mattered. Whether it be with my friends or my family, I’ve struggled believing that people care pretty much forever. I knew who Ethan was for while and just knew him as the cute guy Mark was friends with, then in the past 2 months i started properly watching his videos. In December I made the blueforethan instagram acc. It wasn’t meant to be a fan acc, it was meant to be a way to share the love i wanted to share to Ethan. Making that account was the best thing i ever did. My 18th birthday was a disaster and it left me hurt and depressed and things only got worse from there, Ethan and his positive energy gave me strength to pick myself back up, and having the blueforethan account got me back into drawing and it gave me a reason to want to get up in the morning. This tattoo was not just for Ethan, it was for myself. There are many reasons I want him to see it so bad one of which is so he’d know how positively he’s affected me. Ethan and the followers of my blueforethan account mean the world to me, and i emotionally made that clear in last nights live stream by crying and saying over and over again. This tattoo is to remind me there will always be at least one person who cares, and that I’ll never not matter. So please, if you see this, please reblog and tag Ethan, help me show him something that means the absolute world to me. @crankgameplays@markiplier@therealjacksepticeye@ogchanyt
but those matching LADS/GENTS tattoos - they totally got those when
there were just six of them, pre-Jeremy. And its not like it’s the
crew symbol, some initiation all members go through; It was something
of an in-joke, the product of years of camaraderie, of absurd stories
and silly team names, of family. Not the kind of thing you just fob
off on whatever new guy comes along and joins the crew. So for the
longest time Jeremy’s knuckles stay bare.
it becomes clear that he is one of the Lads, accepted into the group,
brought along on all extracurricular adventures, the whole nine
yards, it doesn’t come up. Time passes, bonding happens, and
eventually they can barely remember what is was like before Jeremy
was with them; but now that it might be appropriate it seems like
kind of a weird thing for them to offer. A strange uncomfortable
conversation no one wants to have, so no one does.
not like it’s something Jeremy is sitting around waiting for, not
something he thinks of as a stepping stone he will eventually earn;
it’s not exactly something he can just ask about, really, and at the
end of the day they’re just tattoos. Its just, its hard not to think
about it sometimes. When the other Lad’s knock together matching
letters in victorious fist-bumps, or Ryan pointedly drums his fingers
when Gavin’s trying to boss him about or some observant asshole
flat-out sneers at Jeremy’s bare knuckles. Not important, exactly,
but still something. A point of separation he’s totally unbothered by
except for the darker moments when he’s not.
So when a
particularly nasty job finds Jeremy waking up in Caleb’s make-shift
hospital, familiar cotton-brained fog of painkillers blurring his
mind, he doesn’t take any more notice of the unusual way his knuckles
are burning than he does any of his other aches and pains. Honestly
barely registers the dull throb underneath the sharper notes
promising breaks and burns and what is quite possibly a bullet wound.
It’s not until he lifts his hand, the only wrapped part of his otherwise uninjured arm, that an inkling of
disbelief edges into his clearing thoughts. An
unbelievable thought Jeremy almost instantly confirms when slowly
peeling back the edge of the wrap reveals that familiar lettering,
unmistakable after all the time he’s spent trying not to stare at them.
isn’t that horrifying. A complete trespass on his person,
unnecessarily invasive and nothing if not a chilling reminder of just
what kind of people he’s thrown his lot in with. Lacking even a
fundamental understanding of boundaries, unhealthily possessive and
darkly loyal, a twisted kind of affectionate Jeremy really shouldn’t
be comfortable with.
clearly been out for a solid stretch of time; if the new ink wasn’t
obvious enough the state of the darkened room, scattered with various
pieces of familiar debris would have tipped him off. The wastepaper
basket is overflowing with cans of energy drinks and diet coke, a
variety of clothing odds and ends have been discarded on every flat
surface and there’s an abandoned glass half filled with what looks
like whisky sitting next to Ryan’s rubber skull and the tatters of
what was once a Hawaiian shirt. Even the torn sign prohibiting
weaponry in hospital rooms, written in Caleb’s slanting scrawl, has
been sloppily defaced and skewered to the noticeboard with a hot-pink
shouldn’t be as comforting as it is, these unintentional marks of
stress and impatience, the clear signs of exactly who has been
around, evidence of even those who are no longer here. Because they
haven’t left Jeremy to wake up all alone, oh no, that’s just not the
somewhat comfortable looking chair in the room, a small love-seat
that’s been dragged over to the bed, is pulling double duty; two sets
of legs dangling over one arm, a shock of blonde hair mashed
carelessly against brown leather, Michael’s arms, locked tight even
in sleep, the only thing keeping Gavin from tumbling to the floor.
Not to be out done, there’s a lump curled up on the bottom shelf of
one of the cabinets, doors propped open and medical paraphernalia
shoved carelessly on to the ground to make room, Ray’s identity
distinguishable only by process of elimination and the bright purple
hoodie currently serving as a make-shift blanket. Uncomfortably
contorted, dead to the world and doing a piss-poor job of keeping
watch; here lie the three likely culprits of Jeremy’s unsolicited new
it’s the drugs talking but as he flexes his hand just to feel the
skin stretch the only thing Jeremy finds himself resenting is his own
inability to grab his phone and take some cheeky blackmail photos.
Already imagining the world of teasing he sees in his future Jeremy
closes his eyes, involuntary grin pulling at his lips as he lets the
sound of three idiots breathing lull him back to sleep.