#does this need a nudity tag

[cute-brainz]

Potential Lovely design? Idk I just like drawing cute girls

[lucabyte]

So does anybody else ever think about how Loop felt the need to demonstrate that the party's deaths wouldn't have any effect on the loops. I know I do but that's besides the point. Anyway I don't think Loop actually needs to bathe, they just like to feel included.

[chasiufan]

sooo… what are we??🥺

[marstectomy]

i think facing the scar is still tough, even after so many years.

[lunarharp]

revamped looong mermaid orufrey au :')

[aquaregiaart]

Maglor (+ closeup of alternate version,) a gift for dear @samarqqand.

[teefersdotcom]

do we fw the poob happy b-day top surgery scars (dr retro did them like that at poob's request bc she "didn't have a medical license to lose anyway" /silly)

also uhh. centauripeedle pest

[toxi-works-at-culvers]

when changing into the springlock suits you often get to see a lot more than you bargained for :3

[penta-png]

edited old art from like september cuz i never posted it for whatever reason and i still think it looks pretty solid . love this guy

[worldruins]

and build a fire

[lunarscaled]

"Ready to face THE Mammon? ... ... hey, that totally sounded just like him, right, Miya? I can't believe he actually says that... "

[plazmadragon0]

Here's my little guy!

He is the main character of a story I am writing. Haven't had a lot of time to work on the story itself lately but hopefully I'll pick it up again soon! There is a rough draft posted on ao3 if you want to read it. I'm planning on rewriting it though since i wrote that before i really had any idea how to write. Also thanks to Samalamb-Bases for the great base!

[karinyosa]

need someone to do a video essay on nudity in breaking bad/bcs because like i know there's something going on with it but i don't know what

[parfaitblogs]

so high school ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you're a little too drunk, and your boyfriend is here to help.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: established relationship. idiots in love. alcohol/drinking. reader is wearing makeup and a dress. reader's bsf referred to by she/her if that means anything? fade to black (no literally. they fall asleep. "awwww" the crowd says). semi nudity but it isn’t sexual, he’s just changing her clothes. word count: 1.6k a/n: shoutout to the affectionate yapper drunks we're the best. this was in fact written whilst i was intoxicated like two weeks ago at a party. the sober proofreading clean up was BRUTAL. but i did it. "we're proud of you lia!" we all say in unison. this was the fluff i was talking about in this post. i still don’t remember all of that night but i remembered enough to finish this fic!

You had too much to drink. Way too much.

Not that you'd admit that out loud — you just haven't eaten a lot! you protested when your friends had scolded you. But they saw the sixth drink of the night get downed in mere minutes, on top of the drinks you had all drank before even leaving the house. That's when your protests turned into pregaming too hard, which turned into, okay maybe you're right, which eventually led to you sitting on the curb outside the club you had gone to.

Your knees tucked to your chest, your fingers fiddling with the phone charm hanging off the device, head leaning on your best friend's shoulder, who was waiting with you for the real thing you were scared of. 

Your boyfriend. 

Not actually scared of him, but he was very aware of how much you have had to drink — courtesy of your awfully typed drunk messages throughout the night that consisted of hiiii and i love youuuu and an incredulous amount of blurry photos of you and your friends.

He had indulged in your antics for an hour or two, amused by your attitude. But you said something briefly about being tired, and he had realised that you had had one too many, and offered to pick you up. Which, as your friends slowly started agreeing that they too were tired. you decided it was for the better.

You were rubbing your eyes — despite the makeup on them, successfully resulting in raccoon eyes, as you so graciously called it every time it happened (Spencer had adopted the phrase too, and loved to say it whenever you were crying with mascara on. It was a good way to cheer you up, usually). 

You heard his car before you saw it — the God awful sound of his 1965 Volvo engine was loud, even over the music from the bustling clubs around you and your friend.

Then you saw it pull to a stop half a block away, and your lips pushed out into a pout as you — very awkwardly — pulled yourself up to a standing position. Thankfully, Spencer had already made it to you by the time you felt prepared enough to take a step, because his arm was slipping around your waist and keeping you upright milliseconds before you could fall. 

"Hi," you chirped, grinning up at him. 

"Hey there," he said, brushing the hair that had stuck to your face back, glancing over you, assessing your condition. "Do you remember how much you've had?"

"Yes, wait," you huffed, holding our hands out in front of you. "I had the tequila shots at home, then the vodka sunrise when I got here, then we all did a round of shots, then—"

"—So, you've had too much," he cut you off, and you solemnly nodded your head. He looked past you at your friend, who was in just as much of a state as you. "Does she need a ride home too?"

If you were any less intoxicated, you would've smiled at the offer, as you usually did. Probably the best part about dating Spencer Reid — he was so likeable, he was close with your own friends. 

You called her name, asked the question, and confirmed you had heard her answer with a nod when she explained she was waiting for an Uber home. 

"I can drop her home," he pressed, eyebrows furrowing. "She's on the way. It's no problem."

But her Uber had arrived soon after he spoke, and both of you knew she'd just be losing money if she cancelled it now.

"I guess you're stuck with me," you said, at the same time he began to tug you along in the direction of his car. 

"How terrible," he mused.

"Agreed."

He helped you into the passenger's seat, pulling the seatbelt over your body — despite your insistence that you could do it, clicking it into place. He wound down the window with the handle, which you graciously leaned your head against once the door had been closed for you.

You didn't really register the time between being in the car and getting to Spencer's apartment, the final drink you had drank settling into your body and disengaging you from the world around you until he was leading you in past his door (you hadn't even noticed he unlocked it?) and towards the bathroom. 

"This isn't your bed," you had complained when he helped you up onto the counter, rummaging in the cabinets behind your head — his hand on the back of it so you wouldn't accidentally lean back and hit them. 

"You're very observant," he replied, leaning back and nudging your legs apart so he could stand between them. 

"Thank you."

You felt his breath on your face as he laughed, eyes following his each and every movement whilst he wet a cotton pad with micellar water. You smiled at that.

You had told him — in passing — a month ago that you could never go to bed in your makeup. No matter how exhausted you were. You were usually quite good with it, though you hadn't been in a state since then where you might've forgotten it until now. 

And he remembered.

"Close your eyes," he said, and you obeyed immediately, your tongue poking out between your teeth as you grinned. "Why're you smiling?"

"You're taking my makeup off."

He hummed, silent for a few seconds as he pressed the cotton pad to your eye. "I should get you drunk more often. You seem to notice things a lot better."

"Shut it."

He laughed, again, and you found yourself joining as he pulled the cotton pad away from your eye, allowing you to blink it open. 

"Oh, you look so pretty like this," he mused, and you knew your makeup was everywhere around your eye. He forced your eyelid closed again, so he could keep wiping the smudged makeup off. 

"You're so mean to me," you grumbled.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just 'cause."

"Just 'cause?" he repeats back to you, and you nodded your head, providing no other explanation. He seemed to accept that, because he didn't say anything else as he moved to wipe off your other eye.

Eventually your makeup was off, and he helped you off the sink, turning you around so he could find the zipper of your dress. 

Which had you laughing and turning around to face him. 

"Take me on a date first, Dr. Reid," you said, catching his hands, and he stared at you in disbelief for a few moments.

He was stronger than you were, and while he usually didn't make a show of proving it, when he did, you were a swooning mess. 

Like currently, as he didn't say anything, a sigh escaping his lips whilst his hands found your hips and turned you back around. One hand held you firmly in place, as the other tugged down the zipper of your dress.

"I'm getting you some clothes. Please, stay here," he said, his voice so close to your ear your knees wobbled for more than just your lowered control over your bodily functions. 

Despite the want to defy him, like usual, you stayed put, eyes flickering around the bathroom you had been in so many times before, your dress pooling at your feet. 

He returned with a t-shirt, resting it on the sink as his fingers found your bra and unclasped it, ignoring the way you danced your shoulders, wickedly grinning at him through the mirror. 

"What?"

"I think we're moving awfully fast," you said. "I would like you to take me on a date first."

"I have seen you naked plenty times before," he answered.

"I held my tongue all the other times."

"I'm sure you did."

He tugged the shirt over your head, manoeuvring your arms through the holes, considering you were an expert at going limp in the worst of times, it seemed. 

"And," he added, spinning you back around. "I have taken you on a date. Many. Thirty-three, to be exact." 

"Thirty-four is the magic number I make my boyfriend's wait until they see me naked for the first time," you replied.

"I see. I will work on making it thirty-four, then."

"I think you just want to see me naked."

"You've figured me out," he poked your side again, causing you to crunch your body out of the way with a laugh. "C'mon, let's get you into bed."

You were incredibly complicit, nodding your head and bouncing on your heels in front of him, taking a dive into his bed and finding refuge in the side you always slept on — decorated by the (singular) silk pillow case you had forced onto his bed. Because it is so much better for your hair, as you had argued when he denied you of purchasing him one as well. 

He thought it was stupid. You had the evidence to back you up. So then, he didn't like being wrong and threw a tantrum about it. Or something like that. 

You stared up at the ceiling, staring at the constellation above your head, that was resting comfortably on his chest. He had rearranged them six months into your relationship, Orion mapped out on his ceiling with glow in the dark stars after you had briefly mentioned liking the constellation a lot. He said it took him a week to get it right, but he wanted to do it for you. 

You tear up a little every time you see it. Which is perhaps too often. 

"Did you have fun tonight?" he murmured, fingers entangling in your hair.

"I did," you responded, voice overwhelmed with exhaustion, followed by a quiet yawn, that he caught too. "You're tired."

"You're giving Sherlock Holmes a run for his money tonight," he said, and you huffed a singular laugh. "I am tired," he then added. "So are you."

"I am," you agreed. 

"Goodnight, angel."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddiemicrofic September challenge.

Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

September Prompt: Shower | Word Count: 399 | Rating: M | CW: Locker Room Nudity | Tags: Pre-Steddie, Set During S2, Hitting the Showers, Steve Harrington Has A Big Dick, And Eddie Munson Can't Help But Notice

Eddie always waits until the crowd clears a bit before he finds a spot around the circle of showerheads. He doesn't like this part of the day, but he doesn't like to smell like a sweaty ball sack, either.

So, he waits his turn, sprawled across the wooden bench in the locker room, debating on if he'd get away with lighting up a cigarette. Maybe, but he really doesn't need another suspension. Or a third senior year.

When he sees the last of the loud, grab-assing jocks exit, he heaves himself to standing, heading towards the shower room. 

And is promptly stunned by the sight of naked Steve Harrington, head tilted back, water spraying on his face like he's in a goddamn porno.

Eddie's stuck. Eyes unable to look away, as they just rove over Steve's body, going down, down, down.

He's fucking big. 

A shower in the shower.

That's all Eddie can think. Steve's a shower, not a grower, and Eddie's transfixed, knowing he shouldn't be staring, but he's still gonna, and if he gets caught, well, fuck it. Worth it. Harrington can whip his ass if he wants. 

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Steve says, eyes still closed, and Eddie isn't sure how he even knows Eddie's there.

"Does it have its own headshots to pass out to the fan club?"

And Steve barks a laugh at that, opening his eyes, meeting Eddie's. 

"Now there's an idea," Steve says smiling, totally unbothered. Eddie would be unbothered too, if his dick was that big hanging soft against his thigh. King Steve might be dethroned, but he's clearly still well-deserving of his confidence.

Eddie steps up to the adjacent showerhead, turning the handle, starting his own spray. Steve hands him the bar of soap, and this is the most homoerotic thing he's ever experienced. He takes it, lathering it up in his hands.

"What's it like being a shower?" Eddie asks.

"Wouldn't know," Steve says, all easy-like, as he rinses his hair, "I'm a grower."

"Fuck," Eddie hisses, like he's been scalded, only the water is lukewarm at best now that he's the cow's tail to getting showered.

Steve laughs, and the movement of his arm catches Eddie's attention, eyes following it downwards. Steve cups his cock, and then he meets Eddie's eyes, wet lashes making him look even prettier, "Wanna see?"

Fuck yes, Eddie wants to see.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiemicrofic and follow along with the fun! 🚿

Notes: I couldn't resist the shower/shower homograph of it all for this prompt.

[chuuyascumsock]

Bury Beneath this Filth they Call Skin and Turn it into a Garden || MINORS DNI

Summary: I made a hurt/comfort fic for Chuuya, I might as well make a comfort fic for Dazai too cause he’s my soft spot.

Tags: Dazai Osamu/Reader, GN reader, Angst, Comfort, No One Is Safe, Mentions Of Self Sabotaging, Self-deprecating Thoughts, Mentions Of Dehumanization, Mentions Of Suicide Attempt, Dazai Highkey Has Bad Hygiene Because I Know He Canonically Reeks Of Liquid Ass (I Still Love Him But Honey—), Brief Description Of Self Harm Scars, He Takes Off His Bandages, Non-Sexual Nudity For A Bit.

Dazai doesn’t remember when you started to keep an extra pair of clothes in your bottom drawer just for him.

He doesn’t remember when you bought an extra toothbrush for him either, the item sitting in a small cup on your bathroom counter so intimately close to yours. He doesn’t remember when you started to stock your cabinets with canned crab or an occasional snack he had stolen from you before and said it tasted good. He doesn’t remember when you began preparing meals big enough for two. And he doesn’t remember when you started to look at him the way you do.

Those eyes that so fondly trace over every inch of his frame like he’s capable of being loved— like he’s not a silver-tongued beast of a man, his words filled with more teeth than his bite ever could. He doesn’t deserve it— he knows he doesn’t— so why does he find himself at your doorstep every time he fails his attempts in ending his miserable existence?

“You’re going to get sick if you keep this up,” You sigh out, stripping away Dazai’s soaked clothes until he’s shivering in his sopping wet bandages and boxers. “And you smell horrible every time…” Your nose slightly scrunches at the lingering smell of hydrogen sulfide and mucky water from the Yokohama canal.

“Whatever do you mean, dear? That’s just my natural musk,” Dazai gives a lopsided grin, attempting to lighten the mood. His grin falls into an uneasy look when he notices the brief side eye you give him as you toss his clothes into the washer.

“My water bills spike every month you do this, you know,” You point out blamelessly.

“Sorry,” Dazai mumbles with a weak smile. He always made a promise to try his hardest not to inconvenience anyone while making his attempts— making it up to those who he had done so with such as Atsushi. But he’s burdened you countless times, not realizing until now. Before he mentally promises himself to never return to you like a pathetic, mangy stray dog— you come into his view again.

“Don’t be sorry, but please come to me when you feel the urge to do these things, ‘Samu. I worry about you.” And Dazai can’t help but to immediately let his previous thoughts fly away. Who was he kidding? He’d never be able to stay away from you.

Your hands carefully reach to begin unwrapping the bandages sliding off Dazai’s body. Flinching, Dazai subconsciously moves a hand to stop you from taking his bandages off. There’s a momentary standstill between both of your movements as you look into his eyes with a reassuring gaze before his hand relaxes and falls to his side. It’s not the first time this has happened, but Dazai doesn’t think he’d ever get used to the feeling of having his protective cloth shed to reveal the myriad of scars that are engraved on this once blank canvas that humans call skin.

And when all is removed, you still look at him as you always had with an unwavering fondness that leaves him subconsciously leaning into you, yearning to be swallowed and drowned in your gentle affections. He doesn’t understand why you do the things that you do, such as loving him no matter how many times he tells you how much he doesn’t need you because it’s always been like that— lonely— or why you even put up with any of his shit for that matter. But you do. And he thinks he’ll never know why, because he’s terrible and doesn’t deserve what you do in return to his horrid behavior.

He slips into the tub without needing guidance, face tilting up to look at you without his usual charming grin, expression replaced with a quiet pleading, begging for any sliver of attention you can offer. And you give into his pleads, sitting by the tub while running a hand through his dark tangled hair before reaching for a washcloth to bathe him. There’s a lack of cheeky comments and flirting from Dazai as you rinse away the grime sticking to his tainted skin, his eyes flickering from distant to focused in a matter of minutes before glancing back over to you and melting further into your reverent touch.

Even after exiting the tub, he says nothing, allowing you to wrap a towel around his shoulders and place a tender kiss to his forehead. If this had been any other day, he would’ve teased you to no end about how you had to stand on your toes just to reach his face, but he merely softly smiles in mild amusement and lets you lead him into your room to get dressed.

He wears the extra pair of clothes you keep for him at the bottom of your drawer, shirt loosely hanging off his shoulders and pajama pants dragging along the floor each time he takes a step forward to follow you to your bed. He was used to sleeping on his futon, but he much preferred your bed and the comfort your body brought when he tangled his limbs in yours.

You don’t scold him either when he buries his face into your neck like you used to the first few times he had done so— complaining about his hot breath on your neck. Now, you reach a hand back to scratch your fingers through his damp hair in an affectionate manner, sighing out softly in what he can tell is contentment.

Even as Dazai drifts off, he can’t help but think about the irony of hating dogs as much as he does, yet he can’t help but love you like one.