#focus on that maybe

[rigginsstreet]

when people get mad about billy stans “woobifying” him and “babygirlifying” him its like

what do you expect me to do? realistically?

we’re all in agreement that our fictional dudes are little dolls we like to play with essentially so its like... do you think, because hes an asshole character, i should be sitting here playing with him like hes godzilla tearing down a city? is that my only option to satisfy you, oh wise random person on the internet who i must apparently bow down to?

will it help you sleep better if i let him do that after i paint his nails and brush his hair? what do you want from me im trying to live life

[artkaninchenbau]

People keep on asking for more Baby Robin and Papadile so here is more Baby Robin and Papadile. Now never ask anything from me ever again

[heartorbit]

figure skating set right now please. thanks

[majinbangus]

im weak, here's another thought about guard dog!Simon

Not only is he a guard dog, he's also a lap dog, but not in the way you would think.

He'll keep you perched on his lap, hugging you to him, back to chest, and wrap a protective—almost possessive—arm around you, even in the comfort of your own home. He never lets go unless you tell him to, but it's always with a grumble for disturbing how comfortable he is.

When he first pulled you into his lap, you looked at Soap in surprise, but your man didn't even bat an eye, simply turning the television on and finding the sports channel.

"Wha's the matter, pet?" Funny how Ghost called you that when he was collared with your tag (If found, please call:). "Thought you would like a dog who cuddled with you."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Could you keep it down, sweetheart? I'm tryna watch."

A chuckle from behind you, and arms tightening around your waist. "Hear that, pet? We need to be quiet. No more barking."

From that day on, you never made much of a fuss again.

-

i have so many thoughts about guard dog!simon

[shotmrmiller]

missed out on my chance to make a ghoap kinktober fic where reader cockwarms soap and ghost rubs your pussy til you're crying and overstimulated and might die if he doesn't stop but will also die if he does because you're hurtling at light speed toward another peak again and the only way soap can come is with the pulsing of your walls squeezing him viciously tight, exactly like how ghost's hand does around his cock when he's high strung and unable to think clearly while on an op.

[meansevika]

meljay + touch

ARCANE (2021—2024)

[shalom-iamcominghome]

If even acknowledging antisemitism within your community spaces is going to "distract from the cause," maybe that's because the foundation of your beliefs comes down to antisemitism. What you're doing is telling on yourself.

[erabu-san]

Burning going to be my new gender i afraid

+ a doodle i made yesterday before sleeping

[pricetagged]

Idk how to label this. Wifehunter John?

The idea of possessive/obsessive John manipulating a situation and stealing a wife for himself struck me, so just coughing the idea up while I sneak away for a coffee before I actually have to start work in 20 mins 💖 entirely unedited, abrupt ending

Masterlist l Part Two

________

For someone married to his job, he has put quite a bit of thought into what he is looking for in a wife. Namely, that she's already married.

His reasoning is threefold. He can admit to himself, firstly, that it satisfies his need for control. Competency. He's a busy man with a demanding job. Not quite retired yet, no time to build his own from scratch. With this, he gets a wife boxed up and ready-trained. Broken in.

Secondly, the need for control bleeds into his saviour complex. She'll need a shoulder to cry on, someone strong and capable to get her back on her feet. She'll be feeling a little fragile. Needy. Perfect.

And thirdly, it does something wild to his jealous, possessive streak. The idea of taking something precious, of breaking her bond to another man and tying it to him? Delicious. The idea that she used to be someone else's, that he has to imprint himself onto her knowing that in doing so he is erasing the imprint of another man? It has his teeth aching, grinding even as heat rises in his belly. Stirs at him.

The idea swirls lazily in the back of his mind, never quite finding the right time or right partner. He bats at it a few times, lazy cat playing with the notion, seeing how far it can stretch before it snaps. Eyes up pretty things everywhere he goes, glancing down at their left hands just to check, but nothing quite tugs on that string. Until one day it does when he's outfitting the security system at your house.

It's side work. Cash in hand, word of mouth. Something to keep him busy when on mandated leave. Something to keep in mind as his retirement from active duty creeps closer. And your husband is a real piece of work, all blustering braggadocio energy. Young buck, not knowing his place in the herd. Not knowing that he'd be better scratching his antlers off on a tree than going head-to-head with a gristled thing like John.

It's like John's energy, his presence in the house, sends alarm bells ringing in your husband's mind (Be the man. Don't back down. Puff up your chest and strut). And it plays so perfectly into John's hands because your young buck doesn't realise that what he's really doing is fawning. To John. (Look at me, be impressed by me!) He makes his biggest mistake in putting you down in front of him, trying to sidle up to John and create some kind of desperate camaraderie. Ordering you to bring tea to the men at work. Rolling his eyes at your attempts to talk, to ask questions about the work being done. Waving you off so he can stand and watch the proceedings. Like he could supervise. Like he has any clue what he's doing.

Only the promise of the long game keeps John from levelling him with a hard look, from calling him outblike he'd love to.

He hears you both in the in the other room, having swatted the young buck off like a particularly virulent pest. Noisy and bothersome. Not needed - or wanted- in this home. And entirely too stupid to realise that John wasn't being jocular in his dismissal.

You've been scribbling away for the past few days, something occupying your time, keeping you happy and hidden away in the kitchen.

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Well, yes," he hears the slight quaver in your voice before you find your footing. You've got at least a bit of spine. Good. "You said that I should find an occupation. Not just 'laze around the house playing housewife'. This is what I-"

"Oh come on, I didn't mean- You don't think that this is viable, do you?"

"Well... I love gardening. And I'm good at it. And there's no reason that it can't be more accessible for people, especially with the current economic-"

He cuts you off with a scoff. "Dear, just- I don't want you to be disappointed. I think you don't quite understand the time and effort this will take. And you know nothing of marketing, publishing. Why don't you put that away and start on dinner?"

And oh, isn't that delicious. He can taste it now, that idea that has been swirling. It's thick, almost tangible on his tongue. The tension in the house, the bitter lacryma of stifled tears. The slight acidity of words you left unsaid. It has his mouth watering, pupils dilating.

And when he's packing up that evening, tools and materials tucked in to the heavy workman's case, he swings by the kitchen on his way out. Catches the way something is jutting out slightly from the bin, lid slightly askew. When he pulls it out he realises it's some kind of notebook, carefully (lovingly) bound. Pictures pasted, mindmaps and notes and plans scribbled in the margins. Your gardening tips. Kitchen scraps, window boxes, rooftop plots. Urban gardening. It's deeply thoughtful, well researched.

A labour of love, lying in the rubbish.

Sweet, clever little thing. That just won't do.

He leaves your house with a little piece of you tucked away in his toolkit and a nice plan forming. He'll be back, of course, not quite finished with his work. He'd planted a few little links into the system he'd almost installed, projecting not just to the monitor in your home but also in his. Got to keep his eyes on you, keep you safe and cared for in ways that your useless husband can't.

Finding that book was a boon. He'd say it was divinely ordained if he believed in all that. It weighs heavy in his toolbox as he whistles out the door.

Now, how to get you alone and return it to you..

________________

This idea may have been done before? I'm not sure, sorry! I've seen a lot of possessive John floating around. Tagging @stellewriites because I said I would last time, and you've been so encouraging of my nonsense.

Anyway I've got like 4 long-form WIPs that I'm working on, so I may never actually write this one but thought I'd share since that image set I just reblogged made me feral 💖

[rednite-dork]

The awkward morning after 🥴

a continuation to this piece 🫠

[mybrknhrtt]

storm is bulding up ⚡︎.𖥔 ݁.˚⊹

[xxplastic-cubexx]

cherik as that one pink nightgown and blue pajamas holding a candle picture

this is so rushed but like. but like i see the vision and i needed to share it with all of you ok. pov you got caught raiding the fridge at 3AM

[fascinationstreetmp3]

im going full cornplate reaching mode here and zooming in on this book in daniel's apartment

"a pictorial history of the talkies" by daniel blum, published 1958. it covers the history of sound films from the late 1920s to 1958

well...... who do we know who has a fascination with cinema & projections....

(also fun fact the first publicly shown synchronised sound films were exhibited at the 1900 paris exposition)

[stars-obsession-pit]

A random paranormal romance fan (who lives nowhere near Amity Park), while doing some research on ghosts for their next project, comes across the Anti-Ecto Control Acts.

And as they dig deeper, they start to realize this is a way bigger deal than they were ever imagining.

One thing leads to another, and they end up publishing a whole exposé on the matter.

…they just have to make sure no one ever learns just how they got started down this rabbit hole in the first place.

[batsnipp]

in love with fabians narcissus arc