#sorry that wasn’t necessary

[p1astriiiii]

“yuki who would you pick-“

“pierre😁!”

“yuki have you ever-“

“oh me and pierre did once😁!”

[caracolcondiarrea]

I’ve heard some people say like “ but it isn’t confirmed that tweek and Craig are married in post COVID bc they don’t wear a ring and/or they don’t say that they’re married”

ok, the ring thing is stupid, like, none of the adults that are married have a ring as far as I’m aware.

secondly and most important, they don’t need to say that they’re married so you can guess they are. They literally introduced themselves again as Tweek and Craig, they do it together, they don’t need to be showing affection constantly to put it clear that they’re married. Also, when they go to look for aluminum foil, they go together, it would be rather awkward if they had to be together and they are exe’s.

“maybe they’re still dating but they decided not to get married” maybe, but after like 40 years of dating the same person it would be weird if they aren’t honestly.

[sweaty-toothed-mad-woman]

Hiii me again :') BUT i have to ask you about your thoughts on number 10 (who would waste an opportunity to get music recommendations?) and number 12 :D okay byeee have a good day!! 😁

HI AGAIN!!!! 👋

you dont wanna get me started on that but you are too late

I will die on the hill that how did it end by Taylor Swift is fully about anderperry because it is

I have a playlist and I’m a swifty so it’s all Taylor swift lol and the big ones on there are the lakes (bc obviously), nothing new (how Neil feels about his fathers expectations), forever winter (keating before Neil’s death), how did it end (Todd learning about Neil’s death), my tears ricochet (Neil and his dad), evermore (Todd at the end of the movie), and happiness (same as evermore) and there’s more than that but they’re all kinda a stretch

for non Taylor swift songs gotta go with Vienna by Billy Joel, any sad song in existence, really (idk im a swifty it’s all I listen to 😭)

I can think of a lot of things I wish they’d done (*cough*anderperryneillivesneilsparentsgetdivorcedginnywasinitjustgenerallyhaplyending*cough*) but realistically, I wish they hinted to us what happened after bc it’s just like “oh they disobey the headmaster, guess you will never know what happens after 🤷‍♀️ “ and like I get that it’s part of it but I just wish they’d included that

or alternatively they’d given us some more Keating lore bc I’m curious as shit to how all this got started

what about you?

[fixedglare-ii]

idk if it’s just a really fitting end of her character arc or I’m just ace but I’m very okay with tylerkate not kissing at the end of the movie

[s-ccaam-era-crepe]

guy who’s bad at regulating his emotions over losing items when he misplaces his water bottle

[hearts401]

Okay for future reference next time I make a post about a character I like let’s not turn it into discourse please and thank you. Especially if I don’t know you. I don’t wanna be rude but it’s so annoying seeing stuff like that in my notes I do not care I just wanted to post about a character I liked.

[aquared]

where. where is your banner from oh ymtngod

oh my god i never credited the origin did i i’ll have to add that anyways it’s from here ! https://mspfa.com/?s=21&p=202 it’s from a mirror (?) of that old felt comic ( well , most of it , mostly without images ) made by the original donator of the mc , long story short atleast

it’s my favorite panel …. one of them atleast

https://mspfa.com/?s=21&p=202

[blackdragon-selfships]

F/Ovember Signal Boost from Blog Owner (Meg)

So Tumblr might be glitching again, because a thing I posted almost an hour ago isn’t showing up…and at risk of being annoying if people HAVE seen it already, I’m making another post about this just in cases:

For only today (November 14th) I am having Aaravos run the blog. Yes, I mean Aaravos from The Dragon Prince. He’s an f/o of mine too. He wasn’t going to be participating in the November takeover this year, but today is his birthday so I thought it would be fun to let him run it today.

The introduction is on this post. I had it scheduled though, so that might be why it isn’t showing up in the tags. :/

Well anyway, here’s a picture of my favorite (and only) starry elf love for anyone that doesn’t know him. Be nice to him too. It is his birthday.

(One rule before you send anything and didn’t read the intro:

Don’t talk about the show. He doesn’t want to talk about what happened, both to avoid spoilers and because he just doesn’t need reminding of that time of his life on his day. I don’t want to talk about it because I’m done making theories that will likely be wrong.

Aside from that and being respectful, ask whatever you want.)

[bradshawsweetheart]

Excuse me @roosterbruiser didn’t you know you can’t hurt babygirl characters in a slasher fic

[livvyofthelake]

mal shadow and bone looks so much like hardin from after i’m so sorry for saying that it’s my truth though. it’s the bone structure or something idk. anyway it’s alina time <3 trying to paint lemons even though i should fully be going to sleep rn

[cloversugar]

YES!!!!! like okay don’t get me wrong i love hozier i’m actually seeing him live in like a week and i love harvey just,,, look at my blog at that point tbh,,,, so i have credentials here anyways anyways but yeah i feel like too sweet just isn’t the right hozier song for him. and i’ve complained about this before because 1) i’m a hater and 2) i’m pretentious as balls but this KEEPS!!!! HAPPENING!!!!!!! with characters and hozier songs and they’re not even like??? difficult to understand hozier songs. like okay fine one little tik tok that’s cute! but swarms,,, okay. okay. “but the like four lines of the song in the tik tok audio make sense with it!!!!!!” I DONT CARE!!!!!! I DO NOT CARE!!!!!!!!!! some of you guys are just too horny to care and that does sound pretentious but i’m right actually sue me.

Harvey skyrocketing in popularity among stardew fans solely because of that Hozier song is so funny to me because it makes me feel like we are playing 2 VERY different games. Harvey is not "I'd rather take my whiskey neat my coffee black and my bed at three" he's a walking ball of anxiety dork of a man who probably goes to bed at 10 pm every night. If anything, the roles should be reversed cuz I KNOW the farmer is a freak.

[twilightxsun]

you ever get a fandom post on your for you page that is so removed from standard canon that you’re like wow I was not slow-boiled at all for this one. quite literally thrown straight into scalding water like what’s the steps how did we get here.

[area51-escapee]

At this point I really don’t have it in me to care anymore. I did not ever once make it a goal to become chronically ill, it is something that just happened to me. I never made a decision, I never had a choice, it just happened. I had absolutely no say in it so forgive me if I find it hard to have empathy or even sympathy for doctors when I’m continually being fucked over and continually being told that it’s all justified because they are so underpaid.

I’m sorry that you chose this career path. I’m sorry that you decided to go to medical school, spent money and years of your life studying and preparing for this job. I’m sorry that you graduated, you got your medical license, you started a practice or sought out one that eventually hired you, only to find out you aren’t getting paid as much as you thought you would. I’m sorry that you have to deal with sick and disabled people all day long, people who need help, people who need treatment, people who may be at the worst points in their lives and not entirely pleasant. I am so, so sorry you don’t get paid enough to deal with us. But none of that is my fucking fault. I’m sorry that I show up to your office, scared and confused and exhausted and begging for help, and I’m sorry that there isn’t a simple answer you can give me in a single visit. I wish there was so that you would actually treat me instead of handing me a new diet to try and sending me on my way.

I’m sorry that you don’t get paid enough to deal with me. But I don’t get paid at all to be disabled. In fact I have to pay a lot. Doctors appointments cost money. Medications cost money. Taking time off work costs money. Things like canes, KT tape, braces, compression sleeves, accessible kitchen tools and pre prepped foods, all of that is not cheap, and it adds up over time. I didn’t want to lose my ability to walk without a cane. I didn’t want my wrists to get so bad I couldn’t cook, or draw, or do much of anything. I didn’t want to be overwhelmed with pain and fatigue and exhaustion. I sure as hell don’t get paid enough for it. It costs money, happiness, time I could spend with my friends, practicing my hobbies, it costs so much to be disabled, to have a condition they can’t diagnose.

So I’m sorry if I just don’t feel bad for the plight of doctors anymore. I have so fucking much to feel bad about and after constantly being dismissed, treated like shit, misdiagnosed only because they refused to actually do any tests, I just don’t have any space to feel bad anymore. I hope they do start getting paid more soon, even the ones who have treated me badly. Maybe they’ll finally be incentivized to care about their patients. Who knows.

[mars-paws]

IM COLD AS FUCK

[iboopedyournose]

Okayyyy I’ll admit it, I cried a little 🥹🥹🥹 this might just be a new favorite for me 💕💕

Happy Birthday, Mr Bridgerton

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict's wife gives him the best possible birthday gift.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, masturbation, vaginal sex, massage, pregnancy.

Word Count: 3.0k

Author's Note: A more romantic fic than my usual. The sweet, soulful artist deserves to be loved and cherished. Enjoy <3

It’s midnight, and a birthday has just begun.

You pad through the house to Benedict’s studio. He is perched on a stool, busy sketching. He often works late into the night when the muse takes him. You pause in the open doorway to watch him work. Admiring his skills as he feathers his charcoal across the page. Admiring him, the movements of his artistic hands, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his braces hanging loose around his hips.

“Happy birthday, my love,” you call softly as you close the door.

“Thank you, my lo…” his answer dies on his lips as he turns and sees you.

Speechless is a good start.

Your skin feels aglow as you bask in his attention, sauntering towards him. His eyes track your every movement. His hand is still suspended in midair, charcoal in hand.

Your gown is totally sheer, the colour of your flesh, its only adornment being tiny starbursts of silver sequins that glitter in the candlelight. You feel beautiful in it, like a walking shimmering fireworks display. With a few layers of chemises, this would be a stunning ball gown; without them, it’s a scandalous sight. Everything is visible through the translucent tulle layers. And you wear absolutely nothing underneath except a dab or two of his favourite perfume.

He still hasn’t said anything, but he is breathing slightly heavily as you draw up to him, his eyes raking up and down your body. You pluck the charcoal between his fingers and place it down on his easel.

“I am the luckiest man in the world,” he exhales quietly, finally finding his voice.

Warmth blooms in your chest, and you smile fondly at his compliment, stepping between his slightly bended knees; one of his feet looped onto the stool, the other kicked out towards the easel. You set aside a little glass vial you came in holding.

“Wh…” he begins, but you hush him with a soft finger to his lips.

“Shh, you don’t need to speak tonight, my love,” you murmur, running your hands into his hair, “just feel.”

His eyes soften and give silent acceptance, and his body relaxes a notch. Even though he finds solace in his art, he’s had a long few days; you want to soothe him and bring him peace.

His soulful blue eyes watch your expressions as your fingertips trail across his cheekbones, curling inwards to brush the back of your fingers down his jawline to his chin, mapping the structure of his face. There are libraries worth of literature extolling female beauty, but you’ve found precious few pieces that capture the truth of male beauty such as his. Your thumb traces gently over his lips, and you ghost a smile as he busses gently against your digit.

You move your hands to outline the shell of his ears, passing his earlobes between your fingers, sweeping down to cup his neck, pressingly on the tension points you feel corded there. He exhales deeply, leaning into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. Tonight it’s all about making him feel special, not just because it’s his birthday, but because he spends so much of his time catering to the needs of others, most of all yours, and he deserves to be indulged.

Splaying your fingers upwards around the back of his head, you enjoy running them into his thick hair. He hums contentedly as you massage lightly. Then his breath hitches as you scrape your nails lightly across his scalp, the skin around his open shirt collar erupting into goosebumps. Oh, the responsiveness is so enchanting.

You lean forward and kiss his lips softly, just a brief touch. His eyes fly open, and he chases your lips as you pull away. He pleads with the most mournful expression, so you relent and press your lips to his again. His hands curl around your shoulders, their sizeable warmth at once both centring and sending you soaring. He kisses back slowly, opening his lips slightly, his tongue requesting permission to yours. Hands still in his hair, you pull closer, deepening the kiss. His arms now slide around your back to hold you close. It’s luscious and languid. Shared breaths and gentle flirtation.

You reach down and tug his shirt up. He assists your efforts, removing his arms from around you and pulling the garment up and over his head. You catalogue the sculpted plains of his arms, chest, and stomach. He is watching your face with a crooked smile; he knows all the telltale signs of your desire. Your tongue feels thick, wanting to run over every inch. For later, you tell yourself.

His brow knits in puzzlement as you circle him, coming to a halt behind him instead. You kiss the back of his neck, running your nose up into his hair, where his natural scent is most potent. On instinct, it draws you closer; your hands curl around his biceps as you press your upper body against him. The rasp of your tulle dress against his shoulder blades hitches his breath and yours, the friction causing your nipples to pebble heavily. Knowing he can feel it too—a little tease of what else will come later.

He is listening intently as you reach for the small glass vial you came in with, opening it and pouring a little oil into your palm. Usually, by now, he would be asking what you're doing, using the velvety tone that makes your body sing. Tonight he is quiet, but one look into his eyes would say everything his lips are not.

Notes of orange and bergamot swirl into the air as you massage the oil into your hands, warming it. His inhale is a sign he recognises the scent from the hours of pleasure in your bedroom. Usually, it is him massaging your body into a blissful state before slipping his fingers inside you, making you come over and over. More derailing thoughts you need to put aside.

You begin by running the flanks of your hands firmly down either side of his spine, all the way from his neck to his waist. His moan is one of relief, not desire, but your body reacts regardless; the sudden want to be filled by him is visceral. Your lips tingle to kiss him again, but you resist the urge, focussing on bringing him serenity.

Feeling the tension easing under your fingers as you work on the knots around his neck is a mutual reward. His breath is deep and even; he shifts to place both feet flat on the floor. You spend many minutes mapping the stress points in his back and kneading the flesh until it relents into a relaxed state. His hums and sighs act as the guide for your progress. You circle back to his front when it seems he is entirely free from any strain.

“Does that feel better, my love?” You know the answer, but asking gives you a moment to indulge your heart, appreciating the blissful look on his face as he nods contentedly.

He pulls you in for another kiss and gently bites your lower lip. The room grows a few degrees warmer, a sparking feeling notching up your spine, radiating out across your skin.

You run your hands heavily up his thighs, admiring the latent power you feel underneath the material, him watching your movements. Your hands reach his hips and pause, waiting for his gaze to meet yours. Then you start unbuttoning; you know he’s not wearing anything underneath today; he often doesn’t when you are home. It’s gratifying to watch his pupils dilate as you twist your mouth into a playful pout with each button relenting.

As you reach the last button, you grin broadly, grab his hand instead, and pull him bodily across the room towards the emerald green chaise. The one you have posed on countless times for him. He trails behind you with a carefree laugh, holding up his britches with his free hand.

“No need for modesty Mr Bridgerton” you tease as you pull him to a stop next to the chaise. He raises an eyebrow and lifts his hand, his britches falling to a heap on the floor. Your gaze descends to his cock, standing proud. So familiar to you now, but every time as tantalising and thrilling as the first time he showed you his body.

“Why do you ever wear clothes?” you think wistfully. Your cheeks flush as his lopsided smile tells you you have voiced your thoughts.

“If the lady wishes, I never will again in this house”, he whispers seductively. “But only if you only ever wear this dress” His fingers trace the neckline of your gown with feather-soft touches. “Or nothing at all.” His lips find the spot just below your earlobe that makes you shiver.

“This evening is supposed to be about me seducing you, birthday boy,” you admonish affectionately, pulling your neck away reluctantly, “not the other way around.”

“By all means, Mrs Bridgerton, please continue,” using that voice he knows makes your knees weak.

“Lay down,” you whisper.

He relaxes back on the chaise, one arm tucked behind his head, with an easy smile, an innate confidence in his nudity. You wish you had his skills to capture this moment on a canvas. You take your time surveying the sight before you, shameless almost in your ogling. Ladies of good breeding are not supposed to be so lascivious, but you can’t help it when it comes to your husband. He is gorgeous to you. And, based on how heads turn when he walks into a room, you are not alone in that sentiment. Not for the first time; you consider yourself very lucky he returned your feelings.

“Penny, for your thoughts, my love,” his arm reaching for you, his fingers gently circling your wrist.

“I was just thinking I am the luckiest woman in the world,” you reply truthfully, echoing his sentiment when you walked in earlier, leaning down to kiss the hand that holds your wrist.

His smile turns almost shy, and he averts his eyes, long eyelashes fluttering as a slight blush colours his cheeks. It makes your heart melt and your pussy clench simultaneously. How he can do that astounds you. You want to wrap him in the tightest, sweetest hug but also fuck him so hard your teeth rattle. What a beautiful contradiction.

“I had all these plans,” you sigh, “but I find myself impatient for you, my love.”

“Tell me about them,” he requests, looking back up at you, his lips tugging into a playful, beautiful crooked grin.

“I planned to tease you for ages, kiss every inch of your skin from your ankles to your hair,” you reply, your gaze tracking up his body again, fingers itching to trail over his contours.

“Sounds lovely,” his voice teasing.

“Mmmm, but,” you hitch up your dress and straddle him, settling your hips on his waist, your dress fanning out over him, your fingers tracing the constellation of freckles on his breastbone, “you are too tempting, Mr Bridgerton, and I find I just want you inside me.”

“That sounds even better,” he admits, his voice rough as he grabs your knee and runs a hand up your thigh under the gauzy layers. His questing fingers slide between your legs, and you moan as he expertly flexes them against you.

You grab his forearm. “No, my darling, it’s you who gets the pleasure tonight,” you counter, gently shaking your head and pulling his hand away.

“But I want to watch you. I love your face when I do this to you,” Benedict pleads, his eyes so beseeching.

“Then allow me,” you offer with a raised eyebrow.

Gathering your dress slightly, you slide your fingers between your legs, loving the wetness you find there, all for him. You moan gently, holding his gaze as your fingers move. His grip on your thigh tightens; you intuit what he is asking for and speed up your ministrations. You bite your lip and groan loudly, not daring to break eye contact. His other hand behind his head moves to grip your other thigh; his Adam's apple bobs visibly as he swallows, and his chest rises and falls more visibly.

“I need you,” his voice breathy and low, “please…”

Your fingers slip from your body and reach behind to grab him, and he groans as you give him a few gentle pumps with your hand before shuffling backwards to line him up with your body. Watching many expressions flit across his face, revelling in his breathy anticipation, you allow his tip inside. His moan is like poetry, and you sink fractionally lower, loving how it feels when he invades your body—the insistent stretch and heat. You roll your hips, eager to envelop him but also to maintain a slow tease. He looks at you pleadingly.

“What do you need, my beautiful birthday boy?” you ask softly.

“Please, my love, take all of me; I need you,” his voice sounds so needy it makes your chest flutter.

You smile as his eyes burn into yours, then sink down, gasping at the hot, plunging invasion pulling you so taunt. The lustful noise he emits makes you pulse around him, which in turn makes him call out your name, a wanton call and response that has you grabbing his hands and placing them on your breasts. The tulle of your dress scrunches against your nipple, sequins catching against your sensitive skin and between his fingers. He slips his hand inside the neckline and grabs your naked flesh as you press into his touch and start to rock gently.

Usually, you talk to each other when you make love, whispering debauched thoughts or just communicating how you feel. But tonight, you enjoy a silent, almost psychic connection, something more sensual and decadent, staring into each other's eyes, saying everything without words. Your movements are fluid but slow and deliberate, savouring the intoxicating feel of him sliding within you.

He lifts your left hand from his body and brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips over the wedding ring you wear proudly. You mirror his actions, taking his left hand, but instead plunge his wedding ring finger into your mouth, sucking it gently, the metal of his ring knocking against your teeth as you rise and fall. Hoping to convey through your actions the depth of emotion and passion you feel for this man.

He groans and drives his hips upwards, sliding even deeper, catching against the top of your channel, your toes flexing at the pleasure that causes. You call his name, releasing his hand, your nails scratching over his abs. Something more carnal, taking you both somewhere frantic.

You surge up and down, chasing all the sensations, his hands running down your back, warm through the layers of your dress, grasping your hips and pulling your down harder into him as your fingernails drag against the ripples of his abdomen muscles. Over and over until your thighs burn, and still, you don't ever want to stop, revelling in the feeling you get every time he nudges that place inside you that makes all the exertion worth it.

You see in his eyes as he is approaching his peak, the desperation for you to join him, making you reach under your dress and touch yourself, him hissing encouragements as you do so. His voice rockets you to the edge, the sonorous rumbling through his body that sweeps you over to a place that is a kaleidoscope of bliss; breath stolen, body tensing and releasing, firing a euphoria in every fibre from your scalp to your toes. Distantly, you can hear him climaxing, his fingers a vice-like grip as his groan turns guttural, and he holds you down fiercely. All his muscles tense in rigid relief as he comes hard. He looks so beautiful in this moment, biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut, that you collapse onto him and kiss his jaw, even biting gently in a way that makes him more vocal and his grip stronger.

Then as the intensity of the moment passes, all is serene as you recover together, breaths evening out, hands laced together. These quiet moments after the passionate storm feel the most intimate—the languid caresses, soft kisses and whispered words.

“Thank you for the most wonderful birthday gift,” he sighs, sated, as you lay atop him, your head on his shoulder, drawing idle shapes on his pectoral muscle with the tips of your fingers.

“A massage and making love are not your gift, my love,” you refute quietly, twisting your head to look up into his inquisitive eyes. “You deserve those and so much more. No, your gift is something else entirely. There is a reason I dressed like this, to look like the nicest gift wrapping that I possibly could,” you explain and sit up, straddling him again.

“I will always think of you as the best gift in my life,” he chuckles happily.

“Not me, Benedict.” You grab his hand and place it on your dress, just below your belly button.

“There is a gift in here for you, my love. It will probably take another, hmm, seven months, but I think it will be the greatest gift you, and indeed I, could ever receive. A beautiful gift we made together.”

His breath catches, and his mouth opens a fraction in surprise; his eyes suddenly go glassy and soft with emotion.

“Are you with child, my love?” he murmurs excitedly.

“I believe I am Mr Bridgerton. Or should I say papa?” you smile indulgently. Suddenly he is sitting up and pulling you into an embrace with his other arm, his lips finding yours.

“This is the best gift ever,” he grins, his eyes damp, his hand cradling your still-flat belly as if it is the most precious thing in the world.

“Happy birthday, Mr Bridgerton,” you beam as you place your hand over his, “from both of us.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld

[autistic-katara]

tell my we i just got a strangely pro-ai blog on my dash-