#I needed to get this out of my mind

[lower-mkdr]

"I also want to see the world only you know about"

[error4343]

Night time thought: Second Death ritual is basically turning humans into vending machines.

[scruncheduppaper]

does anyone want to see my deltarune madoka magica crossover

[nefarious-smartass]

can’t believe Suzanne Collins had Wyatt Callow, who knew the odds of all the tributes’ deaths better than his own name, die protecting Lou Lou, who he statistically knew wouldn’t make it anyway. had Louella McCoy, who was immediately ready to try and stick it to the capital any way she could in the games, die before she even reached the arena. had Maysilee Donner, who constantly talked back, who wanted to die with her head up, who didn’t want to be treated like an animal by the capital, die mangled on the ground after having her vocal chords ripped out by a capital-manufactured bird. had Haymitch Abernathy, who from the moment he learned of Beetee’s plan, knew he was ready and willing to give up his life so that his friends and family could live, be forced to live without them, knowing all he did in the arena was for nothing. that everyone died anyway. sick and twisted.

[crumplstiltskin]

bros au but they're 12 years apart and jujutsu tech scouted sukuna quite young

[dranktwocoffees]

that one 12 yr old in your neighbourhood thats way cooler than you

im not immune to beanie aang propaganda

[piercethevincent]

Thomas skipped both breakfast and lunch

[symeona]

Image description: It's a drawing of a very young Ahsoka Tano. She's on her knees in front of a Clone Trooper's helmet. She's crying and her hands are tight fists on her lap. She's wearing a light blue Jedi robe with brown gloves and boots. The Clone helmet insta drawn in like her, it's left as a light colored sketch. The prompt for this drawing was the theme of "absence" and Ahsoka's first time mourning one of her fellow soldiers. End of description.

[arcade-confetti]

Being someone who read Under The Red Hood and came out with the firm belief that, for Jason, it's not about killing Joker, it's about Jason wanting proof Batman would choose him over the Joker (bc shelia chose the joker). Makes seeing any other media where it's all about just wanting the Joker dead is a teeny bit frustrating. to be honest

Jason could've killed the Joker himself, really, really easily. Jason kidnaps the Joker before the confrontation. I can't open my comic for a reference right now, but it felt like he had the Joker for quite a bit before the confrontation. He had him. He beat him up with a crowbar. He had every single opportunity to kill the Joker himself, but he didn't because that wasn't his goal. Make no mistake, he did plan for the Joker to be dead by the end of it, but do you see what im trying to say here

Edit: If I knew this post was gonna get 1000+ notes I would've tried to word it better or something, this was a rant I made on the way to the grocery store 😭

It's not about making Batman kill either. When Batman says he won't kill, Jason adjusts and goes, 'Let ME kill the Joker or kill me to stop me' instead. The test is all about Batman choosing him. The whole final confrontation is Jason's first death again. The parent, The Joker, and the explosives. It even ends with Jason unable to move as a bomb goes off right next to him again because the parent didn't choose Jason. And instead tried finding an option that'd benefit them and (consequencely) letting the Joker walk, again, lol, lmao <-in agony

[sweetmapple]

Communion

[wuntrum]

honestly love when artists draw copious amounts of fanart for a character and then start adding more and more personal touches or headcanons to how they depict them and then just change their name and adopt them as an original character. its like watching nature heal in real time

[lilybug-02]

City of Tears. But Mini.

I wanted to make an atmospheric art piece with Dewi. And the City of Tears is one of the most sorrowing, beautiful, and grand places to do that. This is a lot of firsts for me regarding the architecture and lighting. The shadows cover a lot, and it may have been too much. I'm happy with how it turned out tho.

No idea how Dewi found his way into the City. Probably magic. Probably plot too :) But oh boy, he is experiencing childlike wonder in his raincoat!

This is a better show of the line detail I needlessly covered up in the final lol

[just-null]

Do you ever do requests? If so, do you ever plan on drawing some Yandere with the Hantengu clones? :D hope you have a good day/night!!!

Mentioning an unfamiliar name

yes!! I love yanderes.. and these guys.. these guys are such good material...... nods nods..

I'm not sure about requests..I assume you mean drawing requests? I suppose if it REALLY catches my interest enough, I'd do it, but it'd probably just be line art/sketches.

[tnsophiaayaonly]

Imagine... You, a vampire low-key mastering the art of pretending to be human because, be fr, humans are basically the worst about vampires. They freak out, throw pitchforks, call you “monster,” maybe try to roast you like marshmallows. So yeah, you keep your fangs tucked in, your voice down to a whisper, and your whole existence on dnd mode.

And then... Scaramouche. Rich, annoying, obnoxiously charming and somehow your class partner in this ridiculous blood project nobody asked for. (Spoiler: he’s not just rich and smart; he’s got that whole “brooding vampire novel cover model” look going on — indigo hair that looks like it’s been dipped in midnight, those sharp red-lined eyes that could probably cut glass, and pale skin so flawless you’d think he’s been photoshopped by angels.)

Ofc ts is fanfiction, he somehow finds out you’re a vampire.

Because Scaramouche, in all his over-the-top, borderline insane glory, is a massive fanfiction nerd who’s been secretly obsessed with vampires since forever. Like, he’s read all the cheesy vampire romance novels and watched every supernatural show, and now he’s convinced he needs to be bitten by one. Not for survival or anything normal, nooo, but just because he’s got this ridiculous kink for being bitten. Yeah. You heard that right.

Cue the million times he asks you to bite him.

“C’mon, just a little nibble? Please?” he pouts, flashing that infuriatingly smug grin.

“No,” you say firmly, because, duh, you don’t do casual biting like it’s candy.

But noooo, that doesn’t stop him. He’s relentless. Texts you during class, sliding into your DMs with “Biting is caring, you know,” and showing up with that damn smirk like he’s auditioning for getting bitten.

Eventually, you snap. Like, in the middle of some heated argument, you just bite him. Not a tiny nibble — full-on sink your fangs into his neck and drink a bit. And holy hell, the taste? He’s like a walking nectar fountain. You practically moan internally because, damn, his blood is something else.

He doesn’t just fall in love — he plunges headfirst into the abyss of obsession. Suddenly, he’s texting you 24/7, begging for “just a bite,” showing up with his neck exposed like it’s some twisted sacrificial altar. He’s forcing you to drink his blood more than you drink water. And don’t get me started on the borderline psychotic fits when you threaten to sip from someone else — yeah, he literally makes them disappear. Like, “Hey, that guy? Gone.” Creepy break-ins? Check. Stalking? Oh, double check.

And when you finally get fed up and tell him to fuck off?

He turns into a toxic ex. Suddenly, your little “biting arrangement�� is a relationship, at least in his fucked up brain. He drags you back, demanding to be bitten again, like some emotional vampire junkie who needs your fangs as reassurance that you want him — no, need him — just as badly as he needs you.

Honestly? It’s exhausting, a little terrifying, and totally ridiculous. But hey, when you’ve got a rich, insane fang-obsessed stalker on your tail, what else are you gonna do?

And yea he's human ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

(I'm writing it down rn rn... Liek the full fnafic....🤑)

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Long day

[yeyinde]

waking up after a night out drinking in a foreign country only to realise that the bed you're in is not your own. no one is beside you. you try to leave but the doors are all locked. the windows won't open. you're trapped. a pretty bird in a cage.

nothing is in the dressers except large, old shirts. the clothes you were wearing when you woke up disappear after you take a shower. no panties. no bra. food shows up on schedule. you never see who leaves it.

they don't answer when you scream. when you bang your fists against the door until they're bloodied. passing out on the floor when the drugs finally kick in. but the mess you make in the daytime is cleaned up. your hands bandaged. disapproval heavy in the air along with the stale scent of tobacco. smoke.

when you're good, you get things. books. magazines. treats. your favourite food. a laptop arrives when you sob yourself to sleep after screaming yourself hoarse about loneliness, and how this isn't right. this isn't okay. it's restricted, of course. you log into Facebook but the moment you try and ask for help, the internet is turned off. you're being watched. monitored closely.

you learn your lesson slowly, giving nothing away to your family and pretending you're enjoying your holiday. being good. quiet.

instead of treats, gifts, recipe books arrive—some pages dogeared. you start making the food. leaving a plate in the fridge. it's gone the next morning. more recipes appear. you make them, too. an expensive chain comes next. a pretty gold necklace for a pretty bird in a golden cage.

(each meal gets you a strange rash on your cheek, jaw the next morning. beard burn, you think, and try not to shudder.)

lingerie comes after. silk, lace. all of it fits perfectly. you try to avoid it. the idea, the implication, is a knife between your ribs, but the next morning, your laptop is missing. the books are gone. food, too. your clothes disappear until all that remains is the lingerie set and a little black box. one you pointedly ignore. throw out with the trash. chew on gum to make the ache in your belly go away until that vanishes too.

your world is narrowed down to hunger. loneliness. isolation—

(in the corner of the rooms, a red light glints in the dark. lonely, but not alone.)

it persists until you relent. give in. another lesson you learn. you wear the set to bed, and try to think nothing of it—

you wake up to something heavy around you. a warm, thick body pressed against your bare spine. coarse chair tickling the skin between your shoulder blades. a burly arm under your neck, elbow bent to wrap a rough hand around your neck. the other slung over your hip, shoved between your thighs. something hard presses into your ass. a bruising pressure. it aches. you stifle a gasp, but with his long, thick fingers wrapped tight around your throat, he feels it.

everything goes still. quiet. just the faint rustle of sheets. the scratch of coarse hair on silk. a breath. you tremble. fight back another gasp when lips press into your crown with a sharp inhale. scenting you. nuzzling into your scalp. warm breath that smalls of malt and honey. woodsy. tobacco.

your eyes adjust slowly to the dark, and fall on a black box left on top of your end table. velvet, you know. you've felt the softness between your fingers when you threw it in the trash with a sob. no escaping it, after all.

the hand between your thighs twitches. when he speaks, it shudders through your spine, makes your hair stand on end. it's a growling purr. the low roar of an old engine. more grit than comfort in the midnight dark.

"jus' close your eyes, love," he rasps, pushing his thick body tighter against you. coiling around you like a big, hungry bear. "an' go back to sleep for me."

and you do.