#i am a boyfriend

[xx-vamp1r3-k1ss3s-xx]

GUYS IM DATING SOMEONE I HAVE A PARTNER

@woods3115

AHHHHH

[arkhambug]

you were staring. very unabashedly so, too. just… oogling your boyfriend, watching as he lounged on your couch, his black shirt fitted around bulging arms, the hem riding up around his tummy to reveal that line of thick black hair that dipped below his plaid pants.

oh my god, those stupid plaid pants. they made you wonder what the hell the hype was about grey sweats, when those existed.

and it’s not like you had anything to be ashamed about, either. he was your boyfriend, all six foot something of him, for fucks sake. all the thick muscles, and short cropped hair, and scars, and fuck, those eyes. you could look if you damn well wanted to.

you’d tried very hard to convince yourself all morning that you were fine, and definitely not ovulating, and fine.

but in that moment, watching your boyfriend literally just sit there, eyes shut and head tipped back, this was not you. it was some evil entity, possessing you and in full swing. you were ready to jump him, and it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet.

your gaze kept dropping lower, toward those pecs, all soft and plush beneath the fabric of his tee, and you could feel yourself start to salivate.

it wasn’t even anything provocative either, but the sight of his tits in a black shirt, tight over the unflexed muscle, was driving you up a god damned wall.

you curled your legs up beneath you, arm perching you against the back of the couch, the other pressed between the low of your thighs to physically retrain yourself from grabbing him like a deranged person.

because, no matter what you did, it was almost impossible to stop imagining just throwing yourself at him, and doing some entirely unspeakable things. things you know you’d never do unless it was this god forsaken time of month.

“you good, ma?” Jason asked, finally breaking the tense silence, and drawing your attention away from his torso. he was staring back now, one brow raised quizzically, and his scared lip curled up in questioning.

“your eyes are dilatin’ and shit.”

yeah. you got up, wordlessly, and walked toward the kitchen.

[monstersflashlight]

Monster boyfriend who would whine until you flash him your boobs. He's sad? Nah, he just wants to see your boobs. He's enjoying a snack but feels bored? He def wants to see your boobs... He's just a bit obsessed with you and how good your boobs look when he grabs them with his too big hands. How pretty your nipples look when he runs his claws over them until they are hard peaks and he can flick them until *you* are the one whining.

[everwalldigan]

Only those who have seen the light know that Bruce Wayne is absolutely the type of annoying father who asks for his adult children for grandkids EVERY chance possible. This is the same man who immediately put in his two weeks notice from batman-ing the MINUTE he discovered he had a granddaughter.

Bruce, materialising in bludhaven: when are you and Barbara getting married

Dick: NO.

Bruce: *sad GRANDCHILDLESS noises*

Bruce, materialising in crime alley: when you are going to settle down with a nice girl or guy and give me a-

Jason: *starts shooting*

Bruce, materialising in the clocktower:

Babs: don’t even fucking think about it

Bruce: *dematerialises away sadly*

Finally, at the annual family dinner, Bruce: whoever is the first to bring me a grandchild will be banned from ever having to take over batman

[jasontoddlawyer]

i need jason 'metalhead' todd to find out tim has a thing with kon (another alt bitch) and just. spiral

jason: you don't want to date alt men, don't date alt men, most of them are jobless alcoholics who sleep in their friend's basement. you know what alt men are good for? looking at, hanging out with and one night stands and even that is questionable. not long term relationships! alt men are horrible flings and even worse boyfriends dO NOT DATE AN ALT MAN. why do you think alt women never date alt men??? BECAUSE THEY KNOW

tim, barely listening: did you have a terrible alt boyfriend

jason: I AM THE TERRIBLE ALT BOYFRIEND

[sadbenedict]

I was in need of something cute right now. They deserve hug.

[damianito]

Gorgus dangerous woman ♡

|COMMISSIONS OPEN!!|

[strawberry-daiquiris]

yeah cool i mean what if i just DIE

[strongermonster]

had sex with a seamstress last night, after which when we were lying there talking, she took some strands of hair from each of us off the sheets and braided them together into a thread, and then before she left she told us she takes bits of hair from all her lovers and stitches them into a patch in the lining of her coat 'for luck in future love'. it's sort of romantic in a haunted doll kind of way. which btw, she also makes dolls with the hair that accumulates in her hair brush, and felts little creatures out of her cats' fur, habits she got from her grandmother who was into hairwork, a hobby i did not know existed still in our modern years. anyways. hi everybuddy. if you never hear from me again i've been turned into a trinket for her collection

[peachsayshi]

(minors / ageless / blank blogs dni)

it's really cute seeing Nanami's reaction reading your favorite fan fiction stories / erotic novels, specified to all your particular kinks, and watching him turn blood red.

"this..." he whispers, his voice heavy with lust, his cock straining against his pants. "this turns you on?"

you sit there next to him; a little giddy and embarrassed. but kento is your boyfriend, and he knows how to make any space safe for you.

"yeah," you say with a coy sigh and a slight stammer, "you don't...you don't think it's weird, right?"

he swallows the thick lump in his throat. the explicit content making his dick twitch with anticipation. the back of his neck is so very hot.

"no," he says, his voice breaking slightly which he tries to casually clear his throat. "not at all, my love."

you bite your bottom lip studying his expression - the hard line between his brow, and the tension straining his jaw. he looks so...pensive.

"you're just...really quiet..." you say nervously, wondering if you shouldn't have been so open about your desires.

he places your phone/tablet/book down on the table, and angles his body in your direction. "you know," he says, his voice low, "we can explore some of this together...if you want..."

the space between your legs pulses, a warmth kissing your own cheeks. "together?"

he hums with a nod, his palm cupping your chin as he pulls you towards his lips. "just ask me next time," he murmurs, a secret for you to only keep. and he seals the promise with a kiss so deep you almost forget how to breathe.

[roach-meat-art]

i present to you: a doodle

[yuujispinkhair]

Petting Sukuna's hair

Modern boyfie!Sukuna x Reader (female). Fluff. Minors don't interact. Divider @/ioveartfilm

Imagine a lazy evening on the couch with your boyfie Sukuna. All cozy and cuddly, wearing matching Hello Kitty sweatpants, Sukuna in a black t-shirt, and you in his comfy hoodie, watching the Food Channel. You're sitting while Sukuna's tall body is sprawled lazily all over the couch, his feet in the white tennis socks propped up on the armrest and his head resting in your lap.

You absentmindedly start running your fingers through his soft pink hair. And Sukuna likes it so much that he dozes off with a soft little smile on his tattooed face, making your bad boy look uncharacteristically angelic all of a sudden.

But anytime you stop petting his hair, Sukuna makes an annoyed noise, like a cat that lets you know it hasn't received enough cuddles yet. You notice what is going on and grin to yourself as you pull your hand away and let it teasingly hover a few inches above Sukuna's head, waiting for his reaction. Of course, just a few seconds later, Sukuna opens his eyes and frowns at you, all scandalized,

"Now, don't be a brat. How am I supposed to get my well-deserved nap when my own girlfriend doesn't even pet my hair!? Do you even like me, princess?"

And you laugh and proceed to run your fingers soothingly through your boyfriend's soft pink strands, even making sure to scratch the stubble of his undercut lightly with your fingernails,

"Aww, my poor baby, do you also need me to give you a good night kiss?"

Sukuna's lips lift in his typical lazy smirk as he wiggles around on the couch, resting even more of his weight on your lap, effectively making sure you won't be able to get up. His maroon eyes sparkle mischievously, and one large tattooed hand reaches up to wrap around the back of your neck, pulling your head slowly down towards him,

"I always need a kiss from you. Maybe even two or three, as compensation for you bullying me."

[stevebabey]

pre-steddie (its rly scratching the itch atm), steve harrington being a sad drunk :(, angst with a happy ending, 1.4k

If you asked him how it transpired, Eddie couldn’t tell you — but somehow, there’s a drunk Steve Harrington on the Munson’s couch.

Physically, he’d hazard a guess Steve walked all the way from whatever party he’d been at. Which is a concern in itself—either Steve wandered through the woods or he wandered quite some way, but that’s a whole other can of worms.

The why of why Steve’s here—why he chose to sought out Eddie in particular—is another mystery altogether.

If Eddie had to guess, he’d say somewhere between the commonality of crashing at each other’s place to keep the nightmares at bay and a night of drinking is how Steve ended up here.

It’s nearing midnight the clock tells him, blinking red from the microwave. Steve’s holding a glass of water that he’s sipped from only once.

And he’s sad.

Considering it, Eddie hadn’t thought Steve would be a sad drunk. Especially if you consider the sheer amount of parties he threw as a teenager.

It just doesn’t quite fit into his ever changing picture of Steve Harrington. Like a puzzle piece the wrong shape that doesn’t fit with the rest. Happy drunk? Horny drunk? Those made better sense than this.

But then again, Eddie stopped trying to make sense of Steve a couple months after the Vecna-episode of their lives.

(It’s sort of something he really likes about Steve, that he can’t ever really pin him down — that he’s always surprising Eddie.)

Either way, the fact remains that Steve is drunk and Steve is sad.

Eddie just doesn’t know about what.

“C’mon,” Eddie nudges the glass in Steve’s hand gently, the second time tonight. “Gotta drink up, Stevie, lest you risk the wrath of tomorrow’s hangover.”

Steve’s slumped sideways on the couch, not too drunk to be out of it, but evidently rather physically beat. He’s leaning his head up against the ratty leather of the couch, his eyes closed.

Eddie sits opposite him, enough distance to keep it friendly, but close enough to catch the glass if Steve suddenly decides he doesn’t feel like holding it anymore.

He wants to sit closer, wants to maybe even hold Steve’s hand. Cup his face and murmur sweet nothings until sad drunk Steve is replaced by someone happier.

Eddie swallows the desire down, away.

By all accounts, there’s nothing Steve’s said or done to give away his sadness. Eddie only knows he’s sad from that slight downturn of his mouth — the slight jut of his lip. The world’s most adorable pout if it wasn’t being caused for bad reasons, Eddie thinks.

He knows what it looks like because it’s what Steve looks like when he wakes from a nightmare. When he’s properly distressed, thrust to the verge of tears. Eddie knows the sight well. (And Steve knows his.)

On the couch beside him, Steve makes a little noise in response to the nudge. His eyes crease open.

He looks tired. It’s not the exhaustion that comes with terror, with having sleep chased from you, but… bone-deep tiredness.

Eddie’s lip part, unsure if it’s to urge Steve to drink some water again or just to ask what’s wrong when—

“No one wants it.” Steve says, in the smallest voice. It’s barely a whisper.

Eddie’s brows draw together. The sadness in Steve’s words travel out, pushing an ache into his chest.

“Wants what?”

Steve is silent. He’s not looking at Eddie — he wasn’t before, but now his gaze is downcast, studying the glass in his hands. His finger traces the rim.

“Wants what, Steve?” Eddie tries again.

This time, Steve sighs and it looks like it takes the wind out of him completely. “My…”

There’s a crack in his voice. Steve clears his throat and closes his eyes again, this time scrunched up as if he’s resisting the emotion that tries to take over.

“My stupid love. Keep… keep tryna give it, but no one wants to take it.” He inhales jaggedly, turning an inch and pressing further into the couch, like he’s hiding. His voice is muffled and wrecked. “No one wants it.”

Something splinters in Eddie’s chest, slivers of agony burying beneath his skin. He’s speechless.

How can Steve think that? How can he believe that?

“I do,” Eddie says, before realising what’s he’s saying.

Steve stiffens on the couch, tentatively digging his face out from hiding. His downturned eyes still have that warbling sadness and Eddie just needs to make it better — even if it means throwing his pathetic crush under the bus.

“Eddie-” Steve says, wary and tired all at once, as if he’s saying don’t do this, don’t lie to me.

“I do. It sounds lovely,” Eddie insists, completely truthful. “If you want someone to give it to, I’ll take it. I want it.”

Steve eyes him. Some of that melancholy in him has turned to apprehension. He sniffles a bit and sighs again.

“Not- not like that.” Steve murmurs, eyes falling back to the glass in his hands. He speaks with a lilt of embarrassment, as though he thinks it’s shameful to care this much. “Not as a friend, Eddie.”

A stone grows in Eddie’s throat. It’ll hurt like hell to swallow it, to speak, but Steve has always been worth it.

“I know,” Eddie breathes. He can’t quite keep all his nerves out of the words and they jam up in his mouth for a moment. “Not like that, Steve.”

He desperately wants to grab his own hair, to fiddle with it, release some tension, but he also doesn’t want to break the quiet softness between them.

The fridge hums in the silence. The clock on the microwave blinks back midnight.

Wishing hour? Maybe in some myths and stories. Eddie clings it anyway.

Steve’s hazel eyes are a little wider now. A little more awake. He’s picked his head up, no longer leaning against the couch cushions.

“You…”

Freak. Fag. Eddie’s brain helpfully supplies every awful way this could roll, entirely too late. He tenses up, shoulders curling in, a minuscule motion.

But Steve doesn’t look disgusted, he looks a little in disbelief.

“You… want it?” He asks, that same quiet whisper.

And that does a number of Eddie’s heart—the enormity of Steve’s disbelief that someone would want his love, that the rest of it—the semantics, the fact that boys can’t kiss boys—doesn’t even matter to him.

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. He nods jerkily, the nerves still there, even with Steve’s easy acceptance. “I do. I’d love to have it.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He’s laid his head back down, his hair scrunched up against the leather, but his eyes are still on Eddie. Not scrutinising, just studying. There’s still that hazy look to them, no doubt the alcohol still in his veins.

“I never… didn’t think…” He’s murmuring more to himself. From the concentration of his gaze, he’s thinking hard. He sniffles again, nose twitching and then frowns, eyes cast to the side, before,

“Okay,” Steve says finally, voice quiet. “If you… if you mean it.”

Then he unfurls his hand, the one that had been tracing the glass, and puts it forward. Between them on the couch.

Eddie eyes it, stomach swooping, pulse thudding, and then does what he does best; throws caution to the wind. Steve might hate him tomorrow but tonight, Eddie won’t hide.

Their fingers slot together easily, two perfect puzzle pieces.

Eddie wonders if him in Steve’s life, him like this with Steve, is one of those things that would work—would make sense. If he wants to make sense with Steve or instead be another surprising thing about him.

(That Steve Harrington might like boys. Might like Eddie.)

Steve is gazing at their joined hands. For the first time since he got to Eddie’s trailer, his lips turn upward, a very small yet happy smile. He gives a very light squeeze with his hand, the lack of strength evidence of his sleepiness. Eddie squeezes back nonetheless.

Then Steve’s eyes are closed and in a few deep breathes, he’s out like a light.

It’s a careful process to extract the glass of water from Steve’s clenched hand, but Eddie manages it. It sits on the edge of the coffee table and when Steve wakes up, mouth dry and in need of water, it will be there.

And so will Eddie.

The burning possibilities of what happens come tomorrow—when Steve’s sober and actually thinking straight (ha)—filter through Eddie’s mind, but he can’t find it in himself.

There’s no regret of he’s done. What he’s said, what’s been revealed.

It’s tomorrow’s problem (or tomorrow’s fantasy come true…?), but til then, Eddie burrows into the couch and readies for a sore neck tomorrow morning.

He should really get up and turn the lamp off, Eddie thinks to himself. Then Steve snuffles in his sleep, uses their intertwined fingers to bring him closer, and he forgets all about it.

[liliumsdoe]

I'm obsessed with the way the background in this frame makes it look as if Aziraphale has wings of fire—on consacrated ground, no less — while he realises he cannot deny his feeling for Crowley any longer.

am I delusional? yes sssir !!!

[qweenofurheart]

timothy’s jokes don’t always land

[potato-lord-but-not]

you know what? fuck you *does this to your horror podcast men*: