it smells like sewage

8

         Killers having less than favorable things to say about other killers.

Danny Rolling on Gerard Schaefer: “This guy has got real problems, doesn’t he? Schaefer is a little too full of himself and we can easily figure out the content of substance he is filled with. It smells like something pooling in a sewage treatment plant. He is just a spooky little punk who gets his kicks out of intimidating people. He’s a bluffer. He wants anyone who has the displeasure of entertaining him to believe he holds a full house, but if you call his bluff, you’ll find he only has a pair of deuces – two pitiful excuses for being barely human.

John Wayne Gacy on Jeffrey Dahmer: “If Jeffrey Dahmer doesn’t meet the legal test of insanity, God help the one that does meet it. I mean, it – it has to really be something. If Jeffrey Dahmer doesn’t meet it, then nobody does.”

Charles Manson on Ted Bundy: “Bundy’s a rumpkin, Bundy’s a poop butt, Bundy’s his momma’s boy. Bundy’s out there trying to prove something to his own manhood. That’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t roll around with poop people like that. I stand with people that can stand with themselves.”

Edmund Kemper on Herbert Mullin: “He had a habit of singing and bothering people when somebody tried to watch TV. So I threw water on him to shut him up. Then, when he was a good boy, I’d give him some peanuts. Herbie liked peanuts. That was effective, because pretty soon he asked permission to sing. That’s called behavior modification treatment.”

Painting meatballs

For @copperbadge: Sounds like you could use some cheering up this week. :) 


Most days, being a superhero did not pay off. He’d been chased through probably twenty miles of tunnel, managed to drop his last nine arrows down an open manhole (who just leaves manholes open?), and it was only by the grace of his fingertips that he hadn’t gone down after them. He’d forgotten to go grocery shopping, he had a headache from somewhere south of hell, and he was almost hungry enough to share a bowl of Kibbles ‘N’ Bits with Lucky and call it a night.

“Happy freaking birthday to me,” he grumbled as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment. By the time he realized that his keys had apparently gone the way of the arrows, he didn’t even have enough frustration left in him to swear. He dropped his head forward, hitting the door about ten million times harder than he’d meant to, and jerked away with both hands over his forehead.

He definitely didn’t think anyone could blame him for being a tiny bit slow to react when his apartment door opened by itself, but he did manage to have a knife up by the time the interloper leaned around the doorway.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow at him. “Is that a sharpened butter knife?”

Clint glowered at her and slid the blade back into his boot – one of only three, but his count, that hadn’t ended up buried in some guy’s thigh, or washed away in Shit River. “I had to improvise,” he defended. “Why are you in my apartment?”

The other eyebrow quirked up to join the first. “Why are you not in your apartment? Also, you smell like sewage.”

“Long story.”

She tipped her head to the left to examine him, and maybe he was projecting or something else that the group home counselor would have said was unhealthy, but he was positive she could see right through the smarting mark on his head and read his mind. Without a word, she stepped back to hold the door open and gestured inside with one hand.

“I’ll get you a beer.”

“Don’t have any,” Clint muttered. He had about half a bottle of Nat’s shitty vodka somewhere, though he’d used the whiskey for antiseptic the week before.

“Good thing Jan knows how to throw a party,” she said. Her smile softened slightly and she gestured in again. “Though Tony thought jumping out and yelling ‘surprise’ was a smart idea for all of twenty-two seconds.”

Clint shuddered just imagining the heart attack he would have had if he’d opened the door and yelling had been the result. He was suddenly grateful that he’d lost his keys – he’d forgotten all about Stark’s threatened birthday party, and he was more than a little surprised that everyone else had apparently remembered. Now that he was paying attention like an ex-assassin and current masked superhero with poor apartment security and lots of enemies should be, he could hear the faint chatter of about half a dozen people and the subtle clinking of forks on plates.

He glanced at the door and then over to the elevator. “Maybe I should just go get some chips or something.”

Natasha shrugged. “If you want. But your meatballs will probably be cold by the time you get back.”

Clint’s stomach emitted a loud snarl, and his mouth instantly flooded with saliva. Nat might have been kinder than most people gave her credit for, but she still laughed at him as he stood rooted to the spot, doing a good impression of a meatball-zombie. 

“Please tell me they’re not those bullshit fancy meatless-meatballs or whatever Pepper had A Thing about,” he begged.

“Nope, they’re the cheap frozen meatballs you get out of a bag and dump in the oven.”

He could have kissed her. He definitely did moan, “My favorite.”

His apartment had been cleaned, and it smelled like Pinesol and sweet sweet processed meatballs fresh from the oven. Every lamp he owned had been moved into the living room, which had apparently not been enough, because there was an Iron Man suit standing in the corner and glowing like a six-and-a-half-foot art deco lamp.

“Surprise?” Tony offered, from the kitchen, and Holy Patron Saint of I’m never letting you live this down, was wearing a bright yellow apron liberally splashed with hearts and smiling sunflowers, a matching pair of oven mitts, and a lime green party hat.

“Why are you like this?” Clint blurted out with a laugh.

“Laugh all you want,” Tony said, setting down a tray of freshly cooked previously frozen guaranteed delicious meatballs so he could point at Clint with one bemittened hand. His eyes transferred over Clint’s shoulder and he nodded faintly. “But I’m leaving this here when I go. You can thank Jan.”

“Happy birthday!” Jan said as soon as Clint turned to face her, looking like she was ready to burst. “I really want to hug you, but you have been out doing things that got you a little too close to a sewer. Air hug!” She announced and crossed her arms over her own chest, squeezing hard and twisting side-to-side.

It looked like a really nice hug, and Clint was even sorrier about the damned sewer. He looked between his bathroom door and the piles of warm meatballs, and made a noise that he normally would have blamed on Lucky, but Lucky was on his back in the middle of the living room, shamelessly soaking up the belly rubs from Thor and getting his muzzle petted by Steve.

Natasha pushed past him to the kitchen, piled a dozen meatballs on a purple plate with the Hawkeye symbol stamped in the middle, and nudged him away with one finger. “They should be cooled down by the time you wash your hands. Go!”

Clint eagerly took the plate, leaned over, and lipped one of the meatballs right off the top. He tried to smirk at her, but was too busy sucking air in around the molten mouthful as she pushed him toward his bedroom.

~*~

Despite orders to the contrary, Clint had devoured the plate of meatballs before his shower, and he felt less likely to gnaw someone’s arm off by the time he made it back to the living room. A long folding table had been wedged between the couch and the bar, and it looked like Jan had dumped the entire Hawkeye section of Party City on top of it. It was cheesy, and stupid, and perfect. He stood in the doorway for a second to just look it over – they were all pretending that he wasn’t staring at them, and that was what good friends were for when you just got off of a Hell Week leading into Nightmare Night. Lucky was up on his back legs so he could have his front paw on Tony’s lap and was doing his damndest to get at the mountain of meatballs in the center of the table.

“I’m not feeding you,” Tony told the dog seriously, but his hand was wrapped around Lucky’s ribs to rub at his belly. “Seriously, have I ever fed a single thing in your entire life? Why don’t you go to climb in Steve’s lap? He’s a dog person, and I know for sure that he’s fed you at least once tonight.”

“That was just a treat, Tony,” Steve protested.

“He said the word treat,” Tony told Lucky, which just got him a messy kiss across the cheek and Tony leaning comically sideways in the chair to in a vain attempt to avoid it.

“Just push him away,” Clint suggested, stepping into the living room and climbing over the couch to get the open chair.

Tony gave him a frankly scandalized look, but turned back to Lucky to say, “You’re not getting anywhere with this. I am immune to canine flattery.”

“Not all canine flattery,” Natasha muttered, and for some unfathomable reason, Steve blushed and kicked her under the table. Natasha neatly dodged, and held an open beer out for Clint, so cold that it had mist curling out of the neck and droplets running down the sides.

“I love you,” Clint told her very seriously.

“I know,” she answered.

He swallowed about half of it before pressing the cold bottle gently to his forehead and rolling it back and forth. This was the life – why did he not have a million roommates again? He set the bottle aside and looked down to realize that what he’d mistaken for plates were actually large plastic painter’s pallets with little cups of “paint” set around the edges. There was a bright purple cup of paintbrushes sitting opposite his beer, and a stack of napkins with the Avengers Assemble cartoon Hawkeye at his elbow.

Jan leaned forward to explain, but Clint just shoved his finger in the yellow paint and licked it off – spicy mustard, the kind he got at Chinese restaurants and poured over everything.

“Or you could just do that,” Jan finished, laughing. “It was Steve’s idea.”

“This,” Clint said, snagging a meatball off the pile and a paintbrush, “Is the best birthday idea ever.”

Jan nudged Tony, who was still not-really fending off Lucky’s affectionate begging. “And you wanted to bring wine,” she scoffed.

Clint had three painted meatballs stuffed in his mouth when Jan climbed out of her chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She leaned over to press their cheeks together and squeezed hard, rocking him gently side-to-side.

“Happy birthday.”

“’appy meathba’ ‘ay,” Clint corrected, but he reached up to squeeze her wrist and leaned back against her.

Maybe he was just imagining it or something, but it seemed like his headache was gone.

which camarilla clan should you fight
  • brujah: what the fuck is wrong with you? why would you want to fight the brujah? they kick people out of the clan if they don’t own enough switchblades and motorcycles. this will not end well. if you HAVE to fight the brujah, your best bet is to get them so mad that they start making bad decisions, but even then you’re probably fucked. don’t fight the brujah.
  • gangrel: these guys are all exactly as angry as the brujah but can also go full on animalistic fury at you. also they can melt into the earth and summon animals and shit. if you get lucky, you can distract them with some beggin’ strips or something, but don’t risk it. don’t fight the gangrel.
  • ventrue: if there are no consequences for this fight, then go for it. most ventrue got embraced straight out of the boardroom and have never thrown down a day in their unlives. however, if this ventrue has contacts, you had better believe you’re going to be hurting more than they will by the time they’re done with you. probably worth it, though. there’s a lot of people who want to see them punched in the face. fight the ventrue.
  • malkavian: honestly, you’ve got about a 50/50 chance with these guys. either they will melt your brain so hard that it’ll leak out of your ears or they will have no idea what the hell is going on. even if they aren’t entirely lucid, there’s still the possibility that they’ll socratic-method you into torpor. do it if you have to, but fighting the malks is not a good plan.
  • tremere: the bright side: if you fight the tremere, nobody is going to stop you. nobody fucking likes these guys. the drawback: if you fight the tremere, you are fighting the tremere. these guys can fly? they can summon fire??? they can give the laws of physics the middle finger if they want. however, if you find a tremere neonate, feel free to stuff that nerd in a locker.
  • nosferatu: this is an entire clan full of assholes with a chip on their shoulder. they can talk to rats. they can sneak around unseen despite being six feet tall and smelling like raw sewage. they probably know everything about you already. don’t let the sewer thing fool you: this clan could kick your ass and mine with their creepy hands tied behind their backs. don’t fight the nosferatu.
  • toreador: please. PLEASE. please fight the toreador. i don’t care what generation they are. i don’t care how many of them know celerity. punch them in their snooty faces. distract them with glitter. fuckin do it. i will pay you to fight the toreador. there are no downsides to fighting the toreador. if you win, you have beaten up a toreador. if you lose, everyone will probably still buy you a drink for trying. do it. fight the toreador.
i started all the wars

frank takes things into his own hands + waterfront conversation from frank’s POV. content warning for descriptions of violence. written to BANKS’ poltergeist and mind games.

(see you on the other side, fam.)


He’s ten years old when he throws his first punch. Mickey Sawyer gets in the new kid’s face one morning at school, tugs at the boy’s long hair and laughs when his eyes screw up tight, told you uptown boys are pussies -

Frank tackles him to the ground before he can think, fire roaring in his veins as he punches Mickey square in the face. Something cracks and when he pulls his hand back his knuckles are red.

“He gets this from you,” his mother says in the car on the drive home, fixing her husband with a knowing stare. Frank’s father just smirks.

“Takin’ justice into his own hands. Ain’t that right, Frankie?”

Frank stares down at his bloodied fist and feels something swell in his chest, solid and warm and good. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s right.”

—–

(Turns out fighting’s easy, once you start. The problem is that he’s never learned how to stop.)

Keep reading

Line Repair

This is for @cerusee and I do not apologize at all for the lack of angst.

Bruce Wayne & Jason Todd father/son bonding. Gen, a Tiny Bit of Strong Language


The air was deceptively cool, a lazy breeze drifting up from the river the highway ran alongside. The sun was pleasantly warm at first and only gradually turned to hot. Jason Todd knew there was a long line of mature trees only fifteen feet away that he could seek shelter under, that might even be sort of wonderful if he had a lunch and a book, but he had a hard time walking away from problems.

His current problem was something under the hood of the non-descript Audi he’d borrowed from the Manor. And he had actually borrowed it for once, at Alfred’s urging. It was a slightly older and trusted car from the massive garage, and when he’d mentioned as a slight warning that he’d been itching to get out of the city for a bit– a warning he felt he owed Alfred at this point, if no one else– it hadn’t taken much from the older man to convince him to just borrow the car.

Because it was Alfred.

Now, if there was any consolation at all to be found in bending over the now-cooled but previously smoking engine, getting dust and grease all over his worn tee, it was that at least it had happened to him and not Alfred, somewhere in the middle of Gotham.

He had been tinkering around for thirty minutes, coming to the reluctant conclusion that it was the oil line and he didn’t have the tools and was going to have to hitchhike or walk the couple of miles toward the nearest help and then deal with the car itself instead of going further from the city and the life there he just needed a break from.

Nothing spectacular had happened to drive him away– no case gone wrong, no pile of bodies, no bitter injury or trauma or anniversary. But the city itself sometimes grew too big, too heavy on his heart and mind, and he just needed space even if he knew he’d run back within days or weeks.

Jason wiped sweat off his forehead and stepped back from the car and sighed.

That was when the other car approached, the rumble of its engine preceding it on the quiet road. He leaned back over the open hood and made a show of being engrossed in the components there, while keeping an eye on the road to see what would show up. The car passed him, already slowing, and pulled to a stop on the graveled shoulder just a couple of yards ahead.

Jason tensed. The road was quiet enough that any concerned passerby would likely slow on the blacktop and roll down a window, offer help. Maybe it was a cop. The car was unmarked but black.

He stood, wiping his hands on his already ruined shirt, and plastered a warm smile on his face. He turned and froze.

Bruce climbed out of the other car.

“The fuck,” Jason exclaimed, his smile falling.

“Hello to you, too,” Bruce replied mildly.

“I didn’t steal it,” Jason spat out. “Alfred told me to take it.”

Bruce ducked back into the car he’d emerged from and when he straightened, taking a deep breath of the fresh air, he was holding a paper sack of food and a cardboard drink carrier.

“I know,” Bruce said. “He told me.”

And maybe it was the ingrained paranoia, the fine family tradition of subterfuge, or just the tiny (and mildly glorious) sense of knowing someone else so well, but comprehension hit Jason like a thunderclap.

“He knew,” Jason gasped. And it irked him that it was Alfred and that he couldn’t cuss him out, even absent, without feeling about a hundred times as guilty as he would with anyone else.

“That the line had a slow leak?” Bruce asked, walking toward him. Whatever he had in the bags smelled amazing and it was about an hour past lunch. Jason had decided to push ahead to the next small town, eager for the miles between him and Gotham, and then had been forced to pull over in the middle of nowhere. Bruce held out the bag. “He did.”

They might not have the smoothest relationship, but it was Bruce out of the suit and it was a bag of food and even if Jason’s stomach hadn’t grumbled, he would have taken it. He peered inside.

“Are these pepperjack chicken sandwiches?” Jason asked, incredulous.

“And tea,” Bruce answered, lifting the drink carrier slightly. He looked a little apologetic, a worried frown around his eyes. “I didn’t think Gotham chili dogs would stay hot for the drive. But there’s a Wendall’s just ten miles back, the last one going west.”

Jason leaned against the bumper of the car and then cast a glance toward the shaded bank. He was still watching the trees and not Bruce when he asked, “You really drove three hours to catch up with me?”

“I did,” Bruce said. He reached out and bent the sack toward himself. Jason let it happen. Bruce pulled one of the sandwiches out. There were boxes of shoestring fries underneath. “I brought tools. And a new line. A drain pan and a few quarts of oil. But let’s eat first.”

“Okay,” Jason said faintly, looking into the bag again. He took off, long strides carrying him toward the trees and the river bank. It didn’t smell like trash and sewage out here. “But I’m not gonna bake while I eat,” he called, without turning. He left the words making it to Bruce on the whim of the wind.

Whether or not Bruce heard clearly, he followed and sat down next to Jason on the grass. They sat shoulder to shoulder, with enough space between them that Bruce set the drink carrier down.

“How early did Al wake you up?” Jason asked, glancing over at Bruce’s pale face in the sunlight. He hadn’t bothered with any of his usual makeup to hide the dark circles or the days-old bruise on his cheek, the stuff he wore for work. It reminded Jason of days when they had breakfast together at the gigantic dining room table, before getting ready for the world outside the Manor.

“He let me sleep a whole two hours,” Bruce said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It was supposed to be my day off.”

“Sorry,” Jason grumbled, which was hard to do around a mouthful of chicken sandwich.

“I’m not,” Bruce said. “We’re not good at lunch dates.”

Jason choked when his surprised and bitter laugh interrupted swallowing. Bruce reached out a hand, hesitated, and then clapped him on the back anyway. Jason sucked down tea to chase away the lingering itch in his throat. “No,” he said when he’d recovered. “No, we aren’t. Midnight snacks are more our thing now.”

“I think that’s my fault,” Bruce admitted, taking his own tea.

“I dunno,” Jason said, taking another bite. He knew he hadn’t exactly made himself easy to get along with or seek out.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, eating, then Bruce brushed his hands against each other and swapped his crumpled sandwich wrapper for a box of shoestring fries.

“Anyway,” he said, letting the quiet draw out again. “I’m not angry Alfred set us up. This is nice.”

“It is,” Jason agreed, with only a little reluctance. “Figures Al would figure out how to make it happen.”

“Where are you headed?” Bruce asked, gesturing with a slight motion of his shoulder toward the Audi.

“Haven’t decided,” Jason said, slurping tea from the crowded ice in the cup. “Just wherever, I guess.”

“We’ll fix the line and you can go find out,” Bruce said. “Need anything else?”

“No,” Jason said, feeling as calm as the river looked. It was nice, to sit and munch on fries and talk without shadows looming over them, without the weak glow of street lamps or the halogen bulbs in the cave. “I’ll be good. Thanks.”

“Send me a postcard,” Bruce said. “So I know where you end up.”

And even though it was just an escape, a tiny vacation from his usual life, Jason was reassured by the implication: I care but I’m not tracking you.

It was a comforting feeling, the freedom and the connection.

“Sure,” Jason said. “How are you doing?”

Bruce looked over at him, a long and steady look, and when Jason tore his eyes away to stare at the river again instead, Bruce sighed.

“I’m worn out. I need a vacation soon, too. Alfred keeps dropping hints. Maybe Iceland.”

For the first half of the minute that followed, Jason was tempted to say something joking or disparaging but he struggled to come up with something that satisfied the impulse. There was another delay as he realized the difficulty was rooted in the lack of any sour emotion to spur it. “You should go,” he finally settled on saying.

He could feel Bruce studying him, probably with that unrelenting and undaunted expression he often had while figuring out a problem or gathering information.

“I think I will,” Bruce said, exhaling softly. Jason turned to him and tried to grin, but he knew it came off as more genuine and less rakish than he’d meant for it to.

“You gonna eat those fries?” Jason asked, leaning over to look into the box Bruce was holding but not doing anything else with.

“No,” Bruce said, holding them out. “Want them?”

“Hell yes,” Jason said, accepting the box. “Only you’d waste good fries.”

“Want me to start on the oil line?” Bruce offered, beginning to stand.

“Nah,” Jason said. “We can do it together. Don’t rush me. Some of us actually learned how to savor food when Alfred taught us, instead of eating like machines.”

Bruce chuckled and leaned back on the grass instead of rising. “Alright.”

The French fries were crisp and salty and Jason alternated chewing them and sucking watery, frigid tea through the red and white striped straw. The river lapped softly at the baked mud bank beneath them and wind tumbled through the treetops overhead.

“I’m done,” he announced, more than five minutes after actually finishing the fries.

“Hn,” Bruce answered, sounding far from fully awake.

Jason stretched out in the grass and put a boot on the bag of trash so it wouldn’t blow away.

“If I wake up covered in bug bites, it’s your fault,” he said, closing his eyes. The sunlight that filtered through the canopy was just enough to keep away an actual chill.

“Hn,” Bruce said again. “We should lock the cars.”

“You do it,” Jason said. “If you’re so freaking paranoid.”

There were two clicks of automatic locks from near the road. Jason felt his pocket but the keys were still there and it just figured Bruce would have another set, but he kind of didn’t care.

It over an hour before either of them moved again.

kansas city gothic
  • they say the light rail is being built. you don’t remember voting for the light rail. no one remembers voting for the light rail. they say the light rail is amazing.  they say the light rail will take over the city soon. they say we must sacrifice someone to keep the light rail god appeased. they will take you in the night. the light rail god must be appeased. we have already lost downtown.
  • you tell people you are from kansas city. ‘oh, you’re from kansas?’ they say. everyone says this. you wonder if you are wrong. perhaps missouri does not exist. ‘no, kansas city missouri’ you finally say. they look at you in puzzlement. everyone looks at you waiting for you to admit your gaffe. the whole world is confused. you open your mouth and cannot speak. 
  • miley cyrus is coming to the sprint center. madonna is coming to the sprint center. march madness is at the sprint center. the sprint center is a giant silver salad bowl.
  • you drive as far north as you can. you are still in kansas city. you drive as far east as you can. you are still in kansas city. you drive as far south as you can. you are still in kansas city. you drive as far west as you can. you are now in kansas, but you are still in kansas city.
  • everyone knows someone who knows someone who works for cerner. nobody actually knows someone who works for cerner. when you ask your mother what cerner does, she begins to cry. you catch a glimpse of someone behind you with red eyes and fangs. you are afraid of cerner.
  • front street smells like dead dreams. everyone says it smells like sewage but you know the truth.
  • power and light is a great place to meet people they tell you. they tell you not to go alone. you do not know anyone to go with so you never meet people. no one does. the power and light district is a collective hallucination and a soundstage.
  • there is always road work. you do not remember a time when you were on a highway and did not pass orange cones. you have always had to factor in construction slow downs into your commute. your mother has always had to factor in construction slow downs into her commute. your grandmother has always had to factor in construction slow downs into her commute. your great -grandmother has always had
  • north of the river or south of the river. everyone uses this as a landmark. north of the river or south of the river. it is meaningless. kansas city extends into infinity on either side of the river. 
  • no one knows what the american royal is anymore. we have forgotten our soul. we paste on rhinestones and sequins and forget we are a cow town. the american royal does not forget. the american royal never forgets. the ghosts of the stockyards will stampede through the city and posses those who have forgotten. perhaps this is why your boss is mooing at you. 
  • you know kansas city is not the best city in the world, but it is better than st. louis. ‘st. louis,’ you sneer. ‘st. louis’ your coworker agrees, looking nauseous. ‘st. louis?’ your boss says. you look over her shoulder in horror. you have summoned st. louis. you must fight the demon back. one of you will probably not survive.
  • kemper arena is an amazing piece of architecture. kemper arena is empty. kemper arena is being torn down. kemper arena never existed. we will cover it with a white sheet and no one will be the wiser.
  • kansas city, kansas and kansas city, missouri are two different places. do not confuse us. do not ask what makes us different. we have forgotten this eldritch knowledge but cannot admit to our ignorance lest the beast in the river devour us.

Pennywise smells different to each of them as he passes, a cacophony of horrid scents that intermingle in the strange room.


To Mike he smells like burned, blood-soaked wool.
To Bill he smells like petrichor and baby shampoo.
To Eddie he smells like sewage mixed with his mother’s cloying perfume.
To Stan he smells like musty paper and oil paint.
To Richie he smells like stale popcorn and crushed cherry candy.
To Ben he smells like melted chocolate and rotten eggs.
To Beverly he smells like her father’s cheap cologne with a tinge of whiskey. 

Black Honey: Pt. 2

Part 1 OR Read it all here

Summary: Starfire and Robin are officially an item, but what does that mean when the resident empath is stuck living between their respective bedrooms? Finding a new bunk buddy in Beast Boy was certainly not her first choice, and when she engages in a strange, night time activity, how long before the changeling notices what she’s up to?


Raven didn’t drink. Alcohol had a putrid flavor, and she could never fathom how anyone could enjoy tormenting themselves in such a way. It was an assault on one’s taste buds, with a nasty after taste just for good measure. A back wash of lingering poison might have fared better and, if it didn’t, you’d be dead before it hit you. Alcohol was a whole different concept; it was intoxicating and, after some time, the pungency itself didn’t matter anymore. Only the buzz, the illusion of freedom of one’s spirit from the chains of the body, the feeling of being on something called a ‘cloud nine’, was all that was important in the moment.

Raven didn’t drink, but she was starting to understand what it might have been like.

It wasn’t always about the bitter after taste, or the tang of sugary sweetness that left the mouth still somewhat parched. Alcohol was never about the actual alcohol; it was everything to do with indulgence. Like a fine wine, crisp and smooth and oh so alluring in it’s pristine bottle or poured in a glass, there was something about it that made an individual lick their lips in anticipation, in wanting. Even liquor stores embellished the beautification of alcohol; whether it was the intricate design of the glass bottles they came in, or the artistry in the labels, there was a richness to spirits that reeled in those mature enough to understand and truly enjoy its appeal.

As Raven lay in a bed that was not her own, and gazed across at the peaceful face before her, she would agree that everything could be a form of art, even something she’d typically not appreciate…

[MORE UNDER THE CUT]

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Food Challenges: SWTOR Edition

Concept: Jedi challenging Sith to eat rootleaf stew. It looks like sewage, smells like sewage, and tastes like sewage. It has virtually destroyed many a Jedi’s palate and resulted in a miasma wherever it is made but, hey, it’s temple food.

Alternatively: Sith challenging Jedi to eat their spiciest dish. The peppers are exclusive to Dromund Kaas, are culturally significant, and have been labeled as a unique method of torture. Thus far, only Sith purebloods are able to fully ingest it– though not without difficulty. 

Fluff Headcanons

Out of school c: Anyways, enjoy 👌👌👌

__________________________________________________

•Likes to play with your hair, thinks it’s soft and just has a general fascination with it

•Loves to have you in his lap and make you feel safe and warm

•If you wear glasses, he’ll be both in awe and confused at the fact that glass helps you see. Boi’s all ’???’

•Kissing him will always be sloppy and wet no matter what

•He’ll smell like burnt sugar and dirt with hints of sewage. His kisses will taste like cotton candy with metallic hints (because blood lol)

•Will help you with all your problems though he might not understand some of them but soft boi tries

•Will want you to prepare his food but then he remembers his diet is children and will kinda just pout at your morals of not preparing dead kids

•Salty af when things don’t go his way

•Will want (and be) the center of your attention

•If you think about him, he’ll appear. But depending on his mood or what he was doing before, he’ll be agitated, worried, or happy

•Will tease you no matter where you are

•Thinks you’re the cutest when you’re flustered

anonymous asked:

Can I ask how you think the akatsuki may smell like?

Kisame Hoshigaki: Smells just like a fish. Sometime, Kisame’s sweat overpowers him. The smell of an armpit and sweaty private parts.

Itachi Uchiha: A little taste of woody/resinous, but overall, there’s no distinctive smell. When he gets a chance to shower, he uses non-scented soap/shampoo His nose is rather sensitive and the fact anything strong might kills his lungs.

Deidara: Burnt and clay. All those times he’s playing/experiencing explosion and clay, he forgets to wash himself.

Sasori: He is the smell of a craftsman/mechanic. Tools, wood and sweat. Though, his cloak/clothes would probably have the strong smell of tools and wood.

Hidan: The scent of blood, war smell and dirt (since he’s always laying down on the ground to do his worship)

Kakuzu: Blood. Blood. Blood. Once he takes the heart of his opponents, he just wipes his hands on his cloak and be done with it. But when Hidan complains about his rotten smell, he cleans himself with non-scented things or just water.

Konan: Smells like laundry detergent. She tries to maintain her hygiene. She’s all about that perfume and floral smells.

Nagato: Smells like a regular clean guy with a hint of rain smell.

Black zetsu: Nothing but a tree bark smell.

White Zetsu: There are times where he smells like a dirty sewage. And there are times (when black zetsu yells at him for his nasty odor) he smells like sweet (vanilla, chocolate, caramel, etc)

Tobi: Tries to stay away the decayed or pungent smells. But sometimes it gets him. On good days, he tries to smell like laundry detergent.

You ever really think about how terrible Star Wars characters must smell? Unless they’re Padme Amidala, most of them are running around for days on end in the exact same set of clothes. Take Leia, for example. She gets captured, gets tortured, jumps down the garbage chute, and runs around the Death Star, all in her signature white dress. By the time she got to Yavin, she must have smelled like an appealing mix of terror sweat and sewage. And don’t even get me started on Rey and little Ani who probably never even saw a shower let alone used one. You really think scrubbing down with sand and whatever the heck a ‘sonic’ is are going to make a dent in years of accumulated B.O.? During Anakin’s introduction, the Jedi Council acts like they’re smelling something terrible because they are.

The River (Sprace)

Mod Ind here! This was based off a little part of a role-play my friends and I did (mood rose was one of them!) and I thought I should take the idea and make it into a fully fledged story. Anyways, enjoy!

Read on AO3 here

Tw: Homophobia


To say it had been a long day for Spot would be an understatement. Of course no one was doing what they were supposed to, requiring a stern reminder (some would call it a “threat” but, whatever) from their leader. Not only that, but a few of the Brooklyn boys had gotten a good soaking a few days prior, so they needed to be looked after while they healed. He’d gotten some help from Blink which did not go unnoticed. It was finally the end of day, everyone was winding down and it was finally Spot’s quiet time. He had the door to his room shut (being the King has it’s perks, including getting a bedroom) and he was settling into his bed with a book he’d found in the park. He’d just gotten to a really good fight scene when he heard yelling outside his window. As he went to the window to tell whoever it was to pipe down, he realized they were calling his name.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Oh my god !!! Your town got devastated??? Where are you?? What happened to it???? Are you okay?

Ahh;; I’m okay!
I was out of my town for about a week and a half! The apartment complex right now seems pretty empty. Not much movement and only a little people living.
We made it back last night and let me give you a list!

- some windows in the apartment complex are shattered ( thankfully not mine )
- fences are torn up and thrown around, no one is picking them up so there’s rusty nails and wood chips thrown around
- multiple trees were uprooted and are laying across the road ( this plays into another factor ) SOME OF THESE TREES ARE REALLY BIG TREETS THAT EVEN PULLED CONCRETE
- there’s trash and debris everywhere because the maintenance and mangers of the apartment complex are shit and aren’t doing anything to fix it or help residents
- there’s a huge fuckin tree blocking the entrance so only one small car can fit. So the trash people cannot come through to pick up trash so all dumpsters are overflowing and it smells like rotten disgusting trash outside . IM SCARED RATS WILL START FORMING. Trash has been put around the dumpsters on the ground because it cannot fit anymore so there’s trash on the streets and parking lots.
- the canal right next to the apartment smells like sewage and and it has debris and nasty stuff in it ( can’t be healthy living here )
- lots of roaches in the street / parking lot

I’m disgusted and I NEED to move out

Levi’s Search History

Pairing: RivaMika
Rating: T
Genre: Comedy

A/N: An idea I had. Not necessarily a narrative, but I couldn’t resist the idea.

Synopsis: Google search alone can tell you an entire story about a person.


Levi’s Search History

Mr. clean multi purpose cleaner reviews
Is baking soda good to use on laundry
Wine stain won’t come off white blouse
kitten videos
babies playing with cats
cats that love water
funny cat video compilation
relax music for sleep
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do most women like tall men
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light music for sleep
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how do I know if she’s interested in me
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sex on the second date means what
I need to stop consulting this stupid website *backspaces*
carpet and wood floor vacuum reviews
eureka vacuum airspeed bagless reviews
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