#Anyway not tagging this if you find it and you're not following me then it's purely the Tumblr gods' fault

[yanmuffins]

waiter! waiter! more phineas and ferb reader pls!

I wonder how the batfam would react once they catch reader inventions on a random tuesday, like, "hm, what a nice day to look out on the window and HOLY SHIT WHY IS THERE A GIANT ROBOT SPITING FIRE WHILE RIDING A ROLLERCOASTER IN MY BACKYARD???"

the events that would follow this incident would be funny and exasperating, me thinks

also, wouldn't it be funnier if Perry the Platypus was part of the JL? and like, no one knows his identity but Superman, and neither of them are willing to talk about it-

I know it would be very unlikely, since everyone there would have enough neurons to recognize a platypus with and without a hat, but for the sake of shit and giggles, just think of how funny that would be

welp, I needed to get that outta ma chest, I hope I at least made you laugh a little, because seriously this is one of the best ideas I've seen in this tag and I can't stop thinking and giggling about it

Stay well!

context.

first: i was not expecting this concept to be so popular!! the responses i've gotten from everyone are so amazing!!  ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) thank you for the ask, anon!! it always makes my day.

i am formally announcing that i will be turning phineas and ferb reader into a fic now. it's too good a concept to pass up. something more light-hearted to work between the other fics i'm writing.

batfamily finding out about reader's whacky inventions would be an event. it so wholeheartedly shatters the image they had of reader to the point they just have to sit with what the hell just happened for a while before they even consider what to do about you next. still so many things that don't make sense. their newest case is how the fuck did we go this long without finding out (Y/N) has been building mechas in our backyard and why are those things always gone when it's convenient.

then the realizations just start dropping on them like an anvil on a looney tunes character. and they kinda feel like shit, cause how did they not notice? really puts into perspective how they've neglected you all this time. so many stunts you pulled right under their nose, on their backyard, their garage, throughout gotham and metropolis. ok, were out there being creative and amazing and you sure know how to spend the wayne family money, they'll give you that, but it was so irresponsible of you! who knows what could've gone wrong. you're not like them! you're a civilian with no training, the only regular teenager in the family, you're the last person who should be exposing themselves doing all that.

bruce goes off on you, screaming about how could you be so reckless, you did all of this behind his back– what? what do you mean he gave his permission? and he is floored, devastated, blood pressure up, when you remind him of every instance you dropped by his office with a document for him to sign or to ask for permission, with proof as you pull out every paper he put his signature without a second look.

and that, ladies and gentlemen, is when reader's dynamic with the batfam does a complete 180 and their little yandere antennae start going off. no more whacky cartoonish shenanigans. at least not without proper supervision. they know you're not a fan of this new arrangement, but you gotta understand they let you go unchecked for way too long! they'll drown you in family activities so you don't even have to worry about it. who wants to build a teleportation machine, anyway? just join them for family movie night.

as for perry, that is going to take them a while longer to figure out. bruce just can't stand another insane discovery, so when batman sees an intelligent platypus wearing a fedora and walking on two feet on justice league headquarters (if we're going by the idea that he's a part of JL), he's just going to think "my kid has a pet platypus. huh."

oh, consider:

dick: "damian, you knew all this time?! our sibling could've gotten into serious trouble! why didn't you tell us about this?"

damian: stares into the camera like he's in the office.

[pancakeke]

so that post i reblogged the other day where the OP claimed that if no one voted third party then kamala would have won wisconsin (mistakenly assuming all third parties were left leaning)

that OP blocked me. and a bunch of people who follow me and replied to that post or reblogged it with comments/tags all appear blocked as well. when I checked the post yesterday to get a screenshot of how tumblr displays reply options when you're blocked there were also comments from people unconnected to me pointing out that most of those third party candidates were right wing and their votes would not have gone to kamala. but the OP has since blocked them too as none of their comments are visible in the notes anymore. you can still find them by clicking on random "other reblogs" and viewing the version of the post that was reblogged.

but like how hard can you cope wtf. normal people, once corrected for being completely wrong and spreading misinformation, will at least have the decency to delete their post or edit the OP and then turn off reblogs. this person knows they're misleading people yet has instead decided to deny reality by curating responses to remove anyone outing them for being full of shit.

maybe they're too dumb to accept that they might be wrong. or they're just lying on purpose.

anyway, don't reblog posts just because you agree with the viewpoint of the OP. even people you agree with can be dumb assholes who are wrong about everything and behave poorly.

[2demondogs]

With Chrismas around the corner (not really but basically), i would love an Arthur x GN!reader where Arthur proposes to reader for Chrismas and they obviously say yes because, well, it's Arthur, who wouldn't?

Anon did you read my mind. I was just thinking about proposal fics when you sent this ask because I have yet to stumble on one somehow... I'm sorry this took forever btw T-T

Shoutout to my platonic boyfriend for helping me with ideas because I got writer's block <3

Words: 3k oh my good lord Tags: canon divergence (it's just people leaving the gang a chapter early), Arthur does not have tuberculosis, INSTANT spoilers for character death, cheesy shit

It's been too long, you're realizing, since holidays like Christmas felt like special things. There is a double-edged feel to this one — it is the first since Hosea's death, since leaving the gang — but it is the first, in a very long time, that you've spent in the so-called right way: in a warm house with four solid walls and someone you love, how those fanciful books Mary-Beth used to talk your ear off about always wrote.

The house is warm enough, anyways.

There's work that needs done on the cabin. Some of the wood is rotting out and chipped at the corners, forming into sharp splinters that you've brushed against one too many times, but it is a house. You haven't had this pleasure since before joining the gang.

Sometimes, with how content Arthur seems at baseline, you wonder if he's had this pleasure since early childhood. On quieter evenings, ones less reserved for happiness than this one, there has been clipped discussion about how Arthur has never had domesticity like this. Silently, it was an admission of how good it is to share this freshness with you.

During a ride into town, he'd admitted that he had never picked up painting because it was the sort of thing only steady folks got to enjoy. You'd gotten him a set of oil paints when no one was looking — he's worth much more than a few measly dollars, but that means little if you haven't got them to begin with. Some habits die hard; he was happy you remembered what he'd said only a few hours before.

Come the new year, Arthur plans to find work that will pay. New things are a luxury neither of you care much to indulge in, but the repairs will take lumber and maybe a few extra hands. Ones with more expertise, at least, because Arthur's houses usually have not had foundations.

You could simply move now that time has passed, yes. You could find somewhere much farther away, maybe even New York, and pack yourselves in alongside the other sardines bustling about a city, undetectable in uniformity. Shave beards, got jobs, change clothes, cut hair and color it, too, if paranoia strikes— but keeping low to the ground has worked itself out so far, and there is no more of that deathlike stagnation in the air of this place.

Sentimentally, you think this Christmas will seal off whatever makes this cabin yours. Shadows linger, there's been a few odd creaks that've spooked the horses, and maybe it's going to shit a lot quicker than either of you want to admit, but it's your shit-house and the shared stubbornness between you has always brought you nothing but closer to one another.

Arthur is tired of running, and so are you. Last week, he talked about writing to Mary-Beth and Simon, maybe checking if Kieran — the utterance of the man's proper name was a confirmation of the last of that stockholmlike regret having worked out of his system — had broken and followed his little girlfriend. It wasn't said with malice, just some amusement.

"Why do you think he would?" You'd asked.

"Dutch only saves people who don't ask for it," he'd said, and that wistful look in his eyes vanished before you could ask what it meant.

Maybe it's the hard work that makes it feel like a real, true holiday. Pearson and Grimshaw stopped working everyone harder in the winter over the years, once the familial glamour faded with each new addition to the gang. It was no longer a tight-knit group, but a posse, more or less, of runaways and strays all against a big, evil thing like the rest of the world, or whatever it was that Dutch grew to fear.

Since November, Arthur has been saving the best catches to be salted and stored for Christmas dinner. Each addition is cleaner skinned and cut than the last, and the newfound worst of them ended up being ate upon his return from hunting. You've both been saving back herbs since summer, dried and ready to be crumbled into the heated up pot come time for a real feast. Cornbread was made by hand for the first time since you settled down here, drizzled with honey from the general store a ways out.

The latter was Arthur's only specific request for a fancy dinner. If you hadn't gotten him a single gift save for making it, he'd still be happy as a clam.

He's been putting that goddamned honey on everything. You're glad he seems to be enjoying things again, not as tightstrung as he was before you'd made off with him. That's how it feels, anyways, after the long and struggling conversations that were had before the decision was made. Family or life? It's a hard question for someone who has such little concept of either.

Now, the grey hair in his beard is catching the light from the fireplace where he's sat himself on a chair before it. They'd sprouted through the sun-bleached blond atop his head has been looking lighter and lighter in recent months, grey finally catching up to the discoloration and giving him some malcolored sort of tabby look. It's a good one on him, as much as he complains about looking old as dirt and that it's all formed by stress.

For all the lacking color, it adds a ruddy warmth to his face. Daydreams of growing old together find you when you focus on it, or on his wheezing laugh that's gotten worse with the cold weather. Despite the woolen vest he's been sporting, his fingers are as chilled as yours whenever they've brushed. Idly, you wonder if he's gotten whatever Hosea grew into, then remember they were never by blood.

Arthur hadn't wanted you to get him any gifts. When you asked if he would get you something, he'd flushed and changed his mind, apparently already having done it.

Whatever it is, it's good-sized, wrapped in one of the dustcloths you'd gotten him alongside the paints. He's been spending more time painting, lately, tucked in the treeline and looking over the cabin or deeper into the woods, studying something plein air the way those professionals do. He'd propped it against the wall this morning, and once you've settled on the floor before the fireplace — too cold outside not to crowd close to it — after dinner, he looks between you and the cloth like he isn't sure what to do.

"D'you wanna do the honors?" He asks, and grins although the twitch of his eye tells you he's covering timidity with faux cockiness.

"You go ahead," you say, half because he's closer. Tormenting him in small ways must be part of any good gift.

The painting is an image you recognize. A photo that one of the girls took for you months before things went down the hole, using the camera Arthur was loaned by some feller in town who wanted photos taken for a book. He never returned it, and it more or less became something he tucked beneath his cot and let the elements beat around. You can't remember, now, who it was or where he went to get it developed.

The little inkling of pride you felt knowing he kept putting off getting the negatives developed — not enough money, not enough time — yet was gone the next morning to have yours developed returns, now.

It's a much nicer rendition of it, your clothes not dirty and his arm around your waist, the other holding his hat to his chest. It's clear he preferred to give your portrait more detail, his own lagging somewhere behind in clarity and looking closer to the photo. You suppose it's easier to look at someone besides himself, but there's a clearer enjoyment in the lines of you, more care taken in the color mixes.

Ignoring the dense joy of the implications of that, of how obvious it is, proves difficult. Your cheeks twinge some from the wide smile before you realize you're even reacting.

"You'll be a big name someday," you say, and he may as well shrink in on himself beneath the praise, although he's heard it plenty of times before.

"Naw," he waves a hand. "Quit that."

"Really, Arthur." Scooting closer, laying your hands over his knee. He's moving his jaw when your eyes meet his, lays a hand over one of yours, heavy and warm. "It's beautiful. I love it."

"Good," he says. His jaw clicks. "I— uh, I love you."

The hunting knife you got for him seems small, though relatively equal. Arthur looks as pleased as ever studying it, half-mumbling appraisals of yeah, nice and sharp, sturdy to himself that likely would've stayed inside his head, if it weren't for wanting to show you he liked it.

A bone handle, which he feels over with his fingers before noticing it's engraved, fits easy in his palm. You were afraid you push your luck with maintaining its quality too far adding the tiny, vague bear shape next to the deeper cut of his name. Already impressive was the fact that you hadn't ruined it with the letters, being one of your first expeditions into anything of the sort.

"I would've gotten you one of those folding knives," you explain. "But they don't hold up as well, and I know you have one."

The army knife was Hosea's.

"Needed me a new huntin' knife," Arthur says. You know, because he's complained about his current one being close to snapping with all the skinning he does anymore. He squints at the handle, turns it over in the light from the fire. "Did you engrave the handle?"

"Yessir."

He smiles. "It's real nice," he says, pats his palm with the blade softly. It makes a dull noise, sturdy metal on skin. "Why a bear?"

"They remind me of you," you admit. Really, you'd spent a long time considering what else to add, because only his name seemed so plain; although he wouldn't be opposed to flowers or vines, they are a little more intricate than a simplified bear head. "Big and strong. Hairy, too. I'd like to hug one."

He snorts a laugh, but it seems thin. His eyes are fond enough on you that it couldn't be any rejection of your words, and so you brush it off. "You wanna hug a bear?" He asks.

"In a perfect world," you amend. "Don't they look warm?"

"You'd better stick to me," he says, smooths a palm over the thigh of his jeans. The nicest pair he owns, he promised you, because he feels ridiculous in slacks and seems to think you care what he wears.

Beyond thinking everything looks well on him, at least. You often find yourself concerned with that thought.

"I got you somethin' else," Arthur starts, running a finger over the bunched inseam at his own knee. "Well, uh— it's f'both of us, really."

Isn't that intriguing, you think, but your silent, undivided attention seems to make him outright nervous, so you say: "Oh?"

Some conflict happens over his face as he pulls his vest collar away and reaches into the inner pocket, takes out a stack of thin papers that he glances over before apparently relenting to something. Confusion finds you, until he takes a deep breath and holds them towards you.

"Read these," is all he says, and he sounds like it's almost painful.

He's written much, much more than that. Your stomach turns, once or twice, realizing they are pages from his journal. Uncertain why, until the first entries which are skittering on affectionate fade into ones much more flowery. They are all about you, days you'd spent together or times you hadn't, the things you've given him over the years and the things he wished he could've given you.

Each page makes your chest feel tight with a panicked joy, as if his hands were not fiddling with the new knife to occupy — distract? — himself but clenching hard at your heart.

One, near the beginning, says he thought of pickin' a pretty lil' flower, God bless it, I feel ridiculous; on the back of the next is pressed a variegated tulip, crumbling with age but holding firm to whatever adhesive glues it to the paper. Again, that creeping smile, like thyme. Another entry is entirely about your hair, because it had brushed his arm. Only a few sentences made up that page, below the cursive a choppy sketch of your horse.

Certainly, Arthur stays busy in his head. You've always known as much, but never figured any of it was about you. Not like this, anyways, though the dates spread from the week before Blackwater and you can only wonder what laid in that journal he lost before.

"Oh, Arthur," you start, looking up from a third-way through, feeling giddy but not wanting him to watch you so intently while you finish them. No wonder he was shy. It's his heart. "You're so sweet."

"Finish readin' 'em," Arthur says, doesn't meet your eyes at first. When he does, they're gentle. "They get sweeter, y'know, better finish 'em. 'Cause of that."

He is nervous. Hardly moving, besides the tongue running over his teeth beneath his lips, and the rambling every time he opens his mouth. You don't mind, never have. He's endearing like this.

Outings you'd went on infrequently, the dates of his favorites underlined, you're noticing, based on the tone of his words in them; his worries and fears about courting you, and some of what you mean to him though, with its succinctness, you have a feeling he wouldn't dare put all of his genuine love to findable paper; things he likes about you, and one page where he admits that he cannot keep himself from documenting you in every other entry, which tells you this small collection is hardly everything. The previous entries turn over in your mind again, and you are struck on a random page for a moment as their meanings take hold, realizing they were especially sliced from his journal to show you.

The entries leading to the last are what set your mind and pulse ablaze. From the first appearance of the word marriage, you swallowed your idea of what may be coming — Arthur's breathing changing beside you doesn't help any, and it certainly does not help that he leans down once you've reached the last page, plucking it from your hands. Before he does, you notice quite a few crossed out lines, scribbles as if he were frustrated with not being able to find the right words.

"Think I've got the balls on me to read this one aloud, at the very least," he says, voice laced with a chuckle. Breath comes uneasy, but you collect yourself enough to gather the pages back into a neat, ordered stack in your lap. "Unless you'd rather spare me," he adds, nudges your knee with the toe of his shoe.

"No." Your voice sounds strange, even to you. "Do me the honors."

Arthur bites his cheek, nods and lets it fall as he smiles. Still, his hand finds the back of his neck, the page held between two fingers that remain surprisingly steady. The knife lingers in his hand beneath it, and isn't it just like him to propose holding a weapon.

Propose. It takes its first toll on you, rolls over your back in shards of tingling.

"December twenty-fifth, eighteen ninety-nine," he starts, eyes flicking to your face every other word until the intensity of your gaze must make him too anxious. "It's a nice little life, livin' with the one I love," — rubbing his mouth, sighing some — "Jesus, I always gotta be sappy." You laugh, though it comes out more forceful than you intended, and relax some until he continues. "The thought of another day where anythin' could happen 'n' we ain't bound is somethin' I hate."

Arthur pauses, stands up and places the journal entry on his chair. You take his hands when he holds them out to where you sit, grunting when he hauls you off the ground with more force than you expected, feet shuffling into place to stick all-too-close to his. His hands are burning, skin feverish when you grab his wrists, as if you'd ever want to stop him as he eases onto a knee before you.

And his eyes throw you off balance, too, catching the light just enough that you can tell they are stinging. So are your own, now that you think about it, but intelligent thoughts go out the window once you sense him about to speak.

"I wanna be 'til death do us part," Arthur confesses, fumbles to catch both of your hands in his in an awkward, squeezing hug of a hold.

The way your bones catch on one another, well— it's not a sensation you'll forget, like the first time he kissed you and you felt it still a week later, warm pressure on your mouth if you got too lost in the memory. He looks as good, looks so nice, and you know your fingers would be shaking if he weren't crowding them together, steady.

When he says your name, the blood is rushing through your ears too loud to hear it clearly; you almost want to ask him to do it again. "Will you marry me?"

Nodding, face slack before it spreads in a grin. "Yes," you say. "Of course I will."

His is hidden by how he lets go of your hands, catching them before they fall in stupid, limp joy back to your sides. He lays kisses along the knuckles, all three rows of them. It's so awfully saccharine and yet you could never tell him to quit being sweet— not now, not as he stumbles to his feet after you pull him up and shake off his hold to grab his face, tugging him into a kiss.

Arms come around your waist, squeeze tight enough to hurt, or to hold in place. Arthur runs a hand over your back, breaks the kiss to slide a hand into your hair and press your face to his chest, caging you in his arms. He smells warm, like good cologne, and you know he's been planning this.

[dyli-dadi3]

Kinktober

Day 4: Bloodplay

You're feeling a little spooky and decide to be a vampire for tonight.

Summary: You find yourself being the rock stuck in a hard place when Leon suffers an unexpectedly severe wound. Tags: Bloodplay, handjob, drinking blood, eating cum, blood as lube, mentions of gun wounds and guns, slight knifeplay if you squint

The two of you were an unconventional team, finding each other while roaming the RPD.

All it took were some close calls and silly jokes for you to become close with Leon. You enjoyed his little quirks, and he appreciated your ability to laugh with him. It was easy to cover each other’s back when a horde of zombies came, the two of you working seamlessly together.

Until Leon got shot.

You knew it was a bad idea to follow that “FBI Agent,” but Leon looked at you with those bright eyes of his, full of hope and naivety, and you had no other choice than to put your better judgment behind you.

You knew he thought she was sexy, I mean, who wouldn’t? Smooth voice, shiny hair, trenchcoat that leaves everything to the imagination, and those black stilettos that fed the flames. You got it, you truly did. But you couldn’t help the fact that it made you insanely jealous. You watched from behind as he walked with her, telling her all the silly things he used to whisper with a giggle to you.

But you’re not a bitch; you run to his side immediately when he drops to the ground with a groan, ignoring as Ada proceeds to engage in combat with Annette, running after her once she notices that Leon is being handled.

“Leon! Are you okay?” I asked frantically, hands hovering over his dazed form in case you hurt him more. He was the police officer, okay? You only knew how to hold a gun because your father taught you so the two of you could go hunting. You had no experience with human wounds. Knew how to mercy kill your prey and skin them, not apply a tourniquet or gauze.

Leon groaned, grabbing your attention. “Don’t worry about me, go with Ada and stop Annette.” The thought made your eyes roll. She could deal with it herself, that was her original plan anyway. And besides, she made it more than clear how she was always “saving his ass.” You were more focused on how his blood was staining his uniform, having a direct relationship with your anxiety. Watching the pool grow bigger wasn’t boding well for your mental health.

“I’m not leaving you alone like she did, look at you!” Your hushed whispers were drowned out by the hissing of pipes and the distant groaning of once-living civilians.

Leon’s head thuds against the concrete floor as he whimpers.

You froze, listening to the sweet sound as his words blur, your mind fixating on the noises he was letting out.

“Please…” Leon begged, snapping you out of your engrossment enough for you to realize he had given up and was asking for your help now.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll help you, Leon.” You said quickly, wracking your brain to remember everything you’ve seen from movies. Staunch the blood flow, clean and wrap the wound, elevate.

First, umm… find something to stop the flow…

You look around, noticing a tear in the bottom of your tank. Great, fabric rips in lines! You quickly tear off a strip from your tank, wrapping it around Leon’s shoulder in a makeshift tourniquet.

He groans again, tilting his head away. “I’m so sorry, Leon. But you’re going to be okay, you hear me?” You say sternly.

Who are you fooling? You have no idea if this isn’t serious. But hey, if he’s still responding, then that must mean something.

Second, clean and wrap….

This one was harder. If you took off any more fabric from your top, you would end up with a crop top, what could you use to clean it?

You eyed the knife Leon keeps on his person, a gift from his Lieutenant was what he had told you earlier. You gently grabbed it, using the blade to cut off the fabric covering his shoulder. You tried to ignore the growing heat in your core as Leon moaned when you used the makeshift rag to swipe away the blood. “Sorry, Leon… You’re doing so well. So good for me… just a little longer.” You praised, using the knife to remove the sleeve of his long-sleeve shirt, carefully making a thick strip of fabric to use later.

“I’m going to remove the bullet, I’m so sorry.” You whisper, talking the tip of the blade and digging it into the wound. You bit your lip as Leon started to squirm, soft wines falling past his lips as he fought back the urge to let out noises.

You dig it in deeper, knowing the bullet was still there since there was no exit wound. “Don’t be afraid, Leon. It’s okay to make noises.” You reassured him.

Of course, you had ulterior motives, you wanted to hear him whimper again, for him to moan and squirm for you.

He bit his lip and whined, scrunching his eyes closed as his back arched.

You squeezed your thighs together, watching as he moved underneath you.

He looked so pretty, mouth agape as noises slipped past those plump lips… This reaction was normal, right? After all, if this were in a porno, his noises would fit in without a second thought.

Maybe you were a freak… God. You’re staring at this poor man like a slab of meat, cutting him up like a surgeon who graduated through online school. You saw how the bullet finally clinked to the ground, your mind spread in a million different directions as you wiped the blood off his wound and wrapped it up with the fabric of his sleeve. Blood was everywhere, all over your hands, his arm, the floor. It was doing things to you that you wouldn’t like to admit. You felt like a creep, lusting over this man who was bleeding all over you. Jesus, you never thought a man could make bleeding out look so good.

You looked down at your hands covered in blood and bit back a sigh, rubbing the pads of your fingertips together and watching as the blood already began to thicken. Your eyes then trailed to those rosy lips of his, losing your willpower as your stained fingers began to trace the plush of his flesh. You saw how Leon gave you a confused expression, but he wasn’t protesting. That was all it took for you to continue the impromptu trail of blood along the softness of his jaw, the high contour of his cheekbones. You felt like an artist leaving paint strokes, the skin of Leon’s face akin to the canvas as he stared at you.

“Has anyone told you how attractive you are, Leon?” You asked softly, eyes finally leaving his now deep red skin to the clear blue of his eyes.

“U-Uhmmm, my ex-girlfriend called me cute once?” Leon said gently, not knowing why this was important. After all, he was in discomfort, and you were tending to his wounds a moment ago.

“That’s not enough,” you tutted, your hand on his chest now. “You need to know how much I want you right now.” You watched as his eyes widened, his cock kicking in his slacks.

“You like that? Having me all needy for you?” You smirked softly, trailing your hand down to palm his cock that was starting to fill out his boxers.

“Yeah…” Leon muttered, his hand coming up to cover his face. “Never thought you’d touch me.”

“You couldn’t see the way I’d ogle you?” You chuckled, squeezing him and enjoying the way he squirmed, the way your hand left a stain on his pants that would be tough to remove (if he got the pre stains out first). “Or the way I look at Ada like she’s the scum of the earth when you guys flirt?” I huffed, pressing down a little harder.

“No?” Leon said in shock, biting his lip to stifle a whine as you unzipped his pants, pulling him out of his boxers. He moaned softly as you began to pump him, globs of pre and blood mixing into a wet mess. All you could hear was the noises Leon made, and the wet noises as you jerked him off. The groans of zombies or the hissing of pipes went from the foreground of your attention to the background, nothing more than the tips of mountains far, far away on a foggy day. Blurred, muddled, nothing to the crisp sound of a whine ripped straight out of Leon as you squeezed his tip.

“Fuck, slow down. Feels t’good…” he protested, but his hips jerking told a different story. It was cute the way his body wasn’t listening to his brain, so desperate to cum that it didn’t want to wait. You were eager to listen to his body, you might as well make him cum if you’re using his blood as a lubricant. A sorry of sorts to make up for how you thought the red coating his length was so arousing.

“Why would I do that?” You decided to simplify the thoughts in your head, punctuating your retort with faster pumps up and down his cock. You were immediately rewarded with a trickle of pre, wetting the drying blood and helping your hand glide again.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, g'nna cum!" Leon whined, his face screwing up in the most adorable pout as his body suddenly went tense. Spurts of cum shooting from his flushed tip, balls squeezing as he moaned. You continued your ministrations, fascinated by the surreal beauty of the man before you. The only reason you stopped was for the tears you saw begin to run down his rosy cheeks, you could see him struggle to find the words to tell you to stop through the haze of blood loss and lust.

As Leon recovered, eyes closed and letting out shallow pants to grab his bearings, you took your messy hand adorned with pearly cum and crimson blood and tasted him. The sexual satisfaction was more than you would have ever thought, it was as if you were internalizing his soul. That was him you were consuming, like a mother who eats her placenta. His essence that gives him life, and then the one that gives life to others. Tangy and metallic, yet sweet, everything you adored and more. You're truly going to hell for this, aren't you?

"You taste good."

"..."

"...What?"

[crownedwille]

Are there still Crown Prince!Wilhelm stans out there despite S3 turning it into the number one problem? Please report, we need to unite and no, that doesn't mean that I don't support Wille's mental health and happiness and that I love the monarchy, some people out there must get it

[nostalgia-tblr]

i nearly anon'd the thorki non-con fic out of SHAME but in two weeks it's become my third most clicked-on fic of the year, behind only a multichapter fic and a bit of angsty sifki porn lololol

[every-sanji]

[medicinemane]

Honestly a lot of the time, it's not even about people having to agree with me, it's about needing to know that they actually heard and listened to what I had to say even if it didn't persuade them

Just... some basic indication that there's enough respect to give a shit about what I said, and also to make sure that they disagree because they actually disagree and not cause they just didn't bother listening

It's all I really ask

[dawntheduckrb]

I'll stop posting wips eventually but it's been five days since I've said anything and I don't want anyone to think I'm dead/dying/stuck in a ditch and withering away, so here's 10% of the reason I disappeared (the duck is stuck in rendering hell) (and my little baby laptop is screaming at me every time I open up this file)

I might still be mostly lurking for a little bit so please be patient with me in the meantime 🙏🙏

[94erz]

My god has Instagram just become un-fucking-usable. I used to be able to use the tag and search feature and my feed would be tailored to my interests, now I can't do anything on it, it's literally worthless. Doesn't matter if it's on a computer or my phone, it just does not do ANYTHING I need or want it to like before. I dunno what happened but they fucked it, just completely and utterly fucked it up.

And I know that's been the case for a lot of people for a while, but how in just a span of a month can it go from my most used social platform for fandom content and trading to now being GARBAGE?! It's infuriating.

IG may be the reason I quit collecting PCs 'cause there aren't any other options now aside from me buying them out of Japan, which totally ruins the fun of collecting in the first place. TRADING is the whole point, that's step 1 of the process! Buying is the final option to complete a set/collection once you've done all the trading...

[digitalmoriarty]

HI IT'S ME I'M BACK to be petty. about the amazing fic my partner wrote. and someone's reaction to said amazing fic. In general, I don't personally think that it's super polite to make a second comment on a fic just to point out typos. Especially if, more often than not, what you're pointing out isn't a typo. It's either a stylistic choice or semi-complaining that something wasn't explained (MINE RATS). Especially when, say, the typo is in the author's note providing a translation of something and said author missed a single letter in a very long name. The same letter which was missed earlier in the actual story and which wasn't commented on there. I also think it's Kind Of Annoying to be so anchored on an idea/interpretation that you reject the textual evidence provided that shows you're wrong, and continue to try and prove yourself correct. The author explicitly said that the entity you thought was responsible for everything was not, in fact, responsible? TOO BAD AUTHOR. The entity behind everything, described as "lying" in the same author's note translation which you commented on? Totally the one who apologized to the attempted sacrifice, and... totally describing himself as lying? And of course. My favorite bit. The absolute treasure that this someone left. The backhanded compliment about the fic. The 140,000 word fic. NEAR PERFECT, TYPOS AND ERRORS NOTWITHSTANDING. because that's the thing you should focus on, right? The typos in this roughly 3 novels long fic which was written with love and care and a lot of research for exactly zero dollars. Yep. ANYWAY I love the fic. A lot. And I'm super looking forward to helping with the rest of the series... which will not be nearly as long.

[unnamed-atlas]

Having brain worms. What if uhhhhhh SOS Mianite au

[crush3dmary]

Sad posting in the tags, you're free to ignore. Just need to get it out of my system and twit circle isn't sufficing.

[comet-wire]

Anyways don't follow me/interact if you support Captain Howdie (creator of r/nfren) and/or if you can somehow excuse what they did lol

TW: for racism, pedophilia, anti semitism etc

[o-wyrmlight]

Cookie your tags are so good ssjkfdkfhskdjh

Thanks I grew them myself in my garden

[neverendingford]

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