#Celebrities

[shakira-fan-page]

Shakira looks flawlessly beautiful in her latest photoshoot. 💛

[levelup683]

Phor was always my favorite on black ink Chicago!!!❤😋😘

[jeezyusofam]

[sexycelebritiesposts]

Kate Upton

[femaledaily]

Charithra Chandran for Charlotte Tilbury (July 2025)

[unbfacts]

[celeb-gold]

Iggy Azalea

[ldagence-celbs]

Jessica Alba - American Actress 

[fagaday]

7/11/2025 The fag of the day is Paul McCartney!

[shakira-fan-page]

16 years ago today, Shakira released "She Wolf", the lead single from her eighth studio album She Wolf, a track that howled its way into pop legend with platinum status and a cage-breaking music video. 🐺

[wastedmylifeplayingdumb]

[555hikai555]

JENSEN ACKLES /

ANGRY SEX

warnings: NSFW!, smuuuut, agegap, journalist!reader, p in v, enemies to lust ig, angry sex, oral!freceiving

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

The gala was a performance—a theater of wealth draped in designer tuxedos and $40,000 smiles. Chandeliers dangled like threats above heads bowed in polite conversation, string quartets playing music so delicate it barely masked the anxiety behind every compliment. The air itself shimmered with expectation. Because you were there.

Mid-twenties. Too young to be this feared. Too pretty to be this fucking dangerous. The dress you wore didn’t scream for attention—it whispered seduction. Dark silk, body-hugging, a plunging back that dared anyone to talk about your work instead of your skin. But it was your mind that made them sweat. The velvet voice. The acid wit. The way you peeled back reputations with a smile and a sentence. You wrote like you were born with a scalpel in your hand.

And tonight? You saw him. The man who’d spent two decades in the industry crafting an image of brooding masculinity and worn-in charm. Who thrived on his own mythology—gruff voice, flannel soul, too emotionally unavailable to hold a relationship but somehow still America’s favorite Texan. You’d unraveled that image with 2,300 words and a headline that hit like a punch:

“The Cowboy Wears Prada: Grit, Grief, and the Cult of Jensen Ackles.”

He hadn’t taken it well. And when you spotted him tonight—standing near the bar, lowball glass in hand, tux hugging his frame like sin—he hadn’t even tried to hide the disdain in his stare. So you walked straight into the tension, heels clicking like a countdown. He saw you first. Of course he did. His gaze trailed up your legs, over your waist, to your face—and didn’t soften one bit.

“You always crash events you weren’t invited to?” he asked, voice like gravel, low and unimpressed. You tilted your head, calm. “You always open your mouth before thinking?”

His jaw tightened. “I’m just wondering who keeps letting you in,” he said. “You’re not press. You’re not industry. You’re a tabloid with a vocabulary.” You smiled. “And yet here you are, quoting me on podcasts. What did you say again- Oh right- “a blogger in a push-up bra who thinks she knows pain because she read Bukowski in college.” Very charming.”

He stepped closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “You’re what? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Jesus.” He gave a slow shake of his head, eyes dark. “No wonder your writing’s all edge and no weight. You don’t know shit.” You blinked once. “I know how to read a contract. I know which shows got picked up and which ones didn’t. I know when an actor’s stuck doing reality TV cameos because the offers stopped coming.”

His nostrils flared. “You think you’re clever?”

“I think I’m right.”

“Cute little know-it-all,” he muttered, inching forward. “Hiding behind her pen like that’ll protect her.” You stepped forward, chest brushing his. “You’re shaking.”

His lips curled. “I’m pissed.” You smirked. “You’re fascinated.”

“I’m seconds from walking away.” You laughed once, slow and cruel. “You’d already be gone if you didn’t like the game.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re predictable,” you whispered. “Always posturing. Always performing. Deep voice, dark suit, jaw clenched like it’s a brand.” You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

“I should sue for defamation,” he muttered. You took a slow sip from your glass. “After this is over,” you said coolly, “we should really have angry sex.”

His expression didn’t change. But something shifted. A flicker. A flash of heat beneath all that barely-contained rage. Then—calmly, dangerously—he said, “That what you’re looking for?” You didn’t blink. “I think I’ve earned it.”

A long silence. You turned and walked. Didn’t look back. You knew he followed.

The door of the coatroom hadn’t even clicked shut before your back hit the wall. He grabbed your jaw, thumb under your chin, eyes firelit and feral.

“You think this is how it goes?” he muttered. “You push me around with that mouth, piss me off in public, and I just give it to you?” You slid your hands beneath his jacket, fingers running over the crisp lines of his shirt. “No,” you breathed. “I make you lose control. That’s different.”

He stared at you. Hard. His breathing ragged. Then he kissed you. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a fucking collision. Teeth. Tongue. A bruise waiting to happen.

He grabbed your thigh, hiked it up, ground his hips into yours like he meant to grind the fight out of you. You gasped, the friction brutal and perfect. “Still want that angry sex?” he rasped against your neck.

You yanked at his belt. “I want you to shut me up.” He didn’t. Not yet. He grabbed your wrists, slammed them above your head, mouth trailing fire down your throat. “You’re gonna fucking scream.”

You laughed, breathless. “Make me.” He did. He dropped to his knees, shoved your dress up, and pulled your panties down without ceremony. His fingers slid between your folds, warm and slick and goddamn ruthless. “Wet already?” he muttered. “You’re full of shit, but your pussy’s honest.”

You moaned as his mouth followed, tongue dragging slowly through your folds, teasing, tasting. “No smartass comment now, huh?” he murmured, lips grazing your clit.

“F-fuck,” you gasped.

His tongue flattened against you, firm and slow, then circled your clit until your legs shook. When you tried to twist away, he held you down by the thighs, mouth relentless. “You gonna come just like this?” he said, voice low, chin slick. “All that attitude for nothing?”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, panting. “Don’t fucking stop—”

He didn’t. He dragged it out until you came so hard you saw goddamn stars, nails scraping the wallpaper, eyes shut tight. Then he stood, pulled a condom from his wallet like he knew this would happen, and thrust into you in one long, hard stroke.

You nearly screamed.

He groaned into your neck. “Still so fucking tight.” You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his back.

He started to move—deep, punishing strokes that left you breathless. The rack behind you rattled with every thrust. “You’re not getting a quote from this,” he panted, slamming into you again. “No clever line. Just shut up and take it.”

You did. For once. Until you needed more.

“Harder,” you whispered. He grabbed your jaw again, kissed you so hard your head hit the wall, and then fucked you harder. Faster. Deeper.

Everything about it was filthy. The sounds. The way your dress bunched around your waist. His low growls every time you clenched around him. And when you came again—loud and shaking—he came right behind you, forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling.

Afterward, you stayed like that. Tangled. Spent. Chest to chest, breath mingling. His lips near your ear.

“You really are a fucking nightmare,” he said softly.

[mybeautifulmultitudes]

Laura Harrier

[acerimmer41]

Miley Cyrus