#ICYMI

[crushmeeren]

everyone visit reid for all your dazai needs.

⊹ DIGITAL BATH

TONIGHT I FEEL LIKE MORE . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 4k

cw: NSFW—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, gn!reader, switch!Dazai, mentions of scars, cock worship, finger sucking, spit, oral (m!receiving), anal fingering, nipple play (m!receiving), dirty talk, cum eating, itty bit of Dazai-typical mindgames, just feeding fruit to tired spoiled Osamu and then blowing him like he deserves

reid: i wanna fingerbang this mfker so good it makes him believe in love

“Such a long fuckin’ day.” 

Osamu’s grumbling, wrapping himself around you from behind. 

On any other evening, you’d be inclined to mock that it’s always a long day for him when he’s throwing balled-up paper at Kunikida's head, guilting Atsushi into doing his paperwork for him, and slipping out of the office under the guise of fetching snacks for Ranpo just to go lean against the railing of Bankoku Bridge and gaze longingly at the water—but frankly, there’s two factors at play keeping you from doing so. 

One: his regular dramatics are nowhere to be seen. You hadn’t even realized he was on his way in until the door shut behind him—he’s normally sing-songing your name before he even opens it, before he’s bouncing over to you to ask what’s for dinner while he complains about the long day he had in that all too-spry voice of his. This evening, he’s subdued. Quiet complaints, quiet shuffling, quiet breath on your ear as he latches onto you.  The second is that, when you turn around from the counter to face him, he looks like he’s had a long day.

His messy hair seems messier. His eyes aren’t so wide and sparkly, and he’s got a nasty bruise blossoming on the apple of his left cheek—you bite back, too, the instinctual urge to tease and ask if it’s Chuuya’s doing. 

“Baby,” you coo, bringing your hands up to cup his face (pointedly avoiding the bruise). “I didn’t even cook. Was just cutting up some fruit.” 

“That’s okay,” he sighs, seemingly content to be under your grasp. He really does look exhausted as he grins weakly and slumps into your hold, faltering down to brush a kiss against your lips. “Cut up some strawberries, too, please.” 

“Mhm.” You kiss him back, short and sweet—not entirely pleased with such a concise request, but happy to indulge it regardless. “Go get comfy, I’ll be there in a sec.” 

So he does. He wanders off; you dump your fruit into a bowl, fetch the (thankfully not moldy) strawberries from the fridge, and toss those in, too, also preparing a glass of ice water for him for good measure. No guarantee he’ll drink it, but at least it’ll be there. 

When you pad to your bed, he’s sitting, pulling a shirt over his bare torso—the local bandages lay at his feet. A rewrap for tomorrow, you think absently, hopping like a cat onto the opposite side and kicking the covers back; not that he’ll have any use for them—the beginnings of stirrings in your brain will come to fruition more beautifully, anyway, should he leave them be. 

His quietness always spooks you a little; you hope nothing too terrible happened today, because if he wanted to talk about it, he undoubtedly would’ve started by now. 

There are very few things a bowl of cut fruit and your gentle fingertips can’t begin to mend, though. 

You flick the light out, turn the television on, lean over to abandon the water on his side table; Osamu plucks a strawberry from the bowl you nestle in your lap and cuddles up to your side. Half a fat cherry gushes between your teeth; you peck the crown of his head. 

Even if he is uncharacteristically quiet, you do always find a bit of joy in fussing over him. You might not draw from him what exactly is on his mind, but you can hold him while it simmers, take care of him—it’s one of the things you do best, after all, and you’re well aware Osamu likes being taken care of. 

He’s painted soft, staticky colors from whatever sitcom plays. You curl the arm that’s fallen behind his head to twirl his hair between your fingers, toy with the shoulder of his shirt; you can feel the tension in him. But before you move, you let the fruit in the bowl dwindle. Better if he eats. 

When his eyes flutter shut and he nudges you, mouth open like some sort of sultan, you shake your head (chuckling) and place a few halved grapes on his tongue. 

You don’t know if he knows how proud you are of him; you tell him plenty, sure, but thinking back to the quip you’re relieved to have held back today, you wonder briefly why he only ever complains gratuitously about the easy days and never the ones that leave him like this. It fills you with a certain sorrow—one that shapeshifts swiftly into determination.

“Last one’s yours.” You pan back in, referring to the sole strawberry left. 

“Mm.” Again, wordlessly, he demands you feed it to him. You concede, of course, with a sleepy grin of your own. 

It’s when his tongue flicks out to lick the remnants of sweetness off your fingertips that you strike; only when you fiddle with his bottom lip do his owl eyes flicker open to peer up into yours. 

Juxtaposition is a fascinating thing. You don’t know what happened today. You don’t know what’s happened on most of the darker days he’s left trailing behind him—you might never know all of it, other than it’s been horrible, scarring, gutting both for him and those staring down the barrel of the gun that is Osamu Dazai—but he looks so innocent before he takes your finger, all the way to the second knuckle, into his mouth to swirl his tongue around. 

You can’t help biting the inside of your cheek. 

As his jaw flexes around you, you press your middle finger in, too. Those brown eyes never falter from yours, nor does the quiet smile in them; any remaining strawberry is long gone, swallowed down, but Osamu sucks on your fingers with fervor, nearly nodding like he’s drawing some other sort of elixir from you—one that will compel him to keep moving forth another day, perhaps, and as he does, his ankles knock against yours. 

“Needy boy, huh.” It’s a statement, not a question, which he needn’t deny or confirm; the attention you shower him with after the days that drag him to hell extends to all the vulnerabilities he doesn’t allow another soul to see—the ones that stem from a depth left neglected by any previous excuse for a caretaker he might’ve had. 

Whereas, you’d be damned if you casted aside a single inch of that void. 

So you poke a kiss to the corner of his mouth before you latch onto his neck—an I’ll be back here later—softly, with just lips first, then tongue, and finally teeth. You find his pulse point and bite, dragging spit-coated fingers down his chin, past his throat to his nipple. 

The exhale from his chest prompts your knee into his lap like the kickback of a gunshot. Rolling equally into you, Osamu tugs you by your arms on top of him, across his hips so you can hunch over him and kiss, bite, kiss, bite, worship from above in the little rhythm you have that's so familiar to his fatigued body. 

Fingers flitting, you creep up his shirt. 

You work his sleep shirt off, too slow for his liking. Something he loves about what you do, though, is how you never even mind the scars; you look at the exposed, marred flesh of his chest, shoulders, arms, and abdomen like it’s empty and pristine only until you mark it up yourself. There are fading bite marks, ones from maybe a few days or a week ago, across the curves where his pectorals slope into his collarbones, and you take it upon yourself to retrace, refresh them as you caress up and down from his shoulders to his hips and back again, doting and unhurried. He sighs for you. 

The empty bowl’s lost somewhere outside the searing kiss you land to his panting mouth (one of you has likely tossed it, kicked it, or pushed it to the floor), and his hands wander, eager to offer fair exchange—but you’re quick to stop him, slow him, lick his bottom lip and pin one of his wrists to the headboard beside him before you mutter, “Let me take care of you, ‘kay?” 

In true Osamu fashion, he whines, not unlike a cat being denied a treat; after all, for him, half the fun of fucking is getting you off—but tonight, you smell insincerity in his protest, have sensed the smallness that silently begs yes, please, take care of me, and you find yourself grinning into his mouth. Osamu’s rarely straightforward; he gets what he wants anyway. 

So, in equally as true Osamu fashion, he’ll sit pretty and let you send him to the clouds. 

You creep with lips and fingertips back to his chest, to his nipples, where you both know he’s so sensitive; you could make Osamu cum just from your tongue on those pretty, pink buds of his—you have before—but you feel determined to work him up thoroughly, take your time with all of him, all of his distress, right now. 

“Want that pretty mouth on me, baby,” he confesses, quieter and meeker than usual. He keeps drilling home how tired he is—here he is, telling you what he wants so soon. 

You finish sucking a particularly harsh mark into his sternum. “It is on you.” 

“Mm—no, on me.” And then his hand, the one not held hostage by you, is pushing yours down to his cock, beginning to stiffen in his sweatpants.

“Be patient.” You rise back up to kiss him again, swatting him away just to toy with him over his pants; Osamu chases your breath with his own, hungrily, fingers flexing and relaxing in your grasp when you squeeze him, circle your thumb over his tip, nip at his mouth. “I'll make you feel good.”

It’s when you sit yourself down fully on his growing erection and begin to grind back and forth that he starts whining against your lips. 

You hold his face to yours, smile into him reflexively; it’s so easy to make him mewl. For as much composure as Osamu holds in every other corner of his life, your bed is the one place it tends to escape him, and you live to watch him crumble for you. You live to feel his jaw work into your kiss, to trace adoration into his skin, to hear the little whimpers he lets out rise in decibel the longer you drag him out. You love it most of all because he deserves it—to let go, retreat from himself into your touch. 

“Please,” he whispers into you, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. It might be nothing to make him whine, but it’s no small feat, reducing Osamu Dazai to begging. That you didn’t even have to try tells you he needs this—he needs you; no matter how much he might’ve lied if you asked or banked on you missing it, you know the outline of that word on his lips, and he knows you know it, too. So you grind, not faster but harder, slipping your tongue into his pliant mouth. 

After letting his wrist go, after he grabs your hip and presses you onto him feverishly with a few more of your undulations, you work your way down him again—stopping not at his chest this time but between his hips, waiting to peel the waistband of his sweatpants down and off until you've first circled his belly button and the gradual path of hair that disappears beneath the fabric with kisses growing more intense from one moment to the next. You seek out the little layer of fat stretching across his tummy and bite there, too; he grabs your hair and snickers, watching you through squinted eyes while he tells you hoarsely to stop, it tickles! And you relent with a giggle of your own only to kneel, shove his pants down, and settle on your stomach where you urge each of his knees over your shoulders. 

You look up and think, god, you wish you could photograph him right now. Gazing down at you, lips parted with breathlessness, Adam's apple bobbing as you tease him; he's a quiet image of ecstasy as he curls his hands around your face, only because he trusts you to let him be. When you pause and admire for a moment too long, his lithe fingers take root in your hair; he's wiggling, saying please with his low-lidded eyes and desperate hips only so he won't have to subject himself to verbalizing it again. 

You wrap an arm beneath his thigh to seek out his cock, finally, sweetly; you hold him up, lick a slow stripe from base to tip up the underside, and Osamu croons. 

“Uh—yeah, was wondering when you'd get to the whole making-me-feel-good part.”

Just when you thought you had him. 

With your free hand, you swat his leg—impatient and sassy, even while he's running on fumes. Roguish in every sense of the word, still, while you’re taking such good care of him. His spark wants to have you grinning; you try to hide the inevitable reaction by burying your face in him, lapping sweetly, diligently at the spot between his base and his balls that should shut him up. 

“You're so mean, you know?” 

You can tell from his tone he's smirking.

“Ngh—telling me to be patient wh—while I beg for you—”

Really, it should have shut him up. But he keeps going. 

“—Mhm—yeah,” he exhales, one heel digging into your back—telling you he's going to fall apart faster than he's letting on. “You always know just—uh—just where to... t’—”

In a rarer display of force you reach behind yourself for his shin, gripping it, bending it up close to him and freeing your other arm; with this, you reach up, stuff your pre-cum dabbled fingers back in his mouth—to which he can only respond with a muffled mph! and widening eyes. 

Your patience to have him drop the facade is thinning. 

You prop yourself up on your elbow to shove your fingers deeper and look up into his face. 

“How about you be quiet, Osamu?” you pose gently; your fingerpads on his tongue are anything but, and he's squirming at the loss of pleasure. “Get my fingers nice n’ wet while you’re at it.”

Osamu’s teeth are in your knuckles a little too harsh to be considered polite, but you thrust them toward the back of his tongue anyway; he holds your eyes, you shoo his legs open further so as not to have to work around them as you resume stroking him lazily, and you tilt your head, admiring again. He hums around you, sighs through his nose while he laps you up, so you pick up the talking. 

“So cute when you shut up.” 

You retract your fingers momentarily to squish his cheeks—the face as well as the sound he makes is nothing short of adorable, less in the contrived sense and more in the literal as his nose scrunches; you want to adore him by making him come, and you will, but not before thrusting your fingers back into his bratty mouth immediately. 

“When have I ever left you unsatisfied, huh?” You don’t wait for an answer. “When have I ever not given my good boy what he needs?” 

It’s rhythmic, how he echoes the cadence of good boy with his body—first in the way his hips buck into you, and next in the groan you don’t let pass his teeth. 

“That’s right. You're smart enough to know by now when I want you to shut up and take it.”

Pushing yourself up—leaving him squirming again—you leave hardly a second between replacing your fingers with your mouth, sloppy, all breath, nipping at the tip of his tongue; Osamu loves when you kiss him hard, like you need him. Loves feeling needed more than he needs. But you know—maybe better than he does.

You smear his spit down his chin, wasting it for what you're planning next; it's a good thing you know just how to work him into a pliable mess. There’s one more thing he’ll do for you, and you'll get him there; you’ll disarm this unshakably smug and prodigiously self-controlled man and turn him into your lover, like you do so often.

For what it's worth, this is the least he's made you work for it in a while.

Osamu chases you when you leave his kiss, but you pin him down, cradling his bottom lip with your two fingers like a spoon. 

“Aht—” You shove them back in, across his tongue, just the tips of them. Only until he settles, and then you hold them out for him again. “Spit.”

And he does.

“Good boy, Osamu.”

You love watching the power leave his body when you utter those two words in combination with his name. As if conditioned, his cock jumps; you notice this as you reach down, dollop of spit beginning to drip between your fingers before you circle them around his hole and oh, you're rewarded with the prettiest gasp that trails off into an even prettier whimper—yes, a whimper, because he breaks so pathetically beneath you.

You smile into Osamu’s mouth when his breath picks up, evermore unsteady as you tease the rim of his ass. Without having to ask, he pitches his hips up for you, knees bent and feet bracing when you traverse back down his jugular with your lips and teeth.

You’re fast now, eager yourself; your line's barely straight, but you meet your own hand again as you return.

“Please,” followed by your name, huffy, totally realized this time.

How can you do anything but oblige?

Curling your fingers back around his cock, collecting the leakiness at his weepy tip to stroke him fully, he throws his soft brown head back into the headboard, gripping the sheets. No free hand to use, you hum and hope silently for his legs over your shoulders once more, and like a mindreader, he obliges you now—good boy, you’d be saying, if your mouth wasn’t occupied with one of his balls, rewriting the meaning of triple homicide with the suction of your tongue.

When you’ve switched your mouth and your hand and you’re a knuckle deep in him, Osamu starts to get demanding. 

“Deeper,” he growls through his teeth, and you’re unclear whether he means he wants you deeper inside him or his cock deeper down your throat. “C’mon—I want it, baby.” 

No please—and definitely no thank you when you give into his whims both ways, thrusting your finger deeper to curl up and apply pressure to the exact spot you know will have him crooning and gripping onto your hair, and that he does—to shove your face further down on him nonetheless. 

And then he really starts talking. 

“Thought you’d be all nice n’ be in charge—n’ take care of me? Hah—” 

You still your head while Osamu holds either side of your jaw and humps upward, drawing wet, smothered heaves from the back of your throat as his throbbing tip hammers it. 

“That’s sweet, honey.” 

You really, truly do know why he doesn’t complain about easy days, and the bulb flickers only once you’re choking on him—only ever once he has you right where he wants you—that when you fuss over him, it always gives him a leg up to take that control he thirsts for so deeply with all the more force. 

He licks his lips as honey drips from it, cradling you with the same gentleness you talked to him with earlier and employing the same ruthlessness in contrast. Your eyes roll back in surrender to his brutal pace and the air he cuts off from you so cruelly—but god, if you had the faculty to, you wouldn’t even be able to deny that you love letting him use you, love letting him take what he wants from you, so you focus your swirling consciousness on pressing up, deeper into his ass, worming your ring finger next to your middle one to stretch him open, have him gasping, holding on loosely to control. 

It’s always a little push and pull between you; you always let Osamu have his fun, but he knows who he belongs to at the end of the day, because you always have him sounding like—

“God—fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck—” 

—while he leverages his heels in your back to fuck your throat meaner, harder. You gag, and you know it spurs him on—you know the ring of drool at his base and the sweet, nasty sounds you make involuntarily for him keep him chasing that pretty fulfillment you inspire in the pit of his stomach. 

“‘m not the only one who’s cute when I shut up,” he drawls on, pushing your hair away from your forehead to watch the way he possesses you when he’s in you like this; wheezing, whimpering in between, the dominator in him wants to laugh at you—but his taunting throttles almost violently back to strangled groans and cries of your name while tears bead on his lashes. For every take it, take it, take it, there’s an equal please, please, please. 

Osamu grunts in a certain vocal register higher than when he talks sultry but lower than his usual speaking voice, and each byte you draw from him by sitting and being his good little toy is reminding you how much you want to make him feel good, how much it gets you off, too—you grind against the mattress helplessly while he has you pinned in place and you squeeze his balls while you keep his hole full, keep him moaning and sobbing for you through his little semblance of authority because you know all of his tells. You know when he’s about to fall apart, you can always tell by the way he twitches fast, abrupt—when those grunts get higher than his speaking voice and he starts breathing almost panic-like, enough to make himself a little dizzy while he unloads in you but you don’t give him the satisfaction of that this time, because he beat you too easily—you have to take something back, and so when he’s cursing with his eyes screwed shut and tears slipping down his face you wrestle yourself off of him so he can shoot spurt after spurt of hot, sticky cum across your fluttering lashes, the bridge of your nose, your raw lips, your cheeks that shine with tears of your own, all while you milk it out from inside of him—he cums so fucking heavenly when your fingers are in him. 

And you accept it with a closed-eyed grin and hoarse, bubbly giggles at the way you cautiously keep one eye open to watch Osamu’s gorgeous face, jaw slack as it yawns the euphoria only you bring him just to recover into scrunched-nose, furrowed-brow satisfaction as he opens his eyes and sees you licking up your spit and his cum from around your own mouth. 

He's grinning toothily as he swipes the mess away from your eyes and draws you up with a soft come here—he’s not about to let you have it all for yourself, licking his spend off his thumb and pulling you in with great delight to flick his hot tongue across each splatter he’s left on your face. Your fingers slide out of him and he hums against you, cleaning you up diligently—because he never won’t reward you for taking care of him exactly how he wants to be taken care of. 

Osamu giggles, too—also hoarse, as if he’s the one who just got his throat fucked. 

“You’re so good to me.” That sharp tongue disappears behind a coy smile, and you collapse into him, a little delirious and fully in love—he’s a fucking dog. 

“Trust me,” you sigh back, pressing that promised kissed to the corner of his mouth again, wriggling on his thigh.

He’s going to tease you so bad for getting worked up by letting him use you, you know.

“I know I am.”

[flightrising]

⚠️ ICYMI: Scheduled Maintenance ⚠️

We will be performing scheduled maintenance from 06:00 - 07:00 Server Time on Friday, April 4. During this period Flight Rising will be unavailable.

Be sure to visit Galore's Glorious Gifts and Marva's Marvelous Marvels before Friday's maintenance! When we return from maintenance, Marva will have closed up shop for the year and Galore will no longer be offering the April Fool's 2025 gift.

[911onabcbts]

ICYMI - Season Nine

We got renewed for an 18 episode season 9! ✨✨

Deadline article

The Wrap article

Oliver’s post about the renewal

Jennifer’s video about the renewal

Aisha’s post about the renewal

Gavin’s post about the renewal

Renewal edit from 9-1-1 socials

[eliotbaum]

My Love and My Joy are available as prints on our online shop, Tannenbaum Press until Nov 15th (‘24)! Two more days….!

[brattyspence]

closing submissions TOMORROW! :)

✿ welcome to brattyspence's cafe! ✿

i'm celebrating 6 months on tumblr with my first event, one that combines my two favorite things-- coffee and bagels. i tried to add a bagel for every version of spencer i have written!

special thank you to @beenreidingaboutyou for helping me with a theme + graphics and everything else love yewww baby

how to participate:

⤑ select a bagel or a drink from the list below, and submit your order in my asks! guidelines apply.*

⤑ you are welcome to stay anonymous or claim an emoji.

⤑ please limit each order to one bagel or one drink, but feel free to submit multiple orders! submissions will close one week from today, on April 6th, and then completed works will be shared. (keep in mind that i work a 9-5 and a 5-9 so be patient!)

the menu:

bagels

⤑ plain: send me a song and i'll make you a drabble.

⤑ everything: send me a line of dialogue and i'll make you a drabble

⤑ bagel sandwich: situationship!spencer + your idea

⤑ blueberry: dad!spencer

⤑ rainbow: early seasons!spencer

⤑ sesame: post prison!spencer

⤑ cinnamon: pining!spencer

add-ons

toasted: add angst

untoasted: add fluff

add cream cheese: add your own idea

add butter: ill take your idea and surprise you!

coffee

⤑ hot latte: headcannons; send me a scenario!*

⤑ iced latte: fuck, marry, kill - don’t forget to include characters!

⤑ iced mocha: this or that

⤑ vanilla oatmilk iced latte: other general q + a :)

*NSFW requests OPEN for hot lattes :)

note to add: thank you all for making my last 6 months so amazing!! we have such a great community here and i genuinely am so thankful for every little interaction i have. i am so greatful for all of u and i tear up and cry thinking abt this.

[siriuslylantsov]

giggle fit

spencer reid x fem! reader blurb. fluff :) undressing because of sex but theres no sex. kissing! meh ending because i just wanted to get this done. 458 words.

spencer shuts the door behind him as he makes work of his tie and shirt buttons, shoes and jacket left behind in the hallway of your apartment.

while he does that, you make progress with your own stripping. the urgency of the moment makes both your actions hurried. you let your skirt fall and pull off your blouse, waiting.

you watch as he struggles with his pants, kicking them off. his lack of attention for his surroundings while he looks at you becomes very evident as he trips over his pants, toe getting caught in the front pocket. he stumbles forward, eyes wide, and you reach out to steady him. the sheer momentum that exhumes off him sends you both to the floor. you, falling hard on your ass, and him, on his knees.

you rub over the impacted area with a grimace, and then you meet his eyes. they're equally pained by the fall, squinting, face twisted funnily that you can't help but start laughing. he frowns in confusion but seeing the way you light up causes him to follow suit.

you lean forward and press your smiling lips to his, “slow down,” you murmur against them. he kisses you back with fervour and pulls you closer by the waist. your lips part as another giggle escapes you, he uses this opportunity to lick into your mouth but your lack of cooperation makes it a messy ordeal. 

your laughing persists and he gives up on kissing your lips, instead moving to the side of your face. you keel over on the carpet behind you. he looks at you incredulously, you can't be laughing right now.

he moves to straddle your waist, imploring you to stop squirming, careful not to crush you. he peels your hands away from your face and plants them under his on the ground. “stop it,” he whines. 

you only grow more delirious, “i cant-” you let out between a fit of giggles, the outburst causing your stomach to ache, you tense under him. 

he smiles at you, amused, shifting lower to your hips so that when he brings his head down, it’s level with yours. “your diaphragm,” he lets go of one on your pinned hands to press at the area under your ribs, “and your abdominal muscles are repeatedly contracting.” he presses a kiss to your lips, which you accept, “that's why it hurts.”

you're breathless as your laughter ceases. “huh, i always wondered why that was,” you use your free hand to rake through his hair. “thank god i have a loser boyfriend to tell me.”

“loser boyfriend really wants you right now, so how ‘bout you get up?”

“how ‘bout you get off me first? and don't trip this time.”

[picturesoftmbg]

[dominicfikeme]

Moonlit Shores – Satoru Gojo

Summary A walk along the beach with your best friend, Satoru, should feel simple—easy. But not when you’re hopelessly in love with him. Maybe tonight, things will finally change. Warnings: Fluff, mutual pining, best friends-to-lovers trope, Satoru being playful and tender, tension, unspoken feelings. Hiii thank you sm for reading! Likes and re-blogs are highly appreciated and I wish a cold pillow to sleep on to anyone who does so lmao <333

Cool air sweeps across the waves, carrying with it the salty taste of the ocean. A flavor you don’t particularly want to taste, but right now, you couldn’t care less. After all, any inconvenience the beach might bring fades away in the presence of your favorite person.

That’s the only reason you’re even here at this odd hour—Satoru and his puppy-dog eyes. You figure accompanying him to the beach is the least you could do, especially after you begged him to join you at an art gallery just the other week, a place he has no interest in. Yet, he tagged along, listening intently as you explained why a certain painting made you feel so nostalgic.

You find yourselves doing this often—taking every opportunity to be together, even if the setting isn’t your favourite. It’s not so bad; you’ve come to appreciate the beach a lot more. The soft sand beneath your feet, the chorus of waves crashing on the shore—makes the whole experience rather enjoyable. Well, that and the sound of Satoru’s excitement as he dips his feet into the ocean for the first time.

You’ve noticed he doesn’t do many things for himself. He’s never really had the luxury of being just a little selfish. Sure, he may come off that way to others, but everyone having known about his strength since childhood means he’s carried an unfair amount of responsibility on the same shoulders he dusts off so easily pretending as if it all doesn't get to him.

For whatever reason, Satoru feels comfortable being a little childish with you—wanting late-night walks on the cold beach, and for whatever reason, you indulge him.

You walk along the shore, arms brushing every few seconds but never lingering longer than necessary. Satoru’s telling you how he got in trouble with Yaga for being late to class, though it wasn’t his fault his alarm didn’t wake him up. You roll your eyes at his excuses and laugh—a laugh that Satoru loves to bring about.

He’s always looking for moments to joke, no matter how dumb, just to see that smile on your face. A smile you offer so readily, no matter how ridiculous the joke. Even now, you laugh at his complaints about the terrible alarm clock Yaga gifted him for Christmas in an attempt to fix his tardiness. The laughter is so contagious that Satoru can’t help but join in.

In moments like these, with both of you smiling your biggest smiles, time seems to freeze, Satoru’s eyes reflecting the soft moonlight, his white hair messy from the breeze and the natural high of laughter filling the air, you feel free of all inhibitions. You feel an overwhelming pull to take his hand, to pull him closer, to seal your shared laughter with a long yearned for kiss. You wonder if he feels it too, the magnetic pull, the need to be more than whatever you both are, the need to have you close. 

His laughter softens, trailing into a content hum as he looks out at the horizon. “Toru–” you say softly, a kind of sincerity in your tone that Satoru picks up on. He looks at you, something tender in his expression urging you to carry on. But you are unable to, you can’t find the words. Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to close the small gap between you.

Satoru, unusually patient, simply reassures you with a kind smile, one that allows you to take a leap of faith, letting your hand brush his but this time not pulling away. He looks at your hands, a smile growing ever so slightly as he curls his fingers around your hands. He looks back up at you, eyes soft. You brush your thumb against his knuckles, savouring the feel of his hands in yours, savouring the smile on his face, savouring the electricity that's coursing body because of a simple touch.

A shaky breath escapes you, breaking the silence. Satoru raises a brow, clearly holding back a laugh which only makes you chuckle first. It doesn’t take long before you both are laughing again, the tension giving away to a shared amusement. “You know,” you say, “I think I like the beach a lot more now, I reckon we do this more often.” 

“Yeah? Is it the waves or the company?” he teases, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. 

You grin, a playful sparkle in your eyes. “Definitely the company.”

[thenaturalfriends]

Greg: It's gone from being a bit weird, cause I just called him 'Good Boy' one day--and afterwards he went, "Good Boy?!?"--and now we really only call each other Good Boy. And I do think we are good boys. Alex: Course we're good boys! Greg: I do think we are. Alex: We're good boys.

Bless @ninaolive for posting this video from the S17 New York Q&A.

[exosalt]

aot headcanons - skincare edition

Armin

Slightly on the dry side but v sensitive

Has a pretty simple routine - cleanser, toner, moisturiser, aftershave etc

His products are high end and high quality

Knows exactly what to use for specific skin issues

Religiously uses SPF

Eren

Combination skin but slightly on the oilier side

Doesn’t have a skincare routine

Uses 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash on his face when he’s in the shower

Steals Armin’s and Mikasa’s skincare products

Uses them wrong

Refuses to use SPF in winter

Mikasa

Normal balanced skin

Literally only needs cleanser and SPF and that’s IT

Likes trying out new face masks and sheet masks

Physically has to hold Eren down and rub SPF on his face

Levi

Used to have balanced skin like Mikasa but it dried out because he kept using hand sanitizer on his face

Cleanses twice a day but with antibacterial soap

Skin stills looks good because ✨Ackergenes✨

Jean

Combination and slightly acne-prone

Needs encouragement to use proper skincare

Not too fussed about following a proper routine, always forgets in the evening

Thinks growing a beard will cover the sins

Sasha

Has an oily T-zone

Tiktok is her main source of skincare info

Tried homemade Pinterest face masks but ended up eating it

Has a post on her Instagram of herself and Connie with face masks on and cucumbers over their eyes

Connie

Combination skin but slightly acne prone

Doesn’t really use anything special unless it’s recommended to him

“What’s your skincare routine?” “Water” - thinks that’s a flex

Loves trying new face masks with Sasha

Historia

Dry, sensitive skin but no one can ever tell because she’s perfected her skincare

Has a full 12 step routine

Loves giving skincare recommendations

Convinces Ymir to do spa nights with her

Reiner

Tears

LMAO jk jk his skincare is pretty simple

Has mostly normal skin but stress causes him to break out

Still trying to find products which work for him

Bertholdt

Oily + sensitive skin

Constantly forgets to use SPF

Doesn’t really matter because he sweats off all the product anyway

Annie

Combination skin

Constant dark circles

Uses super simple drugstore products

Only really focused on keeping her skin clean

Started using SPF because Armin suggested it

Marco

Combination skin but has an oily forehead

Doesn’t have a proper routine

Only buys products that are half off 🙃

Low-key scared he’ll exfoliate a freckle off

(The freckles demand love)

Ymir

Really only uses water and it works out fine

Doesn’t understand the skincare hype

Will still try out whatever Historia recommends for her

Erwin

this set

Hange

Doesn’t have a skincare routine

Likes putting weird things on their face just to see what effect they’ll have

Like they’ll rub a whole lemon on their face just to see what it does

Enjoys popping pimples

Miche

Soap goes up his nose every single day and impairs his sense of smell for like an hour afterwards

Cries when this happens

Prefers to keep it simple

Floch

Doesn’t wash his face

Crusty ass bitch

s/o to @sehun-cakes for helping me with this 😂

[iamamythologicalcreature]

From Snow on Ice, written by @leithillustration for @carryon-reverse-bang.

[flightrising]

Hey

Springswarm starts tomorrow. Wait until after 06:00 server time Thursday, March 6th to do your daily Gathering turns!

[911onabcbts]

ICYMI: Sob Stories

Post episode round-up of all the interviews, stills, etc.

Post-episode stills

Tim Minear interviews

Screenrant

Decider

EW

Oliver Stark interviews

US Weekly

TV Insider

TV Fanatic

Ryan Guzman interviews

Hello!

Parade

Jennifer Love Hewitt interviews

The Wrap

TV Line

8x10: Voices promo

ryan’s instagram story

behind the scenes picture with oliver

highest rated episode on imdb

8x12 cast news

[bookish-bogwitch]

Thanks for the tags @emeryhall @rimeswithpurple @blackberrysummerblog and @roomwithanopenfire!

I’m in Omaha and made this today. It’s six sentences, right?

Who knew Carry On had so many beard rubs? (Spadey. Spadey knew.)

Tagging @facewithoutheart @martsonmars @raenestee. Miss you!

[redlettermediathings]

ICYMI this channel uploads Wheel of the Worst tapes in full so you can torture yourself right in the comfort of your own home.

[siriuslylantsov]

birthday kiss

pairing: roomate!spencer reid x reader

description: its readers birthday!

tags: fluffy fluff, first kiss, gn!reader, expensive watch but its okay because papa pasta paid for it, idk bro there are no warnings this is just cute.

a/n: more roomate spencer because i am a sucker for close proximity. this is the watch for reference (i rlly want it, let me live) and im choosing to be ignorant about spencers financial sitch, but in this its a tad too expensive for him. watched gilmore girls before writing this and had the overwhelming urge to write (somewhat) snappy dialogue. happy reading!

wc: 882

“make a wish.”

spencer holds out the cupcake with a single candle on it infront of your face. you blow out cold air extinguishing the frame with your eyes closed. 

“what’d you wish for?” you.

“i can't tell you, it won't come true.”

the two of you are sitting on the couch, facing each other. it's midnight, which means it's officially your birthday. spencer picked up a cupcake on the way home from work, it was red velvet with assorted coloured sprinkles, very festive. you split the cupcake with him, laughing when he inevitably gets frosting on his nose, swiping it off with your thumb. 

“so i got you something,” he starts as stands up to go get it.

“oh?”

“yeah,” he hands you a neatly wrapped box, sitting back down next to you, a little closer this time to  gauge your reaction. you peel away the paper and a red leather box reveals itself, and in small print; cartier.

“spencer, this isn't funny,” you look up at him, eyes wide.

“open it,” he urges.

you open the box, and your breath hitches. the most beautiful silver watch sits inside it–one you've had your eye on for months.

“this isn't funny,” you repeat, looking at the watch in disbelief. 

he swipes the box, taking the watch out and putting it on you, seeing as how you're frozen. he holds your wrist gently, admiring the piece he got you. he can't help but lift your wrist up and press a kiss to the soft skin, letting his lips linger there for a moment before putting it down.

his tenderness makes you frown. you look down and let out a slightly incredulous scoff. “i can't believe you…” you trail off before returning your glance to him, “how did you afford this?”

“i've got money.”

“i know you do. but you're also splitting the rent with me so that has to put up some spending limitations.”

“ok fair enough,” he surrenders, “rossi hooked me up, and by hooked me up, i mean he paid for most of it.”

you smile, a bright beautiful smile that loves. “that sly fox,” you chuckle, “remind me to kiss him next time i see him.”

“he gets a kiss and i don't?” he fake pouts.

“no, you get a kiss,” you lean over and lightly peck his cheek, you stay close. your lips are still curled up but this time it's a giddy grin.

you have an idea.

“i got something for you too.”

“it's not my birthday, why would you get me something?”

“it just came up,” you shrug.

“okay…” his uselessly veiled scepticism is very obvious.

“close your eyes.”

he does and a small crease forms between his eyebrows in confusion when you don't get up, he can feel the way the cushions dip as you shift in your seat, you're moving closer? why haven't you left to go get it yet? maybe it's in your pocket? maybe-

all rational thought vanishes from his mind when he feels your lips on his, soft. your hand is on his cheek as you kiss him. it's gentle and hesitant and he feels as though he might explode. careful not to make you think he doesn't reciprocate, spencer kisses you back, with a touch of desperation. you hum quietly into the kiss and pull back, resting your forehead on his.

“thank you,” you whisper, the soft puffs of your breath can be felt on his face and he relishes in the proximity.

he laughs, low and behind closed lips. “you're welcome. if i had known that getting you a watch would have earned me a kiss, i would've done it a lot sooner.”

“don't get too excited, dave gets one too.”

he shakes his head with a scoff, forehead still pressed against yours.

“thats what i wished for by the way.”

he leans his head back to look at you, “us kissing?”

“mhm, something like that.” you wished for a lot more than kissing but for now this was perfect.

“well, you know what they say…”

“what?” you inquire, amused.

“if the wish is granted within five minutes of the wish making, you're allowed a second one.”

“really? where'd you hear that?”

“i read it somewhere.”

“no sources?” you retort.

“nope, forgot.”

“likely story.”

you roll your eyes yet you humour him, picking up the liner filled with the mound of frosting you picked off your share of the cupcake earlier and sticking the previously lit candle into it. spencer grabs the match box and relights it.

you get all up in his space again, face dangerously close to his with the contraption you've made held next to you. “i wish you'd kiss me again,” you request, turning your head to blow out the flame. 

his fingers catch your chin to bring your face back to him, “we can definitely arrange that.”

you giggle as his lips hover over yours. “if this wish gets granted within the first five minutes too, do i get a third?”

“you can have whatever you want, angel.”

“good deal,” you murmur against his lips as he kisses you.

it was just a little over 15 minutes into your birthday but you could say with full certainty that this one was going to be your favourite.