#gutter garbs

[brokehorrorfan]

Gutter Garbs has released three My Bloody Valentine shirts designed by Yannick Bouchard, Sam Coyne, and Brandon Stecz. Priced at $30, they'll ship the week of February 1.

[rainbowthefox]

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[germ-t-ripper]

23DEC22 Loving this Scream Factory 10 year anniversary shirt by Gutter Garbs.

[mentholatedvision]

⛓️💀

[tw1l1te]

Your writing is sooo good, i especially love the suggestive's one. And the smut 🙈

I really loved your story with the reader showing skin et flirting. Do you think you could do the same with War (my fave) and Time pretty please? ✨💖

And sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language

Anon 🐎

I love Time so much, he helps with the daddy issues

𓇢𓆸.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Wars

Being a Captain was difficult in so many factors.

He had to be precise, smart, authorative, put together.

And right now, he is the complete opposite of those things.

After a messy run-in with some enemies from Legend's Hyrule, most of the group was covered in blood, monster guts, mud, you name it.

So Time suggested they all go wash up in some nearby hot springs, specifically the more private ones for your sake.

By some blessing or curse, Wars was allocated the same hot spring as you, the hot mist of the spring already getting to him

You told him that you'll go on the opposite side of the spring to avoid any awkward eye contact or body's touching.

You both turned around to give each other privacy, stripping all of your clothes and setting them on the side to be washed after they were clean.

You got in first, sighing at the hot water encompassing your entire body. You kept your back turned as Wars got in, letting him have some of his dignity

At the go-ahead, you turned around propping your back against the rocky wall, lazily scrubbing away at the caked-on blood and mud on your forearms.

Wars followed your motions, trying to distact himself from the growing bulge under the water. It was impossible considering the curve of your breasts was very visible through the water and your bare shoulders looked a little too unmarked-

"Wars? Can you get the mud off of my back, you know how unflexible I am."

He nodded, knowing if he said a word his voice would crack, giving away his little problem

Just half a foot away from him, he gently scrubbed the mud off, not going any lower than the surface of the water, after all, he was a gentleman he didn't want to be

You suddently spinned around, your face meeting with his chest

"Why don't I help you out...?"

Pardon-

Did he hear you correctly?

Did you want to...

"Turn around! I'll get your back, you stink!!"

By the Three, he needed to keep his mind out of the gutter.

Time:

He wasn't sure the last time he saw himself wearing the Hero's Garb.

It must've been, what, 5 years ago? 10? He lost track of time.

So when Wild showed him the outfits he had stashed in his Slate, he was suprised to see that it was the very same tunic, and not a replica.

He was suprised a second time when he saw the whole set being worn by you: his Sunflower

You walked back to camp, entranced in a flower you were holding, too preoccupied to notice the eldest taking your form in

By the Three, he forgot how skintight those tights were... but you made them look tailored to you

You look up, a slight blush on your ears, "O-oh, hey! Wild gave me your old tunic to wear, I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all, Sunflower."

He wish he could've taken a picture of how cute you looked, stuttering and blushing.

You walked up to him, the curve of your ass being just barely visible for him to see. Something about you in his clothes made his darker side ignite.

You were called by Wild, needing you to taste something by the fire. You jumped up, jogging up to wild as the short green tunic flounced at your movement. Your chest bounced slightly as you skipped to the cook, Time's eyes slightly lidded at your form.

You leaned over, hands on your knees, giving Time the perfect tease. You looked back at him for a second before biting your lip, giving him the thought that you were doing this on purpose.

You were gonna end him-

𓇢𓆸.𖥔 ݁ ˖

[johnny-dynamo]

Trick Or Treat by Gutter Garbs

[lettherebemonsters]

Gutter Garbs released their My Bloody Valentine collection and I'm drooling. All of it is SEXY.

[ordo-scriptus]

The Cult of Admonition cut its teeth in underhive wars, and the Water Cartel's purple-garbed Enforcers were just one of the foes they struggled against - until the hammer of the Moebian Sixth fell. As the Cartel lost ground, more and more of their numbers turned to the Dark Powers. Their trademark uniforms, once barring all access to the Torrent, were now only seen in two places: upon the bodies strewn in the gutters, or marching amongst the Cult. #warhammercommunity #darktide #renegadesandheretics #bloodedkillteam #moebiansixth #cultofadmonition #forthesixth #warhammerkitbashing #paintingwarhammer #paintingwarhammer40k #chaoscultists #imperialismilitia #imperialguard #traitorguard #astramilitarum #warpcults #ageofdarkness #horusheresy #hobbystreak #hobbystreakday416 (at Wakefield) https://www.instagram.com/p/CnAsdvINH8P/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[neon-green-reagent]

Gutter Garbs is going to be releasing a Trick or Treat (1986) collection of four shirts tomorrow. That gorgeous image is just one of the four, and I cannot wait to see the rest. This is absolutely a dream come true for me. You better believe I’ll be snapping one of these up. I had to share. NO FALSE METAL. 

[ofdragonsdeep]

14: Attrition

A lone adventurer stands against the Lord of the Inferno. He does not expect to live.

(Depictions of violence and injury including severe burns, though I've mostly glossed over the specifics for my own sanity)

The first thing he realised was that he was awake.

 Pain, discomfort, lack of movement - all of those came next. Then the memories, of their sting on the kidnappers, the betrayal, how quickly they had been overwhelmed. Then the heat.

He tried to groan, not that his throat would let him, and blinked the aether from his eyes. He had been thrown in with the rest of the soldiers, into a clearing with barely any shade from the baking Thanalan sun. Around them, grand metal towers capped with vicious fire stood vigil, and amalj’aan warriors paced between them, in case the intimidation was not enough.

It did not seem promising.

!The gall o’ the bastard, selling us out to the lizards,” one of the soldiers muttered. Their disdain for the Amalj’aa still bothered Ar’telan, but even if that moment had been the time to protest, he couldn’t speak without his hands.

“He’ll go down with us. Don’t you worry,” said the sergeant. “Poor comfort maybe, but it’s no less than he deserves.” 

Ar’telan bit his lip, shifting slightly to try and get into a sitting position. There was an air of grim inevitability around his fellow captives. Ar’telan supposed that one warm-blooded spoken was much the same as any other to the Tempered.

After all he had been through, all he had done, the idea that he might be Tempered was more terrifying than anything else. Bad enough that he might die away from home, his tribe never knowing what had become of him, but to lose his mind, his self… He shivered just imagining it.

“Not all that grand for a first outing, eh?” the sergeant said, seeing his discomfort. Unable to answer, Ar’telan simply hugged his knees.

–

Once every member of their company had roused from magically-induced slumber - some, especially Ungust, more noisily than others - the Amalj’aa forced all of them to their feet and led them at spearpoint deeper into the compound. Ar’telan walked with his eyes fixed on the floor, hearing the Amalj’aa that they passed expressing delight at so many fresh offerings for their god. Ungust tried to barter, offering them the money he had made selling his fellows to them if they would simply let him go, but they had no need for coin. Indeed, it seemed they had less need for fresh souls for the alter, either, given the prize they had just caught. There would be others, though. There were always others. Eikons were never satisfied.

Would he help them, he wondered, with his mind in the thrall of a god? Or would they be content to leave them to mutter fevered prayers to a deific image that was not even their own?

They were assembled in front of an amalj’aa who wore the garb of a priest, a staff in his hands with an effigy of flame atop it. Behind him, a grand circle had been cleared, the edges marked with char and cinder, and outside of it stood dozens of Amalj’aa. Waiting for the spectacle, he supposed.

There was a speech, of course. He and his fellow captives were offerings, a hideous concept to apply to the sentient. They would summon their god, prove their superiority, and all would bask in the Eikon’s light.

He had heard it before. When the lost dragons flew out of the wilds, they would scream of Bahamut’s glory in gutteral dragonspeak, or a Meracydian tongue so ancient it was barely understandable. But they never had this - never whole settlements devoted to an Eikon, every citizen down to a man enthralled. Never had he seen them in such numbers that they could successfully take so many, and the promise of rescue be so distant. How had it got this far? Did those in Ul’dah truly care so little about the lives of the Amalj’aa that they simply would not notice until it was too late?

He supposed there was little point in wondering about it now.

“Rejoice, heathens! For your wretched lives shall soon have meaning!” the priest declared, the Amalj’aa around him raising their voices in prayer. He lifted his staff to the sky, and their was a great gout of flame, so intense it seemed to blot out the sun. Ar’telan flinched away frm it, unable to cover his eyes, but even then he could hear it.

“Pitiful children of man. By my breath I claim you!”

There was a heat, so hot Ar’telan felt that he might catch fire just standing there. He heard those around him fall to their knees, heard the murmuring of the Tempered, and felt-

Nothing.

“Impossible! By what sorcery do you refuse my master’s will?” The Priest demanded, anger in every taut muscle. Uncertain, Ar’telan opened his eyes.

The creature they called Ifrit was a monstrosity made flesh. A skeleton halfway between man, dragon, and Amalj’aa all, with a crown of burning horns and wicked spikes. There was no muscle upon the frame save that which held it together, and it balanced upon claws which tore gouts into the earth. As Ar’telan met its eyes - hollow, burning points of fire, yet still somehow expressive - it hissed.

“Your soul is claimed by another-” the Priest began.

“I smell the taint of the Light upon thee,” Ifrit hissed, its words stopping the Priest in his tracks. “We were warned of thy abhorrent kind. Thou shalt not be suffered to live!”

Ar’telan was shoved bodily forwards by the Amalj’aa behind him, and he staggered into the circle, eyes wide in terror. He could smell naught but ash and cinder, and the smoke rose so high it seemed to blot out the sky.

“The Lord of the Inferno shall prove his might!” the Priest declared. A lance was brought down on the restraints at his feet, and he all but jumped away from them in fear. His arms were yet bound, and they made no move to release him, but at least they were at his chest rather than at his back.

As if it would make a difference.

“My flames shall consume thy flesh and soul both!” Ifrit hissed, and Ar’telan threw himself to the side as a gout of fire erupted from its jagged maw. The prayers of the Amalj’aa rose to a fever pitch at the sight of their Lord engaged in holy combat, as if it would make much difference that Ar’telan could run before he burned. Perhaps - perhaps if he could hold out long enough, there would be help. Perhaps Thancred would come, and- and somehow not burn with him. 

He cast his eyes about for something, anything, that he could use as a weapon. The fire would do him no good against a creature wreathed in it, and the Amalj’aa were not like to give up their own weapons, but perhaps there would be something. He wondered if it might not be better to let the fire take him, so they would not lose more people trying to save the dead, but he couldn’t. He would not lie down and die for an Eikon. So help him, even if the ending was inevitable, he would not offer himself up unchallenged.

Claws dug into the ground, and fire leapt up at Ar’telan’s feet. He ran as the ground cracked beneath him, flames roaring up from the gaps, launching himself across the  edges of the circle to give himself more room to evade. Those lines of char had become a moat of embers in the wake of Ifrit’s summoning, so an escape seemed to be entirely impossible, but so long as he could avoid those teeth…

Ifrit hissed in anger at his lack of immediate supplication. Its tail swung through the air like a cudgel, and with a powerful jump it flung itself across their makeshift arena. Ar’telan yelped, flinging himself into the dirt and scurrying through the dust clouds, rolling to avoid taking the full brunt of Ifrit’s claws in his face. He could not crawl, not with his hands bound, but perhaps-

“Succumb to the Inferno!” Ifrit demanded. It opened its maw once more, and Ar’telan threw his hands up in front of his face.

The force of the blast sent him careening across the dirt of the altar, and he howled in pain as his skin blistered in the heat. He could see the char flaking from what was left of his sleeves, the restraints at his wrists now lines of fire and pain. But metal… and heat…

He gritted his teeth, and yanked his hands apart. Fresh pain erupted like a lance on his skin, and he all but screamed at the force of it, but the chains buckled and snapped. He scrambled to his feet, watching the hate in Ifrit’s eyes glow to a rising crescendo.

“The kitten has fight in him!” the Priest declared, disdain dripping from every syllable. “A pity that it cannot save you!”

His hands shook. There was so much pain it was difficult to pinpoint which specific pieces of him hurt. His ears were ringing from the blast, and he could smell his hair burning.

No. he would not give up. He would not.

Ifrit roared, and with the sound came yet more fire, snaking across the dirt towards him. Great pools of it seeped in from the burning edges, moved by the sheer force of the Eikon’s will, and Ar’telan stumbled between the gaps. With so much heat around him it was impossible to tell whether he felt the scorching price of failure, or simply the oppressive, burning air.

With a huff, he tore what was left of his left sleeve from his robe, tying it behind his head with quick motions as he ran. Not as deft as he would have been, had his hands not been burning, but it stayed in place all the same. He could not protect his eyes from the smoke, but perhaps he would eke out a few more precious seconds before his lungs succumbed to it. 

Ifrit paused.

With a great heft of sinew, it clambered like a stalking cat towards the centre of the arena. Ar’telan backed away, cautious of the embers at his back, but it seemed content to wait where it stood. It raised its hands to the sky, and the aether in the air itself seemed to ripple and warp at the Eikon’s will.

With a screech of displaced air, it buried a burning nail of hot coals into the ground, and locked eyes with Ar’telan.

“Surrender thyself to the fires of judgement!” it hissed, the words formed around it rather than issued from its twisted maw. Ar’telan could see the embers pulse within this new creation, a ticking time bomb of hatred and aether.

But it was something he could touch.

He hurled himself forwards. Ifrit swiped at him as he did so with those sharp, burning claws, and he tumbled beneath the Eikon, between those spindly legs, and scrambled away from its claws. Ifrit twisted, lashing its tail out as it turned, and Ar’telan ducked around it. Another pool of fire formed at his feet, and he careened out of it and back towards the centre.

“Fool,” Ifrit hissed, and Ar’telan put his hands upon the nail and pulled.

It hurt. It hurt even more than the fire he had been doused in, like holding fire in his hands. He shrieked as he tore it from the earth, and held on to it through force of will alone.

“You cannot hurt me with what is mine, mortal,” Ifrit said, its hissing cadence mocking Ar’telan’s pain. He gritted his teeth, feeling the dangling chains of his restraints tapping against the nail, and started to run.

 First map the arcanima’s outline.

Ifrit hissed at him, belching flames to stop his advance, and he ducked between pools of flickering flame and the Eikon’s more personal onslaught. Every time he reached new ground, he dragged the pulsing nail against the floor, leaving a searing line of ash and aether in his wake.

A circle. The pain in his hands had stopped, which was not a good sign at all.

Next, choose its purpose.

He stumbled and weaved between the edges and the centre. Ifrit’s claws hit home more than once, ripping his robe to shreds and leaving bloodied trails in their wake, but he bit back the pain with enough force to break the skin on his lips. Lines towards the centrepoint, bending around the points of aetheric confluence. He was not bookish, not truly, but he had devoted himself to this. He knew them by heart.

“Thy soul shall burn for all eternity!” Ifrit screeched. A swipe of its tail finally landed true, and Ar’telan went tumbling to the floor. The nail hissed and seared against the skin of his leg, and he choked back tears at the pain of it. He limped towards death. But he would not go easy.

The nail did not fall free from his hands only because it had fused to the skin.

With the aether thus primed, chain the power, that it does not bite you back.

Ar’telan would burn with the Eikon if he must.

And when you are sure of safety, close the circle.

He hauled himself to his feet as best he could. One leg did not entirely respond to him, so he lurched in place. The fire in the nail was vibrating to a fever pitch - it would not be long before his folly exploded in his face.

One line. Just one line more.

“Thy trickery will not save you, mortal,” Ifrit said. With shaking steps, Ar’telan walked forwards. Fire followed him, as it seemed so wont to do, and he stumbled into the epicentre. Ifrit’s rage became a snarl of imminent victory as the ground buckled to vent boiling air.

Ar’telan raised the nail and slammed it into the earth.

Aether rippled out in a wave, rushing along the lines with a white-hot fervour. Fire became raw energy in the arcane sigil, a shrieking sound as power strained against the earth. All of the aether that Ifrit had channeled into its weapon of choice exploded into the sigil with a force that threw Ar’telan from his feet, and as the circle closed, Ifrit howled. Ar’telan, flat on his back and dizzy from the force of it, felt the exhaustion of using so much aether, so much terror, and found he could not move. But there was no more noise from Ifrit, no more anger, no more defiance, no more certainty.

The Eikon was dead.

He heard the Amalj’aa raised their voices in anger as they realised what he had done, and as his vision dimmed he knew he would not survive their ire, even if he had evaded that of their lord. But it was enough. He would be no primal’s plaything, no subject to the whims of twisted miscreations. For his homeland - for Meracydia - he owed that much.

[brothertedd]

Hellbound: Hellraiser II💀⛓

from Gutter Garbs

[brokehorrorfan]

Gutter Garbs has Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter and Jason X designs by Sam Coyne on T-shirts ($30), zip-up hoodies ($50), and 12x18 prints ($36). Pre-orders are up through Sunday, October 15, and will ship the week of November 13.

[ephemeralove]

uprooting wallflowers

Duke Maxifeld has received a letter detailing the planned heist of his family’s priceless heirloom - a weapon said to take on many an alternate form - during his upcoming annual ball. The Knights of Seiros have assigned you and your partner to attend undercover and find the wannabe thief before they act. The event is strictly for couples only. Better make your act convincing! [Grants Any Weapon +1]

“Kris...” A soft protest slipped the mage’s lips, muffled and punctuated by a forlorn sigh, and the painful blush that seared her cheeks burned with such ferocity that Katarina feared it might dye her snowy gloves a distasteful pink. Even so, she could hardly bring herself to pull her hands from her face, the tent of her fingers over the majority of her face being the singular tether that kept her from falling into shambles. What she might have followed up with, even she didn’t know -- only that whatever discomfiting feeling filled her lungs like cotton, her friend almost certainly shared. 

She looked ridiculous. Clothes could never make the man; even in the finest gown, Katarina would always look like a dressed up gutter rat, and so she had opted for the simplest dress that might be deemed passable by their peers for the evening: something ‘refined’ in its minimalism (as cheap as permissible), flowing (easy to tear) and loose (with room for a knife), and purple (...she did like purple). Even her gloves, long enough to practically be sleeves, only served to hide her ‘contemptible’ hands from turned-up noses. And now they hid her own. 

Her cloud-colored gaze fell to the side just as her hands did to her side, bravely fighting the urge to instead hug her arm to her side. There was no use in complaining, nor was it fair to pin all her unease upon the garb. Much as she liked working with Kris, to play such a deceitful role now at the side of one she had betrayed so terribly felt-- 

“...” Well, they were already here, only a few walls separated from the contested ball. A smile pulled across her lips like a fraying thread, sympathetic, if not tinged by dread, and her fingers curled and uncurled before reaching hesitantly toward him, not daring to truly bridge the gap. “A-at least there will be food,” Katarina offered weakly. After a moment, her hand shrank back. “No one can tell you you have to dance when you’re eating...” ...Though they couldn’t very well simply beeline to the refreshments and play the wallflowers all night, but she didn’t say that. 

“...I’m ready if you are.” A softly spoken offer -- one that would fade away unheard in the room where she was to don a mask once more. 

@unsungblade

[germ-t-ripper]

02MAR24 I'm absolutely in love with this FRIGHT NIGHT II (1988) shirt by Gutter Garbs!

[thanos-the-dad-titan]

Got a new shirt for my growing Horror shirt collection..

Gutter-Garbs

[3acesnews]

The Final Chapter 40th anniversary shirt available from Gutter Garbs