#practicing my action scenes

[nouverx]

OPLA sketches

I love Luffy a normal amount

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Turtle Takedown Teamwork.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[sparky-scratch]

yippee another part!! i like the colors in this one lol

<Part 1> <Next>

[wiverly]

Mihawk: I’m proud to identify as morosexual. I’m attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively.

Shanks: Gloomy son of a good woman I could still take you and with one arm tied behind my back.

Mihawk: *already taking his clothes off* Akagami, you’re so fucking stupid!

[volcanicsleep]

the style is looking to be a more sleepy vibe, but that works pretty well

[ivebeentotheforest]

Epic action sequences in Dune: Part Two (2024)

[murazeeki]

Dude I'm so thinking about making an action comic about a tall dragon queen whos op as fuck and needs to cleanse the world.

But not cleanse the world of humans, no. They're already gone.

She needs to cleanse the world of her own creations.

She messed up, you see. Knocked the balance of the earth off completely, now turning everything into a firey wasteland. Her creations now wandering the scorched plains, still causing chaos just because they can.

And with the help of her former right hand man (and ex-lover TEEHEE) he now wants to go to other worlds and cause havoc.

She didn't want this. She wanted to help... she only wanted to help the humans. But now look where that got her.

Nothing but death and pain.

Now angered by her creations, her Infernateps, and furious with herself, she starts her genocide and won't stop until every last one of them is dead.

[primsheep]

On the hunt!!!!!!

[confused-stars]

okay the atla live action didn't make too many gigantic mistakes imo. and they did some surprisingly good things, too (making Zhao this insufferable was kinda funny)

[andorerso]

amas veritas: chapter 5

“When are you gonna tell him you’re a witch?” he asked on the phone as Jyn poured coffee into a mug, waiting for Cassian to arrive. She wasn’t nervous… Really. It wasn’t like her to be nervous. But Bodhi provided an easy distraction that she was grateful for. “Not yet,” she insisted before taking a sip of her coffee. Kyber was slumbering on her favorite kitchen chair, and Jyn brushed a hand across her back as she passed her to take a seat. “When it gets serious.” “The more you wait, the worse it’ll be.” “Oh, hush. It’s still early, we haven’t even slept together yet.” But if all went well… “But you like him.” “I like him now. You know how I am, Bodhi, I get bored and move on.” Though it was hard to imagine getting bored with Cassian whose simple presence seemed to invigorate her in a way she hadn’t known anybody to. And Bodhi, of course, wasn’t buying it either. He knew her too damn well, the bastard.

chapter five | from the beginning

[boyfrillish]

howdy! for a drabble prompt how about something like, victor/hop where one has to be fiercely protective of the other? (say, a wild pokemon encounter gets out of hand or...)

Victor’s walking toward Challenge Road when it happens. He knows there are plenty of wild Pokémon happy to attack passersby during any weather, yet he’s still caught off-guard when a Bisharp charges at him from behind.

The battle cry rings in his ears and when he turns around, he’s met with sharp blades ready to strike. He can barely shout a command to Sylveon or switch to a different Pokémon. The blow of the attack throws him right into the stairs and he yelps as the edges of the steps dig into his back.

He’s frozen in place as the blade points threateningly at his face.

But that’s when fear melts into a blend of admiration and worry alike.

“Get away from him!” an oh-so-familiar voice yells.

And Victor watches as Hop charges directly into the wild Bisharp, hitting it with his own body to knock it aside, and Dubwool eagerly helping with its Double-Edge.

Hop stands in front of Victor like a shield, Pokéball in hand to switch out. “Go, Cinderace! Hit it with your Pyro Ball!”

With the type advantage on his side, he fends off the wild Bisharp with ease. Though rather than celebrate the win, he rushes to kneel next to Victor.

Grim determination — an expression that’s burned into Victor’s mind ever since their battle at the Champion Cup — makes way for worried frown. “Victor! It didn’t cut you, did it? Let me check you for injuries!”

But the only response Victor can think of is to grab Hop by the collar of his jacket and shout, “You idiot! What were you thinking?!”

“I just saved your butt!” Hop shouts right back. “And you’re probably hurt, so let me tend to you already!”

Victor really wants to argue — because really! What was he thinking? — but his body has to betray him by wincing in pain. “Ugh, fine.”

He slips out of his dojo jacket and loosens the zipper of his binder for ease of breath, at the same time allowing Hop to lift his shirt to examine his back for any obvious signs of injury and patch up the scratches on his arms and legs.

Victor is mad. He really is. But the Butterfree that go wild in his belly again at Hop’s gentle, caring touch make it tough to stay mad. And, okay, maybe Hop going reckless protector mode for him made him fall in love even more than he already was.

Still, though… he’s miffed. Feelings don’t always make sense.

Finally, Hop is satisfied with his work and he fixes Victor’s t-shirt before putting away the first aid kit. Softly, he says, “I did the best I could, but I’m just a Professor’s apprentice, not a Doctor. So you should go back to the Dojo and have someone check you more thoroughly as soon as possible.”

Victor groans. “But I have training to do!”

“Nuh uh, training can wait. Health is more important,” Hop argues. “You’re the Champion of Galar, it’s no good if you end up out of commission because you thought you could tough it out.”

“If health is so important, then why did you charge in like that? You could’ve got hurt!”

“I didn’t think, okay?” Hop says. “I saw that Bisharp attacking you and heard your cry and all I knew was I had to make sure you’re safe. There was no time to think before acting.”

“You keep doing that, Hop. Charging ahead recklessly and rushing off before I have a chance to say something or help you. It can get a bit frustrating, you know?” Victor says. Softly, he adds, “I worry about you and I don't want you to get yourself hurt for my sake. I want you to be safe, too.”

“Sorry about that, Victor,” Hop says. “Sonia reproached me for that too, but I can’t help it sometimes. Especially when something or someone I really care about is in danger.”

“Just, promise you’ll be careful, okay? Or else I’ll charge in and protect you, because I really care about you too.”

A smile blooms on Hop’s face as he squeezes Victor’s hand in affirmation of the promise. “Heh heh, it makes me really happy we always have each other’s back.”

Victor feels like a firework lights up in his heart.

He smiles back. “Me too.”

[amtrak12]

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

On my way to a matinee showing of the new "Mission: Impossible" movie, blasting "Take A Look Around" by Limp Bizkit like

[junietuesday]

needed a break from my big emotional miphvalink oneshot, so what do i do but write a smaller fluffy miphvalink oneshot

[sio-writes]

Witch's Gambit - Chapter 3

< Chapter 2

<< Chapter 1

Summary: Lucy Breban, a witch living in the magical city of Grayslate, has just found out her good friend has been murdered in cold blood. When the cops dismiss the case, Lucy must employ the help of her reclusive, skeletal neighbor Weston when the answers the police provide aren't enough. As they get closer to the truth (as well as each other), the two begin to unravel an underground secret that could rock the very foundations of the place they call home.

Weston told me it'd be better if we waited a few days for any police to come sniffing about before even scoping out the crime scene. I was inclined to agree with him, if only to delay seeing that study again.

So a week and a half later, I'm meeting him at my shopfront, an empty bag at my side. I've traded my skirts for a flexible pair of leggings and a tunic just in case. In case of what, I'm not entirely sure, I've never done this before.

The streets are quiet, the lamps have been dimmed. I'm so used to seeing these sidewalks filled with people, bustling with activity. But now, anything that may have told us that the city is alive? Gone. It's creepy.

Weston leads me through the back roads, worried beyond worried that we'll run into someone. His hand in mine is solid underneath the glove, like there's flesh underneath, something I could grab onto. He's not warm, but he's not cold either. It's strange, he's the first reanimated being I've ever met, so many of them are cagey like Weston. I want to ask about it, but I don't want to be rude. I keep my mouth shut as we stop in front of Elliot's workshop.

The storefront is covered in bright yellow police tape, and I want to let out a giggle as we duck underneath it and wedge ourselves through the open door. It's cold and dusty inside, the few days since I've been here allowing the police to come in and out, tracking footprints. But there has to be more, there has to be something that's missing. 

My heart thrums in my chest at the idea of being caught. This is beyond illegal, and if Alma finds out, she'll have my head on a plate. I'd never be allowed near another scene again.

"Okay," I blow air through my mouth and look around, hands on my hips. "Where to first?" 

"You don't know?!" Weston whisper-shouts at me as he climbs in the door, his foot catching on some of the tape. "You don't know where to go?!" 

"Not exactly," I admit, scuffing my boot along the floor. 

He rubs his temples, annoyed. "We're going to be arrested. Do you have any idea what a life sentence is to someone who can't die?"

"What're you, scared?" I tease, quirking an eyebrow.

He pauses for a moment, indignant, then plants his hands on his hips and throws his head to the side. "No."

I snicker. "You can leave at any time," and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear as I sweep my eyes over the foyer. "Sorry Elliot," I say to the air. "Can't solve your murder because my undead neighbor is scared of jailtime."

"I'm not leaving," he slices his hands through the air. "You're going to get in trouble, and then you're going to need me." 

I bark a laugh, accidentally, that quiets down into chuckles, my shoulders shaking. Weston folds his arms, fingers drumming over his radius bone. After another moment of my giggling, Weston lets out a breath, and I idly wonder if he truly needs to breathe. 

"This is your plan, Lucy. Where do we start?" 

The study, my heart says. But even the thought of going up there fills me with dread, runs cold over my body. And suddenly this whole plan seems ill-formed, hasty. I'm second guessing my decision--we could get in serious trouble if we're caught. But I already brought Weston here, we need to see it through. 

I shake my head to banish the anxiety, and plant my fist in my palm. "Let's start down here." 

The floor is an open plan. On the right a dining room that leads to a kitchen, on the left a living room, with a hallway in the back that connects the two sides. 

Starting in the kitchen, everything's where it should be. Elliot had dishes drying in the sink, there's fruit going bad in the basket. I spy the first teacup I'd gifted him, hung up on a rack of other gifted cups. 

The dining room is messy like Elliot would hate, and I imagine this is where the police set up their things. There's a lot of dirt on the floor and bootprints that branch through the house, stains from spilled coffee and the residue of forensic magic. The whole room has been sloppily cleaned, if that, and there's nothing left for us to find.

We run along every baseboard, every molding, every open surface in the living room and back hallway. We tap every open wall space, tamp our feet on the floor, and flip the couch on its end. It's dusty with more forensic magic, but still, we don't find anything. All the while I expect the police to kick down the door, arrest us on the spot, send us straight to jail like Weston worried about.

Then, with Weston in the kitchen again, I find myself at the foot of the stairs. "I'm going upstairs," I announce to the empty air, as if Weston wouldn't hear me press down that third creaky step, or hear my footsteps along the second floor, because the baseboards along the top are garbage, and Elliot had been meaning to move for months.

I take a hard left towards the guest room, where the police had set up shop. Like the dining room, there's dirt tracks everywhere, the duvet is askew from people sitting on it for days. I've slept in this bed, always pristine for guests, not covered in remnants of police tape and evidence bags.

It takes me far longer to search this room than it does downstairs, partially because there's more drawers and crevices and places for things to hide, partially because I'm biding my time. After this is the master bedroom, and then the study.

I'm saved the shame of digging through my friend's bedroom when I hear Weston start up the stairs and head to the right. Hypocrisy burns through alongside the shame-- I broke into his house, what's one more room to look through? That doesn't stop me from feeling like I'm breaching some form of social contract. I wouldn't go through his things if he were out of the house and left me alone. Yes, he's gone, but he was still my friend, and he's entitled to his privacy, even in death. That's what I'd want, at least.

I exit the guest room just as Weston exits the master bedroom, gently closing the door behind him, and we meet at the wide open door of the study. It's crossed in police tape, and it takes more maneuvering to get around than the front door. 

My heart is pounding, my hands are shaking. Logically, I know Elliot isn't in here, that they moved his body days ago. 

Stepping into the room, I'm hit with a wave of grief. There's a dark stain in the shape of a body in the center of the room, seeped thoroughly into the carpet, murky and undefined. Yellow tape wraps around the room, most of it over the walls but some of it ripped and laying on the floor. There's small place cards, white and pristine against the dark backdrop of the study, each one with a number that must have corresponded to some piece of evidence. Emotion clogs up my throat. I've been in this study, looked out the window to the street below, sat on that unbroken desk and chatted with my friend.

Elliot wasn't the type to shutter his problems away. We didn't exactly share secrets, but I always thought he could tell me anything, come to me if he needed help.

A hand falls heavy on my shoulder, and I startle out of my own thoughts. Weston is looking at me, and his eyes seem dimmer than before, half the size like a shade has been pulled. 

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly. Not a plea to leave like before, but a reprieve from the emotional toll of being here.

I shake my head. "I do, though."

We scan the room like we did the floor below, examining baseboards, crevices; we pull on every book on his massive shelves, and there's nothing. I eventually work my way to the desk, a massive oak fixture, dark wood splintered right down the middle. I'm on my hands and knees, not really sure what I'm looking for, when I see a small impression in the bottommost drawer. I press it, the button depressing and a the bottom of the drawer hinging open-- a secret compartment. 

From the compartment slides a thin book, thunking lightly to the floor, along with a fountain pen.

"Weston!" I gasp, scrambling for the book. The cover is soft leather, with the same sigil on the silver piece embossed on the front. In my excitement to stand I hit my head on the underside of the desk, but I slap the book onto the portion of the desk that's still upright, ignoring the flare of pain in my head.

Weston is at my side in an instant. "What is that?"

"No idea," I breathe, straightening my tunic and flipping to the first page. "Found it hidden in the drawer. A journal?"

Opening the book, I'm hit with a burst of negative energy. It's gone as quickly as it came, like a ward against intruders. I look to Weston. "Did you feel that?"

He nods, and I open it again, a little more careful. 

We flip through pages of nonsensical jargon, mixed up sigils and corrupted runes. The source of the magic burst doesn't make itself known until we hit the dead center, where a glittering red symbol takes up both pages. The configuration is bold triangle with a rune in the center, and corresponding runes on each side connected by lines leading to the center rune. It looks like a communication line, but I don't know these runes. Was Elliot talking with someone? Someone he couldn't reach through ordinary channels?

I open my mouth to turn to Weston, when the front door slams open and a voice booms through the shouse.

"Police! This is a crime scene! You are trespassing!"

Shoot - We must've triggered some kind of alarm system.

Weston's hand on my head pushes me down behind the desk just as the bright light of a flashlight sweeps over the door. I recognize one of the voices as Martinez, the cop who questioned me at the scene. Great.

"What're they--?" Weston covers my mouth, and gestures to the window behind us.

"Before they get up here," he whispers.

There's a latch on the window that thankfully opens silently, and I thank Elliot again for his impeccable housekeeping skills when the window also pops open without a sound. I snatch the journal off the desk and shove it into my bag before Weston helps me out, his hand resting gently on my lower back as I step over the sill and onto the narrow fascia that separates the first and second floor. 

My heart is pounding, my grip on Weston's hand has to be grinding his bones together. 

"No," Weston says. "You need to go lower."

My stomach drops. "What?!" 

"I've got you," he says, his hand moving to clench over my wrist. His grip is painful, but steady.

"O-okay." I grip the sill with my free hand and flip myself so I'm pressed against the wall. At that moment, my foot slips, and I swallow a scream as my arm on the sill fails and I nearly pull Weston out the window.

I may as well be three hundred feet in the air. Sweat rolls down my back and I'm having a hard time breathing. Weston is halfway out of the building, still holding onto me.

"I'm going to drop you," Weston says, and my heart launches itself into my throat.

"No, I--!" Weston doesn't wait for me to reply, his hand releasing me, and I do my best to keep in my scream. A small squeak comes out anyway.

But my feet hit the ground nearly instantly. Oh. Right, we were only one story up.

I take a few calming breaths to ease my racing heart, and just as I have my breathing under control, Weston slams into the ground next to me.

"Wes--!" I gasp, but he scrambles to his feet and grabs my hand before I can finish his name, and we take off down the back street. We just barely miss the beam of a flashlight as it sweeps around the corner.

"Stop!" Another voice yells. It's Mr. Klangston, another officer from the precinct. He's not in the best shape, so I ignore the burning in my lungs and keep running. Maybe we can outpace him.

The buildings and streets are set on a grid, so it's easy to turn out of sight, but easy to find us once again. We duck under clotheslines and dodge trash bins, ignoring the litany of shouting behind us. My legs are burning but I cant stop, not with this notebook in my bag.

"There!" Weston points to a dark alley, and I take a sharp right. Dead end.

There's a fire escape to the right, a ladder just out of reach, but before I have time to turn and shake my head I'm being hoisted into the air, and I scramble up the escape, ignoring the slip of my hands on the cold metal. Weston is right behind me, and we both collapse onto the roof just as we hear two sets of footsteps catch up to us below.

I stare at the sky and try to catch my breath as quietly as possible, gulping down air as snippets of their conversation drift up to us.

"I just saw them!"

"They were right here!"

It's  a suspended moment of terror when Mr. Klangston mentions the ladder. 

"Do you think they--?"

"It's too high up."

I breathe out a sigh of relief as my heart continues to hammer away in my chest. Weston and I wait as their footsteps fade away, the muttered conversation of what the intruders could've wanted fading into the background. 

"That was too close," Weston says, making no moves to sit up or even look at me. "Never ask me to do that again."

With what little energy I have left, I bat him lightly over the chest. "I didn't ask you to do anything. You came along."

"I told you that you were going to need me."

I scoff, smiling. "Shut up."

We climb back down the ladder and to the street as quietly as possible, even though the cops are long gone. Dropping down the ladder is much easier than dropping down the building. 

I fish the journal out of my bag and hold it in the moonlight. No damage, thankfully. Despite going through Elliot's things, I'm glad we found this. A grin pulls at my cheeks-- we found something! Something that can explain what's happening!

At my side, Weston crosses his arms. "You're not going to take that to the police, are you?" His tone is flat, as if he already knows my answer.

My grin widens as I stuff the journal back in my bag. "Nope! And I could use your help in deciphering some of these runes."

As I start to walk off, Weston sighs, "As you wish."

[cjbolan]

In light of Greta Gerwig now directing Narnia, I wonder what if she directs Emily Windsnap next?