#childless dilf

[hyvee]

Wanna know who else is one of my fav characgers. Kin’emon. Pathetic guy of all time

[malinculia]

wish people would stop calling pedro pascal daddy when he is clearly a baby girl

[itstuesdayidontknow]

he's so big...

[jomiddlemarch]

When we fight, we win

Distantly, over the playlist you’d been singing along to with your hairbrush as a mic, the steam in the bathroom flattering both the wobble of your high notes and in the mirror, the jiggle of your upper arms as you toweled your hair dry, you heard a bell ringing. 

Not the landline your great-aunt Myrna had insisted on when she gave you the house for a song or roughly what you made teaching two credits of French lit at the community college. A chanson. Not the dryer, which had been on the fritz for the past six months, making you look at out at the postage-stamp sized backyard with its ratatouille themed straggling raised beds of eggplants, tomatoes, and peppers, and try to envision a clothesline along with the imaginary chiminea and swing you’d thought would be perfect, if you could ever justify putting any cash towards anything other than your student loans or measly retirement fund or taco Tuesdays at the dive bar six blocks away.

Not the jingle bells on the Christmas tree stuffed toy you’d gotten for your persnickety calico Bel-Gazou, who generally couldn’t be bothered to do anything unless sardines were involved.

It was the doorbell. 

And as much as you wanted to ignore it, it was possibly the repairman for the dryer, who said he might stop by but not to count on it.

You had no clothesline, and you did not want eau de mildew scenting your bedlinens again. Bleach had worked but then it had taken a good six washes before the lavender in your dryer balls conquered the smell of Clorox.

You got your wet hair bundled up in a clip, threw on cut-off shorts and a passably clean tee-shirt of some impossibly ancient vintage, likely your own freshman year when every pizza party and ice cream social seemed to have a commemorative shirt you grabbed because why not. You were barefoot but the doorbell rang again and you weren’t about to miss having the dryer fixed.

It was not Matteo, the regular guy, who couldn’t quite grow a mustache but hadn’t stopped trying.

It was not Ray, the old guy, the owner, who sometimes answered the phone and sounded like he’d swallowed an ocean’s worth of rotgut whiskey.

It was a stranger, a rangy guy in a worn pair of jeans with salt and pepper hair, flanked by two tween girls carrying clipboards, all three of them wearing navy Harris for President tee-shirts. The taller girl had her hair in puffs with American flag themed ribbon bows. The shorter one wore what appeared to be the oldest pair of Converse sneakers in the known universe.

“Good mornin,’ ma’am,” he said. You’d opened the door partway and you might have backed away, shaking your head, except for the hopeful look in the girls’ eyes and the purposeful cheer in his voice, which you could tell was not his regular tone of voice. He was Being a Good Role Model and possible also Being a Good Dad and it was already hot and you were going to vote for her anyway.

“Good morning,” you said. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re doin’ some canvassin’ today, for the Vice-President,” he said.

“Kamala Harris,” the older of the two girls said. Her skin was darker than his but she had something of him around the eyes, looked to be his daughter or niece, where the other kid, scrappy and built more compactly, seemed unrelated, maybe a friend or his girlfriend’s kid. 

“She’s running for President,” the scrappy one said. “Are you registered to vote?”

“Ellie, sweetheart, you don’t have to rush,” the man said.

“She looks like she’s about to slam the door in our faces,” Ellie retorted. She blew out an exasperated breath that didn’t budge the bangs stuck to her sweaty forehead. You wondered whether you ought to offer them some iced tea. Then you wondered if you had iced tea in the fridge. 

“No she didn’t, but she might now,” the other girl said, rolling her eyes. The eyeroll said they were relatives, possibly cousins, most like sisters.

“She wasn’t and she won’t,” you said, smiling at them all, ending with the man, giving him the Patient Smile of the Experienced Educator. He countered with a grin that said Can I buy you a drink, darlin’? and not the I know, kids these days one you’d been expecting. You wished, fleetingly, you’d put on some Black Honey lip-gloss or mascara. You wished that you had mascara that was not old enough to vote in the medicine cabinet of the Craftsman’s one full bathroom, where your 80s playlist was still belting out not to stop believin’. You willed the hair clip to stay clipped. 

“I am, registered, I mean. I just checked again last week, because they’ve been doing weird stuff, taking people off the voter rolls. It said online to check, so I did. But it’s a good question to ask,” you said, nodding encouragingly at each girl. Ellie narrowed her eyes at you but the other one smiled back. There was a moment of relative silence or at least, no one spoke. Saturday morning rumbled on, the sound of yardwork and radios playing in open windows, the very self-important terrier across the street barking a warning at a butterfly.

“Do you know your polling place?” the man said, both girls apparently derailed from their script.

“Yeah,” you said. “The middle school, over on Washington.”

“He could’ve been a king,” Ellie volunteered. “George Washington? Everybody liked him, he could’ve just kept on being in charge but he didn’t and that’s why we’re here.”

“Because of George Washington?” you said.

“Because of Kamala Harris,” the other girl said. Bel-Gazou, who didn’t like strangers at the best of times (which always included sardines and which obviously didn’t include this very sardine-free moment), meowed loudly. Audibly. You shrugged. Bel-Gazou was a calico with Big Cat aspirations. The girl gave you an appraising look. “Kamala, she stands up for everyone, including cat ladies with no kids.”

“Sarah!” the man exclaimed, almost choking. You were also almost choking, but with laughter.

“It’s okay,” you said. “I only have one cat, but no kids, so I guess I count. She’s got my vote—”

“You mean, we don’t have to ask what issues are most important to you?” Ellie said. There was a definite note of disappointment in her voice. 

“Duh, no, she already said she was on our side,” Sarah muttered.

“Reproductive rights. And climate change,” you said. “But you don’t need to persuade me. I appreciate you getting out there, volunteering.”

“We can’t vote,” Ellie said, frowning. “But we can do this.”

“You sure can,” you said.

“You wanna join us? Campaign’s lookin’ for more canvassers. They haven’t given up on turnin’ Texas blue. Or maybe purple,” the man asked. He had dark eyes and a wonderfully rumpled look, though he smelled good. So, so good and let’s face it, the grey in his hair was a turn-on. He was only asking you to volunteer, nothing else, no matter what your ovaries had to say about it.

“Maybe,” you said. “You need my email address? My cell?”

“I have a pen,” Ellie said, shoving a clipboard in front of you. Sarah huffed a little. You wrote your email neatly enough he could read it, though it would probably break all sort of rules if he texted you later that day, some sort of violation of canvassers’ HIPAA or whatever.

“I’m Joel, by the way. These are my girls, Sarah and Ellie. We’re canvassin’ for the rest of the day, then they’re going to a sleepover at their uncle’s. He takes them Saturday nights when I play gigs at Paloma’s,” he said.

“Oh, that sounds fun,” you said, pretending to yourself you meant the canvassing or the sleepover, not the idea of Joel playing something, maybe a guitar, singing covers of Johnny Cash.

“He’s single,” Ellie offered.

“But he’s got no game,” Sarah added. She glared at her father. “We’re supposed to be getting voters to say they’ll vote for her, for Kamala, not wasting time. This isn’t a meet-cute—"

Joel grimaced. His mouth was still screwed up in a wince, but his eyes were warm.

“If I’d been an undecided voter, you would have spent all this time talking to me anyway. And I said I might do some volunteering. I already write postcards with some other people over at the library on Tuesday nights, but I could try canvassing. Get out of my comfort zone,” you said. 

“That’s true,” Ellie said. 

“I’ve never written postcards, besides the wish-you-were-here kind,” Joel said. 

“Maybe, if you have a break tonight at Paloma’s, I could tell you about it. Bring a couple,” you said.

“Can kids write the postcards too?” Sarah asked. 

“Definitely,” you said. “You get a list of addresses and a message to write. You can write on your own or with your friends. No cursive, only printing, so anybody can read them.”

“Better with a friend,” Joel said. “We’ve got to be going, we’ve got another twenty doorbells to ring but Paloma’s. Eight. I’ve got decent handwriting.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there, then,” you said. 

“Hope so,” Joel replied. 

You smiled at him, watching him easy with his daughters, the sunlight catching the edges of the clipboards, Kamala Harris’s name bold across his chest. Hope was no longer something in short supply.

[bitterflames]

#VAYNE TELL US MORE ABOUT THE SWORD GUYS 👀 #(if you want) #(if you don’t want that’s also fine I will just continue staring at the chain linking them together and going HNNNNNN) (via @jianghushenanigans)

THEEEBES omg thank you for asking about my sword guys! 💜 tbh there's not much plot here, just vibes; feng yan's kind of an alternate version of an oc i've had for a long time. brainstorming "what if it was xianxia?" au stuff with the bestie got a bit more involved than planned and Things Escalated. but here's the basics!

feng yan (courtesy name feng leji, but he'd much rather you didn't) was a kid with exceptional spiritual talent who got scooped up by a cultivation sect at a young age and pretty much immediately molded for Warfare. he's shackled to an ancient haunted weapon that increases his destructive power tenfold and is slowly killing him every time he uses it. feng yan is cool with this! it means he can be Useful! his grasp on his own worth as a human being is, uhh, not great.

that weapon's name is beisheng and it's alive and it loves him, in whatever fashion an unhinged accursed sword who's a guy can love a guy who thinks of himself as a sword. it's (he's? they're? i don't think beisheng has any kind of a concept of Gender) absolutely full of resentful energy and just plain fucked vibes; feng yan's pretty much the only one who can wield it at all, due to his own Big Yang Energy and also the fact that beisheng just likes him.

they're not exactly romantic or platonic, they're a secret third worse thing (doomed soulbound hostage situation). neither one is really fixing each other or making each other worse; beisheng's own nature is pretty immutable, and feng yan resists the corrupting influence of the Horrors by being at heart just kind of a silly guy (despite all the edge). in another life, he'd probably have been very happy as a simple village blacksmith.

to sum up their relationship though, it's pretty much like this:

[linusbenjamin]

Lost (2010) 6.00 | The New Man In Charge

[boypussydilf]

are you boy pussy or a dilf

I am boy pussy, aspiring dilf

[daughter-of-melpomene]

Can I get some Isaac Holliday and Charlie Swan headcanons pretty please?!

Um, of course you can?! Here’s some headcanons for my bisexual dads!! <3

⤷ These two aren’t quite a grumpy x sunshine couple, but they’re pretty close, because Isaac is generally a pretty friendly and happy person who balances out Charlie’s more serious personality.

⤷ When Bella and Edward start dating, Isaac is very aware that Charlie isn’t Edward’s biggest fan and loves to torment him by calling Edward his “future son-in-law”. He’s kind of smug about this when Bella and Edward actually wind up getting married.

⤷ Isaac wasn’t necessarily Charlie’s bi awakening, but he was the first guy Charlie ever entered into anything romantic with, and the one who encouraged him to formally come out.

⤷ Sometimes when Isaac repairs Charlie’s sheriff jacket and returns it to him, Charlie will find cute little notes folded up and tucked into the pockets. When asked about these, Isaac always pretends like he has no idea what Charlie’s talking about.

⤷ They don’t usually go out for their dates - normally they’ll just spend the night at one of their places with some takeout, bad movies, and a lot of cuddles.

⤷ Most people would expect Isaac to be the one to worry about illness, what with how calm Charlie usually is, but Charlie always fusses over Isaac whenever he gets sick or hurt. He just gets really worried about anything bad happening to the man he loves.

⤷ Isaac has been begging Charlie to let him sew some little flowers onto Charlie’s sheriff jacket since before they even started dating. Now that they are dating, Isaac usually attempts to butter Charlie up with kisses before he asks. Charlie still hasn’t given in yet.

⤷ Charlie isn’t super big on PDA, but whenever he and Isaac are walking in public together, he’ll usually hold Isaac’s hand; it makes him feel more secure.

⤷ Isaac’s love languages are gift giving and physical affection; Charlie’s are acts of service and quality time.

⤷ Bella is Charlie and Isaac’s biggest shipper, and practically did a little dance when they told her they’d finally gotten together.

Tagging the other Twilight girlies @luucypevensie and @dancingsunflowers-ocs.

[bluesundaymorn]

hmbomberguy could get it I'm not even gonna lie

[marc--chilton]

won't even lie, all the people going crazy for hoffman's tits have made me, a masc with gagongas, feel a little better about myself

[sewellove-deactivated9782]

Mark Webber at the Belgium Grand Prix 2008 (05/09/08 📸xpb images/motorsport.com)

[malinculia]

prayer circle for pedro to show ass and/or more in the last of us ✨🙏🏾✨

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

Every time a man younger than me gets called a DILF I lose 5 hp

[irn-bru]

just saw someone put matt smith in a dilf compilation my night is ruined

[samuelroukin]

tumblr wrapped

you called a childless man a dilf 235 times

you got blocked by 5 mutuals

you followed someone new but then unfollowed within a day after they said they didn’t like the color orange

you reblogged your blorbo 9285720274 times

piss on the poor: your post broke containment and it was not fun

your most reblogged post was “i need him bald and whimpering” and you reblogged it 79 times

[dystopianvagrant]

thats a really old phone for this day and age, about 30 years, which raises the question of how old you are?

biologically, 27

chronologically? l guess around 57

I'm too lazy to do the math

but yeah I got thawed out of stasis a couple years ago

shame, I'd prolly be a hot dilf if everything kept on as normal