#so sorry if its a mess

[artuurle]

Woe, my Drainfolk headcanons upon yee

All my art and rambles under the cut because it's a whoooole ramble-y mess since i'm bad at. explaining my thoughts.

features characters in underwear but no nudity i promise

Okay so I tried my best to take a swing at this while also keeping these guys recognizable to the series. sorry if its a mess nmbnvbv.

I headcanon drainfolk the result of generations of normal humans warped from the influence of the drain which, similar to the rift, has properties that augments the creatures that exist near it, though the drain is much slower and a generational effect instead of the immediate- rapturous effect from the rift. Since the original population has been here for a good many of hundred years, they look incredibly different from average ggg humans (which also are unique against irl humans. looking at those inhuman skin tones) while still being directly related to them. Many traits developed were essential to help them survive their new lives in the drain ( claws, arm strength + length, growth cycles) since the place was incredibly hard to live in. Anatomy:

Drainfolk have very little sexual dimorphism - most of them all share the shorter and stout build and are covered in hair. the main differences are actually the fact AFAB individuals lack retractable claws and they tend to (usually) be taller and fuzzier on average). Drainfolk also display pads on the entire palms of their hands and slitted pupils. Development:

Drainfolk physically develop into adults at a very different pace than normal humans, while mental development stays the same. Staying incredibly small for most of their childhood with smaller growth spurts before entering a rapid period of growth close to adulthood. The sudden change in size causes a sudden shift to higher caloric intake and the occasional VERY CONFUSED teenager. The need to stay small for prolonged periods of time is because many places in the drain require you to climb in VERY dangerous areas, and the solution was to stay small as long as possible while your parents carried you until you were strong enough to climb around yourself.

Metamorphs:

Outliers in the drainfolk population- They tend to be around double the height of their compatriots and trade a lot of the heavier fuzz for a lighter coat and thicker skin. Their claws also grow longer as a form of defense.

Metamorphs are the term for drainfolk who after reaching adulthood, undergo a secondary growth spurt. This is caused by being thrust into various forms of responsibility and power- similar to how a dominant male orangutan will become larger or the dominant male fish will change size/gender if the large leader female dies. Either sex can become a metamorph, though its slightly more common in Afab individuals because of child rearing. This is also commonly seen in leaders of established groups of varying legality and in the eldest of a gaggle of an orphaned group of drainfolk after reaching adulthood. Any spot where the role of responsibility is shouldered is a role that can cause a drainfolk to become a metamorph.

Bonus:

Drainfolk even into their adulthood tend to climb up on people they deem close to them as a sign of affection or when they are scared / stressed for comfort. It is very common to see a drainfolk climb onto another the same size to the absolute annoyance or acceptance of the one being afflicted with the behavior. The behavior is very normalized in the drain but may come off as weird to people not aware of it.

[isjasz]

🗝️⚙️🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

For December in the Hermit Heartthrobs Calendar from @hotguycalendar :D!!!

Also bottom page for the calendar ft stress and joe under the cut ↓

[ramblingguy54]

If there was any moment that made me cry most, it would be this one.

[groovyace]

RED ROBIN REDESIGN RAHHGGGG 🗣🗣🔊🔊🔊📢📢📢

I took elements from his different suits plus added some extra flair. My favourite being the addition of climbing shoes.

[carbonfiction]

Thinking so heavily about logan and a pain kink.. I mean.. We've all seen the clip of him puttin the cigar and on his palm, eyes rolling in his head.. So why not.. Expand it little.. With the addition of oldman!Logan

When needs must..

Warnings: 18+ topics,older!logan,male masturbation, pain kink?, burns? (Putting a cigar out on himself),swearing (its logan..) mentions of bodily fluid (cum) thinkkk thats it? Not proofread and thrown together..

Masterlist

words: 428

Thinking about old man Logan sitting back in his limo seat in some dark dimly lit ally. Its quiet, empty this time of night so much so that; for a moment.. he briefly wonders if he would care if it wasnt so quiet.

If the place was busy and there was a pretty young thing lookin to help an old dog like him out.

Reaching into the glovebox and lighting up a cigar, the smoke flurries out of the cracked window. The taste sits rich and heavy on his tongue. He didn't care much for smoking inside the beatup car but.. Needs must.

Beneath his dress trousers Logans cock sits heavy in his pants. A bruised hand feeling over the swelling buldge of himself with a groan.. Its been a while.. Perhaps too long since hes let himself go. Let himself actually take some time alone.

He works his belt and fly with another inhale of the tobacco between his teeth and it doesnt take long before his lower clothing drops around his ankles in the footwell. He hisses a sound that sounds roughly like the word "fuck" through his teeth, cock in hand, precum slicking the flushed and throbbing head of himself.

He breathes heavy, well.. Heavier than he'd like for simply rubbing one out in his car, as he groans, grunts and grumbles at the friction. Cigar bitten against his teeth, one hand working quick and tight up and down his shaft.

Its quick and uncaring, desperate and futile.

Smoke bellows toward the window again, this time ash falling from the cigars end. It lands hot on his arm, still slightly alight. Logan groans. A deep rumble in his battered chest.

His aching hips buck at the feeling, the momentary spark of pain drawing his cock into his hand faster as he spits down, narrowly missing the hair of his greying beard. His motions speed up, lubricated in a lewd mix of spit and pre, balls tight with the need to cum.

Logan barley thinks about his actions as he pulls the cigar end from his mouth, the tips' embers burning muted reds and oranges inside the wrapping.

The cigars end meets logans thigh, burning and sharp as he presses it into his marred skin. Moments later his eyes roll back in his head, cum coating his hand in hot spirts.

He hisses between his teeth, loud and throaty streams of vulgarity slipping through his lips. "Fu-fuck, fuck, fuckkkk" The final sound drawn out and rumbling from his chest with a growl.

When needs must..

[morgana-ren]

i love angst, and i love your writing, but please, PLEASE, i beg you, could you write some hope of tav ever returning now that the imbecile, has realised the error of his ways 🥺😭 (either way, thank you so much, for all your astarion writtings, it has made me feel things, the angst is real and my masochistic heart loves it🥲)

First part of the story HERE

Common complaint I got on that one! So I fixed it just for y'all. This ending is much less sad and much more sappy, so here is the comfort you need after all that angst!

"Darling, will you smile for me? Just once more. Please--"

He feels her cheeks in his palms, the soft skin against his battle-hardened callouses. Desperation cradles his unbeating heart, and for a moment, the emotion is far too much. A searing flame after centuries of frost. A bonfire in a blizzard. It hurts-- it burns--

"My love, I just need you to--"

"Anything my lord, anything at all for you. Simply command me and I will do anything you ask."

"No, I can't-- I-- I won't do it. I won't. I won't!"

"My lord?"

Her head cocks, turning slowly to look upon him, but her eyes-- they are empty; beetle-black and hollow. Her smile is uncanny as a painted doll, her movements disjointed and inhuman. Her teeth are stained crimson with blood, dripping, dripping, ever dripping down, never swallowed, only pooling.

She is light as a feather as she slips away from him, her skin marbling into a sickly gray before ash spreads across her body as a disease, smearing her form into nothingness. Only her face is left untouched, pretty as porcelain, unflinching and unfalling save a small crack that splinters down from her forehead down to her eyes, revealing inky black abyss beneath.

"My lord-- Oh, my tender, vicious lord. I can feel your anguish-- your hunger. Devour me to be whole once more--"

Her blood smells of rot and she--

She is too far gone to save. Too far gone to ever be saved.

"I won't!"

Whirlwind. Pain. Confusion and dread and seeping anguish. A maelstrom of rage and all-consuming despair swelling from within his soul—

—his soul?

The world around him falls away, a wicked tornado thrashing him about, his mind howling in the eternal winds--

And suddenly he is in a chair.

Not a throne. A chair— and a rather uncomfortable one at that.

"What in the hells—"

His vision spins, nausea curling his gut into a wicked tide of sickness barely restrained by his teeth. He tastes stale blood crawling up his throat, threatening to overturn onto the faded rug beneath him.

"Did you see what you wished for, little spawn?"

The voice takes him by surprise. It is not hers, but another, less familiar voice. The wailing animal in his head retreats to a dull roar as his memory creeps back. A brightly colored tent assaults his vision, piecemeal rugs and odd, foreign trinkets abound on makeshift shelves, and before him sits a strange old woman, hood pulled heavy over her straggling gray hair.

"I-- What was that?"

He sees her cracked, aging lips upturn, gnarled hands placed protectively over a strange orb on the table touching his knees. "I have shown you your future, vampling. Was it to your liking?" Panic rises within his stomach again, and though he does not breathe, he clutches his chest. The smell of incense clogs his nostrils and again, the wave of sick threatens to spill forth. Wretched taste of metallic, aged blood sits heavy on his tongue, all sensation too much-- all of it too much.

"No-- No, that cannot be it!"

"This is your path, Pale Elf. The road you walk. The power you seek is well within your grasp, but as I told you before, it will cost you everything."

He vehemently shakes his head, denying it. Denying it before her and all the Gods.

"You told me upon entry that no price was too great for your reward. Do you still agree with this sentiment?"

"No! Not-- not her. Not her. Not that! I couldn't--"

"You can and you shall, sure as the moon follows the sun. You will have everything you ever wanted, but cost of this ritual is plain before you. You cared not for the many souls left to your mercy that are crushed beneath your tyrannical fist in your ascension, but what of the sole one that resides in your heart?"

Her. The light of his life. The air he breathes. The sun on his frigid flesh, the warmth that melts his icy heart.

"No," He hisses, trying to stand, but ultimately unable to muster the strength. "I won't! There-- There must be another way. Show me!"

"There is no other way," She says, solemnly. "It is inevitable."

He swallows down the information like a boulder lodged in his gullet. Her words echo endlessly in his mind, bouncing off the walls and lodging shards of ice directly in his soul.

"What if I-- What if I don't ascend? Tell me, what if I don't?"

She smiles again, teeth flashing through her thin lips. "That is another path, little elf." "I need to know. I-- I need certainty. I won't do this to her, but I--" He pauses, grappling with everything in his mind, desperately flitting about to absorb it all. "If I am going to forgo this, I need to be certain. I need to know that I can protect her, that she will be safe--"

But the woman simply shakes her head.

"Everyone must choose. For some, the path is dark, but for you, you see more than most will ever have the comfort of knowing. I can offer you nothing more. Should you initiate the Rite, you know this will come to pass. I can tell you nothing more if you choose to not. The future is yet unwritten, and the quill resides in your hands." "Then why can I not have both!" He slams a fist on the table, clawing at the soft wood. For the first time in ages, tears prick at his pale lashes and frustration wells a knot in his throat. "Why--" "Because one path is wholly your own, while the other is a tangled web, such is the nature of deals with the Hells. You will get everything you ever wanted and lose everything that made it worth having."

His head slumps, defeated and miserable. Silvery tears slide down the curves of his cheeks, even as he attempts to bite them back. He thought he would find comfort in knowing the future, but all it has given him is utter horror.

"Despair not," She continues. "Yes, you will wither under the sun, an eternally cursed dweller of the night, but all is not lost, is it? The one you love, will she stray from your side?" "I wanted her to have better than that," He sniffles, needling his lip with a fang. "I cannot brave the sun, but her-- She deserves better than that-- better than me."

"And what of what she feels?"

His brows furrow, and he peers up at the woman from tear-beaded lashes.

"You are a night walker; it is in your nature to be selfish. But love is not selfish, little vampling. You must fight your nature, your inherent self-loathing, or your love will always find the fire. What of what she desires?"

"She loves me," He says with absolute certainty. "And I--" "Do you love her?"

"Yes," He hisses, almost insulted that she would ask. "More than anything. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Then the rest matters naught. If you love her, you will allow her the agency to choose-- something you deny her as an ascendent. You must grow past your own follies. To love is to be vulnerable, and you must allow both yourself and her this freedom."

They are hard words to swallow, and yet, he feels the truth resound in them. She would not leave his side, even as he tried to force her to understand. Even as an instrument of his manipulation and schemes came to light, she stood steadfast with him, hand entwined in his, ready to face the fire together.

"I-- I need to know she will be safe."

Again, the woman shakes her head. "You cannot. You must fight fate if you wish to overturn it. You face dire odds, though throwing the dice in your favor now will doom you later should this outcome be the confirmation of your fears."

He sighs, face crinkling as he sniffs once more, summoning the willpower to swallow down the agony of his choice. He finds the strength in his legs to push himself upward from the chair, weak and shaking as a newborn fawn as he does so. "I will do whatever I need to. Anything."

"Then you may yet see this through."

He can hear the fanfare of the circus outside, the bawdy bards strumming away on their lutes and banging on drums, the elated screams of the children and their parents. Facing the light now seems impossible, but he must find his way home to her-- he has to be with her now now now--

"The coin first, boy."

He snaps out of his delirium only long enough to fish his hands into one of his pockets, bringing out a coin. Aged and neglected, the sinister engraving of a skull peers up at him from his palm, ruby eyes gleaming in the light as he tosses it into the woman's knobbily-jointed hands.

"Best of luck to you, night-child," She tucks it away. "We may yet meet again." "No offense, but I hope not."

"Me too, Little Star."

He pays little mind to the bustling streets and bursting taverns of Baldur's Gate, his feet carrying him back to camp as swiftly as his body will allow. It takes him until sundown even as he damn near jobs, ripping through the tree line and into the ruins with the intensity of a man starved.

"Astarion!" Karlach greets him, trying to wave him over. "I've got a bet with Gale about--" "Where is she?" Astarion immediately cuts her off, looking around frantically.

"Who?" Karlach raises a brow.

"Who else?" Wyll crosses his arms, looking intrigued at Astarion's intensity.

"Oh! In her tent, I think. Why? Gotcha a special something' in town for her, eh?" Karlach tries to rib at him, but he pushes past her without a second glance.

"Bet it's a fancy new dress he needs to tear off of her immediately," Karlach rolls her eyes before returning to her business.

He bursts into her tent to find her hunched over a book, tongue poking from between her teeth, as she scans over the page. This only lasts a few seconds before he scrambles onto the bed, squeezing her as tightly as he can manage, burying his nose into her hair, tears brimming in his eyes once more.

"Woah, hey!" She laughs, carefully setting her book aside, trying to discern what in the hells he is mumbling endlessly into her neck.

Need you-- need you-- love you-- can't lose you-- don't ever--

She hushes him, realizing something has gone terribly, terribly wrong, kissing his head and tugging him close. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She tries to cup his cheeks and bring his face up but he adamantly refuses, hard-swallowing the urge to bawl into her shoulder with every ounce of willpower he has. All he can manage is to cling to her, half sobbing, visions of that terrible future swimming in his head. He cannot let it come to pass, he will not--

And she holds him, cradling him in her arms, hushing him gently. Her face creases with worry, running her hands through his silvery hair as he pulls him into her lap.

"Little Star, what's wrong? You seem so upset. What can I do to make you happy, my love?"

"Is it done?" Ulma leans down as she enters the tent, carefully dodging the intricate tassels of the blanket strewn over the entryway.

"It is," The strange old woman replies, still rubbing the coin with her worn thumb.

"And?"

"I showed him nothing but truth," She says quietly. "I did not manipulate his vision. Only channeled it."

"That tells me nothing. I need to know if our children are safe."

"I cannot tell you this, Ulma. You know of the ways of our tribe; our relationship with these magics." Ulma's lips purse, her exasperation evident in her humorless expression. "I need to know--"

"His reaction was genuine. That was not my doing. He knows the price of power. I cannot tell you if he will pay it regardless," The old woman's head lifts, a slight mischievous smile playing on her lips. "But I can tell you what I think."

"And what do you think?"

"I have seen his soul-- the heart of it. I believe you will see our children yet. He will spare our heart to spare his own in kind. It beats in that woman," Her eyes twinkle in the low candlelight, a genuine smile widening across her cheeks. "I believe he can find redemption yet."

[mothnether]

he's working on something

[yippee-optimistically]

um. umm thinking about if mikey developed a like. kraang 6th sense. bc of the norman suit they obviously knew bishop was a kraang/utrom but just thinking about if, unlike mikeys usual ability to sniff out dangers and fakers (like aprils "mom") bishop and utrom just. unsettled him. its totally unintentional and he feels sort of bad but after everything in dimX he Cannot be comfortable around kraang/utrom. at least for a long time. idk!

also thinking if the brothers learned from mikeys proven abilities to sniff out these false allies, theyd maybe double check bishop with him. like "hey, mike, this guy isnt setting off any alarms, right?" and pushing past all the KRAANG KRAANG KRAANG DANGER signals hes begrudgingly like "...no. no hes good. grins"

related point... tokka vs the world you are so special to me... mikey and caseys bond is so so fun i wish we got to see a little more of it

PLSSS PLSS drop any 2012 fic recs ... im so hungry

[brainrotisseriechicken]

3 am celebratory post go me

merry christmas to all who celebrate and happy holidays !!!!^_^

[ruporas]

feast (ID in alt)

[narugen]

LOVE his kansai dialect so much huge shoutout to his seiyuu (kengo kawanishi) here’s 34 seconds of it from the new episode

(also whilst confirming that i wasn’t saying the wrong shit i found a thread on how his dialect gets translated in the manga from an official translator!)

[isjasz]

[Day 148 - Day 4: Poppies and Lilacs]

🪻🥀

@desert-duo-week

Timestamp for reference these flowers plague me till this day (I swear someday I gotta rewatch to follow the journey of these flowers in DL and figure out exactly what the fuck happened to them)

[faragonart]

We interrupt this program to bring you...

Echo

[cabbagestrand]

oh, to be taken care of

[monkayy]

[artuurle]

(AU)

What if you died and something divine loved you so much it couldn't cope with that fact? What if they tried bringing you back but the result was wrong?

More doodles + rambles below:

Now What if what came back was just off. Looks at the divine without the memories that went back decades. It looks, behaves and works in a way just off enough in a way to make the god unable to look at it. it's not you. it's not. it can't be.

.... but what if what got pulled back was still you, but its- YOU'RE wrong and broken in ways you cant understand anymore.

The apocalypse draws closer and closer and you don't know why every day that passes you seem to be falling more and more apart too. The god is gone. You are alone.

....Anyway yeah i fucked up a perfectly normal Lovestory Au. i gave it anxiety is what i did. sorry for horrid typing in 2nd person trying to explain stuff im bad at explaining <3 i draw, not write for a reason lol.