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[mlemonnnn]

oughggghh.. my wife...

vegeta ref with my headcanons :3

ibis paint presets how i love u..

[tonia-aaaaa]

Old Double Life fanart that still goes hard, bc i put ridiculous amounts of thought into it back when i made it. This one was a hit on the 'gram.

[cthulhum]

i lied theres no sex. were gonna sit down and watch supernatural while we analyze the way almost every character is queer coded especially dean

[chloesimaginationthings]

What comic is the bottom left image of springtrap from? (On the post where you say why you draw him blocky)

It’s from this comic!! A very normal father son reunion

Og post here

[dragonpyre]

Batman: and this is my precious son

Red Hood: FUCK you

Batman: he bites sometimes but we still love him

[yeyinde]

waking up after a night out drinking in a foreign country only to realise that the bed you're in is not your own. no one is beside you. you try to leave but the doors are all locked. the windows won't open. you're trapped. a pretty bird in a cage.

nothing is in the dressers except large, old shirts. the clothes you were wearing when you woke up disappear after you take a shower. no panties. no bra. food shows up on schedule. you never see who leaves it.

they don't answer when you scream. when you bang your fists against the door until they're bloodied. passing out on the floor when the drugs finally kick in. but the mess you make in the daytime is cleaned up. your hands bandaged. disapproval heavy in the air along with the stale scent of tobacco. smoke.

when you're good, you get things. books. magazines. treats. your favourite food. a laptop arrives when you sob yourself to sleep after screaming yourself hoarse about loneliness, and how this isn't right. this isn't okay. it's restricted, of course. you log into Facebook but the moment you try and ask for help, the internet is turned off. you're being watched. monitored closely.

you learn your lesson slowly, giving nothing away to your family and pretending you're enjoying your holiday. being good. quiet.

instead of treats, gifts, recipe books arrive—some pages dogeared. you start making the food. leaving a plate in the fridge. it's gone the next morning. more recipes appear. you make them, too. an expensive chain comes next. a pretty gold necklace for a pretty bird in a golden cage.

(each meal gets you a strange rash on your cheek, jaw the next morning. beard burn, you think, and try not to shudder.)

lingerie comes after. silk, lace. all of it fits perfectly. you try to avoid it. the idea, the implication, is a knife between your ribs, but the next morning, your laptop is missing. the books are gone. food, too. your clothes disappear until all that remains is the lingerie set and a little black box. one you pointedly ignore. throw out with the trash. chew on gum to make the ache in your belly go away until that vanishes too.

your world is narrowed down to hunger. loneliness. isolation—

(in the corner of the rooms, a red light glints in the dark. lonely, but not alone.)

it persists until you relent. give in. another lesson you learn. you wear the set to bed, and try to think nothing of it—

you wake up to something heavy around you. a warm, thick body pressed against your bare spine. coarse chair tickling the skin between your shoulder blades. a burly arm under your neck, elbow bent to wrap a rough hand around your neck. the other slung over your hip, shoved between your thighs. something hard presses into your ass. a bruising pressure. it aches. you stifle a gasp, but with his long, thick fingers wrapped tight around your throat, he feels it.

everything goes still. quiet. just the faint rustle of sheets. the scratch of coarse hair on silk. a breath. you tremble. fight back another gasp when lips press into your crown with a sharp inhale. scenting you. nuzzling into your scalp. warm breath that smalls of malt and honey. woodsy. tobacco.

your eyes adjust slowly to the dark, and fall on a black box left on top of your end table. velvet, you know. you've felt the softness between your fingers when you threw it in the trash with a sob. no escaping it, after all.

the hand between your thighs twitches. when he speaks, it shudders through your spine, makes your hair stand on end. it's a growling purr. the low roar of an old engine. more grit than comfort in the midnight dark.

"jus' close your eyes, love," he rasps, pushing his thick body tighter against you. coiling around you like a big, hungry bear. "an' go back to sleep for me."

and you do.

[j1gsawz]

considering the order of the hypnosis endings… this was the last new scene in the whole show. the last new thing we saw. and the writers knew that. in this universe and every universe, guillermo de la cruz and nandor the relentless love each other and that’s canon.

[eriochromatic]

Last minute self indulgent pride illustration featuring my comfort characters and personal headcanons ✨✨✨

[deviltownresident]

serious question: is elias bouchard just. allergic. to employing straight people. anytime he looks at his employees, he's like "ah yes, i know who we've got here. bi ace man who really shouldn't be in a managerial role, man who will fall in love with his boss who barely talks to him, a lovely young woman who probably isn't straight, a man who fucks with cops of all genders for information, an angry lesbian, an aromantic ex cop, and Daisy Tonner." peter lukas comes in like "have you considered employing some heterosexuals?" and elias just goes "nope"

[shmypko]

uhh.... nothing in particular on my mind. just arthur (im still tired but want to draw (AND i have more ideas for johns design.... dudes gonna get another arm)). and I KNOW arthur likes to wear wide pants GOD what a wide pants loving man.

yea dont look at the title of the file. theres nothing special. SURELY theres nothing that i will draw in the future once i get my shit together. SURELY....

[burloire]

Happy Self-Indulgent Spicy Solavellan Sunday everyone. Featuring as usual Mr. Dragon Age Himself, Solas Wifeguy. This weeks inspiration comes from Every Single Solavellan fic I have read the last 30 days. It is many, unlimited, most. All? Mayhaps. Also, additional shout out to every Boudoir photographer/models who posts their shoots online. Truly an inspiration. *3*

[zinnie-zoloft]

I don’t think people acknowledge enough that Charles is canonically completely open to the possibility of loving Edwin back… like he just straight up admits it’s not out of the question he just needs time to figure it out and somehow people are still saying he’s never expressed any interest in Edwin romantically

[sunllghtt]

Saw this on Twitter

[dvchvnde]

Simon x Reader. IMPLIED NONCON HEAD. Simon is gross. and mean.

You can smell the musk on him—tobacco, stale sweat—and bite back a whimper when he peels his hand off of your nape, sliding the rough, dry skin of his palm over your jaw, your cheek. Cradling the side of your neck in his grip, the tips of his fingers sinking in—just a bit—against the bruised, tender flesh of your neck. Nestled over your stem. The jut of your spine.

His thumb sweeps over the curve of your chin, inching higher with every pass—back and forth. Up. Back and forth. Up—until it sits against the seam of your mouth, pressing into the corner. 

Brief pressure—open up. 

His nails dig in, sudden and sharp—you’ve pleased him. You think about preening, but the urge dies quick when his thumb glides over the ledge of your bottom lip, pressing the tip in until it’s wedged between your teeth. 

You know what this is even if you have no name for it. No measure of experience. Just—

Instincts: fawnlike and unsure. They trickle in—drip, drip, drip—until a puddle forms on the floor of your belly. Brinepool. Sharp and bitter. All salt. Nausea on your tongue when you taste his skin, the grime under his nails. Congealed blood. Something sour. Meaty. 

It tugs at something inside your stomach. Makes you feel like you're going to be sick—

This feeling worsens, churning in your guts when he spears his thumb into your mouth, grazing against your tongue and pulls it out just to push it back in again. A repetitive motion. In out, in out. Hooks the crook of his first knuckle over your bottom teeth, scraping the tip between the gap of your tongue, running it over the ridges of your gums. Saliva fills your mouth. The puddle quickly polluted with the briny, rotten beef tang of his skin. 

He hums. His eyes are drawn, shuddered. Lids falling to a flat, even curtain at half-mast as he gazes at you with an impenetrable expression. Almost impassive. Cold. But the artificial deadpan in his mien is broken by the shift of his throat when he swallows. The plumes of black smoke that fill the gaps in his bloodshot eyes. 

In, out. 

It thickens. Becomes a dense, caliginous cloud. Nimbostratus. The sight of it sours in your guts, rankles sharp talons of unease, fear, down your spine. 

“Go’ such a pretty mouth, don't you, pup?” 

In, out. In, out. In—“gonna catch flies if you keep it open like tha’;”—in, out, in—“yeah, tha’s a good girl—nice and tight now; go’ such a soft little mouth, huh?”—in out in out—

on a pop that fills the cab, spears you with the brutal sting of embarrassment; his echoing groan suturing around the trepidation that shivers over your nape

—his thumb is wet when he presses it to your lips. A secret. A garish kiss. Shush shush, pup, ain't go’ nothin’ to cry ‘bout—

Yet. 

“Nothin’ in life comes free,” he drawls, arched and mean. His damp, sticky thumb smearing over your mouth before stamping into the corner; eyes shading, procellous, in the low gloam as he wets your skin with your own saliva. “‘pect you know tha’, though. Don't you?” 

You want to ask what do you mean—if only to angle for time; delaying what comes next until you can figure out how to get out of this—but his finger peels away, swiping over the swell of your cheek as his hand reclaims the grip it had on your nape. Bruising and painful. What was once just a hold quickly becomes a guide, pushing your head down, down—

And there's really no dancing around the inevitable. 

“C’mon, pup,” he mutters, still pushing, pushing. His hand forcing you low, belly on your thighs, head inches from his lap where a thick, dark bulge pulls taut against the jeans spilling over his thighs. Intimidatingly thick. Long. It's enough to make you dizzy. 

So dizzy that you think you might get sick. 

But you can't. 

It's all happening so fast. Not fast enough. You could wriggle free, maybe. Run.

He pried the lock out of the door. Stay. Just do what he wants, just—

His thighs are thick. Stretched lax over the seat. The wobble of the truck down the empty stretch of gravol road bumps your chin into his firm, corded flesh before coming to an abrupt stop. 

—an escape;

His fingers tighten over the scruff of your neck. Your chest presses tight into the tops of your thighs. It feels like you can't breathe—

“Give us a taste, huh?” 

He's not asking. Your hands shake. The other flashes in your periphery, snaking between the steering wheel and his belly, fumbling over the button keeping his trousers fastened. There's no pretending when the button pops out, splits his jeans down the middle. 

The scent of him—thick musk, sweat; humus—is potent. Overwhelming. All salt. Stale piss. It's gross. You feel it glueing in your nostrils, leaking down your throat. Something you could taste—

In your panic, you tense. Body coiling, head trying to spring back, away from the heavy, olid smell that makes your belly churn, nauseated by the idea alone. 

He doesn't let you get far. His hold is ferric. A shackle. The paroxysm, all panic and fear and instincts, just makes him huff, amused by the attempt to get away, and—

The fat bulge in his pants twitches against his thigh. His hand slides inside the gap, gripping the thick length in his fist, and pulling it free.

The noise that spills out at the sight of it—a pathetic whimper clawing up your throat—makes him groan, twitching in his hand. 

“C,mon,” he rasps, tugging so hard against your nape that your vision swims from the pain of having your skull rattled so viciously. The ink that bleeds in congeals over the hideous thing in his grip—impossibly thick, molted like a bruise; angry looking with straining veins looking primed to burst—and doubles your vision for a moment. 

Whitenoise rings in your ears. You blink through the pain, and nearly choke on a sob when the fog dissipates and unveils his fist squeezing tight, pulling upward as a thick glob of sour milk white bubbles from the mushroomed head, the thin slit oozing it out over the red, engorged flesh of his—

his—

“—fuckin’ hell. Ain't you sight? Lookin’ all scared of my cock. Come on, don’t be shy, pup. Give ‘er a kiss—”

Your stomach churns again when he pulls you forward, your nose pressing against the molten length of him, smearing your skin against the hot, sticky spill leaking done the sides and over his fist. 

Use that pretty little mouth o' yours to earn your keep. 

[gammaraydeath]

on space wikipedia, reading about space things

[pinketine]

We still rockin with empires season one⁉️