#listen i love anna

[tlou-obsessed]

why is this giving me the same vibe

[tamagoneko]

perfect for me 💕

[sensiblethingtodo]

Anna Kendrick Talks Brittany Snow's 'Tough Love' & Possible 'Pitch Perfect 4'

[horrorlesbion]

lolita, my love || interview with the vampire 02x07 "i could not prevent it"

bonus:

[thegeorgiatennantblog]

Georgia's Unhinged Insta Stories

Part 14/?

I have just realised that she posts more about him than anything else.

[sunforgrace]

you guys please understand they were going to say “CASTIEL’S PERSONAL HEAVEN” and paper the walls like a teen girls room with pictures of dean pictures of dean’s face PLASTERED onto the bodies of beefcakes all while cheek to cheek blares out. as brought to you by fucking metatron

[elialys]

"You know, I am a fucking disaster. But I'm also relentless. And I'm loyal. I think we can make you a newsreader."

THE NEWSREADER | 1.01 "Three, Two, One..."

[youchoseeachother]

And you feel like an ocean being warmed by the sun ♡

[ridiasfangirlings]

So I did an ask years ago where S4 gets its own Anna to be friends with. And I thought of how cute it would be if her natural hair color is blonde or something, but when she learns Anna is colorblind and suddenly dyes her hair this bright red.

I also think about how her temperament is similar to Yata’s ( you had read my mind there) and so she might have a close mentorship with him and maybe asks him how to befriend Anna only for Yata to listen and goes “omg I felt the same way about Saru when we became friends!” Only for whoever is in the room with them think ‘a crush, you guys have/had a crush’

Sorry for the long ask feel free to put in separate parts if it clashes too much ❤️❤️❤️

I kinda like the idea that Anna makes this tomboyish friend and when she first brings her friend to Homra Yata’s all nervous because Girl but then the girl thinks he’s like the coolest person ever because turns out they’re both idiots XD Like imagine this girl who more or less ‘adopts’ Anna the same way Yata did for Fushimi, she sees Anna all alone and maybe even being picked on by other girls and just cuts through all of that to help Anna out. The girl thinks Anna is really pretty and cool, and when Anna smiles and thanks her the girl’s heart flutters a little. They end up becoming good friends, at some point imagine they’re talking and the girl mentions how Anna’s hair is so white and pretty. She complains that her own hair is all straw-like and ugly, and Anna admits she can’t see the color because she can only see red but she’s sure her friend has lovely hair. The girl is surprised but then the next day she shows up at school with bright red hair and red clothes, and Anna’s all surprised but grateful.

Eventually Anna brings her friend to Homra and say her friend is actually really into skateboarding and recognizes Yata right away. Yata’s all tongue-tied at first because there’s a girl here but as she starts talking to him he relaxes and soon they’re both excitedly talking about skateboards. Fushimi has stopped by to go out drinking with Yata and imagine him standing next to Anna, the two of them watching these two excited redheads gushing about skateboards all ‘…’ and Fushimi’s just like ‘so they’re both idiots.’ Anna shakes her head and gives Fushimi this knowing smile as she says her friend and Misaki are alike though, Fushimi clicks his tongue and looks away.

The girl is already friends with Anna but maybe she’s worried that she’s not a good enough friend for her or she wants to understand her more, so she decides to ask Yata for help (also I absolutely imagine her calling him ‘Yata-senpai’ and Yata feels very proud of that). Yata says he totally understands what it’s like having an amazing friend that you can’t quite understand, and how great it is when you’re the person that friend cares about the most. The girl’s eyes are all shining as she’s like right, Anna is just so cute and kind, and Yata’s like she is, and you know Saruhiko is really amazing but he’s hard to understand too. Anna’s friend is like sometimes I think about how pretty Anna is compared to me and Yata totally understands, Saruhiko is like so striking and good looking for a guy. The rest of the Homra guys are watching them this whole time like ‘…so they really are both oblivious, huh’, this girl really is similar to Yata in a lot of ways after all.

[writing-good-vibes]

Bestie! Can I please have number 4 from the steamy prompts for your valentine's day drabbles? I'm thinking an expansion on or a similar scenario to the thing with the waitress in Dirty Domestic Bliss. Definitely a post-Michael!Corey but you can decide if you want it to be cunningmyers!Corey or a distinct iteration. Thank you, happy Valentine's Day! <3

bestie, thank you for the req !! ahh the way i'm kinda kicking my legs, twirling my hair that you brought up dirty domestic bliss 😈 it's not necessary to read that story first, but this is the (un)official sequel. i hope you enjoy because this spiralled !! 💗

WARNING for corey x f!reader, smut, flirting, a tiny little bit of angst because i couldn't resist, and the fact this is technically set in the cunningmyers au (but michael only makes an appearance emotionally lol). 2.5K word count.

🍓very cute divider by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more 🍓

taglist: @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (just let me know if you want to be added or removed !!)

You finish wiping down the counter after a very, very busy night. Valentine's day always brings in more customers, even to the roadside diner you have no hope of leaving anytime soon.

You're on shift for the next four hours alone, but you're thankful that it should be a quieter from now on, with most couples heading back home to relieve their babysitters or to make the most of the rest of their night in the comfort of their own beds. All that remain are stragglers and harmless ne'er-do-wells who have nowhere better to be at this hour.

Around 1 am, you hear the bell over the door jingle and you look up from the counter to see a young man walking in.

If anyone saw the intensity of your doubletake, you would have been mortified.

He sits at a booth towards the back of the diner, but in clear view of the door. He's polite when you go over to take his extensive order -- a coffee with creamer and sugar, a club sandwich, side of fries, a plate of bacon and eggs, with hash browns if you have any -- and thanks you earnestly when you bring out his food.

He keeps to himself, and you'd almost be able to forget he was there while you served the couple of other patrons, if it weren't for how striking he was. Dark hair, tousled but naturally curly, and even darker eyes. Eyes that look almost black even under the harsh halogen lights. He holds his cutlery tightly with broad, bruised hands.

He ate like he was starving; you'd seen plenty of men with eyes bigger than their stomachs, but he seemingly wasn't one of them. All of his plates are cleaned when you take them back to the kitchen.

The reserved atmosphere between you makes you question if this is really the same guy. He has to be, right? The possibility of someone else like him was slim to none, with his curly hair that you desperately want to pull on again, his broad, handsome features that you could stare at forever and never get bored of, and his Levi's jeans that hug him in all the right places.

Returning to his table, you ask, "Can I tempt you with dessert?"

"I think you can. What would you recommend?"

"The cheesecake is my favourite, but I'm biased because I make the strawberry drizzle for it." You lean your hip against his table,

"Strawberry? I normally pick chocolate."

"We have a great chocolate cake too?" you suggest instead.

"No, let's try strawberry. I'll have a slice of cheesecake, please."

"Sure thing," you smile. When you turn back to the counter, you glance over your shoulder, catch him watching you. The sway of your hips is unintentional, should anyone ask.

You draw a few love hearts in strawberry sauce around the edge of the plate. There's something wrong with me, you think, but you don't get a new plate.

He turns the plate slowly once you put it down in front of him, considers each strawberry heart. Then his eyes turn up to you, and it's almost like those strawberry hearts are reflected in his dark, dangerous eyes. "Would you sit with me? Please?"

"I'm working," you smile, but still you linger at his table, waiting for him to convince you.

"I'm sure they won't mind," he says, nodding towards the other weary patrons, nursing steaming coffees, filling in crosswords with blotchy pens, or reading the sports pages.

No one gave you a second glance as you slid into the booth across from him.

You watch while he eats, his pretty pink lips closing around each bite. There's a comfortable silence between one, one that you could get entirely used to, if given the chance.

"It's nice to see you again," he smiles around the food in his mouth. You'd rather get used to his voice though.

Breaking into a grin, "I thought it was you!"

"I've been thinking about you," he half-drawls "Every day since I last saw you."

The last time you saw him was a couple of months ago -- six, maybe? -- sat at what might of been this very same booth. He was just as bruised and timelessly rugged as he is now, and you remembered him being with a another man -- older, more weathered, but rugged in the same sort of way. This guy, your guy, had ordered for the both of them, and seemed relieved to find his companion where he left him after your back alley escapade.

"This is really good," he compliments. "And it's your favourite, right? Have some," He offers you a piece of cheesecake on his fork, smeared with extra strawberry sauce that had dripped down onto the plate.

You open your mouth, lips closing around the fork just where his lips -- his soft, pink lips -- had been, and take the bite from him. You chew slowly. Even without the strawberry sauce you labour over making in the kitchen, the cheesecake really is good.

He watches you closely, and you find that you don't mind at all. He's not like other men, whose stares bore into you because they want to take something from you. No, no he looks at you like he wants you to take something from him.

The palm of his heavy-knuckled hand, the one that isn't still holding his fork, feels rough against your skin when he catches your chin; the pad of his thumb is slightly weathered when he swipes it over the corner of your mouth, catching a stray spot of strawberry drizzle. Pulling his hand back, you watch him -- his eye contact never wavering -- as he sucks his thumb into his mouth, licking it clean.

"When do you get off?" His question catches you off-guard, startling you from your fleeting thoughts of his lips and tongue and hands.

"Um," you try and remember your shift. "4 am." You glance at the clock on the wall and silent curse. Still two hours to go and there's no way he's going to wait for you, why would he? This perfect stranger with his split knuckles and pretty lips and --

"I think you deserve a break, don't you?"

You don't think this is like last time. This won't a quick smoke break endeavour. "I still have --," you're about to gesture at the other customers, but when you turn around, you find the diner empty. You hadn't even noticed them leave, you'd been so caught up with...

Shit. "I don't even know your name."

"Corey," he answers, and his accent swells stronger on his name than you'd noticed during the rest of your conversation.

You give your own name in return, giggling because you can't quite believe any of this is real. Because a beautiful boy walked into your diner and made you fall for him, and you never even thought to tell him your name.

Corey stands from the booth, not quiet as smoothly as you think he might of wanted to because his hip catches on the edge of the table. You're not surprised, he's built like a bull, all broad shoulders, broad hips, broad hands that trailing along the table top as he walks past. Even so, he wanders to the door, flips the open sign to closed and twists the lock.

The backroom is pretty small, the table has been wobbly for as long as you've been working there and no doubt for longer, and you distantly register that you never closed the door behind you, so you have a mostly-clear view into the diner, all the way to the locked front door, but you don't really have time to think about any of that. The only thought your mind can conjure up is please!

Corey is somewhere under your sunshine-yellow skirt, there's a sharp sting at your hip when he snaps the elastic of your panties against your skin, then his teeth biting so gently at the flesh of your thighs that they could be kisses instead. Desperate to see his face, you pull your skirt up to your waist and moan involuntarily at the sight of him, flushed and focused, between your legs.

His eyes glint impossibly dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't stop look at you. Reaching down, you twist your fingers through his tangle of curls, making him moan into your heat.

When he kisses you, he tastes just like you remembered, like cigarettes and something distinctly boyish, but now he has the sweetness of strawberries on his lips, like chapstick, and on his tongue there's the heady taste of your own arousal.

Corey's cock is pretty and pink just like the rest of him. (How can even his cock be pretty?) Grazing your entrance slowly, you angle your hips to encourage him, tightening your legs around his hips to pull him in.

"Is this okay?" he asks, tip pushing just enough to make you clench on him. His rumbling voice right by your ear makes you shiver, with anticipation, with need, with downright desperation.

"I've been thinking about you too," you say in lieu of any other answer. "Every night since I last saw you. Wanting to see you so bad."

Sinking it your wetness, Corey groans, sounding almost surprised. You clench around him to draw out the sound, louder and longer, until he makes himself pull back out, only so he can thrust back into you. The table rocks beneath you precariously, Corey's thrusts making it shudder an inch across the bubbling lino.

Corey's as good as you expected and even better; he's heavy on top of you, covering your torso with his, until there's nothing between you. His smell all around you, and you hope it seeps into your skin, taints you forever with the smell of the storm that he carries with him. His lips pressing wet open-mouthed kisses anywhere he can reach, along the soft line of your jaw and scattered on your neck, trickling down, down, down as he unbuttons your yellow shirt.

And his pretty cock isn't just for show; heavy inside of you, coated in the wet mess between your legs, hitting just the right spot to make you squirm and clench and rock your hips up against Corey's, his auburnish hair providing the most delicious, burning friction on your clit.

The tinny radio in the main diner is barely audible in the break room over the sounds you both make. Every thrust drawing a breath, or a groan, or a moan. Corey starts low in his throat, a rasp of a groan always on his lips, until he gets closer, and high little breaths spill out of him like he's going to cry if he doesn't finish right now.

You pull up your panties and catch Corey following your hands along your curves. He seems... cuter, somehow. Before he was a powerhouse of confidence, every bit the All-American rogue you daydream about walking through your diner doors. But now he's more modest; bashful as he tucks himself away.

The shift in personality brings your confidence back, and as the endorphins hums pleasantly under your skin, you feel like you did back then; taking a chance on hoping a pretty boy might make out you by the dumpsters.

You smile slyly at him as you straighten out your uniform, lip caught between your teeth. There's a string of hickies around your collar, you can feel them already. You want to poke and prod at them to stop them fading.

"I gotta go," he mumbles, doing up his fly and buckling his tarnished-silver belt buckle.

There's a long pause between the two of you. Uncertainty.

"Sure," you say. You chew your lip as you head back out to the diner, with Corey following behind. "So, um... will I see you around again?"

Corey shrugs, seeming genuinely unsure, "Maybe, maybe not. We might have to leave soon or... I'll see."

You decide not to push him on it, and there's too many reasons, too many different situations and scenarios for you to even start speculating on what might make him so skittish about sticking around. The thought forces an ache through your chest anyway.

"Well," you force a smile. "Whenever you come back, I'll be here waiting with a slice of cheesecake for you."

His smile lights up his whole face, tugging up one corner of his mouth and then the other in a dimpled grin.

Corey pays in cash and another kiss, before walking out of your life as if he didn't just ruin it.

You could recognise him anywhere. Anywhere, any place, any time. You'd recognise Corey by the sound of his boots on the lino, or by the smell of his cigarette breath, by the accent that cradles his words, or by the bruises that paint storms across his sunset skin.

He walks through the door, bell jingling cheerily at his arrival, and sits at a booth towards the back of the diner, shrugging his leather jacket off.

It'd be embarrassing how much his reappearance disarms you, if your mind could think of anything other than how you need to keep your promise.

There's a plate in your hand, a slice of cheesecake covered in strawberry drizzle sits pretty in the centre. You hardly remember crossing the diner; Corey's dark eyes watch the way your sunshine-yellow uniform hugs your hips as you walk.

Sliding into his booth, you place the cheesecake in front of him and press a fork into his scarred palm.

Pretty pink lips pull up into a broad grin that he almost bites back before giving in; his smile is glorious on his bruised face. His knuckles are split. His throat is ringed with yellowing bruises that shift when he swallows.

Your hand finds his on the table top. "Welcome back."

He eats slowly, even though you can tell he's hungry. After this, you'll fix him all the food he wants, plates upon plates of it until you're sure he's happy and well-fed.

"You in town for long?" This time, goes unsaid.

Corey's smile falters, his dark eyes reminding you that you probably can't even begin to imagine what it is he does, and where he goes and how he lives his life outside of the witching hours you spend with him in your diner.

"Yeah," he says, boyish smile returning. "I think I am."

on the topic of restaurant sex, you should also read [warnings apply]:

good boy by ghost (@/ghostwriterforghosts). corey and reader go out for dinner and he is very, very fun to tease.

[becabeale143]

[sensiblethingtodo]

Brittany Snow Talks Picking Anna Kendrick’s Brain As Both Pitch Perfect Actors Go Into Directing

[pennyserenade]

i got high to write but now i’m listening to 70s dad music and feeling it intertwine with the very fabric of my being, like god intended

[shmowder]

The urge to headcanon every pathologic character as aroallo is getting harder to resist each day

They'd each fall differently on the Aversed/Neutral/favoured spectrum for romance. Some would go for a relationship, and others would prefer a fwb situation. Some are poly by default while others prefer monogomy.

[isaut]

𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒏𝒐. 𝑰 𝒊𝒏 𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒋𝒐𝒓: 𝑰. 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆 — chrollo x f!reader. song

originally posted on my old blog @/saintchrollo after i read anna karenina for the first time. court advisor!chrollo (but you all know he's kuroro to me) and princess!reader. i've been in such a kuroro mood you'll have to forgive me. its something about autumn and schoolin. here is a link to an audiobook of anna karenina so you don't have an excuse to not go read it.

“I thought I might find you here.” 

The voice from behind startles you. You jump slightly in your chair, holding the book you had been reading against your chest. Turning, you relax slightly upon seeing where the voice was coming from. “Lord Lucifuru, you startled me.” 

The black haired man tilts his head to the side as he approaches, hand resting on the back of your armchair. “Are we not on a first name basis anymore, Princesse?” He lilts the title in the accent he’s picked up from his years of council. 

You avoid his gaze, cheeks heating up. The room warms with the memories of the other night. Squirreled away behind a statue, whispered confessions, his lips everywhere they shouldn’t have been— Your lips, your neck, your chest. 

“What if we aren’t alone?” You whisper. If you lose yourself to the daydream enough, you can feel his hands on your hips. 

“I checked,” Kuroro says, voice soft and reassuring. “We are most certainly alone.” 

You straighten up and crane your head around, as if to double check his words. He tilts your head back towards him with a finger under your chin. 

“I’d never steer you wrong,” Kuroro promises, then tacks on, “[First.]” 

It fills you with such warmth to hear your name from his lips, and you have to avert your gaze to keep yourself from melting into a puddle. 

“Are you sure there’s no one else here?” You ask again. 

“And risk my own head?” Kuroro asks, a smile pulling at the left of his lips. 

You suppose he has a point. You relax back into the chair, resting your book on your chest to hold its place. “Have you been searching for me, then, Kuroro?” 

His half smile reaches his eyes. That’s more like it. “I have, actually. All over. I should have started here, it seems. Would of had more time with you.” 

“You should have known I’d be here,” You hum. “After all, I was told this morning over breakfast that my crate of books finally got deemed… What’s the word you use?” 

“They were found to be without ill intent,” Kuroro restates. “We just wanted to be sure that no harm would come to you.” 

“Father coddles me,” You remark, “As do you.” 

“Well, I’d be out of a job if I didn’t do as he told. And you’d be out of a job if you didn’t get coddled. That is under the description of princess.” 

“I do other things,” You protest. 

“I know you do,” Kuroro says, his eyes glancing down at the book splayed across your chest before back to your eyes. 

“What have you come found me for?” You press. 

“Do I always have an ulterior motive with you?” Kuroro returns your question with one of his own. At the raise of your eyebrow, he concedes. “There is a dinner tonight that you are expected to attend. A prince is here to make your acquaintance, in the most casual manner possible.”

Disgust fills your face. “This is what you come to tell me of?” 

“Would you have preferred someone else?” Kuroro asks. 

No, you’d rather have not. “I simply thought… I thought you had come to see me. For no other reason than to see me.”

Kuroro hums. He cups your cheek in his hand, thumb smoothing over its softness. You can’t help but lean into his touch, bring your hand to cover his. To keep him close. 

“I offered to come tell you,” Kuroro promises, crouching down by your chair. “I wanted to break the news to you, not someone else.” 

“Will you be at dinner?” You inquire. 

“I’ll be there. I must advise your father that the visiting suitor is not up to your family’s standards. That is my job, after all. As an adivisor and as a lover.” 

Kuroro’s tongue was always so smooth, and if you had more control over your life you’d be wary of it. But, with your sole outlet being the man before you, you ease yourself against his silver words. 

“Lover?” You repeat, eyelashes fluttering at such a title. 

“Should I take it back?” He asks with bated breath. 

You shake your head. “You should tell Father to marry us instead.”

Kuroro’s chuckle is self deprecating. “I am no king.” 

“You could be,” You whisper, getting your hopes up against your best judgement. 

“My best work is done from the shadows, my darling. I crumple under the public eye. And you were made for it. The people adore you.” 

You pout. “You’re going to break my heart.” 

Kuroro smiles gently at you. “You’ve known that, [First.]”

“I wish I didn’t,” You sigh. “I wish I wasn’t so aware.”

Kuroro shifts his hand to take yours in his own, bringing your knuckles to his lips. The gesture is familiar, impersonal now. He rolls your hand over, slides his fingers down your wrist, the underside of your forearm, and presses a kiss into the palm of your hand. 

“It’s for the best you are,” Kuroro says. “Tomorrow I will find time in our schedules for us to take a walk, how does that sound?” 

“A long walk?” 

“A long walk.” 

Your fingers trace Kuroro’s jaw. “Why not tonight? Why not now?” 

“You are not dressed for a walk,” Kuroro says softly. “And you need to get ready for dinner. We do not have time for a walk right now, sweet [First.]” 

“Oh.” Your fingers stop their movements, and you withdraw your hand. 

“Would you like me to walk you to your room?” Kuroro asks. 

“Will you stay while I get ready?” You hope. 

Kuroro sadly shakes his head. “I can go get you something from the kitchen and come back while delivering it.”

“So yes?” You conclude. 

“In a way,” Kuroro says, standing. He holds his hand out for you to take, which you gladly do. 

You look around you, double checking for your solitude. The door would have been audible had it opened. 

“Do you think I could have a kiss?” You whisper. 

“A kiss?” Kuroro hums. Slowly, he lowers his head until his breath mingles with yours. 

“Please?” 

“You should never have to ask for anything,” Kuroro responds, sealing his statement with a solid yet brief press of his lips against yours. “It is cruel that you want what you can’t have.”

There is no second kiss, just a hand on your cheek and Kuroro’s steady breath. A whine leaves your lips. 

Slowly, you open your eyes to look at him. “One more?” 

He obliges, slotting your lips together. The kiss lasts for a breath longer, his tongue gently swiping against your bottom lip before pulling away. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to kiss anyone else,” You murmur. 

Kuroro chuckles at that. “I’m sure you’ll kiss many more.” 

You shake your head. “I don’t wish to.” 

“You flatter me,” Kuroro murmurs, “When it should be the other way around.”

This turn, you hum, a little smile flickering across your lips. You pull away, out of the fear that built inside you from the amount of private time you’d had. Someone was bound to come for you any moment. 

Greedily, Kuroro steals another kiss before leading you out of the room. It’s a cold walk down the halls, shoes echoing on the stone, a distinct space left between both of you. The wind from your walk whips through it. The more distance put between yourself and the library, the larger the space becomes. And, as you round the corner of the hall, you can no longer feel the lingering warmth against your lips. 

[isalabells]