#from the soup

[1-dollar-bottomless-void]

The Mouth of Adam Hungers for its Missing Rib

Her heartbeat is loud in her ears. The creature walks between the trees, teeth snapping, body creaking, looking for her, that gaping wound in its side dripping honey-like ichor onto the ground. It's unlike anything she's ever seen, and yet... something deep in her chest knows this thing, as though it's a part of her.

Or she's a part of it.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

no more fan-ta-sizing about it! everything's already changed~

[lastoneout]

the whole guilt-tripping language in posts about important topics paired with how I'm still getting bitches in my notes talking about why it's actually good to tell "bad" people to kill themselves continues to prove to me that a lot of people have absolutely no concept of social justice or activism outside of assuming the worst of and then viciously attacking strangers on the internet

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Soup solves everything.

[thatstupiddoggymutt]

I built a girl >:3

[justl-12]

leyendecker study with pearl (she doesn't look like shes looking at the note but eh)

i miss season 9

[michiriii]

I want to put him in a microwave

[sopuu]

double rizz

[esprei]

happy halloween! 🎃👻🍜

[neomel]

Hi sorry I need to do some more Pokemon posting bc this is the funniest shit. the cute-looking Pokèmon TCG series is making "TM10" part of its branding. Like, TM10 from the games - its the TM for the move Hidden Power, thats cute! Its reflecting the main character discovering herself in the same way the move works in the game, what a cute little detail!

Except uh. Just one problem.

Game Freak in all their brilliance removed Hidden Power from the franchise four years ago in Generation 8* and its still not able to be used in Scarlet and Violet. Its not just that you cant teach it to Pokèmon anymore, you straight up cannot use the attack even if you trade in Pokèmon from older games who know it. Its like a banned technique.

So then that begs the question – if the TCG show is gonna be referencing TM10 this much, but TM10 *isn't* Hidden Power anymore, surely that means TM10 is another similarly inspiring attack - Stored Power, or Calm Mind, or Smart Strike?

Well, depending on if its Gen 8 or 9, I hope the kids will have fun Discovering Their Own Magical Leaf and/or Discovering Their Own Ice Fang. Truly inspiring words. love how well managed this franchise is

[aquacomet]

Boop! 🐾

Watch out! Some little guys have been spotted running around again, not delivering soup this time but boops!

Doodled these up using the drawme box, when you doodle one of them the other is never that far behind!

[1-dollar-bottomless-void]

Dancing in the Moonlight

The scene is perfect. The room is empty. The walls are exactly as you remember them. She stands in the middle of the floor, arms behind her back. The color of the lights dance across the exposed part of her thighs, between the short skirt and tall boots.

She reaches out a hand and presses a button on the old-school sound board on the table.

A smooth, synth-y sort of sound plays, like an electric organ and a glockenspiel.

She begins to sway, her head rocking back and forth to the music like pendulum. You find yourself moving with her.

Something is written on the walls—something you don't remember. You can't help but say it out loud.

"We get it almost every night."

She looks you up and down, then nods. "When that moon is big and bright." It's more of an answer than a response.

She spins, and her skirt flares out almost high up enough to catch a glimpse of what's beneath it. She reaches out a hand to you, her thumb poking through the sleeve of her yellow hoodie. She beckons you.

"It's a supernatural delight." She laughs, and gestures to the room. "Everybody's dancin' in the moonlight." The room is empty.

You laugh. It's funny.

You step in and put your arms around her. She smells exactly as you remember.

Her head leans into your chest, and she says, her voice muffled by the cloth of your shirt, "Everybody here is out of sight."

You nod. "They don't bark, and they don't bite," you say. You mean it in an affirming way, an enticing way.

She laughs that laugh that you know so well and yet it is nothing like you remember.

Behind her, you see the words written on the wall. They look different. You don't say them out loud this time, but she does, her head still buried in you.

"They keep things loose, they keep 'em tight," she sighs. She moans. You swallow. "Everybody was dancin' in the moonlight."

She spins again, pulling away from you. Her face is alight, smiling, but sad.

"Dancin' in the moonlight?" you ask.

She nods, her chest heaving, her hips swaying slowly. "Everybody's feelin' warm and bright." She spreads her arms wide.

The room is empty.

Maybe you follow her. Maybe you chase her. The way you're moving, it's not clear. But you remember it clearly. She bounces on the balls of her feet, and again the skirt rises dangerously high. She runs a hand through her hair. The lights catch it and make it glow like a prism. Her teeth flash.

"It's such a fine and natural sight," you murmer, feet in lockstep with her's.

She giggles and throws her hands up over her head and falls back against the wall. The writing is different again. But you remember this.

You both say it at the same time.

"Everybody's dancin' in the moonlight."

You're on top of her. You crossed the room so fast you don't remember it. One hand on the wall, next to her head, practically in her hair. You don't need to see the writing anymore.

"We like our fun and we never fight," you say, smiling at her.

She smiles back, looking deep into your eyes. You can't remember what color her eyes are. You see your face reflected in them.

She lets herself slide down the wall beneath you. Your breath is heavy. Her's is heavier.

"You can't dance and stay uptight," she says shyly. Or is it regretfully?

And she sticks her had in between your ribs.

You feel her fingers in your lungs, undulating with the scilia. Blood runs down her arm, and soaks the fabric of her hoodie.

She cranes her head and sucks on the cloth. She looks up at you, her mouth messy with red. It dribbles down her lips and onto her chin.

"It's a supernatural delight," she continues.

You tilt your head to the side.

She frowns. "Everybody was dancin' in the moonlight," she explains.

Your smile is fixed, all teeth. You remember this. "Dancin' in the moonlight," you echo.

She laughs. It was funny. You would kill to hear that laugh again. But you'll settle for dying.

"Everybody's feelin' warm and bright." She pulls her hand from your ribs and buries her face in your stomach. It tickles. It's just you and her, alone together.

Her teeth sink into your shirt, then through your skin and fat and suddenly your organs are spilling hot and wet and slippery down your legs, tangling in her hair. You feel her tongue probing into you, finding every crevice and fold of tissue as your blood soaks her mouth.

Her face turns towards you, a muzzle of gore coating her nose and mouth. Her eyes are dilated in addiction.

"It's such a fine and natural sight," you murmer, running a hand through her hair and your own viscera. It's sticky and wet and thick.

Saliva mixes with your blood on her lips. Her teeth are pink.

"Everybody's dancin' in the moonlight," she whispers to you, the voiced consonants bubbling the liquid at the corners of her mouth.

She threads her fingers in between your intestines, gripping them tight as they squirm in her grasp.

Her back arches.

Her mouth is open but she breathes though her nose.

She pulls down.

And then you're on your knees, staring into those gaping pupils that seem to swallow you so completely there's nothing to see but your own face. You can't tell what her's looks like.

You feel three fingers and a thumb press just below your clavicle. Her breathe is in your ear.

"We get it almost every night."

It's a plea.

She's begging.

You just smile.

The pressing grows firmer. And then you're on your back. By the feeling of bone pushing up through your hips, you know your femurs must have splintered up through your pelvis.

"When that moon is big and bright," you sigh. You can feel her hands begin to crawl across your ruined chest. "It's a supernatural delight."

The music is still playing.

You will remember this.

She begins to pry at your ribcage, as thought trying to open the doors to paradise. With a rush and a crack of thunder, your ribs are flung wide, and she burys herself in the cavity of your torso. Her arms reach deep within you, digging in, clutching and searching. You can hear her gasping and sobbing as her movements grow frenzied. The salty sting of tears mingle with the cool air on your innards. The smell of your own stomach acids rake your nostrils.

It's intoxicating.

"Everybody's dancin' in the moonlight," you chuckle. You know what comes next.

Her head is above yours. Here eyes are black, welling with her tears and your blood. Matted, scintillating red locks caress your face, framing hers.

"Dancin' in the moonlight," she says, as if in a dream. Her face is now pressed into yours. You can taste yourself on her skin. Her voice is barely audible.

"Everybody's feelin' warm and bright."

Her tongue traces your eyelid, wandering down to find your lips, still stretched in that grin.

"It's such a fine and natural sight."

Then her mouth is on yours, her tongue violently reaching down the back of your throat, hooking behind your incisors. Her neck convulses. You feel her teeth grip into your lips and pull.

And tear.

"Everybody's dancin' in the moonlight," she rasps through mouthfuls of you.

Your face is all smile now. The tendons that strap your mandible to your skull the only thing left of your cheeks.

The words come faster and faster out of her, those same lines that you remember, repeated over and over again, in between swallowing gulps and fevered mastication. Her maw wails in desire.

It's a sound you know so well.

She spreads you around the floor, your entrails and muscles split to dress you in vitruvian mimicry. Thick, dark, sticky, splatters of you paint her fingers and her face.

You're still smiling. It's all you can do. Your eyes do not see, she's taken them, yet you still watch her as she stands up. She looks so small, surrounded by your mass. You forgot how small she looks.

She futily wipes her faces with her sleeve.

The music fades away.

The scene is perfect. The room is empty. The walls are exactly as you remember them. She stands in the middle of the floor, arms behind her back. The color of the lights dance across the exposed part of her thighs, between the short skirt and tall boots.

She reaches out a hand and takes yours.

It's exactly as you will remember it.

[gund-arminc]

[irate-iguana]

Sometimes two and a half millennia old comedies can be so personal.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Council of lovefools.

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