Me rn

Some sketches.

Okay maybe today wasn’t that terrible

America's Next Top Bald Person | Bit City

Dr. Cassie McKay THE PITT 2.02 8:00 A.M

My favourite lesbian rockstars

i wonder what they're gossiping about

had to draw them

Varang knew exactly what kept her breathing.

Spite.

It sat in her lungs like soot and settled behind her ribs like a coal that refused to die. Every memory she carried tasted of burned soil—blood soaking into blackened ground, screams rising like smoke. Hers. Her clan’s.

“Please, great Mother. Eywa, save us.”

It left her mouth in a whisper. Not a prayer, never a prayer.

She bent over a grove of saplings—young, thin things, barely taller than her waist. Infants compared to the old thunks that once crowned the forest. Their green made her stomach turn.

“Please, great Mother, balance of all. Eywa,” she crooned.

Her hand closed around a thin trunk, green where wood would grow. She drove it into the earth until it snapped with a soft, wet gasp.

She paused.

Do they pray? Did they beg Eywa when the sky-people burned the forest? Did they learn what refusal felt like, too?

“Tsahik.”

The voice came from behind her. Yepa stepped around a bushel of leaves, stripes still damp from the paint he had earned only days ago. A boy-turned-hunter, proud and awkward in the same breath.

Varang turned just enough to meet his eyes. Smiled. “Yes?”

He read the violence in her stance, the splintered tree at her feet, and managed a small, careful grin. “It’s Y/n. She asks for your presence.”

Ah.

Y/n.

Varang’s breath softened, just barely. Yes—spite kept her alive. Spite moved her hands, her teeth, her every step through the burned forest.

But there was something else that pulled herfrom the ruins. Something gentler. Warmer. More dangerous than any hatred she’d survived.

“If she asks for me,” Varang murmured, straightening. “it is only natural I answer.”

She stepped forward, leaving the crushed sapling behind her.

Y/n.

  Y/n.

    Y/n.

Her name throbbed in Varang’s chest like a second heartbeat.

“Y/n.”

Gray haired Emily Prentiss in red you're welcome.

summary: struggling with a serious case of writers block you find yourself desperate for inspiration for your next novel. deciding to take a stroll around the bustling city at night you find yourself lounging within a bar, a strikingly enigmatic couple offers you a chance of a lifetime to write their story...what could go wrong?

word count: 14k

warnings: smut, threesome (f/f/m), porn with plot, implied poly relationship dynamics, unprotected sex, oral sex, squirting, breathplay, dirty talk, overstimulation, size kink, choking, rough sex, spit kink

author's note: this was suppose to drop last month during pride but it's been sitting in my drafts for a hot minute. so for those who waited here it is bookie! this is for the bisexual/pansexual girlies! still workin on requests the next fic that will drop will be a smoke fic and whewww it's too good till then i hope ya'll enjoyed this much love <3

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

It was a foggy night within the bustling streets of Louisiana, the cobblestones still glistened and slick with rainwater from the thunderstorm that passed over the southern state, leaving behind only a thick mist that curled around pedestrians and lingered under the ember glow of street lights. You heels clicked against the pavement - sharp, intense, and purposeful. There were no stumble within your steps as you gracefully sidestep over puddles and potholes that lingered onto the wet pavement.

With a roll of your shoulders, you took a long drag from the cigarette that hanged loosely from your cherry stained red lips, not bothering to pull the cigarette from your mouth as you exhaled the thick smoke that nipped at your lungs. Grey smoke plumed in front of you, but you didn't break your stride - walking within the smoke cloud until you were met with breathable air again.

The box had been full this morning; buying it when you walked back from the local library. Now the paper box was empty, you told yourself that you wouldn't do this - chain smoking to the point were it wasn't even enjoyable anymore but the pressure was eating away at your already fried nerves.

You hit a wall...The words that use to flow from your brain grinded to a halt. You had nothing to write about and it been like that for months. The emails from your editor sat within your computer unopen, you dreaded even holding the damn thing, it stung like an infected cut but you knew you were dragging out the inevitable.

"You're wastin' our time..."

"If you don't give us somethin' concrete - somethin' good, then we'll just have to cut our losses and move on."

Those were the words you editor told you over the phone since you've been avoiding his emails like the plague. His tone wasn't harsh, but they dripped with impatience and disappointment. You understood his frustration - he had a job to do and if you didn't do your job then he wouldn't get paid. You took another stressful drag of the cigarette, this time pulling it from your lips, the yellow filter stained red from your lipstick as you continued your mindless walk.

But then your steps slowed.

And then they stopped.

Need an older woman to spoil me</3

STOPPP SHE'S ACTUALLY SO ADORABLE

THE ALPHA ENERGY HOLY SHIT

Cara Buono is my new obsession like…

HELLO????