#like im dying here

[4gem]

I think I need to make a post about the space references in the trailer of 23.5 because I need to distract myself from watching msp again and bad buddy for my milklove crumbs thank you

[briankinneygivesashit]

[blueskittlesart]

same old story...

[teddytheartist]

Zukka for the win my guys

[rbvcdeluxe]

something something max's main color being red with blue highlights something something grace's main color being blue with red highlights something something motivations something something alive and dead something something

[shrimpricebowl]

oh thank god

[inkskinned]

you were raised in comparison.

it wasn't always obvious (well. except for the times that it was), but you internalized it young. you had to eat what you didn't like, other people are going hungry, and you should be grateful. you had to suck it up and walk on the twisted ankle, it wasn't broken, you were just being a baby. you were never actually suffering, people obviously had it worse than you did.

you had a roof over your head - imagine! with the way you behaved, with how you talked back to your parents? you're lucky they didn't kick you out on your ass. they had friends who had to deal with that. hell, you have friends who had to deal with that. and how dare you imply your father isn't there for you - just because he doesn't ever actually talk to you and just because he's completely emotionally checked out of your life doesn't mean you're not fucking lucky. think about your cousins, who don't even get to speak to their dad. so what if yours has a mean streak; is aggressive and rude. at least you have a father to be rude to you.

you really think you're hurting? you were raised in a home! you had access to clean water! you never so much as came close to experiencing a real problem. sure, okay. you have this "mental illness" thing, but teenagers are always depressed, right. it's a phase, you'll move on with your life.

what do you mean you feel burnt out at work. what do you mean you mean you never "formed healthy coping mechanisms?" we raised you better than that. you were supposed to just shoulder through things. to hold yourself to high expectations. "burning out" is for people with real jobs and real stress. burnout is for people who have sick kids and people who have high-paying jobs and people who are actually experiencing something difficult. recently you almost cried because you couldn't find your fucking car keys. you just have lost your sense of gratitude, and honestly, we're kind of hurt. we tell you we love you, isn't that enough? if you want us to stick around, you need to be better about proving it. you need to shut up about how your mental health is ruined.

it could be worse! what if you were actually experiencing executive dysfunction. if you were really actually sick, would you even be able to look at things on the internet about it? you just spend too much time on webMD. you just like to freak yourself out and feel like you belong to something. you just like playing the victim. this is always how you have been - you've always been so fucking dramatic. you have no idea how good you have it - you're too fucking sensitive.

you were like, maybe too good of a kid. unwilling to make a real fuss. and the whole time - the little points, the little validations - they went unnoticed. it isn't that you were looking for love, specifically - more like you'd just wanted any one person to actually listen. that was all you'd really need. you just needed to be witnessed. it wasn't that you couldn't withstand the burden, but you did want to know that anyone was watching. these days, you are so accustomed to the idea of comparison - you don't even think you belong in your own communities. someone always fits better than you do. you're always the outlier. they made these places safe, and then you go in, and you are just not... quite the same way that would actually-fit.

you watch the little white ocean of your numbness lap at your ankles. the tide has been coming in for a while, you need to do something about it. what you want to do is take a nap. what you want to do is develop some kind of time machine - it's not like you want your life to stop, not completely, but it would really nice if you could just get everything to freeze, just for a little while, just until you're finished resting. but at least you're not the worst you've been. at least you have anything. you're so fucking lucky. do you have any concept of the amount of global suffering?

a little ant dies at the side of your kitchen sink. you look at its strange chitinous body and think - if you could just somehow convince yourself it is enough, it will finally be enough and you can be happy. no changes will have to be made. you just need to remember what you could lose. what is still precious to you.

you can't stop staring at the ant. you could be an ant instead of a person, that is how lucky you are. it's just - you didn't know the name of the ant, did you. it's just - ants spend their whole life working, and never complain. never pull the car over to weep.

it's just - when it died, it curled up into a tight little ball.

something kind of uncomfortable: you do that when you sleep.

[haunted-xander]

For what do you live?

[babymorte]

it is too fucking hot for this outfit

[rookeryyy]

REINVENT

YOURSELF

tumblr HATES my 44.1mb image swag so it has SO MUCH COMPRESSION and downsizing here. :') peep the actual intended size & quality (or as good as i could get it exported)

post-return Q!Tubbo :] Tee hee.

un hamburgesa para tubbo (he lookied ungry)

[umblrspectrum]

hi heres my ramblings about a md rain world au i made up in like a day bye

[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.”

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

come get yer Laughin'stock! get it hot off the press! free Laughin'stock right here!

[lovesickeros]

☆ glimpse of divinity

{☆} characters lyney, neuvillette [ separate ] {☆} notes cult au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 0.8k

× neuvillette

The first time he sees you strolling the streets of Fontaine with a glint of wonder in your eyes, he thinks he must have finally lost it. He has to rub his eyes and check a few dozen times before he's certain that you are, in fact, real and not some figment of his imagination conjured by a lack of sleep and overdose on caffeine.

..Though now that he gets a better look, it's not quite the same. Like a smudged painting, he thinks. Still, the uncanny resemblance to the visage of the Divine One has him lingering around the area just to stare a little longer, a deep, devoted sense of affection bristling beneath his skin.

And then you turn sharply on your heel, staring directly back at him, and he feels a sudden wave of embarrassment and something akin to shame.

Archons, he'd just made a fool of himself, hadn't he?

He quickly turns away, clearing his throat and hiding his embarrassment behind his hand. Though it does not seem to deter you, the soft tap of your shoes growing closer until you were peering up at him with wide eyes.

"..Hello." He offers awkwardly, a little too stiff and a little too formal, but you don't seem to mind in the slightest. He knows that your appearance, your vague similarities to the Divine One are mere coincidence, but it does not stop his heart from skipping a beat when you smile up at him. "I��� apologize for being so uncouth and staring, it's just.."

His voice trails off into a breathy exhale, his hand twitching on his cane as if he wanted to reach out and touch you..but he restrains himself in time. He could not make a bigger fool of himself – he would never hear the end of it from lady Furina.

"You remind me of someone."

He decides, readjusting his hands on his cane as he bows his head for a moment is a show of genuineness, though it must look awkward with how stiff his body feels.

Yet he cannot help but want to get closer anyway, to hear the silky lilt of your voice grace his pointed ears. This is as close as he will ever get to the Divine..he is a weak man, he finds, as he offers a hand to you.

"I understand if this is a bit..forward, but would you mind joining me for tea?"

× lyney

He is a master magician – his entire work is built on keen misdirection and sleight of hand, but even he stumbles for a minute thinking he'd seen an illusion in your warm smile and striking features. Almost an exact copy of the Divine One, yet not quite..

Still, it's enough to pique his interest – enough, too, to give him the confidence to slip into your conversation with ease, all smiles and the slip of a card between his fingers.

"Hello, stranger – I don't think I've seen you in Fontaine before," He laughs, his hand reaching around to rest gently on your opposite shoulder, his voice a ghost of a whisper in your ear. "Say, could I interest you in a bit of magic?"

He perks up at the way you seem to light up like fireworks at his offer, a spark almost like recognition in your eyes he brushes aside – he's quite well known, after all.

"Good! Now, if I may just borrow your attention for a minute.." He grins, stepping around you and turning sharply to face you, his hand outstretched with a deck of cards in his hands, face down. "Let's start simple, shall we? I shan't overwhelm my audience – pick a card."

He holds the cards out again, his features twisted in something like awe, though he hides it well.

His heart flutters at the briefest of glances of your hand against his as you pluck a card from his hand, and he quickly retracts it, reshuffling the deck with a broad grin and a wink.

"Do your best to remember it! If you could return it to the deck.." The card is placed back in it's place amongst the rest, and the magic begins!

"Now then, let's see..hm," He hums for a long moment, the silence filled by the constant shuffle of cards until he suddenly plucks one from the deck, flipping it around for you to see. "Is this your card?"

He frowns when you shake your head, almost pouting, before he lights up again and steps forward.

"Ah! How foolish of me, I missed it..it's riiight here, see." He winks, reaching behind your ear..and pulls free a card from seemingly thin air. He flips it around for you to see again, and when you tell him it is, in fact, your card, he flips it around again.

And before you can see it, he's holding a rainbow rose between his fingers, his hand outstretched as he bows.

His eyes glint with a sort of wonder as he looks at your features, his smile widening a fraction.

"Well, dear stranger? Did you enjoy the show?"

[stuckinapril]

Just a girl who wants to be her mother’s daughter in the ways that matter