#Dump attempt at comic

[nukbody]

Mirror's Edge brainrot save me (ft. some cutscenes sketches from last year)

[anominous-user]

HOOOOOH it's finally done - this was supposed to be for kevinsu week day 7 (free day) but i ran a little late as you can see so consider this a late submission. this whole thing has been on my mind since last year but its only until a few months ago that i actually thumbnailed and june/july that i sketched and rendered all the panels... BUT what matters is that i finished it so (salute emoji)

[sanguineterrain]

restroom attendant | jason todd

Summary: Tonight is the worst night ever--you just got dumped on your birthday, and all you want to do is cry in the restaurant bathroom in peace. That is, until, the Red Hood bursts in. This city just won't cut you a break.

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader 

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings/tags: humor, mild angst, reader's ex-bf cheats and dumps her, jason is such a silly goose, flirting, meet ugly, canon-typical violence, awkward jason, comic relief dick grayson.

A/N: this is probably the silliest fic i've ever written LOL! i hope you guys enjoy it. please support your local jason todd enthusiast and reblog :)

the divider

Tonight sucks. 

With a shaky hand, you attempt to soothe your swollen eyes. You’ve probably been in here for about twenty minutes. Your Uber has definitely left, as has your now ex-boyfriend of three years. 

Yoga instructor. It’s always the yoga instructor. They’re always fucking the yoga instructor.

You swallow a mouthful of tears and phlegm and try not to let the wet sink touch your dress. All you’d wanted was a little class on your birthday, maybe have some wine and play footsie under the table with your boyfriend. But no. That would’ve been too easy for you. 

You’re starting to think this city is cursed.

The door slams open. The force of it shakes the bathroom, rattles the mirrors. You spin around.

A man slides across the floor and smacks his head on the opposite wall. Red Hood appears in the doorway, the eyes of his helmet glowing eerily. 

Yep. Definitely cursed.

"Let's try this again," Hood says pleasantly, reloading his gun with a fresh magazine. "And in the interest of making myself transparent: when I ask you a question, Jerry, I expect a truthful answer."

He stalks over to Jerry and heaves him up by the lapels of his suit jacket. Hood's biceps bulge as he holds Jerry against the wall. You squish yourself against the sink. Water soaks the back of your dress. 

"You're crazy, I didn't do anything!" Jerry shouts, feet barely scraping the floor. 

"Volume, Jerry. People are trying to enjoy their meals.”

“Let go of me, Hood! I wasn’t anywhere near the Iceberg Lounge!”

“Yeah, see, words are coming outta your mouth, but they don't match the fact that I have three people who put you at the scene. How can we remedy this inconsistency? Any ideas?"

Jerry squirms, but he's no match for Hood's strength. Your heart pounds in your chest.

"Don't give me to the cops!" Jerry begs. 

"Cops are the least of your worries right now," Hood snarls. "You're damn lucky Nightwing wants to talk to you, Jerry, or your head would hurt a lot more."

Slowly, you reach for your purse, trying to pull out your phone. Instead, you knock it to the floor. Tears gather in your eyes because this night just can’t cut you a break.

“Motherfucker,” you whisper. 

Hood turns, those frightening white eyes now on you. Jerry also looks at you, legs still dangling.

“Hey,” Hood says without a sign of struggle. “Shit. Y'alright? Did I swipe ya?”

“No,” you say, voice shaky.

His posture softens. “Okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”

“I believe you. But, um… you're in the women's bathroom.”

Red Hood gives the room a onceover. 

“Huh. So we are. Dunno how that happened.” He shakes Jerry by the collar. “Why’d you run into the women’s bathroom, asshole?”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't kill me!” Jerry wails. 

“Shut it, Jesus. I'm not gonna kill you. Not yet, anyway.” 

“It's fine, I was just leaving,” you say, bending down to get your purse. 

“Hey, no, don't let me push you out,” Hood says. “Sorry. I'll be gone in a couple minutes.”

Hood adjusts his grip so Jerry's face is against the wall, arms and legs restrained. Then he zipties Jerry and sits him down hard on the floor. Hood presses a button on his helmet. 

“Yo, N, I'm at Prescott's. Yeah, with Jerry. No, I didn't tell him to run in here, he did that all on his own! Well, I chased him for ten blocks, so I’d prefer if you’d keep your bitching to yourself. Thank you… Okay, we're in the women's bathroom, so—well, I didn't do it on purpose! No, I’m—will you just come here? There’s a side window.” Hood presses the button again with a grunt. “Dickhead.”

“Are you gonna erase my memory?” you ask. 

Hood jerks, turning back to you.

“What? Hell no, I'm not gonna erase your memory. I don't do that shit, I promise.”

You slump against the sink. “That's too bad. I would prefer it.”

He looks up from Jerry’s last ziptie and pulls it extra tight. Jerry whimpers. 

“How come?” Hood asks.

You shake your head. “It's nothing.”

“Hm. Doesn't look like nothing. If you're in danger—”

“I'm not in danger. I…”

You glance at Hood. You can't see his face, but his body language seems genuine. From what you've heard, Hood isn't known for mincing words or doing things he doesn't want to. And he’s good to Gothamites. Well, the law-abiding ones, anyway. He’s even been endorsed by Batman.

What's the harm in telling him about your disastrous night? Not like you'll see him again. Or Jerry. 

“I got dumped,” you say. 

“Ah.” Hood nods. “Been there.”

Somehow, the idea of Red Hood getting dumped is weirder than him beating up a guy in the women’s bathroom of Prescott’s.

You sniffle, and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. 

“Yeah, um. It was our three year anniversary today. He took me here, told me he was in love with his yoga instructor, and then left.”

You tear up thinking about it. Hood makes a quiet noise.

“Shit. Well, I haven't been there,” he says. “But I know infidelity. I'm sorry. Dudes are trash.”

“And it's my birthday today,” you blurt, sniffling. 

“Happy birthday,” Jerry says, clutching his stomach. 

“What a fucking asshole!” Hood snarls, and lets go of Jerry, who crumples like a sack of potatoes. He’s out cold in a second, frozen on the floor.

Your brows rise. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. It’s his first time in Gotham.” Hood shrugs. “Anyway, where was I? Right, your asshole ex. Like it's not enough to publicly dump you, and then he goes and does it on your birthday? Who is this guy? I'll go talk to him right now.”

You laugh a loud, snorting laugh. It bounces off the tiles. 

Hood tilts his head. “What’d I say?”

You catch your breath and wave your hand. 

“No, nothing, I’m sorry. I’ve just had a crappy night and that’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever offered to me.”

“I mean it,” Hood says. “I’ll scare him if you want.”

“As tempting as that is, I don’t want to be an accessory to a crime.”

You also don’t want to put your ex in the ICU, no matter how much he might deserve it. Best to let the universe do its thing.

“You’d be acquitted, don’t worry.” Hood leans against the stall. “I’d never letcha go to jail.”

You smile, your ears growing warm. “You don’t even know me. What if I deserve it?”

“Nah. I got a good sense about people. I can tell you’re sweet. Probably don’t even run through red lights.”

“I try not to,” you say, heat spreading to your face. 

“Yeah, a good girl. I figured as much.”

Your eyes widen. Hood coughs and rubs his neck. Even his coughs sound intimidating through the helmet, but that’s negated by his scrunched-up posture.

“Fuck. Sorry. That wasn’t a come-on,” he says. “I mean, it sounded like one, but I’m realizing what a creep I am, flirting with you in a bathroom with a zip-tied criminal. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I hate myself.”

You grin. “It’s okay. You made my night better, actually. Thanks.”

“That’s a testament to how terrible your night’s been if I made it better.”

You shrug. “Could always be worse. I bet Jerry had an even shittier night than me.”

“You’d win that bet. But I—”

The window swings open with a clunk. Nightwing pops his head in. He looks at Hood, then you. 

“Uh,” he says. “Evening. What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is it took you almost ten minutes to get here,” Hood says, back in Vigilante Mode. “Did you get lost?”

Nightwing smiles with all his teeth. “I was actually cleaning up your mess at the Bowery, Hood. You’re welcome.” 

He looks at you. “Hi. Sorry about this. I hope we didn’t ruin your night. If there’s anything we can reimburse you for…”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. My night was already sunk. Don’t worry about it. Thanks for keeping Gotham safe.”

Nightwing laughs. “The pleasure is ours.”

“Alright, enough chattering, Dickwing,” Hood says. “Take him.”

He lifts the unconscious Jerry, pushing him up to the window. He does so effortlessly, his jacket riding up to reveal his skin-tight jumpsuit. 

You look away before he catches you staring. There’s definitely something wrong with you. 

Nightwing takes Jerry and waves at you. Then he disappears.

“So, uh,” Hood says. “I gotta go.”

“Oh! Right, of course. Sorry to keep you.”

“Now what’re you apologizing for?” he asks, and it almost sounds like a tease. You wonder what his smile looks like. What color his eyes are.

“Well, I really didn’t mean to keep you…”

“You didn’t keep me,” Hood says, and you can hear the warmth even through his decoder. “This is probably the best arrest I’ve ever made.”

He starts to climb through the window, then stops. He digs into one of the pockets of his belt and pulls out a scrap of paper. 

“This is my number,” he says. “Well, it’s kind of the vigilante hotline. But you can reach me here, in case you ever need help.”

Hood walks over to give it to you. He smells like gunpowder and oranges. He’s even larger this close, the width of his shoulders dwarfing you. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. 

He nods and backs up, clapping his hands.

“Right. So I’ll go… Bye.”

Hood looks at you for a moment more. Then he hops up onto the window sill and slides out, somehow graceful despite his bulk. The window closes. 

Your dress has dried, which is nice. You walk out of the bathroom. It’s a miracle no one else has come in. 

You get your coat and this time, when you see the empty seat across from yours, you don’t burst into tears, which is progress. You call another Uber and go to wait for it at the front. The hostess approaches you.

“Ma’am?” she says, and holds out a small, plastic container. In it is a slice of tiramisu. 

“I didn’t order this,” you say.

“It was called in and paid for by a Mr. R.H. He wishes you a happy birthday.” 

“Oh. Thank you.”

You’re definitely leaving a five-star review on Yelp.

[kathaynesart]

TIP JAR (every little bit is appreciated!)

R E P L I C A

LATEST UPDATE

COMIC: ARC 1 - Boot(y)ing Up - 1 - 2 -  ARC 2 - The Spark - 1 - 2 - ARC 3 - Forgiveness - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - ARC 4 - Probing - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - ARC 5 - Distractions and Dilemmas - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - INTERMISSION - Checkmate - 1 -  HOLIDAY SPECIAL - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8

ANIMATICS: The Funny One Not Dead High Five

EXTRAS: Replica Timeline Future Donnie Design Omega Design (SPOILER) No Love for You Processing Stupidity Peepaw Paradox Peepaw Paradise Peepaw Showdown 1 Peepaw Showdown 2 Peepaw Showdown 3 Peepaw Showdown 4 TMNT AU Competition 1 TMNT AU Competition 2 TMNT AU Competition 3 TMNT AU Competition 4 TMNT AU Competition 5 Feral Leo 1 Feral Leo 2 Cass and Replica Reunion 1 Cass and Replica Reunion 2 (not my art) Cass and Replica Reunion 3 (not my art) Cass and Replica Reunion 4 (not my art) Cass and Replica Reunion 5 Bootyyyshaker GIF Leo PUNCH Donnie’s Eyebrows Handsome Future Donnie

INFO: Donnie’s Scars

MERCH: Processing/Displaying Stupidity ROTTMNT General Upcoming

Finally have an official cover and title!  There were some REALLY good guesses as to what the title could have been, but I can at least explain my reasons why I went with Replica.  TLDR you can still call it Future Booty Shaker if you want. Usual info dump below: 

 There are several reasons why I chose Replica as the final name.  The most obvious being that Omega is Donnie’s blatant attempt at replicating himself in digital form.

The second being that this comic is in itself is an attempt at replicating the vibe and setup of the film’s opening as closely as possible.  Those first 4:05 have literally become the bible for this story and I have already had to make vast changes based off of tiny details that weren’t noticed until later on.  

Ironically the cut full opening just dropped today and I do have some feelings I’d like to address.  It’s obvious how substantially different the two openings are from each other.  As cool as it was to see everyone kicking butt, I will admit I still like the final version a lot better.  Sure it’s shorter, but it felt far more personal and intimate than the action packed cut version, and THAT’S the sort of vibe I want to replicate in this comic.

At its core, this isn’t a story about fighting a bunch of Krang, it’s a story about a family fighting their own personal battles before an apocalyptic backdrop and Replica is a vain attempt at retaining that feeling while building a story around it. Will I be successful?  Who knows.  I will definitely be drawing reference from the cut boards especially the appearance of their colony.  I’m happy my hunch was right that they were stationed beneath the Statue of Liberty, that was already a part of my story haha.

My runner up title would have been “Fall of the TMNT” however I felt it was a little too on the nose.  Though it did make for a fun dichotomy with “Rise of the TMNT”s title.   Anyways that’s my info dump.  Feel free to still hashtag Future Bootyyy Shaker, I know I will.

[hg-aneh]

SO 👏

someone mentioned my other catboy omens stuff in a few tags (thank you btw <3) and I decided I'd just dump all of it in a single post outside of the main tag

... I've spammed enough of my things on it today

*cough* Here's that post :D

(Backstory sketchy ass comics under the cut)

(Yes, that's Eve)

(Madame Tracy and Aziraphale are adoptive siblings in this :D)

CW for grooming and SA attempt committed by one (1) Lucifer on this next one.

It's nothing explicit but it's definitely heavily implied.

And ofc I left it there bc I got distracted with other things.

Sorry if the story and dialogue are wack, I'm not a writer and english ain't my native language.

This is all before Azi and Crow meet, they were supposed to have a really cool adventure with lots of feelings after this, but... yknow what happened

Also dont think for a second that Azi had it any easier, my boy was declawed and forced to act more human before he got adopted skgkd

If there's any questions (of course there are, I didn't explain shit for the sake of not making this post any longer than it already is sjgbc), I'd be pleased to answer them

I'm sad that I couldnt bring myself to do anything with them romancing around besides those two first drawings

But at least there's this

Thank you if you survived this post, have a free cookie and a lovely day 🍪

[jasmineoolongtea]

is it cocky to say that gojo satoru isn't used to competition?

well, if you were to ask satoru himself, he would say no. actually, he would insist that this was par for the course for someone his calibre since it would just simply be unfair in almost every imaginable way to compare anyone, regardless of their status or skillset, to him.

a little-known fact about him is that he's all about fairness and playing fair, alongside his sense of humility which puts everyone else's to shame.

that is, until now. even he has to admit (albeit very begrudgingly), that this might be the toughest opponent of his life, nay, of his generation perhaps.

and it all began on that cursed day two weeks ago.

it's a particularly rainy day outside and satoru's sitting idly on the couch eagerly awaiting your return from the local convenience store when, without warning, the door suddenly slams open and he's met with a very curious sight. it's you, standing there in the doorway and slightly drenched from the downpour with a plastic bag hanging from one arm with a mysterious medium-sized lump of something resting precariously on your other.

"look at what i found just outside, tour!" there's an edge of excitement to your voice like a kid on christmas day. you quickly slip off your shoes and unceremoniously dump the plastic bag on the floor as you scramble towards satoru, clearly very eager to show off your newfound spoil.

in your eagerness however, you almost trip over your own two feet but lucky for you, he has fast reflexes and is there in the blink of an eye to steady you. his eyes roam around your figure, searching for any other possible injury you might have sustained from your near fall when they land on the object you've been seemingly holding on to for dear life.

squinting his eyes in an attempt to further scrutinise it, he notices that it's all curled up in your arms and that what might once have been snowy white fur is now an off-white that is much closer to beige thanks to the amount of dirt and dust that it has probably racked up from being outside.

"why do you have a bundle of dirty fur in your arms?" he asks doubtfully.

you gasp at his words.

"don't be rude!" you chide, bringing the object closer to you as you nuzzle your cheek into it. "it's a cat. i found it shivering in the rain and of course, i couldn't just leave it there." true to your words, and seemingly on cue, there's movement coming from the furry object and soon a cat's head pops out from who knows where which takes him by surprise as he jumps back in shock.

"he even looks like you in a way. you know, with the white fur and blue eyes." as if to emphasise your point, you pick up the cat and showcase it to him like an auctioneer would do with the item they're auctioning off, trying to display it in its best light.

too bad for you, your tactics aren't working on him and his face scrunches up in an expression of disdain.

"it's a he?" the thing- no, the cat blinks owlishly at him with its freakishly bright blue eyes staring into his soul. he shudders at the sight of it. "and if you love me babe you wouldn't compare me to that wet furball." he quips back, a comically large pout on his face as he appears to almost be insulted by your recent comparison.

"you're being dramatic, toru." you roll your eyes at him, bringing the cat back into your arms to cuddle with it once again which earns you a content purr from it. he's fighting off the urge to glare at it right now. "he's probably not going to stay here that long anyways since it seems he likes to be outside."

yeah, famous last words right there.

what was supposed to be a few hours where the cat could wait out the rain in the safety and comfort of your shared apartment soon turned into a few days and then into several weeks and before satoru knew it, your home now had a new (and unwelcomed in satoru's opinion) inhabitant.

not only that but the cat, who now apparently had the name of daifuku on account of your insistence that you needed to give the cat a name since you couldn't go on calling the cat 'cat' forever, was living absolutely rent-free on his part and had essentially claimed the entire space as his own.

to top it all off, this also meant that a new challenger was entering the arena to compete for the most coveted prize of them all; your affection.

and unfortunately for satoru, he had finally met his match.

whenever he was feeling particularly affectionate during the day or just wanted to spend some precious time with you in each other's arms, he would almost always find himself late to the party when there was someone else, or more specifically something, already waiting there as if to lord his victory over him.

logically, he knows that cats can't smile or emote like humans do but he's pretty sure if they could, this one would be smugly smirking and looking down at him from its gilded throne.

as if to further rub salt on the wound, the cat was stretched out in a boneless mass on your lap aka his favourite spot to lie down on. that was prime real estate right there if you asked him! and now what should have been satoru's right as your boyfriend to rest there was thrown out the window for someone new and apparently cuter, judging by how much you coo at it daily much to his chagrin.

when he puts on his best puppy dog eyes (the ones he knows that you're weak in the knees too) and does his best to convince you to push the cat off in favour of him, he's met with another punch to the metaphorical gut when you go against all odds and deny him of his simple wish. instead, you just motion to the cat resting on your lap and press a consolation kiss to his cheek before pulling away and redirecting your attention back to it.

stubborn as he always is, satoru refuses to budge and although his ego is severely wounded by this point, he takes the second-best option and rests his head against your shoulder and nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, earning him a soft melodious giggle from you as you shiver slightly from the ticklish sensation.

when you're not looking, he takes the opportunity to glare jealously at the cat and the cat, ever so proud in its high castle, smugly glares right back at him as if daring him to try and dethrone him now. he huffs

satoru may have lost the battle for now but he swears that he won't lose the war.

[genericpuff]

no stop this article is too funny

this is from 2020 and while it talks about webtoons in general as a platform and medium, there's an excerpt from Rachel that's ironically and hilariously telling on herself when it comes to her priorities as a creator and how her work has aged incredibly poorly in the past 4 years:

She may as well just be saying, "I like Webtoon because they don't have any quality control" and "the trad publishing market had standards that I couldn't live up to, so instead of actually trying to live up to them, I went with a platform that has zero standards and was willing to make me into the standard regardless of my own qualifications and lack thereof."

Like y'all, take this as advice from someone who's had their fair share of rejection letters... the print industry dumping your unsolicited portfolio in the bin isn't gatekeeping, it's the nature of the business. The way Rachel describes it here - albeit I'm sure it's simplified for the sake of being an interview answer, but still - makes it sound like she was just expecting to walk right into the trad publishing market without an agent, without a completed manuscript or pitch, without any professional representation, and just slam her portfolio of mid-2000's art on the desk expecting them to hire her on the spot.

Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of barriers that prevent people from getting into the trad market, hurdles that can often be outright unfair (lacking the funds, lacking the connections, etc.) but... there's also a reason many of those barriers are there in practice.

First of all, fun fact: the reason why many publishers don't take unsolicited manuscripts isn't just to help them filter out the spam and low-effort submissions and prevent an overload of submissions (because if they took submissions from anyone and everyone, the overviewing system would break entirely), but it's also for legal purposes so that they don't get sued. Because if Joe Chucklefuck sends in an unsolicited manuscript that just so happens to include a plot point about the multiverse, and then a new book series or movie comes out that is about the multiverse, Joe Chucklefuck might get the sense they're being stolen from and attempt to sue them for plagiarism. This is why it's stressed so much by publishers that any unsolicited manuscripts will not just go unread, but will be thrown straight into the bin.

But second, many publishers simply don't want to take the financial risks on random start-up creators whose only experience is running their own personal projects on Tumblr, much less personal projects like Rachel's, half of which are fetish-content and all of which are unfinished. Of course they weren't gonna take Rachel seriously back then, she hadn't done anything to build up her presence in the industry.

In that sense, yes, self-publishing or pursuing a platform gig like Webtoons probably was Rachel's next best option which would be perfectly acceptable on its own, but it's just so, so telling that she thinks it's a "perk" for Webtoons to lack so much in the way of quality control, and we would ironically see the glaring evidence of that "perk" 3-4 years later in LO's final season when every single element of it as a "professional" piece of work turned to shit. It's no wonder she liked Webtoons in 2020 for letting her do anything she wanted, because what she wanted absolutely would not fly with an actual editor and publishing agency that cared about putting out a polished piece of work. The only way she was able to get "in" with a professional publisher was through Del Rey after Webtoons brokered a deal for her to have LO put into print, and even that level of prestige can't hide the fact that LO sucks ass in print. It's almost like under normal circumstances and without Webtoons carrying her on their shoulders above every other creator on the platform - many of whom actually do have experience in both tradpub and self-publishing - Del Rey wouldn't have paid her any attention. Without Webtoons, no one would take her seriously because she doesn't take what she does seriously, and it shows in her priorities as a creator who simply wants to just do whatever she wants without any sort of reasonable oversight like research or editing which are, again, necessary expectations within the tradpub industry, because it's not just about being a free-thinking self-expressive artist anymore in that industry - it's a business.

Of course, Rachel is probably now laughing from her soapbox over the fact that she now technically helps run an imprint, so haha "poo on the meanie trad market", but considering that imprint has still not launched and has been put on the same "coming soon" track that the LO television show has been on for the past 4+ years on a loop, I'm not holding my breath that it's actually going to amount to anything substantial.

(gotta love how they asked if Rachel was gonna create any more stories and her answer was RSP, which will help other creators bring their stories to life. so at best she didn't answer the question which is nothing new for her, at worst she gave away the fact that she's gonna be acting as some kind of producer who will be given all the credit and praise for other creator's works and efforts lmao no thankssss)

And god knows what the quality control of this imprint is gonna be like if Rachel's attitude toward the trad market overall is, "Nooo they won't let me do what I wantttt :((((" when she admittedly never even broke into the trad market to begin with and had zero experience working within that industry prior to LO.

And even then, Webtoons still doesn't give her as much freedom of choice as she claims to have. I mean ffs, this is the same person whose moderators stated that the Swarovski crystal dress from the finale was done as a "fuck you" to Webtoons for not letting her draw Persephone nude all the time.

She's obviously still being prevented from doing what she wants to do, when a lot of what she wants to do is better off not passing the vibe check and making it into the comic.

Quality control exists for a reason, Rachel. And "letting you do what you want" isn't necessarily a "flex" that Webtoons can claim over trad publishing when that "flex" is forgoing the traditional barriers that would usually prevent someone like you from failing upwards into manufactured fame the way that you have.

And that's my big bag of cents on that.

[cipheramnesia]

It is possible I'm leaning too hard into the concept of a parasite POV protagonist which explores what it means to make yourself into the shape of another body (re the starfish comic and a bunch of bits in it), when the body in question is a trans woman who has undergone a severe amount of involuntary biomechanical body modifications, in an experimental attempt to utilize her poorly understood mutated nervous system as a kind of living weapon against a parallel universe which is inadvertantly unraveling our own world in isolated but escalating highly destructive incidents involving sudden explosive release of energy where they intersect.

But when the events proved fruitless, leaving her wracked with trauma and metastasized cancer, they threw her into a care home / prison where she died of the aforementioned cancer, and this is all in service of answering the question of where The Body which becomes the host originates. However, being as the parasitoid mutant blind millipede colony does not enter a corpse with a template, and merely threads into whatever pre-existing physical and neurological systems are part of the host corpse as-is, not only is the colony collectively entrapping itself within the boundaries of a host body, but it is operating on the assumptions that all the surgical and hormonal alterations, as well as the cancer, are a part of the body which they should also include in the neural network they extend themselves into.

Meaning the actual outcome is the world as seen through a parasite colony which, as it consumes and partially replicates both nervous system and brain of the host, believes itself to inhabit the world as a human, while in actuality it is oblivious to the fact that it now exists as an expression of the traumatic abuse which an authoritarian state under threat will inflict on a human body, as well as the cancerous expression of consequences of this abuse, all stemming from a body which, in a world facing an existential crisis, has an unconventional non-human nervous system which allows it to engage directly with an alternate universe.

Which all plays out because the apathetic management of the care home sold her corpse to a religious order / conservative activism group dedicated to the preservation of the mutant parasitic millipede colonies out of the fervent religious belief the colonies represent the unending cycle of life from life and life from death, and also because the millipede colonies act as natural predators to the Dalton County Dump Roundworm Infestation, which has been taking over large portions of the country via its exponential growth and lack of any competition. So now I have a completely sensible background derived for the parasite colony protagonist who is also fifty percent of the dead trans woman they consumed in the process of infesting her corpse, who is now a kind of holy relic to the temple which infected her, but who also wants retribution for the horrific abuse she suffered, while simultaneously experiencing her twisted and broken body as the correct form as derived by the parasite infestation, which is also her.

Simple.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Past the Wit of Man (or, Bottom's Dream)

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: M Word Count: 3657 Tags: comedy, attempted comedy, comedy devolving into feels, identity reveal, sex worker Hob Gadling, advancing my Men In Lingerie agenda, long-haired Hob Gadling agenda, stretching timelines like taffy, Desire and Dream get along AU, but Desire is not actively in this, Dead Boy Detectives comic spoilers mentioned, miscommunication, Dream of the Endless finally uses his words, happy ending

Notes: Kudos props and huge thanks to everyone in the Mr Sadman discord who creatively interpreted a snippet I posted of something else and launched the whole idea of Hob working for a supernatural escort service; this would not exist without y'all and your beautiful brainstorming. ❤️

This fills the August monthly @dreamlingbingo prompt Identity Reveal, replacing square A2 (creature: Veela) on my bingo card

Summary: Hob is nicely settled in a new career and a new identity and does not expect to see his Stranger until 2089. The universe, apparently, has other ideas.

On AO3

~ "Your client is Dream of the Endless. He is extremely ancient and extremely powerful, an underpinning concept of the universe. Absolutely terrible about loosening up and letting himself relax."

"Don't think I'd be much good at relaxing if I was an underpinning concept of the universe either," Hob jokes, opening the profile that the Agency rep has just airdropped to his phone and thumbing through it.

The rep, a foppish vampire with curly white hair and impeccable fashion sense, arches one elegant eyebrow at him. "Apparently his most recent girlfriend dumped him quite harshly and his sibling has arranged this booking on his behalf; he's—and I am quoting here—'absolutely incompetent at managing his own happiness'."

"He knows he's been booked though, right? I'm not gonna catch the fallout because no one told him what kind of appointment this is?" It's only happened once, a prank played on a shy ace nixie by her well-meaning but ill-informed friends; all the same, Hob does not care to repeat the experience—particularly with someone potentially more dangerous.

"He is very much aware and in agreement, yes. We promised him our top companion." The rep dimples at Hob, a smile of saccharine sincerity that shows only the barest hint of fang. "And that's you, sweet Nick."

"And that's me," Hob agrees matter-of-factly, frowning at his phone, then turning it to show his guest. "No photo?"

The rep glances at the screen and makes a commiserative noise. "Oh, yes. Unfortunate, that. Cameras have a very hard time with this fellow, something to do with his general relationship to reality." His tone takes on a simpering air of great melodrama. "We were forced to use an artist's rendition instead! Tragic, really; it doesn't do him justice."

"Huh," Hob says, turning his phone back and studying the cartoony hand-drawn image. Guy looks like he's got some sort of steampunk insect for a head, dark and bolt-laden and bug-eyed, with a trunk that's strongly reminiscent of a disembodied spine. "Dream of the Endless, you said? Looks more like a bloody nightmare."

The rep gives an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, as if shrugging off his delivery duty now that it's done, and turns to leave. "Well whatever the case, an Endless is far above the average client, darling. Give him your best."

"'Course." Hob grins. "That's why you brought the assignment to me, after all."

"Just so." The Agency rep gives a lazy wave in parting and Hob closes the door, still scrolling through the profile as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"Dozens of titles and names", he murmurs, glancing through the list of them. "King of Dreams and Nightmares, alright. Contains the entire collective unconscious of every living being in. Every…universe…?" He shakes his head. "Has never taken a vacation ever. Bested Lucifer Morningstar and oversaw the reassignment of Hell—okay, wow. Billions of years old." He whistles, a long sound of awed disbelief. "Maybe I throw in a free massage for this guy; sounds like he could use it."

He shakes his head again, pockets his phone, carries on with getting breakfast together.

Bug-headed workaholic foundational concept of the universe. Won't be the weirdest client he's ever serviced.

~

It's been ten years since his stranger showed up late for their meeting and smiled so openly and named him friend. That had been their longest meeting yet, lasting all afternoon and on into the evening and it wasn't until the Inn had started closing up for the night that they wound down. His stranger had spoken briefly of the missed appointment in 1989, making clear that something at least mildly traumatic had kept him away and also that he did not wish to elaborate, and Hob had let it go. There was so much to tell of his own century past, his friend remarking with interest on a great many of his stories, and it was enough. His stranger, his friend, had come back, and they'd had a lovely long meeting. Perhaps in 2089 he would be comfortable sharing more of his own story, but even if not, Hob didn't mind. He was confident once more in the friendship he'd declared back in 1889 and willing to coax it out bit by bit, meeting by meeting. He had all the time in the world, after all.

Within a year of that meeting he'd wrapped up his teaching career, arranged for ownership of the New Inn to transfer to a 'relative' in the States who'd keep it running the next few decades, and started searching for a new career for his next identity.

He stumbled quite by accident into the broader supernatural world after being stalked by two dead teenagers helping that de Rais creep who wanted to steal his immortality. It all turned out fine in the end but opened Hob's eyes to exactly how much the supernatural had integrated into the modern world around him. And once old Hettie clued him in to the existence of a certain Service Agency catering to supernatural clients, his next career path was all but decided. What was he going to do, not seize the opportunity for fantastical sexual exploration when presented with it? Life was for living! Werewolves, vampires, sirens and fae and merfolk, the occasional ghost and even an extra-terrestrial or two; scales, feathers, tentacles, knots—Hob's shown them all a good time and earned a stellar reputation among the Agency's clientele. He doesn't plan to do it forever, but he enjoys exploring new avenues and stretching his limits and 'Nick Bottom' is the perfect persona to let him do so.

And now sweet high-priced in-demand Nick has been booked to rebound-fuck an uptight concept in humanoid form who looks like something straight out of a nightmare.

Hob can't wait to completely take this guy apart one orgasm at a time until he's a boneless puddle of satiation and send him home afterwards a brand new man.

Concept. Entity. Whatever.

~

The booking is scheduled for the following day and when the time comes, Hob is fresh and clean and set up in the Agency's most lavish suite. He's let his hair grow the last few years, sports a proper Hozier-like mane at this point, is wearing it down for this appointment. His beard is several weeks old, trimmed to artfully-scruffy perfection and well-groomed. He's lounging on the bed in a short open silk robe and a pair of lace panties that hug his hips and leave most of both arse cheeks exposed, a popular outfit in his repertoire sure to please the classiest of clients with the most discerning taste. Both pieces are a matching vibrant cobalt blue that complements his skin tone beautifully. He's wondering what fucking a concept is like, idly massaging his dick now and then to keep it primed, when finally there's a peculiar displacement of air and then a figure in dark robes with a weird spine-trunked bug-eyed head is standing in the middle of the suite. He's taller than Hob and inhumanly rail-thin; the robes plunge deep from the neckline, displaying milk-white skin without a hint of chest hair and clavicles that beg to be nibbled on. He's in profile, angled slightly away, and Hob has the distinct sense that this is a deliberate pose meant to make an impression, to instill awe and possibly fear in him.

So Dream of the Endless has a flair for drama, got it.

"Hello," Hob greets in his best breathless-and-sultry tone, rising from the bed to approach his client. He layers in a suitable amount of awe, pitching his voice toward 'smitten' with a subtle ring of sincerity to support it. "Oh, wow. You must be Dream of the Endless; I'm so delighted to get to meet you! I'll be taking care of you today; you can call me Nick."

The guy, the concept, Dream of the Endless, he goes stock-still as Hob speaks, and it's like the air in the room pauses with him. He turns, slowly, until Hob is face to face with his…oh, possibly that's a mask, then; the bug-eyed lenses are somewhat translucent in the light though Hob still can't see beneath them.

"There has been some mistake." The voice is deep and distorted through the helmet-mask, bone-rattling in an almost-pleasant way and, somehow, somewhat…familiar? "I was meant to be meeting with 'Nick Bottom'." The quotes around the name are audible.

"That's me!" Hob says, raking a hand back through his hair and shaking it to settle around his shoulders attractively, flashing his most charming smile. "At your service, love, whatever you need. I'm here to make sure you have a very good time, and—"

"Hob Gadling."

That draws him up short. He's currently Robyn Gadrin for tax-paying purposes in the outside world, but the Agency wouldn't give out his current identity let alone his true name, so how—

Hob's brain is babbling insistently about the note of familiarity in that voice and he finally lights on why as Dream of the Endless reaches up to remove his helmet.

Hob finds himself staring at the slightly-more-than-human-but-still-very-familiar face of his Stranger, his centennial touchstone, his friend.

Everything about his reality tips a little bit sideways, dominoes crashing one after the other in his brain until all that's left is that awful ringing alarm tone that features in emergency broadcast alerts on American telly.

Between them, the silence stretches awkwardly, until finally Hob breaks it, the first thing that comes to his tongue spilling out while his poor brain is still rebooting.

"Six-hundred some-odd bloody years, and this is how I learn your name?!"

~

It is five minutes later. Hob is sitting on the side of the plush bed in his short silk robe and lace panties, clutching a bottled water and seriously considering availing himself of the bar in the next room because his emotions are all over the place. His Stranger—Dream of the Endless, apparently—is seated next to him. His eyes are not the blue that Hob is used to, are fully black with actual stars winking in and out of them; it's gorgeous but uncanny. He's currently not looking at Hob, has got the weird bug-spine helmet gripped tightly in both hands. Which are still so pretty, Hob can't help noticing, his fingers longer and more spindly than normal, splayed wide around the curve of the helm, nails painted black. Or maybe not painted, maybe they just are black.

Pretty, regardless.

Not a helpful thought at this juncture.

It's not like he'd thought his Stranger was actually human, obviously, and okay yes the possibility of meeting up with him via this particular career choice had crossed his mind once or twice, might've featured in a private fantasy or two; but also he'd never seriously imagined it because it felt so entirely implausible that his prim and lofty Stranger would ever engage in something so mundane. So casual.

Apparently, Hob was wrong about that.

He's not sure how to feel about it, either.

The smooth inhumanly-pale chest on display in the plunging vee of those artfully-draped robes is also not helping anything.

His Stranger—Dream— moves slightly, glances at him with those starry eyes, flexes those pretty fingers on the helmet. "I will. Arrange. For another. To take your place, Hob, you need not—"

"Now hold on a minute," Hob interrupts, sudden direction presenting itself for his floundering emotions to flow. "What do you mean, 'arrange for another'? What's wrong with me?"

Dream, his name is Dream of the Endless, Dream looks perplexed. "Our. History—"

"Oh yes, our illustrious storied history wherein we have met all of seven times before now and, may I remind you, you took offense to my suggestion that we might be friends until you'd had time to digest it properly, yes."

"Eight."

"Eight?"

"I visited your dream, before undertaking a daunting journey from my realm to another. We shared wine. You gave a most thoughtful toast."

"I. Okay." He remembers that dream, yes; he remembers the wine that followed him out of it, and now with the knowledge that his Stranger is apparently King of all dreams and nightmares suddenly it all makes brand new sense. But he will process that later. "Eight. Still not a factor in my ability to do my job."

Mostly. It is his Stranger, after all, and it's not like he hasn't ever wanted—

"Sex would be. Awkward," Dream insists, and Hob loses it, never mind he'd half-thought the same thing until a second ago; Dream saying it makes him refute the assertion with everything he's got.

"You dare," he says, setting aside his water.

Dream boggles at him, cosmic eyes wide, mouth slightly parted.

"You. DARE. To disdain my professional services just because we know each other?!"

"Hob— "

"No. No, your booking was very clear that you were to have the very best, and that. Is. Me. So you will not be re-booking with another companion on the grounds that our acquaintance makes it 'awkward'; if you mean to partake of the services you've hired you will partake of them with me."

"My sibling."

"What."

"My sibling hired your services. Did they know—" He's half talking to himself and Hob sighs, forcefully pulling the conversation back on track.

"Yes, right; your sibling booked you and here you are. Did you want to get laid today?"

"You need not be so crude about it."

"Forgive me. Of course. Did you come here hoping to have a sensual skillful sexual experience with a stranger intent on your pleasure with no judgments or expectations placed upon you in return?" He makes a valiant effort to rein in his sarcasm. "Because I can still provide that. Minus the bit where we're not strangers."

Dream looks positively miserable, a sodden wet cat of a man in sex-appeal robes hunched on the edge of the decadently-plush bed, and there is certainly an understandable element of embarrassment to the situation but Dream is taking it so seriously. Hob is not surprised, exactly, but christ—he's more than willing to follow through never mind any feelings he may or may not want to admit to, and Dream is the one who'd agreed to the booking in the first place. You'd think he could handle this hiccup with a little more grace.

"It was my intent to. Do, as you say," Dream says at last, and Hob sighs.

"Is that still what you want, then? I promise I'll take good care of you." He's actually really warming up to the idea, not that he was cold to it to begin with. It's his Stranger after all. He's been willing to say yes for centuries. "They really did book you the best, and I would love to show you how well-earned my reputation is—"

"Hob—" Dream sounds pained, gives an artfully-dramatic shake of his head. "My wants are. Manageable. If no one else is available. I cannot simply engage with you so frivolously—"

Hob leaps up from the bed, stalks a frustrated few steps away and whirls back, spreads his arms. "Am I not appealing to you, Dream of the Endless?" He tosses his head, shakes his hair back, gestures at the blue silk and lace that he knows looks absolutely spectacular on him. "Would you like me to change clothes? I have a dozen more ensembles I'd be happy to put on if you'd rather peel me out of one of those. Would the Prince of Stories prefer roleplay? Golden-age pirate, biker bad boy, Mr. Darcy or Elizabeth, cowboy, librarian, Starfleet officer—I'll dress however you like." He's fired up, he's…it feels like anger but it's more like alarm; he is absolutely not about to let a colleague fuck HIS Stranger if Dream's looking to unwind. Not with all the thoughts he's entertained the last couple centuries, not when Dream is looking so entirely miserable about the whole experience. Hob wiggles his bare toes in the plush carpet, forcing a deep breath; he is jealous and possessive and protective all at once and has no idea how to safely navigate this storm to get Dream what he wants without pissing him off.

"Your…clothing becomes you greatly, Hob." He's sneaking a glance as he says it, like he's not allowed to look but can't help it. "Your clothing is not at issue."

"Then what is?" Hob rakes a hand back through his hair, frustration fizzling, careening toward concern. "If you're truly that put off by me, I'll let it go. But you're here, for sex, which you did say you wanted; this is my job and I'm good at it and you clearly need—" Someone to take care of you, he'd nearly said, and while Dream has been giving him so much leeway in this conversation he thinks that might be one straw too much for this particular camel's back.

Nice to know he appreciates Hob's hairy chest and his dick in blue lace, though.

Dream levels him with a look that almost puts him right back to 1889, and Hob has half a second to start panicking before Dream closes his eyes, draws himself up, sets his bloody weird helmet on the bedside table with a soft leathery clunk. When he opens his eyes again, they are resolute, resigned, the eyes of a man headed for the gallows despite the stars winking hopelessly in their depths.

"I do not wish to be intimate with you. When you view it as simply a job. I. Would like—but not. If it is a transaction. If I am merely a client."

Oh. Oh.

Oh shit, really?

Impossible.

Really?

"You want. You want it to mean something?" Hob is embarassed at how small his voice comes out.

Dream closes his eyes, something like shame written all over his beautiful otherworldly-pale face. "I had thought. At our fifth meeting. That perhaps there was the possibility of. Attraction, between us." He opens his night-sky eyes again, meets Hob's resolutely. "Had we not been interrupted…" He shakes his head. "I pondered the idea until next we met, anticipating the possibility of. Seeing, where we might have come to. But you named what was between us friendship, you named me lonely; I perceived your words as mockery and acted accordingly. I spent the next century with a surplus of time to wander my own thoughts. They turned to you, Hob Gadling, with regularity. As I expressed when last we met, I regret leaving our previous meeting so abruptly, so harshly. Your friendship is of great value to me. I am content to let it remain friendship, in the interest of keeping it. But I am unwilling to engage with you, who named me 'friend', as I would a lover when I have yet to fully bury the wish. That you might have been my lover in truth."

Hob is desperately trying to keep from bluescreening again and while he's focused on that, his mouth runs along without him. "You never even gave me a name, but you wanted us to be lovers?"

"I am. Aware, of how foolish my wishes—"

"No, oh no. Dream. Love." He absolutely cannot let him think that. "All you ever had to do was ask."

Dream looks at him, starry eyes full of misery with the faintest spark of hope underneath, glimmering with unshed tears. "I. Could not—"

"That was then. Water under the bridge. What about now."

Dream shivers, his more-than-human face wary and pleading and resigned all at once and the last of the fight drains out of Hob. He approaches gently, until he is directly in front of Dream on the edge of the bed again; he half straddles Dream's lap with one foot still on the floor and a bare knee sunk on the mattress beside him, threads both hands into Dream's hair behind his lovely ears, tips his pale face up.

"Ask me now. Please."

Dream's hand settles above his bent knee, a gentle, tentative touch; his eyelashes flutter, and the sound that leaves him steals Hob's breath. That hand travels softly around to grip the back of Hob's thigh, slides hesitantly higher, and then it's Hob making the helpless noise as Dream's fingertips card beautifully through his leg hair, run up beneath the short robe. Dream's spindly black-nailed hand caresses up over his exposed arse cheek, squeezes, and all the while Dream's beguiling uncanny eyes are fixed on him, wet and wondering, full of blossoming hope.

"Hob Gadling." His voice is hushed, almost reverent. "I should like to have you, as my lover. If you are amenable." His face is tipped up, so close between Hob's hands, and Hob.

Hob's shaking. He's actually trembling, pent up, a little scared; daring, as he leans down and his hair falls around them both, hoping—

He brushes his lips to Dream's.

He kisses his Stranger, his friend, his touchstone.

And Dream of the Endless, who is all of those things, kisses him back.

It's nothing like he might have imagined, and ten times as wonderful, and over before he realizes he's ended it.

"Do you mean it." His voice is breathless, the words spoken directly against Dream's mouth. It's a stupid question, in light of the entire conversation gone before and the hand still on his arse, but he can't help asking. This entire turn of events is just too good to be true.

"Yes."

But true it is, apparently, and Hob's heart soars.

"Then. Dream of the Endless. My Stranger. My friend." He presses soft kisses to those plush pink lips between each moniker, dizzy that he's allowed. "Let me add another title to the list, darling. Take me to bed; the suite is ours 'til tomorrow. Let me learn how you would have me. Let me show you how I would treat you. And let me, at long last, name you mine."

= Started: 8/21/24 Drafted: 8/27/24 Posted: 8/30/24

If you're looking for a spicier take on this concept, @delta-pavonis has you covered: Dossier 54392 - please, give it a read, it's delicious.

(and here, have a post-script-y epilogue-exchange of sorts that did not quite fit:)

= "You chose to name yourself Nick Bottom?"

"What better name for a callboy to the supernatural than the bloke who got unwittingly embroiled in a fae lovers' spat and ultimately survived the entire encounter unscathed? Feels pretty relevant to me. Empowering, a bit?"

"Nick Bottom was less 'empowered' than simply lucky, perhaps."

"Perhaps. I'll not turn my nose up at good luck, either. But a name like Bottom in this business is also too good a pun to pass up, and I figure old Shaxberd would approve."

"I believe he would, indeed."

"The irony being that fully half of my clients want me to top them, heh."

"I do not wish to speak of your clients while you are in bed with me."

"Got better uses for my mouth, have you?"

"Other sounds I would prefer to hear from it, yes."

"Fair enough. Why don't you tell me what you want, Mr. Sandman, and see if I can make your dreams come true."

"Must you be so cliché?"

"You love my clich—mmph—"

"Stop. Talking."

"Yes love."

(Dream will tell him about commissioning A Midsummer Night's Dream at some other time 💖)

= Nick Bottom's lines from A Midsummer Night's Dream that lent themselves to the title: I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was and also The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream

[amimuu]

Vows to Ash (COTL AU) - Masterpost

"In the end, it all circles back to the same thing.

You, unable to keep one simple promise."

Vows to ash: In which the lamb willingly sacrifices themselves so Narinder can be free, expecting to finally be able to rest from their duties and find peace in the afterlife alongside the rest of the lambs, yet they find themselves brought back to life by the god of death himself, who seeks their help once again.

With the new task of freeing the bishops of the old faith from Purgatory, as well as finding their lost crowns, the Lamb and Narinder must work together—alongside a nice cast of side characters—, hopefully learn how to trust each other, and maybe, just maybe, communicate for once.

—————

Status: ONGOING!

Character Inbox: OPENNNNN--!

Please be mindful of the tags of each post before checking!

Main storyline-related stuff:

Pt 1: "Vows" (Comic)

Pt 1.5: "Hope" (Comic & writing)

Pt 1.5 (On ao3)

Pt 2 (On ao3): "Bruises"

Pt 3 (On ao3): "Eucalyptus"

Character stuff:

Narinder and Lamb designs (plus doodles)!

Nari and Lamb design attempt two (plus doodles)

Leshy and Miyu designs (plus doodles)!

The Lamb's disciples designs!

Tabby and Fern designs!

Doodle dump no.3 I think!

Extras:

“Cold” (Comic, pre-canon)

"Cold/Alter"(Remake, comic, pre-canon!)

“Dream logic” (Comic, pre-canon)

"Bing bong the story starts" (doodles regarding plot :p)

"In sickness and health--Wait, wrong line" (Comic-during canon)

"Fair trade" (Comic, ?????)

"Had I been given the choice..." (Comic-during canon)

—————

Thank you for reading the masterpost :D! hopefully you'll enjoy the au

(You can also find lots of fun info under the #ami answers! tag. Its mostly vta stuff LMAO)

[bettyfrommars]

The Boy is Mine (Betty's Version)

word count: 1.2k

18+MDNI, mature themes, getting high, allusions to smut, eating, nerds in love

The Scene: a romantic night at the trailer

My wee contribution for @carolmunson's writing exercise The Boy is Mine. I've never attempted a prompt like this before, and I usually write au's, so I wanted to give it a try. It's a quick little thing, I hope you enjoy 💚🚬

--

“Have you ever tried a vanilla frosting covered pickle before?”

You held a big, fat dill up to the light and spooned a helping of frosting onto the tip before sticking the silverware in your mouth to lick it clean. 

Eddie slid in next to you at the kitchen counter, meeting your curious eyes over the offering in question.  “Is this you getting back at me for dumping all the raisinets in the popcorn last time?”

"Not at all. These were two of the four things left in your fridge," you stabbed it in his direction, making his eyes cross down the end of his nose.  “And you know I like raisinets in my popcorn.”

He frowned, thoroughly confused.  “I had vanilla frosting in my fridge?”

“That and a demonic voice asking for Zuul." Nibbling at the end, you chewed with your lips curled back like a bunny.

Eddie floated nearby, humming the Ghostbusters theme song, jutting his chin back and forth to the tune.  He paused to wave a hand in front of your face when you were unresponsive for too long, hovering as if your body might start contorting from the unnatural combination.  

“It’s not bad,” you nodded, fixing your eyebrows high. “Here, try it—-”

You charged forward, wielding the pickle.

“You are so stoned right now,“ he shuffled back, giggling.  Both pairs of eyes in the trailer that night were comically bloodshot.  

You missed your target and booped his cheek with it instead of his mouth, leaving a white glob there, eliciting a few dueling snorts of laughter.  

He took hold of your wrists, dancing you in a circle so that your back was against the wall, searching your face as he wet his lips.  “If you don’t stop, we’re gonna have a problem.” 

“I’ll give you a problem,” shifting forward, your foot tangled between his, making you stumble against his chest and drop what was in your hand. It landed with a weighty thunk and rolled into the shadows of the hall.

“Oh nooooooooo,” you turned to him, faces mirroring horrified shock, followed by a laughing jag so intense that no sound came out, each of you buckling at the knees.  

When you managed to regain some composure, he smooshed his chest into you with a hmfph, blinking butterfly kisses on your cheek with his lashes.

”Hey I’m—I’m sorry there’s not much in my fridge,” he murmured, lifting his head but averting his gaze.  “I’ll have more money this weekend.  I’ll make it up to you.”

“I’m not the one complaining about the food in this fine establishment,” you tucked his hair back behind his ears, and then you untucked it.  “But I’m glad we could feed the floor a pickle.”

“And what a treat for the floor that was,” he ran his thumb along your jawline.  “Shall I roll another one?”

You found his hand to intertwine your fingers.  “I don’t think I’ll be able to drive home if I have any more of Rick’s secret sauce weed.

At that, he held a finger up in the air, and then spun to flip open the lid of the lunchbox that was at the end of the counter. 

 “Well, that’s the thing.  You’re staying here with me tonight,” he put a rolling paper down and pinched some green from inside a clear baggie.  

The flat of your palm traveled up his spine as you rested your chin on his shoulder to watch him work his magic. Next to the lunchbox sat one of his small, spiral notebooks covered in doodles.

“I hate my bed when you’re not in it,” his hair hung down to shield his face as he concentrated.  “I hate this world when you’re not with me.”

Your teeth found the meat of his arm for a nibble, tasting the cotton of his t-shirt.  “That’s very romantic.”

“It’s just you and me, monkey,” he lifted his arm up so you could slide in next to him.  He lit the end and put it to your lips.  “Promise you’ll stay?”

You nodded on a tight inhale, holding the smoke in your lungs.  

“There’s ramen in the cupboard and we can split the last beer,” he talked while you exhaled, nuzzling his neck, feeling the vibration from his voice as he spoke. 

“I need a glass of water first,” you mumbled against his warm skin.

He passed you the joint and went over to the dish rack to pick up something.  “I ran out of, like, nice cups, is this okay?”

It was his class of ‘86 mug.

You gave a thumbs up and he filled it with water from the tap. “You know how much I went through to get this thing. Only the best for my liege.”

Something colorful on the sofa caught your eye and you left the kitchen to get closer, squinting at what you thought you saw.  “Where did that throw pillow come from?”

“Where did what come from?” 

“This,” you lifted up the white square edged with a floppy ruffle.  Someone had embroidered a raccoon on the front, and the raccoon was holding a Garfield mug. 

“Wayne’s new girlfriend, the one he practically lives with these days. She made it.” He spanked his palm on his hip with each step as he brought the mug over to you.  “It’s pretty cute, right?”

“I love it,” you ran your fingers down the embroidery, finding immense joy in the expression on the raccoon's face.  “Is this supposed to be Wayne? It looks more like you.”

“Aw, don’t say that,” his arms found you once again, pining you close to his side. “It’s not even true, don’t get my hopes up. If only I were so handsome.”  

After a few gulps of water, you put the pillow down and turned to slot a hand on the side of his neck. “Want me to start the noodles while you find us something to watch?”

“What sounds good?” He mumbled against your mouth, nudging your nose with his.  “I recorded that Sunday night movie you wanted to see, the one about the time travelers. But I’ve got some other stuff, Rick gave me a whole box of tapes he didn’t want.”

“You recorded Time Bandits for me? Wait, when did you get a VCR?”

“I didn’t,” he brought his head back, sucking in his lower lip, and then he opened up his arm, gesturing to the contraption under the TV.  “I mean, you can rent them now.  Stevie boy gave me a deal.”

The sides of your mouth quivered.  “Just so you could record my movie?”

“Well,” he shrugged, looking down to play with your fingers in his hand.  “I knew you’d be at work that night, so.”

The kiss that came next was deep and urgent, and it stirred a frenzy in both of you. In a few seconds, the mug was on the ground, and you were undressing each other, pulling shirts off so you could be as close as the confines of your bodies allowed.  

“Fuck the movie,” he mumbled, breathy against your mouth, unbuttoning your shorts while you undid his belt and pulled him onto the couch. 

—----

The next morning, limbs tangled up with Eddie on his bed, you were just stirring when you heard Wayne come home.  Eddie groaned, shifting to roll over and spoon you from behind while you listened absently to the sound of his uncle taking his boots off and dropping his keys on the counter from behind the closed door.  

Wayne took a few steps down the hall toward the bathroom, a pause, and then: “Son? Are you awake? Why is there a frosting covered pickle on the floor?"

------

Smooches 💚

[ppumeonae-bigvibe]

did you know they were dating?

↖ navigation: seventeen masterlist || main masterlist

pairing: club pres! mingyu x vice pres! reader

↬ tags: nonsense fighting which i pulled out of thin air, this time ft the hiphop unit, i saw this trope about lovers who fake hate each other on the outside but love each other deeply on the inside and i was like "wow thats kinda cute", quite wholesome towards the end-ish, hinted jokes

summary: you and mingyu's relationship in the eyes of your friends

word count: 1.1k words

seungcheol: "I KNEW IT. i just knew that the amount of tension bouncing off each other would have brought them closer together."

"i literally just came and they're already going at it? great, just great." seungcheol enters the room, shaking his head. he haphazardly dumps his bag at the back of the club room, joining vernon and wonwoo who were observing the entire fight go down.

there you stood with your arms akimbo, glaring right back at an equally emotionally-charged mingyu, who wasn't going to back down in this argument.

"i don't get why our members should following your steps! you're making them do extra when they can simply refer to my method which concisely explains how to go about planning events such as this." you tapped the whiteboard repeatedly to prove your point.

he makes a show of carding his hand through his dark brown locks, "this is how i was taught from our advisors, going the longer way is tedious but this evokes discipline from our future members. don't you see that?"

"um...actually" wonwoo cautiously raises his hand up and the two of you (almost comically) stared at the bespectacled boy, simultaneously hollering, "not now wonwoo!" seungcheol casts his gaze over to the two of you, almost neck to neck as you both breathed down each others throat.

a moment of realization hits him and seungcheol made a face, "i'm going to stand outside. call me when this shitshow is over."

----

wonwoo: "wait...they're dating? uhhhm. good for them i guess?"

wonwoo sighs unhappily, having been caught in the middle of crossfire. he feels his attention waning, homework long forgotten. the classroom has been vacated of everyone, except for the three of you who stayed back to revise a little more.

"wonwoo, can you tell mingyu that he's being the unreasonable one?" you leaned over, wagging your finger. mingyu gasped exasperatedly, "wonwoo, you tell that bugger to shut it!"

wonwoo felt himself get jostled by the bigger male and he huffs, "you two quit it! it's just a minor issue!" silence blanketed the three of you and wonwwo stiffens in his seat.

did he touch a nerve?

"you. outside. right now." you abruptly get up from your seat and spun on your heels, not turning back to look once. wonwoo gulps, "wait, i didn't mean..."

"don't worry about it." mingyu rolls his shoulder back a couple of times and wonwoo stands up in attempt to break off the fight, "mingyu-yah, maybe you should calm down--"

mingyu shoots him a look and wonwoo immediately zips it, sitting back down in defeat.

what did he get himself into?

----

vernon: "i had a hunch, but this just confirms everything. thing is, why would they choose to fight to show they love each other? that's...so weird."

vernon exits the toilet, the corner of his eyes attracted to the scene unfolding right outside the clubroom. mingyu was talking with you (nothing unusual), only for the fact that his hands were grasping yours while you had your head inclined forwards, avoiding him. vernon couldn't make out the conversation, but judging from the looks of things it wasn't going well.

"what kinda fight is that...did it have to get so personal..." vernon mumbled, still hovering by the restrooms so he didn't need to awkwardly go through the two of you to enter the clubroom.

he continues observing mingyu, who was leaning closer to you by the second and you huffed, shoulders moving animatedly with whatever conversation that had you so worked up. vernon nearly gasped out loud when he witness mingyu pulling you in for a hug; vernon desperately rubbed his eyes again to make sure they weren't playing tricks on him.

with sweaty palms, he pulls out his phone to hurriedly snap a picture, no doubt to send it to the group chat that didn't have the two of you inside. the sound of the camera shutter seemed to get your attention because just when you jerked your head towards his direction, vernon ducked down and out of sight.

he vaguely hears you murmuring, mingyu's baritone voice lilting in the quiet along the hallways. vernon remained motionless with bated breath, waiting for you two to walk away from where he was.

"that's right, just keep walking...walk away from me, please, please...!"

as soon as he couldn't distinguish anymore sound coming from you two, he makes a run for the clubroom, bursting through the door.

"guys! you won't believe what i just witnessed!!"

----

mingyu: "i think...our bantering has gone a little too far." you: "a little? you fight with me every opportunity you get!" mingyu: "am not?!"

"did you really have to pull that stunt in front of our juniors?" you chuckled lightly and mingyu delights in the way you were slightly bumping shoulders with him as you two stroll leisurely out of school.

"i mean, all banter aside, i love you. you know that right?" mingyu refutes back, an age-old statement that never fails to worm its way into your heart. he repeats it once more, earning him a giggle from you.

you rolled your eyes, reaching up to ruffle his hair playfully, "i know that. say, maybe if you showed your loving side to me, then people would take you more seriously."

"you really think so? i think our fellow members get a kick out of us bickering. i bet they keep tabs on us too." you hummed at mingyu's statement.

"nah, i like it when you get up close and personal with me." mingyu finally concludes, adding on, "i love it more when you're feisty, you know?" he exaggeratedly pouts his lips, making kissy faces as you mock-disgustedly push him away.

"YOU'RE NASTY KIM MINGYU!"

@ppumeonae-bigvibe 's work ; likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

[irkimatsu]

Okay, okay, I have a request, and I know I could write it, but I love the way your pieces are written! ]]

Husk falls asleep at the bar, only to wake up with a blanket around him. He's perplexed and doesn't think anything of it, but when he passes out multiple other times and wakes up with the same blanket. He wonders who it belongs to- He studies the scent, and after it disappears he waits a few days before he pretends to pass out and finds the reader softly tucking him in after a long day at work.

(It would be nice for a f!reader, but any is alright with me!)

Have a good day/night, Mon Cher!!♡♡

Oh gosh, I think I rotted my own teeth writing this request. That's a compliment! This was such a sweet prompt! I hope you enjoy it just as much as I enjoy your own works!

About 1k words, about as SFW you can get in a world where Husk still says "fuck". Let Husk Be Cozy 2024

It’s not the first time he’s woken up to the sight of the lobby ceiling. Fuck, his head hurts. Fuck, his everything hurts. The floor behind the bar isn’t the most comfortable place to pass out.

Husk groans as he sits up and stretches his wings. He’d fallen asleep on them, and now they’re numb. As if being awake wasn’t already annoying enough. He stretches his mouth wide open in a feline yawn, and reaches to scratch a bothersome itch on his chest.

His claws catch onto a piece of fleece.

“The fuck…?” He grips the fabric and pulls it into his eye’s view. It’s a red fleece blanket, fairly large and thick. It’s luxuriously soft, enough that he can’t help but stroke it with his paw a few times. A blanket this nice can’t have possibly been cheap.

Who the hell dumped it on the floor over his sorry ass?

“Hey, Charlie?” he calls out as he pushes himself to his feet; the blanket is fancy enough to belong to a princess, and she’s definitely the type to try to make him more comfortable, even if he was too damn drunk for her to drag to bed.

Charlie’s shout at his appearance would have been comical if Husk had any laughter left in him. “Husk! I didn’t know you were back there!”

“This yours?” he asks, holding up the blanket. “Someone dumped it on me last night.”

“Hm… it doesn’t look familiar…” Charlie says. “I don’t think it’s part of the hotel linens.”

“Where the hell did it come from, then?”

“I don’t know, but it’s great that someone wanted to make you more comfortable!” Charlie responds, her sunshine demeanor at this hour only worsening Husk’s headache.

“They still left me on the damn floor…” he grumbles, knowing damn well that any attempt to wake him is futile once he’s had enough to drink. Out of fucks to give about where the blanket came from, he tosses it onto the couch, then heads for the hotel’s stairwell.

“I’m going to bed,” he grumbles.

“It’s nine in the morning,” Charlie points out.

“Bed,” he repeats, trusting that Charlie’s good nature will let him have the day off. Everything hurts too much for him to bother right now. And his left wing is still fucking numb.

—

He wakes up with his head pressed against the bartop, his cheek sticking to the wood with his own drool.

“Urgh…”

He slowly sits up, wondering what hour it is. He’s not surprised he passed out again… Alastor has been working him way too hard recently, which in turn has been making him drink even more than usual. At least he had enough presence of mind to sit in a stool this time before going temporarily brain dead.

Something soft is wrapped around his shoulders.

He grabs the soft object, and finds the familiar touch of the blanket he found covering him before. Seriously, whose was this, and why were they wasting it on him?

With the blanket this close to his face, he can’t help but notice how nice it smells. The scent is just a standard floral detergent, but it’s still nice… nice enough that he can’t help but lift the blanket to his face and take a deep breath.

His keen sense of smell picks up another scent beneath the flowers. What is that? It’s so familiar. He takes a few more breaths, trying to identify it… some sort of perfume? Does someone in the hotel wear a scent like that? He just can’t place it.

It’s surprisingly calming, though…

He heads off to his hotel room, this time bringing the blanket with him. The comforting scent easily lulls him to sleep, although in the end he never can place what it is. In the morning, he makes sure no one sees him with the blanket - god, he could never admit to taking it to bed with him - and upon confirming that the coast is clear, he deposits it onto the couch.

He hopes to get a glimpse of whoever came to get it, but in the chaos of the day, the blanket disappears without him noticing where it went.

—

Husk is dozing on the couch. He’s so, so fucking tired. If Alastor sends him on one more errand, on top of all the work he has to do maintaining the bar every day, he may very well be the first Sinner to drop double-dead of exhaustion.

The lobby feels strangely cold. Charlie’s usually good with keeping the hotel’s temperature at a reasonable level, but Husk just can’t get comfortable.

He could really use a blanket right now.

Fuck, footsteps. Is someone coming to bother him right now? Is it Alastor? No, it can’t be him, he doesn’t hear any radio static… he cracks his eyes open just enough to see who just walked into the lobby.

It’s that new girl, and she’s holding something.

“Husk? Are you awake?”

As far as you’re concerned, no. He squeezes his eyes shut and rolls over to face the back of the couch, not in the mood to socialize right now.

“You’ve been working so hard recently… I hope you get to rest soon.”

Her footsteps come closer, and she leans over him.

A familiar scent, flowers mixed with something indescribable that he wouldn’t have picked up if he were still human, wafts into his nostrils, and every muscle in his body instantly relaxes. Luxuriously soft fabric covers his body, and gentle hands tuck the blanket beneath him.

“Please keep the blanket this time, okay?”

He doesn’t answer, still pretending to be out cold. A hand lightly caresses him from behind his ear down to his cheek, and then her footsteps fade into the distance.

Once he’s sure she’s gone, he holds the blanket to his face and takes a deep breath. Even if he’s not in his own bed, it’s still the most restful sleep he’s had in weeks.

[kathaynesart]

The call has ended, but the final recording still has a bit further to go.  

BEGINNING || PREVIOUS || NEXT MASTER POST

Sorry these past several updates have been such downers.  I promise the next one will have some fun banter.  Can’t wait to get back to the real world with less digital effects and data dump.  I don’t know how Donnie deals with all of it. 

Below the cut I’ve added a little talk about Donnie and the way he handled this heavy conversation, something I fear might come off a little harsh without the proper context clues.  Also, below is a fun little discovery I made about Omega! 

I’ve already had a few people express how Donnie seems mean to his family in this update, which I totally understand how it can come off like that.  A certain amount of nuance is lost in this sort of comic format with neither descriptors, actual voice acting, or even Donnie’s face to give context for the way he is saying certain lines.  It’s an artistic choice I made, but one I still wish to clarify.

I see the sudden hang up as less Donnie being a jerk and more him having to cut the conversation short because he has to keep focus and he’s scared of Leo talking him down from the ledge he’s standing on.  He’s sticking to his guns and it hurts him to see how much it’s hurting his family and so all he can do is distance himself before the strong emotions cause him to make a mistake in the middle of enemy territory (placing legitimate logical concerns over emotional ones).  At the same time he is attempting to remain calm if only to try and let some of that wash onto Leo and April, because he knows if Leo freaks out too much he could risk bleeding out faster, which is why he was pressing for April to care for him first and foremost.  Were he a better liar he might have done so just to keep Leo calm a little longer, but no such luck.   Donnie holds so much love for his family, and I don’t think an apocalypse has changed that, he just has difficulty at times knowing the hierarchy of emotions expected of such a rare and dire situation and instead chooses to focus on the logical issues because at least those are some things he has certain control over. He wants to keep his family safe at all costs and if he has to cut off the last conversation he initiated and desperately wanted with his family to do so then he will.  I hope that clears some things up.  I might make this paragraph into it’s own post tomorrow for those who might have missed this update. 

On another note, I discovered something fun while researching Donnie’s screen UI!  (Extra photos under the cut:) Omega is actually in the movie (kind of)!  Look at the lil’ guy!  All sorts of dead!

Thanks as always for your support and comments, it means a ton!

[ofswordsandpens]

just caught up on the pjo show and tbh Grover's interaction with Ares was hilarious but VERY (like, completely) ooc for him, tbh

grover in general just feels like a very different character than he was in the books, I'm a little (okay more than a little) annoyed

honestly as much as I'm enjoying Aryan's portrayal, as the show progresses the less and less this feels like a depiction of book Grover. Like, did I think master manipulator Grover playing Ares was funny? Absolutely. Did it feel like something book 1 Grover would have done? Not particularly.

And I think I would be vibing with these changes more if the show wasn't also removing Grover from scenes where he was either: extremely helpful, made the right call, or actively saved Percy and Annabeth.

Like in the book, Grover made the initial correct call about Medusa and then actively battled her to the best of his ability. In the show, his correct call is given to Annabeth and he can't control the shoes so he's removed from the scenario so Percy and Annabeth can talk about it. Then he accidentally crashes into the boxes which distracts Medusa. This is the extent of his "help" to them.

Then he's removed from the Water Land parts entirely. In the book, he saved Percy and Annabeth from either death or at minimum extreme bodily harm from crashing into the asphalt, but in the show he's forced to stay with Ares as collateral. And then the show did attempt to give him something to do by manipulating Ares and I promise, I do understand the intent behind the scene, but again, since I find it very unlikely that Grover's going to correctly identify the lightning thief in the next episode, he didn't really get anything valuable for the team.

And just to be clear: it's not that I'm upset that show Grover's going to be wrong, because I do think it's important for characters to be able to make mistakes, make wrong calls, etc. It's just that as of now (episode 5) you could have removed show Grover from the quest and it would have hardly made a single difference.... That's not good. And you cannot say the same for book Grover at this same point in time.

Then the show's also removed Grover's personal stake in the quest from the book: his last chance to redeem himself to get his license, and his consequent motivation to one day search for Pan.

Book Grover also feels exceedingly guilty and perceives himself as a failure, and the show's barely touched on at it at all, and sure, we have a few more episodes to circle around to this but we still should have had more seeds of this sewn by now. It's more impactful for it to be carried through the plot rather than exposition-dumped in the final hour.

So I guess here's to hoping that in the last three episodes, the show will allow Grover to do more in the trio beyond providing conflict management and comic relief. And actually provide concrete and useful help.

[rosiegardenlove]

So uh... I know it's late but I want to try this time. So lets do this lads I'm throwing my boi Shade Knight into the ring of the @kirbyoctournament Wish us luck!

Personality: Shade Knight is one of the... weirder members of the GSA, but he's a well meaning and kind hearted knight despite his naivete to a majority of the world/galaxy around him. While easy going in nature, he's a master of the blade when backed into a corner, thought... He doesn't remember how he was trained as a knight.

Backstory: For his backstory, Shade Knight, formerly known as Dark Matter Bladesman, used to one of the elite members of Zero's army. The twin blade to Dark Matter Swordsman. After a chance encounter with Meta Knight, Bladesman realized the light within him, the heart he never knew he had. So, in a attempt to chance his ways he faced his twin, but fell to his blade. But by the mercy of a fluttering spectator. He was given a second chance at life and joined the ranks of those who swore to protect the galaxy. But at the cost of losing all memory of who he once was.

For those interested in seeing more bout his past I have a few posts that can help! Here's a short short on how Shade/Bladesman first met Meta Knight:

And the comic that goes over the lad's backstory: