#sewer fight

[wreedenthusiast]

Their sewer fight is MY Poolverine Honda Odyssey Scene. And I hope to wake up to ao3 one day and see many, many piles of smut fics about it.

[shironezuninja]

I’m as stubborn as 2K3 Raphael, so don’t even bother arguing about what I prefer with me.

[fraternum-momentum]

more hands + faces: dol edition

[a2zillustration]

I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHAT NON-LETHAL DAMAGE WAS FOR-

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[tentapun]

Somebody might need to save All Might, dadzawa is NOT happy

Honestly I really just wanted to draw Aizawa holding the Problem Children like sacks of potatoes.

[yellowocaballero]

I admire your commitment to writing tim drake as having spent his formative childhood years on a different awful forum in every universe. it fills a conspicuous void in the fandom ecosystem.

I want to put this ask on my wall. Thank you for understanding me. Thank you so much.

Look, I think there are reasons why characters act the way they do. So often when writing Batfam people put in 0 work into actually establishing why or how a character is Like That, which feels necessary when the character is the most Like That of all time. You end up with a father-son or brotherly soulmates situations and it's bizarre. Why are you adopting this child you saved, you save fifty children a day and there is nothing special about him.

Tim Drake is a fucking freak and there needs to be a reason for that. Child neglect isn't enough. Somebody like Tim needs a very specific thing to happen in their lives to get them to the point of making his decisions. He needs to be obsessive, to spend time in a place that feeds and validates his obsessions, to be in a place where he can easily collect a great deal of data to construct a pathway model, and for all of this to happen without leaving his room. It has to be the internet. Tim is a guy who the internet churns out. I know he's from the 80s but Tim as a person is somebody who is so chronically online in the weirdest way. Not chronically online how WE'RE chronically online. He's on the weird forums. Like those military simulator game forums where military personnel post classified blueprints for future military tanks in order to win an argument. Those kinds.

If you were a domestic terrorist in the early 00s you were probably on Something Awful. All I can say (Actually, technically the SA thing is an anachronism - it didn't actually pick up until the early 00s. But it was the website that worked the best, explained the most, and I fucking needed to make the 'But he wouldn't tell her what the awful thing was' joke, so here we are). This is also the reason for the other anachronism of NW. Homestuck.

[jasontoddenthusiastt]

The compelling thing about Jason as a character is that I never doubted that he cared about the world just because there weren’t panels of him being overly zealous about “restorative community care”

I’m not coming after anyone who wants to see that kind of stuff, but I do think seeking | that | as confirmation that Jason cares about the world is pretty narrow

[welcomingdisaster]

Who would win in a parking lot fistfight?

The rules of the fight:

They are unarmed, shirtless, and have had the equivalent of two shots (everyone, elves and men, equally inebriated)

Currently the parking lot contains: one broken beer bottle, many cigarette butts, six sewer rats, discarded curly fries, a big stick, Finwë's gorgeous Noldorin jewels, angrist, Azaghal's dwarven tools, and Eldacar's crown, Thingol's nauglamir, and Earendil's silmaril.

Victory is declared once one person surrenders, dies, is knocked out, or flees the scene

ROUND 3, MATCH 2:

Notes: Morwen has won a decisive victory against Earendil. She is grim but determined. Turin has won a landslide victory against Thingol, viciously maiming his foster father. He is overcome with guilt and his eyes are clouded by sorrow.

[jacksprostate]

It happens in Paper Street. Tyler is still gone. The building is oozing with monkeys, but on the upper floors where Tyler and I sleep, I am alone.

I am not alone.

There is two of me. I don't have a twin.

If there's two of me, then there might be two of Tyler.

Tyler would probably think killing myself to monopolize him and his clone is a step closer to bottom.

If there's not two Tylers, I have to kill him anyway.

All of this becomes clear to me in the time it takes for my clone to stare at me and shake his head and get his shit together.

I play it cool. I am so ZEN, he will not realize when I reach over to crush his windpipe.

I say, hey. This is weird.

"Yeah," he says, and my voice is way too loud coming from him. I don't like it. He needs to shut the fuck up. "Is Tyler here?"

I ask him, do you think Tyler would know why the universe broke? I ask him like he's asked me if Tyler would like to take a nice little shopping trip through the local designer stores and pay off the companies' tax breaks by giving hundreds to their check out charity.

I think Tyler would know why the universe broke, of course. He'd be the one to break it. Maybe this is another one of Tyler's little tests. This new version of me seems less certain of that fact, more like he's looking for his daddy's coattails, and now I really can't wait to punch his teeth out of his skull. He doesn't have the hole in his cheek, and I can see him watching it wink when I talk. He looks like a jealous rat.

We must both be Joe's Clenching Bowels.

I ask him, do you think we're different? Maybe there's a butterfly effect. Parallel universes. There has to be a reason he's so pathetic.

"I'm sure we are," he says, like he's telling his boss about sawing cross tips into bullets. Touching.

How'd you meet Tyler?

"On the plane. He gave me his number. Called him after my condo blew up."

I smile. I met him on a nude beach. He gave me his number. I called him after my condo blew up. Every word after nude turns my copy's face a bit ruddy, little tectonic nudges to the ring of fire.

"What were you doing on a nude beach?" he spits. "Gargling your boss's balls?"

Watching Tyler. Naked and sweaty, muscles flexing as he pulled around driftwood and pilings to sit in his own hand of perfection. I know I sound like a priest that wants to keep God for himself. I am.

"You're a fag," he says.

I think of my birthmark on my foot. I think of Tyler. I think of Marla. I think of how stupid this version of me is, to pretend he wouldn't get on his knees just for the chance of a taste of Tyler. Is that not how he got the kiss I can see on his hand? His Tyler must have had to lower his standards.

Best not to accuse others of things you're guilty of, I say. I'm willing to face any number of uncomfortable truths if it will get rid of him, I realize.

He's flustered. "No, no, it's not —" he waves his hands. "It's not like that with me and him. No."

Yes it is. It's not love as in caring, sure.

I step closer.

It's property as in ownership.

This must be why Tyler likes it. I see myself wither like a guy kicked in the balls on the first night he attends fight club.

I could be over that table every night for Tyler, I say. You would just be jealous. Just like you're jealous of Marla. Of that one pretty kid you probably pummeled into the ground too. Or did you not even have the balls for that?

Eliminate the competition. Face the truth only to drive it deeper into this jammed copy of myself. Win Tyler's affections. I have already seen the bones in my yard, I can tell, he has not.

One of us is committed. I pull my human sacrifices out of my pocket, throw them at him. One of us wants this. I get in his stupid face.

It's not you.

He swings at me, I'm fighting to the death.

"Tyler isn't here, is he?" he taunts me.

"Tyler left you."

"He doesn't want you anymore."

All things true, but maybe not once I kill you.

I am the abandoned dog, performing tricks so its owner will come home. I am myself, calling my father and telling him about graduating college, like it means fuck all to him. I am myself, pushing onto that next step on his list, anyway. Tyler's my new list, and he wants murder. I've known it. I'll face it.

He gets me in a headlock, hits me over and over, opening up that hole in my cheek. I go limp, drag him down, flip him over myself and grab his throat. I slam his head into the ground. It's soft, moldy wood, not concrete, so I have to start squeezing, instead.

Death will commence in five.

Five, four.

He's gasping, slamming his palm into my nose, breaking it over and over.

Four, three.

Three, two.

His body is shaking under mine. Seizing. He has the primordial strength of a man about to die, and I have the primordial strength of a man about to live.

Death will commence in two.

His eyes are rolling back. I can feel his throat giving in.

No more chance for breaths. It crumbles beneath my hands like the ribcage of a hummingbird.

No chances for evacuation.

Death commences.

Now.

On the upper floors of Paper Street, I am alone.

[ceruleanterrapin]

2012 Raph and Leo anytime the other enters the room

[ethan-acfan]

Randomly remember that desmond never got a change of clothes that man was probably stinky

[mishy-mashy]

[jakkrabbitz]

Recent mutant mayhem art impatiently waiting for may 31st

[rielzero]

Fangs

Just some musings with freshly turned Vampire Locke (act 3) Drabbles might not be used in my comic eventually but can be spoilery for future comics.

It's a little quiet this time around, elfsong inn. The party of The Absolute Adversaries (Not officially named), is going through a rest day.. But the unusual silence leaves some awkwardness in the air.

It's barely noticed by the party leader, Locke, who's part of the reasoning for the silence. He can barely focus on anything at the moment, overwhelmed by new sensations. He's curled up on Astarion's bed, uncomfortable.

His fingers are pinching down the bridge of his nose, fighting vertigo caused by the smells that presumably are his companion's body odor. Locke's never really paid that much attention to anyone's musk before, but he isn't exactly trying to now either.

''I can't stand it.'' He mumbles, rolling on his side before sitting up. Gale eyes him with a worried glance. ''I thought the quiet was rather nice, or..'' He raises his brow. ''You look nauseous-''

Ignoring the wizard, he stumbles forward, then sideways, grabbing the green little door to the bathroom next to Astarion's bed. He plunges inside, eyes darting for the barrel of water that was stored here.

Astarion looks up to him with surprise, holding a small perfume bottle in his hand. ''Dear?'' Locke says nothing, one-track-minded, he stumbles towards the barrel, opens the lid by force and submerges his head in it. ''If you wanted a bath, this isn't exactly..'' Astarion sighs and closes the door behind him, then puts his perfume bottle on the sink.

He gently reaches a hand to touch Locke's shoulder. ''Darling.. If you stop breathing, Karlach's going to freak out again.'' He strokes patterns over his back. ''Just because you can't drown as an undead doesn't mean water in your lungs is any more pleasant, the average vampire can't exactly swim. Not that you're anything like average, but..''

Locke quietly raises his head from the water, his eyeliner had begun to dissolve, creating lines over his cheeks. Its almost as if he'd been crying the past hour, if not the lack for red swollen eyelids.

''Hi.'' Is the only response he can muster, partially out of it.

''Tut, tut.'' Astarion grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him on the ground, making him sit. Then he sits down next to him.

''Do you.. Smell that? All that? All the time?'' Locke whispers after a while.

''I've said so previously, yes. I can't exactly turn it off.'' Astarion wipes some of the wetness off Locke's brow while he continues. ''There's ways of filtering it out, a strong perfume is one of them.''

Locke instinctively sniffs at Astarion, then inhales. ''Oh.'' ''You pick up things faster than you think you do, sometimes.'' The newly crowned vampire lord says with a chuckle.

There's a silence, in which Locke quietly stares at Astarion, or through him almost. His eyes unfocussed. He sniffs again.

''I can't smell the others.'' With a relief the half elf untenses and slowly glides onto the floor, stretching.

''Yes, yes, but you can't hide in the bathroom with me all day.''

''Says the one that has been in here since the morning..''

''To hide from the glares, maybe.. But I was busy making perfume.''

''I can see that..''

''These things take time! I'm very particular about-''

Locke yawns with a wide open mouth, leaving Astarion in a daze. He looks at the other bewitched. ''The perfume is for you.''

Locke blinks. ''It is? Oh!''

What could this smell be.. It's not bergamot and rosemary, not too sweet or bitter. But definitely sweet, woodsy. Soapy? Floral? Locke recognizes it, Lavender. Mixed with something else, he can't tell what.

''And the bathroom is coated in it, surely Gale won't mind.'' There's a shifting behind the bathroom door, he had been listening in. Gale had felt a little left out lately..

Not that he wanted to admit it directly, but Locke kind of enjoyed little breaks like these. No fighting, exploring, no sorting supplies, ordering people around or planning ahead. No doomsday visions, no absolute crisis bullshit. Just him, and his friends and lovers lazing around doing absolutely nothing except some much needed bonding. He contemplated opening the door to drag Gale in, but couldn't get his body to move, so Locke slumps a bit further against the wall with closed eyes.

After a short forever he can feel Astarion's hand creep under his chin, quietly pressing open his mouth. Locke's lips twitch, expecting a kiss.

Confused, he opens his eyes to see Astarion examine his teeth with obsessive fascination. Why? Is there something stuck?

Locke says nothing, slightly amused, observing Astarion's eye movement. The high elf then rubs a thumb over one of Locke's canine's smooth side, to prevent cutting himself. Jokingly, Locke closes his mouth and suckles Astarion's finger.

Astarion snaps out of his daze and withdraws his hand. ''I didn't bite you.'' Locke snorts. ''I'm not going to do that for a long time.'' He blinks at the other, who know quietly processes his thoughts.

''I was just trying to see if they're smaller than mine.''

''You're comparing fang sizes?''

''Mine grew a little after the ritual, I was simply making an observation.''

Locke could tell Astarion wasn't fully being honest. It wasn't exactly a lie either, however.. ''You look at me with pride like an artist proud of something they've created.''

''You are.''

''Okay mommy, you don't need to rub it in.''

Astarion pushes a hand to his own chest and makes a dramatic gasp. ''How dare! Watch your tongue with the dirty talk. Such heresy!''

Locke eyes the door, hearing Gale's snickering. ''Shh, I think we have voyeurs watching through the keyhole. ''

''Hmm. Wouldn't that be.. Scandalous?'' Astarion speaks in an inviting tone.

Gale quietly opens the door, bringing in a waft of old dusty book smell. Locke flinches, but is calmed down by the perfume.

''What the- Why is it so flowery..? That's strong.. By the.. Huh. It's kind of lovely.'' Gale hangs against the door, observing the two.

''Apparently that's my new musk.'' Locke shrugs, eyeing Astarion for a reaction.

''Must you call everything a ''musk'' ? A perfume is a little more.. Shall we say, fine and dandy? Dainty?''

''I thought you were baldurian.'' Locke blinks.

''Proper. Cultured. Educated!''

''Respectfully, love, I am not educated.'' Locke grins with the same mischief he's worn on his face the past few days.

''You're not?!'' Gale blinks. ''Of- Of course you're not.. I should've realized by now, how presumptuous of me.''

''Aaaand now you're just insulting me again, boohoo rich wizard tower boy.''

Astarion chuckles, but thinks about the exchange for a little longer. With the funds from Cazador's estate, he could hire some private tutors for Locke.. Should he want to learn anything he's missed in his awful childhood. At his age, he could probably really use it..

Astarion watches Gale awkwardly struggle to explain the difference between an aimed mockery and stating something that is plainly true in a longwinded rant, before he decides to cut in again, only to stop before he can utter a word.

Locke lets out another yawn, a longer one this time. ''Oh you were just making fun, weren't you?'' Gale lets out a relieved sigh, but notices Astarion's intense stare.

''Hmm, they're definitely on the more petite side.'' Astarion grabs Locke's face mid yawn to turn him to the side.

''What?'' Gale blinks.

''His fangs. They're petite.''

''He means smaller.''

''I.. I know what he means, Locke.''

''I'm not that delicate- Godsdamnit. You expecting me to chip a tooth or something?''

''Darling, if you chip a tooth, I'm going to kill someone. Can't have cattle damage your adorable little fangs.''

Locke starts pouting, ''Little?!'' he pulls his mouth open with his fingers to show his teeth better. ''I cawn bwite off swomeone's fwongers and twhoat weeth theese!''

Astarion's eyes widen. He cups Locke's cheeks.

''And you've just given him the perfect view..'' Gale takes a mental note, vampire lords get obsessed with.. Their spawn's fangs apparently. That, or Astarion really wants him to sink his teeth in him. It's a bit weird. But also.. Adoring.

''You three having fun in there?'' Karlach concernedly peeks around the corner, raising a brow at the sight.

''Just casual dentistry, nothing unordinary.'' Astarion releases Locke from his grasp again.

''..Okkayy, whatever you say. Fangs.'' She pauses. ''There's two fangs now.. Hmm. I need to come up with better nicknames.''

Locke mumbles quietly under his breath. ''Petite he says.. Hmph.''

Unfortunately for him, Karlach heard that.. And would proceed to differenate the two with that addition from then on.

Oh, the quiet days.

[demonlordcosnime]

lets play silent hill 2 remake part 33

[beanerbrujx]

JUVIA DOESN’T CARE ABOUT GRAY AND ONLY CARES ABOUT GETTING WHAT SHE WANTS!!!!!!!!

Not you reacting to a post I made almost 8 fucking years ago 😒

Jfc I'm so stick of you ppl, fuck off