#i keep laughing whenever i see it

[extinctfowl]

one good thing twitters done: dubbing the goose team lgbtiba

[andaniellight]

I think for putting up with the Devil so much Frank Castle deserves to at least be the spectator of Matt reciprocating Dex's tantrum and just let him deal with a velcro brat, see if he likes the taste of his own medicine

[orphiicheartd]

Somewhere in Octavinelle and Ramshackle, the biggest collective sigh is given.

[culpeppercheckers721]

So the last few weeks I’ve fallen into this weird micro-obsession with The Great Gatsby, been thinking about re-reading it, and come to find out last night after I recently finished one of his audiobooks for the first time (Fairytale), THERE IS A FUCKING VERSION SETH NUMRICH NARRATES. GENUINELY FUCKING SCREAMED AND NO I HAVE NOT RECOVERED.

[voltaridylla]

do you ever just love a ship so much that it makes you emotional thinking about it? Before you clown me - yes, I am on my period.

[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.

[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

[chxrli]

this is what it sounds like

when doves cry

[caracolcondiarrea]

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

[emirrart]

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

[mihnsplace]

Movie: Dead End Adventure

[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

[hamsandwich4736251]

Ughhhhhhhhhh my cramps are so bad this time around and im curled up just thinking OW

So why is this when i get ler mood???????????

Like the only thing i can think of rn is curling up with my girlfriend and getting to snuggle and kiss her head and squeeze her sides and scribble her back when she turns around all fake offended so she squeaks and maybe runs her fingers through my hair and just adkwsnkwdnkahdugjdbsjxbajxbsjsb

Ughhhhhhhhh and now im thinking what if shes running her fingers through my hair and we’re both all happy and im too tired to talk much but i still want her to know i lover her so i just kiss whatever part of her body is closest and wrap my arm around her waist and just tickle away

I wonder if i’d be able to feel when i hit a good spot by how her hand is moving through my hair? Like when i scribble her ribs would her hand kinda like stutter but moving? Or when i trace my nails over her tummy in random swirls would her fingers go from relaxed to twitching? Would she pull her hand away on instinct? Or would she just tense up and i’d feel her fingers dig into my scalp a little? Or would that happen and then she goes to pull her hand away to stop my hand but by then ive gone from light tracing to full blown scribbles and she cant stop giggling long enough to really do anything?

Just aghhhhhhhhh whyyyyyyyyyyyyy

[eraserbread]

pregnancy hormones don't stand a chance around your husband, nanami ✧

→ needy pregnant f!reader, whipped nanami, sexually explicit content

"hope that books not more interesting than me," you whisper, propped against the open bedroom door, dressed in nothing but a lacey babydoll lingerie set. your four-month pregnant belly peeks through the lace delicately, and your features are on fire.

kento gives you a little peek. "was wondering what took you so long." he's replying, flicking his book to the next page. you're standing, pouting in his presence.

"hello? i'm horny."

"and you do look very tantalizing in that outfit."

"so come take it off."

he gives you another look, this time lowering the leather-bound book enough to see his face. you pose, crossing your knees and jutting out your hip. you can feel those dark hazels fall over your jutting breasts, then to your widening hips, and finally to your swollen, pregnant belly. his little girl's home.

so, he sits up straight, shoving his book to the side table and ushering you over. "come on, love."

"needy girl..." kento is whispering against the back of your shoulder, pressing kisses there and letting them linger. you're hovering over his lap in reverse cowgirl, tongue pushed from your lips as you focus on staying steady.

"let me have it." you slur, cunt milking obsecnely over his bare lap. he's got a thick fist tight around his erection, making sure you're stable and comfortable before he lets you take him.

"i want you to, but i don't want you to hurt yourself... how about I be on top?"

"—no." you insist, shaking your head violently. he won't let the grip he has on your thighs loose, so all you can taste is the bulbous tip of his familiar, blushing cock.

"why do you insist on being so bratty?"

"I don't want to bottom, baby slides up and into my ribcage and ugh.." you're shivering, and if it wasn't for the abnormal influx of hormones, you'd be turned off just thinking about the pain.

the baby kento pressed into you all those months ago, was an active little girl. she kicked the hell out of you whenever you slept on your back, leading to long nights with little sleep. kento knows this, so why he's telling you to just lie there and take it, is lost on you.

though he's stubborn at times, kento is largely well-trained by you, so he lets you take him like this. his grip starts to loosen, and you can finally feel the stagnancy of his cock start to peek through your sticky folds and into you.

filled to the brim with need, you shiver instantaneously. "oh, please, pleaseplease. all the way—mmgh!!"

he's chuckling behind you—actually breathing a stupid laugh from his nose at your blatancy. "you're shaking already?"

to answer him —you're cumming, and it's a release you've never felt before. his fingers are pressing into your belly, keeping you strong and at his mercy as you cream helplessly all over him. your thighs are shaking, eyes rolling back into your skull as you cry and whine.

it feels like every single one of your nerve endings is being fanned and flamed, driving you absolutely apeshit like you've never been touched a day in your life.

"oh, baby... love."

"sh-shut up."

"that feel good?"

"keep—just keep going." you're begging, drool dripping from your lips as his cock massages that sticky, spongy bunch of nerves at an angle only his cock could hit. he's circling his hips under you, tongue tracing licks across your neck.

your pretty lace panties are ripped and disregarded as the night goes on, and your teddy is busting at the seams, sticking to sweat and dipping off your shoulders. kento's big hand reaches to cradle your swollen breasts, growling in your ear as he fucks you just right... so perfectly and deep that you can feel the slick cervix kisses every time he bottoms out.

you're crazy, and fucked off of five orgasms that night.

thank god for pregnancy hormones—thank god for your husband and all his raw talent. sure, he'll bicker softly just to ignite your needy fires, then he'd give you what you want, exactly how you want, until you're sick with it.

what a thoughtful husband.

[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