#would a hot shower help?

[illogicallylogicalthoughts]

>> easiest way to get terracotta mold off my face

>> my face

>> my

>> "asking for a friend"

>> no further details

mfw

I have company coming over soon and no access to plaster, what's the easiest way to get a terracotta mold of my face without asphyxiating or burning my eyebrows off? Asking for a friend. No further details

[deva-arts]

How does Sera take showers if she has wings?

[fromiftowhen]

Bradley's a real sunset bitch and Jake's a real sunrise ho, and nope, I won't elaborate any further.

[danieyells]

Bizarre thing that pulled me out of spiraling thoughts

I abruptly got Jingle Bell Rock stuck in my head because i watched a video it was in that Rexii sent and somehow I concluded 'i won't be able to think about traumatic things while listening to jingle bell rock'

And y'know what that worked. I could not think about traumatic things while listening to jingle bell rock

[platypusisnotonfire]

Thinking about the day my grandmother died and how my reaction looked to outsiders like in my brain I was behaving in completely logical and appropriate ways but like from others POV:

She dies in my arms and I sat there in silence until the ambulance came to take her away. I don’t speak and barely move until I suddenly and seemingly without provocation throw a dining room chair at my aunt who wasn’t even present when my grandmother died, storm out the back door and disappear for 36 hours. I did not take my car. Literally walked into the woods. Return soaked and covered in mud and showing fairly clear signs of hypothermia (we’re Canadian we learn to spot hypothermia) walk into the shower fully clothed and stay in there for three hours until the hot water has completely run out and they can’t get it working at the kitchen sink.

And apparently this was viewed as “yeah that makes sense” because no one questioned, checked on, or spoke to me during that entire 48hrs despite there being like 30-50 people rotating through the house at that time.

[kigiom]

they need to make something that helps with grief that doesn't feel like flextaping chernobyl reactor four

[phagodyke]

aouuugh my uterus......

[stonehengemony]

its possibly shameful but i've been letting my steroid-induced (ftm) acnes fester to the point of bursting. like i dont ever pick at whiteheads anymore i just let them explode naturally in the shower or even like daily life. and i used to pick my skin for sport when i was a girl. now im free, bitches.

[lobotomydaughter]

almost passed out in the shower and banged my head hard enough that i am sure there will be a bruise tomorrow it scared the crap out of me

[steddie-there]

I had a literal shower thought just now while showering 😅

Please feel free to shout at me in the tags about why or tell me an option I missed 😁

[dellinah]

I love how everybody has that specific trauma from those movies, but that's silly. It's these you should worry about! :3

[fantabulisticity]

Home safe, showered, orange juice drank, and cold medicine taken! I'll test for Covid tomorrow.

[cuntwrap--supreme]

Lol. Lmao even.

[thecherrygod]

I'm laying in bed basically on top of the never ending pile of clothes I never put away to the closet with earphones playing music from my computer as loud as possible while I play shitty mobile games and I licked my lips and I had such a strong moment of when you are watching a movie or a show and they show you a characters behavior to show you they're the grossest person that ever existed and I can't take that out of my head

[itsalwaysdark]

i dont know if im just deluding myself but i kind of think my face looks more masculine than feminine . yippee

[webism]

☆ bestfriend!satoru likes seeing you in his clothes a little too much.

it starts with lending you a jacket when you're out late and it gets cold. he laughs at you first, makes fun of the way you shiver, but then his eyes drift and he realises he can see your hardened nipples through your shirt and suddenly he's layering you up in his jacket just to keep his mind from short-circuiting.

but the sight of you in his jacket is no help either, not when you drown in it because he's so damn tall and he's reminded of the difference in size between the two of you and for the first (more like third) time he's wondering what you'd look like beneath him in a mean mating press. how you'd feel shaking under his body weight: like how you're shaking now, but pleasure wracking your body rather than the cold wind.

he tells himself it's fine to have these thoughts. you're his best friend, you spent every waking hour together: it's only natural that his thoughts would eventually drift southwards. he'll snap out of it, he just needs to jerk off and clear his mind.

so he walks you home, and lets you keep the jacket.

but that night, he's in the shower with hot water scalding his skin, eyes squeezed shut as he strokes his cock at an inhuman pace. fucks his fist with anything but you in mind—he thinks about all his past trysts, about whatever porn he's seen lately, about his fucking cursed technique.

and he thinks he has it, he's pumping his cock with crazed strokes in an attempt to cum and clear his mind, but just as that pleasure starts to break into white hot lust, all he sees is you. in nothing but his jacket, wrecked on his cock and begging him for more.

and when he cums, he sees your eyes pleading up at him from where you’d rest on your knees, ready to take his load into your mouth because you crave the taste. He swears he can feel your fingers splayed over his thighs… your tongue tracing the pronounced vein that runs up the underside of his cock… your heated presence in the shower alongside him.

satoru says your name as he cums, and realises he’s wholly fucked and not coming back from this.

so, naturally, gojo plays into it.

the next time you see him is at his place, you come around to spend time with him and talk about the mundane that always seems exciting when spoken in the lilt of your voice. he offers you a drink, pours you a glass of red and promptly spills it over your pretty top—purely accidental, of course.

and he only takes a moment to admire the way the soaked fabric clings to your skin before he’s bolting into action and offering you a shirt of his own.

“it’s like you’re trying to steal my wardrobe, huh? first my jacket… now my shirt… got something to admit to, hm? you like wearing my clothes?”

it’s playful banter, you think, and roll your eyes with a huff as he hands you a shirt that’s oversized even on him. he wants to see you drown in the fabric, covered in him through clothing until he can cover you in another aspect of himself.

you make him look away while you change, though you know it’s an effort wasted because he’s all-seeing or whatever. and when satoru finally gets a look at you in his shirt he knows it’s game over. it’s like he’s left a mark on you, staked him claim not through bite marks or hickies as he usually would, but through the fabric that adorns your skin. his clothes smell like him, look like him, and are being worn by you.

he’s beyond hard, his cock is tenting his pants and he’s almost offended you haven’t yet noticed, because there’s no hiding a boner when you’re his size. you’re sweet enough not to look, even steal a glance out of curiosity—but he isn’t; his eyes are roaming your skin in such a heated way you feel feverish. it’s how he notices the wine that has spilt on your skirt as well.

he could tell you—offer you a pair of his sweats and cum in his own pants as the way they’d hang off your hips—but he doesn’t. instead, your best friend satoru gojo, the man you know like scripture, drops to his knees and takes the hem of your skirt between his fingers.

“what are you doing?” you think he’s cruel for a joke like this, when he looks so good on his knees, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips as if he’s aching for a taste of you. you squeeze your thighs together, groan at the thought of gojos relentless teasing if he realises you’re soaking wet right now. “this isn’t funny.”

“i’m not laughing,” he says, tone flat. “your skirt is stained.”

“oh,” it is, you can see the wine seeping into the fabric.

gojo laughs, his grin sinful. “what? you get all flustered when i’m on my knees? how lewd.”

“shut up,” you try and step backwards, put some space between him and your pulsing heat, but his hands come to grip your thighs, fingers cool as they brush under your skirt and press into your skin. “you’re an asshole, toru.”

“i know,” his fingers creep higher. “i’m sorry.”

“no you’re not.”

“i know,” he parrots. “but you will be.”

“wh—“

in one practiced movement, satoru rips your skirt down and exposes you to him. he has to bunch up the shirt of his you wear with one hand and keep you from running with the other, but he’s met with a beautiful sight as a reward for all his pining.

“for coming to my house with no fucking panties on and acting like you don’t want me to fuck you like we’re more than friends.”

you learnt quickly upon befriending satoru gojo that he always seems to get what he wants. this is no exception, because after he spends so long fucking you with his tongue that his knees go numb against the cold tile, he’s got you laid down on his couch, his t shirt bunched up over your waist just enough for him to watch his cock sink into you over and over and over again.

he loves the sight of you grabbing at the fabric to keep it out of the way— how you whine for him to just let you take it off, all for him to press his lips to yours and conjoin you so you couldn’t undress even if you tried.

how with each thrust of his ravaging cock into you, he’s whining like he’s not the one in control. babbling filth as if he’s not got you pinned and taking every last inch of him—he’s pussy drunk and overbearing in his excitement and slurring his words as he speaks against your open mouth.

“never allowed to wear your own clothes again,” he steals your breath with each gasp he gives between thrusts. “only mine. i’ll burn yours, fuck, i hate your clothes.”

“you…” gojos fast rutting stalls your sentence. “…you brought me that skirt.”

“yeah? well where is it now?”

you recall the lecture you tried to give him when he threw your wine-stained skirt into his trash bin. you’d protest his dictation of what you wear if you had the mind to do so—but his cock is hitting your g spot in tandem with the ministries of his fingers over your clit… you’re half-near brain dead with the way he splits you open and unravels you like the threading of his clothes he’s fucking you in.

you can’t count your orgasms, only feel them shoot static up your spine with each one gojo manages to pull from you. and when he cums, spills over your parted thighs to dress you further in the essence of him, you swear you hear him babble something about putting a ring on your finger some day, to dress you in something of his permanently.

but friends don’t talk like that.

they don’t fuck like this either, though.