Esto toca demasiado cercano a casa😭😭

Ted rips up the poster, and off-screen, the team divides it amongst themselves, each of them taking a smaller piece and keeping it tucked away somewhere close or somewhere safe. Sam’s piece is by the photograph of the 1994 Nigerian World Cup team. Jamie’s piece is nestled in the pages of the book gifted to him by Ted. Isaac’s is seen folded underneath the Captain armband passed down to him by Roy. “Belief comes from in here,” Ted had told them, gesturing to the heart. And so it only makes sense to keep their shares of the poster exactly there: close to the heart.

rare vent art from a few months ago

I feel this!!! Also love how you muted the color along the way, I think it makes it that much more impactful!

This is the thing!

goodbye owl house, and thanks for everything <3

january is one of those months where you experience every feeling on the human spectrum and you just have to go about your day like that isn't happening

Fuck yess😭😭

Thinking about a clone wars rom com playing out in the halls of the Venators, with camera cuts to the other clones just being increasingly exasperated by the nonsense they have to put up with.

Wade, part Four

Rating: NSFW Length: 2146 Pairing: Male Fishman/Gillman x GN Reader

The finale for the story written for @momolady​

xxx

The next few weeks are pure pandemonium as nonhuman beings come out in full force in support of the gillfolk republics. Ancient entities crawl out of the forests and seas, werewolves and vampires and other creatures make their presence known, with the full support and protection of a healthy and growing population of human former hunters who have been operating their support networks for generations.

The transition is rocky at best, with many human politicians calling for their eradication while others make it clear that attempting to do so would be a terrible mistake—not just for humanity, but for the world at large. Many of these beings are magical in nature, and while humanity is not threatened in so many words, it is weightily implied that the wilful culling of the nonhuman population would have a great many varied and equally devastating consequences.

You don’t see Wade for the majority of your vacation as he recovers beneath the waves. Instead, you’re interviewed (and interrogated) by just about every news outlet and television network, along with many other humans who step forward to give their positive testimonials about their experiences with other nonhumans. It doesn’t go as smoothly as you hope. You wake to eggs on your house and your parents’ car windows broken, and more than once you’re called the first of many inventive slurs when you’re recognised in public. You get many nasty phone calls and you get harassed on the street, until your parents express a desire to move away from the coast for your protection.

You’ve just hung up on the third such caller of the day when your cell phone rings again, and you can’t help but heave a sigh before you swipe the green ‘accept’ button on your screen. “I don’t fuck fish,” is the first thing that springs out of your mouth, followed closely by, “they’re gillfolk.”

“Duly noted,” says a familiar voice from the other end of the line, and you fling your mercifully plastic cup clean off the dining table you’re sitting at with the way you spasm in place.

“Wade!”

Seguir leyendo

Magical Desires: Mephisto

M artificial intelligence X F reader, 8,582 words

Hello all! This story's a bit longer than usual because I got very into writing it. I hope you all enjoy it, because I have plans for a few similar stories later... of course, only if you like it! Enjoy!

Sequels: Yacariel, Anthoza, Cherise, Ophion

Summary: You've been playing a dating sim for a few months, and have gotten quite attached to the characters, but the game's been acting weird lately. Almost like it's a little too smart. It's probably just a normal bug... right?

Everyone had a guilty pleasure.

They ranged from simple, silly things, to dirty secrets that would tear relationships apart, but everyone had them. Little things that people knew were dumb or wrong or disapproved of, but they did anyway because it felt good.

Your guilty pleasure was dating sims.

evil loves to win

peace is stronger

Favorite Tumblr stories

Gonna pin this one and start adding links and updates.

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

I have this headcanon that the only reason why Yoda gave Anakin so much shit about his attachments was because he couldn't get through to any of the masters and needed someone to bitch around.

Obi-Wan going starry-eyed whenever Cody is mentioned. Plo tearfully talking about how his men called him 'dad' in the middle of battle. Aayla scrolling through honeymoon options on the holonet. Mace trying to argue why the clones need better armor and also holidays. Shaak Ti showing around the newest pictures the cadets drew for her.

Yoda: Forbidden, attachments are-

Obi-Wan: Attachments?

Plo: Surely, you must be joking.

Aayla: What even are attachments, anyway.

Mace: Master Yoda, to even imply such a thing ... honestly, I thought you were better than this.

Shaak Ti: Master, I am truly wounded by your distrust.

Yoda: ...

Yoda, shaking: Go bully the bitch boy, I must.

Too Much

Pairing: Steven Grant x Reader

Description: Steven’s not the most experienced when it comes to dating and sleeping with beautiful women. So sometimes, even after being with you for so long, the pleasure gets to be just a bit overwhelming. (Tbh I just wanted to write a fic where Steven gets pussydrunk so here we go)

Steven is inexperienced. It seems horribly obvious sometimes; his alters have all these stories, stories about beautiful women in dim lighting, sweaty bodies and soft groans. Steven isn’t a virgin, but that’s really the extent of it. His only “endeavor,” or whatever one may call it, can be boiled down to quick romp in the sheets with a nice girl from a pub he doesn’t frequent, the girl’s face and name fading from his mind by the next week.

Being with you, though, is a completely different ballpark. You met Marc first, of course, but the way you accepted him and Jake into the picture made it seem like you could have known any of them your entire life. You’re so gorgeous, so powerful and wonderful and more than anything Steven could ever want.

So sometimes, when you’re under him, or over him, or anywhere near him, Steven doesn’t even have it in himself to breathe properly. Like now, when you’ve got your mouth on his neck, sucking on the soft skin just under his jaw, pawing at his arms and muttering, “Steven, Steven, need to ride your cock, baby. Been too long, ‘m so empty without you, sweetheart.”

And he’s already nodding feverishly, trying to undo his belt and zipper to free his aching cock. You reach down to help, relishing in his whine when you finally get his pants down far enough to grab at his thick cock and soft balls.

Steven is sure his vision whites out for a moment when you rub your slick pussy against his cock, not letting him in just yet. Steven is gasping, bucking his hips to try to inch his way into your cunt, but your hand is wrapping around his throat.

“Beg for me, Steven,” you whisper into his ear.

Steven doesn’t have to think twice before he’s gasping out, “oh god, darling, please. Please let me in, love. You always feel s’good, so soft and warm when I’m in your pussy. Need it, need it so bad, love, oh god-” He wants to please you, wants to show you that he can please you, he wants, he wants—

And suddenly you’re sinking down, your hot pussy throbbing around his aching cock. It’s too much, too good, and Steven can’t seem to suck air into his lungs anymore. Little punched out whines of, “oh god, darling. It’s s’good, your pussy is so good, can’t- can’t believe you’re mine, that I’m- that I’m yours. Tell me, ah god, tell me I’m yours, love. I’m yours, r-right?”

And you can’t help but grip his jaw in your palms, looking into his bleary eyes, as you whisper, “yes, darling, yes. You’re all mine Steven, so good, so big inside me. Y’make me feel so good, baby, so fucking good. Can’t believe you’re mine, baby.”

Steven doesn’t even feel real anymore. Your hands around his neck, your dripping pussy gripping his cock so fucking tight, it’s all too much. He’s slurring his words, little whines of, “it’s so good with you, you’re so good, my love,” and “Love being inside you darling, can barely live without it anymore, need to be in you all the time,” muttered into your hair.

You’re grinding deep against his cock, his balls trapped tightly between your bodies. You can barely lift your hips, Steven’s grip too tight around your waist, keeping you rocking in his lap to grind the tip of his cock deep into the spot inside you that makes you scream.

You’re clenching around him so tight, too tight, and your nails are digging into his arms, and you’re trying to suck air into your lungs around quick mumbles of, “Steven, Steven, baby, fuck me, y’always fuck me so good sweetheart, can feel you so deep inside, y’gonna tear me apart baby.” And Steven can hear the wet squishing of your pussy around his cock, and it’s all just too much.

Steven doesn’t even realize that he’s going to cum until it’s already happening, thick cum spilling out of his cock deep into your sopping cunt, and tears are rolling down his face as he mutters, “C-Cumming, oh god love, I’m cumming. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, beautiful, it’s so soon baby but you’re just so good, oh g-god, your pussy is so good.”

And you’re just trying to wipe his tears as your hips stutter over his cock, clenching like a vice as your own orgasm washes over you, whispering into his ear about how “you’re so perfect, Steven. So beautiful, my beautiful boy, no need to be sorry, can’t hold it back either with you, y’cock feels too good my love.”

Steven’s hips are still bucking under you, trying to empty the last of his cum into your dripping pussy, before he’s finally spent, slumping into the sheets. He’s pulling you down to rest against his chest, his hands splayed across your back, while you clench sporadically around his soft cock, still buried deep inside while his cum leaks out slowly around it.

post-war-and-palps-killer Fox is living the best of their life. ehhhhh my brain works in strange ways.

[I.D. It’s a nine panel comic of commander Fox from star wars. 

The first panel shows roller skates from behind and an unnnamed senate worker. She say: “Oh, hello, Sir.”

The second panel shows that it’s indeed Fox in the rollerblades. They wearing a sweater and heartshaped sunglasses. They have a peacock on their shoulder and mojito in hand. The worker continues: “The senate meeting is still going.” Fox answer: “Thanks. I was hoping so.”

The third panel is Fox, now on a balcony, putting their mojito down as Lord George the III, that’s the peacock, looks at them curiously.

In the fourth panel Fox has LG3 in their hands, kissing him on the head as he says: “Time to make daddy proud.” Senate meeting discussions are going on in the background.

The fifth panel shows Fox throwing LG3 in the air so the bird can fly into the middle of the senate.

The sixth panel is Fox sitting down, roller skates on the railing as they grab their drink again and light a blunt. Some unseen politician ask “-Is that a bird?”

The seventh panel shows pretty much the same thing except Fox blowing out smoke. More word are said by the politicians, somebody is being attacked by LG3 and starts screaming.

The eight panel is, again, pretty much the same, only now Fox takes a sip from their mojito. The screaming intensivies.

The ninth panel has Fox smiling as the whole senate is now realizing that they’re being attacked by a murderous peacock. Fox is living their best life. End. I.D.] 

this is so messy and self indulgent but I was thinking… like obviously every steddy hands fanfic heavily features the idea of forcing Izzy to accept affection and talk about his feelings but please consider: what if eventually something in him just cracks and Izzy Hands suddenly becomes the most insufferable, affectionate, clingy little menace ever to sail the seven seas

they are girlfriends your honor

they are in love why?? cause i said so

Alguien debería pintar un cuadro de esto🥺💖

Look at the love of my life being a badass energy

when he has a praise kink

So cute 🥰

FINALLY FINISHED.

FivesLives!AU because I'm mad and I want the twins to be happy?? Had so much fun drawing this over the weekend, and I'm tired now???

I hope y'all like the idea and how it all turned out!!

Also!! On the last slide , what they're doing is called a Hongi!!! This is a Māori greeting, not romantic!! If I see any cl*necest comments/that's gay comments I'm kicking your ass!! 🙂🔪

Cl*necest fans DNI.

🥹🥹🥺🥺