#Completely intentional! ^^'

[vilevexedvixen]

Fowler's Flower Pt. 3 - Crown of thorns

Abijah Fowler x servant!Reader

Summary: While the reader rests, her fellow English Roses stir in her absence. Their usual duties disrupted by Fowler's newborn vigor as of her arrival. Typically Mary serves as Fowler's go-to sacrificial lamb, but that morning Lizzy offered herself in her place when she sees Fowler about to torture the reader. Remembering exactly why she'd avoided Fowler's attention all this time...

TW: Sexual themes, breath-play, begging, and general religious fuckery.

Pt. 1 here

Pt. 2 here Dividers by @roseschoices

Lizzy couldn't sleep.

She often couldn't. A light sleeper at best, but this night even the twinkling of stars in the clear night sky felt like an agitating strobe taunting her from the heavens. The warm summer air feeling like a stale miasma that caught in her throat the deeper she breathed in a vain attempt to quell her nerves. It was almost funny, Mary's snoring was strangely calming by comparison. A reminder of her presence. Each breath of hers sounding slightly wheezy tonight, Fowler must have really done a number to her chest and back. An obvious observation, given she had just been tending to her wounds before bed. As with almost every night before.

Dabbing each cut and bruise with a rag soaked in what meager disinfectant she could make from the sake they shared with Fowler's prostitutes. Sparing some to drink as a makeshift painkiller, which Mary gladly indulged in between hisses as the disinfectant worked its magic. Her shaky hands causing some of the disinfectant to spill onto her clothes, which still stank faintly of it. Somehow, hearing Mary wheeze now stung more than seeing her stumble in as a battered wreck earlier. She could patch her up as best she can every time, but the damage will always last. Someday, she knew, would come a day her best efforts won't heal her.

Why must she always throw herself at his feet? Mary's but one person, no matter how hardy she reckons she is. Lord knows she can't work miracles, and there's only so many miracles she could pray for on Mary's behalf. She swears her prayers must have been heard on at least a few occasions. Rarely can she stomach a peak into the dungeon, even when it's not in use, but its proximity to the chapel makes some gruesome affairs hard to ignore. The depths of depravity and anguish she's seen Mary endure is nothing short of biblical. Sympathy aside, she knows were it not for Mary then she, Daisy and any other poor soul unlucky enough to spark Fowler's ire would have to endure that same torture. The last time that happened, well...

Her trembling hands fondled the rosary she hid beneath her garbs, less because of any explicit rule to keep it hidden and more a need to keep it close to her heart. As if on autopilot, she made her way to the chapel as she did most mornings. Almost as if the sun may not rise unless she prayed that the lord willed it to, even if she knew it must. Usually she'd make a detour to the kitchen first to gather up a little something for Mary to eat in case she was left in the dungeon overnight. It was a welcome change to not be sleeping alone for once, courtesy of Fowler getting his sadistic urges out of his system unusually early. One would wonder how a man like Fowler could even sleep at night, but his nocturnal tendencies seem to speak for themselves.

An unfortunate consequence of his near nightly habits is that Lizzy often guides herself to the chapel not by memerising the winding passageways that led there, but instead by the sounds emanating from the dungeon like clockwork. Finishing up just in time for the birdsong to begin, a jarring choir to cleanse her palate. Tonight her memory had to finally step-in, which actually led her to take a few wrong turns before finally reaching the chapel. Not even the birds had stirred yet, leaving nothing but the creaking floorboards to keep her company. And him, of course. Ever loving, ever looming.

As she knelt among the pews, gazing up at the carved carcass of Christ nailed above the alter with eyes half-closed, she could feel Mary's scathing nihilism get to her. Unsure if all her prayers were what kept her alive, or if their dismissal is what perpetuates her suffering, something she had no intention of testing. On which note, she began her morning mantra...

"Almighty God who seest that we have no power of ourselves to help ourselves; keep us both outwardly in our bodies, and inwardly in our souls; that we may be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

Her hands clasped tighter, as if the silence that followed her prayer proved the futility of her faith. On some level, she knew it, but it was the one thing that still granted her some semblance of dignity. Not her maintaining faith in the Lord or Church, but her continued role as a nun. Tending to Mary and other servants' wounds, cooking extra food from the kitchen for those in her care, praying on their behalf, mending their clothes, etc. Any task she could take on that resembled her old duties in the convent helped distract from the fact her new official role was as Fowler's.... "plaything". A role that she has thankfully gotten to neglect for some time, thanks to Mary, and which she fears _______ may not be fit for.

As if she spoke of the Devil - the heavy, daunting, unmistakable footsteps of Fowler arose from the end of the hall, alongside what sounded like a heavy sack being dragged across the floor. That can't be good...

Against her better judgement, she crept up to the chapel doorway to peak down the hall. Almost immediately, Fowler spotted her and greeted her with a knowingly vile smirk.

"Good morning, Sister Elizabeth!" he jeered.

She knew he played into her duties as a nun like it was some sort of amusingly pitiable delusion, but if that's what it took to keep his interest in her at bay then so be it. She frowned, "Yes, it has been a good morning thus far. May I ask what you've got there?" She knew very well what he had there, now that she had a closer look. The outline of her old servants garb in tatters and a limp head of messy hair, clearly _______ run ragged and unconscious.

"So you haven't met her yet?", Fowler's mocking tone irked her to no end, though she tried to hide it. Clearly in vain though, as his smirk deepened, satisfied with how easily he got under her skin. "Sorry to disturb your little chat with the lord, but the wine seems to have worked a bit too well on this one. Thank you so much for that little recipe of yours, it works wonders!"

Recipe? What recipe? Her mind scoured for what she could've possibly given him willingly. Then it dawned on her... the dwale? How could he have gotten the ingredients for that here?! She'd only managed to spare a handful of them she'd smuggled on her way here to use in emergencies, which he hasn't touched (to her knowledge), so how?... The distraught confusion he drew out of her with so few words tickled the base of his soul. Oh the guilt on her face was priceless!

'Oh _______, I'm so sorry!', she thought, distraught that her remedies were used for such selfish, evil indulgences, let alone by Fowler of all people! He can't of been dragging her to the chapel. What? Was he hoping to wake her with pain in the dungeon? ________'d barely been here a day! She can't just stand by and let him drag them there!

Fowler reveled in Lizzy's anguish, watching her twitch with grief and anger for just a moment before he continued towards the dungeon. Suddenly, Lizzy lept to hastily block his path, compelled as if her body were possessed to do so. She'd never been so brash in a long while, not since he crushed her hands to bits. He'd thought he'd broke her, but so glad he hadn't! This was going to be fun...

(NSFW scene; skip if you'd rather not partake.)

"Volunteering as tribute, Sister?", Fowler said, barely leaving a second before casting _______ aside like a rag-doll to grip Lizzy's neck and drag her back into the chapel. Despite the sinking dread she felt as he dragged her body to the alter, she didn't fight back. Not if it risked him turning his attention back to _______, still unconscious in the hallway.

"On your knees, Sister", he growled,yanking Lizzy down by the neck, buckling her onto her hands and knees coughing and gasping for breath. "Look at me!", he grabbed her chin harshly to force her to comply. Her little holy charade was cute, but it got old quick. The mix of fear and hatred looked absolutely beautiful on her. Admittedly, her purity was part of what was so fun about her, a cruel bit of false hope he perpetuated by keeping that little bit of her intact. Wielding the threat of its ruin like a collar and leash around her neck. Speaking of which...

Fowler traced the tips of his fingers over her collarbone where her rosary barely peaked out, coiling a finger around to deftly coax it from under her uniform. "Did you think this would save you?", his grip loosened to let the beads slip through his palm, grasping it once more upon reaching the apostle's creed. Pulling it taut to squeeze the sides of Lizzy's neck and forcing her forward, her face barely inches away from the knot of his robe's belt. Her chest heaved as each breath grew more laboured than the last. Head sagging heavy over her shoulder as a dull fog enclosed her aching skull. The beautiful sight of her fighting to maintain her balance not at all discouraging Fowler from quenching the remaining flow of blood to her brain with the rosary in the slightest. If anything, seeing her so quickly slump into a heady stupor compelled him to pull it tauter. Bereft of air, her body grew heavy as clay - begging for Fowler to breathe life back into it again.

And that he did.

With barely a moment's notice he let go, her body collapsing to the floor, too weak to even lift her head let alone kneel. She wasn't sure how long she lay there for, but between deep gasps for air she could faintly hear Fowler circling her. Watching her.

"You know..." Fowler trailed off, "when Heiji had said he'd found a lady of the cloth up for sale I found it such a beautiful irony." He leaned down to stroke her cheek, working his fingers behind her ear to enmesh in her hair. Unceremoniously he dug his claws into her scalp and yanked her up by the hair, forcing her awake with the ache of it. Her pleading scowl denoting that her full, furious attention was back at him. Perfect. He continued, "Seems not even England's own are safe from the Tudor lust for pillage and plunder. Willing to cannibalise itself for gold to toss at another enemy. Doubt the money he paid for you is enough to rebuild your old monastery - but what a fat sum for the abbot to run away with, eh?"

Lizzy rarely dwelled on how she got here. Why would she? One day she was tending to the monastery's garden and blessing weary travelers seeking sanctuary; the next her room was exposed to the elements. Books and beams charred to bits and nothing of the monastery's holy relics left but the sun-bleached shadows on the walls they once adorned. While some of her sisters stayed to help repair the ruined remains, most fled to the few monasteries yet untouched by Henry Tudor's warmongering greed. One by one though, with barely a hope of normalcy left to cling to, they each were sold into contract work. Lords who thought themselves above the Lord.

"Now, since you're practiced in the ways of worship-" he began untying the belt of his robe, which slid aside gracefully - a stark contrast to the vulgar bulge it revealed, "I have something in need of your... blessing". His hands weren't really necessary to uncover the thick cock barely contained by his breeches.

She froze, it had been so long since she last serviced him, it was almost a lost art. Not only that, but she'd had the mercy of a blindfold each time before, shielding her from the harsh reality in front of her - even if the unmistakably horrid taste of him lingered long thereafter. Noticing her hesitation, Fowler resumed that same old mercy, tying his robe's belt across her eyes into a makeshift blindfold as she's so accustomed. "Now, petal, you finally ready to do your fucking job?"

Fowler was done playing games, he needed release and she knew it. Taking one last deep breath, Lizzy wrapped her lips around his throbbing cock and began sucking with all the energy she could muster. As good as it felt, it would take so much more to pull even a whimper from Fowler, so she gradually picked up the pace. Hardly a minute into it, and her jaw was already aching. She couldn't really complain about being so out of practice, but damn did it hurt.

Not at all satisfied with her pathetic attempt at a blowjob, Fowler gripped a fistful of her hair and rammed his cock down her throat as deep as it would go. In and out, like a roaring tide during a storm. Each thrust made Lizzy gag, she could barely breathe! Within a minute of Fowler keeping his pace, Lizzy started to black out. As her eyes fluttered shut, she felt the sting of a slap to the face as Fowler pulled himself from her mouth, "Don't go falling asleep on the job, Sister, understand?".

Barely with it, she nodded. Unsatisfied, Fowler slapped her again - this time garnering a yelp from Lizzy, "I could end you with a single thrust to the back of your throat. Now, be a good girl and beg me not to... beg like your life depends on it!"

Her mind raced, faster than her mouth could keep up. Fumbling and stammering between pleads and whimpers. She begged, "Please My Lord, have mercy on me! I beg of you... please don't kill me!" Her hands grasping at his loose robe in a show of desperation, garnering nothing but an unimpressed tsk from Fowler, "I know you can do better than that Petal... I've seen you beg more fervently in here for a heartier supper than you're begging for me now!" He leant in to grab for her rosary yet again, this time swiftly pulling it off her neck with a snap. A couple beads spilling onto the floor before he wrapped the remaining chain around her wrists to bind them together in prayer.

Panicked, she pleaded, "No, NO! My Lord please, I meant no disrespect I swear! Forgive me. Every breath, I cherish it as if it were my last, were it not for your benevolent mercy. Please oh PLEASE, have mercy on me My Lord!" That at least drew a smile out of Fowler, if a faint one. Fearful her pleas were insufficient, she began to pray;

"O Lord, my God, Thou art to me whatsoever is good. Remember me because I am nothing, I have nothing, and I can do nothing. Thou alone art good, just, and holy; Thou canst do all things, Thou accomplishest all things, Thou fillest all things. Turn not Thy face away from me; withedraw not Thy consolation, lest my soul become as a thirsty land to Thee. Teach me, O Lord, to do Thy will; teach me to live worthily and humbly in Thy sight!"

By the last word her hands were visibly, profoundly shaking. To say she feared Fowler for the longest time would be an understatement, but in that moment her fear overshadowed all other thoughts. And Fowler could hear it...

"Good, Petal."

Her trembling sigh of relief echoed throughout the chapel. A pleasant calm... before the storm.

"Now, open wide for me-" still with his grip on her hair he easily pulled her head to attention, though hardly needed to as she now willingly parted her lips for him, "That's better, my dear ~"

With her eyes closed she fully lost herself in submission, loose and limp. Were it not for the slight pressure she could feel pulling at her scalp she'd swear her body was moving on its own and not puppeteered by Fowler. Back and forth, back and forth... Soon all sense of time melted away. Maybe her mind and body had shut down, exhausted with panic. Perhaps she had truly began to accept it, relaxing into her role... NO! Her body stiffened with resistance, causing her to gag and force Fowler's cock from the back of her throat. But by then she'd served his needs, cum spilling from her mouth and dripping all over her garments. She could barely believe the sight of herself, disheveled and desecrated.

She hadn't a second to process what happened before Fowler had cleaned himself up and re-tied his robe. Her stare hardly seeing that the blindfold had been removed, everything still a-blur.

"Clean yourself up, you look a mess", he said so nonchalantly as if the entire morning hadn't happened. As if _______ wasn't still laying there, having not stirred from her drug-induced coma. As if she hadn't just thrown herself at his feet to stop him dragging her away to the dungeon. Then the birds, in their ignorance, began to whistle.

Mary woke with a start.

Patting the straw mattress beside her. Her eyes unseeing, sewn shut with sleepy-dust and by the impulse to shield herself shield from the blinding sunrise. Feeling for her friend in the fabric, but finding nothing. Panic forced her eyes open to search for her. The room haunted by her absence, where...? The Chapel. Of course, bless her heart. The realisation of her morning habits quelled what anxieties had welled in that brief moment of terrible isolation. She'd be back soon enough. Praying her heart out for the lot of them, no doubt.

A sharp twinge forced Mary on her back once more as she tried to sit up. Every inch of her upper back and chest ached. Breasts abused, back torn open like a scratching post and she could've sworn the sharp, broken edge of a cracked rib or two was daring to pierce her lung if she dared rise too quickly. Easy does it now...

With a painful grown, Mary brought herself to her feet. Leaning on the wall every inch up. Little by little. She hadn't a crutch, so the wall will have to do. If the bustling just outside the door was anything to go by, the day's chores had already begun and she had missed breakfast. Dammit. She was no princess, but no sense in wasting good food - she needed it!

As if on queue, her stomach growled like a wretched beast, guttural and feral. 'Hush!', she hissed. She could last until midday, she reckoned. Just needed to... rest a bit more than usual, just not here, not alone. With aching shoulders she limped her way against the wall towards the kitchen, guided by the scent of the delectable bone broth stewing with the remnant's of Fowler's meaty supper from the night before.

The cook seemed to notice her struggling a lot, peeking up from his grand cauldron to shed a pitiful look of sympathy. "あなたはお腹が空いているでしょう？ほら、どうぞ!", he scooped a bountiful heap of bone broth for her to drink from. Warm and filling, just what she needed. Collapsing onto the wooden bench, she cupped her hands and gratefully accepted his gesture, "感謝に候ひます!" she exclaimed with joyful relief.

The broth was perhaps a tad too hot for consumption quite yet, but her aching stomach demanded sustenance! Other than the slight burn to her already desensitised tongue on the way down, all she felt was the pleasant (if bland) flavour of the broth. While so preoccupied by her food, she hadn't noticed Elizabeth's return. Even as she reached her bench and sat upon it with the weight of the world strapped to her back, making it creak evermore indiscreetly. One would think she'd gone deaf!

"Hey...", Elizabeth rested a quivering hand on Mary's shoulder, startling her and causing some of her broth to slip down the wrong hole. Choking it down, she coughed, "H-hey Sister Elizabeth, slept well?"

"You know I won't have", she retorted - some humour to her tone, though minimal.

Wanting to keep the mood light, Mary snorted, "No rest for the wicked, eh?", earning a light chuckle from Elizabeth. Music to her ears! She finished her broth as the two of them basked in each others' company in pleasant silence. A welcome respite from their daily trials. Soon enough though the silence was broken by Mary, with a concern that increasingly weighed them both down, "You think _______'ll be alright?"

"Lord knows, Mary. Lord knows...", Elizabeth mumbled, knowing exactly who knew.

[paintedcrows]

Had a silly thought about hypothetical cat curse shenanigans with @dark-lord-of-awesomeness's How to Cat Burglar a Family ;)

Bonus doodle!!

[catmask]

does anyone have like an anti aesthetic. like something you look at and can recognize as a complete fashion/interior design/artistic movement and understand it but it makes you shudder seeing it. i am not talking like “its morally bad” “its poorly structured” like just sheerly devoid of joy for you actually invites a repulse response.

[catcrumb]

catcrumb tarot 7/22

[socvincjpeg]

My designs for all of these freaks.. thank you forsaken roblox for getting me through midterms

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ignorantia Neminem Excusat

(Ignorance excuses no one, lat.)

"Commissioner."

Jim Gordon doesn't jump. They are years and years into this rodeo, he's stopped actually jumping at Batman's silent approach a long time ago. Yet, Bruce still notices the way his shoulders twitch just the tiniest bit, and his hand makes an aborted motion to his gun holster. Still got it.

The man turns around. Bruce can see the 'must you always do that?' in his slightly narrowed eyes. He presses his lips tightly together in order to not smirk: Batman doesn't do that, even if it's admittedly funny to see the seasoned Commissioner get spooked every time.

"There's a kid that wants to speak with you."

Bruce frowns. A kid that warranted a BatSignal? Not that he minds, but this is highly unusual for several reasons; however, Jim is not the kind of man that would fall for puppy eyes of any level, so it must be something more important than an autograph session or a victim of any of the recent cases.

Besides, the way Commissioner worded it implies that the kid, whoever they are, requested Batman specifically.

"He is a hacker," Jim puts both his hands in the pockets of his coat — he is either cold or uncomfortable, and Bruce highly suspects it's both. What's more, he starts to understand why. "I'm sure you're aware we were trying to track the person responsible for the few recent cyber attacks on GCPD servers," Jim glances at him, and Bruce nods. He is aware, yes, but the case was low-priority — it wasn't even an attack, really, someone just accessed the system foregoing the passwords and clearance levels, went through a few files, seemingly at random, and did a fairly decent job of hiding their traces. Bruce would have even thought it was Tim, if this happened a few years ago, when the boy was just learning the ropes.

Commissioner sighs and looks away, "But when we brought him in, the boy said he will only speak to you, and none of us have been able to make him say a word since." He pauses, a grim kind of expression on his face, "This was six hours ago."

Bruce is grateful for the way his cowl hides how his eyebrows raise. There are hundreds of scripts officers, detectives, and social workers can use to establish contact. Quite a lot of them could be attempted in the span of six hours.

Whatever the kid wants to tell him, Bruce decides it's worth a try. If not anything else, he can at least admire the sheer stubbornness.

—×—×—×—

The kid sitting in the interrogation room looks... younger than Bruce expected. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. He is dressed like any other homeless kid in Gotham — a hoodie and a jacket over it, jeans that look a size too big on him, sneakers with mismatched shoelaces — but he clearly hasn't been out in the streets for that long. His hair is braided into cornrows, and it looks professional, even if the roots have grown out so now it's just messy. What's more, he is missing that telltale wariness in his posture that Bruce has seen in every other street kid that has been brought into a police station. They always slouch and curl into themselves.

This boy is sitting with his back straight. Yet, there's a tension in his body that Bruce can only associate with a battle stance — give him the slightest reason, and the kid will lunge.

He steps into the room.

The boy — he hadn't given a name, and there wasn't a single ID on him — zeroes on him instantly. His eyes are a very pale, almost translucent green: a rather strange feature for a black-skinned person, genetically speaking, but Bruce doesn't dwell on it. Yet.

But then, the face recognition program comes up empty.

As in, 'there's not a trace of this person's prior existence' empty. Not a single camera footage, no records or reports of missing, no pictures, no social media, nothing. Bruce frowns.

"Hi," the kid says, his voice raspy, "My name is Tucker Foley. According to the government, I don't exist, so if your recognition program doesn't find anything on me, that's why."

Bruce doesn't say anything. Tucker wanted to speak with him, and previously, he was only merely intrigued by that request. However, as of right now, he wants to hear everything the kid has to say before asking any follow-up questions.

Because that always present, cautious and bordering on paranoid voice in the back of his mind tells him he is about to get into something way more serious than he expected.

Tucker moves — he kept both his hands on the table, palms open and visible, but now he closes one into a fist. Although, before Bruce can react to it, he opens it again. A small, the size of a flash-drive, dimly glowing green object rests inside.

"Do you know what this is?" The boy asks. He hasn't looked away from Batman's face once; Bruce is not even sure he blinked at all since he entered the room. Come to think of it, even with his tense, rigid posture, Tucker is too still, almost unnervingly so.

Bruce glances down to the boy's hand.

"Yes," he answers curtly, and there it is, the smallest shift in Tucker's face: he clenches his jaw like he's trying to hold the words inside his mouth. Bruce doesn't like it.

"What is it?" Comes the next question, but it's not curiosity that prompts it. It's a test of some sort. Bruce likes that even less.

"A power source," he decides on a neutral answer, not entirely certain what the boy is expecting to hear.

It seems to be a wrong answer because for the first time, Tucker's emotions slip from under his mask, and he takes a sharp breath in, looking like Bruce had just slapped him across the face. It lasts only a moment — Tucker closes his eyes for a moment, slowly exhales, and speaks again, calm and focused once more.

"And what exactly powers it?"

It's an important question, judging by the desperate, searching look in Tucker's eyes. His hands are not shaking, and there are no visible signs of distress, but for some reason, Bruce just knows that the boy's whole life seems to depend on the answer.

But.

"It's classified." Bruce doesn't take his eyes off the boy, but he still fails to see when he gets to his feet; the movement is quicker than the blink of an eye. All he knows is the aftermath of it, the screech of the chair legs on the floor and the loud slam of Tucker's palms on the table.

"Fuck the classified!" The boy yells, his face twisting in an awful mix of anger, hurt and a broken, terrified sort of hopelessness that almost breaks Bruce from the inside. "I need to know what they've told you, I have to- Tell me you think it's just a battery! Tell me you've never broke one to see what's inside, tell me you believe in science! They've showed you the research, didn't they?" Tucker's voice, so agonizingly different from the composed way he was talking before, breaks into a sobbing, almost hysterical laugh. His pale eyes are wide open and almost panicked, searching Batman's face for something he is not sure he can find.

"Tell me you've never seen one being made," this time, the boy doesn't yell, he whispers, his breath hitching and his knuckles white. "Please," he adds a moment later, and Bruce knows this kind of plea.

It's the plea of someone who is begging for the world to have mercy on them. A plea of a boy standing on their parents' grave, a plea of a man kneeled in front of his son's corpse.

Bruce swallows the bitter taste on the back of his tongue and takes a step closer. He sees the boy in front of him lean back and bend his knees, like bracing for impact, but he answers before any more misunderstandings can occur.

"I have seen the research. It provided enough information that I've never investigated further," he offers, and Tucker's shoulders slump like months and months of living in a constant state of fight-or-flight leaving his body all at once. Then, the boy's hands start trembling just slightly.

"Really?" He quietly asks, his eyes still glued to Batman, and there it is, the hesitant, uncertain hint of hope in his voice.

Bruce suddenly feels like not only this talk will be much, much worse than he ever feared, but also like in the end this will be another one of the things he will be blaming himself for. Things he could have prevented if he just tried a little harder.

"Really," he nods, taking a seat opposite from Tucker. "So explain what I've missed."

The boy keeps looking at him for a few more seconds, like trying to x-ray his thoughts for any sign of a lie. But then he blinks — for the first time, maybe — and rubs his face with his palm before all but dropping back in his own seat.

"Okay," he breathes out, evidently trying to collect himself and go back to the strong, focused self, "Okay."

[ part 2 -> ]

[vohtaro]

some achilles character portraits i made up as i was contemplating a more war-like appearance in hades 2

[teratomatica]

you always land on all fours

[lazycranberrydoodles]

omg nya ninjago ??! (other ones)

[whenthewallfell]

Clementine (or Emmy when she's being especially adorable) used to be Ryen's horse, but he gave her to Peeta because she was just too much of 'a borin' dozy mare' and he wanted something more exciting. Peeta bonded with her immediately and under his care she's grown into a happy, perky little thing who's always up for a challenge. She's also a bit of a bin on legs and constantly snuffling pockets for treats - her favourites are peppermints, but she will eat absolutely anything she can get a hold of.

Though friendly with everyone, Clementine adores Peeta most of all. He dotes on her constantly and the two are rarely seen apart.

Katniss and Buttercup think it's a bit weird tbh

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Y/N: Jeff’s refusing to wear his glasses!

Jeff: Y/N, look, I wore the glasses for a day. My eyes are much better now. Watch.

Jeff, pointing to BEN: BEN.

Jeff, pointing to Liu: Liu.

Jeff, pointing to EJ: Sasquatch.

[sparrowlucero]

do you actually dislike the bird abode or just the creature designs? not saying the name directly so your ass doesn't get blasted by the tag

I like a lot of the creatures in it; the showrunner is a really fantastic horror artist and it really comes through in the aesthetics of the show. I especially like this hand dragon, though there's a lot of other great designs:

As for the show on the whole, it's not bad but not really for me? Early on it really feels like it's schtick will be that it's a subversion of harry potter-esque stories, where the protagonist wants to go on an adventure similar to her favorite fantasy book but instead ends up hanging out with the "villain" (who's actually just othered)/the magic school turns out to be secretly oppressive/the world is kind of gross and spooky instead of clean and approachable... but as it goes along I think it ends up being a pretty by the books YA fantasy thing played mostly straight, and it isn't super interesting or funny or scary or anything besides that. Which admittedly was probably to its benefit, I think a lot of its popularity comes from it being this very tropeish and not-uncomfortable magic school/found family story that's actually queer, like I genuinely think this is hugely appealing to the average cartoon fan on twitter, but I'm just not personally into it in comparison to a lot of it's contemporaries

[stolos]

Just imagine like a thousand more needles in ‘em

Guys I’m trying to get a proper Needles design out but I cannot get them to look how he does in my head😭 I did this one in like an hour bcs i wasn’t sure if my design could strike a balance of “trying to hard” and “could genuinely be unsettling” but like the other two sketches I’ve done look like this so:

I’m sorry Needles I’ll try to do you better next time😔😔😔

Edit: Adding my very first sketches! (Top right is why I never share em)

[lilithofpenandbook]

Something about Snape, 31-38, with pure black hair, not a single sign of white, despite that being the age most people start going grey

Something about how he had the full dark hair of youth and died like that

Something about how he never truly grew up like he should have

Something about how he was always stuck there in the past, stuck as that Snape boy from Spinner's End, stuck as Snivellus the boy who the Marauders hated for just existing

Something about how he died there in the same place he nearly died as a boy

Something about how he died in that place, bloodied and wounded, raven black hair, no difference between him and his boyhood self

Something about how that black hair was perhaps a sign that he was still living in the past, that a piece of him was eternally frozen at 21, at 16, at 15, he died a man yet he wasn't one, he wasn't a boy but not quite a man

Something about how his portrait among all the other heads of Hogwarts is the only one whose hair is fully dark, whose face isn't lined with age.

Next to them, he is a boy. Perhaps he always was.

[ruporas]

kisses of affirmation (ID in alt)

[zivazivc]

this came to me in a dream

Floyd's emo ass and a techno troll could make scene kids...! Do you see my vision??? . . . Ravin is Happy Hardcore and Eddy M is Synth-Pop, that's how troll genetics work, right?

anyway...

i don't think floyd leads a proud life