#and that's perspective baby!!!

[thelemonmaiden]

#sparkstember - Day 25 - Hippopotamus!

[dandelion-roots]

[ID: a digital comic in two panels featuring bungou stray dogs characters. the first shows atsushi banging open a door and shouting, dazai-san! are you oka- the second shows a shot from the anime where chuuya is holding dazai against a wall by his neck. the text reads, homoerotic atmosphere, and four squares with text point out whats happening. they read, casual hand in pocket, chokehold, knife, and lastly um... followed by two sweat drops pointing at chuuya's knee between dazai's legs. a tiny panel in the corner shows atsushi covering his eyes with his tiger paws and blushing as he says, i'm sorry... end ID]

come here. crack open the canon with me for a minute. consider. what if atsushi hadn't listened to everyone telling him dazai would be fine and left to save him only to witness whatever the fuck was going on in that cellar. consider the bit.

[bet-on-me-13]

Danny may be a Ghost Baby who feels like an Anicent, but his friends don't.

SO, we all know the Ghost Baby Headcanon by now right? The idea that Danny is literally a Toddler by Ghost Standards, but because of how powerful he is everybody else believes that he is an Ancient or a God who is hogging the Mortal World to himself.

But what about his friends?

They were right there when the Portal opened. No Hazmat Suits, no Cover, no Protection from the Dimension of Pure Energy that had just been opened right in front of them.

That has to have some kind of Side Effects!

And actually, we do know of a Character who was just standing in front of a Portal when it opened and still got affected by it. Vlad.

While Danny was turned into a Halfa instantly, his friends would be more similar to Vlad in that they are slow to transform.

It takes weeks, but eventually they become mini-halfas themselves. Except they didn't have an entire Dimension of energy pushed into them upon fully forming, so their Ecto-Signatures actually feel like the babies they are supposed to be.

So imagine this from the Ghosts perspective.

They meet this guy called Phantom, a Halfa who is Extremely Powerful, but nobody has seen him in centuries. He was known as a very powerful Protector Spirit for millennia, randomly showing up across history, but always helping others. And then he just vanished one day, not seen again for centuries.

Until recently, when he showed in the Mortal World, stopping any other Ghost from fulfilling their Obsessions with Humans. And by his side are 2 smaller Halfa's that feel like they must have barely formed. You can see where this is going.

They think Sam and Tucker are Danny's children.

It makes sense! A Powerful Ancient, known for protecting people, suddenly disappears for centuries and then shows up again with 2 baby Halfa's in tow? That sounds like a Protector Spirit who lost his will to fight, decided to settled down in the Mortal Realm, and then found out that 2 baby Halfa's were formed when a Portal was opened!

He isn't selfishly holding the Mortal Realm to himself! He's protecting the Fledgling Haunt of his 2 Babies! They must still have living Family, that's why he is so adamant that they don't hurt the Civilains in their battles!

Now they just feel like assholes for attacking the Baby's dad when he was just trying to protect their stuff.

Danny finds this both extremely infuriating, and also agonizingly hilarious.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Bonus 13: Beware the Grapes of Wrath.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[divorcedwife]

to the centre of the city in the night, waiting for you

[jackshiccup]

you’re 16 and nothing bad has happened

a lil scene based on my friend @droptoposmosis’ fic can’t smile like you mean it (aaaa childhood friends hijack makes my brain dissolve ;;)

[battlefairies]

[►Text only: Druid's Lullaby

When the acorns start falling and the bear is bedding down you too, with the light feet, must rest your head and dream of spring. The fern and the fox will still be there, when swallow and stork return and the earth’s yet warm and softer still, beneath the bracken where the snow piles high. And feel not the sting of the wind as Capricorn rises; the earth will swathe and hold to your shape for a while: another form in a vast constellation. The mind set free is a soul that soars like a wind-seed carried to unknown places confident it may take root and bloom partway by choice, between the soil and sun.

/text]

[babyblankyerror]

Stanley has began a ritual. It began out of no where, when he wanted to be close to his brother, wanted a bit of attention but he wasn't sure how or what sort of attention...

It happened after a shower, hair still wet and growing into what he knew was becoming a mullet;

"Can you brush my hair?" He asked, surprised himself. The hair wasn't so long he couldn't do it himself but he still asked for the small favour.

Stanford looked just as surprised as him and so the routine began. Every now and then he'd ask for his hair brushed after a shower but he began to notice how Ford slumped when his hair was already brushed and so it became an everyday thing before they knew it.

"Can you serve me the food?" It was Stanley's turn to be surprised as his brother asked for the little favour. He is a grown ass man, not injured at all and thus not needing aid but still Stanley agreed without a second thought. That, too, became their routine.

[certainlyathrill]

they were boys together !!!

[jesncin]

does Goldie approve of John smoking?

your Goldie drawing comic made me think of it. does John feel closer to him when he smokes because of what it's doing to his health (i.e. bringing him closer to death)? just curious about what you think

[I know you're talking about ghost baby Goldie but I thought showing grownup Goldie's opinion would be funny]

As a ghost baby, Goldie doesn't really understand what John's doing when he's smoking or that it directly deteriorates John's health. I imagine during the cancer arc that Goldie is under the belief John caught a bad illness or was getting old.

As for John, he smokes as an addict since he was a teen with pretty blatant disregard for his health. While he feels guilty about not being able to be "with" Goldie in death, John does want to live more than anything. Goldie wants that for him too, even if that just makes John feel worse.

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[dunmesh]

these sketches from the dungeon meshi art exhibition are so good...!!!

[gibbiiginnii]

The Littlest Guy in all of Cybertron: 4 year-old Orion Pax 🥺🤏

Been on a huge TF kick after my last coin comm 😋

[catrasfreckles]

*wakes up*

I wonder how Pyrrha feels about her dead lover's dead daughter having the same name as her dead best friend

*goes back to sleep*

[mkarchin713]

DP Prompt 1

Everyone in the Zone knew Phantom was an odd fellow.

He always acted like he knew everyone, even when it was their first meeting.

He never stuck around long, sometimes centuries would pass without anyone seeing him.

He always seemed eager to fight, in fact he usually assumed other ghosts wanted to fight him.

So when he started bogarting a permanent portal 24/7 everyone was a bit confused, but at least now he was staying in one spot long enough to regularly visit him, now all the younger ghosts can visit him for training.

TLDR: thanks to time travel shenanigans all of Danny’s rogues think he’s much older than them and don’t realize he’s a baby ghost.

[godbirdart]

grab