#but icl

[cxrtofowls]

you best believe i’m not sat here watching these stupid marvel chairs btw i found out about them approximately 5 minutes ago. that being said, from a very very childish and nostalgic place in my heart, seeing the xmen cast returning.. why’d i move

[titan-god-helios]

minimalist mfers paint so with so much of the eggshell colour that soon we may have an eggshell sunset that’s just shades of off-white

[windwenn]

Literally the coolest a person has ever looked

[rh1a]

tim: why would i choose peace when i can ruin lives instead?

jason, trying to remember how people think this is the moral one:

[theusernameiwantisntavailable]

Tw: cunt

Version without overlay and also side by side w og pannel under the cut :D

I couldn't choose between the two versions so you guys are getting both

[kaisentine]

turning your back on itoshi rin even just for a second is the biggest death wish you’ll ever have.

not because his intention is to kill you ( maybe it is, i don’t know ) but because when you turn back to look at him, he’s right behind you—standing tall and looking down at you like a mad man and it scares you so much you feel like you were one more heartbeat away from a heart attack.

especially by how little sound he made creeping up towards you, you didn’t know he was right there until you looked back. honestly, rin is just unnerving in general, from the fact you’ve never seen him cry—like at all—or the way he’s as stiff as a board whenever you try to hug him, or maybe it was because he downs horror related things like water.

. . . but right now, his unfazed expression is going to send you into the gutters of hell. if you could pick a super-power at this very moment, it would be the ability to slide passed these damn floors so you don’t have to deal with this.

“oh, rin . . ! when did you get here . . ?” you’re a nervous wreck who may or may not be sweating balls. “since you turned your back.” he says—okay so he’s been there for like 2 seconds at this point—is that humanely possible? unless he’s some kind of monster who runs a block per second. you slowly nod, looking at his bottom lashes instead of his eyes. “you look nervous.” he blurts out because you’re obviously unsettled—eyes shaky, voice shaky, oh and your body is shaking against his—it’s annoying him.

thanks, mr. obvious. does he really not get that sneaking up behind people is absolutely horrifying? is he trying to star in a horror movie?

this man is a walking jumpscare.

sticky note. hey ya’ll . . . will u be my kaisentines? 🥰

[popuplee]

jayce’s final conversation with viktor was sooooo. It was never about this grandeur or “glorious evolution” it was always about that boy in the undercity, playing with his boat and having to look up at the other kids. It was always about the kid with the bad leg wanting to play with everyone else. So he tried to change himself, make himself perfect—but the burden of change was never supposed to be his. He shouldn’t have to be perfect in order to be loved. And Jayce saw this, told Viktor, “you were never broken.” And Viktor, now a twisted, gnarled thing, warped in his pursuit of perfect, looks across his sea of failure and asks, “why do you persist?” Because he’s not perfect now: he’s grey and damaged and evil, right? But the answer is so obvious. It was never about Viktor being broken, or perfect, or a so-called Herald to Jayce. As long as Viktor is Viktor, Jayce won’t leave. Because he promised. He promised.

[saeun]

এ gojo satoru ᪲ ﹕ how to annoy the boyfriend pro style. ᪲ jujutsu kaisen ᧔ female reader.

+ extra: real suggestive terms ⸝ short drabble.

“Damn, I’m hard.” Satoru sighs in utter defeat, placing both hands at the sides of him to further emphasize the fact.

“What?!” Your jaw’s nothing but dropped and your eyebrows furrowed in either disgust, shock, or a remix of both.

You shouldn’t be too shocked — Satoru’s just a man. Who wouldn’t get a little stiff when they’re playfully fighting with a girl and she ends up straddling his hips with one hand flat on his chest and the other gripping his hair.

Unable to believe the words coming from his mouth, you rock your hips, trying to feel anything that’s not soft beneath you. Indeed, he’s not only hard, but both his hands flew to hold your hips, forcefully stopping you from rocking any more.

“Are you crazy?” He hisses, clenching his jaw to fight back the auto-reflex of bucking his hips up.

“Hey, I was just checking.” You smile, thinking of teasing him a bit more. You are the who’s one on top.

“Wipe that stupid smile and get off me.” Satoru orders, but his actions imply the opposite. His grip on you makes it a challenge to move and you’re enjoying the eye candy you were blessed with. The boner’s a plus too!

Since your hips were halted, you decided to push your luck. You slide the hand on his hair down to his neck and the other closer to the left side of his chest. Satoru squints at you, keeping silent but tilting his head to expose his neck more.

You lightly squeeze his neck, hoping it’d distract him from you going in for a nipple pinch.

You were successful, earning a groan as a reward while Satoru lost against his imaginary battle between reflexes.

Inhaling sharply, Satoru smiles sweetly at you, but his grip tightens painfully. Maybe you shouldn’t have pushed your luck.

“My sweet girlfriend, have you ever been in a headlock?”

[majunju]

[2/3] bite (part 1 here)

[4sh-n4]

AU where bruce and co. (his entire hoarde of kids, even jason in disguise) are at a gala. And it's a really big gala, party of the year type of thing in Gotham, absolutely unmissable. And usually, even the rogues know that this night is off limits, so it's relatively safe. So, they're all at this gala, right?

And then the joker crashes it because he has no respect for Gotham traditions. Breaks in through a window, yada yada. He starts to go on this whole villain speech as per usual, and everyone is waiting for the heroes to come. But all the heroes are at the gala, in their civilian identities, with a thousand eyes on them. No one can reasonably slip away, except for maybe jason, who's already seething mad and ready to attack. But with the chaos and people trying to get away, all the exits are blocked, and his helmet is at home.

Bruce is at the front of the crowd, facing the Joker. Joker sees him and makes a comment about Jason, and goes on about how Bruce must've felt when his baby died. And then he brings up how he killed the little birdie too, just a few days before the terrorist attacks that allegedly killed Jason. And he mentions how much he tortured Robin before his death, and Bruce snaps.

He leaps forward, absolutely hammering the shit out of the joker. Beats him up so bad, no finesse or technique to it, just pure rage. His kids try to pull him off, to no avail. No one else even tries. By the end of it, by the time the police arrive, the joker is more blood than body, and Bruce has finally calmed down. Everyone is just staring at him in shock, understandably. (The joker ends up in hospital, paralysed and in a coma)

His kids all drag Bruce home and give him an entire lecture about his persona and how his cover has probably been blown. About excessive violence and how he refused to kill joker but then pulled this in public?? They're all worried about the fallout in the news the next day.

No one sleeps that night, for various reasons, but then when the newspaper comes out the next morning... there's just nothing bad written?? The headline is something about Bruce being a hero for saving everyone from the joker, but there's no other mention about Batman or anything else.

Turns out, no one in Gotham is surprised that Brucie Wayne, no 1 airhead, beat up the joker because "did you SEE him as a teenager?? We were all just glad when he came from his travels pretending to be stupid instead of picking fights with everyone. If anything, it's understandable that he snapped, I would too if a clown started bragging about killing my son." The only reason no one brought up his violent past is because they were worried he would revert back to that behaviour.

[flimsy-spine]

god. anyway

[punksrhea]

JEY USO WWE Royal Rumble, February 1st, 2025

[fence-time]

Stop normalising the grind and start normalising whatever this is (also the grind)

[viperify]

oneshots | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ɢʀʏꜰꜰɪɴᴅᴏʀ ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

₊˚. 🂼 Losing Game.

Short Summary: being drunk sometimes means making reckless decisions, though agreeing on a bet with Tom Riddle might just top the list.

Warnings: 18+ only! rough oral m!receiving, slight dub con ig, Tom Riddle is a little bitch, no aftercare

A/N: first fic in ten days! finished my thesis and handed it in. SHDFJSKKF

also, this fic is based on this request! tysm for requesting! <3

wordcount: 2,5k

part 2

As soon as you saw the exam papers, you knew. 

You’d lose the bet.

A bet that was your idea in the first place.

—

Tom and you have been fierce rivals ever since you started Hogwarts. Always trying to outdo one another, striving for perfection on every single exam and paper you had to hand in.

It’s the day before your Potions exam. You shouldn’t be doing this—getting ready for the party in Slytherin’s common room when you know a late-night study session would be the only way to save you from embarrassment the next day.

Yet, you couldn’t miss out on a fun night with your friends, the ones that keep telling you to stop worrying about your grades so much, to finally take a day off studying.

If they only knew.

After you finish, you take a look in the mirror—neat makeup, hair perfectly styled, tall black heels, burgundy dress, short, maybe too short—you don’t care. Tonight is about having fun and hopefully forgetting about your studies for a few hours.

Flickering green lights and the heavy beat of the music wrap around you as you enter the room, immediately engulfing you in the party’s atmosphere, the smell of alcohol and spilled drinks heavy in the air. Your eyes dart around the place in an attempt to find your friends, but before you get the chance to do so, you spot another familiar face. Familiar in an unpleasant way.

He’s casually leaning against the wall, one hand tucked in his pocket while the other lifts his drink—firewhisky, you assume—to his lips. And he sees you too—a smug grin playing on his lips as his eyes shamelessly drop lower, wandering over your exposed skin before he returns them to your now flushed face.

Tom Riddle—head boy, former prefect, know-it-all. House rivals. He’s always tried to get under your skin with anything he could think of. If he outscored you by more than five points, you wouldn’t hear the end of it.

Merlin, how you despised him.

You silently curse him under your breath, shaking your head as you continue making your way through the crowd. Your skin tingles with the memory of his lingering gaze, already regretting your choice to put on your shortest dress.

As the night goes on, you almost forget about him, your friends keeping you busy with conversations and games. It’s not until after midnight that you see him again—coincidentally just after your friends left your side to get new drinks.

You don’t even realise it’s him until he’s standing in front of you, until you feel his eyes on your skin yet again. You look up at him, meeting his amused expression.

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” He asks, lifting an eyebrow as he gently sways his drink in his hand.

“Unlike you, I have a life, Riddle. I don’t bury myself in books all day.”

“Judging by your grades, that’s what you should be doing. Instead of…” he pauses, eyes roaming over your cleavage to your thighs and back up. “Going to a party in that dress.”

A scoff leaves your lips. That idiot.

“Yeah? Seems like you can’t get enough of it, hm?”

His eyes darken at your words, and merely the fact that he doesn’t have a smug comeback ready tells you you’ve hit a nerve. You are right. He was checking you out.

A satisfied grin forms on your lips as he turns around to leave without saying another word. However, overconfident with the buzz of alcohol rushing through your veins, an idea comes to your mind.

“Riddle,” you call out, voice barely audible above the loud music, and he stops in his tracks. “I bet I will outscore you tomorrow.”

The usual arrogant smirk returns, decorating his face as he retraces his steps, stopping right in front of where you are sitting on the couch, hands tucked in the pockets of his trousers.

“The alcohol is clearly getting to your head if you think you could beat me in any Potions exam.”

You scoff, but deep down you know he isn’t wrong. Potions isn’t your best subject by any means, while Tom seemingly had every potion perfected before you even discussed it in class. Maybe that was exactly what excited you in that moment.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Riddle. Even your ego can take a loss, I am sure of it.”

He nods then. “Fine. Although I expect an adequate prize. What that will be, I choose.”

“That won’t be necessary.” You shoot him a smile, and you don’t catch the last part of what he’s said until it’s too late.

“Good luck. You’ll need it.” He adds, before disappearing into the crowd, and you don’t see him again that night.

What that will be, I choose. His words keep repeating in your head when you are finally in bed, trying your hardest to fall asleep. Slowly sobering up, you can’t believe what you have done. You would never be able to even come close to him tomorrow—not with last bits of alcohol in your system, not with two hours of sleep, surely not with how much you have studied.

Fuck.

And of course, the inevitable happens. The exam is way too difficult, your mind still clouded, ears ringing as a result of your loud surroundings last night. You can’t concentrate no matter how hard you try, and finally decide to hand in early, before anyone else. 

You take one last look around the classroom before you leave, and immediately, your eyes lock with his. 

Tom has been watching your struggle with pleasure, knowing exactly what it meant—what he’d choose as his prize. From the second you initiated the bet, it’s been as clear as daylight what he’d want. .

A week later, and as expected, he has outscored you. In fact, he received the best grade possible on his exam. And you—you failed. Failed. You had never failed an exam before.

So, you have been waiting. Waiting for him to come to you and tell you what he’d want. But the moment hasn’t come—not even days later. 

The following weekend you find yourself at another party. You have expected him to talk to you there, preparing yourself with all sorts of drinks. Whatever he wants from you—and you fully expect it to be something humiliating—will be easier to endure with the courage you gain when you are slightly tipsy.

He’s there, you have seen him, but it doesn’t happen. He gives you that same arrogant smirk each time you see him, yet he never seeks a conversation. He might have forgotten. You hope he has forgotten.

The next day, after your final lesson of the day, you pack your belongings and leave the classroom. The corridors are empty at this hour as you make your way to the Gryffindor dormitories. You sigh as you turn the corner leading you out of the dungeons, ready to head to bed early after an exhausting day.

However, that plan shatters as a pair of strong arms shove you into an empty classroom, hand clamping over your mouth, muffling your attempts to scream.

The familiar scent of potion ingredients and old wood floods your senses as the door shuts behind you, quickly locked with a spell. And then, you finally see who has dragged you in here.

“Riddle, what the hell?” You whisper-yell, looking around you, scared someone has seen or heard you.

“If I remember correctly, you owe me.” He retorts smugly, not yet facing you, instead casting a silencing spell on the room. “And I am here to collect my prize.”

You cross your arms over your chest, leaning against a bookshelf behind you. “What do you want?

Tom turns around then, looking at you for a second before he speaks.

“You. On your knees for me.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You wish he was joking, but the tone of his voice tells you differently. He’s a hundred percent serious about this.

“There is no way I am doing that.”

“Oh but you will. You lost, I get my prize. It’s only fair.”

A sharp exhale leaves your lips, rolling your eyes. “Could have done this when I was drunk. Wouldn’t have been as humiliating.”

“I don’t take advantage of drunk girls. Also,” a grin tugs at the corner of his lips as he guides you towards the wall, forcing you on your knees so that you are facing him. “Makes me enjoy it more.”

You shake your head slightly, looking up at him. “You are sick, I hope you are aware.”

“Get to work,” he orders, disregarding what you just said. He takes a step closer, fingertips brushing over your cheek, thumb softly tracing along your lips. The strain on the fabric of his trousers is evident as your shaky hands make work of his belt, carelessly dropping the leather on the floor with a low thud. He doesn’t bother stepping out of his clothes, leaving them to pool around his ankles.

You swallow as you take in his size, hesitantly reaching out. With your thumb, you softly swipe over his already with precum glistenting tip, looking up at him through your lashes. Your hand wraps around his length before you give him a few soft strokes, earning a low groan of approval from the brunette.

His patience snaps when you trace along a prominent vein on the underside of his cock, forcefully tilting your head back as his fingers tangle in your hair, having you meet his gaze.

“Can’t take a little bit of teasing, Riddle? That desperate for me?” You say smugly, eyes never leaving his as your grip around him tightens, speeding up.

“Thought I’d go easy on you, but turns out you don’t want me to.” He hisses, guiding your head towards him. Your lips wrap around him then, tongue swirling over his sensitive tip before you take him as deep as you can, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as he hits the back of your throat.

It’s not long before his grip on your hair tightens, stilling your movements before he thrusts himself inside of you, deeper than you had taken him. You obey, laying your tongue flat in your mouth as his length slips further, holding you there until you gag around him.

Focusing on breathing through your nose, you relax your muscles, making space for all of him, his eyes shutting in pleasure each time your throat constricts, squeezing him even tighter.

“Look at you,” he rasps, a ragged breath leaving his lips as his dark eyes now stare down at you again, watching his cock disappear in your mouth with every snap of his hips. “So eager to please me. Knew you were nothing but a pathetic slut behind that facade you try to put up. Smart— fuck—  always trying to impress— but in reality, this is the only thing you are actually good at, hm?”

With his hands’ tight grip on your hair, holding you in place as he uses your mouth, you find yourself unable to give a proper response other than a muffled sound of agreement—something he doesn’t seem to be quite satisfied with.

You gasp, taking in a deep breath as Tom yanks your head back, pulling you off his length, now coated in your spit. A string of saliva connects his tip to your swollen, reddened lips, blinking away your tears.

“Answer me.”

“Fuck— yes, Riddle.”

He shakes his head slightly, tilting your head even further back so you are met with his strict gaze. “What’s my name?”

“Tom,” you whisper, “yes, Tom.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk. “Remember it.”

Only a second later he is back inside of your warm mouth, holding onto your hair as leverage as he buries himself to the hilt, groaning as he feels you struggle for air, your hands holding onto his thighs for support.

You shouldn’t like this, shouldn’t like how he is using you to get off, and yet, his soft gasps and groans as he gets closer to his release have you clenching your thighs together, desperately trying to ease the ache in your lower stomach.

“Hate to admit you were right. Can’t fucking get enough of you.” He grunts as you feel him twitch inside of you, spluttering around his cock as his thrusts grow harsher, tears running down your cheek as you try your best to take what he is giving you.

“Fuck— Show me—“ Tom breathes, hips stuttering, “show me whose good girl you are and swallow for me.” He barely gets the words out before he stills inside of you, the taste of his release flooding your senses as he empties himself inside of you—deep enough that swallowing is in fact the only option.

Still, he keeps your head pressed against his lower abdomen until he feels you swallow around him, only then pulling out of you.

Tom lets go of your hair then, and you sink against the cold brick wall behind you, utterly spent, jaw sore. You watch him getting dressed, mind still hazy when he walks towards you, looking like nothing happened—on the contrary to you.

“Look even prettier when you cry for me,” he remarks, taking in your state, wiping your tear-soaked cheeks with the back of his hand before he uses a spell to clean your chin and blouse.

And you let him do it, too tired and worn out to complain.

“I guess I have finally found a way to silence that bratty mouth of yours,” he mumbles when he is done, gently wiping a strand of hair from your face.

You look up at him then, hoarsely whispering a soft “Fuck you, Riddle.”

He offers you no other reply than his signature grin whenever he gets something he wants, his eyes fixated on you while he adjusts his robes.

“Tutoring for Potions every Thursday at 7 pm in the library. Don’t be late.” He says, exiting the classroom before you even get the chance to process his words.

You run out of curses to use for him by the time you reach your dorm, exhaustedly collapsing onto your bed. You tell yourself that no, you wouldn’t go because who does he think he is—yet it’s an offer you can’t decline.

So, every Thursday from then on, you find yourself studying for Potions under his guidance. It’s tough at first, but after just a few shared lessons, you realise he might not be that bad after all.

And soon enough, the next bet is made.

—

“If I outscore you tomorrow, I get to fuck you—properly.”

“You are delusional, Riddle.”

Naturally, you lose the bet.

The only difference: This time, you lose on purpose.

part 2

[militaryapple]

nsfw drabble — caleb who’s in a band and he can’t help but stare at you and that pretty little outfit you put on for his concert his hands strumming his electric guitar, listening to the beat of the song while he wished he was listening to the beat of your moans.

not being able to take his eyes off you, how you cheered extra loudly for him. he knows he shouldn’t take his fans seriously relationship wise or anything — let alone sleep with them but you looked pretty, you seemed sweet and fuck your body was divine.

he couldn’t help moving closer to you onstage, looking down. enough to make you know he was looking at you but enough to make the other fangirls not raise suspicions. god you looked better upfront.

he wondered if you begged, or if you were the shy type. maybe you’d wrap your pretty little hands over his throbbing cock, your eyes looking up at him glossy. your lips pretty and plump — maybe you’d take him slow or maybe you’d let him grab your head and slam his hips right in your little mouth, choking on it almost.

fuck, would you look so pretty taking him. your whines probably sound so fucking sweet, saying how much you love him, how sexy he looked on stage, or how you wished for this as much as he did. you’d probably let him cum inside, oh how he wish you would. he’d fill you up real nice, stuffing you whole.

snapping back, he looked right at you, and there you were batting your pretty little eyelids at him. fuck, he was hard and it was all your fault. how were you going to make this go away?

well, it was fine. he’d just have to have a little meet-and-greet session with you after the concert.

[smthnsmthn-whumpblog]

i would like to see more permanent brain damage in whump please and thank you.

and not just traumatic head injuries, though they are fun, but also shit like hypoxia. you know how much fun you can have with that? like, maybe your whumpee drowns and is fully dead for a hot second, and there’s just. no air inside them for a while. they come to after someone saves their life and they’re just hacking and coughing and spluttering and desperately trying to suck down air, you know the drill. or maybe they get shot, in the liver or something, and they just won’t stop bleeding. when they eventually do, they’ve lost so much blood that they’re on death’s door, and there’s a race to get them a blood transfusion before it’s too late. the team manages, but only just, and whumpee’s brain has been deprived of oxygen for so long that when they eventually wake up, they’re so confused, and weak, and scared. fun stuff, right?

and then you have the brain damage. there is so much fucking potential here for whumpy recovery shit. maybe they can’t talk anymore, maybe they can’t understand people anymore, maybe they can’t move properly anymore, maybe they become a different person entirely, a la phineas gage. and they don’t know what to do. their entire life has just been permanently altered, their fucking brain is different now. they lash out more, they wished they didn’t but they can’t help it. or maybe they just become apathetic, and they can’t feel any emotions strongly so they’re just left with this dull, droning sense of guilt for being such a dick. maybe they start crying every now and then, and they don’t really know why, they just feel so fucking sad. maybe they get consumed by this dreadful feeling of isolation, unable to communicate with their friends like they used to.

and then the team has to try and rehabilitate them.