#lit vomit

[kosi-annec]

something i wrote last year as part of a school project, featuring my bnha oc, Shinori

---

“It’s about time we talk about your future hero career.”

Shinori should’ve expected this. With him graduating junior high in just a few months, he’s not surprised that his mother would barge into his room unannounced to confront him on the topic.

With both of his parents being pro-heroes, it’s expected of him to follow in their footsteps. Both of them studied at UA, Japan's best school for heroics, so it’s obvious what high school he’d be applying for. Right?

Don’t get him wrong, he loves the idea of being a pro-hero. It’s every kid’s dream; protecting people from danger and putting villains in their place. He even designed hero costumes for himself and his two best friends when they were all kids.

At the same time, he loves fashion. Stitching up clothes from scratch with his own hands, the thought and craftsmanship that has to go into making a good outfit; something about it calls to him. It’s a form of art that he’d love to explore further.

This brings him to his current predicament, what career path does he choose? The one he’s expected to take or the one he’d thrive in?

So, he does what any teenager going through a minor crisis about their future would do. He avoids the question.

This doesn’t work.

The only warning he gets is a sigh when his book — he was pretending to study so he could avoid eye contact — is abruptly taken from him.

“This is serious, son.” Oh, she was putting on that tone. “No more of… this.”

“You just gestured to all of me.”

“What I meant,” she gave him a look, “it’s about time you take this seriously. You’re going to graduate soon, so you must be prepared for the entrance exams — they’re very difficult.”

He deadpanned at that last bit. Not the best way to boost a person’s confidence.

“I am serious about this.” Now he let out a sigh — most children wouldn't dare talk back like this, in fear of getting scolded for “being disrespectful”. But Shinori never had that fear.

“I’m just… conflicted. Between heroing stuff and my, uh, hobby.” He hoped his mom understood what he tried to convey. And it seems like she did if the softening of her eyes was any indication.

“There are plenty of pro-heroes out there that do work outside of their hero duties, Nori.” She glanced at the wall that was dedicated to posters of his favorite heroes. “I mean, look at Best Jeanist. He's a pro-hero, yet he’s leading the fashion world with tremendous popularity.”

Japan’s number four pro-hero. One of his all-time favorites, second to his parents. He was an inspiration to him, in both the fashion aspect and the usage of his quirk — they both have very similar abilities.

When Shinori thought about it, his mom had a really good point. So, he made up his mind.

“Well… Mi-mi and Yama are applying for UA once they graduate,” he mumbled, subconsciously playing with the thread he created between his fingers. “Would be cool if the three of us trained together as heroes.”

The sparkling proud joy that formed on his mother’s face made any lingering doubts in him retreat into the back of his mind. His father has said on multiple occasions that he and his mom have the same bright smile.

“Perfect!” She clapped her hands together, having put away the book somewhere. “I already have your training schedule planned out – your studies are also included in it. So, if we…” He tuned out the rest of his mother’s rambling. She can get like that when she’s excited.

Shinori’s happy that his mom’s happy. He thinks that the hero's life will work out for him. He’s going to train under two pro-heroes, after all. And if he, Shikami, and Yamaho all get accepted into UA, he’ll get to work with his two best friends. How cool is that!

But when he’s finally alone, that small bit of doubt creeps in. Was this really the right path for him? It makes him wonder about the what-ifs and the different future that he’ll never know.

---

Writing Prompt: use a memorable conversation from a movie as inspiration

[uzukibeans]

lots of speculation over how round 7 between luka and till will turn out! and its had me thinking about the presence of recurring motifs and how the main ensemble are foils of each other.

i know that many people like to joke about how sua and ivan are genderbends of each other/basically siblings... but in my honest opinion, i think the parallels between the two (similar hair styles and having the more subdued personality of the pairing) are to throw us off about what we know about hyuna and luka lol.

sua and ivan's similarities are to emphasize their situational differences, highlighted by the comic where ivan expressed envy over sua not being in an unrequited love situation (yeah i know that's literally what the definition of a literary foil is, but hear me out LOL). so in that sense i feel that they're not really as similar as it seems?

i personally think that sua has more similarities to luka than she is with ivan, excluding her relationship with mizi. both in terms of their upbringing as being treated like dolls and how their resting face is kind of empty when they're not with mizi/hyuna respectively lol. plus their listless acceptance of the lethal circumstances they exist in

tbh even the childhood dynamic between mizisua and hyuluka (before the hyunwoo thing...of course...) is pretty similar, with mizi/hyuna dragging sua/luka around

i think by emphasizing the similarity between luka and sua, it reframes the events that happened in round 5. while luka probably was purposefully exploiting mizi's grief, it does come to question how much of the cutting shots between the two was mizi seeing sua in luka.

so how does this relate to round 7 between till and luka? there's a lot of speculation that luka will demolish till by pulling the same schtick he did with mizi -- and conversely there's a lot of speculation that vivinos and qmeng will subvert expectations by having till somehow overcome his depression by becoming numb to luka's tricks.

here's a third idea i haven't seen being brought up: luka seeing hyuna in till. i propose this idea because i think we can make some comparisons between till and hyuna. both of them are the most rebellious of the ensemble, both had a tendency to roughhouse as children, and both's choice of music genre is very high-powered with a heavy emphasis on the guitar (i want to say they both have that rock and roll vibe but unfortunately music isn't my forte and i don't want the genreheads to get on my ass LOL).

and now suddenly it feels like the random tidbits we get about luka's interactions with till feels like they're hinting towards something:

[easternkid]

"Henry Winter would've loved the notes app" No. Henry Winter didn't and will never love anything modern. He uses a fountain pen and isn't bothered by the ink, he even reads under candle light - for christ's sake, he uses and is obsessed with Latin, which is by the way, a dead language.

[literaryvein]

L. V., writing in the dark

[thefanciestborrower]

The Devouring of Prometheus

Ohh boy this fic has been over a year in the making and by golly am I proud of it. It was mostly an attempt to imitate Mary Shelley’s writing style while adding more classic lit vore into the world cause oh boy do we need it. This fic is a little darker than my usual fluffy stuff because. You know. It’s Frankenstein. But everything is still safe despite what Victor thinks. Anyways, please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Warnings: Contains soft, safe, unwilling vore, mentions of digestion, mentions of dying, mentions of cannon character death, minor injury, and vomit

Characters: Victor Frankenstein and the Creature

Word Count: 2,830

Mankind has no greater fear than that of being devoured. It is an instinctual fear, engrained deep within our very beings from the moment we are born, as it is in every living being, and yet it is perhaps one of the most uncommon fears to experience in its true, unaltered form. We are quite familiar with the notion of being killed and eaten by a wild beast, since such a thing, while not terribly common in the more civilized parts of the world, is often talked of in books and by explorers returning from long voyages to strange, wild lands. It is a threat to be sure, but perhaps not the most fear inspiring one. A hungry lion might indeed pounce upon you with his teeth and claws bared as if to shred you to ribbons while you lay awake in agony, but in truth he is far more merciful than even most men and will end you swiftly with a bite to the neck before he ever starts to feed. The fear of being eaten in this way, then, is diluted by the promise of a swift death at the claws of a creature who bore you no more malice than you do a butchered duck. 

The terror of being consumed lies not in the act of consumption, but in the method. Stories full of giants and ogres who devour men whole and alive fill the countryside and take captive the minds of all who hear them, filling their dreams with images of gnashing teeth and slavering mouths, capable of sending a grown man down, kicking and screaming, in a single swallow. I must confess I never heard much of these tales growing up, aside from a few Clerval was so fond of telling, and when they did reach my ears, I simply scoffed, laughing such frightening images away in the clear light of day when nothing could seem more ridiculous. They were children’s tales, I thought, simply meant to frighten and entertain, for nothing, man or beast, could swallow whole a living man. Oh, how I wish I had been right. 

He came for me in the night. I was asleep, or nearly so, when a sudden noise at my window startled me awake. At first I assumed it to be the scratching of a branch or perhaps even some night creature making its rounds through the garden outside. After all, I was far more unfamiliar with the Oxford landscape than my dear friend Clerval, who had spent much of his afternoon exploring the grounds, so I felt there to be no need for concern. Indeed, I had nearly turned over to drift back to sleep when I saw his eyes. Those wretched, sunken, yellow eyes staring as if into my very soul through the dusty window I had neglected to lock in my naivety. I might have screamed had fear not grasped my throat and strangled my voice, and though I longed to run, terror turned my legs to lead and forced me to watch as the fiend pried open the window with a delicate ease that seemed almost laughable compared to the rest of his hulking mass. I pulled my sheet up to shield my chest like a child might, entertaining fantasies that perhaps this was simply a nightmare, and if I remained still in my bed then he would be unable to harm me, but when he began to climb through the window with the elegance of a lion stalking his prey, eyes never once leaving me, panic settled over my heart and I realized this was no mere conjuring of an overworked mind. The beast was here, looming over me in my chambers as I trembled in bed with naught but a thin sheet and even thinner night clothes to protect me. 

“Devil! What do you want from me!” I cried at last, terror loosening her claws from my throat. “I have not forgotten our agreement, so why do you insist on tormenting me so!” 

I received no reply, the beast more than content to simply stare at my trembling form. Perhaps he enjoyed how weak I must have appeared before him as his eyes flicked over me, almost sizing me up for reasons I could never have comprehended in that moment. Cold and yellow as they were, I could see an inkling of some mysterious emotion behind those eyes, but it’s identity I couldn’t say. Nor did I care. My thoughts were quickly preoccupied as he advanced upon me, padding forwards like some great and terrible cat, until he stopped just shy of the side of my bed, so close I could have reached out and touched him. 

Again, I saw that strange emotion flicker behind his dead eyes, but before I had time to ponder it he wrapped his hands around my chest and lifted me from the safety of my bed with terrifying ease, like one might lift a small child or a doll, and while I screamed and writhed in his hideous grasp, his hold only tightened. My ribs creaked and complained under the pressure and my cries became strangled and choked. With a ghastly popping sound he opened his grotesque mouth, jaw hanging at an angle too wide for any human to achieve, and to my upmost horror he quickly stuffed my head inside with the terrifying efficiency of a ravenous beast. The slimy muscle of his tongue lapped against my face and my body convulsed in disgust as I desperately fought not to be sick. Revolting as my situation was, I did not wish to add my own vomit to the mix, even if it might have disgusted the fiend enough to free me. 

I could see nothing but darkness, each desperate gasp for oxygen only supplying me with the barest sliver of foul air. Teeth ringed my neck like a terrible collar, and for a moment I entertained ideas of those teeth, the very same I had picked and sorted by hand, crashing together to sever my head from my body like some terrible executioner. Before my thoughts could spiral much more in this direction, his grip changed and I was suddenly shoved against the slick, fleshy opening of his throat. My blood curdled and, with a sudden, crushing pressure, my head was crammed downwards in the most painful manner which caused me to cry out in despair. My skull felt as though it would shatter, and I screamed a horrible, terrible shriek of agony and terror as my shoulders were crushed down after me, the tight gullet of the beast threatening to break them into splinters. My vision swam, stars of pain and lack of breath sparking and dancing before my eyes, and though no light followed me into my hellish prison, I could still see the blackest pitch wavering at the edge of my vision, threatening to drown me in its inky embrace. For a moment I wished it would, if only to keep me from the terrible suffering I knew lay before me, but fate is a cruel mistress and before I could sink into that comforting ocean of darkness a terrible pressure bloomed upon the crown of my head and forced me into an open pocket of stinking, putrid air. 

Coughing and gaging I struggled to draw even a single breath. My ribs, now horribly compressed, creaked and shuttered terribly under the pressure of the creature’s throat, and though my legs still flailed outside, and my hands desperately scrambled for a hold on what I felt to be his chin, I did not dare move the length of my compressed torso for fear of inflicting more damage upon myself. Another painful swallow jolted me down, my face jamming roughly into what I presumed to be the bottom of the creature’s dreadful stomach, and the grotesque flesh not only yielded to accept my presence, but did so with an almost pleased sounding groan, if stomachs can be pleased, as if I really were simply a morsel of food to be consumed and forgotten. The sound filled my heart with a terror I’ve never known, and I cried out, though my voice was quickly silenced by the slick flesh as more of my body was squeezed through that terrifically tight ring of muscle and forced to bend and twist to fit my new prison like some sort of contortionist. 

I know not how long it took the devil to consume me: the darkness of my surroundings and constant pain dulled my senses and left me disoriented to the point where I no longer could even tell up from down. I remember no longer feeling the cold air on my body after some time, my entire being now encased in sweltering heat, and searing pain as my legs were crushed down against my ribs. Finally, it was all over. My entire body had been fully compacted into the creature’s stomach, and although this new development was arguably a much worse position than my previous one, I was far too preoccupied with gulping down precious lungfuls of oxygen to care.

Then, all at once, the reality of my situation came crashing down upon me and with the fervor of a cornered beast I began to lash out and fight, twisting and turning in the confined space in hopes of causing my captor at least the slightest bit of discomfort. 

“Fiend! Devil! Release me at once!” I panted, gnashing my teeth in fear and anger. “This is no way to treat any man, let alone your maker!”

I had no doubt that he could hear my cries and feel my struggles, confined as I was, and yet no answer came. Despite the nature of my location, I was completely and utterly alone, for what man pays attention to his food after he’s eaten it. Again, I tried to call out, to plead for release as I fought against the smothering flesh, and again I was ignored, save for a light pressure against my back from which I hastily jerked away. It was his hand; I knew it instinctively. The brute was no doubt relaxing after so fine a feast of human flesh, and that touch was nothing more then the satisfied gloating of a predator now sated with a filling meal that would last him far longer than any morsel of bread or wine. I was merely something to be enjoyed, digested, and forgotten.

 How many more, I wondered, would be lost in the same way once I had perished. Clearly my current location indicated my captor had grown fond of the taste of human, and with a heart wrenching shudder I suddenly realized I had no way of knowing wether I was the first victim of the monster’s appetite, or if he had already glutted himself with other gentle country folk, just as he had done to me, and I was now resting in their grave. The thought was too much for my already distraught and troubled soul, and the disgust which filled me suddenly became too overwhelming to sustain. With a thick heave I proceeded to retch onto myself, my sick mixing with the beast’s own bile, and I sobbed bitterly for my home. 

“Oh, my dear mountains and precious lake. Will I truly never again delight in your sweet air and radiant beauty? Am I to perish so far from all that is fair and wholesome, without even the cold stars to bare witness to my demise?” I lamented; my voice thick with the grief of a man who believes he is to die isolated from everything he once held dear. 

The spongy flesh seemed to mute my voice effectively as a heavy curtain might, and my words fell upon deaf ears, for no reply came from my creation. My captor. My killer. Was I really to meet my end as nothing more than a meal? My last breath tainted by the stench of bile and vomit? The pressure to my back returned, and although the touch revolted me, I was far too exhausted from my fear and the quickly thinning oxygen to do more than twitch in protest. What difference would it make anyways, my fate was already sealed.

Each breath I drew grew more ragged and gasping with every passing second, my panic having done nothing but quickly use up what little air I had in the stale cell, and in some fever, I realized that, although my air was quickly thinning, I had not yet begun to feel the slightest tingle of digestion. Oh, what sweet twist of fate was this! I still would meet my end as nothing more than a morsel of food this was true, but I would be long since unconscious and perhaps even suffocated before acids truly began to work on me and thus spared the sensation of digesting alive. It was a small assurance, but so consumed was I by grief and terror of my fate that even the small mercy of a painless death brought me comfort. It was more than a man like me deserved after all I’d done. The innocent blood on the creature’s hands stained mine as well, and I thought bitterly of poor darling little William and dear Justine. Their blood has been spilt on my account, and yet, while their deaths had been horrific tragedies, I took solace in knowing they had left the world far quicker than I would, and that I would be seeing them again soon.

My vision swam before me, and with one last shuddering sigh I slumped against the slick walls, no longer attempting to catch my breath, for what would be the point in trying to breathe when there is no air left to fill my lungs. The stomach clenched around me with a disgusting squelch, smothering and squeezing my helpless form as it worked to knead what I presumed to be caustic acids into my sodden clothing and soft flesh, preparing for the undoubtably difficult task of liquifying my un-masticated body. With a gasping, barely audible sob I pressed a trembling hand out against my churning prison walls, cursing my creation and praying my end would be swift. Then the darkness engulfed me, and I knew no more.

Due to the circumstances in which I had fallen unconscious I fully expected to never wake again, so when I started awake some unknown amount of time later in the very bed I had been snatched out of, I could seldom comprehend what was happening. My first thought was that my horrendous experience had been naut but a dream; an apparition brought upon me by the dreadful task I knew I would soon be required to complete. Then I became aware of the disgusting film of sticky, foul smelling sick coating my body and the dull, yet throbbing pain in my ribs, and my blood ran cold. It had been no dream. My creation truly had assaulted me in the night, swallowed me whole and alive, and, by some miracle, vomited me back out before his digestive system could process me. In fact, aside from my ribs, which were badly bruised, I appeared whole and unharmed. Not even a drop of acid had singed my clothes, and my skin was fair and unblemished as it had always been. I pressed a hand to my cheek as if to make certain of my unharmed state, and then, to my own surprise, I began to laugh. It was not a mirthful laugh, but rather one of incredulous shock and relief as I grasped at my warm and unharmed skin. So certain had I been that those final moments filled with slimy blackness and foul reeking air inside the creature would be my last that the cold air of my room and the sting of my nails against my face might well have been gifts from Heaven itself. Even now I marvel at my incredible escape and wonder what could possibly have prompted the monster to give up as filling a meal as I surely must have been. I do not think I shall ever know, but judging from the healthy nature which I possessed upon waking, I can only assume he realized he could not process me as he intended and his body expelled me, though wether such an expulsion was voluntary on his part I still could not say. Nonetheless I knew I was no doubt incredibly fortunate to have survived such an encounter and my resolve had the been strengthened. Where before I had postponed my promise, I vowed to not do so again, for who knew how long the wretched beast would be content to wait and leave me and others be. As soon as I was able, I would set to work creating another who would contain his terrible urges and put this dreadful encounter behind me forever. 

[bitesizedpoetry]

Why are u hiding ur poems in the tags 👀

Idk what you're talking about, dear anon.

[mugentakeda]

i just loveeeee the idea that there was a big gap of understanding between lu ten and iroh the same way theres a big gap of understanding between zuko and iroh. mistakes that iroh didnt realize he made with his son he then also made with his nephew and still not realizing it. a whole world of things about lu ten that iroh didnt know about, and will never know about. im gonna talk about it though because i am insane so look away from my cringe

lu ten had gone to his father with problems before, and iroh cant help but wonder, now, if his son had ever been trying to imply deeper things in between sugarcoated words because there were things you just didnt say in the palace, and irohs head had been so far up his ass he hadnt seen it. despite it being waved practically right in his face by his son, desperate for sound advice from his father, whos brain was too waterlogged by thoughts of how he was going to pull off his next bloody conquest. like how zuko was always howling for help, hurt and confused like a cornered animal, hidden deep under his fits of rage, and irohs head was Still so far up his ass that he kept meeting zukos silent begging for straightforward guidance with convoluted proverbs. he can sit here and bury his face in his hands in shame over the sheer amount of times hed failed his nephew without realizing, and how much convincing it'll take to get his nephew to understand that yes, iroh did fail him so many times, and he couldve prevented so much suffering simply by holding himself to the same standards he held his nephew to. all those times during those three years before the avatar returned that he couldve done something. sit here and think about how sad it is that he has to even try hard to convince his nephew such a thing, how sad it is that he finally got zuko to stop seeing ozai as some all-wise god that can do no error as a father, just for zuko to start seeing iroh as some all-wise god that has done no error as an uncle. but he can at least go and do something about it. he can never do something about what he did to his son. the things he knows he did, the things he doesnt know he did, and everything in between. he will never find out what lu ten truly thought about him. he will never have that reconciliation, that silent scream of relief and violent shiver in the crook of his neck that zuko gave when iroh yanked him in close after their separation, with his lu ten. he just has to hear about his own son through word of mouth and somehow be content with that. and worst of all, its all his own and his god damned family's fault. no amount of healing and learning by trying to do right by zuko and the world he helped nearly ruin not much more than a half decade ago can act as a balm for the agony that brings him. he knows healing his guilty conscience isnt supposed to even be a reason for why he helped the avatar, but god- it's when the rationality leaves him and he realizes that this is something he cant seem to make himself be the bigger person in. he knows its his own fault, that there are hundreds- thousands, maybe- of earth kingdom sons he personally stole from earth kingdom fathers, and only gave up on his siege when the consequences of his war came into his own backyard, but he cant help it. doesnt want to help it. hes still angry and hateful anyway. his son should still be here. his son should still be here. his son should still be here. and if he tells zuko about how much he still hates himself as both an uncle and a father, zuko will definitely rush to reassure him, all the while he is chained to his desk and meetings day in and day out, fixing this uncles mistakes best he can, losing sleep and forgetting to eat. none of it will mean anything to zuko, if it means he can make his uncle feel better. and if that happens, iroh might actually vomit in front of his nephew.

[env0writes]

Juniper Journal's Vol. 2, 6.1.24 “Constant Patience with Words"

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!   Photo by @env0​

Words fumble from inadequacy As liquid rubies would let from a kinship cut Lacerating and decorating The most human of instruments That horn of man that echoes and Rumbles and trills Words slick with honey and Coarse with grains of sand Trickle through the Splintered floorboards of the throat Etched into with well-intentioned Kind and blind words Words that brand and burn Words that catch Like nettles halfway spoken Words that drown Like water choked down As waterfalls crash down with such fervor Or the late-night drive home After drowning ones sorrows Sinks its metallic teeth into The innocence homebound Bound for a final home Words fumble Reluctant to be spoken against a will of their own With all the aromatic pleasure of fresh cut grass Signaling fear and fatality to friends and foes alike Unacceptable words Are best left unspoken While the peace and silence remains Unbroken

[sheisintherainnn]

I feel like a small fish trapped inside the aquarium alone,

Floating around in the cold water, gasping for life,

Hoping to be rescued, wanting to be noticed - desperately,

Staying still - pretending dead,

Just to be ignored as I move,

The situation I am in, my very own reason of existence is suffocating me,

But

The audacity to still have hope. . .

When I know for the fact that I will always be that small fish trapped inside the aquarium alone,

Floating around in the cold water, all against her will,

Witnessing everything turn into a mess,

Left alone, gasping for life !!!

[hyperlexichypatia]

Obligatory Disclaimer #1: Yes, there is a lot of misogyny in the way people talk about the "likability" of female characters. Women in stories can and should be complex, flawed, nuanced, and human, not (just) "likable" (or "sexy" or "mother" or whatever other one-dimensional trope).

Obligatory Disclaimer #2: Yes, I know that an opinion expressed by a character in a story is not necessarily being supported by the narrative itself, or the author, and that people with piss-on-the-poor reading comprehension get this wrong. Good reading comprehension means being able to tell the difference.

Now that we've got that out of the way.

Doesn't it seem like "Female characters don't have to be LIKABLE, you illiterate misogynist!" is often a Privileged Feminist way to silence criticism of... very mainstream bigoted attitudes being presented uncritically in the narrative by being put in the voices of designated "unlikable female characters"?

I love a complex, nuanced, flawed female character. I love an outright villainous female character. I love a character whose flaws and prejudices are slowly picked apart by the narrative. I do not love having the classism, sizeism, and ableism I deal with every day served back to me in Feminist Fiction.

I do not love trying to point out "Hey, this award-winning book you all love, I don't actually like the way the protagonist talks about the working-class fat man. Or the younger woman with anxiety. Or the acquaintance with a disabled child and, like, linoleum floors or something." (Why do I just have all those examples at the ready?)

And being met with "Female characters don't have to be LIKABLE, you illiterate misogynist. Try reading some Serious Literature instead of your fanfic romance YA smut beach reads!"

"Uh, okay, well, it's not so much about the character being likeable as about the way the narrative doesn't seem to challenge the character's, I must reiterate, very widely held prejudices, that makes it seem less like a depiction of a flawed character and more like an uncritical replication of those very widely held prejudices --"

"It's a LITERARY PERSPECTIVE, GOD, didn't you go to SCHOOL? Do you think Lolita is a love story? Do you think Fight Club is about how awesome fighting is?"

"Well, no, but, for example, the way the character was so emotionally abusive to her fat daughter and her neurodivergent son --"

"Uggggh, you don't understand ANYTHING, women don't have to be PERFECT MOTHERS, she's supposed to represent HOW REAL WOMEN FEEL in the face of UNREALISTIC EXPECTATIONS OF PERFECT MOTHERHOOD!"

"So... the unquestioned-by-the-narrative elitism, classism, sizeism, ableism, and ageism are supposed to be... going against societal expectations?"

"OBVIOUSLY! That's how REAL WOMEN REALLY FEEL!"

"I'm a real woman, and I don't feel that way."

"UGGGGGH, YOU ILLITERATE MISOGYNIST, FEMALE CHARACTERS DON'T HAVE TO BE RELATABLE!"

[innocentsardonicpotatoes]

A love that dribbles viscous like syrup.

Dilute it into a nectar and maybe you'll get the fraction of its essence just as sweet as the source.

[wlwgang]

Convincing myself I’ve managed to contract West Nile virus it was nice knowing you all

[literaryvein]

L. V., writing in the dark (pt. 6: because i don't know what to do with all this light)

[thefanciestborrower]

Never did finish this and I'm pretty sure I never posted it, but I felt like y'all might like it lol. It's an illustration for my unfinished Frankenstein vore fic in which I wanted to see how quick I could get Victor to cry. The answer is almost immediately lmao.

It's a bit of a grosser piece since Victor here has clearly...ah...vomited on himself due to stress, but that's pretty much my stress response too and I like gross stuff anyways so deal with it. I'll probably clean this up later and post the finished version in my fic as an illustration once it's done, but for now enjoy this as a little sneak peak >:)

[whiskeysorrows]

in other news guess who got all As and A*s!!

[wereoz]

btw im on s2 and alicia does no wrong <3 if u think the opposite ur wrong <3