#i'm srs

[augustusmuv]

I'm not okay w him omfg 😭😭

And doodles cuz old man yaoi

[sillydizzybxtches]

all these fic ideas are makin me lose focus on the ones i'm tryna write ... SEDATE ME PLEASE

[svtiddiess]

JOBLESS 🫵

STOP BULLYING ME OR I'M TELLING DADDY CHEE‼️‼️‼️

[yonemurishiroku]

Trans girl Nico Di Angelo.

Stan without thinking.

[demonstars]

???

I wanted to tap in on the fun 😕

[egophiliac]

2025 is the year of the DRAGON SLIPPERS

[deadshadowcreature]

These two were the first Nezhas that gave me this awful brainrot /aff

Shout of to these specific Nezhas gotta be my favourite genders

[daydream-the-demon]

Okay the fact I PREDICTED the fact that BillFord is practically true and that they were sure as hell exes. Bill Cipher RADIATED toxic ex energy over Stanford. Even the show radiates toxic old man yaoi.

Bill. The fuck you callin' Ford "Fordsy"?

The fuckin' HAIR RUFFLING that Bill did to Ford. And Ford just TOOK IT?

I- Bill. The fuck?

In a deleted scene, Ford spat in Bill's eye (a.k.a. his mouth) and Bill just fuckin' licked it up. Like- Just think about that.

Ford. This is about you now. YOU WERE WAY TOO OBSESSED ABOUT BILL. You literally pulled a Mabel but instead of putting up posters of boy bands, you put up posters of Bill.

You literally called each other "partners". Yes, it can be platonic, but like... With everything else..? HMM-

This? For WHO? WHO WAS THIS FOR HMM? BILL?

Fearamid thing. If you read the Book of Bill, you know. It was just a ploy to seduce Ford.

Conclusion: Toxic Old Man Yaoi and the triangle is a toxic ex and the old man is an obsessed manipulated ex.

And then the whole "One sixer, please" in the Book of Bill like okay you gotta be kidding me.

[ventique18]

Wannabe strongest mage son following his strongest mage stepdad's footsteps

They have the same typing for their equivalent uniforms!

[zivazivc]

Like a completely normal adult person, after watching the new trolls movie, I obsessively started putting together the brothers' backstory, the deeper reasons for their separation as well as how that all took place without disregarding the fact that they were trapped in the troll tree, which of course evolved into a fic in (forever) progress... yeah

Anyway, even though they aren't actively in the story much, i needed to design the parents, so uh meet Rosiepuff's daughter, Tulip, and her husband Branch.

I designed them based on the brothers' adult looks and in Tulip's case also on her mom's.

bonus baby branch:

[thotsoflore]

it's still really hard to believe that I made it. Even in the pre-op there was a part of me that was convinced that I would have this dick forever and that I'd never be fixed... but I did! I have a vagina now! and a vulva! and even though my pussy is swollen and bruised I almost cry every time I see it because it's so beautiful.

You can make it too. It's doable. It's hard and takes a lot of energy but you can do it. I believe in you.

If anyone ever needs help with bottom surgery, please DM me. If I can help, I will. You'll make it to the finish line. I believe in you.

[dalvs-wife]

all i'm saying is that one of them probably had to carry clover's body to that coffin in the castle

edit: read the first tag, thank you

[ilium-ilia]

simon riley x fem!reader | drabble | intersecting lines | morbid thoughts | death and the macabre | erotic morbidity? | blood kink taken to the extreme | two sides of the same coin can never look in one direction, but that won't stop them from devouring each other whole anyway

You only learned that you should be disgusted with blood when it first stained your underwear.

Thick endometrium and stale ichor, expunged from your body like a pest, sticky between your thighs, rotting in the core of you—keep it quiet. You'll make the men squirm if you open your pretty lips about it. Suffer in silence. Wrap agony with a pale, baby pink bow and grin with teeth as iridescent as pearls; nothing less. Everything more.

The boy in your biology class cringes at the frog you slice open during lab. Heart long since stilled, webbed hands and feet pinned open and wide, tender stomach ready to dive into—he gags, and the sympathetic puker that is his partner nearly spews over his shoes.

Later that year, after sustaining a bloody nose during a football game, he grins—wears the crimson proudly as it pours into his lips as if he realizes for the first time that iron tastes and awful lot like victory.

Blood is a fickle bitch.

It haunts your dreams. A wide, open sea of red that pours down your throat, coagulating in your chest, spilling into your stomach until you're bloated. Clawing for the surface, the sky asks why you aren't satisfied—have you not had enough death to satiate your hunger? They speak as if this is what you wanted; a choice you actively pursued, and not someplace you ended up.

As if there would be anywhere else that would welcome you with open arms.

Hands wrapped tight around a wheelchair, you gently lead your patient down the hall. She said she wanted to go for a walk, but her legs don't quite work the same anymore. You don't mind. It gets your steps in, and you're able to hide from the EVS tech who can't quite keep his eyes off of your ass.

She tells you about her grandson. Freshly jellied just two months ago—a tiny thing with predictably small hands and fingers and a scent she can't ever get enough of. She asks if you've ever experienced anything like that, and you smile and say you have.

You don't tell her about the blood that stains your shoes, or how it belonged to a seventeen year old boy, or the glass that was lodged in his throat, or how he couldn't live even after you patched him up.

Oh, I could never do something like that.

It's the default expression someone shares when you talk about your work. Tight lips, clenching jaws, twitchy feet—they speak like they don't know how beautiful blood is, like pomegranate juice flowing beneath overgrown thumb nails, or the fortitude it takes to see beauty when nothing but death has been shoved down your throat your entire life.

So you look for something else to sear your throat instead. A good pint, usually.

Shoved in the corner of a dilapidating pub, far out of the way, on the fringe of a wicked swing shift—the glass warms in your lips. Your hands tap against the table. No matter how many times you wash your hands, you can't get the stench to go away. Of blood. Of an emergency department.

Death approaches you with a black jumper, blue jeans, and eyes darker than a moonless night—his name is Simon Riley. Something he grunts out when you ask who the fuck he thinks he is for joining your table uninvited. Unfazed, sipping on his glass of whiskey neat, gaze fixated on the football game that drones on the telly too far for him to properly see.

You let him stay only because he smells familiar. Gun powder and cigarette—nicotine thick on his skin that even the faintest sniff leaves your blood buzzing. A culmination of all things dark, of things that get most people to flinch away, of things you lean into because you learned to smile through the fear and now you crave it more than anything else.

That night, you let him fuck you, only because you're curious to see if his blood tastes any different than your own.

Cock buried deep enough inside of you to snuff out the ache, you unhinge your jaw to fit him all in. Maw closing around his neck, teeth dipping where they shouldn't, you expect him to squeal like a stuck pig—instead, he laughs. Lips red like rose petals and viscera, Simon laughs. Wipes his fingers along his shoulder. Shoves them down your throat.

Yeah. Nasty fuckin' girl. Knew you were. Nothin' good ever smells this sweet.

Your whole life you have spent mending people—sewing them back together—that you never once stopped to think what it felt like to be torn apart. Simon does it beautifully. Practiced hands clawing through your cunt, dipping where you need him to, cleaving you clean in two just to lick you clean with the flat of his tongue. Trembling fingers trace every scar on his body as he skewers you, chest vibrating with each thrust, blood yearning to spill free just as he releases into you.

He kills for a living. The antithesis of you. The zenith of what you should despise but can't. Bullet through brain, knife through throat—he visits you before his boots have the time to shake off the gore. When he's still feverish with a fresh kill, and in desperate need of something sugary sweet to cleanse his pallet before he can't tell the difference between the taste of offals and rot.

Still, you work. Bedside manner. Water cups. Smiles over screams. Inhale blood. Wipe down the bed once the body is gone—bring the next one in. No need to glove up, you're not afraid of the cancer; not anymore.

No matter how hard you suppress it, you know that in the end, you get to go home. Cheek to Simon's chest, middle finger tracing his sternum, pressing into his xiphoid process, hand bouncing with each beat of his heart. You smile through the gushing blood and sour sweat as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

Atta girl. Just need that dumb brain of yours turned off every now and then, huh? Yeah, me too, sweetheart.

Deeper. Enough to claw into your throat. Thick cock in your cunt, fresh blood on your lips, a grin peeling over sharp canines—your death rattle arrives with an arching back. With tense fingers in taut skin. With a whisper against your skin.

La petite mort.

Little death.

And as Simon drips on you—fresh, and red—you can't help but think about how good it feels to love something that death can touch.

[kathaynesart]

BABY HEIST!

BEGINNING || PREVIOUS || NEXT MASTER POST

I'm sick as a dog, but at least it gave me the time to stay home and finish this update! This special though is definitely going to be lasting through into the new year, but I figure I would rather take the time to see it to completion rather than try to stuff it into some arbitrary date. It was so fun finally getting to do Casey Sr and Raph though. I wanted to give these two some time to shine since we see so little of them in Replica.

MOTHEROOD/CASEY TED TALK TIME UNDER THE CUT

I will admit... I've never been a big fan of the dumpster baby scenario for Casey Jr. It's not a bad scenario at all! Plenty of amazing stories have used it and it certainly embraces the "found family" theme of TMNT. It just always seemed a little unrealistic given the harsh state of the world (or at least as unrealistic as you can get in a story about brain aliens and mutant turtles haha). It's certainly an easier and simpler setup (removes the dad out of the picture for sure) but I wonder sometimes if this choice of origin story gets picked a lot simply because it's difficult to envision Cassandra going through pregnancy and typical motherhood willingly. However, if that's the core reason, I feel as if that does her character a great disservice!

After re-watching a few episodes with her, it's shocking the amount of depth of character Cassandra has (even compared to some in the main cast). I love her because while she's a passionate woman who makes mistakes, she's also extremely introspective and sensitive (something we see a great deal in the Brownie episode).

While I have never been a mother myself, a good number of my closest friends have been. Some of whom I could have NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS seen becoming mothers. Yet those people end up becoming some of the most amazing moms I've ever seen. Being a mom changes you, both physically and mentally in a way that I think gets glossed over in general storytelling. While I can't necessarily show that change much in Replica, I can at least give a nod to the fact that Cassandra, for all her flaws, is an amazing woman who I think would be an awesome mom! Thank you as always for your support!

[forgrtashes-blog]

Now, I know what you're thinking - "What in CARNATION is this"

So, basically, I did this "War AU" as a joke but people genuinely loved it (for some reason!)

So, for them, here goes General Beagle - Take it or leave it

[eggdrawsthings]

Posting 2 versions cuz I like both of them Prints are available here