#this is exceptionally short

[voltdragoon]

I love seeing tumblr guides for tiktok refugees. Brother they're not coming here

[brigid-faye]

Short Remus tall Remus do whatever you want but I always assumed lycanthropy from a young age would stunt your growth so Remus is short/average height and no one thinks much about it until they meet his parents who are both tall and then those in the know recognize yet another impact of being a werewolf 😌

[theribbajack]

The last Zonai Ganondorf pic I did was pretty well-received so I did some more :) Aka where I keep adding more jewelry and make my life harder.

Totk!Ganon is great and all but the scene in Twilight Princess where his Triforce of Power awakens and he breaks out of the chains is still one of the coolest moments he's ever had, so I drew that scene here haha

[illumiera]

i need to draw merethic era first dragonborn mara priestess AU ellie like i need air. she's in my head with her wolf half-mask, clothes made of misty-grey furs, turquoise beads in her hair, tall flaming staff in her hands. i'm almost positive that she can shapeshift into a wolf. she's on her way to sacrifice herself to the time wound to seal away alduin and return in 4E 201 right when a farmboy named mímir has figured out that he's the last dragonborn

[whistlingstarlight]

A lot of people like to headcanon some of the components as tall, which whilst valid will never be as funny as the 2010s era of StEx when all of the components were like a head shorter than Electra. Bro surrounds himself with the smallest trucks he can find and as a result looks taller like some kind of reverse Napoleon-

[grantmentis]

One frustrating thing with PWHL analysis is people do tend to forget that it’s typically going to take a player (especially a young one) more than, like, ten games to adjust to the league and team

[stabby-pal]

I’m sure he has eyebrows but he already has the Polnareff hair so he gets diagnosed with the bald-ass brow ridge too

[pikkish]

idk if this is a good prompt but put doomguy in myhouse.wad I think he would find it enriching

Right, so I've been mulling on this one for a little bit now, n I'm not opposed to writing something for you, I'm just not... entirely sure what to write? Because the thing is, myhouse.wad doesn't actually really have anything to do with Doom as a story. Sure, Doom is important in that it's the vessel through which the story is told and one of the connections between the narrator and his dead companion. But as far as Doom itself goes, and the story about a man who was too angry/stupid to die, fighting demons and saving earth, none of that is at all relevant to myhouse.wad and its story. For all intents and purposes, Doomguy isn't actually a character in myhouse.wad. So I'm not really sure how exactly to fit him in there.

[wasteofart]

Bought some loose oversized pants the other day and I really liked them but they were a tad too big to the point of them sliding down constantly basically. Other than that I actually really liked them so I went to get them in a smaller size and that turned out to be way too small??? Like the fit is completely different and it gave me the worst dysphoria that ruined my entire day. They were tight in all the wrong places and way more narrow than the larger size. And with all the other shit thst is going on right now I can just feel myself starting to spiral again

[ourstarsystem]

okay but I genuinely do feel "I'm only 25" deep in my heart. as an excuse

[pterodactylterrace]

At the ER. One of the nurses asked me what my height was. I told her five feet. She waited for me to add inches to it. I had no inches to add.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

when you were five, you stole rin’s soccer ball.

you had no malicious intention, really. but rin didn’t realize that and ended up saying some nasty things (“you’re a stupid and annoying poo-head!”) to you, which ended up had you sobbing while you explained that you were really just cleaning the ball because of the grime and dirt on it. rin ended up feeling bad and buying you an ice cream.

when you were eight, you stole rin’s glances.

he was always looking at you, and even when he was supposed to look somewhere else, his eyes stayed on you. like a moth drawn to a flame, he followed you around. he hid when he got shy, blushed when he got caught, and smiled when you talked to him. the reason for it was simple: he realized that you were pretty and nice, and so he liked you.

when you were eleven, you stole rin’s breath.

when he looked at you, his heart would quicken, he would go red, and he almost stopped breathing every time. he always found his heart skipping a beat and his breath quickening to the point where they were non-existent whenever you smiled. he didn’t understand it, it was weird. he wanted to ask sae about it, but he had already left for spain, so rin just assumed he was sick.

when you were fourteen, you stole rin’s first kiss.

it was just experimental; you had seen so many other classmates have their first kiss, and you had to admit that you felt a bit jealous. you wanted to have your first kiss too, but you wanted to save it for someone special. rin, not wanting to see you upset, awkwardly muttered that he was fine with kissing you. he didn’t know how to word it correctly, but it ended up okay in the end. you were both inexperienced and didn’t know how to kiss properly, but it was only a short and soft kiss after all.

when you were seventeen, you stole rin’s heart.

at this point, with the (unwanted) advice from stupid isagi and bachira, rin finally realized that he fell deep down the rabbit hole of being in love. his heart felt like exploding when you touched him, even if it was something as ridiculous as your fingers brushing accidentally. whenever he sees you, in all your ethereal glory, cheering for him in a game, he feels like he can score 50 more goals. the media had never seen the cold and calculating itoshi rin act like this, although the paparazzi and journalists enjoy every moment of his soft look whenever his eyes land on you.

when you were twenty, you stole rin’s virginity.

self explanatory, although rin was surprised he ever got it taken in the first place. it was an awkward first time for the both of you, and although you both had little to no idea of how the hell you do it, you both pulled through. after the session, rin only seemed to fall for you even more. even after he turned into this cold and rude soccer obsessed person, you never left him, and now you’re here, in front of him, sleeping softly in his arms after doing the most intimate things two humans can do with each other.

when you were twenty-three, you stole rin’s last name.

it was a day of tears, love, and eternality. rin’s eyes gleamed with tears when he saw you in that snow white dress, looking like the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen and ever will see. hearing someone call you by his last name, seeing you laugh and talk with his mother, seeing you holding a pastel bouquet of flowers while walking to him, they were all rin’s dream aside from winning the world cup. the shared kiss had much more experience and passion than the one from nine years ago, and you almost cried knowing just that.

finally, when you were twenty-six, you stole rin’s genetics.

okay, maybe you didn’t. he sort of gave it to you in a way…but your kids sure stole his genetics. bright teal eyes, exceptionally long underlashes, and an undeniable passion for soccer. even at 3 months old, your daughter can’t sleep without holding a soccer ball. rin has never been happier, his soccer career at it’s peak, being with his beautiful wife and daughter, and not heaving to worry about you stealing everything else, because you had already stolen everything from him.

and rin prefers it that way.

[varjopeura]

.

[maeventide]

Thinking about a self conscious Nanami Kento following the Shibuya incident he made it out alive okay, good men don't perish in this house

pairing: nanami kento x f!reader cw: body image issues, angst, hurt/comfort

Nanami looks at himself in the mirror and studies his disfigured flesh with thinly veiled disdain. His stomach churns as his gaze follows the ugly, reddish grooves that twist and mar half of his face. The macabre view of his teeth as a result of the tearing to his right lip is no pretty sight either. Nanami certainly never believed himself to be an exceptionally handsome man before all this...but now...

He finds it difficult to face you, knowing that every time the two of you go out in public together, people stare. Of course, you've reassured Nanami countless times that it doesn't bother you in the slightest and that he shouldn't be ashamed, but being the conscientious man that he is, Nanami can't help but worry that he's becoming a burden to you.

The whispers of the people that pass you by certainly don't ease those anxieties in the slightest.

"What happened to his face?"

"Look, he's wearing an eye patch. How weird."

"Why's a cutie like her hanging out with that ugly mug?"

"You can see his teeth! Gross!"

"She must be a gold digger. No way anyone would willingly date someone who looks like that."

Each of those callous remarks, especially those that question your character, feel like a ruthless punch to the gut. You furiously defend him of course--everything short of spitting venom at the people who've uttered such cruel words--but Nanami knows that he's dragging you down. He knows that he's selfishly ostracizing you from the rest of society by staying by your side. He knows it's not fair to you. It isn't right to subjugate you to all this...

If he were a better man, Nanami would have cut ties with you long ago.

"Kento..."

He feels your arms wrap around his waist from behind. You've caught him staring in the mirror again, and at three in the morning no less. Nanami can't help but feel utterly ashamed.

"I'm sorry, love. Did I wake you?"

He feels you shake your head back and forth against his back, the warmth of your body, so recently bundled up beneath the covers, seeps through his t-shirt. It's calming, just like your touch.

"Do you mind turning around for me?"

Incapable of ever denying you, Nanami does as you wish. He turns to face you, too tired to try and hide his melancholic expression (not that you wouldn't have seen through his thinly veiled facade anyway). Your own expression doesn't waver as you look at him. In your eyes Nanami sees neither disgust nor pity nor anger. Instead Nanami sees what he always sees--love.

"I love you," You say, as if it were the most matter of fact thing in the world. "Every day when I wake up in the morning and see your sleeping face next to mine, I feel so incredibly grateful that I can hardly breathe."

Your hands rise up, reaching forward to gently cup Nanami's face. He winces slightly at your touch, his scared tissue is still sensitive, but he doesn't pull away. He doesn't think he ever could.

"Kento, I know that adjusting to these scars--both the ones on the surface and the ones inside--hasn't been easy. I know that there will be bad days,"

Your thumbs tenderly caress Nanami's cheek, tracing the bones that now protrude there thanks to the weight he'd lost. He realizes that he should be feeling self-conscious right now, with how close you are to the ugly parts of him, but he doesn't. Not when you're looking at him like he'd just hung the moon and stars.

"Nanami Kento, you are stuck with me. I'm going to stand by you, through the good and the bad. Through all of it. That's what people who love each other do."

You smile at him and Nanami's chest tightens to the point of pain, breath catching harshly in his throat as his vision begins to swim. It comes crashing down in waves, all the doubt and all the pain he'd held inside. He can't hold himself up anymore and Nanami slumps against you, burying his face into your shoulder as he lets the tears silently flow.

And like always, you hold him.

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

[recareels]

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem!reader, obsession, implied rough sex (biting, hickeys, scratching, etc), implied dubcon + somnophilia words: 492

sorry but i just think phainon is insatiably, exceptionally, almost violently horny for you. it doesn’t matter how many ways he’s had you or how many times he’s pumped you full of cum (even within a single night), it is never enough to satisfy the voracious greed constantly gnawing at the pit of his stomach. he always wants—needs—more of you. 

more of your cunt, spasming around his impossibly thick cock for the umpteenth time, flooding his shaft with sweet, sticky nectar, so much that it’s glazing his thighs and pooling in the folds of his heavy balls. more of your kisses, lips and tongue and teeth scouring his body, leaving molds of your mouth etched into his skin—small collections of thirty-two tiny indents, arranged in pairs of crescents, engraving his thighs, his forearms, his shoulders; smatterings of blooming blood vessels, split open and spilling into the surrounding tissues, forming mini galaxies of blues and purples stained beneath flesh. 

more of your fingers in his hair, combing, yanking, scratching; more of his name shattering in your throat, broken by breathy gasps and pitchy moans; more of your body knotted with his—between linen sheets and beneath the warm water of the baths and behind crumbling marble columns. 

it’s so bad it borders on addiction; he’s always had incredible stamina, sure, but this is something new, this is something different. this is desire with gnashing fangs clawing at his ribs, desperate to burst free from its cage and maul its way to you.

it’s so encompassing it borders on obsession, thrashes in his chest any time you’re within his general vicinity, any time he catches a whiff of your perfume or a glimpse of you, even when you’re doing the most mundane things—especially when you’re doing the most mundane things: standing over steaming vegetables at the stove, washing plates from the night’s dinner, folding his pants and shirts on your knees.

domesticity awakens something innate and primal within him, drives him absolutely fucking wild, has a growl ripping at his throat and large hands pawing at your waist, rucking up your skirt and refusing to waste a single second with untying your apron, cock already hard and throbbing as he ruts against your ass, gliding perfectly over silk coated flesh. it’s pathetic: your panties are still on, his cock still confined to his trousers, but he swears he could cum just like this, humping away at your body in short, quick, desperate motions. it never matters how he has you, just that he has you. 

“need you,” he’s panting damply against the curve of your neck, somewhere between a snarl and a whine. “need you, now.” 

and you, his precious angel, always comply, always allow him to take, take, take, even when you’re busy, even when you’re aching, when you’re sleeping. 

it’s extreme affection in the purest sense of the word—an affliction without alleviation, a compulsion without a cure.