An Extremely Gay Fnaf Thing I Did A Year Ago And Then Completely Fucking Forgot About It 

Yayyyyyyyy my first art post here on tumblr

If you're wondering why I'm shipping Idia Shroud with Miku...

Meet my beautiful Miku, flawless, radiant, alluring.

Oh and her loser boyfriend is there too...

A simple guide to picking a great color palette. No matter what the colors are, using colors that are certain distances from each other on the color wheel result in a great contrast of colors. The simple color schemes shown above are used in the most popular logos, posters, websites, paintings, and even movies and television.

It's very easy to categorize the overblot as a breakdown- but all of them have a different type of lashing out.

Riddle's behavior is a trauma response. He is not listening; instead, he is solely focused on himself, which is a reaction to not feeling heard compared to his mother. She is the person he fears the most, and although he hates that he loves her, he feels conflicted. She was supposed to help him grow, but instead, she only shielded him from the realities of life.

Leona is driven by fear. He’s afraid of finishing in first place because he’s so accustomed to starting from second. The thought of being vulnerable, admitting his fears, and acknowledging his struggles terrifies him. He is so frightened that he resorts to using dirty tricks.

Azul struggles with vulnerability; he avoids opening up or confronting his past. He remembers the child he was forced into hiding and a life of learning just to endure. This child has grown up to prefer lies over sincerity, believing that deception has brought him further in life.

Jamil is determined to gain control over his own life and choices. He feels this control is lacking due to his family's affiliation with Kalim. While he strongly desires control, this desire becomes unhealthy when it extends to others.

Vil is driven by his desire for recognition. He wants to be perceived as exceptional, a model that cannot be compared to others or regarded as inferior. He seeks to control how others view him to the extent that he is willing to manipulate their perceptions, which includes putting others down.

Idia struggles with trauma. He never overcame the death of Ortho or the events that affected him and his family. Forced to grow up quickly, he now finds himself unable to do many things that others take for granted. He struggles to communicate with people, suffers from low self-esteem, and experiences profound fear. This fear leads him to isolate himself in his room, as it feels like the only way he can cope with life.

Malleus explores the theme of loss—loss of a loved one, loss of oneself, loss of one's past, and loss of purpose. It reflects on the fear of change and the inevitability of things never being the same once someone you deeply care about is gone, even if it’s not your fault.

ahhhh i love this

Emperor Caracalla x Reader: Asklēpiós

A/N: I promised one day I would write for my precious little lad. Now that day has come.

Also, if you’re not nearsighted and legally blind without glasses like me, you are now. Congrats.

Warnings: mentions of abuse and neglect, prostitution, STD/STI mention, Female Reader

Credits: dividers by @strangergraphics

“Come now, Agapi, won’t you be agreeable?”

Caracalla’s lips pressed tightly together into a thin line. Head turned to the side in defiance.

Slender fingers tapped against his pock-marked cheek— a gentle coax to open that pretty mouth of his. But as usual, he scrunched his aquiline nose and shook his head in vehement protest. Night time was a gamble with Caracalla. One never knew what version of him they would get. Would you have the monster with enough physical strength to turn over a lectus with someone laying upon it? Or would you have the sniveling, crying angel, who buried his face in your breast and begged for affection.

“You promised, Agapi.” you said, running a finger along the length of his nose bridge, “You said you would take your chinaroot for me.”

“The horse piss herb?!” He whined, swatting your hand away, “I don’t want it!”

“You did promise me you would take it as I asked.” You said, using your calloused fingers to brush his strawberry blonde bangs from his forehead, “Or did you lie to me, Agapi? Me, of all people.”

Pink lips pouted in quiet contemplation. You could see the conflict in his slate blue eyes. Below the surface of his pink cheeked charm, a feverish, maddened mind was working to determine whether or not to deny, lash out, or seek forgiveness. Treading carefully when it came to your emotions, you knew he was warring with his own impulse.

Since his affliction, the other concubines of the realm refused to lie with Imperator Geta’s brother or even go near him at all. Not since they had given you to him had anyone bothered of late to reciprocate his touch. The isolation was fraying his nerves. He became moody, volatile. Constantly lashing out when he called out for pleasure, and only got you instead.

“I want pleasure! Not this piglet!” Caracalla screamed that first night.

You were frozen under Geta’s clutching of your shoulders, and gasped softly as you were pushed forward into Caracalla’s furry chest.

“You’d infect our courtesans with your disease, take what I give you and be grateful for that at all!” Geta had growled back, a cupful of wine to the face enough to silence his brother as the both of you were drenched in sanguine liquid.

You were not stupid enough to question your place. They gave you to Caracalla as a joke. Lesser goods for the lesser brother. You were not comely and lithe like the others. Admittedly you were rather plain, a Hellene from Chora who had been treating the infected in the concubine’s quarters. More of a servant’s apprentice than a vessel for the imperator’s bastards, and for a time you preferred things as they were. Treating the sick. Nursing them to health. It was a peaceful existence.

Not even the praetorian guard dogs wanted to touch you. Another aspect of the general disinterest was the semi state of blindness you lived in. It got steadily worse from childhood until now, when you could not perceive eight paces before you, without the world dissolving into an unfocused blur. Everyone either pitied or despised you, believing that your affliction was something to be controlled. You made your peace with it a long time ago, just as you made your peace with being Caracalla’s pleasure dregs.

“… As you wish, give me your piss herb.” He finally acquiesced, lower lip stuck out in a pout.

“Thank you, Agapi.”

But unlike the others who fled from his touch, you were gentle with Caracalla, and you would continue to be. The coldness of his stormy blue eyes softened and became ensconced by pupils dilated in affection, his cheeks a blushing rose pink as you held out a bronze cup steeped with the juices of a dried rhizome.

Even in his feverish state, he could tell the difference in care. You treated him with tenderness. Not like he was an invalid, but more with affection and respect as a spouse would for an ailing husband. You kept his cubiculum tidy. Carefully selected his ensembles of jewelry and silks for the servants to dress him. Every other day you bathed him in milk, scouring his body with a pumice and then moisturizing him with beeswax and oils. Dressed his wounds and perfumed him with patchouli, even going as far as to perfume his breath by having him chew clove and mint on occasion.

Subconsciously, the co-imperator picked up on your kindness. Instead of raining blows on your head with freakish strength, the man would reach out and cling to your stola. Speaking tender words of affection, and seeking at some points to make you pleased with him.

“You’re a wicked harpy.” He huffed, his soft hands over yours on the bronze cup.

“I know.” you murmured, gently coaxing the lukewarm liquid between his lips, “But I am a harpy that plucks at the mites between her nestling’s feathers, seeking to soothe his itch. Now drink.”

The chinaroot did not go down smooth, it never did. Caracalla gurgled and gagged the liquid and rhizome all the way down his gullet, slender hands wrapping around a pale throat as he chewed and choked. It was painful watching him try to swallow, but he had to. Without the chinaroot, the regression would have only gotten worse, and he would have succumbed to the infection from his chancres.

“It’s like gargling a goat’s testes!” He whined as he pulled away.

“You gargle them well, Agapi.”

Caracalla coughed, throat puffing out in a gag as you wiped his chin with a clean scrap of linen.

“It’s awful! It doesn’t work!” He croaked.

“Have you been hurting or noticing new sores?” You asked.

There was a penetrating silence. So still was the air around the room, you could hear the flame licking against the wick in the oil lamps, as well as the fire crackling in the imperial hearth. While allowing Caracalla to answer, you stood from the bed, shuffling to the diminutive night table– equipped with a brass bowl of hot water that now cooled– to take a brief moment to scour your hands with hot water, natron, and vinegar.

You knew the answer, even within his silence, your beloved was as transparent as blown glass.

“No…” Caracalla admitted ruefully, “But that doesn’t change things. I don’t want it anymore! You said it is medicinal, but it tastes of utter shite and I hate it! I hate you!”

“I love you, Agapi.”

Your voice was so low it was almost a whisper. A breathy squeak that made him stop his fuss, and lean in. The stormy gray of his feverish eyes focused entirely on your form as you wiped your clean hands on a spare piece of dry linen.

“You… you love me…?” Caracalla whispered.

“Yes.” You replied earnestly, “I do. That is why I treat you.”

The sick man leaned back into his pillow, rolling onto the side. Curling up like a pill bug at the slightest hint of a threat, he lay there contemplating your words in the finery of his linens and wool blanket. Crawling on all fours back to the imperial bed, you followed him to lay down. Draping over his hunched back like a rucksack, you lay your head beside his, fingers stroking the cold skin of his shoulder and leaving goose pimples in the wake of your touch.

“No one has ever loved me before…” he mumbled into his pillow.

“I know, Agapi.” You murmured, nuzzling his hair and inhaling the sour scent of vinegar, “And that is very sad. Everyone is deserving of love, my darling, even you.”

His trembling hands pulled your arms around his chest. He held your hands in front of him, whole body shaking.

“Everyone is repulsed by me. They avoid me, they won’t touch me. My own brother pushes me away. But not you… why?”

“You’re just ill, Agapi.” You replied softly, “The rash, the chancre sores… It’s just an illness, like any other. Would you push me away if I told you I had a chill?”

“No.”

Caracalla rolled onto his side. Blue eyes boring into yours as he cupped your cheek tenderly. He pressed his forehead to yours, the two of you inhaling in unison, as if absorbing the essence, the life breath, and sharing in it.

“No… I would never push you away… I would make you rest in my bed, and lay your weary head upon my goose down cushion. I would feed you the piss herb, and tell you stories to make you feel better whilst you choked down the bitter broth.”

You smiled at the innocent sentiment, enjoying the softness of his hot lips as they brushed against yours.

“Just as I did with you when Geta first bade me care for you.” You said, “Remember, Agapi?”

“I remember.”

To placate his brother’s demands for sex even in his feverish state, Geta summoned his manservants to rouse you from your bed at all hours of the night to give yourself to the youngest of the co-emperors. You knew even then he was dreadfully ill, and despite your pity you did not want to get infected yourself. While they dressed you in a shrunken gossamer stola woven so fine the dark of your nipples could be seen, you steeled your heart and prepared for a battle with your leather pouch of herbs.

Geta threw you at his unkempt brother, delirious with fever. Instead of fighting him, you talked softly to him. Coaxed him into letting you care for him by washing his weeping sores with vinegar, sprinkling natron to keep them clean, and ripping his bed linens into bandages to dress the open wounds. You even made a brew of the dried chinaroot rhizome, and after holding his mouth closed and rewarding him with chewed sugarcane to cut the taste, the youngest co-emperor learned to expect the sweet after the bitter.

From then on, Caracalla was your creature. Wholly and entirely.

“You wanted to look after me, even though Geta made you wake from your sleep to pleasure me…” he said, his tone lucid.

“I did it because I love you.” You said softly, showering his bumpy cheeks with kisses, “And I know you love me too, even if you say you hate me.”

“I didn’t say it!” He whined.

His cry was so piteous, like a kitten, that it was easy to forgive the lapses in memory whenever it came to his more biting comments.

“I didn’t say I hate you… I would never…! I love you… I… I don’t know what I would do without you.” Caracalla choked, the warm of his tears staining your stola.

You understood this better than anyone else.

You knew he didn’t mean his vitriol.

“I know, darling…” you whispered, and you fully embraced him as he began to cry, “I know… You shall never have to worry… for I will never forsake you…”

It was one truth you knew you could say and mean, despite your talents as a concubine, a soothsayer… You might have been the only soothsayer in all of Rome who meant it when she said she cared for the youngest, forsaken co-emperor.

The Phillippines???!!!

go to this random coordinates generator and say in the tags how you would fare if you were dropped where it generates without warning. i’ll go first i’d be dropped in the middle of the fucking south atlantic ocean and perish

Not “Only my reading of canon is correct” or “Interpretations are subjective and all valid” but a secret third thing, “More than one interpretation can be valid but there’s a reason your English teacher had you cite quotes and examples in your papers, you have to have a strong argument that your interpretation is actually supported by the text or it is just wrong and I’m fine with telling you it’s wrong, actually.”

Hey. Catch! *Throws fnaf security breach oc at you*

This one I hate but I like how Helpi turned out. The quality is ASS too.

This young woman is named Victoria and is Gregory's older sister. They don't get along AT ALL, and fight like bears and bunnies... wait-

Victoria's job is a little bit of everything, one day it's babysitting at the Daycare and another day it's coding an AI system for the new workers' mask...

Hey did we ever get an answer from management about who was messing with the coding files?... Anyone?...

ALSO, CREDIT TO @albanenechi FOR THE AMAZING ART REFERENCES!!!

Steven Universe Oc makers.... Dinner has been served.

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