#lemme get a taste

[hyunjifilm]

THATS A WHOLE SPEED BUMP WHATTT

Pls sit on my face that would fix me 🥰🫶

[anthemofgvf]

hi this photo is going to be my hyper fixation for quite some time

[quinklequonkle]

I got a fortune from my fortune cookie and it said

"AN ADMIRER IS CONCEALING AFFECTION FOR YOU."

Ahaha

Which one of you wants to give me a sopping wet kiss in the mouth?

[timethehobo]

Hearing news that he’s confirmed romanceable (and described as intimate and sensual) got me so giddy I might just expire.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[dailykugisaki]

Day 249 | id in alt

Idk why he has consistently bad taste.

[bunnieroth]

[fat-psychward-sockgrippussy333]

💚💕It's my Dad's birthday so of course imma binge watch jazz documentaries & have way too much tequila lol. 💚💕🥳

[rafesthroatbaby]

Let’s be honest here, Rafe eating it in the golf cart would be HIS idea, we wouldn’t have to make him do anything 😭😂

So true !!! Golf Cart action wow.. I can’t stop thinking about it 🤤

[deatheweeb]

My interpretation of that one Archivist with the orange Saturn bulb U3O ~* Inspiration for design goes to @wake-up-and-face-the-sun 's own archivist design representing Famine

Concept stuff, Odalia interaction, and an alternate version of the first post down below ;)) and possibly another ramble about this mf

The title I had for him was "The Negotiator" while still having "The Archivist" title since having more than one title is a thing. But idk if I want to keep that said title for her or not :P Despite representing famine I wanted him to look like a rich mf, which is the antithesis of what entity would usually represent famine; poor and starving. I may have done this because I imagine her being this sort of greedy capitalist that starves living beings or planets of their resources that contribute to that famine aspect ig. (Four horsemen of the apocolaypse archivists sounds cool and I wanna make a goddamned contribution) also, it was REALLL FRUSTRATING trying to use some sort of shade of orange for the shiny/ring bits instead of yellow because theres already a yellow archivist, GAHHHHHHH- I think thats all I will ramble for now, I'll let the artwork speak for themselves :,D

[kittyftm]

when you can see her boner peeking out of her panties … ❤️🤭😋

[the-stove-is-divorced]

Day 1483943 of being cursed with Batman brainrot so snippet of young ghoul!Bruce wip, that may or may become a oneshot one day.

Bruce wants to vomit.

His heart, a stupid sluggish thing, which beats far too slow to sink into the bounds of normal, truly begins to pound furiously now, desperately, ready to yank free from the cages of bone and fatty tissues, the too dark blood and pale skin. Bitter bile begs to be released as he trembles, helplessly trying to keep the blood from his mother’s side, where it's staining the ground in spite of his efforts, so terribly warm and worse yet—a horribly sweet.

It actually smells sweet.

Bruce wants to vomit.

His heart, a stupid sluggish thing, which beats far too slow to sink into the bounds of normal, truly begins to pound furiously now, desperately, ready to yank free from the cages of bone and fatty tissues, the too dark blood and pale skin. Bitter bile begs to be released as he trembles, helplessly trying to keep the blood from his mother’s side, where it's staining the ground in spite of his efforts, so terribly warm and worse yet—a horribly sweet.

It actually smells sweet.

Sweet like candies do, soft and delicate like cotton candy, like cakes fresh from the oven, caramels carefully salted, but its blood. His stomach, this stupid body, is panicked and horrible and hungry, because the blood is fresh and warm upon his hands, the scent thick and nearly choking upon his nose, and he’s never wanted to throw up more. His vision blurs, swimming, details cast aside as body deforms into dark, bloody shapes, stiff and still, frozen in horror. 

He knows their hearts cannot beat anymore, the familiar pitter patter like rain against a windowsill, the pleasant hum like the fridge in the kitchens, like the distant buzz of a hive at work, is cut. Finished. Struck and left rot, stagnant. 

And still, in spite of him, in some horrible, awful might of the wretched, this wretched body, the smell is sickeningly sweet, fresh and truthfully, insidiously, delicious. His parents, the bodies, are ripe like fruit, sickeningly fresh, coating the back of his throat with the slow trickle of hunger, the stench of buttery baked goods, a touch of saltiness, an overwhelming soft sweetness, just begging for just a single, tiny, bite. Their bodies fell like the too fat fruit hung from the property’s trees, blood splatter like bruises across their skin from the impact. 

If Bruce closes his eyes, stunning backward and hitting the wall, ignoring the rattling breath and horrible hiccups, he’s been shoved into a shop, goodies and treats to be devoured, the very touch of a perfectly soft, heavy cake desperate for his teeth to sink in and finally chew. 

 As the roar of the sirens grow closer, the red ooze coats his trembling hands like syrup, Bruce’s stomach growls, cruelly, and his mouth, betraying, is filled with drool. 

The wretched stain of hunger paints the memory still. 

———

“Master Bruce? Are you hungry?”

No, he thinks, he won’t be ever again. He scarcely even turned his head, rooted to his parent’s bed and wishing it would just swallow him whole, spare him the mercy of existing, the prickling pain of hunger, the choking memory of blood at the back of his throat, oh so sickeningly sweet. 

The funeral was a blur of tears, muddled blurring tones of weary speeches, cousins he didn’t care for, food he didn’t—couldn’t eat, and others he couldn’t make himself swallow. Again, his stomach squirms in the discomfort of hollowness, to be empty, but Bruce doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do anything. He tries to sleep, but mockingly, it doesn’t come, exhaustion perched right beside him, filling his limbs with concrete, but blissful unconsciousness avoids him like the plague. 

Alfred lingers by the door. Warm, yellow light spills in from around his looming shadow, but it does nothing to curb his vision, darkness and light nothing but a blur, a matter of taste and not a dive into blindness, because his eyes are different, his body is monstrous, and yet he still survived. Untouched the rain of bullets, the spray by blood.

“Not even a snack?” Alfred tries. He can hear the trying smile.

A short sniff, and the speckle of animal blood lingers in Alfred’s fingers, finely chopped chunks of meat arranged in simple shapes, triangles, circles, barely cooked and raw. Savory, juicy, and bursting with flavor to make saliva pool in his mouth. Disgusting, foul, wretched, that makes him squirm. 

But Bruce just buried his head underneath a pillow that still carries his father’s cologne, and trembles. One day it will fade and Bruce will bath it in bottles of cologne to make it stay. He’ll buy the whole company just for a single, fluffed pillow. 

Alfred steps closer. A specific spot along the floorboards creak, announcing the distance, but Bruce can’t make himself care. He just aches.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to inhale cologne over blood. He tries to ignore how his stomach feels like a knife trying to carve him open, despairingly empty. It hurts. As he sinks into the sensation, clawing and desperate, a gloved hand finds itself in his hair, incredibly gentle, so horribly soothing, undeserved, and he begins to crumble. He is held, gently rocked and whispered meaningless promises, lies of getting better, and they loved you, and I’m sorry’s, but the ache inside him is blooming, swelling, overrides his senses and brings him to tears, clinging onto the touch, starving. 

When he wakes in his parents bed hours later, there is a meal, warm, sitting by the nightstand and a small cup of blood, cool, beside it. His body is a weak thing, shaky and oh so cold. The blankets upon him are thick, suffocatingly warm, windows shut and curtains drawn, but he’s chilled to the bone. His stomach wants.

And it’s right there. 

He brings it to his lips, hands shaking ever so lightly, grabbing bare with his own palms and sees the blood coat it, syrupy. He wants to lick it. He wants to throw up. The body wants to eat. He feels so weak, and his body, this body, it demands and screams and aches. He puts it in his mouth. He wants it to taste like ash and rot, he wants it to taste like chewing molding wood and inhaling dirt, he wants to taste like dirty sewer water, putrid and foul. 

It doesn’t. It’s incredible. 

It’s undeserved. 

[hobsyllwin]

So crazy and insane and evil that the most uniquely delicious gummy candy ever is something I can only find at mexican party stores on an unreliable basis

you do not understand. The flavor. They don't really actually taste like citrus? They don't even taste like any other gummy I've ever had. The taste almost reminds me of... jello somehow? Or those weirdly delicious vitamin gummies? Fuck. They're fucking good. And I can't find that taste anywhere else. idk what they're even called past "orange slice gummies". No they taste nothing like these

these make my mouth sting and stick to my teeth and very heavily taste like oranges. completely different candy. a false god. do u get me

[essektheylyss]

for the readers at home: I absolutely did not leave the bookstore without purchasing a book.

[luyo-mi]

Hey, it’s been a while since you last posted, just wanted to check in, are you alright?

I got ✨hospitalized✨ tehe

[lowpolydoll]

The fictionkin thoughts really fictionkinning tonight. Where are my fucking dads