#Idk 🤷🏾‍♀️

[sunsetsandsunshine]

Bro the TMNT fandom can be so freaking tiring sometimes. Like- I love this franchise but some of y’all are just ruining it. And by “some of y’all” I mean the people who are shipping the turtles with each other.

One minute you think someone is nice? And then they ship T*est. Talented and has an amazing artysle? Draws T*est. They’re following you and you want to see what they’re blog is about?

FREAKING. T*EST.

They’re brothers. I’m so tired of the “Don’t like? Don’t read 🥺” bs. OFC NO ONE WILL READ IT- You’re shipping siblings. Get some help, man.

[kaleeesaladdd]

Dirtiest fantasy?

Idk about any of em being dirty per se. I really want a good chase me down and take advantage of me scenario but I’m getting to the point where running is a no go for me😅

[whoblewboobear]

What if on eviction night after the double Julie comes back on the tv and she’s like “hey, houseguests! Who’s ready for a triple eviction right now?” and they end the season right there.

[o-vishtay]

🩶🩶🩶

[weirdo09]

attraction/love ≠ complimenting someone’s appearance

[missvanta-xoxo]

So...tiktok is down...where's the drama, what's tea?

[tanagause]

[sunsetsandsunshine]

SOBBING AWH LITTLE GREEN BEAN 😖😖😖😭😭😭✨✨💖💞💕

Green ninja's biggest weakness: being tickled

yes

[zae-heeyyy]

Seraphic

Summary: You are Arthur's angel. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,222 Tags: smut, high honor Arthur Warnings: 18+ MDNI

a/n: Whew 😅 I'm a little nervous to post this one. 🫣 Been sitting on it for a while (no pun intended) I've read and reread it a million times, and I'm ready to share. Also, we're pretending like Arthur's tent actually closes. Anyway thanks for reading!

Seraphic: something angelic or celestial in nature, often suggesting purity, beauty, or holiness.

By 1 a.m., the sounds of camp had reduced to the songs of crickets and the crackle of the fire. While everybody else slept, you waited up for Arthur, reading a book under lantern light in his tent. He arrived eventually, keeping his greeting short and joining you on his cot with slouched shoulders, seemingly exhausted. When he took his hat off, the grimace on his face became all the more apparent. His expression and tense body language told you all you needed to know; whatever happened out there wasn't good.

You handed him a match and a cigarette from his nightstand, and he thanked you with a nod. Using the heel of his boot, he struck the match and lit the cigarette, holding it with his thumb and index fingers. Flickering lantern light and the burning ember tip illuminated his bruised knuckles.

"Should I ask?" You traced a gentle finger over the bruises, and he shook his head.

"Best not," he replied, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.

"Well, I'm glad you're still in one piece," you said, looking him over. His shirt had seen cleaner, less wrinkled days, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. "Well, mostly in one piece."

He let out a gust of air, a failed attempt at a laugh, before pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning.

"Headache?" you asked, and he confirmed. The discomfort came with the life he lived. Loud gunfire, the rush of adrenaline, and focusing on his shots all combined to leave him in pain afterward. You exited the tent momentarily and returned with a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a bottle of miracle tonic.

"Here—for your head." He took the medicine and snuffed his cigarette. Rejoining him, you sat on the cot and dabbed his face with the wet cloth, wiping away dirt and sweat. A soft kiss on his temple prompted him to lean into you, the tension finally dissipating. You wrapped your arms around his big frame and held him close. Obviously, he was your safe space, but oh—were you his. Eyes shut, he rested his head on your bosom.

Arthur found comfort in his typical role as protector and provider. But in these moments, when roles faded, he could feel the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders—a crushing weight he didn't even realize he was carrying. Being with you like this made him wonder if heaven was real because you were godsent.

To Arthur's dismay, you unraveled yourself from him to tie the tent flap closed, sealing the two of you away in the dark. Walking between his legs, you untied his neckerchief and dusted his soiled shirt.

"—Needs a wash. Your blood or someone else's?" you questioned, fingers undoing the top button.

"Not mine," he answered. Peeling the shirt off and tossing it aside, you studied him for a second time tonight. He'd seemed more relaxed than when he arrived, but his brow stayed brooding. Still positioned with his legs on either side of you, you caressed his face, one of your thumbs stroking the hairless scar on his chin.

"What else can I do?"

"You done enough; I'm fine." He gave your hand on his face a reassuring squeeze.

Leaning forward, you kissed him tenderly. His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you nearer until your foreheads touched. You spoke low against his mouth, a playful grin forming on yours.

"You gotta stop getting yourself into so much trouble, Arthur Morgan."

Your demand was met with a chuckle, and he replied, "I'll do my best, darlin'." You peppered his lips with loving, tender kisses, making him smile against them and squeeze you tighter in a hug. You would do just about anything to see that man smile at you the way he did, all soft and endearing.

Your kisses subsided, but Arthur's affectionate gaze stayed fixed on you. The slight smile on his face had straightened, his expression mirroring the intensity of the one he wore when he first confessed his love for you.

"Got that look on your face," you told him, and he just blinked slowly, awestruck. Though he often swore he was a man of few words, he could fill volumes with his devotion for you. You loved it when he got like that, entranced and overwhelmed with love.

The way he watched you set a fire within you that warmed the most intimate parts of your being. He was surprised when you let yourself fall heavily into him, trying to get as close as possible. Maybe he was going to say something or make a noise, but he didn't have the time before your mouth was on his again, your tongue pushing through his lips to tangle with his. You only pulled away when you needed to breathe.

Instead of pressing your lips to his once more, you dropped to your knees in front of him. Eyes widening, he tried to bring you back up to your feet, shaking his head, once again astounded by you.

"Sweetheart—"

Still on your knees, you patted his cheek and looked up at him with doe eyes. "Shhh, let me take care of you, Arthur." His hand found yours on his face, and he turned to kiss it, nodding placidly. Both of you managed to keep your volume low as you helped him strip down to his union suit. You began working at the buttons of his neckline, doing more ripping than unbuttoning, shoving the fabric down his shoulders.

As more clothing fell away, you trailed sweet kisses down his abdomen. At the same time, his hands roamed wherever they could. The rough pads of his fingers lightly tracing your skin mirrored a faint electric charge. Despite being a brute of an outlaw, he was overly careful with his hands when it came to you; your body was fine china and deserved to be treated as such. Goosebumps formed in a wake left by his touch.

As you kissed down the trail of hair under his belly button, his rapid breathing hitched, and the bulge between his legs strained against the flannel fabric, begging to be unleashed. You tried to find his eyes as you groped him through the underwear, but his head was tipped back, his mouth agape.

"Look at me." You whispered, and he snapped to attention like a soldier following commands. Eyes locked on his, you unclasped the last button, and his length sprung free, the pink head of his cock primed with anticipation. A teasing laugh crept up within you as you trailed soft kisses from the base of his shaft and left one long lingering peck on the tip. The loud, rhythmic thumping of his heart was music to your ears. Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, you took his entire length in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down, taking him deeper until your nose touched the curly hairs at the base.

Then he couldn't hold it in anymore; a deep, guttural groan escaped him.

Your mouth was the warmest, most intoxicating blanket he'd ever been wrapped in, and he never wanted to leave. He gaped at you, seeing your mouth full of him, his pupils dilated with pure lust. The blunt tip of his cock pressed to the back of your throat, making it constrict around him. His whole body shuddered.

"Look whatchu' do to me, woman," he rattled, tangling his hands in your hair. Despite his eagerness, you withdrew from his aching sex, a string of saliva joining your lips to him. Something reminiscent of a whine exited him when you stepped away, but his open mouth fell shut at the sight of your bloomers slipping down your legs. You kissed him, savoring the salty, bitter taste of his arousal mixed with the tobacco and herbs of his mouth.

"Lay back," you murmured in his ear. Obeying your command once again, he let out a grunt as he felt your weight on top of him. You straddled him, and he held you up, his fingers digging firmly into your sides. Bending at the waist, you kissed longingly, your hips undulating against his. He pulled your nightgown up around your midriff, one of his hands gripping the flesh of your ass while the other one went between your legs. His index finger sank painstakingly into your weeping cunt, then brushed over your clit, making you shiver. He raised himself on his elbows, reaching for the hem of your sleep dress.

"Take this off; let me see you." You raised your arms and let him yank the garment away, leaving you completely exposed on top of him. "Beautiful," he breathed, using the back of his hand to graze your skin. Breathy sighs escaped you as he traced delicate circles around your nipples. His eyes bored into you, absorbing every detail like you were the most captivating thing that ever lived. Hyperfocused on your body, he fondled your breasts before gliding his hands down your torso, ogling, taking all of you in.

Freezing, his stare intensified as you massaged the tip of his cock up and down your glistening slit. Touching his lips to yours, you pushed him into your wet folds. Neither of you could contain the sounds building with you. He split you open, stretching you, making room for him, filling you. You held yourself up with your hands braced on his chest, but you went weak as he bottomed out within you, brushing against that deep, tender spot. You would've fallen if he wasn't there to hold you up, a thought mirroring one he had about you so often.

"I got you," he whispered into your ear. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to snap his hips up into you, the warm embrace of your center clearing his mind and driving him mad all the same. Finally, you started to ride, surging and sinking into him. He was a simple, agnostic man, but being with you like this made him believe in all the theocracy of angels, soulmates, and divine intervention. This was his bliss. This was his heaven, and you were his seraph. He'd go through hell every day if it meant coming home to this—to you. Hypnotized in the rhythm of you, a new thought crossed his mind every time you bounced.

Up.

She's so goddamn beautiful.

Down.

So perfect.

Up.

My girl.

Down.

My girl, my girl, my girl, my girl.

Up.

My angel.

Down.

I love her so much.

Up.

So wet.

Down

So warm.

Up.

So danm tight.

Down.

Shit.

And before you could come back up again, he squeezed his eyes shut, halting your hips with all the strength he could muster, fighting the damn-near irresistible urge to cum inside of you. Sweat had built up on his brow, and his stomach rose and fell quickly with each panting breath. You folded to kiss him, your hard nipples grazing against his chest.

"It's okay," you whispered, patting his face and grinding antagonizingly slow against him. You wanted him—needed him— to come undone for you. With that goal in mind, you picked up the pace and rolled your hips relentlessly, moaning your every thought into his ear.

"You feel so good inside of me."

"I need you."

"I love you."

Your climax was building fast, and you reached to give relief to that sensitive bundle of nerves atop your center. Arthur pushed your hand away swiftly, replacing it with his own. Always a giver, he'd do anything to feel useful while you were treating him like royalty.

While one hand worked your clit, his other gripped the meat of your hip, rocking you in time with his upward thrusts. His head tipped and hit the pillow, and you could feel his thighs tensing and shaking beneath you. Lips parted, he stared up at you. You felt him twitch inside you, and his brow finally relaxed.

That did it for you.

You were wordless as your orgasm ripped through you, your head swirling, and your veins on fire. Arthur's guiding hand on your hip didn't stop, and he fucked you through your climax. Hugging your body close and nuzzling his face into your neck, he growled as he painted your inner core with his own release. You stayed like that, glued to each other as you came down from your highs.

"You're too good for me," he finally said. You clasped a hand into his, kissing the long-forgotten bruises on his knuckles.

"Shut up." You responded, and he didn't say another self-deprecating word. It was the least he could do.

You cleaned up and redressed, nestling into the small, one-man cot. Finally settled for the night, you resorted to your regular bedtime positions: your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, your legs tangled in one another's.

He rose before you in the morning, perching himself on the cot's edge while you slept behind him. He wrote in his journal, his thumb leaving a smudge on the page:

"For a long time, I believed I could not live a bad life and expect good things to happen to me. Yet somehow, this woman of pure goodness entered my life, and it is clear now that I have been a fool."

[lalasimmer]

Photoshoot with Mya and her twist out 🤎

[fromtheseventhhell]

"Arya stans are so delusional"

The delusional Arya stan in question:

[generisydtoo]

Haven’t drawn her in a whileee

[plumdonutsv]

guys idk how this happened. my brain can’t stop thinking about meljayvik/jayvik. i never even watched arcane. beautiful fan art has tricked my brain

[sukibenders]

The Bridgertons definitely give me the vibe of the type of family to be competitive when it comes to spoiling children, but this becomes especially prevalent when Kate and Anthony reveal they are expecting and baby Eddy is finally born. There's a score sheet for who brought the most items, who receives the most smiles and laughs (when Colin is in the lead, Eloise proclaims that baby Edmund is just suffering from gas because she's totally not a sore loser) and so on so forth. Benedict lets him play with his paint sets, much to his parents and Violet's dismay. One time he commented, jokingly, that he saw baby Edmund being a great painter and a vein nearly burst from Anthony's forehead.

When Daphne catches word of this competition, she quickly drags Simon into it, spending more time carrying her nephew than his own father (who is totally not jealous and seeks every opportunity he can to steal him away). Imagine the family's surprise when a crate arrives from Prussia thanks to aunt Edwina, filled with an arrangement of toys and fine clothing from different parts of the world, supplying baby Edmund (more so his parents) with an endless selection than what he knows what to do with.

(Kate and Anthony quickly put forth boundaries, attempting to halt any further attempts of their family's splurging and excessive spoiling. The rest of the Bridgertons, however, add another opponent to their list. Baby Edmund is just happy for the ride.)

[spidey-bie]

Fic Idea:

Hobie stumbles into reader's house drunk out of his mind after being dumped (again) . Reader (who's aroace and sick and tired of listening to his drunken mumblings) bets that Hobie can't go a month without dating someone. Hobie accepts the challenge.

Shenanigans ensue as Hobie instead uses his time to bother them.

[cryingpariah]

Garling being obsessed with the Shandia to the point of near fetishization is diabolical.

The only reason Dragon doesn’t kill him personally (aside from the fact that Imu’s whatever the fuckery would make that difficult/impossible) is because the nasty bastard would probably enjoy being killed by the object of his obsession.

(Prepare to get the ick something CRAZY.)

It started off normally enough really (well as normal as you can get for a celestial dragon anyway). 1 part fascination mixed with 1 part blindly hatred equals this perverse obsession.

How dare they, lording above him in the sky, do they think they're actually superior to him?! The heaven's chosen guardian, a beacon of holy light unlike any other! He was superior to them in every conceivable way!

..except the wings. He lacked their beautiful wings. Pure white like snow, soft like silk wings that that ungrateful fool Noland had described in his sparse scribblings. Garling wanted wings of his own so badly but no amount of money or medical research can give you the real deal, only a cheap copy.

He was much too good at his job to be given leave long enough to head for the sky so he made do as the years went on, found and hunted slaves with other oddities but it wasn’t the same. He filled canvas after canvas with images of his future conquest with a little help from Noland's journals but felt resigned to his fate on the ground. Is this how the plebs of the world lived, with the things they want out of their reach? It was truly dreadful.

And then he heard about it, Vice Admiral Garp had married. A woman who had the wings of silk and snow he so desperately yearned for. He had kept his composure when he spoke to the man, discussed only his future plans for the people of the clouds but on the inside he was a giddy mess. He had to keep touch his chin to make sure he wasn’t drooling. He even had to excuse himself to the bathroom to do things he’d never admit to.

To think one would have found their down to the seas and into the simian brute's bed, oh he was so jealous! Were her wings as perfect as he had always imagined? Feathers as uniform as they were described? Would they flap if he touched her just right?

He could take her, demand what is rightfully his but making a possible enemy out of Garp would cause too much attention. He’d wait. He’d be patient. He can very patient. He would see her one day and all would fall into place…

But it never did. Was she just some homebody or did she know? Did she suspect? Did she think of him with disgust in her voice and hatred in her eyes? God he hoped so. Like Captain Ahab to the white whale he yearned to cross her path but that blasted Nika must have been interfering with his plans.

And then the unnatural rise of the Orange Admiral who tried oh so hard to hide what he was. Didn’t he know none could escape him? And he certainly didn’t. Figarland had been beside himself with joy! Sure the boy wasn’t purebred but none of them were pure to begin with anyway! His copper skin, spiked hair, golden accessories..just as it said in the journals. He could pinpoint what he must have gotten from his mother, the nose, the smooth voice and of course the wings. He had been devastated upon seeing the state of them, who could take such perfection and desecrate it! Who would be so brazen as to take what belonged to a saint! No matter, he deal with them later…

But then (and how he is overcome by shivers at this memory) how the boy had looked at him. First with fear but then his anger, his righteous fury! How enchanting, how mesmerizing! He looked like wanted to split Figarland's skull open and he almost wanted to let him try. He’d never be able to do it of course but it would be a cute struggle.

He swore after that meeting he would have the both of them, Garp be damned. They would be so grateful to bask in him, such a joyous gift bestowed upon their unworthy souls. Regardless of the outcome, be it a fight or surrender, he would have gotten what he wanted.

What he has always deserved.