#YOUUUU WILL BE MINE

[vix2section]

alright i see everyone is collectively losing their minds all over the place atm huh

[shmunter]

[“Change is destruction,” huh?…….You suppose you’d better get used to it]

[alexturner]

CRISTIN MILIOTI "The Penguin" premiere Photos by Emilio Madrid.

[kissofslife]

(241102) KISS OF LIFE // IGLOO

[theygotlost]

strange to be shaped by such strange men

oh you know. normal stuff.

full quality jonas photo + bonus

(i totally made up rusty's birthday lol. its just the date i drew the picture plus a year that fits well enough into the very nonsensical vbros timeline)

[iotsketches]

i bring life.

[emptymasks]

Whatever you wanna say, you can say in front of my friends. Fuck off, Bill. Yes, sir, Mr Hands.

[deadpoets]

GILMORE GIRLS 03.18 | Happy Birthday, Baby

[bignostalgias]

7A & fistfight with god with astrid pls? 🥺

expression requests

[nearsighted-calliope]

Tagged by the darlingg @travalanche for a selfie 🩷✨️🤟 hi hi!

[jaypentaghast]

🐣 Whose fledgling would you rather be?

🚫 Which character would you NEVER allow near your neck?

🔪 Who do you want to kick the most whenever they are on screen?

🤝 If you were turned into a vampire, would you turn anyone you know to be your companion?

🍎 What food or drink would you miss the most?

🕶️ Would you like the ability to read people's mind?

⚰️ How would you feel about having to sleep in a coffin?

❤️ What's your OTP?

🧨 Rank the IWTV ships from most to least favourite.

♟️ Do you have any headcanons for [insert character/ship here]?

🤡 Favourite headcanon of your favourite character.

🎶 What's a song that reminds you of your favourite character/ship from the show?

🎧 Do you have any IWTV playlists?

📜 Favourite post season 2 fic.

📱 Top three fanfics of your favourite ship.

🔞 Recommend an E rated fanfic!

📢 Three other vampire-related media you recommend.

🖼️ Share an IWTV meme with the class.

🦇 Favourite scene from Season 1.

🧛 Favourite scene from Season 2.

🎭 What's a scene that really shocked you that maybe didn't shock other people as much?

👄 Which character has your favourite line in the show?

🗿 Is there a line or scene that made you laugh out loud?

💡 Tell us one of your theories!

🎬 Do you have any wild theories for the upcoming season?

⌛ What character are you most excited to see? (New or not)

🎤 What genre of music would you like to hear from Lestat?

🎥 How do you believe Lestat is going to tell his story next season? (ex, his own interview, a book, a podcast, etc)

[ourflagmeansgayrights]

i love sexual sunday but i don’t usually post much bc my horny brain has been stuck solely on “ed teach gangbang” for uhhhhh close to a year now and there’s only so many times i can make a post like “what if ed got to be the specialest girl at the orgy” without it becoming redundant. i don’t have much else in me aside from “ed getting passed around by the crew” “ed getting spit roasted nonstop and whenever someone finishes another crew member is ready to take their place” “ed covered in come but none in his hole(s?) bc only his captain is allowed to finish inside” “nobody touches ed’s cock bc ed’s not allowed to come until everyone else has had their turn but people start coming back for seconds” “ed’s allowed to come as much as he wants and it becomes a game to see how many orgasms they can wring out of him and he’s sobbing and shaking after three but he never taps out” “ed getting dolled up in his second-favorite lingerie (first favorite is for stede only) and laying back on a mountain of plush cushions and soft pillows and exquisite blankets and he’s shaking with excitement bc he can’t wait for everyone to make a mess of him” “pillow princess ed laying there taking round after round and nobody can even be mad at him bc he’s so pretty he deserves to get spoiled” “ed riding cock after cock and giving hand jobs and blow jobs but there’s too many people and eventually he gets so tired and sore that all he can do is lay there and take it and let the crew move him around however they want” “the crew takes turns fucking ed and then afterwards they take turns cuddling ed while he comes out of subspace (stede is there holding his hand the whole time)”

[starfiretruther]

gay 80s soft guy hours

[mozzygan]

had the pleasure of participating in the littlebug server secret santa! so here's a little cover thirteen by the lovely @anna-scribbles!

merry christmas anna i love youuuu!

[thyming]

Put on fake lashes to make myself feel pretty today, though I am just staying at home. And then I took this picture and, respectfully, I am cute, what!!! 😩��

[moipale]

Haustorium, Amygdala

a danny phantom fic, for ecto-implosion 2024 written for the lovely @pricklenettle's artwork

In the Realms, three humans take a pit stop on an island haunted by a gnarled mass of plants, so tangled they appear near-indistinguishable. One of those humans carries a burr from it back to Earth. In the Realms, all dead things that blossom into afterlife are gifted a core, which is a sort of mind. Minds, famously, think. And feel. Both of these things have consequences.

Gen, rated T. Body horror, POV nonhuman, parasitism/possession, and lots of plants.

Read "Haustorium, Amygdala" on Ao3 here, or see below the cut for a preview.

Cultivator!

O, Cultivator! Thank you!

You—tall-form, pollinator, self-locomotive, primate with hair like raven feathers and crocus-purple stems-of-walking! Cultivator, thank you for bearing Us sunward!

—

It had been so long since the Growth last felt life.

Or, not long at all, for some of its pieces; there are always things dying, always things afterlife-resurrecting, and thus, always newly dead plants twining with and becoming part of the Growth. But when considering the sum total of its pooled existence without life… well, it had been unfathomably long, indeed. The Growth had missed it: the breeze, the soil, the silt and sun.

The Growth had lamented its capacity to miss. Had lamented lamenting, although it could only do so in that distant way of planthood—that is, the halfway, imperfect imprint of emotion that the Realms “gifted” it, that which it gifts to all those who did not before think. Not that it knew this. This was the only sort of emotion it had ever endured. In life, consciousness was so simple: utilitarian signals and feedings and warnings bounced between each other, when growths were still distinct. Now—now it missed. For a time well past, it longed.

And in its longing, it was rewarded.

Three strange beacons of life passed through the Realms.

Eyeless, earless, the Growth did not see them so much as it felt their disturbance: how the Realms shivered and displaced, death recoiling from that which it could not touch. All the Growth’s collective attention sharpened. Immobile, it could do no more than reach a lurching vine here and there toward the ripples, looking for more, wondering—and then it froze. For the strangelifes, pulsing, un-dead, were coming toward it.

The Cultivator was the only one of the three which descended from the strangelifes’ moving metal hollow. She stepped from it onto the island of the Growth. She made contact with the land, let her ankles brush through its undergrowth, stepped carefully, did not trample—she was like a breeze more than a creature, caused less breakage, even, than the ghosts which floated and did not step. The Growth was fascinated. It readied its burrs and pollens. Clad in leathers and nonskins, the Cultivator had so many places on which to find purchase—so the Growth reached out and clung.

It wasn’t an intentional bid for life-again. The Cultivator, in her nondeath, was a curiosity to be sure—but the Growth did not imagine she was anything but lost, that she could possibly bear it home to soil-and-sun. It could not have known. When she rose again from the island, it was a mere few miniscule pieces of the Growth that clung to her: curious, sure—but merely hoping for another island to disperse to. As with every host that wandered close enough, the Growth reached out and latched on with one goal in mind: to find another home for it to occupy, another place to assimilate, another ward against extinction. So—it did not imagine the direction she was heading was sunward. It could not have known. And it would have been blindsided when they reached that precipice anyway, but before they did, before the depth of this opportunity became apparent, something else shocked it from curiosity into complete captivation.

The Growth could not take the Cultivator as a host.

The Growth had always been able to take self-locomotive things as hosts.

Not the rock of its islands, not the metal of the strangelifes’ hollow; these surfaces were too inert to parasitize, the metal too smooth for even lichens to cling to. Those self-locomotive dead who touched down on the islands of the Growth, however? Yes. All of them. They proved excellent dispersers, once the Growth learned how to pilot them to new islands, spread new Growth. None lasted all that long—but long enough. The Growth populated much of the Realms. The Growth had wormed into creatures plenty, and from their eyes seen, from their skins felt, from their ungravity flew. So why not her?

Her body rejected it. Simply and utterly. Perhaps because she was still living? As a test, when the Cultivator leant forward over the shoulder of another strangelife, the Growth hopped to him and attempted to dig in. And—success. Yes, this one could be seeded; the Growth would be able to parasitize him fully when the seed took root. So why not her?

The Growth redoubled its efforts. The Growth tried to seed her. But nothing! It could cling to her surface, could ride with her, could even dip beneath her skin and explore inside—but to no end! A barrier remained between her and it; integration was impossible, assimilation a dream. The Growth was fascinated. Curious. Captivated. Frustrated. It had been curious before, and it lamented that curiosity, cursed it—the Growth, limbless, was not meant to crave, to seek—but this was all the more consuming. It had not before known frustration. And from the frustration of unsated curiosity rose a bubbling new emotion it had never known, was caught up in the froth of: excitement. Like a berry stepped on, or a bloom punching open, the Growth felt liable to burst.

And then—life!

That piece of itself upon the Cultivator, which the Growth’s main mass communicated with, crossed from death into life, and the shock of it reverberated across that link. All the Growth shuddered. Islandsfull of leaf-and-vine rustled, curled, feeling. Life again! Life, air, soil, sun!

Or—not quite sun, yet. The Cultivator had emerged from death into but another metal casing, the air stale. But present! Oxygen: how the Growth had missed it! It tasted different now, admittedly; the Growth no longer needed it as it had in life. But it was so nostalgic. Another foreign feeling.

The strangelifes scurried about. They emerged from metal into less-stale air, and spent time there refueling: chewing, swallowing, that gory unphotosynthesis of animals. And then Seeded-Strangelife shooed the others away, and the Cultivator acquiesced to the shooing, and passed through a threshold, and there—

There was the sun.

[Continue reading "Haustorium, Amygdala" on Ao3 here.]