Prompt 78
“So let me get this straight.” Mr Nightwing pinched the bridge of his nose, looking tired before motioning to Mr. Jason. “You were in a Pit episode, which if I remember right usually causes you to rampage-” Well that was rude. “-and instead of that happening it somehow latched onto them-” Mr Nightwing motioned towards them. “And now you’re… co-parenting. With the Pit rage.”
Honestly he didn’t understand why Mr Nightwing was having so much trouble understanding. Mr. Pit (“Y’know what, we’re stealing our host’s middle name, call us Peter.”) was really nice and bundled them up in blankets even though they were failed clones and should have been terminated, and Mr Jason was really nice too and made them food, not the icky mush!
“What the fuck little wing.”
Bonus DCxDP crossover could have the clones be some Danny Phantom characters. Maybe reincarnated, maybe through a wish, maybe just ghost shenanigans, who knows
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WIP Wednesday: Perfect Spiral
In honor of everyone being so helpful in my quest to find Anakin's perfect ass tattoo, we've got a pretty long snippet from the beginning of chapter three [Practice].
Extra special shout out to @amadwinter and @palfriendpatine66 whose suggestions I combined for the final ass tattoo design.
Enjoy 🖤
[PERFECT SPIRAL]
It’s not difficult to understand why the locker room is so often a setting found in porn.
A room full of men in peak physical condition, shamelessly stripping down to nothing but their naked flesh, standing beneath the steaming spray of the shower to wash sweat and hours of excretion from their skin.
On paper, it sounds downright erotic.
In reality, there is nothing even remotely sexy about a football locker room.
There is nothing seductive about several dozen flaccid dicks parading around.
Nothing arousing about catching an accidental eyeful of a teammate’s hairy ass crack.
There is absolutely fucking nothing enticing about that smell.
There is, however, something strangely, stupidly, unexplainably comforting about the whole sordid situation.
Already, the little cubby emblazoned with Anakin’s nameplate feels a bit like home.
Already, this team feels a bit like family.
It’s part of the reason, Anakin assumes, that even professional locker rooms — which are otherwise decked out in all kinds of luxuries like TVs, couches, gaming councils, etc. — still have communal showers. Because if hours of training to play a sport that is, essentially, the modern equivalent of a gladiatorial game doesn’t bond you with your teammates, showering together sure as fuck will.
A form of forced vulnerability to balance out the violence.
It’s all part of the game.
And it’s always the same.
Confidence is, obviously, extremely important, but it’s never good to tip over into arrogance. Being surrounded by men who look as if they should be on display in a museum makes humbling oneself a bit easier, but overcompensating is not hard to do, and no one gets put in their place faster than a cocky rookie.
So far, Anakin has managed to fly under the radar for the most part. There were a few pretty predictable whistles that first day, and more than one mention of fattening him up from Jabba and the other linemen — whatever the fuck that means — but most of the comments have been about his tattoo.
Not the tattoo on his arm — the one that extends from his right elbow to his knuckles — black ink in the broken blistered pattern of burnt wood turned to coal, cracked and carved apart by flame. The one that had taken months to design and three multi-hour sittings to complete.
No.
Most of the comments have been about the tattoo on his ass.
The one he got his first year at Mos Eisley State because when the five coolest guys on the football team tell the scrawny redshirt quarterback that something is a great idea, it’s very easy to believe that it is, in fact, a great idea.
As it turns out, it had been a terrible idea.
The next day in the locker room, the same teammates who had encouraged him to get his own lip print tattooed in bright red ink on his left ass cheek tore him to pieces in front of the entire team.
Anakin had gone back down to the tattoo shop as soon as the lips healed to add BITE ME in big black letters.
None of them could have known the monster they created that day.
He knows better than to shy away from it — honestly, he’s grown quite fond of the little tattoo and the way it seems to disarm people — but trying to cover it up would only draw more attention to it in the end.
It’s not that modesty is an issue, a lot of guys are certainly more on the reserved side — a wrapped towel is totally normal, no need to strut around bare-assed just for the sake of it — but hiding, turning away, avoiding the showers altogether — that will draw attention and comments faster than just about anything else.
Well.
There is one thing that is almost guaranteed to make someone the butt of every locker room joke.
There’s always one guy with a big dick.
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Starting to think a cooler headcanon for Clark’s upbringing might just be that the entire town of Smallville collectively decided to just go with it and accept that Martha and John's kid has superpowers, but we don't talk about it.
Someone's tractor gets stuck and nothing can get it out? "Be a dear and run down to the Kents, would you? Ask for Clark?"
"Why Clark, we need a machine--"
"Run along now."
Or if he kicks too hard and the football vanishes into the upper stratosphere, no it didn't, we all collectively saw it land over there *vague hand movements*
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