This user claims to contain multitude

Rei | they/them | 18+

[gearsofmetal]

I think I've gone crazy.

Can you just stop overthinking for a second?

[midnitevulturezz]

[straw-bunbun]

"Have you heard of /that/ hunter?"

[solkoyot]

dottore blows up chiikawa live 4k so scary

[sevserez]

Soldier, Poet, King

They’re on their way to see Jade btw.

[jndvsgay]

i dont know how to rearrange images in order

[deinzyanid]

“And yet,” he finally replies, “for a consciousness convinced of the righteousness of Gnostic doctrine, you display an excessive attachment to the world of forms. Do I not detect a contradiction here?”

He pauses for a minuscule moment, touching the tip of his pen to his chin—a habitual gesture, an illustration of thought. From his speech, terms keep escaping, like sparks from under a piano lid: “hylic nature,” “demiurgic impulse,” “anamnesis of the spirit.” At times, it seems he is deliberately weaving a lacework of meanings beyond your reach. But in the narrowing of his red eyes, there is no malice—only a long-ingrained habit of thinking in complex categories.

A habit of speaking not to people, but to eternity. Of entering into polemics with an entire universe.

“Following your own logic,” he continues, the pen in his fingers never ceasing to trace some signs across an open journal, “it is precisely prajña and bodhi that should become your true key to liberation from the shackles of the archons, and your chief object of concern. Yet here you are, still fretting over where your temporal shell finds itself and with whom it currently shares space. Does that not strike you as somewhat… inconsistent?”

The journal on the table seems painfully familiar. Perhaps you have seen this handwriting before. In some other world. How does he manage, simultaneously, to conduct this strange conversation with you and, without pause, cover the pages with dense script? The very thought of it slips away, dissolves.

The lamp flickers suspiciously—once, twice, three times. The light trembles, and the contours of the study begin to waver. With difficulty, you prise apart your heavy lids, and the image of the tall floor lamp doubles, mingling with the deathly, cold sunlight gazing indifferently through the window. The outlines of the professor’s figure thin out, like mist at dawn.

Only the question remains, suspended in the silence of waking: who was this man? And what became of him?

[axiondelta]

Soundwave and rain, such a menacing combination.

[miyaz6ki]

original 85 year old zandick smut and my life is yours oh my lord

TELL ME YOU NEVER WANT TO LOSE ME! — dottore x gn! reader

ʚ♡ɞฺ　　main m.list　ྀིᨯ — cw. nsfw & 18+ content ahead, riding, idrk purely smut i don't really specify terms i use (pronouns/anatomy/petnames)

m note: i think u guys like dottore...

synopsis: just cuz the wrapper is wrinkled don't mean it ain't sweet

dottore kept one hand on your waist, and the other on his cane while he sat idly on the crown of his lab. watching your gentle hold planted onto his shoulders, groaning as he feels you sink down onto him.

the deep, dark line of grunts leave his throat, dottore's grasp briefly tightens before stroking the soft skin of your body. watching as your entrance swallow his shaft whole,

the dark velvet in his eyes nitpick every part of you, trying to study you when your hips finally fall onto his.

pinching your skin just to see how you'd react, dottore was obsessed with the way you reacted,

yet he couldn't admit to himself how he was... getting off to the very fact that your expressions alone were enough to pulse inside you,

"your... face is expressive,"

combing his fingers over your face, your eyes were half-lidded when dottore's hand drags down your body, "do you like it when i feel you with cold hands?"

his palms were gloved, the temperature on his fingertips made you shiver, your face scrunching up when instinctively grinding his tip onto your g-spot, relaxing your arms around his neck.

dottore's hand moving from your waist, trailing back up your back, his palm arrives at the back of your head before pulling you in for a kiss that both became hungry and gentle,

the weakness of age in his body preventing him from ravishing you any further,

it's too bad really.

he's always been addicted to picturing your lovely little body, fragile, and vulnerable underneath him. back arching up against his cock, while he mindlessly pounds you into oblivion. oh, he could already imagine your face scrunching up the same way.

yet, he'll unfortunately settle for this, where he can pick apart your adorable expressions, the way your face left no lie able to come past, you could only hold your breath trying to take him the same way he would've if only he gathered the strength.

dottore loved seeing the crease in your face because he knows he's causing it, and now you're a pure, whimpering mess against his cockhead you oh-so desperately grinded against.

taking one of your hands off his shoulder, he decides to kiss your inner wrist to feel you tighten around him, smirking at the way you squirmed on him,

dottore loved the way he could make you weak when clearly this was your chance to take control.

[dirkedup]

strilonde designs for a post-canon au

[itsafineday-forflowers]

frgot the blanket patterns lol

[zeahailhat]

Another Transformers content and then I’m gone from that fandom for days again, I’m coming back to my wavewave roots.

[o1kiwi]

Hoyoverse give us more Dottore segment content I beg

[mesooph]

but nobody came

[luci-muller]

Ballstuck

[catscidr]

part 1 of ? of blurbs based off of this post. not proof read im writing from the heart….. gn!reader, fluff, banter, canon does not exist

65 doesn’t make a big deal out of not getting a kiss before you hit the sack. in fact, he’s definitely the least disruptive in how he responds to your inaction — which isn’t to say he’s not petty, but he won’t make the problem known to everyone in the lab.

no, his thought process is surprisingly mature for one of ill dottore’s segments. if you forget to see him off with a smooch, he’ll visit you in the morning with a tray of delicious, mouth-watering breakfast food. still-hot pancakes under butter actively melting onto the stack, a bowl of fresh fruit, something meaty to satiate any sodium cravings, a nice, cold glass of juice and some vitamin capsules.

as the segment with the most care for your human needs, he sneaks into your chambers carefully and quietly, making sure not to disrupt your precious sleep (which isn’t to say he’s doesn’t wake you up, because the enticing smell of breakfast pulls you out of unconsciousness with comical speed).

“apologies for rousing you, my beloved. i thought you’d do well to have a hearty breakfast this morning.” he chuckles quietly, brushing back your bedhead with one gloved hand. you grumble, rubbing the sleep out of your puffy eyes.

“didja make all of this?” you reach for the drink as you sit up straight while 65 sets the feet of the tray on each side of you, breakfast on your lap. he shakes his head, soft gaze never leaving your face.

“my contributions lie solely within the fruit and the vitamins. i had 8 cook the pancakes.” you choose to interpret the latter statement as the child segment offering to help with your breakfast himself, that he wasn’t forced to slave away whisking the thick batter with his poor little arms. you hum, sighing happily when the cold liquid soothes your dry throat.

“i’ll make sure to thank him well, in that case-“ a hand appears over your pancakes, shielding them from a stabbing by fork.

“…huh.”

65 clicks his tongue.

“what of my thank?” you look at him, befuddled.

“…and yesterday’s good night kiss?”

a metaphorical lightbulb shines bright over your head.

“OH.”

immediately, you lean up as much as you physically can with the tray still in your lap and leave a gentle kiss on the side of his beak, smiling. “i’m sorry, i was so tired it completely slipped my mind!” you muse with an airy laugh. “i’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again, i promise.” it would happen again.

his hand stays hovering on top of the pancakes.

he turns his head, facing you properly.

“not good enough.”

with a blink, you lean to the right and press a kiss on the other side of his beak.

“no.”

you halt, in thought. pondering. you set the glass of juice down on your nightstand as to have the least amount of obstacles in your way of this mission, grab his face to angle it downwards so it’s in proximity of your lips, and you give him a peck on the forehead.

no sound comes from the segment. you’re not even sure he’s breathing, actually.

you hear a quiet, baritone “not good enough” from under the mask.

slightly fed up but mostly just hungry and impatient, your hands dart behind his head and fiddle with the belt clasps attached to that damn plague doctor mask and loosen them enough to yank the whole thing down, peppering his face with kisses — the apple of his left cheek, his hooked nose, above his right eyebrow, on his right cheek, and finally, a loud, obnoxious MMMWAH! on his awaiting lips.

you stare at each other for a second. you, with a twitch in your right eye. him, with an indecipherable expression.

a second second.

“another o-“

your stomach rumbles obnoxiously loud and you hear the ding! of a side quest complete along with it.

[sorokamagpie]

Telegram subscribers scored the right number of likes for Zandik to appear in a bunny suit