#album: safe

[laromp3]

Dead In The Water - James Gillespie

[superemeralds]

eat your friends

[yrlocalghost]

I had a dream I died

(i fell asleep under a tree recently and it kind of caused this)

[catthatchats]

Here’s something I did a while ago. It’s basically if the Crane Wives albums were human. I’m not sure I like the designs anymore but I wanted to share :)))

Here are the unfinished ones!

[somegrumpynerd]

More dude and bruh texts

[motionpicturessoundtrack]

midwestern horror stories - cosmic horror (remastered)

[mekk-u]

when hell breaks loose,

your arms are my cocoon

[wysteria-bloom]

" You can ride my face, don't want nothin' in return "

ᯓ geto suguru (minors dni)

He leans in, his warm breath tickling her sensitive folds as he inhales her sweet scent. Then, without warning, he presses his skilled tongue flat against her clit, giving it a long, slow lick. The way he worships her pussy with his mouth has her writhing in pleasure.

Her free hand reaches out to entangle in his hair, holding him close as she grinds against his face shamelessly.

As Geto continues his relentless oral assault on her pussy, he looks up at her with those piercing eyes and murmurs, "You love it, huh?" He teased out in amusement and smugness, his eyes crinkling at the sound of her pleasured moans as his words vibrated against her soaked folds.

Geto delves deeper, his skilled tongue probing the entrance of her dripping hole before plunging inside, swirling and teasing her inner walls. He alternates between thrusting his tongue deep and flicking it rapidly over her swollen clit, driving her wild with intense pleasure.

Her hand tightens in his hair.

He growls possessively around her flesh as he feels her hand tighten in his hair, pulling him closer. He hooks his arms under her thighs and wraps them around his shoulders, burying his face deeper between her thighs and devouring her ravenously," so pretty f'me... always drivin' me insane..." He grumbled.

The wet, slurping sounds of Geto's mouth devouring her slick folds fill the room as he noisily laps at her quivering flesh. His mouth is so loud against her sensitive skin that it sounds like he's drinking from a fountain.

Geto's desperation reaches a fever pitch as he realizes that she is on the brink of climax. He doubles his efforts, sucking hard on her clit while furiously finger-fucking her dripping pussy. His nose presses against her soaked labia as he inhales her essence, his mouth making obscene, gulping noises.

With a final, loud slurp, Geto seals his mouth over her clit and sucks hard as he thrusts two fingers deep inside her spasming hole. The sudden intense sensation pushes her over the edge, and she comes undone with a scream. Her body tenses as the first wave of her orgasm crashes over her. She lets out a loud, high-pitched cry of his name, her pussy contracting and pulsing around his fingers. Geto continues to lick and suck, drawing out her pleasure as she rides out the intense climax.

As her orgasm subsides, Geto smacks her sensitive pussy teasingly, grinning wickedly at her gasp.

"Still want more, don't you?" He murmurs confidently before pressing a sloppy, lingering kiss to her twitching folds, savoring her taste," Yeah... 'course you do..."

16:21 , Friday 27th December

[thatnarcissisticfeel]

I think that a lot of people without NPD have a really poor understanding of "narc supply" or the specific type of positive attention that pwNPD crave. Even the egotypicals who are allies, the ones denounce narc abuse and anti-NPD ableism, don't fully grasp it.

There's this false idea that NPDs like to be worshipped and showered with compliments all of the time, and I mean, yeah, most of us would eat that shit up, but I know that for myself and a lot of other pwNPD it's deeper and much more, I guess, personal?

I don't really know how to describe it, so I'll give an example: As a kid, no one really paid attention to my creative endeavors, my accomplishments, my feelings, etc. And if they DID pay attention, the attention was negative. I could always do better, I could always be smarter, stronger, etc. This came from peers and adults alike. So I developed a coping mechanism where I would tell myself that everyone else was wrong, that I'm actually the best person around, etc. I don't have to explain what disorder I ended up with as an adult as a result of all of that. :P

But anyway - the wound of constantly being ignored at best and insulted at worst is still there. You know how when you're in a group chat or a conversation with multiple people and no one ever pays attention to your comments, while paying attention to everyone else? Yeah, that shit hurts EVERYONE, but especially pwNPD. Even the smallest acknowledgment can be "narc supply."

You know how when you achieve something really cool and everyone ignores you - but the people who ignore you will be quick to praise OTHER people?

You know how when you post art/edits online and everyone ignores you - but the people who ignore you compliment someone else's post in the exact same thread?

You know how when you ask your friend to read your favorite book or listen to your favorite artist or whatever because of how much it means to you, and they never do it, but then they read/listen to everyone else's favorite thing at everyone else's recommendation, and how much it pisses you off? (Hurts even more if you have the SAME favorite book/artist and someone reads/listens to it at the other person's recommendation and not at yours.)

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I could go on and on. That shit would bother anyone, us narcissists aren't alone in being hurt by that, but my G-d, it impacts pwNPD in such a specific way.

But let me flip it around to the positive!

A narcissist doesn't necessarily get their "supply" from someone telling them that they're the coolest person in the world and that they're a god. (Though if you do want to say that to us we probably won't complain!) Sometimes they get their "supply" from something as simple as someone acknowledging their achievements, and giving specific praise on what the achievement was. ("It's so cool that you won a prize in the music recital. The song you played sounds like it was really difficult and I loved your stage presence.")

Being told, "Wow, you did such a great job on your artwork, I love the colors!" goes a very very long way for a narc, especially when said narc is used to being IGNORED for their art.

Hearing, "it's so cool that you like that book, I'll have to read it and tell you my thoughts!" can help a narcissist's interests feel acknowledged.

You might be reading this and thinking, "well, isn't it just basic human interaction to compliment your friends or try out their interests"? And, well, maybe it is, but the whole point of NPD is that most of us grew up without receiving that type of attention, so now we're very very desperate for it - and very, very, VERY sensitive to when it doesn't happen, or is even perceived to not have happened. Something as small as being talked over in a group chat can set us off, but something as small as a simple, "hey, it's so cool that you did this, I love it." can win us over.

And to be completely fair, most of the time us being "ignored" isn't completely intentional. Like, I get it, yeah, sometimes timing just doesn't work out for person A to read my favorite book at my own rec, but by the time person B is in their life, person A can read it, and it's not anything personal. Sometimes the content I make just isn't someone's ~style~ and they support me, they really do, they just don't know what to say. Sometimes someone forgets to respond, or doesn't get a notification when I send them something I made or tell them about something I did. (There is less excuse for being ignored in face-to-face/offline convos though.) But because of the trauma of us constantly being ignored as kids/teens, the smallest little thing hurts and as a result we seek and crave attention EVERYWHERE.

So now, to give in to narc stereotypes of begging for attention: If you're a person without NPD and you genuinely want to help the narcissists you have in your life, the second best thing you can do for us is checking in to make sure we're not overlooked. Try to be sure you're not ignoring us, and if we do something cool, try to compliment it, even if it's something you don't fully "understand." Ask us about what we've been up to lately, what we're proud of about ourselves, and agree with us that what we've done is pretty cool. I mean, you'd do that for any friend, right? It's really not all outlandish for a narc to want that.

(If you're curious what the FIRST best thing you can do for a narcissist is, it's giving us a million dollars unlearning your anti-NPD ableism and calling people out who use narcissist as an insult as a synonym for abuser. Even in "offline" spaces, even when we're not around, even doctors/therapists. Even "narc" abuse survivors.)

[spiderfights]

ULTRATOBER #1—favourite soundtrack

[sainz100]

Carlos Sainz | F1 London Live in 2017 | x x x x x

[lunar-years]

Now why would she…

[carcasscounty]

I could not help but notice the resemblance

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - X

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more gif and pics from pinterest

he tastes like candy, he’s so beautiful -Awful, Hole 🤘

10. little bird

Wick says nothing more, just holds your gaze, and again you feel like the floor is going out from beneath you. You’ve become accustomed to your cooler body temperature, but now for the umpteenth time tonight you feel hot beneath the collar. 

“It’s…just a coincidence.” 

“Surely.” He smirks at you, laughing at you, deep down.

Asshole. 

One extremely fine, extremely dangerous, asshole. 

Glaring at the two of you eye-fucking eachother, Constantine clears his throat. “Are we trying to find don Juan or not? Otherwise, I should get to Midnite’s.” 

You look to John. Despite the energy you’d shared with him, he still has dark circles under his eyes, still seems just this side of fragile. You remember how much blood you had to take from him last time, to call up that much excess power, that it just felt like you were floating above your corporeal body. You’re not sure he can spare it, now. If you sent him to an early grave with blood loss you know you would walk yourself right out into the sun. 

On the other hand, there is Wick, robust, full of blood, and who you wouldn’t feel guilty at all about taking down a peg or two. His smile widens as he notices you assessing him like a piece of meat, his powerful body sprawled in the rickety old chair–maybe he wouldn’t be so smug, however, if he knew exactly what you were thinking. 

“Depends,” you answer John. “Will you let me in, or are you going to keep stonewalling me?”

“I’m not exactly in the habit of leaving my aura hanging wide open. It leads to bad things in my business,” he grumbles. 

You suppose, considering his occupation, that’s understandable. But you also think he’s making excuses to shut you out.  

“Uh huh.” 

You cross the cracked linoleum floor to him. He’s so tall that you’re nearly eye to eye, even with him sitting, and even though you already fed once tonight, just looking at him like this kindles that insatiable hunger in your belly, a lick of desire that curls in you like smoke from an opium pipe. Heady. Wonderful. Addictive. Shields up or not, you know he feels it too in the bond between you, his lips parting with a gasp, his pupils dilating to turn his dark irises purest black.  

He takes your hand, and the energy that ignites between you as his long fingers slide into yours fills the dilapidated room with something bright and charged. It even makes Wick sit up straighter in his chair. It feels like sunshine on your face, when you were still human, and you cannot suppress a sigh of enjoyment. 

They both seem surprised when you hold out your other hand to Wick. “Come here.” The vampire hunter obeys, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as he approaches, his presence a solid line of warmth at your back.  

With an almost quizzical look, Wick takes your hand. His fingers are calloused, and strong, and his touch feels like a live wire gripped in your hands. Reincarnated sweethearts or not–your magic likes him, and you think you can work with that. 

Constantine’s frown as he watches this exchange is thunderously contemptuous.  “We gonna sing kumbaya now, baby?” he gripes at you. 

“No. We’re going to find don Juan, and Mr. Wick here is going to cut off his fucking head. Got a problem with that?”

You see the corner of his mouth tick for the barest second, his only indication of mirth before he throws himself wide open to you, and the mingled energies of these two powerful men rips through you like an electric shock. 

♰♰♰

Maybe John Constantine is ill, but you were a fool to think him weak. One mouthful of blood taken carefully from his wrist is so power-charged you practically see stars. It’s possible that adding Wick’s rich blood to the cocktail nearly renders you drunk, so giddy you think you might hover physically off the ground. But the two men on either side of you keep you anchored, vying even now in their holds upon you. 

It’s funny, maybe, that you thought it would keep things tame, drinking from the wrist. But there is an agonizing tension amidst the three of you, unsatisfied lust and painful longing. It all adds a particular spice to this conjuring you work as the focus between them, and you are able to rise with barely a thought this time.

It’s more familiar, this second time you wander through the minds of the city, and you are more careful as you sift through them like grains of rice, in search of that one poisoned seed. You think you are successful more than once, before realizing they are just don Juan’s awful progeny, but not the original root of that particular brand of evil. 

You are surprised, when in your wandering you encounter Angela, the detective John Constantine so secretly fancied. She is in her apartment, working at her laptop. There is a glow of such goodness about her that is rare to find in humans. Her aura is practically a halo, it shines so bright. She is warm, and smart, and strong, and it’s no wonder John likes her, you think to yourself sadly. 

You probe a little deeper, finding that at this moment she is thinking about John. She likes him too, though she’s puzzled as to why. That is a feeling you understand all too well. She must feel your presence, looking up as though there is something in the room with her, reaching out to put a hand on her service issue Glock on the desk next to her. She’s already had quite a scare after her first encounter with real demons, and guiltily you back off, not wanting to upset her.  

You are about to give up your search, feeling that you have stretched yourself to the limit, when at last you sense him. That seething, cloying dark energy that follows don Juan like a cloud. You are more cautious in your approach this time, keeping your distance as you observe him. It seems he retreated north into the mountains, to a chic but almost quaint little house tucked into the hillside. He sits beside a glittering swimming pool, smoking and brooding. The moment you sense him turning your way you retreat, returning to your body, too quickly perhaps. 

It’s disorienting, after being weightless, to wrangle with your flesh and bones, like it’s hard to get all the pieces of you to mesh back again. You would have fallen, if not for two pairs of strong hands steadying you. You lean back on a broad chest. Constantine is before you, you recognize, which makes the imposing wall behind you still Wick. You are either the luckiest girl in the world, or you are cursed. You still haven’t decided which yet. 

“Back off,” snarls Constantine to the dhampir, pulling you into his arms. 

Wick growls, and you can't help but feel like the bone between two cranky dogs. You really shouldn't be enjoying it so much.

“Are you alright?” 

You think you’re fine, but you’re tired. You didn’t travel that far, last time, or search with such purpose in mind. It took a lot more energy than you thought it would.

“He’s in Laurel Canyon,” you whisper against Constantine’s chest. “North end. A little cottage with stone facing, clay tile roof. There’s a bronze statue of horses out front.” You think back, and realize you even remember the house number. You manage to say it out loud before the room starts to spin. Are you going to be sick? “I don’t feel good.” 

“I warned you,” grouses Constantine, even while his hand sits protectively on the back of your head. 

“She did well,” defends Wick. “This will save me time.” 

Sitting back down, Constantine pulls you into his lap, away from the dhampir. You hate to admit how good it feels to curl into him like a child who’s had a nightmare, his arms around you.   

“Great,” he snarks to Wick. “Feel free to go.”

Wick snorts in answer, still looking down at you. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Reluctantly you nod against Constantine’s collarbone, closing your eyes. “I’ll be fine. Will you be fine by yourself?”

Wick laughs lowly at this, but not unkindly. “No worries, ptichka, no more flying around for you. I will give don Juan your regards.” 

“Please, kick him in the nuts for me,” you grumble. The thought of that awful vampire finally getting his comeuppance is darkly satisfying. 

“Would you like me to bring you his head?” 

“Ew.” 

Wick laughs, and you hear his footfalls as he crosses the kitchen to the crumpled vampire in the corner. You’d almost forgotten about the poor bastard. “I will see you soon,” says the dhampir, winking at you before dragging the informant out by his ankles. 

A strange quiet settles over the apartment, without the ominous dark energy of John Wick filling the room. 

You should be scared of him–but you kind of miss him.

“Alone at last,” grouses Constantine, his hold on you tightening. 

You laugh a little, snuggling into the bend of his neck. You start to feel better, sitting like this with him. His hand drifts to your thigh, tracing the hem of his shirt absently. “Was this really the only thing you could come up with to wear?” 

“You don’t like it, John?” you tease sleepily. 

“I like it a lot. For my eyes only.”

“Hmm. I think that’s something only a boyfriend gets to say,” you dare ripost.

He snorts in answer. “If I was your boyfriend, would I get to tell you what to do?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He coughs, and only a beat later do you realize it was a laugh. 

 But then he can’t help but ruin the moment: 

“I thought the dhampir was your new boyfriend, Miss I’ll come visit you in New York,” he complains in an insulting falsetto.  

You, in turn, just roll your eyes. “Excuse you, but I saved you from getting your head lopped off. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

Then, he has to go and turn serious on you. “Baby, when I’m gone–” You whine, hating hearing him say it aloud, but he talks over you. “It’s going to happen, y/n. You’ve got to accept that. And when it does, you cannot take up with him. He is bad news. Call it…my dying wish.” 

You’re smart enough to bite down on your first response, which is, ‘he doesn’t seem so bad.’  

It turns out you don’t have any reply at all, and he watches you with an intensity that makes you fear he can read your mind. You’re not sure why he takes mercy on you, saying more gently, “You can’t save him, sweetheart. Any more than you can save me.” 

You look down, because his laser-like gaze is too much, even for you. 

Part of the reason you want to get this thing solved so badly is because you hope you can save him. Maybe with the help of modern medicine, and your own combined magic…something might work out. Buy him some time, at least. He already seems better, after finally letting you into your bond earlier that night. 

Maybe he’s resigned, but you haven’t completely given up hope. 

“I just…want to get this thing resolved,” you admit. “So you can rest.”  

He lifts one of those angular dark brows, clearly thinking that the only rest waiting for him is the permanent kind. But he doesn’t insist again that you accept the inevitable truth of his demise. Sometimes, when you care about someone, you let them get away with those little lies that keep them sane through the day to day grind of life. Maybe he realizes that you need this, so that you don’t run down the street screaming at God and anyone else unfortunate enough to get in your path.  

“Sure, honey.” He surprises you again, when he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m going to put you to bed, and I have to go to Midnite’s.”

You know the kittenish sound that escapes your lips sounds ridiculous. “Let me go with you.”

“You’re wiped out. Stay here and rest.” 

“No.” You sit up, feeling a little better. Tired, but better. 

“Yes,” he insists, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“I’m just going to follow you, if you try to leave me here.” 

“For once, can you not be so stubborn when I’m trying to protect you?” 

Your lips dance as you try to suppress a smile, lifting an eyebrow. “I could ask the same thing of you?” 

Another exasperated growl escapes him, and your heart sings when he pulls you into another kiss, that golden rope between you pulsing with energy, singing with light. He pulls back to look at you, his pupils blown wide. You wonder if it occurs to him, that this could be his last chance to be with a woman, if things outside this crumbling apartment do not go well. Or maybe, just maybe, he finds you as irresistible as you find him. Either way, when he tangles his long fingers in your hair and kisses you again, you are all too ready to lean in. 

You’re not sure how it’s possible, that this man simultaneously breaks your heart, and puts you back together again. 

When he stands with you in his arms you give a sound of protest, worried about the extra exertion.

“I’m fine, y/n,” he tells you with a rare gentleness that to you is precious as any gemstone. “I’ve got you.”     

He carries you to the bed in the next room, and you are more than happy to let him have his way with you. 

______

*ptichka - little bird

[todayinhiphophistory]

Today in Hip Hop History:

DJ Quik released his third album Safe + Sound February 21, 1995

[gay-barbarian]

Hi, can I be insane about Cleon for a second?

This goddamn force of nature was tortured just after being a witness in the murder of someone she admired, and her only fucking concern is that her people get home safe and that the dream Cyrus had keeps on living???? She used her insane charisma to make the Riffs believe her when a whole gang said they saw her shoot??? Feel like her thought as this point were just "push come to shove, I can die but the Warriors will live, the dream will live". She has no fucking clue how she survived when everything was against her but she fucking did cause she's just built different. I truly believe this woman can do anything.

The best fucking leader.

(plus her verse in the cypher is very fun)

I might have caught the "in love with Cleon" disease.