#I'm dead crying on the floor

[beeholyshit]

errmmmm

[sharkbaitblr]

Talking about Avatrice again because I haven't felt that way about a wlw kiss since Clexa's first kiss in that tent with Clarke's "Maybe life should be about more than just surviving, don't we deserve better than that?" and Lexa's "Maybe we do"

Like, the Avatrice kiss was SO soft and full of innocent yearning. Ava kissing Beatrice so softly, and Beatrice needing a full second to process and then leaning into the kiss with that same softness.

[priapussdick]

my theory for ep12 (and if this is not what is going to happen I will actually lose it)

okay

pisaeng tells kawi what he saw happening in the future. that's good.

obviously what pisaeng will want to do is going to be staying away from kawi to protect him. but kawi is going to disagree for the following reasons:

1) kawi tried to save his dad multiple times but it didn't work. it's clear that doesn't matter what you do in the past, it won't stop someone's death

2) there's still a possibility that kawi won't die. yes, he's really sick but they can't really be sure that kawi won't make it.

so them staying together and spending whatever amount of time they've got together makes more sense than both of them being miserable for their entire lives because there's a possibility that pisaeng might or might not cause kawi's death. (pisaeng, baby, do you hear how ridiculous this sounds???)

so im pretty sure this will be kawi's stance on the whole situation because my baby has always been voice of the reason (okay maybe not always, but this is a kawi fanblog. fuck off)

and I'm almost sure that pisaeng will agree not to do anything and just keep on living their lives because that's the reasonable thing to do.

I think we'll either get an open ending so we'll never know if kawi survives or not, or we'll get a happy ending and he'll survive.

the third option is not an option actually because writers personally told me they wouldn't dare. they know the world is not ready for my wrath if they kill kawi. jk. but also not really kidding coz I'll be insufferable. I'll become my worst self. I'll be a forever changed man. for the worse.

[unitedstates0fdakota]

I've only seen one Saw movie but I know exactly how I'd go out in the Saw cinematic universe

I'd wake up in some totally empty room, not chained up or anything, it's not even that bad. Mr. Jigsaw shows up on his vintage TV that he bought just for this occasion and he's like "Hello Dakota. You laugh too hard and too often. I was trying to enjoy my meal at the nearby IHOP but you were simply being too silly. If you manage not to laugh about anything for 1 hour, the door to this room will open. However, if I detect even a nose exhale, GAS will fill the room. This is no laughing matter, Dakota. Make your choice." But I wouldn't even hear the whole video cuz the second that stupid puppet shows up on the screen i'd be wheezing and the nerve agent would fill the room and Mr. Jigsaw would be like "Yeah that makes sense I could see that one coming."

Another one me and my brother talked about was both of us being in the bathroom trap, but we would be cracking so many fucking jokes and not even try to hear the tapes or anything that Mr. Jigsaw would either end up laughing at one of our jokes and we'd all just have a good time, or he'd get so pissed off that he would get up and yell at us about how we suck at his saw trap and dramatically storm out and lock us in there.

[gluskincasual]

Vanquish & Aywin for @foxieflower

Bonus:

[heffrondriving]

brb getting sent straight to heaven by big time rush's immaculate harmonies?????

[balladetto]

directly referring to this / @gloryseized

     There's a part of Kane that's been preparing for this, he thinks.

     Because without it, he's not sure he'd be entirely upright. Entirely conscious. He's not sure he'd be here: heart thudding a dull rhythm in his ears, hand outstretched and grasping at nothing, forehead tingling from the last touch it knows and will know from his brother. He blinks — blinks again, and keeps blinking like something is wrong with his vision, like if he just opens and shuts his eyes enough times, Shion will be there again. Shion will be there, sword poised high, and Kane will have the time and wherewithal to stop him from severing the one thing tying them together.

     Kane only has time now.

     He will only ever have time now.

     His chest collapses in on itself, bones shattering and piercing through flesh with all the force of a terrible, terrible grief. He chokes on the blood that bubbles up, chokes on the petrified tears that've turned his voice into screaming silence — and isn't that funny? That they are petrified. That they aren't sobs that hollow him out, that scrape out all the insides of his veins to fill them with a poison seeping to the core, but rather sobs that are still holding out for something.

     I will be safe, Shion had said. Had sworn, as if that promise hasn't been broken a hundred times over since they woke up to a fairy who belonged to no one. Kane drops to his knees, a hand pushed against his lips and the awful sounds coming from them, because there's a thread in all that he is — pained and undone — that's blisteringly furious. It tunnels into: what about him? Demands: what about me?

     But it's never been about him. It's never been about him. There is no room for it to be about him when his brother is the Hero of Time, when his brother's the one who saved everyone, when his brother's the one who had to sacrifice everything. Kane remembers clasping him in his arms, a quivering hero that needed to not be a hero for a breath's respite — and Kane remembers his tunic ripping out from his grasp, a hero that no longer knows how to be anything else.

     He almost expects the world to rupture. To really end. Shion has been the linchpin to it for his whole life that it feels — now that he's gone and faded into a column of light, more than merely absent — an inevitable outcome. Kane cannot hold his breath against the gasps rippling through his body, but he looks at the fucking Master Sword and dares it to suddenly fall to pieces like smashed glass.

     The sword does not break. The world does not rupture. Because the world has never only just been Shion; Shion's only just been Kane's world.

     His fingers touch the Master Sword's hilt for the first time. Nobody but Shion has been allowed this cursed honour. They wrap around it tight, desperate, pleading as he braces his weight against the plinth and tries to stand. He can't. He can't. He can barely lift his head because he's ten again, his world upended as the Door of Time slid shut behind him — he's ten again, small hands still soft from unpracticed combat pounding on the stone with a reckless ferocity, begging for his brother back. Begging, and begging, and begging.

     The dead must find solace in the noise torn from the remains of his throat, because there are several answering ghastly wails. Or that's just the Temple of Time's marble walls, reflecting his anguish back at him: that's just him, echoing so intensely he half-hopes it'll reverberate across timelines to reach his brother.

     There is a Kane out there who will have his wish granted. There is a Kane out there he should be deliriously happy for.

     There is a Kane out there he loathes with the kind of teeth-sinking resentment he wants the ground to swallow him whole for.

[vitamin-zeeth]

I love you avpm I love you starkid I missed you I'll never leave you again

[hyperfixation-tangentopia]

Hello I have produced a LMK x TOH AU out of nowhere XD

Basically Mei's first time using the Samadhi Fire goes HORRIBLY wrong and rips a hole in reality the same time Luz's broken portal caved in, and the LMK characters got yeeted into their world.

MK gets to be a monkey demon, Mei gets dragon features, Red Son gets bull features, and everything on everyone's ends gets screwed up because nobody could've expected this.

[psychofreakforc]

[iholli]

working through the ROTTMNT movie today and y'all I am. not ready to cry but I know I'm going to

spoilers in the tags bc I'm processing rn so far it's. a lot. my heart

[blujayonthewing]

biting my FUCKING fist thinking about how Ambrose is deeply sentimental and part of the underlying drive for his work is a deep love for the emotional core of people being people throughout history and the way a life or a people or a culture is preserved beyond death through memory and stories and then two of the artifacts the party has uncovered ended up being 1) a journal found buried with its owner in a makeshift grave in a collapsed ruin, with a letter tucked in the pages that, upon translation, turned out to be a love letter and 2) a mysterious magical device that we later learned records and plays back memories-- the one we found depicting a sunny day with children laughing and playing in the lost city whose ancient ruins we were standing in

[nereidprinc3ss]

in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you. 

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid. 

God, he loves you. 

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear. 

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch. 

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest. 

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience. 

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand. 

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion. 

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath. 

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them. 

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine. 

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual. 

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours. 

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine. 

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back. 

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation. 

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak. 

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape. 

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back. 

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening. 

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh. 

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response. 

He loves it when you do that. 

[2truehearts]

i think my legs have ceased functioning .

[lovevalley45]

remembering we've got three more weeks before we return to ba2mia n have to deal with calder being gone and

[knife-at-a-knife-fight]

god is dead (i’m being cosmically punished for doing the right thing, again)