#what id do to him

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

VINCENT PRICE and CAROL OHMART --

HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL (1959) dir. William Castle

[monkesupreme]

ref

a satisfactory answer for Selina

[hinamie]

sry i have chronic only draws megumi disorder the doctor said it's terminal :/

[cuppajj]

i had a vision

[rapidhighway]

sanic ✌ for the au perhaps? idk

[u3pxx]

kim!!!! kim!!!!!!!!!!!!!! kimmm! :DD (old doodles from when i was first figuring out how to draw him)

[feelo-fick]

more misc au art... (the last two are unrelated but shh)

GAAAHHHH i promise ive got actual stuff cooking im just scared to post it/motivation to finish art Hard :"D clutching my head... always forever 24/7 thinking about them...

[ruporas]

asking and receiving (bonus below readmore)

[ID: A black and white, digital Trigun comic of Vash and Wolfwood. In the first panel is a close up of Wolfwood's mouth as he says, "Vash". Accompanying it is a close up shot of Vash's eye, widen and cheeks flushed. Wolfwood presses a knee against the open space between Vash's legs and says, "Tell me everything you want from me." Wolfwood's face is equally as flushed. He continues to say, "I'll give it to you. Everything." As he talks, a wide shot shows the both of them in white space. Vash is sitting, leaning a little back with both hands pressed against the surface he's sitting on. Wolfwood is in his white dress shirt, stripped of the blazer. He's still leaning in with one knee in between Vash's spread legs, his right hand touching Vash's lips and his left hand behind his back.

The shot closes in on Vash's mouth and Wolfwood's hand against it, pressing down on the lower lip as he says, "You have to ask though. Go on." His hand moves down to Vash's chin, gently holding it. With a shy and uncertain expression, Vash hesitantly asks, "Um... K... Kiss... Please?" Wolfwood, without wasting a second, leans in and kisses him and indulges by pressing deeper, eliciting a small noise of surprise from Vash.

Wolfwood moves away from Vash first and with a smile, asks, "What else?" Vash tugs on Wolfwood's left sleeve, wordlessly budging Wolfwood to give him his hand that was still behind his back. In the next panel, Vash utters, "Hold me..?" He's holding Wolfwood's left hand with his own while his right hand is reaching for his waist. Wolfwood complies, moving his left hand to Vash's shoulder and his right hand continues to touch Vash's cheek. Wolfwood asks again, "What else?"

More comfortable now, Vash leans in to kiss Wolfwood. Wolfwood catches him immediately, pressing his thumb against Vash's lips to stop him before demanding, "Hey. Ask." Vash looks back in surprise and Wolfwood meets his eye with a quiet, insistent look. They're quiet for a moment before Vash leans in again and curtly requests, "Kiss. Me." Wolfwood says "Good", smiling as he lifts his hand away, and meets Vash's lips. In the next shot, Wolfwood had adjusted his position, sitting on Vash's thigh. The hand that was once on Vash's cheek has moved its way to Vash's nape, pushing away the collar of his jacket with his pinky. His other hand continues to grip on Vash's shoulder. Still kissing, Wolfwood asks again, "What else?"

In the next shot, Vash is starting to turn, moving Wolfwood with him. Vash asks, "Let me on top of you?" Wolfwood says, "Mhm" before asking again, "What else?" The next panel shows a close look of Vash's face. He's looking down, flushed and shy just as he had been at the beginning, but now, more decisive. Vash asks, "Wolfwood... Let me have you..?" A panel of Wolfwood taking Vash's hand into his, pulling it towards his chest. The next panel shows Wolfwood lying down where Vash had laid him. Vash's hand is on Wolfwood's chest, covering the cross of his rosary while Wolfwood's hand lingers against his, loosely pressing Vash's hand in place. He looks up at Vash with a shy smile of his own, flushed cheeks. He says, "All yours."

A panel shows a close up of Vash's tender gaze before he leans down to be closer to Wolfwood. The final shot is a front view of their positions, Vash's face turned away from the viewer; Vash is leaning over Wolfwood who's lying down with his right leg draped over Vash's legs. Wolfwood's left hand holds onto Vash's left arm. With finality, Vash says, "...Mine." End ID]

[ID: A follow up bonus comic in a looser, sketchier style. They're laying comfortably in bed when Vash asks, "What was that earlier?" referecing to the start of the previous comic. Wolfwood glances away and says, "To get you used to it. Asking. And getting what you ask for. Since you're alwasy hesitant about it." Vash's eyes widen, tight lipped. Wolfwood continues, "Knowing you, it'll be a tough habit to break..." When he says this, Vash can't help but laugh, unable to deny it. Wolfwood slowly brings a hand to Vash's cheek and continues to say, "So I'll keep trying -- whatever ways I can... to get it through your thick skull." Vash takes Wolfwood's hand with his, kissing the the palm gently. Wolfwood's eyes soften and holding onto Vash's cheek, he leans in to try for a kiss. Vash says, "Hey..." before stopping Wolfwood's lips with the back of his hand, a smug look on his face, "Ask." Wolfwood's embarrassed and with little irritation, asks, "Really?" Vash smiles, saying, "You're in need of practice too." They pause for a moment, Wolfwood looking contemplatively, before he's leaning in again, asking, "May I please kiss you?" Vash looks him in the eyes and says, "Yes." The comic ends with a "chu", indicating an off-panel kiss. End ID]

[puppyeared]

id fumble him so bad

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price circa 1963

[kringkroll]

I would bet Sento and say that he would do this at the drop of a hat

[ratatatastic]

maffhew who refuses to say runebergin torttu because he knows hes gonna butcher it so bad he might be kicked out of the country the second he tries and staunchly avoids that by going "the one dessert that barky is going to have to explain 😃"

sasha who gets faced with the most generic description of everything hes ever eaten in his life so far because of maffhew and going "???... oh you mean runebergin torttu!"

"he did good he liked the food and he likes the finland so far so its good" sasha says with so much pride now that all the anxiety has left his system that his husband teammate is enjoying his country and doesnt hate it

media availability | 10.29.24 (x)(x)

the smile of a man who knowlingly doomed his husband and said husband using all his brain power to context clues his way to whatever the fuck he just got asked that his brain is running hotter than a mid 2012 macbook air thats somehow still alive in the year of the lord 2024 but girl does she chug along shes louder than a fighter jet

[blueskiesandstarrynights]

shout out characters who would lose their shit over realizing they're fictional characters. shout out characters who would punch their creators in the face. shout out evan kelmp. shout out conner bailey.

[ash-and-starlight]

modern au and esen’s honkers are haunting the instagram feed

[m1d-45]

bloodletting

summary: a budding god needs a place to test their new powers, and childe was always a little too eager to lose a fight... a match made in heaven!

word count: 1.7k

-> warnings : minor AQ spoilers ? just like, general gi plot.. fairly graphic depiction of blood + other injuries (might be classed as body horror???). generally obsessive tendencies (childe <--> you). i cannot stress this enough, reader is 110% a sadist.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

power was not something that came easy. it was fought over, stolen, defended with teeth and claw, tides of blood shed just so one could have power over another. social, physical, financial; no matter the leverage it provided, power was hard won. to give someone power was to admit defeat, a certain death that tartaglia had learned and taught more than his fair share of times. nobody undeserving of power ever held onto it for long; it was an acknowledgement that you were better, that you deserved it, that you’d won. power was a fickle resource that childe would kill to keep, only ever laying down his blade for a precious few.

the tsaritsa, of course. his fellow harbingers, skilled both on and off-field, who themselves could rival the archons. his family, for whom he’d happily give the world.

and naturally, who would be more worthy to hold power than you?

you, not just a god but the, the highest authority across all of teyvat. you bore a hundred names and a thousand monikers, your worship the one thing the world could agree on. granted, nobody could quite agree on how, but that was fine. childe did not need external powers to tell him what to do. he knew, in his deepest heart, that he had gotten it right.

he knew—and, on occasion, flaunted—that he was your favorite. of all the vessels you had chosen, you returned to him time and time again, wishing on his stars until his vision gleamed. his bow shone with power, even his weakest weapon more than enough to push his strength to new heights. part of him wondered what he could do if you’d granted him swords, or a claymore… but that was speculation for another time. didn’t it say something that you had still chosen him at his weakest?

the thought always made him smile. thick in the heat of puppeteered battle, before the sun to after dark, your presence was a constant in his life. at every altar, with every offering, when his hands stung from the rash of leather and his blade was covered in rust, your name a prayer behind blood-soaked teeth. he could not remember a time when his pocket was not weighted with a charm.

his devotion was no secret. he wore your bow with pride, entirely phasing out his other weapons. it didn’t matter that he was technically more controlled with them, for you had chosen this path for him. your word was his guide, a polar star through bitter nights.

he did not doubt when your presence ebbed or flowed. who was he to dictate when or where you spent your attention? no, his faith did not waver. it had no reason to. he waited patiently, going about his regular duties, lingering in snezhnaya for no other reason that he just felt like he had to.

who was he to question to buzzing in the back of his head? who was he to decline when he felt an instinct to leave, to go for a trip far past the city gates? who was he to think himself better than the guiding light that had never led him astray?

for you, he was whatever you needed. and so he went, armed with a thick coat and snowboots, hands shoved deep in the pockets to hide the slight shake. down the main road, an arbitrary turn into an alley and down an abandoned path, into a part of the city he’d never traveled. but a golden thread had tied itself around his heart, pulling without hesitation. he easily hopped over the fence gate, not bothering with hauling it open through the snow. the path beyond was covered in a thick layer of powder, his foot crunching through a foot of it before hitting solid ground. still, he continued.

snezhnayan winters were not warm. they bit and dug into every gap in your clothes, stealing away the precious warmth within. and yet, with his half-done coat and incomplete guard, he was not cold. or, rather, he couldn’t feel it. his hands were pink with frost, stiff at the knuckles, but he couldn’t feel the resistance. his body was not important, not now.

the snow began to thin. it fell from his knees to his shins to his ankles to his toes, until he was face to face with a thick wall of bramble, impossibly overgrown. he was beginning to overheat in his jacket. twin blades made quick work of the wall, and the sight behind it easily dispelled any breath left in his lungs.

the air that washed out of the bubble was thick and heavy, like a humid spring instead of snezhnayan woods. his breath came in short gasps, a shameful wheeze that he hoped was missed beneath the howling snow. he didn’t want you to see him as weak, as someone so easily tired by a short trip to a falling star; he didn’t want you to think of him as anything other than his best.

but you didn’t push him away. you helped him up—his head was buzzing with delusion, he could hardly see, when had he fallen to his knees?—and brushed the snow off his hair, not pushing him away when he leaned into your touch. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could barely collect himself enough to recognize that he needed to get you inside, away from the wilds.

that was power. to so effortlessly take over every thought in his head, to hold his mind in your hands and pull it into your liking, that was the power he adored you for. gods were figureheads of power, a physical incarnation of their dominion. a god of the entire world would only naturally have power to manipulate that world to their liking. how blessed was he, that he could be the first you made yours.

he was with you when you first stepped into zapolyarny palace, looking around at the chandeliers and fine tile. he opened the door for you to her majesty’s throne room, sucking in a sharp breath as you brushed by. he was by your side when the tsaritsa swore you her fealty, delicately placing the gnoses in your hands.

and oh, how he’d fallen to the floor right then and there, dizzy from the wash of power that rolled off you in waves, an ocean that he willingly dove into. the floor was cool beneath his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as sweat quickly began to bead. he didn’t bother pushing himself up on his hands, teeth sinking deep into his lip again to control his panting breath. copper bloomed over his tongue, filling his mouth and clogging what remained of his senses.

dimly, he was aware that he was being pathetic, that this would surely change your mind about him. he heard your voice, faint through the fog of his mind, your wisdom lost to his own inadequacy. and yet, despite his weakness, every part of him was tuned into you. he knew it was your hand whispering across his shoulders, he knew it was your influence that stole the breath from his lungs. he knew it was you, because it was always you. you were all he could think of, and now you were finally able to leverage your full power over his self.

he’d woken up in a hospital bed. saline dripped into his arm and the lights pierced his eyes, his head full of snow and iced over. and yet, the moment he was cleared for release, he found himself desperate to be back to your side, racing through the tiled halls of the palace and following the urgent burn in his chest. you would have been right to turn him away, to deem him too weak to stay by your side, but you didn’t. you smiled when he lost his breath and laughed when he wavered, brushing off his concern. you invited him with you—his lungs burned with the need for oxygen—as you twirled the gnoses between your fingers, as if they were toys or paperweights rather than objects of divine power.

divine to him. child’s play to you. a courtyard of snow was cleared in an instant, ripples of pyro melting permafrost while keeping the flora beneath intact, a lazy show of power that pulled little more than a slight hum from you in response.

he wasn’t so much a fool as to think he could teach you everything, or even something, about being divine. and yet he clung to your side like a sailor in a storm, watching as you grew familiar with the elements. he watched, stubborn and weak, as you stopped hesitating.

flowers bloomed as you walked by, crumbling to ash with the slightest look. electro jumped from your skin to his, a painful spark that drew his mind from his head, finally seeing your amused eyes instead of just mindlessly staring. you could—should—have just left him behind, but you didn’t. you instead asked for his help, taking his hand in yours and leading him to a quieter hallway of the palace. you didn’t comment on his thundering pulse despite the fact that you could certainly feel it, tracing a finger along the crease of his palm.

“i wonder…”

a claw of geo cut across his skin, a sharp sting that quickly welled with blood. he barely felt it, watching with detached awe as it filled up his hand, sliding over the edge and dripping to the floor. you didn’t show any emotion, just… watching. his heart beat in his hands, a pool collecting on the floor, and still, you just watched. your other hand moved over the surface, barely an inch away, the blood collecting in a bubble beneath it. with a hum, your fist tightened, pain lighting up his arm. a strained grunt slipped between his teeth, hand flinching closed, brushing against the ball of his blood you had pulled from his veins. his hand was stained red, shaking in your grasp, minutes stretched into hours.

all at once, it dropped, forced back into his body as forcefully as it was removed. with a snap, the skin stitched itself shut, and you were again dragging him along like a child did their favorite toy.

you did that a lot. pull him aside and experiment with whatever new reaction you had discovered that month, week, day, hour, watching his reactions with unabashed delight. and he let you. every time, without fail, he eagerly followed, knowing full well he’d end up rigid with lightning or with ice crystals studding his throat. it was worth it, though. you always fixed him up, squeezing his hand with a whispered ‘good job’ that never failed to make him dizzy.

it didn’t matter what you did to him. it never did. even when his mind was hazy with pain and he couldn’t quite stand on his own, he never regretted it. unconsciousness licked at the edges of his vision, burning black stains that lingered even after you stopped, but he never once hesitated.

if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you felt like holding him underwater, he’d cherish every bruise. to be kept as a toy was still to be kept.

[vlasdygoth]

kiss me out of desire, baby, not consolation