#I love my little wife

[honehonn3honey]

[sleepincrow]

gojo's genes are scarily strong. the silky white hair and freakishly lightning blue eyes runs in the family! satoru guaranteed his child would look similar to him, his mother, and whoever was further down the drain in his clan. he swooned and giggled when you were pregnant, ensuring you and your baby's safety for when the time comes to bring the little shit into the world. he'll be so enthralled when his child is born, spoiling him even before he takes his first breath.

imagine to his fucking surprise when the baby comes and they look exactly like YOU. satoru sits on the cushioned chair beside your hospital bed, holding his baby while you slept—tired from birthing your sweet child. a pair of sharp blue eyes stare at the bundle of betrayal in his arms.

"a month of my hard work.. cultivating, planting you, then spending the next 9 months taking care of you and my wife." he scoffs while the baby eyes his father. "and you look exactly like your mother."

satoru couldnt help but let out a silent sob and squeal, taking every single nerve in his body not to squeeze the baby to death in a hug. he wishes you were awake—so he could jump up and down in pure ecstacy like a 3rd grader. he just loves your baby so much. after, maybe, around 500 years of bearing the same white haired, blue eyed baby combo into the world, someone finally beat the gojo clan genes.

your baby has your hair and eyes. satoru is surprised, offended and in love. yes, he loves that his baby looks like his mama but were you really so greedy to leave nothing for him?

he can only hope that your baby will be as silly, as stupid and as strong as him when they grow older.

... god, hopefully not

[minotaurapologist]

Bunnies is a difficult animals

[nobleriver]

The Doctor and River Song + Being A Besotted Old Married Couple

I’m all yours, Sweetie.  Only River Song gets to call me that.

Bonus:

[zer0expektation]

The (almost) Perfect Assistant

[yeyinde]

waking up after a night out drinking in a foreign country only to realise that the bed you're in is not your own. no one is beside you. you try to leave but the doors are all locked. the windows won't open. you're trapped. a pretty bird in a cage.

nothing is in the dressers except large, old shirts. the clothes you were wearing when you woke up disappear after you take a shower. no panties. no bra. food shows up on schedule. you never see who leaves it.

they don't answer when you scream. when you bang your fists against the door until they're bloodied. passing out on the floor when the drugs finally kick in. but the mess you make in the daytime is cleaned up. your hands bandaged. disapproval heavy in the air along with the stale scent of tobacco. smoke.

when you're good, you get things. books. magazines. treats. your favourite food. a laptop arrives when you sob yourself to sleep after screaming yourself hoarse about loneliness, and how this isn't right. this isn't okay. it's restricted, of course. you log into Facebook but the moment you try and ask for help, the internet is turned off. you're being watched. monitored closely.

you learn your lesson slowly, giving nothing away to your family and pretending you're enjoying your holiday. being good. quiet.

instead of treats, gifts, recipe books arrive—some pages dogeared. you start making the food. leaving a plate in the fridge. it's gone the next morning. more recipes appear. you make them, too. an expensive chain comes next. a pretty gold necklace for a pretty bird in a golden cage.

(each meal gets you a strange rash on your cheek, jaw the next morning. beard burn, you think, and try not to shudder.)

lingerie comes after. silk, lace. all of it fits perfectly. you try to avoid it. the idea, the implication, is a knife between your ribs, but the next morning, your laptop is missing. the books are gone. food, too. your clothes disappear until all that remains is the lingerie set and a little black box. one you pointedly ignore. throw out with the trash. chew on gum to make the ache in your belly go away until that vanishes too.

your world is narrowed down to hunger. loneliness. isolation—

(in the corner of the rooms, a red light glints in the dark. lonely, but not alone.)

it persists until you relent. give in. another lesson you learn. you wear the set to bed, and try to think nothing of it—

you wake up to something heavy around you. a warm, thick body pressed against your bare spine. coarse chair tickling the skin between your shoulder blades. a burly arm under your neck, elbow bent to wrap a rough hand around your neck. the other slung over your hip, shoved between your thighs. something hard presses into your ass. a bruising pressure. it aches. you stifle a gasp, but with his long, thick fingers wrapped tight around your throat, he feels it.

everything goes still. quiet. just the faint rustle of sheets. the scratch of coarse hair on silk. a breath. you tremble. fight back another gasp when lips press into your crown with a sharp inhale. scenting you. nuzzling into your scalp. warm breath that smalls of malt and honey. woodsy. tobacco.

your eyes adjust slowly to the dark, and fall on a black box left on top of your end table. velvet, you know. you've felt the softness between your fingers when you threw it in the trash with a sob. no escaping it, after all.

the hand between your thighs twitches. when he speaks, it shudders through your spine, makes your hair stand on end. it's a growling purr. the low roar of an old engine. more grit than comfort in the midnight dark.

"jus' close your eyes, love," he rasps, pushing his thick body tighter against you. coiling around you like a big, hungry bear. "an' go back to sleep for me."

and you do.

[wolfram-but-art]

some recent sketches i did without context

[feketeribizli]

brat brothers dj set, what awful mashup will they play next

[aster-blogging-dracula]

Jonathan Harker really said "The best I can do is act like I don't know what's going on even tho I do" and acted it out so well that more than a century later people will go as far as reading his diary and still think he doesn't know what's going on

[dfox1987]

Look at my schmoopie right now, dare I say pookie supreme Soundwave

I honestly forgot what number wife he is

[lloyd-the-green-gremlin]

When its your one day off, but the ninja crashed the Bounty again, and your forgot to tell the two mechanics on board that you updated the whole ship and rerouted every cable last sunday when you got bored.

Really, it should be obvious tho. The new system makes so much more sense...stupid Jay...

[currynatto]

art block so bad so you know what that means right (stardew valley content)

[domibomz]

my brainrot for them is so bad i am fucking unwell your honor also mullet harrow

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

George Henry Hodgson + food

Even beyond his famous monologue, Hodgson is at the heart of the show's cannibalism and starvation theme. He is the first to inform us that there is something wrong with the food supplies, the first to suggest the possibility of cannibalism, and the one we see fulfill Ross' prophecy about eating their own boots. And in the end, fittingly, he himself is devoured.

Created for @theterrorbingo prompt: Rot

[ceruleanharley]

it's giving king baela and princess jace

[bunnyboy-juice]

i cant lie..... waking up to your roommate getting off and trying to moan as quietly as she can while the nastiest stickiest sounds are coming out from between her legs and trying so hard to pretend your asleep still while your cheeks burn so you can hear her finish is. Peak