#AND HEHEHE THANK U!!!

[mushtoons]

I've just seen your 2018!ronin Mikey au and I immediatly got like a... hundred of silly questions? I don't know if it's okay to ask some but I'm going to try cause I'm super curious now!

So, does 2012!Mikey cook in this au? What's 2018!Mikey opinion on his food or/and cooking skills? Has he ever cooked something himself after getting in 2012 universe?

Your au idea is very cool by the way, and I'm looking forward to see more comics :D

first off ahh ask away!! we'd love to info dump about it considering its gonna take a bit to draw up all the scenarios we got planned lmaoo

and he does!! sorta!! ronin mainly cooks considering splinter wanted to just feed them algae and worms, with mikey helping him then in his preteen years mikey started experimenting with different food combinations and textures much to ronin's horror but who is he to deny a young chef, no matter how many times ronin "accidentally" drops his portion of the mikey special of the day

[jackalspine]

@schnuffel-danny hehehe

regarding this post: from schnuffle

[kairennart]

*bi lights your king*

for @aeonthedimensionalgirl <3<3

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ touya-nii + his nasty habit of sneaking into your bedroom

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest, noncon, a slight bit of degradation, implied size difference words: 1.2k

he’s always careful when he starts. careful when he creeps into your room in the middle of the night, sock clad feet quiet against the hardwood; careful to keep the doorhandles latch from catching on the strike plate as he closes it behind him; careful not to wake you as he slinks into your frilly little bed, knocking stuffed animals and extra pillows onto the floor, as he worms his way beneath your pink-piped comforter and slithers his hand between your silky thighs—ah, good girl, you’re not wearing those pesky sleep shorts, just like he told you not to (good little sisters only wear panties to bed; and sometimes, they don’t even wear those, he had informed you)—and then wiggles his fingers under your lacy undies.

that’s when he stops being careful. 

because he loves that sharp gasp of surprise, that sheer unadulterated bolt that courses through your body—shock in the purest, prettiest form—that jolts you from your blissful slumber almost violently; skin shuddering, eyes snapping open, when he shoves two dirty fingers into your ill-prepped cunt. 

it’s his favourite sound in the world, he swears it is, swears he would bottle it up and keep it close to his heart if he could, swears he would wear it around his neck like the cutest, daintiest little noose, tethering him to you. 

but this is the next best thing, he supposes. 

your eyes slip shut again, so tightly they crinkle the corners and furrow your brow, and a whine of his name spills from your lips; first in frustration, then again all wispy and dumb when he curls his knuckles against that plush spot buried deep inside of you—that spot he knows so well, that spot he discovered, then claimed as his own. 

yeah, not so irritated now, are ya, y’little brat. 

no, you’re not. you’re sighing out his name in time with the pumps of his fingers, all melty and stupid and oh-so-cute, knotted with his honorific and seeping into your lace-trimmed pillows in little threads of drool. you’re grinding your ass back against his hard cock as you pathetically hump his palm, indulging him as his hips rut into your plush flesh, pre-cum steadily leaking through his thin pyjama pants, staining plaid in dark wet patches.

“touya-nii,” you whimper, back arching a little, nipples peaked through the thin cotton of your camisole. “stop, stop.” 

this is the routine almost every time, practiced and perfected through night after night of rehearsals, and you play your part flawlessly; effortless and enticing and full of emphasis, because you know he gets off on it—the no!s and wait!s and don’t!s, sometimes spit from your lips, sometimes dribbling out the corner of your mouth, only heightening the whole sordid affair.

because you’re just as fucking sick as your big brother is. 

he can’t stop, don’t you know?

it’s all your fault, he’s telling you, voice caught somewhere between accusatory and mocking. if you weren’t such a slutty little tease, nii-chan wouldn’t have to do this. 

but it’s all just a game; he knows you love it just as much as he does, knows you’re just as depraved as he is, because your actions don’t match your words, you bad girl, the rolling of your hips encouraging the rocking of his own, one of your free hands threading itself over his and guiding it to your breast, bony knuckles pressing into a soft palm as his fingers flex around supple flesh.

if you didn’t love it, if you didn’t want it, then why would you prance around the house in those short, short little dresses? the ones that fan out when you twirl to your music in the living room or ride up when you bend over while cooking in the kitchen, gifting anyone within the immediate vicinity (your vile siblings and their prying eyes) a coveted glimpse of the silk and lace clinging delicately to your cheeks; the ones that are an inch or two too short to be considered wholly decent, and the ones Daddy has repeatedly told you to stop wearing around your big brothers—especially the eldest. 

“m’sorry, touya-nii, m’sorry, m’sorry.”

no, you’re not, but that’s okay. he isn’t, either. 

at least you have each other.

your other hand snakes between your tensing thighs, cupping his own, little fingers layering larger ones as they try to speed up his motions, push his digits deeper, fuck you harder, give you more. 

these trysts never last long enough, though; no matter how hard he tries to lengthen them, to savour them, you’re both too eager, too hungry for one another, cumming too quickly in the dead of night as your bodies tremble together, as names shatter on tongues in sharp whispers and limbs seize and tangle and fuse into one.

it’s always so fucking messy, your cunt clenching around your conjoined fingers, slick dribbling down his knuckles in thick dollops to pool in his hand, to settle in the lines of his palm and streak his inner wrist in pretty shimmering streams.

it’s always so fucking messy, his grunts hot and humid against the nape of your neck, forehead pressed to the crown of your head as his cock throbs, filling flannel with copious amounts of burning, sticky cum—so much it seeps through the material to soak your scrunched panties, so much it dries in a hard glaze, welding lace to your ass. 

you don’t ever dare to wash it off, clean it away, eradicate the evidence, instead allowing each other’s pleasure to stain your skins, wearing it like a mark of honour, a claim of ownership, barely visible when it dries into something firm and translucent, but there nonetheless. 

his fingertips continue to flutter against that swollen spot until ripples of overstimulation are shuddering through your flesh, until your little hand is wreathing around his syrupy wrist and nails are biting into his flesh and tugging, tears beginning to bead your lashes.

only then does he chuckle and pull his hand free, knuckles hooking in an attempt to scrape your walls, a heavy coat of your arousal glistening on his fingers. 

“you cum so fucking much for your big brother,” he growls in your ear, lips wet against the cartilage, voice tapering off into a whine. “look at how wet you get for me.” 

two of his fingers flatten against your cheek and then swipe, slow and hard and thorough, smearing a thick film of your slick across your face, from the tip of your temple to the corner of your mouth, back and forth and back and forth until it’s been rubbed into your skin. 

callused fingertips push past your parted lips, weighing down on your tongue and cramming themselves into your throat, forcing you to taste yourself—to taste him, painted in you; spicy nicotine and heady salt.

“you’re fucking disgusting,” he pants out, but his pupils are gaping, watching as your gorge yourself on your big brother’s flesh, lips puckering and cheeks hollowing as your tongue curls around his knuckles and tries to siphon him further down your throat. 

a whine splinters in his chest as he pulls his extremities free from your voracious grip, slathered in spit, viscous cords strung between his knuckles as he spreads them apart. 

“yeah, you’re real fucking sick, y’know that?” 

“you made me like this, nii-chan,” you breathe out dreamily, already drifting back into sleep’s welcoming embrace, body going lax in his arms and snuggling back against his chest. 

yeah, he fucking did. 

and neither of you would have it any other way. 

[lesbianspeedy]

that one ben affleck and matt damon joke but its halollie tweets

[lunarr-stuff]

Can i request nezha doing red son's hair like his own? :D

Hope you get out of your art slump soon <3

big bro nezha is a such a vibe for me (this is post samadhi fire sealing, red son would refuse to calm down untill nezha let himmm )

[deklo]

that’s how it went right (ref C1)

bonus:

[colorful-horses]

Watched helluva boss like I said I would (months ago .... lol) and my review on it can be boiled down to "it looks really good, i like the character designs, and it has a really decent framework. but it is SO melodramatic 24/7 about literally everything"

[sollucets]

— evening sun, jane kenyon

as long as he lives one day, I'll live that day with him.

[calygocat]

ms. pauling art 😻 (that i still never finished 😪)

[soonhoonsol]

240813 Weverse Live "캐럿 💎"

for @fairyhaos 💖 submit a request here! 😇

[yutaslaugh]

my favourite yuta facecam! ↳ requested by @soonhoonsol

[lilacthebooklover]

Shadowvanilla with prompt 35

35. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

“You heard me!” Shadow Milk smiles sharply. His voice is playful as ever, but the glint in his eyes is deadly serious. Pure Vanilla listens closely as the mirth in his tone evaporates, that unearthly stare boring into him more intensely than ever before. “Take. It. Off.”

Subconsciously, the healer feels his hand drift towards his Soul Jam. It thrums with power beneath his fingers, simultaneous reassurance and warning pulsating through the azure jewel. It clings to his robes like it knows what will happen if it is removed, and Pure Vanilla finds himself shaking his head before he even realises what he’s doing.

“No,” he says, voice definite. Shadow Milk is capable of putting him through torture beyond comprehension, but Pure Vanilla will not falter. He can’t afford to, not when so much is at stake. He steels his gaze, tightens his grip, and offers a denial that can only be met with fury.

As expected, the world twists and warps around him, the warm, fuzzy edges of his dreamlike prison distorting into a tangle of blackened tendrils, creeping and twisting and grabbing. Pure Vanilla is safe when he’s awake. That doesn’t stop Shadow Milk from trying to convince him to surrender when unconscious. The Dark Side of the Moon is an otherworldly place; in a sense, Pure Vanilla wonders if he ever sleeps at all, anymore. He certainly doesn’t feel rested just then.

“No?” The jester echoes finally, head tilting eerily to the side. Pure Vanilla does his best not to shudder at the anger he feels emanating from Shadow Milk in waves. “Hmm. You know,” His voice dips into something between a purr and a growl, tracing his finger down Pure Vanilla’s jaw. The Beast is a master of deception, and Pure Vanilla knows as much. That doesn’t stop the urge he feels to lean into the first warm touch he’s felt in what feels like centuries. “This would be so much easier if you stopped resisting. So stubborn, Vanilly! I’d be impressed if it wasn’t so infuriating.” 

The grip on his jaw tightens, and Pure Vanilla desperately hopes that determination masks the fear in his eyes as they’re wrenched towards Shadow Milk’s own. He’s too close, Pure Vanilla thinks distantly, sickening anxiety slithering under his skin. The scorching, gentle touch he provides is something the healer both despises and craves, and he hates himself for the latter.

“No matter,” Shadow Milk softens again, stroking against Pure Vanilla’s cheek. He should fight back. He doesn’t. “You’ll come around eventually.” The steady tick of a clock begins to echo in Pure Vanilla’s ears, unnatural and loud and far too damning.

“It’s only a matter of time.”

[yume2kke]

commission i did for the epic and lovely @rauberrauber of manna and toto :)

[snowangeldotmp3]

mini web weave about guilt. nancy wheeler & lady macbeth.

grief || ghosts

[inkykeiji]

Seeing the other anons post I wanted to ask

What would adam call you? In bed/just plain nicknames 👀

ooooh okay, well first of all (and the first thing that instantly came to my mind), i think adam would 100% call you sugar tits, based on the fact that he calls lute danger tits. most of the pet names he uses for you are a little silly and make you giggle—because your laugh is, without a doubt, his all-time favourite piece of music to listen to—sticking to terms like honey bunny, honey bunches, angel eyes, sweets, sweet cheeks, my dream doll, and his personal favourite, what’s cookin’ good lookin’.

he’ll also use the typical condescending nicknames he uses within the show, like babe and sweetheart, but usually when he’s scolding you or mansplaining something. and during those late-night moments when his voice has gone all soft and melty and it’s barely more than a wisp of breath between the two of you, he’ll use endearments like gorgeous and beautiful, often pairing them with something possessive; my gorgeous baby, my beautiful angel, etc.

i also think adam has a thing for degradation + dumbification in bed, resorting to classics like whore, slut, bitch, cum dump, stupid little thing, my plaything/toy, etc.