#anyways get queued

[thelingering]

a magical thing occurred - the overthinking part of my brain just created a very comforting thought and realisation about how well I'm doing at things

it just uno reversed me after all that torment???

[needycatboy]

missionary where your hands are cuffed above you, and your lover is leaning over you with a possessive hand holding your jaw, their thrusts slow. every time he pulls out he watches your face curiously, and every time he pushes back in he smiles as it pulls a cry out of you. they've got a feral look in their eye as they ask you, "yeah? right there, baby? that feel good kitten?" and you just have to gasp and whimper and take it and

[qbc-potate]

me when i get sent to the shaq zone™:

[dimeadozencows]

A few dumb ideas I had for a bit hehe

[lucabyte]

leering

[for-those-who-wait]

Here's something from the drafts that I also yapped with Cal about:

Something that I noticed a bit too late with Hunter's color palettes is that compared to his Golden Guard uniforms which were majority yellow and neutrals, his casual TTT outfit has not only yellow (his main color) but also blue added by his pants and red added from Flapjack, his shoes, and the patches/watermelons on his pants depending on the fit

Apart from his changes being clear from his outfit alone (like he's clearly in comfort clothes and not a uniform), the color palette speaks a lot to his evolution as well, because these are primary colors. The yellow goes from prestigious gold to just... a color. A color that, when paired with the red and blue he has gained in TTT, is considered a color palette that is often associated with children or childhood

Which makes me realize that yeah, this is representing him finally being able to just be a kid and not a solider who had limited control over his identity and self-expression. But more than that is the fact that you can make any other color with the three primary colors. His color palette shows that although he's just starting to heal and doesn't quite know who he is just yet, he now has the resources and support to mix things up and make new colors and figure himself out later on. He's not being restricted anymore

And since Flapjack was such a big part of his life, maybe he's actually meant to be orange. You never know

And oh hey look at that!

[drakyions]

all of cloud's charaden animations (keys 1-9) • cloud | tifa | aerith

these were avatars that would do different animations depending on keypad presses on 'video'calls for japanese phones. previewed using docomo's official charaden tool, these came preloaded on the panasonic foma p900iv, aka the phone used in advent children!

[yandere-yearnings]

Fortune Favours (Male Yandere!Rival Mafia Boss x GN!Reader)

feat. Ventura

♡ oneshot, approx. 1.5k words

♡ post-specific warnings: implied torture, implied kidnapping, usage of gun, implied murder, blood

♡ a/n: the unedited version of my work for this yan zine!! in the coming days i'll hopefully be tweaking it based on feedback so the one that gets released in the end won't be as ass hhh

♡♡♡

You hadn’t heard a church bell toll in the three years since you’d left your hometown, and tonight the sound had returned echoing in a way that made you feel like your eardrums would collapse. Unsure of how many times it had rung by now, sharp tremors in your mind that would leap with every knell—some unique kind of torture you knew your kidnapper was enjoying seeing you struggle through. You had no doubt he had chosen this location intentionally.

Cold fingers on your chin tilted your head from its lolled position, forest greens smiling, your blood dried beneath his nails that dug into your cheekbone. “Not giving up yet?” he asked, threat in the gun glinting in his other hand, the one he’d promised to blow your brains out with only a few hours ago before leaving, sing-songing about his other projects. “Y’know, the funeral happening right now is for another dog I had to put down. Too loyal for his own good,” he tapped the barrel against your temple. “Just. Like. You.”

“Shoot me then,” you snarled, “I don’t give a shit.”

Ventura laughed, unfettered, threw his weapon across the room in favour of pulling you closer by the neck of your shirt—chair and all, sliding across the floor, black marks from the rubber feet, and ropes tying your wrists to it digging, digging. “Guess who actually doesn’t give a shit,” he bit back, something in his eyes unfocused, “your boss. Motherfucker that just left you in enemy territory to die. The piece of shit that’s already replaced you with another mutt he picked off the side of the road. You wanna give your life for his? I’ll put you out of your misery ten times over and then put you in the ground, don’t think for even a second just because we were together—”

“Hey,” you interrupted, voice as steady as it could be with his knuckles balled right against your thyroid cartilage, “I didn’t say anything.”

For a second, fabric fisted tight enough it began to burn where it bore into your nape, and you thought your words had finally tugged his taut strings to the point of snapping, but a beat passed and then he let you go. Your relief, in whatever form it came, was short-lived, tracking his silhouette as he walked over to his discarded gun and picked it up. The line of his back, his patterns of breathing, everything about him so familiar to you; a stranger you knew intimately, a stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all.

As he returned, your dry lips parted, “he’ll come back for me, you know it too.” Slumping against your restraints, looking down at all the blood spattered over the concrete, every bit of you believing your own words—because if not your own, there was nothing else. “Boss is a good man.”

“Three of his own just died because of him.”

Your jaw clenched. “He’s going through a tough time.”

“Oh please,” Ventura rolled his eyes, “he’s having trouble in paradise, doesn’t mean he needed to start offloading his forces to the high heavens too.” He clicked his safety off, catching your glare without so much as flinching. “It’s really starting to piss me off how forgiving you are of him when you readily tossed me to the curb over some bullshit you heard from a common whore.”

“I told you not to talk about her like that.” Curt, through gritted teeth, through breaths to calm the heart in you that was thunderous, “get a grip Ventura, she’s dead. You killed her.”

“I’ve killed a lot of people,” he snickered, and if he wasn’t teetering on hysterical before, he certainly was now, “you’ve killed a lot of people. So what does it fucking matter that I added one more to the pile? We’re going to hell together, so why does anyone else fucking matter?”

“It—”

“You always put other people above us,” he cut you off, and his shaky exhale wasn’t lost on you. Gun lifting in the hand he brought to his face, wrist pressing to his eyes underneath his hair—so much blood caked into the black locks that the pressure blotted patchy red streaks into his skin. The mess you’d made stood in front of you racing through an emotion you’d never been privy to from him; it was enough to make you bite your tongue, and for a moment, lull whatever anger, whatever resentment you held inside of you. “When it was you and me,” Ventura whispered, “it was everyone else as well. You never let it be just us. I was so fucking lonely with you.”

A beat passed. “I never meant for that.” You were being honest, really, you’d never even known he felt that way. “If you had said something, I…”

“You wouldn’t have given a shit,” he spat back your words from earlier with a glare, “just like always. You never change. Nothing changes you—I tried and I tried and I tried and when I got tired you just let me go, like it was that easy.”

The lump in your throat felt like it was made of rattan, scratchy every time you swallowed, or even breathed, something diffusing through the gaps but unable to make it through all at once. In the end, was it all your fault? Everything that had happened, that you had dirtied yourself irrevocably in trying to bury, put to rest—was it only you who could be blamed for it? Sins you couldn’t undo, that were yours and yours alone, gained suffocating weight.

“What did you want me to do Eli?” you croaked, and his gun went off the second that name—the one you’d sworn not to say again—left your lips.

Bullet hole in the plaster wall, smoke in swathes from the muzzle and your ear clipped by the projectile ringing out; you could feel warmth from the shell of it, trickling down the side of your neck like it was melting. For what felt like minutes, you couldn’t hear a single thing over static buzzing, somehow frozen watching the man you’d ruined rush to you, cup the side of your head and let your blood leak out all over his fingers instead. 

He was saying something, eating up the tears that tracked down his face from those pretty eyes you’d always loved. The both of you had been right here for hours, so many flesh wounds he’d carved onto you and yet, this regret was instantaneous. Perhaps it was because for a second you were you again, and you let him see it. Shoulders shaking as he coiled into you. Once upon a time, it was you who had promised him the world.

“I’m sorry.” He gasped, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong, I—” Ventura choked on his words, on his very breaths, like he’d die right there in your arms at a time where you didn’t have your own to hold him through it, “ever since you left, nothing— I don’t know what’s happened to me. Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.”

“I won’t.” Your cheek pressed to the side of his exposed neck, pulse in his carotid artery beating into your flesh like it was trying to break into it. This position and these very sensations you’d known for thousands of nights before this. His scent no longer persisted beyond metal and gunpowder, and yet you could still imagine it. “Have I not been stronger than this?” you whisper, “have I not been stronger?”

Lungs wheezing audibly, Ventura bore his weight down onto you some more, cold sweat dampening the skin of his forehead leaching off onto your shoulder. Responseless, his knuckles fastened white in your clothes and trembling. You couldn’t comfort him, and you tried to reason that even that was his fault for confining you to the chair you were in, but really, you wouldn’t have been able to anyway. Even back then, you couldn’t comfort him. All you knew was how to use, and all he knew was how to be used. You burnt each other to ashes just like that, and it was safe—it was the safest place either of you had ever known.

That’s what had gotten you into this mess to begin with.

If you blinked slow enough, the memories would start to cut through the wisps of your lashes, as they had been doing for years. In the days to come, you’d pin it on the blood loss, on the lightheadedness, on the adrenaline making you delirious, but right now, you wanted to return to your sanctum. Osteonecrosis had eaten at the bone walls, and surely they could no longer support you; they’d crumble whilst you crawled back in. What did it matter? You’d only ever cared about yourself anyway.

“Emiliano,” your tongue comes out to swipe your upper lip, “untie me, sweetheart.”

[cent-scratchnsniff]

doodles and stuff. struggled with painting until i gave up

[lilianade-comics]

desperately trying not to crash out and deactivate my Tumblr before the DP fantasy zine drops

[futurelabs]

leaving this here, it's a good shot

[crystallizsch]

boo.

I'LL PASS AWAY NOW GOODBYE

[sincerely-sofie]

Narinder has some things to say about the reply on this post:

Oops! I accidentally dropped implications and foreshadowing into my goofy silly fun-times post! Oh no! Oh dear! Whatever will I do!

[kyurochurro]

caught a cold yesterday so I rewatched a good old childhood fav of mine, which also included another robot buddy I love! here’s data with wall-e cus why not :D

[venomgaia]

once again, I was possessed by a beast of some sort to make a sticker, this time of the rabbit variety! Get your own grown ass man who goes "Kuwaboo" here on redbubble!

[warpstarrie]

taranza's beautiful queen with a disorder