#i keep laughing whenever i see it

[extinctfowl]

one good thing twitters done: dubbing the goose team lgbtiba

[alfhildr-the-word-weaver]

I lowkey want one of those "live laugh love" type house signs that says "come freely, go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring" for the entryway of my house someday. I think it'd be hilarious, but it's also lowkey a nice greeting in its own way, if perhaps mildly ominous... What a nice way to set a welcoming vibe! ;)

[heymrspatel]

Ok, all joking aside (see what I did there?)

We don't talk enough about the way that Ian and Mickey have set their Friday nights aside for 'just us' nights.

Ordering in, putting on their comfiest clothes, and just spending the whole evening doing absolutely nothing - together.

Sometimes they spend it cuddled up and watching a movie, with a lot of stolen kisses in the boring parts. Sometimes Mickey plays video games and Ian reads a book with his head in Mickey's lap. Those nights are always good until Mickey gets too enthusiastic and whacks his husband in the head with his controller. Sometimes they just spend it making out on the couch, enjoying all of those moments they didn't get to as teenagers.

But Friday nights - always just them.

yeeeeessssssss! 1000% correct!

i just know that they spend their week looking forward to their friday nights. the family already knows that they shouldn't even ask for them to come over unless it's absolutely needed.

friday nights are theirs. they're sacred. they're safe and cozy and quiet. they're love.

more often than not they stay in. rushing home, exhausted from a week of work. just looking forward to taking their uniforms and heavy boots off and just melding into one on the couch. sometimes it's just cuddling, other times it's all fucking. either way, they meld.

always in tune, they know when they just need a quiet night of holding. ian laying back with his head propped up on a couch cushion, while mickey settles in between his legs. nuzzling his face into the soft fabric of ian's t-shirt, one hand sneaking under the hem to feel ian's warm skin, making ian giggle with it. ian's fingers threading through his hair softly, his other hand running slow circles on mickey's back. reaching down to pull at mickey's shirt until he can touch his bare back. running his nails lightly and repetitively. up, down, up, down. taking such comfort in each other. recharging.

and on nights like that, they keep the slow soft energy throughout. getting take out, putting some mindless tv on, leaning back into each other again and again. allowing themselves time to touch and kiss and be as quiet and gentle as they want.

other times, though, they barely make it through the door with their clothes on. it's all hands and tongues and moans as soon as they park their car. ian ripping mickey's jacket open before the elevator doors even close. his teeth on mickey's exposed neck, his hands in his hair. grabbing. yanking. neither of them remembering making their way out of the elevator or even into the apartment. but now ian is shoving mickey hard onto the couch. mickey bouncing and giggling on impact. whispering a low "oh fuck yeaaa" when his eyes land back on ian. ian, who's looking at him like he's a meal about to be savored. devoured. breathing heavily through his mouth, smirking, heavy lidded eyes sparkling.

and on nights like that, they keep the hot heavy energy throughout. getting take out, putting some vibey music on, tearing each other part again and again. allowing themselves to float and shiver and be as loud and nasty as they want.

[witheredgardenparty]

Every now and then I see the discourse circulate on this hellsite, and I wonder if people know that the term 'yandere' used to have an extremely specific definition that no longer holds up to how people use it today

[caracolcondiarrea]

I´m literally gonna start doing C2 English classes of spite.

[smtown-tourist]

Part of me misses the days when SHINee would release a Japanese album and like 4 of the songs on the album had music videos, mostly because it would take FOREVER for the actual album to come out. Ah, good times

[dizzybevvie]

.

[emirrart]

im so sorry girlies i literally cannot take anything about astarion seriously, i need him put in a blender immediately

[todayisafridaynight]

sorry anytime i see an rgg chara in the wild i have to stare at em for twenty minutes my mental illness just gets triggered that easily

[mihnsplace]

Movie: Dead End Adventure

[totheidiot]

come to me you stupid boy so i can fall in love with you all over again

[manasurge]

I have Peitha brainworms (affectionate)

[bugdogg]

if i ever seem brave for some of the stuff i admit on here, just know its cause idk how to keep shit to myself. i cower at the thought of judgement and then proceed to expose my whole ass to tumblr anyway, because i dont have a working filter

[ebitenpura]

This isn't the best picture, but it kinda looks like Lana designed this armor for him and unintentionally (or intentionally) made them match, lol.

[stupid-lemon-eater]

if i can say one thing for the pile of bullshit life has served me, at least i can get medical attention very quickly

[alygator77]

another wip from me. hehe. supermodel satoru.

warnings: mdni, smut, fluff, masturbation, obsession. (honestly, satoru feels kinda yandere af. he's fucking down bad for you.)

supermodel! satoru whose life is a whirlwind—flashing cameras, designer clothes, and breathless whispers of adoration. on the surface, he has it all: the perfect career, the perfect face, the perfect life. but perfection… has its price.

supermodel! satoru who, after a ten-hour photoshoot that left him feeling more mannequin than man, slumps into the cold embrace of his sleek penthouse. the city glimmers outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, vibrant and alive, but it feels distant, like a movie playing on mute. he’s surrounded by luxury but drowning in solitude.

supermodel! satoru who, running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee, barely notices when his fingers fumble over his phone, sending a text message to you—meant for his manager. tossing the phone aside with a sigh, he stretches out on the couch, exhaustion pulling at his limbs—unaware that this accidental message is about to flip his world upside down.

supermodel! satoru who, when your response comes through, doesn’t realize at first that he’s texted a stranger. his initial confusion shifts to mild annoyance, but that changes the moment he reads your sharp, unfiltered reply. intrigue replaces irritation, and before he knows it, he’s texting back, unable to resist the pull of you on the other end.

supermodel! satoru who keeps his identity a secret, finding it strange at first, but soon, it becomes refreshing. for once, he’s not the face on billboards or the name in glossy magazines. no—for the first time in forever, someone is talking to him—not his fame, not his face, just him.

supermodel! satoru who finds himself grinning like an idiot whenever his phone buzzes with your name. you tell him about your life—mundane, you call it, but to him, it’s captivating. days turn into weeks—texts in the middle of the night when he’s jet-lagged and bored in some foreign country. voice notes where you laugh at his terrible jokes.

supermodel! satoru who one day, finally reveals who he is, and with a mix of arrogance and curiosity, boldly asks for your photo—eager to see the face behind the name he’s grown so fond talking to.

c’mon now... I show my face to the world every day. least you could do is show me yours ;)

your reply pings through, accompanied by an attachment, and for a moment, his breath catches.

supermodel! satoru who has seen countless beautiful people, surrounded by them every day, but there’s something about you that has him hooked. perhaps it’s not just the way you look—it’s the way you’ve made him feel. for the first time in forever, he’s not just admired; he’s seen.

supermodel! satoru who ends up sprawled out on his couch later that night, your picture propped up on the coffee table in front of him as he grips his shaft. his shirt is discarded somewhere on the floor, his sweatpants pushed down to his thighs as his cock strains in his hand—red, leaking and desperate for attention. all he can focus on is you.

supermodel! satoru whose glossy lips part as he pants, pumping his dick, his head tipping back while the phone’s glow casts shadows across his flushed skin. his penthouse is filled with the slick sound of his hand sliding over his length, mixing with his shuddering breaths.

“fuuuck… so fucking pretty…” he rasps, his hips bucking into his fist. his strokes grow faster, more desperate, as his body thrums with heat.

supermodel! satoru who murmurs your name like a prayer, thick with need, chasing his inevitable release. “nnngh… gonna—ahhh—gonna cum f’you,” he moans, breathy and broken. His voice cracks as his back arches off the couch.

supermodel! satoru whose strokes grow frantic, erratic, his abs flexing tight as thick, hot ropes of cum spill over his stomach, painting his skin in sticky streaks of white. the release leaves him trembling, every drop wrung from his body as a low groan escapes his parted lips.

supermodel! satoru who exhales a quiet laugh, his chest heaving as a lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. he trails his fingers through the mess, smearing it across his toned abs as his smirk deepens—amused and awed by how much you’ve made him cum.

supermodel! satoru who can’t focus during his photoshoot the next day, every click of the camera drowned out by thoughts of you. his mind lingers to the filthy fantasy of your body beneath his—your lips whispering his name, your legs wrapped around his waist.

the ache in his pants becomes unbearable, and he excuses himself, slipping away to the bathroom under the pretense of ‘fixing his hair.’

supermodel! satoru who locks the bathroom door behind him with trembling fingers, his breath hitching as he pulls up your photo again. his hands fumble with the buttons of his designer pants, desperate to release his aching erection.

supermodel! satoru who stares at your picture with half-lidded eyes, his thumb swiping over the swollen tip of his dick, spreading a slick bead of precum across the sensitive head. "fuck… you’ve got me so worked up," he whispers with a cocky smirk, and his free hand grips the edge of the sink, his cock twitching eagerly in his fist.

“pretty girl… god, I’d ruin you,” he shudders as he fucks his hand. with a sharp inhale, he reaches out to twist the handles of the porcelain sink. but honestly, the cascading water is a feeble attempt to drown his debauched sounds—sounds he knows he can’t hold back.

supermodel! satoru whose mind spirals into pure filth, his fantasies running wild as he pictures your body beneath his—writhing, trembling, utterly at his mercy. your hands would cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he holds your legs apart, spreading you wide as he fucks your tight little hole.

"bet you'd look so fucking good under me," he hisses through gritted teeth. “all spread out, legs shaking… pretty little mouth begging f’me.” his hand tightens around his cock as his hips jerk forward, “fuuuuck, you’d take me so well, wouldn’t ya? haaa—every fucking inch.”

supermodel! satoru who is teetering on the edge when a sharp knock cuts through the haze, echoing against the bathroom door.

“satoru? you’re needed back on set!” his manager calls, muffled but clear.

but his strokes turn frenzied, the interruption fueling the thrill—the sheer audacity of jerking off in the middle of a shoot. his moans mix with the rush of running water and the persistent pounding on the door.

“shit—fuck—fuck—” his voice cracks, his body seizes, and in that instant his cock erupts. he whimpers, milking his dick as his forehead falls forward against the mirror. as his thick hot seed spills on his hand, it streaks across the counter in messy, sticky arcs.

“satoru!” the knocking continues, louder this time, his manager’s voice growing sharper.

“i’m coming!” he yells back, and the irony of his words pulls a breathless laugh from his lips.

supermodel! satoru who stands there for a moment, panting, his reflection staring back at him in the mirror. he’s a fucking hot mess—cheeks flushed, his hair a disarray, and his lips are swollen from biting down so damn hard, trying to keep quiet.

supermodel! satoru who tucks himself into his pants, buckling his belt with practiced ease as his smirk slides back into place. he splashes cold water on his face, tidies his hair, and by the time he steps out of the bathroom, he’s the typical picture of confidence—swaggering back to set with a cocky grin as though nothing happened.

but deep down, he knows he’s utterly, completely fucked.

why? because you’ve become his favorite addiction, his sweetest downfall. and it’s only a matter of time before he finally makes you his.

a full fic for this will be coming out! lmk if you wanna be tagged. edit: taglist closed