findingthatmysticalfucktogive

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

Saw a post like this with negative outlook so I asked for it to be fixed

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

[ID: Manipulated videos of Donald Trump dancing and singing “I’m so indicted” to the tune of “I’m so excited” by The Pointer Sisters. The parody lyrics say “I’m so indicted. And I just can’t hide it. I’m about to go to jail, and I don’t like it. I’m so indicted. And I just can’t hide it. I know. I know. I know. I know. I’m so screwed” /End ID]

Happy Trump Indictment everyone!

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

w a n t e d - {Five x Reader} AU!

IMPORTANT: First, and most importantly, Five is not a teenager in this. Nor is he a 58 year old man. He never jumped, and he’s the same age as the rest of his siblings. In this story that’s early 20s. I so get why a lot of people are weirded out by Five stories, but his character is just too interesting to not explore the dynamics of him in a relationship. I think of it the same way I write for Harry Potter or Peter Parker.  

WARNINGS: Pining, angst, some mediocre smut

Word Count: 1508

Note: This will probably be a “series” of one shots. I can kind of see 3-5 coming from this idea.

Inspiration: “Love will subsist on wonderfully little hope but not altogether without it.” - Sir Walter Scott

- - [ 5 ] - -

The thing about Five is that he says what he has to. 

He never lies and he never sugarcoats, but he tells careful truths that open doors and shut blinds as he sees fit. He knows how to command language with the precision of a surgeon, or perhaps, more accurately, a sniper.

It’s his actions that paint a clearer picture of his inner workings. Because Five never does anything that he doesn’t want to do at some level. He’s too brilliant for that–knows too many different ways to achieve the same end goal.

So you don’t have a single question about whether or not he wants you. You know he does. He’s shoved you up against a wall more times than you can count, pressing into you so you can feel his want on every inch of him. It’s exhilarating, and for months it’s been enough. But now, in the back of your mind, is the small pinprick of hope—just enough to be sharp and annoying— that maybe he could possibly want to be with you. 

This is ridiculous of course. 

If he wanted, you’d already be together. Sharing secret smiles instead of bedroom eyes.  Whispering about your future plans rather than instructions to fuck me harder or touch yourself. 

But he doesn’t want you like that. He wants you desperately trying to keep quiet underneath him, sweat beading off his forehead as he chases a release from life in the Umbrella Academy. 

You let out a needy gasp as he lifts your leg and puts it over his shoulder. “Fuck,” he whispers, a hand coming up to brace himself against the headboard. 

A small spark of excitement bursts like a firework inside of your chest. Sounds hardly come out of Five when you are tangled in the sheets. Any words spoken are questions or commands. There’s no praise. There’s definitely no sweet nothings. There’s hardly even dirty talk during the act. That comes before and it’s only a means to an end. Kind of like his kisses.

When you first realized this, it became your mission to make him moan. To make him struggle to keep quiet for the sake of your roommate or, on the rare occasions you’re at his place, his sister. But other than when your lips are wrapped around him, tongue caressing its way up his shaft, it seems like a near impossible task.

He, on the other hand, plays you like a fiddle. He knows exactly how to make you moan, whine, gasp, mewl, and make any other sound he wants to hear. This new angle has earned him more than one moan, muffled only by you biting your knuckle.

“You close?” he grunts, eyes fixated on the finger in your mouth.

You nod and he increases his pace slightly. You’re constantly overwhelmed at how he seems to be able to push himself to be just a bit faster, just a bit harder, just a bit deeper. You still haven’t found this boy’s limits.

The tension that’s been coiling in your stomach is winding its way up your spine, and you feel ready to snap at any moment. Five knocks your hand out of the way with his free one, sticking two fingers in your mouth. The action has you mounting even higher, but the look in his eyes when you start to suck on his fingers is what sends you over the edge. Your back arches as all breath leaves you, your high rushing through you and escaping around Five’s fingers in a high pitched squeak. Five’s pace stutters and finally he stills. 

He withdraws himself as soon as he’s finished.

There’s no aftercare. Sure there are the practical matters he takes care of. He diposes of the condom, gets you a washcloth, helps to locate the clothes you’d thrown elsewhere. But after that, he’s gone. Popped out of existence. Like nothing happened.

This had been a welcome relief when you first met. When your friends had dragged you to a bar to forget about your ex. It wasn’t that there was anything particular to forget. He had been a nice guy, the kind you bring home to your parents, the kind who was focused on forever. You simply hadn’t been his. Maybe they wanted you to forget that. Maybe they wanted to ease the blunt force trauma of rejection. Maybe they wanted the night to pan out the way it had. 

You can still remember how it felt the first time he looked at you–how you could feel the weight of his stare before you even saw him. It didn’t take long to find him–and when you did, meeting his eyes…it was the kind of gaze that crushed all of the air out of your lungs and set your skin on fire. Exactly what you needed that night. 

You’d given him a small smile and turned back to your friends’ conversation. The next thing you knew he was next to you. 

“What are you drinking?" 

You swivelled in your seat to find the man across the bar standing next to you, gesturing with his chin for the bartender to come over. "Gin." 

He quirked an eyebrow as he eyed your almost empty glass. "That’s not straight gin." 

You shook your head, raising the drink to your lips. "This is a gimlet,” you said, finishing it off and placing the glass down in front of you. “That was a gin and tonic,” you pointed at another glass that had yet to be collected. “I like to switch things up,” you grinned at him. Behind you, your roommate giggled. The man, for his part, raised both of his eyebrows and ordered you a Tom Collins. He always knew just what to say.

The night fell away from you after that. It had to be the quick succession of drinks coupled with his intoxicating presence. Your friends had been quick to abandon you, leaving you and Five sitting at the bar together chatting about subjects lost to time and alcohol. You couldn’t have been focused that much on the conversation because all you could remember was his warm, slightly calloused hand, sliding its way up from your knee and the hungry look in his eyes.

The pair of you didn’t last much longer in the bar. It couldn’t have been more than an hour or so before you were back at your apartment, tongues and teeth clashing together as the two of you ran into the walls, the island, your dresser, the edge of your bed. And then the clothes were off and your fingernails were raking down his back, and you felt more alive than you had all month. 

When you woke up with a monstrous hangover and delicious ache between your legs, you were alone. It had been a welcome surprise at the time. After all, you were surfacing after a wasted two years and extricating yourself from a one-night rebound was the last thing you wanted to do. You didn’t want to have the clarifying “this was just sex, right?” talk. You didn’t want the memory of feeling absolutely wanted to be tainted. 

You wanted the freedom. You wanted to feel alive. You wanted casual. 

And the powers that be had granted your request with an empty bed and a scrap of notebook paper with a scribbled phone number and three words: Had fun - Five

A knock sounds from your door and for a second you think it might be Five, but he never knocks. He always just appears. The first time he did it, you’d nearly pissed yourself. The smug bastard had smirked and said, “Oh, I didn’t mention this?” And then a few short sentences later you fell into bed. 

It has to be your roommate. And you’re in no state for a visitor. Your hair is still mussed, your lips swollen, and your room smells heavily of sweat and sex.

“Y/N?” her voice echos through the door, and you shut your eyes. “You guys want coffee?”

“Yeah, one sec." 

It takes more than one second. It takes five minutes alone to get your hair looking somewhat under control, and after noticing a dark hickey just above your collarbone, you have to switch shirts as well. By the time you exit your room, the coffee pot is beeping and your roommate is pouring you a mug and handing it off. Gratefully, you accept it, checking the clock on the microwave. 

11:27 am. A bit late to be exiting your room for the first time. A bit early for a booty call. Even for a Sunday. 

"He’s gone?” your roommate asks, still hovering by the coffee pot as you take a seat at the kitchen table. You nod, cradling the drink in your hands as you take small, tentative sips at the edge. 

She heaves out a sigh and puts the third mug up into the cupboard. She should know by now: he doesn’t stay. He doesn’t want your coffee. He doesn’t want your company. He only wants you. And he has you.

Read Part 2

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

New Avengers: Infinity War Stills

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[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

Peter Parker as a theatre kid...

:)

Tom Holland does Rihanna’s “Umbrella” on Lip Sync Battle

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My kinda hero 😍

ICONIC CINEMA!

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

....my dad tried to make waffles

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

Probably what I look like when I'm angry

he angery

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

Kevin "Kevin" Kevin of the High Council of Kevin

Forced everyone in the group chat to change their display name to the first result they got from this Monster Factory name generator.

…it was an excellent choice.

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

*melting*

*dry food crunches* Ridiculously small kitten: “Myam myam myam. Njam njam njam njam njam njam njam! Myam myam myam nyam nyam myam. Mmmam. Mrrrrram. Meep!”

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

Reblog if you're hopelessly in love with boys from tv shows

[findingthatmysticalfucktogive]

"Standing calmly at the crossroads, no desire to run"