I Don’t NEED A Relationship, I WANT One . Like I’m Not Looking For No One To Complete Me Or Make

what the fuck are they feeding the falin and marcille fan artists. why are they painting the sistine chapel every time. they're going crazy style. those freaks. i love them so much.

Can’t you trust me?

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X FEM! READER

WORD COUNT / little over 4k 

SUMMARY / when the enemy addresses you by the name you’d abandoned long ago, any sense of trust you had in your comrades deteriorates. who could the traitor be? and why does a wave of anxiety overtake you when you realize the enemy somehow didn’t know the name of the only one other concealed identity on your team : Lieutenant Ghost 

WARNINGS / description of violence, angst/comfort? , eventual smut, pre-established friendship, fingerfucking, vaginal sex, oral sex (fem receiving), overstimulation, marking, choking, degradation, dacryphilia, some power dynamics & possessiveness

You seriously doubting me kid? After everything we’ve been through? 

Give me one reason I shouldn’t! 

Cut the crap and keep your voice down. Someone will hear us. Oh for christ sake, you wanna keep sobbing? Then I’ll give you a real reason to cry. 

Keep reading

Jaw dropped skin cleared awooga awooga barking noises rororoorooro-

Satoru Gojo || Jujutsu Kaisen || The Honored One

American learned at girl scout camp

Please reblog and add your nationality in the tags along with what you answered! I'm very curious about this; and it's not to shame anybody, so don't be rude!

Mint Chocolate Matcha Smoothie

Every action you take can change the future. 

found this on twitter and I had to express it here too. toji va, please do that man justice or i swear to god there will be riots

JEONGHAN Yves Saint Laurent Men’s Winter 23 Show Paris Fashion Week (c)

HEAR ME OUT. TELL ME Y'ALL SEE THE VISION AND I WILL COOK SMTH IMMEDIATELY.

satoru gojo is the guy everyone in your major knows—ridiculously smart, annoyingly hot, borderline unapproachable unless you’re part of his stupid little circle. he’s got freelance gigs pouring in, edits promo reels for actual brands, and once got a professor to extend a deadline just by smiling.

you worked together once—on a boring group project no one else cared about. but he edited your presentation slides into a cinematic masterpiece and you’ve never forgotten it.

so months later, when your fashion content finally starts gaining traction, and you’re drowning in vlog footage with no time to cut it down—you text him.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls… i suck at this lol”

you say it’s just a favor. just cutting out the boring parts.

but the videos you send him? yeah, they’re anything but boring.

you talk to the camera like it’s a boyfriend.

you laugh too loud.

you try on heels in front of full-body mirrors.

and every time you drop a necklace or lean over to pick up a perfume bottle? you look straight into the lens.

no jump cuts. no edits. just intent.

and fine, maybe he spends way too long on the lingerie try-on segment. maybe he pauses every time you bend over, frame-by-frame, like he’s adjusting color grading—but really he’s just watching the way your thighs press together. maybe he syncs your audio and loops your giggle four, five, six times, rewinding the way you say “oops” like it’s a fucking song.

maybe he exports that three-second timestamp—just the part where your fingers hook into the band of your panties and you whisper “should i keep this one?”—into a separate folder buried deep in his hard drive.

it’s not even named professionally. not “asset_ref3” or “raw_pull_b.”

nah.

it’s named "fuckmepls.mp4"

and it lives in a folder called "NOT work (unless)"

he tells himself it’s research. he tells himself every editor does this. but his dick’s in his hand more than it’s on his mouse these days, and you’re to blame. you with your lazy drawl and shiny lip gloss and the way you talk to the camera like it’s his mouth you’re feeding lines to.

but then, one day, a file comes in titled:

"march haul (raw).mp4"

he clicks play.

it’s you. in your bedroom. in new lingerie. in front of the mirror. saying things like—

“god, i hope this one fits…”

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?”

"i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?"

it ends mid-sentence.

five minutes later, another file drops into the folder:

"march haul (real).mp4"

you text:

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

you don’t even delete nor unsent the wrongfully sent file.

he doesn’t ask you to.

that night, he doesn’t even pretend. he edits the video with his cock in hand, moaning your name while you test lip colors like you’re daring him to fuck up a timestamp.

now every time you ask for “another quick edit,” he’s sweating. because you’ll drop something again. you'll bite your lip again. you’ll look into the camera like you know exactly what he’s doing with that footage.

and you’re still calling it a favor.