#inspired by my boyfriend

[zinesbycee]

having a nasty shit call that Trauma Dumping

[mygenderissteveharrington]

Eddie Munson getting his piercings caught on Steve's hair/clothes while they're making out and they both just burst into laughter giggling while they try to get untangled

[kokokoula]

when it comes to you, tsukishima finds himself being protective of you without even trying.

he hears your worries about the same friend for maybe the hundredth time, about how they got mad at you for something incredibly harmless and for you being you. he rolls his eyes at your friend's overbearing insecurity and their lack of taste in people as he seemingly reads his book. he had suggested you find a better friend, but you insist they make you happy. he scoffs at that. he himself already makes you happy, why would you need someone else who can't even give you half the joy he does? he doesn't say that though, instead he insists in turn that he comes along with you the next time you two meet. he can already imagine yamaguchi surprised at him for volunteering to go to a social gathering.

"you won't scare them off?" you make him promise and as much as he wants to make them feel sorry for ever hurting you, he sighs and promises. on that day, he stands right behind you, keeping an eye out for every single interaction you have with your friend. you introduce kei, and his looming expression doesn't change. he sees their uncomfortable smile and avoiding of his gaze, and couldn't help but smirk. you nudge him with your elbow, and tsukishima ruffles your hair. "don't worry, pipsqueak." he says, keeping his voice low.

tsukishima isn't a fan of any sort of pda, but throughout the entire time, he makes sure to have some sort of physical contact with you. it could be an arm around your shoulders, or just rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand. the last thing he wants is you feeling anxious about your friend, despite you assuring him you were perfectly ok. you know his well intentions, and at the end of the day when your friend has left, you treat him to strawberry shortcake.

"what's this?" he asks as he digs his fork into the cake. you intertwine your fingers with his free hand.

"just for you being, well, you." you grin and he melts like he always do when you smile at him. he gives you the first bite.

"you're gonna be the death of me, love."

[the-talon-ted-meem]

I forgot about posting this one a bit ago, another based on a true story (I got the N hat and its really cool ok)

Aaaand my wacom tablet is finally dying after all these years....

[necrowyrm]

Tumblr should let you manually upgrade the little "mutuals" indicator in your notes to "lovers"

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

" what the hell are you doing ?"

you look away from your screen to stare at your boyfriend from beneath the mountain of pillows you’re laying under. there are snacks ranging from sweet to salty strewn all around your bed and a spot right next to you saved specifically for him.

you raise a brow " i’m watching my show." you state. katsuki’s eye twitches. he stalks towards you slowly, menacingly, like he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce at you. you shove your chin and nose underneath your blankets.

"you’re watching our show. " he corrects, squinting at you "you’re watching. our show." he reiterates.

"katsu-"

" our show. an’ yer fuckin’ watching it without me." he glares daggers into your fucking soul and with the rage of a thousand suns as he spits the words out like they had somehow caused him harm.

"you said i could start without you last time !" you defend weakly. he rolls his eyes as he stomps over to you and climbs into your bed "yeah, last time, but this ain’t last fuckin’ time, dumbass." he growls. you whine when he lifts up your blankets and the cold air nips at you. "oh shut up, big baby, weren’t whinin’ when ya decided ta watch the one show you know we watch together." his words are mean but he scoots impossibly closer to you

you scoot over to make some extra space for him so he can lay down comfortably before squeezing yourself right next to him again. “you’re the one who said, and i quote ‘ i could give less of a shit about this stupid show, just don’t have anything better to do” he scrunches his nose at your crude impression of him. “ i don’t fuckin’ sound like that.”

“it’s what you sound like to me.” you retort.

he growls, nipping at your ear which causes you to let out a giggle mixed with a little squeal “needa get yer fuckin’ ears checked then.”

“i just started anyway. i can just rewind it” you lean forward to place your mouse back to the beginning and plop back on your pillow with a groan. katsuki snorts. “ i was gonna wait for you, but you were taking too long” you mumble out already invested in the images on screen.

katsuki knocks his forehead against the side of your head softly then also turns his attention to the screen. “ it’s shitty hair’s fault” he gruffs out “fucker kept on yappin’ about whatever the fuck, couldn’t leave.”

you fake gasp in shock. pretending to be hurt you place a hand on your chest and look at him wide eyed. he raises a brow “wow. i can’t believe you like kirishima more than me.” you turn your nose up at him and hold back a laugh when you see his expression morph from confused to straight up insulted.

“where the fuck d’you get that from?!” you can’t keep up the façade when you see his face and burst out laughing, his facial expressions are seriously something else. he relaxes slightly but he still doesn’t look amused. “i’m just joking. i know you just wanted to be nice” you reassure, his face relaxes and his shoulders sag as he releases a frustrated sigh. “you know, since he’s your friend.”

he cracks his head to look at you, wide eyed and brows furrowed he shoves his head against yours so hard he basically headbutts you. you let out a little yelp and laugh “don’t even start with that ! fucker ain’t my friend." he spits the word friend like it tastes gross in his mouth, it makes you laugh even harder. “right~” you sing.

you think things have calmed down after a little bit, your both watching your show, then katsuki suddenly knocks his forehead against your head again.

“hey.” he mumbles. you blink up at him waiting for him to finish. he chews at his lip and looks towards the screen then looks back at you, cheeks turning pink.

"ya know i don’t…like him more than you, right..?"

you tilt your head "who ?" you ask. he grunts like speaking is physically challenging, his face turning redder by the second “shitty hair. don’t like ‘im more than you." his eyes dart away then focus back on yours " don’t like anyone more than you."

you feel your cheeks flush and you suddenly feel extremely warm and giddy. you giggle and his cheeks darken in color "where's this coming from?" you chortled. he scoffs at you and pokes you in the stomach, turning back to the look at the screen to avoid your mushy warm loving gaze. "fuckin'—nowhere ! m'not allowed to…fuckin—!" he fumbles around for what to say. you decide to spare him and place your hands on his scorching cheeks, he struggles a little bit (barely) but let's you turn his head towards you, he pouts at you, trying his best to look intimidating but he just looks like a angry little kicked puppy.

"m'just teasing you , suki" you're rubbing his cheek with your thumb and his eyebrows stay furrowed despite him leaning into your touch "i know you don't like him more than me, if you did, i don't think you'd be here" he rolls his eyes and bites at the palm of your hand. you chuckle "i don't like anyone more than you, either" you're sure there are hearts in your eyes as you speak, you hope he can see them.

" 'f course you don’t." he mumbles out the words into your palms fast without missing a beat, it tickles. he smirks into your hand when he sees you roll your eyes at him, he truly is a little shit.

"don't like nobody more than you." he proclaims quietly, closing his eyes, his long lashes brushing against his cheeks.

"yeah" you purr, the hearts in your eyes spread all around your body to the tips of your fingers and toes, it makes you warm and soft, and so fond of him. you don't like anybody more than katsuki, you can't. not when he opens his eyes and gazes at you with burning cheeks but hearts in his eyes and you hope the ones in yours spread all around his body too, because his have started to intermingle with yours, coursing through your veins.

"yeah." you sigh, " yeah me neither."

you can't like anyone more than you do katsuki as you watch your show together.

@slashersl0t i wrote this thanks to you twin <3 !

[sunflowerik]

I love a colorful apartment! - wip

[staracket]

rest in peace alex kralie you would have loved spring breakers

closeup under the cut because i want you to look at his dumb face

smug ASSHOLE.... why you so :3

[bitterandenraged]

HIII Sanders Sides nation here I am with TSS posters !! The whole gang's here ( it's also a subtle way for me to shove my headcannons to everyone)

[thecosmopossum]

Perks of being a 7th tall robot/animatronic:

you can bully your coworker for being "short"

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ touya-nii + his nasty habit of sneaking into your bedroom

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest, noncon, a slight bit of degradation, implied size difference words: 1.2k

he’s always careful when he starts. careful when he creeps into your room in the middle of the night, sock clad feet quiet against the hardwood; careful to keep the doorhandles latch from catching on the strike plate as he closes it behind him; careful not to wake you as he slinks into your frilly little bed, knocking stuffed animals and extra pillows onto the floor, as he worms his way beneath your pink-piped comforter and slithers his hand between your silky thighs—ah, good girl, you’re not wearing those pesky sleep shorts, just like he told you not to (good little sisters only wear panties to bed; and sometimes, they don’t even wear those, he had informed you)—and then wiggles his fingers under your lacy undies.

that’s when he stops being careful. 

because he loves that sharp gasp of surprise, that sheer unadulterated bolt that courses through your body—shock in the purest, prettiest form—that jolts you from your blissful slumber almost violently; skin shuddering, eyes snapping open, when he shoves two dirty fingers into your ill-prepped cunt. 

it’s his favourite sound in the world, he swears it is, swears he would bottle it up and keep it close to his heart if he could, swears he would wear it around his neck like the cutest, daintiest little noose, tethering him to you. 

but this is the next best thing, he supposes. 

your eyes slip shut again, so tightly they crinkle the corners and furrow your brow, and a whine of his name spills from your lips; first in frustration, then again all wispy and dumb when he curls his knuckles against that plush spot buried deep inside of you—that spot he knows so well, that spot he discovered, then claimed as his own. 

yeah, not so irritated now, are ya, y’little brat. 

no, you’re not. you’re sighing out his name in time with the pumps of his fingers, all melty and stupid and oh-so-cute, knotted with his honorific and seeping into your lace-trimmed pillows in little threads of drool. you’re grinding your ass back against his hard cock as you pathetically hump his palm, indulging him as his hips rut into your plush flesh, pre-cum steadily leaking through his thin pyjama pants, staining plaid in dark wet patches.

“touya-nii,” you whimper, back arching a little, nipples peaked through the thin cotton of your camisole. “stop, stop.” 

this is the routine almost every time, practiced and perfected through night after night of rehearsals, and you play your part flawlessly; effortless and enticing and full of emphasis, because you know he gets off on it—the no!s and wait!s and don’t!s, sometimes spit from your lips, sometimes dribbling out the corner of your mouth, only heightening the whole sordid affair.

because you’re just as fucking sick as your big brother is. 

he can’t stop, don’t you know?

it’s all your fault, he’s telling you, voice caught somewhere between accusatory and mocking. if you weren’t such a slutty little tease, nii-chan wouldn’t have to do this. 

but it’s all just a game; he knows you love it just as much as he does, knows you’re just as depraved as he is, because your actions don’t match your words, you bad girl, the rolling of your hips encouraging the rocking of his own, one of your free hands threading itself over his and guiding it to your breast, bony knuckles pressing into a soft palm as his fingers flex around supple flesh.

if you didn’t love it, if you didn’t want it, then why would you prance around the house in those short, short little dresses? the ones that fan out when you twirl to your music in the living room or ride up when you bend over while cooking in the kitchen, gifting anyone within the immediate vicinity (your vile siblings and their prying eyes) a coveted glimpse of the silk and lace clinging delicately to your cheeks; the ones that are an inch or two too short to be considered wholly decent, and the ones Daddy has repeatedly told you to stop wearing around your big brothers—especially the eldest. 

“m’sorry, touya-nii, m’sorry, m’sorry.”

no, you’re not, but that’s okay. he isn’t, either. 

at least you have each other.

your other hand snakes between your tensing thighs, cupping his own, little fingers layering larger ones as they try to speed up his motions, push his digits deeper, fuck you harder, give you more. 

these trysts never last long enough, though; no matter how hard he tries to lengthen them, to savour them, you’re both too eager, too hungry for one another, cumming too quickly in the dead of night as your bodies tremble together, as names shatter on tongues in sharp whispers and limbs seize and tangle and fuse into one.

it’s always so fucking messy, your cunt clenching around your conjoined fingers, slick dribbling down his knuckles in thick dollops to pool in his hand, to settle in the lines of his palm and streak his inner wrist in pretty shimmering streams.

it’s always so fucking messy, his grunts hot and humid against the nape of your neck, forehead pressed to the crown of your head as his cock throbs, filling flannel with copious amounts of burning, sticky cum—so much it seeps through the material to soak your scrunched panties, so much it dries in a hard glaze, welding lace to your ass. 

you don’t ever dare to wash it off, clean it away, eradicate the evidence, instead allowing each other’s pleasure to stain your skins, wearing it like a mark of honour, a claim of ownership, barely visible when it dries into something firm and translucent, but there nonetheless. 

his fingertips continue to flutter against that swollen spot until ripples of overstimulation are shuddering through your flesh, until your little hand is wreathing around his syrupy wrist and nails are biting into his flesh and tugging, tears beginning to bead your lashes.

only then does he chuckle and pull his hand free, knuckles hooking in an attempt to scrape your walls, a heavy coat of your arousal glistening on his fingers. 

“you cum so fucking much for your big brother,” he growls in your ear, lips wet against the cartilage, voice tapering off into a whine. “look at how wet you get for me.” 

two of his fingers flatten against your cheek and then swipe, slow and hard and thorough, smearing a thick film of your slick across your face, from the tip of your temple to the corner of your mouth, back and forth and back and forth until it’s been rubbed into your skin. 

callused fingertips push past your parted lips, weighing down on your tongue and cramming themselves into your throat, forcing you to taste yourself—to taste him, painted in you; spicy nicotine and heady salt.

“you’re fucking disgusting,” he pants out, but his pupils are gaping, watching as your gorge yourself on your big brother’s flesh, lips puckering and cheeks hollowing as your tongue curls around his knuckles and tries to siphon him further down your throat. 

a whine splinters in his chest as he pulls his extremities free from your voracious grip, slathered in spit, viscous cords strung between his knuckles as he spreads them apart. 

“yeah, you’re real fucking sick, y’know that?” 

“you made me like this, nii-chan,” you breathe out dreamily, already drifting back into sleep’s welcoming embrace, body going lax in his arms and snuggling back against his chest. 

yeah, he fucking did. 

and neither of you would have it any other way. 

[geomimetry]

suggestive monster stuff under the cut

i havent posted art in almost a year and this is what i decide to break the ice with hi

go big or go home amirite

[rwnjun]

gorgeous gorgeous boyfriends make lunch for each other

[raepliica]

tristamp post-timeskip woowoo!! injecting him with cowboy swag baybiee

also, a little bit of a redraw

[cowbeaus]

number one ruby x amber defender and lover forever

[sam-loves-seb]

the bathroom drawer

"Mickey!" Ian yells. "Did you move my cologne?"

"Your what?" Mickey calls back, appearing in the bathroom doorway while buttoning up his shirt.

"My cologne."

"No. I don't even know where you keep that shit."

"In here!" Ian says, shaking his head as he rummages through the drawer below their bathroom sink. "I swear I left it in here."

"Lemme see," Mickey says, nudging Ian to the side. "You're shit at looking."

"I'm not shit at looking, it's just not fucking there."

"Yeah, yeah," Mickey grumbles, moving the junk in the drawer around. "Jesus Christ. How much shit do we got in here?"

"Too much," Ian muses, folding his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the sink. "But it doesn't matter anyway. It's not in there. I've been looking for--"

"Found it." Mickey holds up the blue bottle with a smug grin.

Ian grabs it from him. "Whatever."

Mickey raises his eyebrows. "Whatever? That's what I get?"

Ian leans in and gives him a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," he says instead.

"Better," Mickey grumbles.

Ian spritzes the cologne onto himself while Mickey keeps rummaging around in the drawer. He pulls out an empty toilet paper roll, a broken comb with too many teeth missing, and an old phone charger with exposed wires.

He throws them all in the trash. "This thing is a mess."

"Yeah," Ian says with a sigh, checking himself over in the mirror. He paws at his hair a bit. "We gotta do a deep clean in here one of these days. Closet's a disaster too."

"What the fuck is--"

Ian looks over at his husband when he doesn't finish his sentence.

Mickey's brows are furrowed as he holds up a thin black stick in front of his face. "Is this makeup?"

Ian huffs out a faint laugh. "Yeah."

"Debbie's?"

"That thing's old enough to be Fiona's," Ian tells him, taking it from Mickey. "But no. It's mine."

Mickey raises his brows. "Yours?"

Ian uncaps the tube, twists the end so the little black tip pushes through the end. "Eyeliner."

"Holy shit," Mickey says slowly. "How fucking old is that thing?"

"Old," Ian says, trying to read the chipped writing on the side for any kind of date. "Probably expired."

"That shit expires?"

"Supposedly. But who knows."

Mickey tilts his head, watching Ian examine the eyeliner. "How the hell did it end up here?"

"No idea," Ian tells him. How it survived in the Gallagher house for as long as it did and moved to their west side apartment is beyond him. "Probably got boxed up with some of my shit a long time ago."

"Huh," Mickey muses. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Can't believe you used to put that shit on every night."

"Me neither," Ian says. "You ever tried it?"

"What, make up?"

"Yeah."

"For a disguise once or twice," Mickey tells him with a shrug. "Never like, just 'cause."

Ian starts to grin. "You wanna?"

"Fuck no," Mickey says instinctively. He bites his lip. "Why? You gonna wear it tonight?"

"Why not?" Ian asks, facing the mirror and leaning in close. "We're already going to a club. Might as well get go all out."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah." Ian glances over at his husband. "You got a problem with that?"

Mickey shrugs. "No."

"Okay."

Mickey watches with rapt attention as Ian applies the eyeliner to himself. The stick is old for sure, and it takes a few passes to really get the make up on his eyelid. It only takes a minute though, and then Ian's eyes are outlined in black.

"There," he says, blinking and turning to face Mickey. "How do I look?"

"Weird," Mickey says.

"Sure, but like, crazy weird, or hot weird."

Mickey's brows pinch together. "...Hot weird."

Ian grins. "It's kinda doing it for you, isn't it?"

"No. Shut up," Mickey says quickly.

Ian laughs. "You should try it," he tells his husband. "It's fun."

"It looks like it's gonna get in my eyes."

"Maybe," Ian says with a shrug. "But I bet you'd look hot with it."

"You say that about everything you want me to wear."

"And I've never been wrong once."

Mickey makes a face. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

"...Can I take it off if it looks stupid?"

Ian's face relaxes. "You can take it off whenever you want," he says softly. "Doesn't ever have to leave this bathroom."

Mickey glares at the eyeliner, his face slowly melting into apprehensive reluctance. "Fucking... fine."

"Really?" Ian asks, perking up.

"How do I do it?"

"I can do it," Ian offers, holding up the eyeliner and his open hand. "Lemme put it on you."

Mickey sighs through his nose, then steps closer. He tilts his chin up and fits his face into his husband's waiting hands.

Ian kisses his temple. "Close your eyes."

Mickey does as told. His eyelashes flutter at the first press of the stick, eyelids scrunching at the new, weird sensation.

"Hold still," Ian whispers, trying not to poke him in the eye.

"Feels weird," Mickey mumbles.

"Yeah, but..." Ian pulls back, smiling at his work. "Open your eyes."

Mickey blinks them open, eyebrows bouncing with it. "So?"

"Damn," Ian says, grinning. "You look good, baby."

"Fuck off with that," Mickey grumbles, turning towards the mirror. He makes a face. "I look like a fucking alien."

"A hot alien."

Mickey gives him the side eye, but he doesn't immediately wipe the eyeliner off. He leans in close to the mirror, tilts his head this way and that. Pulls at the skin on his cheeks and his temples. "Weird," he says quietly.

"So," Ian starts, capping the eyeliner and tossing it back in the drawer. "You ready to go, or what?"

Mickey sighs heavily, taking one last look at himself in the mirror.

Ian slides in behind him, curls a hand around his hip. "Don't overthink it," he whispers, kissing his husband's temple. "If you like it, go with it."

"I don't know if I like it."

"That's okay too."

Mickey leans back against him. "It looks good on you."

Ian smiles softly. "Thanks."

Mickey hums. "Fine," he says, standing up straight. "Let's go. But if anyone says anything about it--"

"I know," Ian says, hands on his husband's shoulders as he follows him out of the bathroom. "You get to punch them."

"I get to punch them."

"Fine." Ian kills the bathroom light. "And we might have to hit the 24 hour CVS on the way home. I definitely don't have make up wipes."