#LIKE????? THEY HAVE BIG ASS TEETH!?!?!??!?!?!

[softfem-dom]

xmen2000!logan with telepath teen!reader headcanons

✰ okay so, think back to Logan on his first days at the School.

✰ he acted like a surly cat that refuses to accept affection. Side-eyeing everything and everyone, not listening to anyone, scoffing and scowling, rolling his eyes, and being a massive dick.

✰ (he was just pissed because he had to stay in a damn school out of all places until those freaks that wore superhero suits deemed it 'safe enough' for him to go back home).

✰ so he just limits himself to walk around the hallways with a scowl and a cigar between his lips, bringing the heavy smoke of cigar with him everywhere he went.

✰ and, oh, cue you turning the corner a little quickly and bumping into him.

✰ Logan just grunts when you bump into him, holding the cigar between his lips with his teeth as his hands reach up to grab your arms and make sure you won't fall.

✰ a beat of silence. you blinking like someone had just flashed you with a flashlight in the face. and then your eyes start to tear up.

✰ and Logan freaks out big time. Confused and panicked as to having just made a random ass student cry.

✰ I'm talking wide eyes and frantically looking around in search of someone's arms to shove you into and away from him.

✰ cue Scott that was just walking by and suddenly gets the wind knocked out of his lungs because Logan pretty much shoved you into his arms.

✰ "fucking do somethin', slim" he said.

✰ spoiler: he turned around and walked away as quickly as he could without giving poor Summers a chance.

✰ and all the while he's mentally cursing himself beacuse making a kid cry is one thing those little shits will cry about anything, but making a teenager cry is another one (given their usually complicated relationship towards tears and vulnerability)

✰ skip to two days later when Jean finally manages to get him alone and it turns out you're a telepath that still doesn't know how to control their powers.

✰ and Logan's like "and?" cue the nasty wolverine bombastic side-eye and quirked eyebrow combo

✰ and and your telepathic abbilities consist of, amongst a few other things, read memories through contact.

✰ and then Logan's like "oh" and Jean is like "yes" and he's like "oh. oh shit"

✰ because he basically, accidentally and unknowingly, flashed a teenager with probably the most gruesome and traumatic war memories known to man.

✰ so now he's just like awkwardly eyeing you out of the corner of his eye anytime he spots you in a room because "damn how much did she see fuck"

✰ and he doesn't know the sheer extent of it until you wake up in your room feeling like you were about to puke your organs out and Logan wakes up just from the stench of your fear that he could smell from a floor away.

✰ it doesn't come as a surprise when he hears a shaky knock on his door and opens it up to the sight of you (paler than a damn ghost) looking like you might faint right there.

✰ "messed up shit, ain'it?" was what Logan groaned, voice raw with sleep, before stepping back and tilting his head as a sign to let you in.

✰ cue the protocol "what did'ya see, bub?" as he rubbed his thumb across your forehead to wipe the cold sweat there.

✰ cue to you looking at him with the most 100-yard-stare eyes he had ever seen and asking. "..where were his legs-?"

✰ and Logan just about chokes on air beacuse what the actual fuck. Staring down at you with his eyebrows up to his hairline.

✰ ellaborating on it, turns out your nightmare had offered you a perfect five stars third-person look into one of his memories in the trenches. The one when he was trying to calm down, sush, a young man crying for his mother on the middle of a gunfire because his legs had gotten blown off. the dude didn't make it.

✰ After that one, Logan simply grimaced "oof, tough one to see, kid" before wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you to his chest. His chin on top of your head.

✰ "ya wanna stay w'me?" he didn't even look down, didn't need to do it in order to feel the way you immediately nodded your head. "alright, down we go" and pulling you down to the bed with him.

✰ he didn't have the strenght to look you in the eyes though, keeping you under his eyeline and cuddled up to his side.

✰ needless to say this routine repeated itself few times a week.

[ghouljams]

*Taking the nasties down off a tall shelf like they're the finest china*

So... König and Fetch...

(cw: fingering, ignoring you, f!reader, squirting if you squint)

He keeps squeezing your ass every time you get up to grab something, only half paying attention to the movie you wanted to watch, so you do the only logical thing and offer to let him play with it as long as you can watch the shitty rom-com. He'd taken you up on the offer far too quickly, but you'd anticipated that. Which is why you'd so prettily laid yourself over his lap and wiggled your hips for him.

It starts easy. His big hands grope the squishy globes of your ass, squeezing and kneading the skin while you use your arms as a cushion to keep your eyes on the TV. It's sort of nice, like a weirdly focused massage. He tugs your shorts up. Actually, you shouldn't call them shorts, they're his boxers, he pulls his boxers up. Wedges the fabric between your cheeks and hums, tugging it this way and that, just inspecting you as his hands continue their massaging.

It isn't until he tugs them to the side that your trouble really starts. You don't need to read his mind to know what he's after, you can feel the press of one thick finger against your cunt. Your legs are squeezed together, just by virtue of the way you've laid yourself, and it makes you feel all the tighter as he pushes his finger into you. The sinful burn of skin against skin as he sinks the digit into you makes you huff out a breath. You try to keep your focus on your movie as he silently pumps his finger in and out of you, changing the angle every few strokes to try and find your sweet spot.

You do your best to return that silence.

You're not doing well. The chuffed breaths that he draws from you are tinged with need, the start of full-blown whines that you can barely contain. He pulls his hand back to add a second finger, this time hitting his mark. You bite your lip to hold back the quiet noise you make, your gaze turning away from the film as you press your forehead to the couch cushion. König doesn't even bother shushing you. Silent as he is in the field, you can almost hear his focus as he pumps his fingers into you, targeting your soft spot with pinpoint precision.

You're so tight, your legs straight over his lap, your stomach pressed against his thick thigh, and he just keeps fucking his fingers into you. All that delicious friction that punches desperation into your stomach, tightening your senses into a single point of need and heat. Your cunt clenches, your muscles eager to find their favorite release.

You're getting louder. The longer he fucks you the louder you get. Your hips push back into his thrusts, your back arching without you realizing it, raising your hips higher and higher until you feel König's lips press against your ass.

His pace is so steady, stuck on two fingers in a slow, deliberate, in and out. It's not enough. Which means you're too busy chasing your own high to notice when his lips turn to teeth. Sharp canines and flat molars digging hard into your soft flesh. Your eyes flutter, his fingers curl, and you feel the break-blossom of blood over your skin. God, you hope it scars.

He pulls his teeth from your ass only to lap at the blood, tracing the fresh bite with his tongue. You whine for him, every needy desire on the tip of your tongue. He grabs your hip to hold you still against his chest and fucks his fingers into you hard and fast. Your teeth rip into the couch cushions as you scream through the rush of orgasm. It tears through you, bursts from you, your skin heats until you feel like you'll melt. Everything tightens and shatters, and you see stars as your eyes roll back.

You reach behind you to grab his wrist, desperate to stop the movement of his hand. Fuck that's wet.

"This isn't too much for you meine herz," König tells you, the first thing he's said since getting his hands on you. Which is fine, he doesn't have to say anything, all he needs to do is,

"Take your fucking pants off." You hiss, clawing at his belt.

You nearly jump off his lap to avoid being thrown off it with how quickly he stands.

[paceprompting]

beside, not behind

written for ‘guard’ wc: 532 # | rated: t | cw: era-typical homophobic language & violence | tags: early relationship, protective steve harrington, feral eddie munson, soft ending

@steddiemicrofic

Steve knew he had a problem.

He didn’t care.

So what if he was the first one to jump in front of the danger; the things with rows of sharp teeth and no mercy. Or the normal people in their shit town with somehow less mercy than the demons.

So, yeah, he wasn’t going to hesitate to step in front of Eddie. His own body was shield enough.

Jason’s fist cracked across his jaw, his big-ass class ring cutting into the thin skin and drawing blood that spattered along the asphalt when Steve’s head snapped to the side. It’d been meant for Eddie, in the random gas station parking lot when they dared venture out for beer Steve didn’t realize he’d been out of.

Eddie hadn’t started it, but he hadn’t ignored Jason’s taunting. Old habits of biting first to be left alone had backfired, and Jason’s ego had flown out, full force.

He stumbled back into Eddie, but didn’t fall. He might get put down on his knees, but Steve was strangely good at keeping between the danger and the protected.

“Need a fucking guard dog when you go out now, Munson?” Jason seethed.

“Fuck off,” Eddie snapped, his hand landing on Steve’s shoulder, trying to push past. Steve refused, extending his arms to keep Eddie at his back. Steve may not have had any problem standing in front of Eddie, but Eddie definitely had a problem letting him.

“Steve, fucking move.” Eddie dug his nails into Steve’s shirt. Steve’s jaw fucking throbbed—and oh, did Eddie owe him later��which was enough to keep Eddie from throwing himself at Jason. Steve could take it, because no one else needed to.

He was the only one who needed to take the brunt of the world.

“Yeah, Harrington,” Jason said, flashing his teeth with a wolf-like sneer. “Let the fag take his beating with some dignity.”

Steve was so focused on keeping Eddie back, he’d hadn’t enough focus to do the same for himself. Not when ignorant, repressed fucking Jason Carver went after his Eddie.

He lashed out, one hand curling into Jason’s stupid letterman jacket and the other returning the blow he’d given Steve across the face. It didn’t draw blood, and Jason overcame the surprise by grabbing hard onto Steve’s hair and yanking him around.

There was so much shouting, Steve didn’t realize Eddie had joined the fray until Jason flew off to the side, a chaotic blur of black leather and chains wrapped up with him as they rolled onto the pavement. Eddie managed to stay on top, smacking his hand across Jason’s face and drawing several lines of blood from his own rings.

Jason shoved him off, swearing. Eddie went easily, getting onto his feet and towering over Jason.

“Get lost, or I’ll do it again.”

Holding his jaw, Steve turned away and fell back against the side of the Beemer, ignoring Jason. Eddie joined him, pressing his nose to Steve’s temple.

“I wish you wouldn’t step in,” Eddie whispered.

Steve shook his head, but Eddie stopped his response with a hand around his wrist.

“I want to face it with you,” he said against Steve’s skin. “Not behind you.”

[armandsfangs]

Armand wanting Daniel to live a full human life and grow old ( something he never got to do) is beautiful. And also old people fuck too! And it's refreshing to have an older person play a vampire and be desired in canon like that.

Old Daniel's desirability transcends canon; I've never seen a fandom with so many young people thirsting over a 71 year old man in my fucking life. I've never thirsted over a 71 year old man in my fucking life and yet here we are. It's those big ass vampire teeth. I get possessed by the horny spirit of Armand whenever I see them. Sink those fangs into my neck old man!!

[livesincerely]

crash and crave you

Or, the drunk Davey fic. Also on Ao3

00000

Jack’s hauling all six feet and change of Davey’s deadweight back to his car, trying to cram his lanky, drunken, noodle limbs into the passenger seat—Jesus Christ, he really is all leg, ain’t he?—when Davey kisses him.

Jack freezes. Goes perfectly still, frozen in place, as panic pierces his chest like a shot to the heart.

Because Davey is drunk, drunker than drunk, really, his mouth warm and a little sloppy against his own. He clings to Jack like a second skin, every inch of him soft and pliable, and he tastes like salt and tequila and that last round of fireball shots Racetrack ordered for the table.

He tastes like everything Jack’s ever wanted and nothing he’s allowed to have.

Davey makes low, unhappy noise in the back of his throat, then loops clumsy arms around Jack’s neck and tugs him closer: stubborn, insistent, and drunk, so fucking drunk, because Jack knows better than to think he’d ever do this sober.

But he smells so good—like his coconut conditioner and the fancy fabric softener he insists on and Davey—and his body fits so perfectly against his own and he’s kissing Jack like he wants him. Right here in the parking lot, half in and half out of the passenger seat of Jack’s car, with nothing but the buzzing street lamps overhead to notice Jack’s heart cracking into pieces with every second that passes.

Davey sighs against his lips, his fingers curling gently around the nape of his neck as he tries to deepen the kiss, and Jack knows better.

He knows he shouldn’t. Knows it’s a mistake. Knows that Davey—clever, gorgeous, wonderful Davey—probably won’t remember this in the morning, and Jack will never, not ever forget.

But he’s only human. He’s just a man, hopelessly in love with his best friend.

And for just a moment, he kisses him back.

Tilts his head and licks at the seam of Davey’s lips until they part, sucks his lip between his teeth and tangles their tongues together. Flattens his palm over the small of his back, braces his forearm against the car frame and lets himself exist, just this once, in a world where he’s allowed to have Davey somewhere besides his imagination.

Davey sinks sweetly into the kiss: eager and trusting and everything, he’s fucking everything and—

And—

Jack forces himself to pull away. Davey looks up at him with big, blue pleading eyes, his mouth wet and red and perfect, and fuck, Jack’s never gonna come back from this.

“Why’d you stop?” Davey mumbles, a swirly curl of hair falling over his forehead. His cheeks are pink from the rasp of Jack’s stubble. “You don’t want to kiss me?”

“Dave, I…“ 

What can he say? What can he possibly say?

He needs to apologize, needs to beg for forgiveness because Davey might be drunk off his ass but Jack absolutely is not, nursed a single beer the entire night, so there’s no excuse to fall back on. 

There’s no excuse for this.

Davey pats him on the shoulder with all the coordination of a wet mop head.

“‘S okay,” he says, almost kindly, flopping back against the passenger seat. “I don’t want to kiss you either.”

Jack’s pretty sure a baseball bat to the back of the head would’ve hurt less.

He wants to stumble away as quickly as he can, wants to see if Kath and Sarah are still out front waiting for their Uber. Maybe they’ll take Davey home instead if he asks really, really nicely and hurries away before they can ask him any questions.

Instead he sucks in a shaky breath. Carefully reaches around Davey’s waist to buckle in his seatbelt for him.

“There’s this guy,” Davey continues, hushed like he’s sharing a secret. “I wanna kiss him all— all the time. He’s handsome and funny and way, way smarter than he gives himself credit for and— and he’s just the best, you know?”

Jack does not know. Jack would rather be force-fed his own liver than know any of this.

He starts manually lifting Davey’s legs into the footwells. Tucks his feet in so they won’t block the car door.

“His name’s Jack.”

Jack stops. Freezes with his hand still wrapped around one of Davey’s ankles. Wonders, for just a second, if maybe someone did hit him over the head, actually, because—

Because the last ten minutes have been a fucking rollercoaster and he might have the world’s first genuine case of emotional whiplash, but—

His name is Jack.

…His name is Jack, right?

“Dave,” Jack starts uncertainly, but the rest of the sentence goes nowhere. Because Davey can’t possibly mean what Jack thinks he means. What he hopes beyond hope he means.

”Do you know Jack?” Davey asks, blinking up at him guilelessly.

”Uh...”

“You probably do,” he decides. “Feels like we can’t go anywhere without bumping into Jack’s neighbor’s girlfriend’s pizza delivery guy or whatever. He’s the kinda guy that knows everyone, and everyone wants to know him. But they don’t,” Davey informs him, very seriously. “Not like I do.”

“Nah,” Jack says, very softly. “No one knows ‘im like you do.”

Davey perks up. “So, you do know him!”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve seen him around.”

”Then you know,” Davey says, with what might be an attempt at a decisive nod, but comes out as more of a wobbly, bobble-head kind of motion. Jack’s so in love with him it hurts.

”Know what, Dave?”

“How wonderful he is!” Davey enthuses. 

“I dunno ‘bout all that,” Jack murmurs.

Davey frowns: a huge, exaggerated expression that makes his forehead wrinkle adorably. “What do you mean?”

”I just…” Jack shakes his head. “What makes him any different from all the other dickheads in this city?”

Pure outrage. ”He’s not a dickhead!”

Jack lifts a brow.

“Maybe he’s a little bit of a dickhead,” Davey admits. “But not, like, a total, complete, fuck-off-forever-type , dickhead. Just like a normal amount of dickheadish-ness.”

”Oh, just the normal amount, huh?” Jack wonders, and he can feel himself smiling, just absolutely cheesing from ear to ear, unable to help himself.

”Well, nobody’s perfect,” Davey says. “But sometimes I think he’s close.”

“Well, I got it on good authority that he thinks the same thing about you,” Jack says.

“He’s my best friend,” Davey continues. “He’s— meeting him was one of the best things that ever happened to me. Because, before Jack, I was just going through the motions, you know? Just keeping my head down and trying to get through each day, and it sucked, but that’s how it goes, right? And I probably would’ve kept on like that for the rest of my life, but…”

Davey pauses, fighting to piece together his thoughts through the drunken haze. Jack’s hanging, breathless, on his every word.

“Jack’s really charming,” he eventually decides. “Larger than life. He’s got this way of looking at you and seeing you—really seeing you—no matter how hard you try to hide it. And he tries to play it off like it’s nothing, says it’s just that you can’t bullshit a bullshitter or whatever, but it’s really because he cares. Cares so much about every single person in his life, pulls them into his orbit and never lets them go, and you find new ways to believe in yourself because of how much he believes in you.”

Jesus Christ. No wonder Jack’s head over heels for him.

Davey tilts his head, then finishes, devastatingly, with: “I don’t think I knew how to dream until I met Jack.”

“He didn’t know how to plant roots and stay until he met you,” Jack confesses, reaching up to carefully brush a piece of hair out of Davey’s eyes.

Davey tracks the movement until he goes cross-eyed with it, then his mouth scrunches up into a pout.

”Where is Jack?” he asks—almost a whine—completely oblivious to havoc he’s wrought. “He’s supposed to be here.”

“I’m, uh, sure he’s around here somewhere,” Jack answers as steadily as he can. It feels like his chest’s been cracked open, all the softest parts of him spilling out through his fingers, but for once, he doesn’t mind.

”Can you go get him?” Davey asks, tugging at his shirtsleeve. “I wanna— Everything’s better when Jack’s around.”

…Would it be awful if Jack kissed him again? Because he really wants to kiss him again.

“I don’t think Jack would be okay with me leavin’ you by yourself when you’re this out of it,” Jack says instead, which would be true even if he weren’t talking about himself in the third person. “How ‘bout we wait for him to meet us out here, yeah? ‘M sure he won’t be long.”

“Feels like it’s been forever,” Davey grumbles. “I miss him.”

A thought visibly occurs to him then, the alcohol in his system slowing him down enough that Jack can track each individual change in his expression. 

With huge, watery eyes, he asks, “Did he leave without me?”

“What? Of course he didn’t.”

“I thought he was gonna— He said he’d drive me home,” Davey continues, like the thought of anything else is unfathomable. “Isn’t he gonna drive me home?” 

”He’s still gonna drive ya home,” Jack assures him. “Don't worry, he’s not goin’ anywhere without’cha.”

“But—“

“Hey, this is his car, ain’t it?” Jack soothes. “So, if his car’s still here, he’s still here, right?”

Davey looks all around himself, as if only just now realizing that he’s buckled into the passenger side of Jack’s suv. 

“This is Jack’s car,” he says slowly, tracing his fingers over the center console in bewilderment. “Why do you have the keys to Jack’s car?”

Now or never.

“Davey,” he says. “Do you know who I am?”

Davey stares at him. There’s not a lick of recognition in his gaze.

“No…” he says slowly. “Are you one of Jack’s friends?”

“Would Jack pawn you off on someone you didn’t know? Wouldn't he walk you out himself? Make sure you’re safe?”

“I don’t know,” Davey says, squinting at him. “Maybe you’re really trustworthy? You’ve got a trustworthy sort of face.”

Jack laughs—he can’t help it—and Davey's expression brightens. He leans forward, reaching out to pat at Jack’s face like his smile is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“You know, Jack has a scar right here,” he says, grabbing clumsily at his chin. “He got scared by a raccoon crawling out of a dumpster and fell on his ass. It was hilarious.”

“Hey! You promised to never bring it up again!”

“No, I promised Jack I wouldn’t…” He trails off then, frowning deeply.

“Davey. Look at me.” Jack cups a hand around his cheek, tilts his head up to meet his eyes. “Who am I?”

Davey blinks at him. Ponders for a few, long seconds. 

“…You look a lot like Jack,” he says, very hesitantly.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Jack murmurs, so fond of him he could burst with it. “That’s because I am Jack.”

Another few seconds for that information to land. Some more slow, fluttery blinks. Then Davey’s entire face lights up, more dazzling than sunlight.

“Jack!” he says, overjoyed, throwing his arms around his shoulders. “Where have you been?”

“‘M right here,” Jack says, holding him close. “I’m right here with ya, Dave.”

“I miss you when you’re gone,” Davey says, and his breath is warm against Jack’s throat, his head nestled safely in the crook of his neck. “Don’t go away any more.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jack promises.

[tamayakii]

warning i am so high

phillip graves unlocks something in me, touches that part of my daddy issues that makes me sing. He's so country-bordering-red neck daddy energy, all of the looks-ugnff..,, the nimble yet gruff hands,,, years worth of callouses on them rubbing on your back as you sit on his lap, drifting dangerously close to your hips... wiping your cry baby tears away as he shushes you after he raised his voice a bit too loud for your poor heart. Those eyebrows furrowed upwards, lips thinning as when the inside of his lips caught on his teeth, often right before he spoke, a habit he has from his own father...

He knows what it's like for your dad emotionally. Having grown up in the classic white-picket family, expect the pristine paint to allude to a perfect family—which was not entirely true. He joined the military to deal with it, and now he has an entire company under him—in a way healing that tiny part of him by becoming a leader and teaching his men. He won't admit it though.

But you? Your father gave you nothing besides a few memories. No tools to try and survive in the cruel world, at least he had the makings of them. You had no tools, not even the plans to make them yourself. Left to wander with an aching heart, burying that hole and the pain with lies that you were fine.

Curling on the couch, laying your head next to Phil's right thigh. A beer in his left hand whilst the other pets your hair, some stupid (at least to you) football game. Letting you take small baby sips of the drink, chuckling at your twisted face. Fully tugging you on his lap, purring in a soft voice- "You're not supposed to like it, baby" his words sent warm fuzzies in your stomach. He doesn't just let you sit up in his lap, no no no... he basically cradles you now, letting your head fall on his shoulder, drawing your knees up.

He lets you satisfy the little girl in you, buys you the cutest frilly outfits, and lets you "win" in playfights just to hear you giggle like a madman. He lets you plan picnics because you want to plan one for once, so diligently—acting like it's all a big surprise, but he went with you to get the food you needed.

Standing beside him, as he works on his old high school truck. Telling you the stories of teenage him- oh GAWD. You know he lives in some big-ish town, still big enough that he may not know everyone, but small enough that he does see a majority of folks he knows.

God I need to ride his dick so bad, I need it so bad. Don't yell at me but I need him to be my daddy AND fuck me. FUCK

and don't get me on if you misbehave around him. The disappointment, dear god it's nearly overwhelming as the tears well in your eyes- Not used to the feelings stirring in your chest but you hate them so much. Phil forcing past frustrations when he sees the tears spill over, cupping your face as he tells you he's not mad... not anymore.

god fuck... the spankings would also be brutal as hell. Sobbing over his lap, slapping your bare ass cause he tore your panties down with your jeans. The rough fabric of his fingerless gloves added to the pain.

I literally cannot stop, somebody help.

OH MY GOD AND TRACING HIS SCAR TOO,,, him telling you mild war stories, having himself be the big hero, cause he is the hero in your mind. Sitting in his lap facing him, thighs straddling him, his hands interlocked behind your hips,,, sobbing on my knees.

[karps-pies-and-sitrus]

maggies list of cool bug types

in no particular order

ur probably thinking right now "holy fuck that guy looks scary". but u have been played by the master trickster maskerain.

whats that purple thing. its castcoon. always looks pissed off and spiky. fuckin cool.

its name is grubbin which is also a verb. "grubbin is grubbin" is a sentence u can say. also he waddles around lmao.

hes made of metal and can rip u to shreds with his big teeth. scariest part? he works in groups. durant is an expert on teamwork n friendship n eviscerating his enemies.

this is volbeet he glows in the dark. "wtf thats awesome" ur probably saying and it is.

yhea venispede is fuckin. red. what about it.

big fuckin rock on the back like an actual legend

tip me over and pour me put lookin ass. but hes got a knight helmet i guess which is kinda sick

theres 3 types of bury. grass goober. sandy ass. and the best one of course trash lord.

let me know what type i should find cool guys for next

[hearts401]

"Fairy" this "Walrus" that okay but a fairy would not scare the shit out of me. Have you seen a walrus. They are horrifying.

[dunkinbublin]

Did you ever draw Barry before? I feel like I would remember a Quokka with massive chompers if I saw one.

the funny thing is i HAVE drawn barry before... but im not digging up that dumb post snlksgnsg

[jacquelying]

sorry everybody just realized op of that jopson death scene post thinks JOPSON is pissed off at CROZIER in the end.

the death scene in question:

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Ur fig faeth is impeccable tho. Her fangs are so cute

thank u so much!! its so fun to draw those fangs on her theyre great

[bloodbonesandmarrow]

I searched ‘key’ on my ebook version of gtn for descriptions of the ones Gideon carries for our upcoming cosplay, and just in case you’re curious it’s mentioned kind of an absurd number of times

[toytulini]

if you draw enough monster ocs, when you go back to drawing a human character, it feels like "sameface syndrome" everytime, by virtue of their face being. human.

[nexus-nebulae]

BOXTOP STOP TRYING TO CHEW ON THE RATS

[per-oceanum]

Alabasta.

Of Cobra.

I. Crocodile arrived with the sole intention of simply fulfilling his duty as a newly appointed Warlord of the Sea: protect Alabasta, get paid, prosper. Until he actually met King Cobra Nefertari, and realized how much the port city of Nanohana had actually suffered due to the pirates that had been coming and ravaging the city for five years since Gold Roger sent them all on a wild goose chase. Perhaps he was actually fond of the city, of the country-

II. The first five years he was there, he spent working alongside the royal family. Learning their history, the history of Alabasta. The climate was one that favored Crocodile’s Devil Fruit; during the cooler nights, he’d walk into the desert and spend hours working on fine tuning his abilities. Creating sand storms with the wave of a hand, crating dust devils that grew into full-fledged tornadoes, sink holes. If it weren’t for Alabasta, he would not have grown as strong as he now is.

III. The greed didn’t begin until after his fifth year; the idea that he could be more. [ The whispers of the World Government moving again, killing the famous Shipwright, Tom, searching for blueprints that he knew damn well caused the destruction of his own home. He couldn’t sit by and do nothing. ] Thus, Rain Dinners sprouted: drawing in both pirate and civilian ( and marine ) coin, allowing for Alabasta to flourish with the influx.

IV. He spent hours with the Nefertari family- between conferences with Cobra and entertaining young Vivi by letting her climb over him, hang off of his hook, or play with the baby Bananawani- the hours spent within the halls of the palace quickly added up.

V. “But how didn't he know that Vivi had joined the ranks of Baroque Works?” Oh, he knew. It was Vivi who didn't know that Crocodile was both Mister Zero and the leader of Baroque Works until she joined with the Strawhats. After all, how many blue haired girls are followed around by a man with fancy hair? After all, by the time she'd joined- his plan was already too far in the works for him to ever stop. ( Perhaps a part of him hoped she'd remain on his side. )

VI. The tragic events that led up to his defeat were due to his own pride getting in the way. Of course, Cobra had become a pawn in this game of chess, but Crocodile hadn't had plans to kill Cobra. Cobra was going to enact that himself by bringing the whole building down atop them! ( That's what he tells himself; the pain of losing those closest to you one after another so quickly can make one do such silly things… )

Tbc.

[sergeifyodorov]

laine scoring on the leafs is actually just a multiverse version of former leafs getting goals when they play toronto, he’s reading the preemie tony au posts and getting his pound of flesh

laine (ambiguously a draft bust) coming to the barn they said was going to be his (laines better!!!) and going I Bet You Sons Of Bitches Forgot About Me