#idk im dying

[catmask]

okay i think i am learning.... something

[bacchuschucklefuck]

while teen while goblin while aroace while injured while doing your best

[doekimakura]

Damn Isa can you reload anymore slower /s

[willmpy]

I HAVENT POSTED ANYTHING SINCE....SINCE.... MARCH!!! I WENT THROUGH 20 DIFFRENT FANDOMS!!!!!!!!!! *WAILS*

Gulp... grian fanart....ig....

[seasideoranges]

twitter // ko-fi

two kyoshi warriors and what appears to be a theater kid seen causing trouble at local fire nation stronghold, more news at 7 (background-less version underneath)

[bytedykes]

[ID: SVSSS fanart of Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge. It's the scene from volume 1 where Liu Qingge is having a qi deviation. He's on the floor, face and clothes splattered with blood. Shen Qingqiu has a hand on his shoulder, and smiles as he says, "You're too hot- I mean too young to die. We should be friends now." Liu Qingge scowls at him, angry and confused, thinking "wtf" repeatedly and with question marks floating around his head. /end ID]

this is basically what happened i think

[spoopup]

finished replaying ghost trick yesterday

[sbeana]

im so normal about them

[zishu-arts]

preening

[shower-phantom-ideas]

Yall don’t understand how obsessed I am with Danny messing with the Justice League. Like just pranking them mad wild. Or “haunting” them.

Maybe it starts as a mistake. Someone was getting close to him and he just vanished. Maybe he was walking around one of their cities cause he wanted to “see how a real hero does it” but tried to stay out of the way.

Hes following Superman and doesn’t realise hes been had. Superman keeps seeing this odd child on the edge of his vision. It’s only weird because of how quickly he is traveling. He should be followed like this. So he tests it out and flys off to somewhere far off, but secluded. Edge of some farm land would work. Trying to not give it away he doesn’t make a show of looking for the boy. He then spots him. His eyes slightly glowing as he stands in the edge of the woods. Clark focused on the boy and hears slight breaths but nothing else. Which he should have realised sooner was wrong.

He returned to the team to report this odd being following him. To also warn everyone else to be on look out just incase.

Weirdly enough it was the Flash who noticed him next. Even weirder was that he could never get close. Even with his speed which was alarming.

Cyborg started seeing the kid too. He tried using cameras to get a better look at him but nothing ever showed up. Always missing was the boy from the video. Sometimes the whole video would get distort.

Wonder Woman probably got the closest as she used a fight to get “thrown” in his direction. She got close enough to see worry about her. He seemed so concerned and like he was going to step in until he met her gaze. A whole new kind of fear crossed his features. Then he was gone.

Everyone of the main team (and even some not) reporting in of spotting the kid except for Batman. And he looked. He tried everything to see if he was being followed like the rest but nothing. He read their reports on their encounters and tried to emulate it but never saw the boy. Maybe it was all a big prank being pulled on him? He couldn’t rule it out. Still he kept up constant watch.

Then one night he was out and got into a fight. Distracted by looking for the kid he got messy. Or maybe the criminals got desperate but he didn’t notice the rocket launcher being targeted on him in time and it fired. Only then did he notice it. No time to fully get out of the way he braced for the worst. When all of a sudden a body slammed into him shoving him out of the way of the blast. They rolled onto the ground. Bruce quickly recovered and looked for his saviour. On the ground, blown slightly to his left by the explosion was a black haired teen in a white t-shirt. Before he could move the boy groaned and looked right at Bruce. The haunting blue eyes meeting his even with the mask in the way the boy knew just where to look. He was about to speak when the boys eyes went wide with fear and then nothing. The boy just vanished into this air. Bruce didn’t have much time to be stunned by this as the thugs before started to cheer, thinking they had finished off the Bat. So he went to make quick work of them before any could get away. Well now he knows hes being followed too

Danny just freaking out about Batman seeing his face. Turns out he never followed Batman unless fully invisible. All he wanted was to see how “real” heros did it. And it had been helping him with his fighting. To see how the pros are. He was always worried the “worlds greatest detective” would figure him out though so he stayed hidden. Also maybe hes a bit of a fan. I made Wonder Woman get the closest cause shes his fav probably.

[cryobabyy]

Consummation Cooper Adams x Reader

Synopsis: Isolation and survival make you act in strange ways, but all is fair in love and violence.

OR

Cooper is keeping you in a remote and isolated location where he likes to play house with you and you cope by playing along.

Tags: NSFW 18+, drabble/short fic, breeding kink, dub-con, brief mentions of violence, Stockholm syndrome, shower sex, dark themes, by request, barely proofread, p-in-v intercourse, cr3Vm pie.

AN: Howdy! Breeding Kink isn't my thing, so I hope this satisfies all my freaks out there. Please note that this is considerably dark and not fluff. Tbh it will probably make you feel kinda icky (and slightly turned on?). I can't help it y'all I'm Ottessa Moshfegh pilled lol. Also important to note that Cooper is dead ass trying to knock you up in this. Like straight up. If you are looking for something more subtle this is not it I fear 😀. Enjoy!

con·sum·ma·tion (noun) 1: the action of making a marriage or relationship complete by having sexual intercourse." the eager consummation that follows a long and passionate seduction" 2: the point at which something is complete or finalized." the consummation of a sale"

Cooper’s hands always found their way into your hair. When you crawled your way into his morning shower, he sighed as he wrapped his fingers around your wet braid, big arms snaking around your naked waist and pulling you against him. His cheek rested perfectly on top of your head.

“Missed me?” He murmurs against your scalp.

“I was scared you weren’t coming back.” You confess, his chest fluttering against your cheek as he huffs a laugh. The very real possibility of Cooper leaving you here to rot makes you feel cold.

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll always come back to you.”

His hands always ended up in your hair, exactly like how your back always ended up pressed against cold shower tiles; Cooper’s body between your legs, his hand spreading and holding your knees open. You were both delighted and horrified that he could pin you against a wall so easily. The stretch of him pushing in and out of you dampens the horror until all you feel is the warmth of the delight; hazy, muted, heavy, and all over you.

You loved when he fucked you numb.

So numb, you no longer paid mind to the dried blood washing away from his body, thick ribbons of pink water swirling at his feet. There was no ankle monitor strapped against your flesh if he was rolling your clit in his mouth. His hands had taken an orgasm from you before they had held a knife to your throat.

When you held his face between your hands and begged him to cum inside you, it was a thinly veiled plea for your life—for him to put something in you that would keep him coming back. Something that would keep you alive.

With a string of expletives, he obliged. He held you like that for sometime after, lazily pulsing inside you, using the obscene, white leakage to rub his thumb over your swollen clit.

“It’ll take better if you finish, baby.” His labored breath flutters against your mouth as he presses his forehead against yours.

Without a gun to your head, you nodded with a greedy whimper. Your mind hummed with the thought of newlyweds eager to become first-time parents, Cooper rubbing lotion over the taught skin of your growing belly, ultrasound appointments, and baby showers. A tiny, vulnerable thing swaddled in a blanket, pink and screaming—with Cooper’s hazel eyes, chocolate brown hair, and your nose and dimples. A baby with a monster for a father and a coward for a mother. A bastard.

You feel relieved when your orgasm finally rips through you. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of your asinine mind, you felt disgusted too. Cooper’s grip on your thighs began to hurt and the water droplets against your skin began to sting, but it all turned back to spineless fantasy as he lulled you through it with gentle praises

Almost there, sweetheart.

Just like that.

There we go.

Perfect.

Would it be so horrible if you were in love with him? Because you think you are.

Later on, when you’re making him coffee, he comes behind you and rests his hands on your lower belly. Repugnance and tenderness turn in your stomach. Cooper presses a kiss to the top of your head, keeping his mouth there.

“Do you think we could be happy?” He murmurs softly into your hair, thumbs tracing soft circles against your skin.

The monitor around your ankle feels heavy. You remember the sedatives he put in your drink, his wife and children at home, and this plush and comfortable prison he kept you in.

Your eyes flit toward the kitchen knives and you remember you could face the consequences of lodging one in his neck—if you wanted to.

You want to tell him he could never be happy. That his version of it could only be satisfied through violence. But brute force could be soft and safe if you surrendered to it. If you could bend something jagged and serrated into the shape of lovers, would you be spared from the rage inside of him?

“Maybe.” You say flatly, pouring Cooper his cup of coffee.

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[suntails]

❤️⚔️

[inkskinned]

"the strike is gonna kill my favorite shows" babe okay if you don't want to think about the human livelihoods at stake (you should really be thinking about the humans though) like. think about what happens after this. when writing pays you enough to eat; more people get to be writers. more stories. more interesting plots and ideas. think about what gets made when artists aren't starving.

you've been complaining for years that tv is going downhill. part of that is because the writers aren't paid enough - a screenwriter needs to be able to live with a very low paycheck while being virtually anonymous, so as a profession it self-selects for a very slim number of people. part of bad writing is burnout and the absolutely criminal amount of influence corporations have over scripts. writing is actually a craft, despite what people who love chatGPT will tell you - and, as a craft; it takes time, diligence, and support.

and yes, i understand. you have a connection to a piece of media, which is what writers want. but we regret to inform you that your blorbo is as real as the image in the mirror - is your reflection actually you? can the reflection ever show anything but the truth? as writers, our work is the reflection. you can't keep throwing our bodies under buses and then being shocked that our work is bitter, 2d, "needs revision". imagine what gets made when the artist is inspired and has the time, space, energy, and fucking budget to actually make what makes them happy.

i love you so much. but also, really - and for real - before anything else, please remember it's human livelihoods at stake.

[crissydissy]

Want me to fix you, little sparrow?

[piningpercussionist]

Weed smoking girlfriends! But they can just be hanging out if you prefer ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Happy 4/20!