#lord i need him

[realhotgirlshitah]

One month ago today, a barber and eyebrow tech in prison sat their fellow inmate down in a chair, held hands, took a moment of silence and said “let’s make history”

[femboylando]

everyone PAUSE

[egotisticaleverything]

Foggy Nelson who you wouldn’t stop complaining about your back pain in front of- as you stayed after work hours -offering to give you a massage with all the hand strength he gained from those 4+ hour long written exams in college.

“Yknow what just- come here…”

Foggy Nelson who genuinely offered innocently but somehow managed to have you bent over his desk with your skirt bunched up around your waist as he fucked you from behind. The only noises besides your moans- muffled against your arms as you tired desperately to keep quiet -was him as he leaned over your body as he thrusted into you, muttering short praises between groans,

“Fuck-you feel so good, holy shit… so… fucking-… tight…”

Foggy Nelson who barely manages to keep himself coherent. It’s not his fault you feel so fucking good. What is his fault though is the bruise his palms leave imprinted on your ass as he paws at you like a desperate puppy. But fuck you’re so addictive to him. And oh how he loves to tell Matt off constantly for the exact thing he’s doing right fucking now. He doesn’t care though, if anything the hypocrisy makes it hotter. Only bad part is the next morning,

“Uh.. hi.”

“Morning..”

Foggy Nelson who’s so awkward the next morning he can’t even speak. The tension, so thick it’s practically suffocating the both of you. Do you mention it? Do you not? Or do you? This constant game of mind tag between the two is sending both of you into a frenzy and Matt- well Matt already knows. No matter how thoroughly either of you showered the night before, or how well you cleaned up the office after, the lingering scent of sweat and sex can and will be smelt by him from a mile away. And you both know it deep down.

[problematicraccoon]

WE LISTEN AND WE DO NOT JUDGE

what if i made a dr where i've just gotten back home from college and i end up sneaking around with my father's best friend, Pedro Pascal

WE LISTEN. AND WE DO. NOT. JUDGE.

[nahoyasboyfriend]

I'm stuck on this concept of watching James while he indulges his bloodlust, but him being almost like a puppy to you.

There's a man tied down before him, and an array of tools of pain and death (well, mostly knives and plain fixing tools) layed out nearby. You sit down in an armchair, legs crossed, lighting a cigarette with such nonchalance it drives March crazy. He doesn't just make a show out of the torture, he lets you chime in with whatever requests you might have. You tell him to use the hammer, or the smallest of his knives, and he can't bring himself to refuse. Both the submission to you and control over the victim drive him nuts. He can't tell you "no". Be a little authoritative and he's all yours. Like a puppy. Well, a very morbid puppy.

Also, calling him by his last name only🥰 whenever you're mad and want to treat him like the dog he is a little harsher, curtly call him March, not Jimmy, not James, just his last name. He will kneel and grovel for your amusement and forgiveness - as long as you don't tell anybody, of course.

(Or maybe he would like you to tell someone because he would love to be humiliated. But he'd never agree to it, so it stays a secret little fantasy.)

I'm absolutely in love with the thought of this so here is a little something!!

James sees you in his peripheral vision in your pretty dress and your plump red lips. you're watching him, but you're not truly looking at him. rather your eyes are focused on his hands and the man strapped before him. your reactions are lukewarm. silently watching. judging. today, for reasons unknown to James, you're not being as doting as you'd normally be. you haven't trailed your eyes up and down the length of his body, you haven't told how good he's doing, and you didn't come give him a kiss when you came in. he doesn't question it, but it burns him up. the lack of attention makes him feel like he might break out in hives.

"use the small knife, March," your sweet but firm voice rings out, and the sound of his last name sends chills creeping down his spine. it's so rare the word sounds foreign on your tongue. pausing what he was doing, he listens, picking up a smaller knife.

"no, the smallest one," you sigh, taking a drag from your cigarette. he quickly picks up the one you requested. it makes things slightly harder, he has to cut deeper to get better results, put in more effort. the man groans in agony, drooling around a gag that you suggested James stuff in his mouth. there's an odd enjoyment he gets out of this, out of listening to your every word without question. wrapped around your finger, while this man’s life is wrapped around his.

you do this a few times, commanding him to use different weapons on this poor man. each of them putting more strain on James as well as causing the man more suffering. he tries to rejoice in the man's pain, and he does take great pleasure in it. but he can't help notice how with every switch your attention ebbs. a few yawns here and there, checking your nails, and adjusting your dress. he doesn't up the torture, doesn't stop doing what you've asked of him. he can follow orders and be good for you.

“March, come here,” you call out, beckoning him over, your painted nails glinting in the light. he looks over at you with wide eyes, glancing at the man in front of him.

“kill him and come here, don't make me wait,” you add, impatient. without hesitation, he slits the man's neck, and rushes to you. he stops in front of you, and you tap your nails against the arm of the chair.

“kneel,” you hum, giving him a mean smile. it surprises the both of you when he drops to his knees. you half expected him to stop going along with your whims. he didn't realize how a singular smile could render him this subservient.

“dearest, I don't understand why you're withholding your affections-” you cut him off with a finger pressing against his lips. then you lean in close, close enough that your lips are almost touching, “if you want my love, you have to earn it. show me how well you can obey, March.”

[sinnerofmidnite]

Guess who finally found their gspot? Lil fuckers so sensitive, thinking about a priest abusing it with his fingers dead on into overstimulation.

[nativegirltapes]

if you met drew in person, would you shoot your shot ?

why did this question make me tweak out for a second and go down a rabbit hole

definitely not because i’d be shitting my pants but maybe in another universe i would and we’d become a couple and get married and id be his young ass gf (the angelverse)

[kisses4kaia]

watching the witcher and i NEED geralt SO BAD

[hiraethwa]

jeong yunho the man you are 🧎🏻‍♀️

[realhotgirlshitah]

Nerdy Luigi in college who’s filthy rich and has never given a single fuck about spending an obscene amount of money on anything, especially himself.

Until he meets high maintenance reader who’s super popular and head of her sorority.

Suddenly he’s finding himself in all the best restaurants across the city, buying lavish expensive gifts for you, and is willing to do ANYTHING just to see you smile.

He’s enamoured.

A lot of people don’t think it makes sense, that you’re with him for the money but come on! He’s cute, sweet, smart and absolutely insane in bed (you like to keep that detail to yourself).

The gifts are a nice bonus though.

[ideas-ideasideasideas]

Batman gives each of his Robins a different code to use when they’re in trouble and need immediate extraction. He promises that when they call, he’ll drop everything just to get to them, come hell or high water.

Jason, during his time with the League, shares his code with Damian, to be used “only in the direst of circumstances, when you have exhausted all other options.” He doesn’t know if Bruce will answer, given how fractured their relationship was before he died, but it is better than nothing. Every tool counts when they live such dangerous lives.

Damian uses it exactly once, and Bruce, who still feels the loss of his son like a yawning chasm in his chest, responds to it even though he knows it can’t be Jason because Jason’s dead. What he finds, instead of Jason, is a boy in League garbs, drenched in blood from the tips of his midnight-black hair to his too-small feet, with a face that Bruce sees himself and Talia in, requesting asylum from a grandfather who wishes to possess his body. Bruce doesn’t question how this boy who is so clearly his son knew the code. Talia al Ghul is resourceful and places family above all; the code is not beyond her abilities to discover, and she is not above using Bruce’s desperate love for his dead son to ensure that hers does not meet the same fate.

Bruce takes Damian in, because of course he does, and since Jason is dead he allows Damian to keep using the code. After all, it’s not like Jason is alive to use it, right? If someone uses the code, there’s no one it could be but Damian, right?

The next time the code is used, Bruce traces the location to Gotham even though Damian was supposed to be in Bludhaven visiting Dick. But whatever happened that resulted in Damian being in Gotham can wait, because he has already failed one son and he will not fail another, his son is in trouble and he needs to get to him, he needs to—

What he finds, instead of Damian, is a boy (just eighteen, too young, but also too old, but also he will always be a boy to him) in League garbs, drenched in blood from the tips of his midnight-black hair to his too-large feet (when had he gotten so big), wearing the face of his dead son.

(Who, maybe, just maybe, may no longer be so dead.)

[kaisenkalogathia]

Gojo x Deadpool 😫😫😫

Art by: akutawah

[ozymoron]

sir?

[dameronshandholder]

DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDE

Punch-Out Love

Artwork by @guruan

FIGHT NIGHT

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You're lucky enough to score ring-side seats at a boxing match on Friday night. Getting the best view in the house of boxing champion: Miguel O'Hara.

Word count: 1,500

Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist 

You know fuck all about boxing.

About the only thing you know about the sport was from the glimpses you caught watching scratched up old recordings of Muhammed Ali fights on the boxy mini-tv of your old childhood friend's house.

It always seemed barbaric. The practice of watching two human beings beat the shit out of each other for spectator's entertainment. It seems like something that was better left in the Ancient Roman times. Have we all human beings as a society, really not come further some 2,000 years later?

Your bestie used to get mad at you for this. Constantly defending the sport from your criticism, because (according to him) it's not just about smashing each other's faces in. Supposedly, there's an art to the sport. Boxers are taught to respect their opponents and adhere to the principles of good sportsmanship. It takes great mental discipline, dedicated work and years of hard and punishing training to master boxing.

You never saw any of that in the matches he showed you. All you saw were two men needlessly being hurt, sustaining brain damage for rich people's enjoyment.

Then again, he was more than a little bit biased, considering it was his dream to go pro one day. Tall and gangly, with his scrawny antelope legs, thick-rimmed glasses and big-ass braces, he looked like he couldn't punch his way out of a paper bag, much less another person. You never understood how exactly he thought he was going to make it as a boxer.

But you never found it in you to burst his unrealistic bubble when he used to point at the screen excitedly, drawing your attention to Ali's footwork and the artistry in it. 

"It's like he's dancing," he used to say.

Except dancing is done with swelling music in the background. In dancing you often have a partner. It's an embrace. It's gentle and kind.

Boxing... was not that.

So you don't know how you managed to find yourself in the ringside seats of a local boxing match on a Friday evening, staring up at the boxing ring with the glaring ring lights shining into your eyes.

"Aren't these seats amazing?" your cousin shouts excitedly over the familiar lyrics of ‘We Will Rock You' being belted out by Freddy Mercury on the loudspeaker.

You smile, and nod, because boxing-fan or not, she's right, these are some amazing seats. And considering you didn't have to pay a dime for them, personal aversions aside, you're never going to turn down free stuff.

Her boyfriend tested positive for covid at the last minute, and you're the only one in your social circle that is anti-social and single enough to not have any plans on a Friday evening.

On the monitors above you, the menacing headshots of the two fighters swish into view.

"The first guy is an old reigning champ," your cousin explains to you, as she leans in, shouting into your eardrums (and yet you can still barely make out what she's saying over the music). "The challenger is some new kid on the block. Has an amazing track record. Zero losses in the season. He's something else."

You look up at the gigantic screen, at the sharp cut cheeks, strong thick brows and the intense pitched brown eyes staring down at you.

Angry looking dude.

...Handsome too.

With a face like that, surely he could've gone into other careers. Calvin Klein model, movie star, or a news anchor. You wonder what makes a guy voluntarily have his face bashed in for money as a career.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a loud booming voice announces from the stage.

You jump in your seat from the suddenness, as you see a bald and overly formal dressed announcer in the middle of the ring. 

"Welcome to the electrifying boxing showdown of the century! Are you ready to witness some knockout action tonight?"

The crowd around you cheers with a pandemonium of shouting and whistling.

"Introducing our first fighter, a true hometown hero! With an impressive record of 20 wins, 15 by knockout, and only 2 losses, standing at 6'3 feet, and weighing in at 240 pounds of determination and strength, give it up for ‘the Knockout King’ Bobby Kane!"

You watch as the reigning champion walks down the tunnel to the midst of adoring cheers as he waves and gestures at the crowd like royalty.

Every inch the king that he is nicknamed, he jumps over the rope and stands tall and proud over the ring.

The man is huge, bulging with almost grotesque muscles. He's so large that you almost expect each of his steps to send a reverberation throughout the hall, as if this was Jurassic Park and he's a T-Rex.

"Now, entering the ring with the confidence of a warrior, fighting out of the red corner, with 15 wins, 10 by knockout, and no losses, standing at an astounding 6 feet 9 inches, and weighing in at 230 pounds of raw power, let's hear it for tonight's challenger, ‘Steel Jaw’ Miguel O'Hara!"

Wait what? You do a double take at the announcement. Six foot nine?!?! What kind of giant is that?

From the far corner of the hall, you see his silhouette emerge, and your eyes go wide at the sight of him. Tall doesn't even begin to describe him. 

There's a 200 year oak tree at Central Park, and with the shadow this man casts, you think their height must be nearly comparable. If you thought the Knockout King was tall, the "King" is practically tiny compared to this challenger.

You watch, as the man with cheeks so sharp they mind as well be blades (and god never has a nickname made more sense to you) as he strides towards the stage. He reaches the rope and barely even has to climb over it with how tall he is.

He's leaner than his predecessor. Every inch of him is cut muscles and tanned gorgeous skin as he stands in front of you. His presence is electric. The air crackles where he stands, towering over the stage.

You swear that his towering height blocks out the ring lights with it, casting the stage in the darkness of his tall shadow.

Somehow, he's even prettier in person compared to the still image of him blown up and plastered on the big screen. Soft brown curls and pouty lips. You don't understand in what world a man like that is a professional fighter.

From this distance, with the way that the light refracts from his irises, his eyes almost glow with a scarlet red that takes your breath away as you look up at him and meet his eyes.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was staring at you.

The bell rings out, but he's not looking away. The intensity you find there is enough to make you swallow your tongue. Your face prickles with heat and for several long moments you forget to breathe, until the air seems to thin around you and your vision starts to swim.

Then he turns to face his opponent.

You're not quite sure where to look. There's so much happening at once. For his size, Miguel O'Hara is surprisingly deft on his feet. His footwork is somehow both unpredictable yet intentional all at once.

The King throws a strong punch, as he lunges forward, after his tall opponent. But O'Hara dodges them seemingly without effort. It's followed by punches so quick, the movements blur together.

Strike after strike. The King is giving it his all. But none of it properly connects. With every failed hit, you can see him growing increasingly more frustrated.

Your heart is in your lungs, and despite how close you are to the stage, you almost want to get up from your seat for a closer look.

Safe as you are behind the ropes, adrenaline rushes through your veins with a fury. You can't recall the last time you felt this ecstatic about... well, anything.

With each punch O’Hara dodges, you feel yourself lurch back in your seat, trying to dodge the punch with him.

It's titillating.

Exciting.

O'Hara's movements are precise and honed with intention despite the ferocity in his movements. Each one is measured and intricate and if you didn't know any better you'd almost call it graceful.

You think back to those moments in your childhood friend's home, and his excited words buzz in your ears now. For the first time ever you finally understand what he had meant.

It is like a dance.

Before you, O’Hara's eyes cross over in your direction and for a split of a second, you swear your eyes connect again. His gaze holds you there, pinned to your seat, and excitement shoots through the entirety of your spine until you feel lightheaded from the attention.

Then he finally steps forward, no longer evading.

It's brutal and efficient.

An uppercut that connects cleanly to his opponent's jaw.

Spit and blood flies out from the man's mouth, the flabby flesh of his cheek vibrating from the impact as he lands on the floor with an ear-shattering thud.

Then the guy is out.

Barely even eight minutes in. 

There's a stunned and shocked silence. The crowd seems both enthralled and disappointed at how fast it all went. On the ring floor, you can practically see the circle of cartoon birds flying above the defeated King's head.

You may not know anything about boxing, but you know that this man is not getting up anytime soon, no matter how far the referee counts.

Tearing your eyes away from the motionless body splayed out on the ground elevated above you, you can see the victor towering menacingly over the body.

But Miguel O'Hara isn't even looking at his defeated opponent

No, his eyes are staring straight into the sea of awestruck spectators. Except he’s not looking at them.

He's looking at you.

To be continued.

Author's note: What's that you say? CiCi wtf are you doing starting another series when you already got one going on? ... Idek man. But I hope you guys enjoy it, cause I had a blast writing it, smut will ensue in later chapters I promise!

Dedications and Credits: Buckle up it's gonna be a big one!

Firstly to @guruan when I say she's my muse THIS IS WHAT I MEAN! Look at that beautiful artwork. I am drooling into my panties. I am crying between my legs. I am so damn horny! I cannot thank this amazingly talented genius enough. Please please give this wonderful brilliant human your love by following her, and drop by her KO-FI SHOP cause the art this woman bless us with is UN-fucking-REAL

Then to @djarinsbeskar who put this idea into my head. In my mind she is the OG Boxer AU champion and mastermind. If you are in the mood for more boxing content, she has a wonderful, devastatingly sexy series Boxer!Din AU that is just woof woof bark bark.

[magxit]

[stargirl230]

ghost of you

super quick Sua screencap redraw to celebrate the new video release - no I was not expecting it to be Like That and yes I was devastated

(no reposts; reblogs appreciated)