#anyone pls enjoy

[tapeworrmart]

Red Dead Revenge (low honor Arthur)

[doctorwhommm]

got silly with this one ◡̈

[seiwas]

sellllllll it's meeeeee. hehehehehehehehehhehe

so for ur writing exercises.... deku + light? please? pretty please?

:3c

heheh heheh hehe niku. this will be the death of me. me writing izuku for the first time 🥲 i will only do this for you </3

contains: established relationship, spoilers for the end of the manga, aged up deku but sometime in between the final outcome (he doesn't get the h*** s*** from bakugo yet), mentions of sex and scars

deku + light

izuku only sleeps with the lights off.

it isn't uncommon; many people you know can't sleep with even just a sliver of light turned on somewhere in the room. but the difference with izuku, you learn, is not that he's unable to stand the light―it's that he refuses to.

you quickly pick up on it the first few times he sleeps over.

he fidgets in bed, pretty badly, actually. the nightlight you sleep with glows a warm yellow, illuminating the side of your face and coating him in its afterglow. you chalk it up to nerves, how he pulls at his sleeves and adjusts his position constantly; he is, after all, one of the most anxious people you know.

and this relationship―it's new. heck, even you feel a little jittery with his arm wrapped around you.

the rhythmic tapping on your hip only increases pace. you don't think he realizes it, so your hand gently reaches for his, intertwining your fingers as you turn around in his arms.

he's close, nearly touching you nose-to-nose; the proximity leaves you fuzzy, a little ticklish, so you giggle, a soft "oops," as the freckles dusting his face almost glisten under the warm light.

"hi," you whisper, meeting his eyes; they stare back at you wide in surprise, "can't sleep?"

he looks almost guilty at your question, as if you’ve caught him with the one thing he's been trying to keep from you.

"just—" his voice comes out louder than intended, prompting him to chuckle nervously as he readjusts his volume, "just winding down, sorry."

you inch closer, nuzzling his nose lightly, "it's okay."

"did i wake you?" he asks, cheeks flushing pink as his eyebrows furrow in immediate concern. his expression is something caught between stifling a grin and feeling sorry.

you shake your head against the pillow you share, strands of your hair tangling with his. "just winding down," you tease, watching as his gaze turns softer, eyelids drooping heavier.

sometimes, you think, izuku holds the world in his eyes―a deep, dark green, the color of life. most times, they look at you with wonderment, bright and alive; photos from inko tell you they're the eyes of his inner child.

on nights like this one, however, they hide a depth in them weighted by what you can only assume is time, and all that has happened to him in such a short span of it.

you try your best to understand what lies beneath them, knowing full well he'll never tell you outright what truly bothers him.

"is it the light?" you bring up, some time after laying in silence.

"hm?" he clarifies.

"do you have a hard time sleeping with the nightlight?"

his eyes widen briefly once more, as if shocked that you've caught him again. these split second reactions are ones you've learned to be attentive to when it comes to izuku.

"no," he tries to lie, but you know better as you turn to your nightstand and reach for its switch, "you don't–"

"it was hurting my eyes," you quickly make up an excuse, tucking yourself closer under his chin as you cut off his attempt to deny it again.

finding out that the light was the problem was the easy part—

you'd begun to notice much earlier on that izuku was barely rested on the nights he'd spend at your place. it was only when your old nightlight broke that you began to notice him waking up much later than you did, groggily rousing from a deep sleep.

—what was hard, was figuring out why.

at first, you suspected it was his scars.

"s-sorry, it's not—" he'd warned you, right as your hands gripped the hem of his shirt the first time you were about to have sex, "—it's not nice."

you didn't care though; you still don't care, and you've made that abundantly clear to him since. you love izuku and all his parts―all the nicks and jaggedy pieces of skin that make up who he is.

when you eventually ask him about it, with a request that he be honest with you for once, he tells you that it is and it isn't―the reason why he exclusively sleeps with the lights off, that is.

it's an odd, comforting relationship he has with his body—that he is simultaneously grateful and sorry for how its become a canvas, both painted and marred to symbolize japan’s historic last stand.

you find out the real reason when you catch him staring at his hands.

he does it often, when he thinks you aren't looking—his fists bunched up in the same way he used to watch the power of one for all course through his fingertips; the same way he used to prepare them in battle.

there’s a faraway look in his eyes that lingers, you notice—a little wistful if anything.

“do you miss it?” you finally ask. he gives you the same shocked look he does every time, as if he’s been caught with a secret he’s been trying to hide.

he’s learned a fair bit about you now, too, though—lying to you is futile when you’ve perfected reading his truth. he stares at his fists again as you take a seat beside him, moving to give you space. you rest your head on his shoulder gently, waiting.

“sometimes,” he admits, but you know it’s an understatement.

“i think about the vestiges a lot. i miss them the most, i think,” he continues, clenching his fists tightly, “i always try to reach out to them, but i guess it doesn’t work that way.”

“i… i try to replicate the right conditions every night, but…” then he lets go, stretching his fingers out wide. the scars on the surface ripple through his skin, telling its own story.

you hum, acknowledging what he means. silence sits with the two of you as you take his hand in yours, slowly unfurling his fingers until his palm reveals itself to you. it’s rough to the touch, seasoned with hard work and all that he’s been through.

“is that why you prefer the dark?” you ask softly, after some time.

it's not often that you stay up later than izuku does. when you do though, you catch him shifting in bed, moving from side-to-side. you pretend you aren't awake, but you hear him mumble their names, dwindling in volume as he dozes off to sleep.

he stares at his palm for a moment before he admits quietly, "yeah." his brows furrow as if contemplating whether to say more, but he shakes his head, dark green strands swaying to the beat of his embarrassed chuckle, "nevermind, it's silly."

"it's not."

you intertwine your fingers, sandwiching his hand between yours. a slight sheen glosses over his eyes as he tilts his head up to look at you. he draws in a breath, before it spills over.

"it's..." he finds the words, and you squeeze his hand in comfort, "it's easier to believe it was all real when the lights are out, and that maybe it can happen again."

[sunflowers-and-scales]

TRICK OR TREAT THING IS SO CUTEEEE

trick or treat !! 🍭🍭🍭🎃🎃

ohhh yeah so u got me! do i owe u a gold star or smth now i forgor…

i drew you uendo. anyways here is he. and she. and the other ones.

[dreamingumbrellas]

why tua s1 is a masterpiece and 2-4 give me a migraine

i gotta use my english degree for something so lets talk about it

i’d like to note beforehand, that i’ve only seen about half of season 4. but given everything i’ve heard about it, i’ve decided to avoid watching it for my own mental wellbeing. i really haven’t enjoyed the last three seasons much, mostly i’ve been dredging through because of how much i love season 1. it feels painfully like seasons 1 and seasons 2-4 are for completely different fucking shows–particularly in tone.

i think tua season 1 attracted attention to its unique themes that are lost in the rest of the series. the primary themes are of trauma and dysfunctional family dynamics. it’s a story about seven severely abused siblings learning to cope with their trauma and reconnect as adults. season 1’s tone is somber. it shows us glimpses of the characters’ childhoods, and how it affects them in their adult lives. the characters in season 1 were, most importantly, flawed! they were assholes, because trauma turns people into assholes sometimes! 

you can directly trace back the siblings’ character flaws to the shit reggie put them through. Luther was the golden boy, which put too much responsibility on his shoulders and isolated him from his siblings. As a result, Luther is ultra-loyal to his dead father, in obvious denial of the abuse he endured because he was never able to form an identity for himself outside of reggie and the academy! he is the only one that never moved on. and then reggie turned luther into (for lack of a better term) a giant monkey without his consent, causing him to hate himself and even further alienate himself from the rest of the world. 

diego never left the ‘number 2’ headspace. he fights with luther even into adulthood. despite how much he claims to hate his father, he became a vigilante likely as an effort to finally be good enough for his dad. and lets not forget (unlike the writers) about his stutter–something that formed in childhood and came back as an adult when he was triggered with memories of his childhood. he’s inherently defensive because reginald pit the siblings against one another constantly.

allison is a narcissist–though, when we meet her in season 1, she’s more of a narcissist in recovery. she’s recognized how her childhood affected her and wants to become a better person to make up for the mistakes of her past. what mistakes again? well, she used her powers on her daughter because 1. she was never told no. reggie encouraged the usage of her powers, and the household where she grew up was violent, manipulative, and competitive. she had no sense of real normalcy, so she never learned how to build a happy, healthy family for her daughter. to cope with her trauma, she clung to her fame–this is shown both in adulthood and childhood flashbacks–leading her to become a movie star, and not accept her own faults.

klaus, well, klaus is the most obvious example of trauma. mostly due to reggie forcing his powers on him when he was a young childhood. locking him in a mausoleum for hours on end. he became a drug addict as a result. living on the streets, in and out of rehab, and stealing for money. we see him struggle constantly throughout season 1–through his interactions with ghosts (when its very possible he wouldn’t have developed such a fear of them if it weren’t for reggie), with flashbacks to his childhood and (later) to the vietnam war. his inability to take things seriously and his self-destructive behavior are both coping mechanisms. his siblings don’t trust him because of his lying and kleptomaniac tendencies.

five is a character whose development is utterly abandoned after season 1. he was only thirteen years old when he accidentally travelled in time to the apocalypse, where he remained for 45 years. i remind you of this because the writers won’t. he survived those years for his family! because he felt immeasurable guilt for leaving them! he was so lonely for these years that he developed a romantic attachment to a mannequin (something only referenced for a joke in later seasons). he was in an extremely vulnerable position when he was recruited by the handler (a character who was very creepy in her own right) and he was forced to use his childhood ‘superhero’ skillset to essentially become an assassin, a job he loathed himself for. all so he could have a chance to save his family. five is cocky, sarcastic, and yes, wants to save the world, but we forget that he wanted to save his family first. he was willing to sacrifice the world if it meant saving his siblings. and even once he returns to the present, he experiences ptsd flashbacks to his time in the apocalypse. five is severely traumatized and stuck between childhood and adulthood, has lived for far too long and has done too many terrible things to be a child, but is stuck in a childs body and never got the chance to emotionally mature past the age of 13. this in no way resembles the five we get in later seasons.

in season 1, ben is a tragedy. he is the character that haunts the narrative (literally). his death was the reason the family split up. he experienced an incredibly traumatic childhood, forced to slaughter people against his will. all so that he could die tragically young (we’ll get into his cause of death later). he’s stuck following klaus around for years, unable to interact with anyone else. he watched his brother deteriorate in front of him with no way to help. he’s angry about his death and sometimes takes out his frustrations on klaus. but at the same time, he was ‘the kindest’ of all the siblings. he cares deeply about his family, but can’t do anything about it.

i think it’s easy to forget that the initial focus of the show was viktor. viktor, who was told how unremarkable he was again and again. who was isolated not just from the world but from his own family as well. who was drugged up from an incredibly young age and forced to ignore his emotions. yes, the umbrella academy was abusive. but being isolated from his siblings was just another form of abuse. he grew up to resent his family on a lot of levels, writing his book as a method to vent his frustrations but only ended up in driving his siblings further away. viktor went through a lot of shit in season 1, and resulted in him ending the world. but did his family kill him? no. because that was the point of the entire show. that despite their trauma and how much they might resent one another, the siblings still loved each other more than the rest of the world put together. 

everything ive outlined are the elements that make up season 1, and are almost entirely forgotten about later. but by losing the integrity of the characters, they lost the narrative. the point of the umbrella academy was never saving the world–it was about a broken family reconciling with one another despite everything. these points of trauma are taken seriously. it was the complexity of these characters, at least in my opinion, that attracted attention towards them. and sure, we didn’t love every character all the time. remember how much luther was hated in season 1? but it’s because he was realistic. these characters, and the shit they went through, weren’t a joke. and the season ended off in a way that forshadowed these elements being explored more in depth. remember how it ended?

with the seven siblings holding hands as the world exploded around them. and for only a few seconds, we saw them transform back into their child selves.

now, this plot point (whatever it might have been) was instantly cancelled and forgotten about in season 2. but it really makes you think about the season we could have gotten: the characters being forced back into their childhood, having to confront the root of their trauma and essentially, all their problems. they could look back at what happened to them with a mature perspective and worked through it, realizing that they were not each other’s enemies. they could have made up for lost time, helped eachother heal, and ultimately prevent the apocalpyse by being family. you know, something that would have actually wrapped up the narrative nicely.

so, what happened?

the shows original themes of trauma, and repentance, and family were abandoned in favor of humor and spectacle. it seems like the creators misinterpreted what made the first season so successful. sure, the first season had a lot of funny moments and great fight scenes. but it was the emotional depth and complexity that made the show what it was. but worse than that, it continued to spit in the faces of the characters trauma, downplaying it in almost every way possible.

klaus’ relapses were played for comedy. his fear of ghosts was drastically downplayed with the use of cartoonish ghost-buster ass looking ghosts. five’s ptsd was never acknowledged again; his coping mechanism, dolores, became a joke. luther lost all character complexity entirely, instead becoming a himbo (who we love, but, still). viktor rarely brought up the feelings from his childhood, and nobody acknowledged his tell-all book again.

one of the things that infuriated me the most was the incorporation of reginald in later seasons. lets remind ourselves of some things: he purchased seven children, treated them like objects without names, trained them tirelessly and deprived them of a childhood, traumatized them by turning them into murderers, pitted them against one another, and literally tortured them. and that’s only the things we see him do on screen. you cannot convince me for a second that any of the siblings would ever be able to be the same room as that man without having serious flashbacks. I don’t believe for one second that they’d work with him, trust him, or empathize with him in any capacity (except maybe luther) except they do, consistently. even five, who is easily the smartest member of the academy, and extremely protective of his siblings.

and- LEST WE FUCKING DISREGARD- reginald MURDERED ben.

the moment that happened on screen felt like the last shovel of dirt on tua 1’s grave. supposedly all the siblings REMEMBERED this incident in seasons 1-3. and yet they went to their fathers funeral, spoke to him (relatively) civilly, and teamed up with him after seeing for themselves their father shoot their brother in the back of the head for seemingly no reason. not only did they apparently not hold this against their father, but they never mentioned it once in three seasons.

and yes, i know, there is a very simple reason for this. it was obviously made up at the last moment for plot convenience. but the implications for this being retconned in are damning for the characters. by writing this in, the writers decided that the siblings commitment to one another is meaningless. that the foundations upon which this show was created, are fucking meaningless. they threw away not only the individual complexity of each character, but also their relationship as a family.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

EDYN TIDESTRIDER, CHALLENGER OF THE UNDERSEA, RIVAL OF THE DEEP. WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOUR BROTHER WAS CHOSEN TO BE A WEAPON OF THE GODS? HOW WILL YOU UNDO WHAT THEY HAVE DONE TO HIM?

[saffron-gold-stardust]

Corvus gets his name.

[popping-greenbean]

haha i love.like.ruminating??

[wasjustred]

ahhh iloveyourworkssomuch!! 💖 i'd like to request something along the lines of sugar mommy!larissa (maybe with smut, who knows *wink*) 'cause she's all i can think about these days... anyways, happy early new years!!!

Easy Does It - NSFW Larissa Weems x f!Reader

Summary: Larissa spoils you beyond comprehension. Pairing(s): Larissa Weems x f!Reader Warnings: Smut. A lot of it. (Cunnilingus, fingering, strap-on — all Reader receiving) Word Count: ~4.7k

Author’s Note: I hope this meets your expectations, anon! I originally intended to make Larissa way more domineering, but once I began writing it just didn’t feel like her——I tried to stay true to her character where I could. As always, feedback is welcome ﹠. appreciated! ♡ (un-beta-ed as per usual!) ╱ AO3

The arrangement you and Larissa have has been smoothly gliding along for about six months now: you meet for dinner every weekend, in a town about half an hour outside of Jericho. You wear an outfit she’s picked out for you, she pulls your seat out, you share conversation and good - expensive - food and drinks, and you end on the stoop of your apartment, leaning into the kiss she places on your cheek, with a weekly allowance in cash in your purse. It’s the perfect set-up, nothing you’d dare protest, but sometimes you honest to god wish she’d just break her own rules and rail you ‘till the bed breaks.

Tonight you meet her at The Aviary, draped in a black satin dress with a deep slit up the leg––one of her favorites. Larissa helps you into your seat as she usually does, but before she takes her own, she places a long velvet box on your empty appetizer plate.

“Ooh, what’s this?”

“Open it and see.” A small, proud smirk turns her lips, eyes sparkling. You run your fingers over the velvet and lift at the seam, features going slack with surprise when you realize what’s hidden inside: a collar necklace, glittering diamond-cut, softening into a single falling arc of gems which ebbs, finally, into a small, shining teardrop. Light from the restaurant’s fixtures seem drawn to it, gleaming to and fro in a scattered stream of reflection. Your gaze snaps back to hers almost immediately, heart pounding.

“Larissa, I–”

“Do you like it?”

“I– Of course I do, it’s– it’s so beautiful..” Your voice softens and tapers off as you return your attention to the box before you. It’s probably the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given to you, but you stop short of admitting this. “Help me put it on?” 

Larissa’s smile grows as she gathers the box in her hands, lifting the necklace from its cushion. She moves to stand behind you and tenderly brushes your hair aside; her hands are as soft as anything, so gentle in the way they handle you, securing the piece around your neck. Your own hand raises to rest atop the new weight at your clavicle, and when she sets her palms along your shoulders and squeezes, you shift your hand up to capture hers.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Do I need one?” Larissa presses her lips to your cheek from behind before she retakes her seat, arching a brow in challenge. The answer is no, of course; this is how you work, special occasion or not. She always manages to keep you on your toes, though, far more thoughtful and intimate than any other ‘financeur’ you’ve ever humored in the past: Tennis bracelets set with gemstones which perfectly match your eyes, a new coffee bar set-up when you mentioned off-hand that Starbucks had discontinued your favorite drink, a signed first edition copy of your favorite book she ‘just so happened to come across’ while out of state. Much more than the simple, routine bank deposits and luxury brand pieces that were never quite you which you received from others. Larissa’s gifts have always been astoundingly personal.

You’ve never told her this, but you stopped dating altogether once your little dynamic began. How could anyone else compare? She makes you feel important without ever having to work for it ––– like you’re lovable, worthy, because you exist, and nothing more. You’re breaking  your own rules, being so enamored with her, but you refuse to dwell on it.

“No, you don’t…” You trail off as your food arrives, ducking your head in thanks as the waiter sets everything out before you. Any discussion of her gift to you ends there on Larissa’s own accord, swiftly and advantageously moving on to a new topic as soon as the waiter has left you. The rest of the night is spent sipping expensive wine and musing instead on all of the high-culture goings-on you never get to discuss with anyone else: Art, ballet, classical music. Larissa’s a delicious trove of knowledge and opinions and she impresses you with each turn of a new topic. You often find yourself wondering - not just tonight, but many nights whilst basking in her presence - why she’s chosen you. You can hold good conversation, of course, and have an appreciation for the finer things in life usually reserved for those older and/or wealthier than you, but what’s always been curious, what’s always given you pause, is that she never asks for anything else in return. You have no choice but to ask yourself what it is you possibly have to offer to a woman like her––but you almost always fall short of a satisfying answer.

She’s talking you both through an analysis of the most recent play she brought you to when you take one of her hands in your own, tracing the lines of her palm as you listen. Larissa stumbles over her words at first contact, a rare occurrence for her, and blushes pink at the sensation. When you glance up at her in question she quickly averts her gaze and carries on, moving to smooth her thumb over yours as you continue. You love her fingers: they’re long, delicate, awfully reminiscent of the Greek statues she enjoys waxing poetic about. It’s an instance in which you’re reminded art, very often, echoes us in a continuous cycle of give and take.

You don’t say a word when you notice her face darken another shade as you press a kiss to the inside of her wrist before moving on to dote upon her other hand.

She’s not once explicitly told you, but Larissa’s never expected you to take a physical liking to her. She set the rules she did early on for a reason, knowing she could live with looking and not touching, taking care of you and watching your face turn alight with each gift or special night out without ever ending the evening by your side. No sex necessary, no physical affection expected. But here you are, fawning over her, and she’s never been more conflicted.

To assuage the feeling, she convinces herself it’s the wine that’s made you this way––a good bottle will go a long way, thus your touch must be the product of inebriation, not genuine affection. You’ve both long since finished off your meals when Larissa pays the bill and drives you home as she normally does, to an apartment she partly finances (not fully, at your own insistence that there are some things you should take care of yourself) and walks you to your door, stooping to kiss your cheek. Routine. 

She is right about one thing, however, and that’s the potency of the house wine tonight. Not on your reasoning, but your self-control. You spent the car ride home admiring her profile in the passing streetlamps and traffic lights, studying the way each red light cast itself across her, how the passing headlights of opposing traffic bathed her in a cinematic glow you associated only, appropriately, with Vivien Leigh in A Streetcar Named Desire. Ghostlike, almost. Ethereal. And at that same wine’s behest, you lean further now into her goodnight kiss than you’d normally allow yourself.

It’s as she prepares to leave that you decide - anchored by the weight of the diamonds around your neck - that this is the night you’ll throw caution to the wind, fervently hoping it won’t backfire and end with her rejection and a ruined arrangement that you’d both worked to preserve over the past six months.

“Do you want to join me for a nightcap? I know we don’t usually, but.. I’d like you to. If you’d like to, of course. If you don’t that’s–––”

“Y/N,” she interrupts. You can hardly tell but her heart’s just about burst out of her chest. There’s an inner battle waging right on the precipice of her ribcage and your bright, hopeful eyes staring up at her aren’t making it any easier to parse out. Do you feel obligated somehow to pay her back for the necklace? She knows you know she’d never ask that of you, that your arrangement is not a traditional one, but has she unknowingly pushed the bounds all the same? Did you simply imbibe too much and don’t really have a clue what it is you’re saying?

Or, perhaps.. Most dangerously: Do you mean it?

“I don’t want you to feel as though you have to… ‘pay me back’ for tonight. That was never my intention.”

She volleys her own inner turmoil dead straight in your direction and stares down at you with what might be, if you squint hard enough, a nervous expression.

You lean sideways against the door and cross your arms over yourself, appraising her. Does she really not want you? What the hell does she get out of this if she doesn’t? You just can’t wrap your head around it, and while you insisted to yourself you’d never outwardly question the bounds of your relationship and why they’ve settled where they are, you’ve put yourself at a crossroads.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

She balks.

“What? Of course I do. What does that have to do with anything?” Larissa’s expression is a mixture of incredulity and apprehension. You decide to bite the bullet then as she lingers uncertainly beneath the moonlight.

“I don’t understand what you get out of this. Am I not–– you think I’m pretty but you don’t want to touch me? You pay for my livelihood but you don’t want anything tangible in return?” You both purse your lips simultaneously and you’d laugh if the situation weren’t so dire all of a sudden. “You confuse me, Larissa.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a small cloud bursting forth as she sighs.

You fucked it, didn’t you? Fucked it right to hell, and now she’s never going to speak to you again.

“You’re an idiot, do you know that?” The air goes still.

…

It’s news to you. 

Larissa suddenly pushes forward and traps you against the front of your door, hands leveled at your waist. “I’ve always wanted you,” she grits out, her arms tensing at your sides. “I just didn’t want you to feel as though you had to. Return the sentiment, that is. You’re too precious for that.” Her voice is low and rough in your ear, strangled. You grab hold of her forearms to keep yourself upright when her tone shoots right through you, breathing heavily. You gradually lift your gaze, poring over every curve of hers as you do, and meet her eyes. They’ve nearly gone black with lust, and a subtle quiver in her lip tells you everything you need to know.

“Kiss me.”

Larissa groans, which is admittedly not the reaction you’d expected, and presses further into you, her nose brushing against your cheek.  You can feel the heat of her grow, ensnaring you in perfect contrast to the cool night air.

“You have to tell me you want it, darling. I need you to say it.” … Oh. A new wave of arousal surges through you as you turn your head ever so slightly, her lips hovering just out of reach. The shared breath between you has become fraught with possibility, with the overwhelming, unspent energy that’s been collecting over the last six months without either of you quite noticing. Of course this is what she needs: confirmation, not that you’re hers but that she’s yours, by choice and choice alone.

“I want you, Larissa. Please,” you whisper, squeezing her arms in an attempt to ground yourself. She says nothing in return, instead immediately closing the distance and engulfing you in a desperate, searing kiss. Your cheeks burn and it’s all you can do not to melt into her fully, sucking in a sharp breath as her tongue slides against your bottom lip. This, this, you realize, is exactly what you’d imagined: Feeling her against you, wrapped up tightly in her arms, being drawn in and freed all at once, struggling to contain the desire you feel pulsing within yourself. It’s like Larissa’s split open your mind and picked through every thought there, coming away with only the most indecent imaginings and putting them to use as her hips pitch forward and her hands grasp achingly at the roundness of your thighs.

“Open the door,” she husks, suddenly ripping herself away and turning you at the waist to face the door. You fumble for your keys as she scores your neck and shoulders with hot, open-mouth kisses, running the tip of her tongue along the muscle that pulls taut there.

“F-fuck.” The chuckle she gives in response to your whimpering, shaking when you can’t fit the key into its slot, only weakens you further. Larissa must know her effect well as she wraps an arm around you to hold you upright, the other grabbing the key from you and swiftly unlocking the door in one go.

“Trust me, I’m trying.”

Laughter follows you both as you take the stairs one at a time, pausing every few to take her tongue in your mouth and run your hands along her front. You bypass the living room once you reach the landing - a feat in itself - and lead Larissa straight to your bedroom, kicking one heel off in the hall and the other at the threshold of your room. 

She stops you just before you reach the bed and holds you steady for a moment: “Hold on, I want to look at you..” You hair is mussed, curls losing their hold in the heat of your entanglement, chest heaving and red. Larissa steps forward to brush her thumb over your lips, searching your face for any sign of hesitation or doubt.

She doesn’t find any.

“Christ, you’re a pretty thing,” she hums. The pad of her thumb pulls at your bottom lip and you acquiesce, tilting your chin up before taking her finger into your mouth, rolling your tongue against its tip, watching her with wide eyes that imply an innocence you don’t possess. A hiss escapes her when your teeth come down around her knuckle and she scowls, gripping your jaw with an intensity that rivets the surrounding atmosphere as she rips her hand away, smashing your lips together once more.

In the next second the backs of your knees are buckling against the edge of the mattress and you squeak; Larissa had slipped a hand over your sternum and shoved, launching you down hard into the bed. Wet heat urges your hips forward as she crawls over you, but her hands swiftly come down to force them back into the mattress, trapping you there.

“Patience, darling.” You scoff as she begins the journey down your body, placing lazy kisses to your lips, cheek, jaw, chest while her fingers deftly work to pull your dress from you. You lift your back so she can snake a hand around and drag the zipper down to its end at the top of your hips, wriggling free and moving to pull at her own dress–––but she grabs your wrists, pinning them above you with a devious smirk. 

“Ah, ah. Let me spoil you,” she murmurs into the crook of your neck, one hand traveling to cup the dampness between your legs. Electricity cracks against your spine at her touch; you’re sweltering and freezing all at once, watching her eyes rake over you with a hunger you’ve never seen on her before. Her fingers draw idle circles around your clit as she works her way down your body, leaving a trail of wetness in her wake where tongue meets flesh, nipping at the precipice of your hip bones, glancing up at you before she licks you through your panties. There’s no helping the whine you turn free when she all but purrs at the taste she gets of you from the soaked fabric.

“Larissa, please,” you huff, lifting your hips up to meet her mouth. She takes three steps then in quick succession: chuckles into the skin of your inner thigh; pulls your panties down and off of you; and presses a series of messy, teasing kisses to your bare sex. Your fingers clutch at the top of your duvet as she finally begins to devour you, breath hitching as her tongue circles your entrance and delves into you. In a moment of white hot desperation, you hook your legs around her, calves flexing against her back as you shudder into her touch. She’s ravenous, consuming you with long, uninterrupted strokes that ride on the flat of her tongue, lapping your slickness up and winding into you all at once. The coil is tight within you already, pulsing with every movement of her mouth. You’re almost worried it’ll be over before it scarcely has had the chance to start, but a quiet, bemused voice in the back of your mind ridicules you: Larissa is nothing if not generous.

“You taste divine,” she breathes, before returning her ministrations to your clit, sucking and popping with the filthiest fucking moan you’ve ever heard. The feeling of her tongue against that tight bundle of nerves prompts your eyes to roll back, eyelids fluttering, and imbues your hands with a mind of their own, working them swiftly into her hair and pulling her as close to your cunt as you can get her, hips lurching in an unsteady rhythm. You can feel her amusement at your desperation as distinctly as you feel her mouth, but it’s quickly forgotten when she slides two fingers into you with an ease that makes you lightheaded. The sound of your wetness is sinful, and you have to admit it only spurs you on.

“Fuck me, fuck me, pleasefuckme––” Larissa’s grinning against you as she pumps her fingers, curling into you with a startling accuracy that leaves you breathless and aching. You press your cheek to your shoulder in a feeble attempt to keep yourself above the threshold dividing pleasure and bliss, useless as she slips another finger into you and flicks her tongue against you, quickening her pace as she follows the mounting tone of your pleas. Every touch spreads a warmth through you impossible to ignore, stirring a frantic need beneath the surface of your skin.

“Cum for me, darling, cum for me, that’s right.” Larissa presses the heel of her hand into the space just below the swell of your stomach and the coil snaps suddenly, sharply, sucking all of the air out of you at the same time that you yelp and tense with equal force, clamping around her face as your orgasm tears through you. She continues to lap at you even as your hands push at her, holding fast to your thighs to keep her place. Your legs shake as she builds you up in the same breath that you’re coming down, a second orgasm already rearing its head.

“I can’t,” you keen, but Larissa shakes her head and unlatches briefly to disagree.

“Yes you can, Y/N––be a good girl for me.” It washes over you when she lowers her face again and wraps her lips around your clit, sucking with an unfazed firmness that shocks you to your center. You’re tingling over every limb, pacing your breaths to ride you through this second crest. “That’s it..” Larissa coos, running her hand over your leg comfortingly. You can hardly breathe as the shockwaves roll through you one after the other, and the darkness of the ceiling above you seems to double in size as you stare in a daze.

Your muscles melt into the mattress one by one, sinking deep as Larissa finally pulls her head away and crawls forward to kiss you; you can taste your slickness on her tongue, familiar and tangy. When you part, gasping for air, you wrap a hand around the back of her neck and press your foreheads together, gazing up into her eyes with the softest look you can muster after so thoroughly falling apart in her hands.

“My turn?” She laughs loud and heartily at your doe-eyed demeanor. You’re itching to touch her, to taste her, and she knows it.

“Mmm, maybe.” Larissa shrugs and rises up from her position over you, sliding off to the side of the bed where you can’t reach her––and not for lack of trying. A whine catches in your throat when she shoots a withering look over her shoulder, patting the space beside her. “Help me with my dress, darling.”

You waste no time in flipping over onto your knees, shuffling over to her and grappling with the zipper of her dress. You flush when she laughs both at your inability to get it down in one swift motion and the frustrated little growl that bubbles up from your chest.

“Not funny,” you complain, gritting your teeth as she shifts and the zipper gives, revealing the smooth, snowy expanse of her back. Instilled with a renewed sense of hunger, you push the fabric away from both of her shoulders and continue the journey down and around to her breasts, thrilled she’s forgone a bra tonight as you palm the supple flesh there and roll her nipples between your fingers. The sigh she expels is a ragged one, her hands dwarfing yours whilst her head falls back against your shoulder. You revel in the sight of her lip caught between her teeth.

“I want to fuck you.” You just barely catch it in between her labored breaths and your own thunderous heartbeat, but you do, and you turn to glance at her curiously before her meaning hits you square in the face.

“But––”

She cuts you off. “I want to destroy you, Y/N. You can taste me later,” Larissa mutters, pivoting without another warning and capturing your lips again. You wouldn’t complain if it weren’t for the utter distress you felt to get your hands on her. She doesn’t give you a chance to rebut, however, as she slips out of her dress and climbs over you, guiding your hands to grip her ass. “Later, I promise.” She pulls back to appraise you, taking a rigorous inventory that she’ll commit to memory if it’s the last thing she does: Your flushed skin, the way you can’t keep still under her touch, the unmistakable shine of desire in your eyes.

“In th-the nightstand,” you stammer. Suddenly the realization that Larissa is here, in your bed, and you, at her mercy, is too much at once. You’re trembling with need and anticipation. She tilts her head at you, one second, two passing before she follows your guidance and pulls the drawer open, grinning wickedly at what she finds there.

“Harness?”

You nod vigorously, propping yourself up on your elbows and directing her through another drawer of your dresser. The slow, methodical way in which she fastens the leather around herself surely burns itself into your brain, and you can’t help the shameless moan that seeps out when she smooths an indulgent layer of lubricant along the silicone from base to tip, a delicious sight between her legs.

Larissa approaches with an emphasized swing to her hips, bending at the waist to press a chaste kiss to your lips before she nudges you to scoot back into the middle of the bed, positioning herself above you with a hand on either side of your head. She dips her face down into the hollow of your throat. 

Her voice vibrates against you despite her hushed tone. “Are you ready for me, darling?”

Your brain short-circuits at her words, imperfect timing. God, she’s fucking hot.

She lifts her head again to catch your gaze and smirks, nibbling on the tip of your chin. “Use your words.”

“Yes, yes, I’m ready,” you rasp, drawing your nails down the broad expanse of her back in anticipation.

The moment she slides into you is pure ecstasy: your toes curl and you haphazardly clamber for purchase upon her skin as she buries herself deep within you, stalling for a few moments to give you time to adjust. The way Larissa groans into the motion draws out an amusing - filthy - rumination about her being able to feel every stroke as with her own body, delighting in your wetness. She fills you seamlessly, snapping her hips against you before slowly drawing herself back, only to repeat the pattern and plunge into you as deeply as she’s able. It’s bruising and pleasurable all at once, how she brushes up against your walls and the ridges of the toy hit what your mind insists is every nerve-ending within you.

You rock together desperately, bodies moving as one as if you’d been doing this for centuries, mapping each other out and bringing each other to your peak. You savor the novel, tangled scent of sweat and arousal, a newly formed association with the sound of Larissa’s broken whimpers now frozen in your psyche.

A startled breath leaves you as Larissa abruptly anchors her weight to one side and pulls you on top of her, flipping your positions. Her arms wrap tight around you, looped at your back and around your shoulder as she fucks up into you at a crushing pace. You whine into the crook of her neck and realize you’re on the verge of tears, an overwhelming wave of pleasure and desperation wracking your body. Quiet grunts accompany her each thrust, slowing just so until it’s a steady pattern you can count to like clockwork, brutal and sharp at every buck of her hips. Your knees are aching, folded as they are, but the tight, coiling sensation within you overrides any and all discomfort, merely a quiet nagging in your brain; your focus is settled precisely on the angle of her cock and how her nails dig into your skin as you grind against each other. She’s close, too. You can feel it. It’s there in the shallowness of her breaths, in the urgency of her pelvis against yours, in the subtle arch of her back. You try to meet her where she’s at in your muddled state, pitching your hips backwards and down when she thrusts upwards––and you know it’s worked when she gasps and her hands scramble to lock together at the small of your back.

“Yes, that’s it darling. Just like that,” Larissa pants, using the leverage of her hold on you to help you fuck yourself. The only sounds permeating the room are that of your mingled breaths and her cock driving into you with a consistent, almost unforgiving rhythm. 

“Pleasepleaseplease, ohfuck––” 

“Y/N–––”

She tenses with you and cries out as your orgasms hit you both at once, ravaging you beyond reason. You’re hyper-aware of the way her breasts feel pressed against you, the way one of her hands flies up to bury itself in your hair as you ride her through your climax. Larissa’s hips stutter as she whines into your shoulder, sinking her teeth into you, and you marvel at the feeling of her muscles clenching around you, from the sinewy stretch of her arms to her thighs rested between your own.

Everything you’d hoped for. Fantasized about. Greedily deliberated again and again whilst watching her across the table in another fancy restaurant in another unfamiliar town.

Larissa is careful as she pulls out of you, slow and deliberate so as not to disturb the tenderness there. You remain curled on top of her but she doesn’t complain, rather rubbing your back in long, languid movements and whispering affirmations in you ear, a sweet mixture of ‘breathe darling, I’ve got you’ and more headily, ‘you did so well for me, you’re so good, you took me so well’. When you allow yourself to fall to the side of her, she shimmies out of the harness and tosses it somewhere off the edge of the bed, ignoring its clatter as she wraps you up in her arms. You burrow yourself further into her warmth and sigh at the feeling, content.

“Now is it my turn?” you ask, voice low and raked over with exhaustion. The belly laugh she gives is worth all the weariness in the world. “You’re incorrigible!”

[katoska]

Theory why Betelgeuse left Lydia's side to "go to the little boys' room" and took over for Richard at his booth for a bit:

Yes, he could have dealt with Jeremy without playing dress-up and taking over Richard's job, and didn't have to enable Richy to get a little more family time in the process. They could have saved Astrid just fine without that, so it seems unnecessary, for him to do that. OOC, even. Except

2) Richard wouldn't owe Betelgeuse a big favor for said taking over of his job and enabling the extra family time with Lydia and Astrid. Also, ofc, for saving his daughter from trading places with Jeremy. Betelgeuse did all that at great cost to himself: A Code 699 violation (see screenshot of transcript from reddit below) gets you extra time working as a civil servant, it gets your topside privileges revoked, and it voids any marriage you entered into, so his contract for payment from/marriage to Lydia was meaningless (well, if it had been a marriage certificate rather than just an agreement to get married in the future. and if he'd actually signed it. and then possibly only if he'd signed it before entering the Netherworld so there'd be a marriage TO void, rather than... not signing it at all... *sigh* he totally burned that half-signed and not-yet-binding contract himself bc he understood she wasn't ready to marry him yet, is what I'm saying, but I digress).

1) Lydia wouldn't have gotten closure for her ex's death without it. Closure which she sorely needed, because the fact that Richard's body was never found plus her seeming inability to see his ghost (Richard: "I know you two can't see me, but I check in on you all the time") add up to her having been in denial of his death. She couldn't see his ghost because she really really did not want to see proof that he was dead. So now she gets to move on from him. Which is very convenient for B. Especially as Richard is unlikely to be able to visit her anytime soon even now that Lydia has accepted his death and should be able to see him again, but I'm getting to that.

Still 2): Anyway, B doesn't do favors. He does business. If people are allowed to take over for others at their jobs in the afterlife, but those jobs are also a form of punishment where you have to "do time" at them for a specific duration, then those work hours are a currency that you can give away or trade. You can, if you find someone who is willing, get someone to do your time for you (hell, you can even get a naive Breather to trade their actual Life for your afterlife existence).

So yeah, I don't think Betelgeuse took over Richard's booth just out of the goodness of his heart. I think they made a deal, one that means that B will be topside again much sooner than the Deetz' will expect so he can get back to trying to seduce Richard's ex (hey, Richard always supported lost causes, so... 😆), while Richard will be stuck at work, unable to visit the Living for a long and unspecified amount of time. Not that his family's gonna notice, bc they never used to see him visit them, anyway.

And yeah, according to someone from reddit who decyphered that page in the Handbook, there's a bit about how the Deceased who violated Code 699 has to cease Trading, if applicable.

But I think that only goes for post-conviction of the crime, not as an automatic consequence of the crime, as B was also still able to visit the Living World to attempt the church wedding. Which, actually, is yet more evidence that this latest marriage attempt was more for the sake of declaring his feelings and testing the waters (and showing off, and getting rid at the competition) than him trying to actually get, and stay, married. Cause the church wedding would have been voided by a conviction, too.

Anyway, that's my theory on B's incredibly considerate, and therefore incredibly suspicious, detour to Richard's booth and letting Richard have his heroic moment.

And tbf, Lydia and Astrid are Richard's family. So it wouldn't even be unreasonable to expect Richard to pay for the legal trouble B got into from saving them. Like, I'm sure he'd have done it anyway, but if B can pass on that buck then ofc he's gonna.

[moonkhao]

hi.

[blakbonnet]

Season 2 is great on 40% budget but our Unicorn man deserved a nice goodbye and proper apology from Blackbeard. That is my only complain.

I think Ned Low deserved an apology actually because he worked so hard on his record and then no one even acknowledged it, yknow? Like ed should've apologised to him for breaking his record on half a whim (and when they said whim prone it was actually a nod to Ned and nothing about blackbonnet), because he's such an important character who followed them and everything, and he actually had ed's true interests at heart the entire time when he called him a low born dirtbag, I feel like those words could be taken to mean as words of concern and love, and he never got a proper apology and that's my real complaint from s2 tbh

[spacecolonie]

Um hello!! I'm truly a big fan of your artwork your art style is truly a masterpiece!

I have no questions in mind but can i ask you for a shadamy drawing?

I really want to see them in your amazing art style! Hope you have a nice day!

thank you so much 🥹 💖 here you go (shadow is not immune to pretty & cool girl)

[oneluckydragon]

✨🌸 Sunshine on your skin, flowers in my soul 🌸✨

🌊🫧Summary → In the midst of his reconciliation with Team Wish, Dusknoir begins coughing up flowers. This unfortunate brand of bad luck should be a cosmic joke. A spiteful punishment that the world has brought down on him out of malice, out of vengeance for his past deeds. A cruel, agonizing curse manifested with the single unjustified purpose of preventing him from realizing happiness, ever seeking redemption, ever righting his multitudes of wrongs and moving on with his life. But that's not true, and he knows it deep down. Knows it in the very core of his soul like the flood of petals building in this throat.

This is his fault because he is a coward, and that's all he has ever been. A backstabbing, lonely coward.

And now he is going to die because of it.

[AO3]

[CH. I -- Word Count -- 13,290]

🌒💫 Return → the act of going back to a place, person, or memory

[CH. II -- TBA]

[rallentando1011]

hehe, guess who’s trying out a new marker set and is developing a new strain of obsession over a show they’ve already hyperfixated on for years?

bet you’ll never guess who… anyway here’s my version of me possessed as Bill n a couple billford sketches from class ;P

[protagonist-art]

finally caved and started binging south park <33 love u jimmy