#idk what to even call this

[torse]

for @russiantwinkdestroyer9000

i hate this get it away from me

original under cut

[magicratfingers]

Lol oh nooo not again

Why does this keep happening

[caffeinatedmunchkin]

The Shades Stay On

This movie-verse characterization bust onto the screen and knotted my insides like a Wawa soft pretzel and I have some thoughts. @aldisobey encouraged the worst of what I have to say about it, I’m a little sorry. I love spending effort on works no one asked for LOL (something something the hero niche Tumblr needs, but not the one it wants right now)

This is glorified thirst rambling that vaguely resembles the idea of prose if you hold it up to the light and squint. Bite-sized smut. Please don’t ask because I don’t know.

Fem reader. Nothing controversial, just run of the mill semi-public consensual sex and vulgarity. 18+ yadda yadda yadda

*This is a real actor who’s playing a real person, however none of what’s written is about either of those men. This is just about the actors portrayal in a work of fiction. Cool? Cool.

This man would be a whirlwind force of cocaine-fueled sarcasm-steeped ego-maniacal catnip that you would not be able to resist, and he would sniff it out like a hound with a bone and milk you for all your worth. The unbearable weight of massive talent that he is and as far as he can spit the only expertise in the building, he has no business pissing away precious time on some ragtag troupe of wannabes who couldn’t get it together with a map, both hands and written direction.

He knows it, you know it. So why not make the best of a bad situation?

He’s been thoroughly stroked by entry-level NBC suits and doted on by the most accommodating the temp department has to offer, he's sure. Perfect politeness and rigid efficiency that borders dull, it has him wishing they’d fuck up his coffee just to shake things up. Let him let off some steam, a reason to rant, not yet aware he’ll have plenty of that once the pages arrive to his makeshift room.

Then, of course, his shaded stare catches you in the crystalline sheen, and the real fun begins.

You're a grade A cutie, no bones about it. A trotting minx with bedroom eyes and baby lips. Young and focused, a laser point beamed from objective to objective. You whip back and forth to act as handler for whichever cast or crew member is in the most dire need the moment you happen to whirl by.

You’re all brisk heel-clicks and placid exterior despite the time crunch. The pressing needs of every bee rattling the hive. You’re assurance, stability, cool-under-pressure. Too busy to pay him any mind, much beyond the carnal she-devil that threatens to shred through your manicured, industry woman front whenever he gets close enough to stir her conscious.

You’ve only spoken once, but your eyes say plenty. Hips swaying to suggestion, lips licked deliberate. Sauntering his way mere moments into his arrival. A revised schedule extended with “Mr. Michaels added a few sketches since dress, you’re written into some of them. Here’s the breakdown.” Safe, unassuming, breathed winter-mint.

He just couldn’t help but notice, the Casanova he is, the way your lilt curled satin-smooth. “You’re written into a few of them.” sounding a suspicious amount like “my breaks in thirty, and my mascaras waterproof." His fingers caught the sheet the same time as your eyes. Lingering. Staring. Glazed at the bone and sinew and knuckles in a statement of I like my throat squeezed and my hair pulled.

And he liked to squeeze throats and pull hair. Some would call that kismet.

There would be no hey-doll’s or come-here-often’s before he’s sweeping past a blur of wiry limbs seized in a buzz, a tongue still acrid with insults whipped. Cocky fingers find your hip and dig in, sure-footed steps corral you headfirst into the nearest utility closet, so convenient in your sudden herded trajectory you aren’t entirely convinced he didn’t stage the whole thing from the moment he exited studio 8 and saw you hovering at a close enough distance. Fluttered lashes and body-language that all but scream; please, Mr. Carlin, I’m a you-shaped-hole. Look at me, touch me, crack me open. I'm a lock dying to be twisted by your key. Just the thought brings a smile to his face.

So he obliges, of course. You’re a sizzling piece of tail and he has a pulse. One hot and thumping buck-wild, electrified by a line he only wishes he snorted right off your sternum while plopped in his lap. A pretty whimper and hot skin salty-sweet, pinned still between his dressing-room vanity and the harsh brunt of his proclivities.

His nostrils flare around the residue of such abuse with a sting of must, chlorine bleached linoleum and your perfume layered between. The quaint, sleazy portrait of a cheap porno in the making. Knocked off balance the supply shelves catch you, while the door catches the thud of his heel, slamming shut behind him.

“Relax, sugar.” The lock tumbles, echoed by your squeak of protest so adorable it deepens his crow feet to proper wrinkles. “I’m doing you a favor.”

“Mr. Carlin-,” Your voice, the traitorous warble it is, gives way to your excitement. Shaking knees, pink cheeks and doe-eyes as dewy as your heat. A cackle rips from chapped lips, acerbic impatience momentarily tickled by the flimsy shield of professionalism. “I don’t- I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The barest notion of protest, a loose concept the density of vapor. A weak stab in palms flattened to his chest, and breathless stammering. He grins, slow and lazy. Crooked through scruff from broiled lasciviousness hanging off the end.

“Cute honey.” Husked nicotine scraggly. "Real cute. If only you haven't been batting those Disney-princess fuck-me eyes since I blew in, it could've been almost believable too.” Amber tints the haughty spark behind lenses that drags down your gaped pout to your heaving chest, and the pretty dusk it ignites in between. He’s since dropped his hands from your back, your hip. His paws are off you and the places briefly touched blister from his absence with dramatic betrayal.

"Just like I could, conceivably, believe that cunt's not drooling all over itself as we speak." A severity to his roguishness scrunched to cutesy acquiescence. The shadow beneath his left lens winks. He kicks his whisper to a depth that deepens the rasp. “But I've been around the block enough times to recognize a bitch in heat when I smell one.”

"You're a sonofabitch.” You forget the venom and the scalding is stripped to a moan. His heart damn near squeezes.

A tongue clicks, a zipper rips. Denim folded back like a banana peel in favor of dropped drawers. He’s not a goddamn adolescent. Pants around his ankles with a wad shot in seven seconds. He and his cock have achieved synergy. He’ll turn you inside out, he’ll make this broom closet creak and groan like a haunted house. He’ll paint the town red, and you white. And then he’ll shove himself back inside his jeans, swat your ass for luck, and give this live little amateur hour the once over. The shades stay on. “Well I’ll be, even the pretty mouths say dirty words.”

Toe-to-toe shortens even more and he’s sizing you up down the bridge of his beak, a lurid appraisal through tinted glass that has you fidget before him. He’s not pulled out yet but your lungs refuse air regardless. Musk and cigarette smoke all you smell even as you refuse yourself the breath, his invasion pools a slick heat between your thighs you’d give anything to rub away. Your panties no more than a second skin, wet and clinging to flushed folds puckered eager to his perverse cruelty. His intoxicating ego. A machismo effortless even though it’s prioritized to neglected afterthought for all the mind he pays it.

The hand that guided you by the small of your back into the closet is now diving beneath the hem of your skirt. Finger-tips brush against the sticky warmth. Claws retaliate to sink within his forearm. You hiss, he barks.

“I may be a sonofabitch, sweetheart.” A concession dropped to a heady rumble, dripped into your ear, fronts then flush. You don’t know which way is up. “But you like it."

"I don't." You lie. A childish declaration grumbled through a pout to match. Head spinning, the air in the closet is thin and reeks of him.

"No?" He feigns, a sickening coo. "You don't like it? That's weird, because-," two fingers wide press hard, languid sawing back and forth against a slit that all but squeals itself to his touch. Fuchsia pops like bubblegum over your face, staining in a burn that delights him. "-you’re awful wet for a girl that didn't enjoy getting shoved and locked into this closet with me."

He is, technically and by most definitions, a show-man. But when it comes to brass-tax there is no posturing, no grandeur. His bedside manner is purely theoretical. Fingers twirl and rub through the cloth, a fabric that soaks heavier to his ministrations, as does his smile grow. His length is freed after a beat, hot and imposing, it’s bared with all the pretense of a carton of prime-rib slapped on the counter for dinner.

It’s his cock, it’s not transcendent. He knows how to work it, he knows it’ll roll your eyes back, slack-jawed and subdued. It’ll stuff you well and shake every thought right out of your pretty little head. But it doesn’t need its own introduction, no red-carpet rolled or stalled momentum of due-deference. He’s a bastard, but he’s not a fucking bastard.

Neither of you direct your position with deliberation, you just sort of fall into place. A show of submission his presence begets. Spun around in a twirl of skirt, thighs kicked apart body search style, he laughs, a rumbling wheeze of vile appreciation. Shaking fingers grip at shelves in a rustle of bottles clinking and paper-products jostled. Roller-coaster cart bars clamped around you tease the tenuous edge of conscious thought. There’s no time to waste.

“Alright, babe,” the pet-name is flung with an insouciance that voids romance. He calls the cashier at the grocery store babe, his bank-teller babe, his agent babe. It’s still not said without fondness. Your skirt hikes up over your hips, a hooked index finger pulls your panties askew. You’re not certain but you think you hear breath catch. A hunch confirmed by a long, low whistle sliding through too-white of teeth for a chain-smoking caffeine addict. “Jesus you’re a fucking mess.”

A stiffness is at your entrance, assuming entry instead of requesting, though in fairness there’s not much resistance standing in his way. You’re nubile, petal-silk, honey-glossed. You’re primed, open and aching. His tip is wide and leaking, familiarizing with your folds in a tomcat schmooze that pulls a shudder from him over your shoulder. Still, he holds his erection to your bare cunt with the same transactional nonchalance as if he’s buying stamps from the post office. He sinks in, tearing through your plushness in one stroke.

A grunt and a jerk and he bottom's out and hangs there. Nails biting crescents into your hips through your clothes, a rapid pulse veins flush against where you melt together. He shakes like a wet, sick dog stuck inside a wrestled mate. Triumphant, his victory not yet registered.

You’re tight. Too tight for him to think, to breath, to make a smart remark. He will, mind. That’s his whole thing. He’s a tease, he’s an asshole, and you want him mean. Fighting weight, teeth-cut, no held punches. All the cute ones like it rough. He’s got you figured from first stolen, hopeful glance. Deepest desires dredged from your depths by that hooded cobalt smolder, knowing and matching. His eye didn't just undress you, it flayed you apart like a body on a slab. He's ruthless, he's unyielding. Those shades don't make him insufferable. They soften the edge. They deaden the impact.

“Christ, don’t tell me you’re a virgin.” He doesn’t wait for an answer or the stretch to unfurl in full. Sharp thrusts carve a path of delicious agony, static-shock undulation that tightens your scalp and pulls your toes curled in your heels as he falls into rhythm. More force than speed, a slick cockhead that batters to interrogation. A score to settle. He knows you’re in a twist for his scruff and scoundrel and wants to rip it out of you, kicking and screaming. Wailing if he plays his cards right.

He’s a taker not a giver and generous has never been an identifier, least of all when it comes to the kind of lover he is. Hell. He doesn’t even consider himself a lover. He’s a consumer, as much as he belittles them. A connoisseur of the good stuff. A vulture. Unabashed indulgence that likes meats rare and bourbon exorbitant. Razor commentary so acute it’s lauded innovative and branded as wit. He’s just realistic if not a little coarse, he calls it like he sees it. Don’t shoot the messenger, as they say.

But they don't shoot him - they fucking love him. They eat out of the palm of his hand, the masochists, they beg for more. They call it clever, they call it insight, and even as it cuts, they ask him to make it sting. Dig deeper, twist harder, make it bleed, make it uncomfortable. It sells records and maxes out venues. They want the hurt, his hurt.

So why should you be any different?

He’s a man. Cut and dry, forward, no bullshit. He says what he thinks, and likes what he likes. He likes you. And what he likes, he wants, and what he wants, he takes.

What he wants is you weeping. He wants the whelps playing comedians outside to hear. Pledging your allegiance to him just from his wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, so debauched your howls peel the walls of their paint.

"You're not gonna make me work for this, are you?" A miserable taunt huffed through stilted syllables. The grin in his voice pebbling your skin. Arrogance and laziness that somehow comes together into raw magnetism. An unbearable heat that blazes from within, a fever pitch of abandoned sense. You feel it everywhere. Tight skin, a tight scalp from pulled hair, a tight core as he punctuates a thrust with a clap to your cheek. It all pools head-rush intense and heavy between your legs. Sent to the bud swollen and stiff past its sheath that his intention has deigned not once.

Obscenity straight from the textbook is mounting you from behind. T-shirt and jeans hammering without mercy, or impatience. You're not his first cramped and stuffy rendezvous but you are the most fun, the most receptive. Thoughts of helping you get off twinkle his haze lightning-bug steady, blips of uncharacteristic generosity that blink in and out. Snapping to a bright glow with every clench that threatens his circulation, every clipped kitten mewl. Every squelch audible through it all, his driving jack-rabbit penetration for which your body sobs praise.

A grip splintering the shelf above your head sends a box of Kleenex toppling to the ground. He snickers. Fogged shades and sweat beads, sticking his shirt to his chest, and his hair to his neck.

"No... no I think you're gonna come for me because you're a good girl." A chest-deep smoke strangled hoarse. "A good girl who listens."

Your body has leapt from traitorous to full-blown treason. Swollen and needful you cinch him like a vice, choking his trigger. Another cackle shot like a bullet. An extra wet snap forward that crumples you further. A wind-up toy getting cranked tighter and tighter, he wonders what it'll be like when you set off. His grunts dip shallow, a hot and heavy ache threads between his hips through to his root. The knots in his scrotum begin to shake loose, the stitch up the middle zips stretched and tender.

You cry out 'daddy!' before mortification has the chance to staunch it. A glass of milk spilled over the morning paper, running ink to marble the mess. A pretty mess from nothing extraordinary, certainly nothing to cry over.

"Ohhh, I know honey. I know." Not the least bit phased. You've confirmed it all, his read right on the money, to the letter. His purr is a chuckle, soothing, affectionate even. "Why don't you say that again, sweetheart. A little louder this time, for the boys outside."

Hands slip from their comfortable purchase at the meat of your hips a hair higher, fingers curling your pelvis into handles he uses to tilt you up. Leveraging the new position, he cants, the girth at his base pinching your sensitive button. Whereas before he regarded your clit with languid indifference, he shifts his direct weight grinding into the slick tissue. He nudges, he demands, he berates. Every bruise clenches him in a velvet crevice of ringed muscle, pulsing and squeezing every inch to pull from him. His hurt, his sting.

He locks you steady for his spearing, as much as he's keeping you on the ground with him. The cage door sprung loose and the she-Devil scampers out into the open. Clawing and flailing at the shelves, he thinks you mean to scale them. Just as he wanted, you're howling. Screams gasped high and reedier, whines ricocheting off his ear around the echo-chamber of the closet.

Your yelps slide under the crack at the bottom of the door to alert everyone within ear-shot outside; A pretty pink cunt ravaged by a coked-out, cranky Carlin. Good thing too. Somewhere in the back of his mind dread springs up like a weed, in the shape of that bambi-eyed, tall-haired lapdog bounding after Lorne, knocking on the door to chirp; "Twenty-five minutes!"

He might actually set fire to the studio then. Using that kid as the kindling.

You're apart before he has the chance to observe the obvious. Stalled breath, seized joints. Frantic flutters rhythmic around his intrusion. "Fucking hell that was fast." It stains you rosy but it swells with pride, as blunt as the strain at his groin that's splitting you down the middle. He rides you through it, a snarl puffed through your hair. "You got another one for me? I wasn't ready that time."

He mocks, he jeers, he ridicules - but you're addicted. You've made a mess of his jeans, unaware he'll burst back out through the closet without a care in the world, more than a little eager for the spoils of his conquest visible to the rest of the brats nipping his ear and heel. Let them see. It'll save the the trouble of tracking down a ruler.

A thumb, direct and heavy, falls to the twitching tangle of your poor over-stimulation. You twist and writhe under his pressure, contorting as if you could escape the bind he's shoved you into, holding you under. Trussed for the feast, soon to be basted.

"I c-can't, I can't!" You bleat like a lamb, shaking through the burn that spirals from his touch. He's still thrusting. Throbbing with impending release, but nowhere near done with you. Not yet. It stings, but he needs to make it worse. You're close again, and he'll force it out of you if he has to. If you're good for him he'll dry your tears and kiss it better. Tongue the ache away and host the show with you hot on his breath, aromatic in his dark whiskers. At least that way his smiles will be genuine. A spring in his step for the audience, knowing he crippled yours sore and hobbled.

"Oh yes you can." Muscle twitches at the back of his thighs, up along his hunched back, and behind his shades. "And you will. Come on, show me, be good for me."

"It h-hurts!" You wail, eyes rolled white. Panting. Every inch overtaken by the threat of the wave suspended in crest. Boring down on you, anticipation to spill quivering in tandem with his rolled thumb. You've never come like this before, not this soon after, nothing this intense. It does hurt, but it's a good hurt.

"I know, I know it does honey." His sneer is loving with encouragement. Preening. Ego fanned and fluffed like the peacocks train as your body tells him what you're beyond vocalizing. "But you like it."

[noelledeltarune]

EVERY SINGLE DAY there are MILLIONS of characters in their late 20s who get falsely accused of being father figures to teenagers when in reality the description of "weird older cousin" or "step-sibling that moved out before you were born" is 1000000x more apt

[1800dogzone]

this is definitely why most people search for him

[chocolatesauce-blog-blog]

I’ve been feeling a bit deranged lately so I bring u this

(Drags in this monstrosity and drops it on ur doorstep like a cat bringing u a chewed up bug)

Original sketch vvv

I actually posted this last week or smth

Also I have a few refs cooking up for art fight but at this rate I’ll only get like a week to attack ppl by the time I finish them TwT

So I’m a bit late but I have the spirit :D👍

[gamerkitten]

💀☠🐇💕

💯🙏💛🟨👍

[xxplastic-cubexx]

personal happiness or what the fuck ever

bonus:

[mocking-the-bird]

If Tim and Steph decide that 7am is time for sibling bonding activities, it'll be so, even if the sibling they're bonding with is trying to get some goddamn sleep

[nekrosmos]

First piece of 2025 and it's a mob boss Nikolai AU, inspired by both @panchulien and @on-a-lucky-tide (this fic and this fic respectively)

[one-chaotic-neautral]

Arcane ships ranked, for fun

The main ships and some rarepairs I've found, I like pretty much everything in the first 4 rows. I probably missed some but idk what they are and I'm too lazy to add more rn.

feel free to add your thoughts or ships but again its just for funsies :)

[voidwolf]

anyone else prefer whump without a whumper?? just me??

i mean like. there’s a whumpee and a caretaker + the rest of the team (if there is one). but no whumper

like. instead of the whump coming from a whumper, it comes from natural causes instead. so like sickness, weather (think whump involving hypothermia, heat exhaustion, getting sick from the rain, etc), events (like getting injured from let’s say a building collapse or breaking a bone or something like that)

THAT’S the kind of whump that really gets me going. no torture tropes, nothing like that. idk i just feel very much alone on this one, so i think it’d be neat if there were others out there who feel this way too

[bunnieswithknives]

Love impulsively doing whatever this is.

[You are at the beginning] [Next]

[willowser]

i think katsuki just answers his phone by barking out, "bakugou." no hello, probably doesn't even look at the caller id LOL when he hears it's you, though, i think he breathes out the tension he didn't realize was coiled in his shoulders, and says a lil, "hey," 🥺🥺

and i think when he calls you, and you answer with your sweet, "helloooo ??" he is so soft 😌 just mumbles out a quiet, "what'chu doin'?" and listens as you tell him, before saying what he needed to 😌

[lucabyte]

Perceptive kid, I wonder just how much they pretend not to overhear.

[hiding-under-the-willow]

So. I decided to doodle ghosts au etho to get his design down and I. uh. thought a little too hard about him