#back on my ac bullshit

[heraldofsomething]

Assassin's Creed: Odyssey Doing Time

Interesting... Death may be the greatest of human blessings, after all.

[saayatsumu]

deuce just needs a little reminder sometimes it’s okay buddy 🫶

[muisley]

two of em

[wisted-twonderland]

dramadar? radramar? drama radar…

[thou-babbling-brook]

I think both TURN: Washington’s Spies and Assassin’s Creed III could’ve been cut in half if these three were allowed to be the trio they were destined to be

[ike9306]

We trust in justice and Sheriff Fulbright !

[soulsofinkau]

{they finally escaped wip prison}

[thus-spoke-lo]

cw: nsfw/18+. afab!reader. vaginal fingering. masturbation (m + f). doffy-typical condescension. wc: 980

Doflamingo arranges you on the immense bed like his pretty little fuckdoll, pulls down the silken sheets and props you against the copious pillows, instructing you to touch yourself for him—he’s had a long day, and he wants his darling to give him a nice show. He undresses as he steps away, unbuttoning his shirt with an unhurried pace, letting the crisp, white fabric slide down his sinewy forearms before it flutters to the floor. He cocks his head and watches your fascinated expression as he teasingly pulls his trousers down over his hips, letting your eyes follow the v-shape carved into his lower abdomen and the trail of blonde hair leading down to his half-hard cock, already leaking for you. He hungers for the way your eyes light up at the sight of him—he requested a show from you, but he secretly relishes putting on one for you, too.

He pulls up a chair at the end of the bed and languidly strokes himself hard as he observes you; it’s charming, he thinks, how coy you are as you start, that no matter how many times you perform for him, there’s always a hint of bashfulness in your actions, as though you’re doing it all for the first time. He throbs as you take your time, avoiding his glances and running hesitant hands over your nude form, stifling moans until they’re only little sighs, tentatively circling your middle finger over your clit as though you’re unsure of what he wants, even though you know his desires as thoroughly as your own. He throbs in his palm and inhales sharply through his teeth as you finally slide two fingers inside your pretty cunt and pump them in an out, your knuckles beginning to glisten from your slick.

It’s such a shame, Doflamingo contemplates as he runs his thumb over the head of his aching cock, spreading his precum over the tip—no matter how you keen and sigh as you pleasure yourself, he knows that your hands are no match for what he can do to you. You can’t fill yourself the way his cock can, heavy and thick, stretching your walls until tears run down your puffy cheeks and you whine that it’s too big, right before you beg him to fill you more. You can’t reach the depths that his long fingers can, can’t quite stroke that spot inside you—the one that makes your legs quiver and your teeth clench—the way that he does. No matter how well you know your body, he knows it better, and no matter how successfully you can make yourself tremble and spasm on your own, he can do it even more brilliantly—he can make you keen, make you sob, make you grip the sheets until your fingers dig into your palms and your breath hitches in your throat until his name leaves your lips like a hymn. And why, when he can easily aid you in reaching heaven, would a generous god like himself allow his devotee to suffer?

“Pathetic,” he murmurs under his breath as he stands from his chair, his palm still running over his length as he approaches you and sits down on the bed. Your eyes open at the mattress shifting underneath you, and Doflamingo knows that look, can interpret that glimmer in your teary eyes—the one that admits your weaknesses and your shortfalls, that says you need him more than you’ve ever needed anyone. But a look isn’t enough—he needs to hear it.

“Do you want help, little bird?” he asks, words saturated with condescension. He places his hand on the side of your face, stroking your cheek as if to reassure you that it was all okay—it was okay to need him, to admit that you could never give yourself the gifts that he could.

He sees the hesitation, the way your lips press together and your brow furrows—you’ll beg him with a glance, but forcing you to admit your sins was another matter, and your reluctance makes his pulsing cock ache even more exquisitely for you. You finally nod and turn your body towards him, stilling your hand as you pout, “Please?”

“I really have to do everything for you, don’t I?” Doflamingo sighs, a halfhearted effort to hide his delight, but his elation is unmistakable as a lascivious grin stretches across his face.

A chuckle that turns into a low groan rumbles in his chest and he pushes your legs apart, grasping your wrist and slowly pulling your fingers out of your dripping cunt. He raises your hand to his mouth, lavishing your fingers with his tongue, savoring the taste of your juices—you taste like desperation, and want, and a heated need to be blessed by your merciful god. He lowers his hand to the apex of your thighs, to that temple of divinity that even he cannot resist, and slides his middle and ring fingers inside you, teasing you with a few shallow thrusts as you writhe on the mattress, adding his index finger to fill you the way you crave.

“Aww, now that’s better, isn’t it?” he coos as you clench around his fingers, and he feels a deluge of your slick coating his hand. You don’t answer him, too busy bucking your hips into his touch, your head pressing back into the pillows as his name pushes its way out of your lungs. But it’s perfectly alright that you’re stricken wordless under his hand: the way you cry out for him as he curls his fingers upwards and strokes your walls, the way your back arches as he presses into you and your thighs tighten around his forearm, the way your greedy little cunt flutters and spasms as he easily pushes you over the edge—that will be the only answer he ever needs.

[gotta-bail-my-quails]

^ from the Inertia OP, when X snaps at the end, overlaying with him (also should note that in this sequence, it transitions from the giant hand with the mysterious hooded dude to E-Soul's hand, and then literally nobody else from the top ten is shown until X;

edit: there's one guy who looks like Johnny but without the face paint who might be his father, the previous X, as mentioned in his character movie thing)

^ what is seemingly the character in the 1st pic is called "Zero" (minus the little antennas) and...was clearly kinda evil

(this is from the electric soul/e-soul character video which is just. insane. seriously watch it if you haven't what the fuuuuck is going on in there)

^ exactly at the moment Nice takes a step off the ledge, the picture of X on the left changes to a similar card-design but with the number zero

....which could mean nothing.

bonus: i found a clearer image of the billboard at around the 4 minute mark

which shows a lady wearing glasses, with long black hair, who I don't think we've seen yet

[thymedog]

End of shift

[apple-pie-fly]

small mob

[vroomvroomwee]

God the queer experience of meeting wonderful people who are actually kind, compassionate, and thoughtful. Becoming close friends. But still feeling this deep sense of otherness. This deep dissonance between you and them that stems from the fact that they have no idea who you are.

It fucking hurts to have these people hang out with you and like you, and knowing deep down that they won't like the REAL you, but instead this masked persona that you put up for the sake of your own safety. It hurts knowing that every time you talk to them, you know that they're talking to someone else. That someone else is pushing you back and making conversation with your friends. Stealing them from you.

And it's not like we have much choice. People constantly say oh find other queer people, oh just make trans friends, oh you need a community. As if it's that easy. As if we don't already desperately long for some form of recognition, of connection. As if we don't claw our hearts out every night because we want the space next to us to be occupied. To be understood. To be valued. To be worth a damn. To be loved. Some of us just don't have that choice.

It hurts that I can't be friends with these lovely people because of the hand I was dealt. And yeah, I'm ready to hear the "if they don't accept the real you, then they were never lovely people to begin with." True. That's true. But I'm not oblivious to the fact that if I was cishetallo then I would actually have friends. And feel known. And feel seen.

I know we're supposed to love ourselves no matter what and these days you'll basically be torn apart if you so much as insinuate that you're not proud of your identity. But goddammit I'm not. It's hard. And I know trans is beautiful. And queer is beautiful. And it's liberating. But I just wish they knew it too. And it's fucking lonely

[jinxedshapeshifter]

klapollo romantic bickering (klavier flirting and apollo being annoyed) where everyone else thinks they're dating but they deny it every time and the second they either admit they might've been dating without realizing it or start dating everyone's like "have you SEEN yourselves"

[gleamiarts]

i finally know how to draw apollo.. i feel so powerful

[foxnikki]

What if Ace's ace?

[greyskyflowers]

Thinking of love stories that don't get a chance to be told ~

💙

Always Gold Radical Face / The First Bad Man Miranda July / One Piece Oda Eiichiro / Second Chance Summer Morgan Matson / Song of Achilles Madeline Miller / One Piece Oda Eiichiro / Hdhwrites (via wnq-writers) / Rupi Kaur / One Piece Oda Eiichiro / Summertime Sadness Lana Del Ray