Comics we read:
I just want to see them fuck:
Don't reply to trolls or SJW, just ignore them.
If you want a new comic then Life in Aggro is about a mtf living with her boyfriend and playing video games together. Most of the comics are about games though.
And not many of the comics are very funny, plus there is no indication that the woman is mtf so if you didn't know it would just be about a "normal" girl and her guy.
But there are some good comics in there, especially if you skip their earlier stuff.
>there is no indication that the woman is mtf so if you didn't know it would just be about a "normal" girl and her guy
If /lgbt/ has taught me anything is that the only bereable mtf is the one who may as well be a girl. Which, if you think about it, is the whole point the mtf want to make anyway.
I debated even saying she was mtf but then I figured if the comic might be less interesting to /lgbt/ if they didn't know.
Also people wouldn't understand why I was suggesting the comic, because I wasn't joking when I said a lot of the comics they do aren't very funny
We talk about webcomics that are based around LGBT.
Generally, though, we just laugh at the shitty ones.
If you want a good one, a great suggestion is 'The Less Than Epic Adventures of TJ and Amal'. It's beautifully drawn, amazingly written and it's finished. The artist relies a lot on people following her blog, though, so afterwards you'd probably wanna google stuff to figure out some of the character's pasts and what happens after the comic.
>You can also stand to be less tall. making me stand on tip toe. Fuck you.Just kidding totally going to work on that whole thing call me later okay bye!
I'm glad they're finally addressing Liam's closet issues. It's kind of sad to see Milo be this super understanding almost perfect boyfriend and Liam's issues are getting in the way of things. Honestly, I don't think Liam deserves someone like Milo. That or Milo's too perfect a boyfriend. Kid's got no flaws so far. Thoughts?
>sings and dances
>reasonably well hung
>taller than me
>delicious brown skin, dem sexy blue eyes
>basically a cartoon Mika
That feeling when you'll never have a boyfriend as perfect as Milo.
Fuck you, guys, I didn't even order my helium tank yet.
Eh, my bf has straight hair but it goes in this near perfect spiral that i could stare at for days
>Sings and dances
He says he does but i dont know if he'll do it for me
>Reasonably well hung
>Taller than me
Same size as me
>Delicious brown skin
Too bad im the one who acts like milo ;_;
No worries anon. Not only was he ugly, he was missing at least 2 of the 5 things Milo has.
Just some pasty white dude with flat hair.
I'm mentally sick because someone who claimed that "my boyfriend is exactly like Milo!" was wrong and I noticed that?
Excuse me for seeing that they were a dirty liar with a completely boring looking bf.
>being this new
Moon Over June is much, much worse
Anyone knows what's up with BFF? It hasn't updated since April 17.
Well, that's a lot more straightforward than expected.
This chapter is titled "Seven Days a Week"
Keep posting. I still lurk. It would depress me to the point of suicide if /wcg/ died any more than it already has.
I know that feel all to well, specialy when you remember what we used to be like. Also, why would mods tell you to stop? God knows this is the least cancerous general-type thread on the board.
Does OCfag still post, what about 711, italian guy, vocaroo? and I see YT anon hasn't updated his YT since that last shitstorm he caused ages ago.
there was fun in the shitposting I'll admit, but there was an extent it got to too much.
I've been here since the very beginning.
The way I see it, /wcg/ hasn't died, but rather returned to the status quo.
Before the threads blew up with Warrior U, they lasted a long time and would sometimes take over a week to 404. I actually prefer it this way, although sometimes I do miss the shitposting. Maybe the threads will blow up again when Aisha stops being depressed.
>Hey guys, here's the deal.
>I need a serious break from Teahouse, so we're going to be taking a hiatus. For now it's going to be a month off, but that might change depending on when I get script from CC (she is in China for all of July). We will still be at Anime Expo and Otakon so please look for us there if you are going.
>Thanks everyone for your patience and understanding ;_;
AGAIN? For fucksake...They do this so much, maybe they shouldn't do a webcomic. They'd be better off just making it only into a book - less strict timelines - and selling it via cons, tumblr, and whatnot because...Damn.
I can't stand teahouse. It's basically a dumb story about pretty prostitutes. The art's the only thing it has going for it. Can't stand how fucking gay and uke the pink guy is. And all these whores are paid by equally attractive people to fuck them? Way to have a realistic, fanwanking, shallow fap fest story,
So true. The artist might be better going off to illustrate for someone else with a better story or just going off by herself.
I heard that it was a story about prostitutes so I had hoped we'd go into all their issues that goes along with the job and and the ugly - physically and mentally - people that came through, but the closest we had to that storyline was Axis getting his ass beat up by that prince and all of Lilith's story (that they aren't doing anything with)...Its a waste of nice art and a potentially interesting idea.
Yeah, of course she's going to be perfectly accepting of trans people! She wouldn't buy into the "secretly a man" trope at all! Do you have any reading comprehension whatsoever, dude?
I said nothing about how accepting she would be.
She doesn't know the transgirl is trans, like the black girl was hinting at.
>Did Bee SAY SOMETHING?!
>I don't think so...
No, she didn't say anything, she made a joke that would be harmless in any other context, that had nothing whatsoever to do with that particular girl being trans.
>The art's the only thing it has going for it
The art is horrible though, mostly because of everything being in focus and horribly coloured. Also the faces have weird details in them. I personally find it ugly.
I'm so glad you oldfags are still here, it gives me hope.
I miss the days where we would an Adrian and we discussed stupid stuff such as pizza. I was here when it was still called /w g/.
Alas, we still lurk in the shadows and watch people come and go, continuing to add more webcomics to our collection. We've watched many of these comics end or begin.
I have to say, I still enjoy coming here to see these webcomics update and the discussions that follow.
>he's the only one
No, you just quoted two different people, and then claimed that because you weren't convinced, only one of them is real.
Most of us have expressed how we hate that art before.
Nice try faggot, I've been here longer than you and there's always only been one person trying to make everyone hate on the art and everyone else saying it looks quite pretty. Are you that assmad lesbian that hates on every style she doesn't like? You did this with those ARH OC drawings too. What, nobody paying attention to your dyke comic so you come shitpost here?
See, why are you getting so angry?
I don't understand.
I've been here since the very very early days of /lgbt/ when these threads started, and I have seen discussions on how bad that art is.
Even if what you are saying is true, there is no possible way for you to know that it's one person.
This isn't shitposting, it's an opinion. Calm down.
I guess you've decided I'm a lesbian. Alright.
Actually, now that I think about it, the only person I can remember defending the art style of that comic was in the last thread or a few threads ago.
But alright, whatever, I guess I'm a lesbian for some reason.
>QTNinjas was deemed shit last time I was here.
Way to derail a thread with your constant bitching, people.
You said that loads of people like TOY and ARH when in truth there's, what, 10 people here at most. Compare that to the thousands that backed the Starfighter kickstarter.
I'm stating a fact. These generals come alive only when there's arguing about something unrelated to comics. When TOY or ARH or some other comic you say you like gets posted, it garners some posts between one or two people and then it's dead again.
we argue about things related to comics all the time, though. like whether starfighter has rape in it or not, for example.
as for everything else, there's just not that much to discuss about a single page update of something. like, i could say that for hotblood! it's nice to see we're finally getting to the point we saw in the prologue, or i could laugh at young protectors' "this is real life" bullshit. but after that, there's not much more to say.
Except it has nothing to do with tumblr, and isn't anything like tumblr.
Also it's an argument about comics, so it's kind of 'comic arguing'.
>Yeah, it's dead.
When people post, it is not dead. Dead would be no one posting in it at all. Your shitposting is even stopping it from being dead.
>The art's the only thing it has going for it.
Jesus christ anon we've been through this
the art is objectively, technically bad. the fact you like it doesn't make it good, it just means your standards are low.
shit like this is why /wcg/ sucks now
At least we don't have a dedicated shitposting group doing daily raids on the thread. Have you ever been to /gsg/ at /vg/? Jeeesus.
Heh, she thought that ugly nigger was trans.
Oh sorry, it's just that in my country that word isn't a slur, but rather a nickname. Maybe you should check your anglosphere priviledge.
Quit being a dumbass, anon. Nowhere is it like that.
Actual real life black people = actual black people, actually.
Anyway, I'll take my leave until the shitposting is over and freedom of speech is restored. Have a good night /wcg/!
I miss you so much...
>complaining that the word nigger is used
Gr8 b8 m8 I give it a 8/8
In all due seriousness, unless you are trolling, every person of is of every background made fun of here. You should have been here when the words faggot and nigger was filtered, it was long before /lgbt/ became a thing. It was pretty comical seeing people calling each other candyasses and roodypoos.
Ever since he starts giving his first steps, the proletarian child suffers the consequences of being part of the exploited class. He’s born in a crumbling room, generally with an immense alcoholic heritage in his blood. While the [female] author of his days throws him into the world, assisted by an old and vicious witch-doctor, the father, the author, among vomit fits that drown the just wailing of the parturient, gets drunk with wine, heavier than the filth of his misery.
Thus, I congratulate myself for not being a laborer, for not having been born in a proletarian home.
The father, drunk and always at the edge of unemployment, beats his child with a beating chain, and when he talks to him, it’s only to inculcate him with murderous ideas. Ever since he is a child, the proletarian child works, jumping from trolley to trolley, to sell his newspapers. At school, which he never finishes, he is humiliated daily by his rich classmates.
At home, that repulsive cave, he assists to the prostitution of his mother, who let’s herself be fucked by the neighborhood merchants to keep her credit.
At school we had one, a proletarian child.
Harvard was his name, but the school teacher had changed it for Harv She would kick Harv to the head master’s office whenever Harv, beaten by hunger, didn’t manage to understand her lessons. We had such fun.
Evidently, bourgeois society indulges in torturing the proletarian child, that slug, that maggot raised in the middle of idiocy and terror.
As years go by, the proletarian child turns into a proletarian man, and is worth less than an object. He contracts syphilis and, as soon as he contracts it, feels the irresistible impulse to get married to perpetuate the disease down the generations. Since his only inheritance he can leave are his chancres, he never abstains from doing so.
He makes the beast with two backs as many times as he can with his illicit wife, and thus, thanks to some alchemy I still can’t fully understand (and I may never fully understand), his semen turns into venereal proletarian children. Thus the circle is closed, exasperatingly complete.
Harv, with his little trousers supported by a single rag suspender and the newspapers under his arm, walked towards us without having seen us, three bourgeois children: Adrian, Liam and me, Finn.
The working man execration, we too carried it in our blood.
Liam moved up the wheel of his blue bicycle and blocked the entire sidewalk. Harv had to stop, and looked at us with surprised eyes, inquiring with his gaze to what new humiliation he would be subjected. We didn’t know either, but we began by burning his newspapers and taking the coins he earned from the destroyed bottom of his pockets. Harv looked at us, inquiring, with his face white with terror.
Oh, for that white colour of terror on those hated faces, on the most hated proletarian mugs, to see it appear and never disappear we would have donated our multicoloured palaces, the atmosphere that enveloped us in a golden colour.
By shoving and kicking, we plunged Harv to the bottom of a ditch that had a bit of water in it. He splashed there, face down in the mud, as our state of frenzy increased. Liam’s face seemed contracted by a spasm of agonizing pleasure. Adrian grabbed a triangle shaped piece of broken glass. We dived into the ditch. Liam, with his arm wielding a triangular piece of glass, approached Harv, and stared at him. I was grabbing my testicles, fearing my own pleasure, fearful of my own howling, agonizing pleasure. Liam cut the proletarian child’s face, from the top downwards, and then deepened the wound’s lip sideways. Adrian and I howled. Liam supported the glass-wielding arm with his other hand to increase the strength of the incision.
Do not falter, Liam, do not falter.
We would like to die like this, when pleasure and revenge are penetrated and reach their climax.
Because pleasure calls pleasure, calls revenge, calls climax.
Because Liam looked, in the sun, as exhibiting a shimmering sword with blazes that too came to wound us in the eyes, and in the organs of pleasure.
Because pleasure was already decreed there, by decree, in those little trousers supported by just one suspender made out of a grey rag, filthy and torn-down.
Adrian tore it off, and out in the sun were the underwear-less, bitterly malnourished buttocks of the proletarian child. Pleasure was there, already decreed, and Adrian, Adrian with just one blow, tore off the filthy suspender. But it was Liam the one who first threw himself at him, the first who lunged against the little body of Harv.
Liam, who would lead us later at mature age, all those years of failed, spoiled passion: he upfront, stabbed first the triangular piece of glass where Harv ass-crack started, and prolonged its natural length. Blood came out scattered upwards and downwards, enlightened by the sun, and the anus became effortlessly moist, to facilitate the deed that we were preparing. And it was Liam, Liam the one who penetrated him first with his phallus, huge for his age, too sharp for love.
Adrian and I harshly held back, our throats blocked by an anxious silence, despair. Adrian and me. With our inflamed phalluses in our hands, we waited and waited, while Liam did hops that pierced Harv and Harv could not scream, not even scream, for his mouth was firmly buried in the mud, by the strong militaristic hand of Liam.
Adrian’s stomach contracted due to anxiety, and after retching, he ejected something from his stomach, something that fell at my feet.
It was a splendid set of bright objects, richly ornamented, shimmering at the sunlight. I knelt, incorporated it into my stomach, and Adrian understood our brotherhood. He threw himself into my arms and I pulled my pants down. I evacuated from my anus. I ejected a luminous mass that shimmered in the sunlight. Adrian ate it, and I threw myself into his brotherly arms.
Meanwhile, Harv was drowning in the mud, with his opaque anus ripped by Liam’s phallus, ho finally reached climax with a howl. The innocence of righteous pleasure.
Adrian and I rushed towards the abandoned filthy body. Adrian buried his phallus, deep, fecal, and I pierced his feet with an awl through the sole of his slipper. But I wasn’t merely pleased by that. I cut off, one by one, his filthy, stinking toes, which would be of no use for him anymore. Never more scurrying, scurrying and jumping from trolley to trolley, yellow trolleys.
My turn was approaching, but I didn’t want to penetrate him by the anus.
—I want suction — I creaked.
Adrian toiled in his final panting. I waited for Adrian to finish, for Harv’s face to disengage from the mud so that Harv licked my phallus, but I had to entertain the waiting, prepare myself in the tardiness. Then, all the things that I did to him , in the evening of the waning blue sun, with the awl. I opened a double lipped canal in his left leg until the despicable, tramp bone was exposed. It was a white bone, like any other, but his bones weren’t alike. I sliced his hand and saw another bone, tense nodules and phalanxes, clung, nailed to the mud, while Adrian agonized just about to climax. With my red tie I made a knot around the neck of the proletarian child. Four fast, painful tugs, yet without the pristine, silvery ending that is death. Still he literally slipped away in the tardiness.
Meanwhile, Liam yelled, asking for a fine batiste handkerchief.
He wanted to clean the swirling fecal matter with which Harv had soiled the hurtful pinkish tip of his phallus. It seems that Harv shat himself. As a parenthesis, Liam’s phallus was huge and aggressive. With complete independence it moved on its own, like that, bobbing and lunging. It tensed the thin lips of its mouth as if it was about to howl. And the sun was setting, the sun was setting, setting. We were illuminated by the last cracks of light, in the breaking blue evening. All that breaks, and inside that breaks, and outside that breaks, in and out, in and out, it comes in and out, it breaks. Livid Liam saw the dying sun, and reclaimed that batiste handkerchief, embroidered and maternal. I gave him my batiste handkerchief where the face of my august mother was embroidered, surrounded by a resplendent aura of mock-rays; so many times I dried my tears on that very same handkerchief, and over it I poured, years later, my first tremulous ejaculation.
Because revenge calls pleasure and pleasure calls revenge, but not in any vagina, and it’s preferable in none. With my batiste handkerchief in his hand, Liam cleaned his aggressive tip, and gave it back to me like that, blood red and brown. My tongue cleaned it in a second, until it gave the cloth back the august face, the portrait with a pearl collar around the neck, eh. With a collar around the neck. Right there.
Adrian rested, looking up in the air after climaxing, and it was my turn. I approached Harv’s body, half buried in the mud, and turned it around with my foot. In his face shined the cut from the triangular piece of glass. The navel of the rachitic looked livid bluish. He had his arms and legs bent towards himself, as if now and still, after defeat, he tried to protect himself from the assault. Reflex he couldn’t have when it mattered, sentenced by class. With the awl I lengthened his navel with another cut. Blood poured from between the fingers of his hand.
In a most ferocious style, the awe gouged his eyes out with two, and only two, precise blows. Liam congratulated me and Adrian abandoned his contemplation of the sun to congratulate me. I knelt down. I connected my phallus to the breathing mouth of Harv. With the five fingers of my hand I mocked the shape of a whip. I whipped strips of skin off Harv’s face and imparted the grim order:
—You shall lick it. Suction—
Harv started to lick it. With scarce strength, as if he feared hurting me, increasing my pleasure.
Onto another thing. Truth be told, a passing away never affected me. Those who I said I loved and died, if I ever said it, even comrades, when passing away gifted me a clear feeling of liberation. It was a blank space that which extended for my creaking.
It was a blank space.
It was a blank space.
It was a blank space.
But it will come for me too. My death will be another lonely birth from which I don’t even know if I preserve memory.
From the cold glass tower. From where I’ve gazed afterwards the toiling of laborers laying down the railroad tracks. From the erect tower as if I could ever be erect. The bodies were patiently flattened over their ordered labor. Death, flat, flattened, that leaves me empty and clenched. I am the one who just yesterday said that, and that is what I say. Exasperation never left me, and my style confirms it letter by letter.
From this angle of agony the death of a proletarian child is a perfectly logical and natural event. It’s a perfect event.
The remains of Harv couldn’t take anymore abuse. My hand felt them while he licked my phallus. With half-closed eyes and just about to climax I checked, with a single swipe of my hand, that everything was wounded with exhaustive precision. The sun was setting, denying its rays to a whole hemisphere and the evening was dying. I stroke my fist-hammer against the flattened animal head of Harv: he licked my phallus.
Impatient, Liam and Adrian wanted it to end in order to, once and for all, execute the act. I grabbed Harv by the hair and shook his head to accelerate the climax. I couldn’t get out of there to enter the other act. I stuck the awe inside his mouth so I could feel the cold metal next to the tip of the phallus. Until, out of sheer thrill, I managed to climax. Then I let his flattened animal head lay on the mud.
—Now we have to hang him, fast— said Liam.
—With a wire— said Adrian —at the dirt street where the slum of the unemployed begins—
—And goodbye Harv. Let’s go! — said I.
We took the limp body of the proletarian child to the indicated spot. We stock ourselves with a wire. Liam hung him under the moon, pulling by the ends of the wire. His tongue hung from his mouth like in any case of strangulation.
I still hold some hope that this comic can revive itself. After the whole... Demon rape thing was over... It's kinda getting me pumped up for whatever's gonna happen when they find the enemy...
>here's the spirit of taking it literally, literally taking it from some fellow in gloves
As much as I don't care for Oglaf, I'll admit that got a chuckle out of me.