#life is short idc

[alaricseer]

Fuck it, Magpie is canon for this blog now.

[xoxratedkitten]

I guess coomer is a better term, seems like you know more about horny anime. Know anything with a good dub. Would love to put something on while scrolling blogs like yours

It really depends on what you like personally tbh but if we’re only basing recs on tits and ass on screen then I have a few. You're giving me an excuse to write up a list so I might as well take it.

Highschool DxD - for obvious reasons. Rias Gremory is a queen.

The Testament of Sister New Devil - kind of a knockoff DxD but it does have its own hot scenes. Avoid if you can’t look past the naughty stepsister thing.

Prison School - weird kinks and gross humour sometimes but if you’re into femdom and huge tits this one’s amusing.

Gantz - notorious for objectifying its main female characters, full on nudity on screen (here’s a gif), a groping scene AND sex scenes. Morally questionable a lot of the time. Cool fight scenes?

Rosario Vampire - one of those harem shows, kind of stupid sometimes tbh but I enjoy the female characters and they are veryyy objectified.

[casuallivi]

i'm not worthy of your sacrifice

For the lovely @soyzaweels for providing us with that amazing rescue art. I'm always craving some good cradling and hands thank you for being a gift to this fam 💓 (I was typing this yesterday, struck with inspo from your art, and only when i hit "post" i noticed my internet connection was gone… and so was my post 🥲 now i sit here making my second try)

and for Elriel Month 2023. Prompt 6: A Bridge Between Souls @elriel-month

🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇

She’s slowing him.

They both are; Elain and the rescued Child of the Blessed whose name she’s yet to know.

She looks down below at the nefarious enemy camp where she can still see the beasts snarling closer to edge of the hill, chills raising up her arms, the throbbing pain on her foot reminding her of how close one of them came to ripping her limbs apart. The powerful beating of his wings takes them away from the horrible camp fast –her sister doing her best to stable her own appendages– but the piece of land where Prythian's army has stake base is yet to surface in the horizon. 

Elain knows he’s barely holding it together. She can hear it in the heaving of his chest, in the quiet grunt escaping from his lips as he adjusts their weight in his arms, can feel the weak burst of power he tries to direct at his wings, can see it in his wounds bleeding into her filthy nightgown. Deep gashes cut his back and wings; the membrane so lacerated she wondered how he was able to fly such distance. How painful it must be.

Out of nowhere, they fall a couple feet, hair ricocheting in front of her eyes. The girl lets out blood-curling screaming. Without even looking at her, Elain tightens her hold on the girl the best she can, watching the sickly paling of his face, cold sweat sliding down his brow. She looks down again. Her throat bobs at the height, nervousness making her tense. It's a nasty fall till she hits the ground, but Elain figures she'll survive. She's immortal now, isn't she? A fall won't kill her. But if she doesn't lower the weight in his arms, he might not make it back to camp.

In the end, it's not really that hard of a decision to make.

Her finger unclasp from the girl's dress, Elain ready to unloop her arms from around his neck.

"Don't." The low command ripples through her body, stopping her.

Bloodshot eyes dart to hers for the thousandth of a second, heavy with lethal determination. Don't you dare let go, they say.

Cobalt light engulfs the three of them, Azriel working harder to keep them airborne.

Azriel's power give out on the outskirts of their camp, still, he manages to land on his feet, arms steeling around her as he staggered a little. Feyre has it worse, tumbling several times on the hard ground, removing large patches of lawn with her.

“I’m okay!” She gives them a thumbs up, spitting grass.

Elain would laugh was she not so worried about Azriel wincing as he tried, and fail, to tuck his shredded wings behind him, the bone bent awkwardly on the left one, dark red blood mingled with the lighter tone of the membranes.

Azriel bent his knees and relaxed the arm securing the Child of the Blessed, allowing the trembling girl to slip to the ground, who quickly stepped away from them, the scent of her fear thick in the air. Elain prepared to follow her.

Her feet never touched the ground, because Azriel straightened again, his free arm coming under the curve of her knees, holding her up to his chest, limping forward. Elain flexes her chained wrists, grazing his wings in her attempt to hold on to his stiff shoulders.

"I can walk."

Azriel can barely detect her voice. Elain might as well be one of his shadows with that soothing tone, trying to placate him as they have been doing since the moment he noticed she was gone.

"I know."

Their whispers are not enough. Not today.

Azriel has no memory of deciding to go in the heart of Hybern camp because it wasn't a choice. The realization is somehow disturbing for a male who's accustomed to be rational about every aspect of his life. He needs to hold her, to feel her, to make sure she’s actually there, safe and unharmed in his arms. Even now, as he holds her, there is an unsettling quietude inside of him, odd anguish clouding his judgment.

As if she can feel his anxiety, Elain buries her face on his chest, repeating the words of her sister. “I’m okay.”

Elain doesn't know how to calm Azriel. She can only hope that her presence does to him, what his does to her.

Her chains glow in a violet shade where they rest against his leathers. Shadows swirl, sliding angrily between the cuffs and her skin, trying to slip them away.

The next thing she knows, Nesta is yelling, tackling Feyre down amidst her tears, and Rhysand is separating them, gently setting her back on her feet.

“We need Helion to get these chains off her.” Azriel rasped, swaying on his feet

Her world stops spinning.

Elain stares and stares at him.

The man that promised to marry her, to spend his life beside her, to love her no matter what, has abandoned her at the first minor inconvenience, yet, this strange fae man, who rapidly turned into an essential part of her life, came for her. Risked his life for a chance to try to save her. Even now he worries for her, who is in perfect condition, more than he worries for himself, who is hurt and bleeding.

A little bud of hope sprouts in the pit of despair that has become her heart.

Elain roses on her toes and kisses Azriel’s cheek.

For the first time since she emerged from the dark waters of the cauldron, Elain feels lucid.

For the first time since she emerged from the dark waters of the cauldron, Elain feels awake.

For the first time since she emerged from the dark waters of the cauldron, Elain feels like there’s a life to be lived even if she’s no longer human.

🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇🌸🦇

One of the things I like the most about the rescue scene, is that we tend to forget that Az was carrying both Briar and Elain! But once they set foot on the ground Briar is walking alongside Feyre, but Az did not let go of Elain. I see you shadowboy. I.see.you....

[jasperwocky]

nah i’m gonna say it. whenever we talk about pedophilia the answer most people give is “just kill em” and they seem pretty content to leave it at that. no further thought. and like i get that, it’s good that a child’s assault makes us angry. but it really only deals with people who have already irrevocably fucked someone up, and only the portion of those that get caught. genuinely there needs to be less stigma about seeking help for the issue. people who come forward to get help are given basically the same ostracism as people who have actually offended without remorse. like how the fuck on earth do we expect anyone to get better if to do it they have to deal with the disgust you’re (tbh, we’re) feeling right now? are we just cool with a certain amount of kids getting molested if it means we get to feel better by beating their ass after? yeah they should probably deal with the stigma anyway and get help for the greater good. but they don’t, at least not enough. if your plan is “bad people try harder not to be bad” it’s going nowhere. yeah it feels kind of shitty to give care or support to pedophiles. but can we maybe suck it up if it means less kids get traumatized?

[adaricruz]

the swans

[idontmindifuforgetme]

you talking about your ambitions and dreams for the future make me want to pursue my own goals again ♡

holding your hand and telling you that we got this!! x

[nullians]

I need to flee this place asap this woman is getting more horrendous by the day

[prfoundbond]

google how do i volunteer to be the girl that armand kills on stage when louis sees him for the first time at theatre des vampires for season 2 of amc’s interview with the vampire

my qualifications are as follows: i am a woman and i did theater in high school

thank you for your consideration (give me the role)

[highoncatfood]

shinigami redesign in the works.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

I don’t think y’all understand how clearly I have a potential novel mapped out in my head based off things I’ve already written like. It’s the overarching plot of lost gods (depressed guy forms a relationship with an older artist after two failed relationships) meets the dying love story of moth work (two guys are doomed for a lifetime of each other) simultaneously threaded with a dreamlike whirlwind romance (body back & changing states) ultimately leading us to a narrator who feels more like an art exhibit than a man

[thetomorrowshow]

cold, empty, lonely

have a short little fic about death and disconnection :)

cw: canonical character death, description of dead body

~

He finds her body on the side of the hill, crumpled upon itself, red hair dulled against the cold, yellow grass.

Bdubs doesn't touch her, at first. He just watches, waits for some kind of movement.

In the weak light of the moon, the chill wind that blows almost makes it look like her chest is slowly rising and falling. Her hair flicks up a bit, blown like the grass around, and her clothes shift a little, and if Bdubs squints his eyes almost shut and stares at one spot long enough, he could swear that she was just sleeping.

They aren't actually breathing, though. And when he opens his eyes wide, lashes not blurring his vision, he can see again the red that shines against her grey shirt.

They had brought him her armor. It was cheap stuff, iron, held together by whatever leftover straps she'd been able to scrounge up after her good set of armor had been claimed as loot by the Red Army. They hadn't wanted the new set, and had brought it, bloodstained, as proof of their conquest.

Bdubs had pleaded with them for what felt like hours for the location of her body.

He needn't have. He could have looked out a back window and seen it, if he hadn't been so distracted with everything going on.

Their body lies just above the little river that feeds into the Crastle's moat. The river has begun to freeze at the edges, little broken-off sheets of ice forming from the rocky shore, frost touching the red-spattered stones and pebbles. And their body is just beyond that, where the stones and grey dirt turn to dying grass and bare shrubs as the slope climbs upward into a squat hill, alone in the darkness of the night.

He stands there, at a distance, watching their body for probably ten minutes.

Her body looks so lonely.

Cold. Empty.

Lonely.

Bdubs sighs (his breath puffs out in a mist before him—winter really is coming, isn't it?) before crossing the distance between them, crouching down beside the body.

Their flower crown—the one that Bdubs had collected the flowers for—has come apart, a crushed halo of daisies, partially obscured by their hair, a petal weaved in here and there.

Her hair is long, tangled, spilling out around her head like the rays from the sun, curling around her throat and caught under her body.

With a gentle touch, Bdubs brushes their hair away from their grey lips, where some strands have stuck.

Her cheeks are almost colorless, the few stubborn freckles faded. Their lashes are long, soft, forehead unwrinkled and face expressionless.

There's no twist of her mouth, no scrunch of their eyes, no desperation in their brows to denounce pain. There's nothing else, either, though���no peaceful relaxation, no joyful grin, no angry glower.

She's simply blank. It's as if she never lived, never felt.

Her face is cold. Empty. Lonely.

There's still sticky blood on her shirt, her chest slick with it, the ground stained. A lucky stab, straight to the heart. A cleaving of lifeless flesh, right through their chest, somehow missing the bone frame that once held the body together.

Bdubs pulls her shirt a little bit, rearranging it to cover the ugly, open wound. He's not quite sure why he does it. He'll just bury her, anyways.

But he does. He touches the shirt, stiff and sticky with blood, and tugs it over the wound. He pulls more of her hair away, where it's become plastered to her body with blood. He arranges her body so that it isn't half curled on its side, but fully on its back.

They look almost as they always did. Just missing everything that made her alive.

She wasn't supposed to die first. It was always supposed to be him, everyone knew it. Not her.

They probably worked so well together because of how reasonable she was. Bdubs doesn't like being reasonable, likes to kill first and ask questions later—or, if he feels like it, let them sell him a coffin first and ask questions later. She preferred to observe, keep track of enemies and allies, sneak around quietly behind the scenes and make chaos of her own kind.

Which is why Bdubs should have died first. He's so publicly provocative of the Reds, so eager to spill blood.

If anything, she was fairly peaceful. Not genuinely, but she always chose to take a step back from conflict and find a way to profit from it.

It was their Red blood that got to them, Bdubs thinks idly. They hadn't been Red for long enough to let the bloodlust acclimate, and had just gone on the hunt rather than let it simmer.

And now they're dead.

He needs to bury the body. Preferably now, when it's night yet and the battles haven't resumed.

He doesn't wait any longer.

He gets to work, picking up the shovel that he'd brought with him and stabbing it into the earth. Again. Again. Again.

The rough wood of the handle pokes into his palms, but he doesn't stop. The pain reminds him that he needs to keep going.

Every so often he pauses, wipes the sweat off his forehead, looks over at the body.

Then he keeps shoveling.

The world has lightened by the time he finishes, bathing the hill in grey. Bdubs shakes some clumps of dirt off his shovel, whacking it against the ground a couple of times.

Without further ado, he hops out of the shabby hole he's dug and tosses the shovel to the side. He gets on his knees, back creaking, and looks down at his hands.

He should wash them before he touches her, probably. Dirt is packed into every crease of his palm, his nails torn and muddy, grit between his fingers. A couple of splinters sticking out of his skin here and there.

Not that there's any point to washing them. Dirt goes to dirt and whatnot.

So, gently, Bdubs gathers up the body in his arms. He slowly turns, scooting a little on his knees, until he's facing the shallow grave.

Bdubs sets the body down, carefully, supporting the neck so their head doesn't loll. He moves their arms over their body, one limp hand placed over the other.

They wouldn't have liked this. They didn't like being touched.

He doesn't touch her any more, then.

Bdubs grasps the first handful of dirt, holds his closed fist over the grave. A couple of grains of dirt spill out, running down her shirt.

He holds it there, for longer than he should. Long enough that his arm grows weary. Long enough that somewhere, a bird starts chirping its wake-up call.

He needs to let go.

Probably, the worst part of all this is that he's doing it alone, he thinks absently. It's always been the two of them.

And there are others who could be here. Other friends. Other allies. Enemies, even. He shouldn't be alone in this. He shouldn't have to bury her alone.

It still looks like her.

He drops the dirt. It lands on her face, on her grey lips, on her bloodless cheeks.

Then he picks his shovel back up and gets to work, heaving load after load of dirt back into the grave.

And when Bdubs returns in the windy morning, the impromptu occupants that he'd left in the Crastle the previous night are all gone. It's just him, in a small castle that used to belong to two.

And Bdubs is cold.

Empty.

Lonely.

[glendover]

2025 is the year I will enjoy silly hobbies again!

[harrykim]

typically i like romance in the things i read but this... novella? i just read wasn't even a romance it was a horrible slog of sexism that wasted a set up that could've had some actual payoff and a setting that while not fleshed out had concepts that they should've written about instead 😭

[thekittyfox2999]

mmm m semi masc lesbian sherlock

please

with the poofiest hair ever

[crowempress]

I get genuinely really mad abt how many people in the stardew community feel like it's okay to make alcoholism jokes at Shane's expense and talk about how he's a burden and dead weight and all that like do you fucking hear yourself

[monocaelia]

miss when everyone wore masks because how else am I supposed to hide my smiles and giggles when a gojo edit comes onto my fyp