#MAYBE I'LL EDIT LATER

[fysebastianstan]

Sebastian Stan attends The 2024 Met Gala Celebrating "Sleeping Beauties: Reawakening Fashion" at The Metropolitan Museum of Art on May 06, 2024 in New York City. (Photo by John Shearer/WireImage)

[slymanner]

Friday Night Funkin - WeekEnd 1

[yikesb3rg]

losing my mind over kenshi's fit details so i'll put it on the backburner for nowge sorry kenshi

[6okuto]

i was thinking about oikawa and i just KNOW that he LOVES to be babied. that's just him, yk? like that's totally him and i would love to read about 30 year old professional volleyball player oikawa tooru being babied by his wife

(timeskip, fem!reader) he's just like me fr. i actually wrote something different but there wasn't enough babying so here u go 🥹🙆🏻‍♀️

tooru is one of if not the hardest worker you know, never losing sight of his ambitions and passion. determination lines his veins, and late nights of practice and analysis have seeped into the cartilage between his bones, gluing together what makes tooru oikawa, #17, setter for club athletico san juan.

but it's not oikawa, it's tooru, the boy you met in high school who stumbled down the steps after using a cheesy pick-up line on you and whines when you try to leave his arms for the washroom, who's your husband.

"long day?"

tooru groans and buries himself deeper into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped snug around your middle. he didn't really need to answer—the lit street lights and dim sky outside were answer enough.

holding back a laugh, you comb your fingers through his hair, the familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla dancing its way to you. "proud of you, baby."

your husband's voice is quiet, "thank you."

"you want me to run a bath for you?"

"...maybe later?"

"m'kay. you wanna stay here for a while?"

"yeah." his fingers trace hearts across your back, and when he pouts, you feel it against your skin. "i'm so tired."

pouting too in response, you press a kiss to his head and rub his back. "i know, baby, at least you're home now."

"but then i have to leave you tomorrow."

"and then you come back to me again tomorrow."

"but then i leave again—oh my god, what kind of sick world do we live in?" he whines, letting out a noise that could be described as a choked sob.

and this time, you let yourself laugh. "aw, my poor tooru,"—you cradle his head against you —"the horrors of a job have caught you."

"what if we worked somewhere together?" he lifts his head to look at you.

you raise a brow. "i love you, you're the light of my life, but you are not getting me on that court."

he gapes. "betrayal from my own wife?"

"okay, then come to my job."

"...well—"

"betrayal from my own husband?" you gasp and tooru pouts again—though at this point you're not sure if the original pout ever left to begin with.

it's still just as endearing, and your expression softens. "you'll be fine, 'ru. i'll baby you as much as you want every time you come home."

his pout pulls even more at his lips, and you mirror it. bringing your hands up, you hold his face and squish his cheeks with your words— "i, tooru oikawa, love my wife and my job, and i'm a strong, independent guy who can do anything."

"d'you rilly hafta hol' m'face?"

"it's for the effect and affirmations," you tease, before your amusement softens to something else. "how long are you out tomorrow?"

tooru's jaw drops as much as it can with you holding him in place. "why would you—9 hours!"

and before the dread of leaving you can fully take hold, you kiss his forehead. the apple of his left cheek, the right, then his eyes, his nose, both sides of his jaw, his lips—all with a resounding mwah!

tooru's arms cling tighter, and he leans into each kiss, always chasing your affection though he doesn't have to. you smile at the flush dappled across his face. "see? a kiss for each hour."

he opens his mouth to answer, but then the pout comes back. "each half hour at least. each 15 minutes—"

"tooru." you snort. "what is that, like, 36 kisses?"

"okay, a kiss for each minute."

"babe—"

"you know how hard i train, i know you watched my interview."

and you really don't think you'll make it to 100, much less 500 kisses, but you'll try anyway, even if after the first one, tooru says, "one."

you snicker as you place the next four, and he counts them before pointing out, "you know, kissing your husband is way easier than doing rdl's."

"yes, yes, i know, honey." you softly laugh and press another to the spot between his brows. "i'm not complaining."

he counts again—six, seven, eight, nine—and you remember the determination and patience of oikawa was never separate from tooru, especially not when it came to you.

[yeyinde]

OK but i need to know if price allows his wife to trim his beard …can you please write a drabble on it to feed my price addiction

Oh, absolutely!! I bet it’s easier for him to have someone he trusts cut his hair for him. His beard, though—I imagine he grooms it himself (too many oh, sir, you should cut it this way—), and he prefers a straight razor over a blade. If he really, really trusts you, he'll let you do it for him, but he's been grooming his beard since he was 28, and so. No one does it better than he does. 

His hair, however? He considers it a free cut.

》 WARNINGS: Um. Just some domestic bliss, really. Bantering. Allusions to sexual content, PTSD, and trust issues (not as serious as it sounds; just briefly mentioned). This is basically just gratuitous fluff. This was written with absolutely no discernible characteristics for the Reader—gender-neutral reader 》 WORD COUNT: 1,9k

"Hold still."

"Holdin' as still as I can, love."

His words are thick���little more than a grumble rasped into the collar of his shirt, distorted from the tilt of his head, chin resting on his sternum. 

To someone else, his tone might be misconstrued as waspish; a scathing snap sawed between his clenched teeth, and coloured in a thick paint of impatience. 

But you know him more than most, and the huffiness of his tone only serves to amuse you. 

(Your irascible man.)

Still. 

Your fingers snake through the overgrown locks on the top of his hand until you have a fistful trapped tight between each of your digits, and then you tug just so. A warning. Not enough to hurt him, of course, but enough that it makes him tense—makes him groan. 

His voice loses the surly pinch, and sounds decidedly breathless—a fact that makes you stifle a grin. 

"Gonna start somethin' you can't finish, you bloody minx."

"Gonna cut your skin if you don't stop wriggling around," you volley back. 

He huffs, shoulders slumping down with his sharp exhale. "Just get on with it. Getting stiff sittin' like this."

You ease off the clutch of his hair, but keep the locks between your fingers, eyeing the length, before nodding to yourself, and bringing the scissors close to the tuffs spilling out. 

The snipping sound of the shears cutting through his hair fills your small washroom. His shoulders seem to relax, if only slightly, as you work. 

You cut the locks between your pinky and ring finger shorter than the rest, and wince. 

"You know," you murmur, brows furrowing as you try to gauge whether or not it's passable enough to be overlooked, or if you'll need to cut all of it shorter to match. "You could go to a barber. A professional."

He grunts. You know what he's going to say before he says it, and you wordlessly mimic the words that leave his lips:

"Cheaper this way, ain't it?" He drops his chin when you nudge his head. 

Cutting his hair has become a small tradition between you, one that started a few months into your relationship when he showed up at your door, three hours late to a planned date with a bucket hat on his head, and a package of forget-me-nots in his hand (seeds, he said, because flowers will wilt and die in a day but if you plant them in your garden, they'll regrow forever). His hair was longer than usual, curling just under his chin, and the sight of him—so frazzled and unkempt compared to how put together he normally was—made something inside of you ache.

He'd rushed here as soon as he could, complaining that his flight was delayed, and his barber quit on him, and all the while, your fingers itched with the urge to run them through his overgrown locks, to feel the silken hair against your palm. 

(To grip tight and not let go.)

The words slipped out with very little conscious thought: I can cut it for you. 

He seemed almost caught off-guard, but the obvious discomfort of having his hair tickle the nape of his neck made his acquiescence much easier. 

You discovered that night just how much you liked having his hair in your hands, and he seemed to realise that fucking you against the wall, while you tugged on his freshly cut hair, in lieu of payment was much more preferable than dealing with a barber. 

"No," he grouses. "They're always goin' on 'bout undercuts, and tryin'a get me to shave my chops, and I ain't dealin' with that when I 'ave you." 

"Free labour?" 

"Hardly." He scoffs. "Gonna break my damned back one of these days, you bloody—"

"—hold still, love," the stolen endearment makes him shudder, but he quiets when you rest the flat of the blade over the crest of his ear, cutting the overgrown hair around his sideburns. "That's it. Good boy."

"Keep playing with me, love, and I'll show you who's a good—" 

Another tug. His scorching words taper off into a growl. 

"You don't seem to complain much when you pull me in for another round—ah, ah—" You tug his hair again when he moves, fighting a wide grin. The plastic handles of the scissors slide back until it arches off the back of your hand, thumb brushing the loose hair from behind his ear. "God, you're so stubborn. You want to get cut, don't you?"

"Trust you not to leave me a bloody mess by the end of this." 

With his chin dipped so far down into his collar, his words are honey-thick and robust, and the deep cadence alone makes your toes curl in your slippers. 

"Trust me that much, hmm?" 

Despite the transparent barb, the tease in your slightly breathless tone, he doesn't hesitate. "With my life." 

"Aren't you a charmer?" 

"Almost done? I'll show you how charming I can be—"

"Nearly. Would've finished an hour ago if you'd keep still."

He grumbles again, but the words are swallowed by the snip of the scissors. An impasse blooms in the scant space between your front, and his broad back. Comfortable, like all silences with him have become. Despite your griping, cutting his hair is soothing—intimate in a way you'd never come to expect it to be. 

It might be the explicit trust he places in your hands when you direct him to tilt his chin for you at a mere tap against his jaw, or the crown of his head. Wordlessly following your commands as soon as they're conveyed. 

To anyone else, such a display is commonplace, but you've been through the thick of everything to know that exposing his neck in such a vulnerable way to you, and so soon after a mission, is more meaningful than any declaration of trust could ever be. The innate drive to protect his fragile pieces from harm often leads to him flinching away from the sharp end of the shears, but it diminishes just as quickly as it rears, and he sits, docile and accommodating, for you. Allowing you this minuscule power over him. 

Maybe that's why he refuses to see a barber, opting to let you chop his hair in whichever style you deem attractive instead. Explaining to someone else why he's so tense, why he sometimes can't stifle the small jerk when cold metal kisses the nape of his neck, seems tiresome. The unneeded opening of a barely healed scab. 

It was a battle getting him to open up to you, to let you invade his space, and squeeze through the splinters in his resolve when it became clear that you weren't going anywhere that wasn't with him. 

The thought of it alone warms you. The ache in your joints from holding your hands still, cutting through the thick tufts of hair, feels like a small burden in comparison to what he's shown you with this. 

It's been barely five hours since he touched down at Heathrow. His duffle bag is still packed. His fatigues are still on. He hadn't even showered off the stench of the mission, or scoured the blood and dirt from between his nails, and yet—

You tap his cheek. His head lifts, and then lists to the side. The smooth curve of his neck is exposed. His exterior vein throbs through his sun-kissed skin. 

Affection blossoms in your chest. 

"Missed you." 

The words are barely a whisper, but his eyes peel open, icy blue finding yours as you lean over him, getting the last patch of hair near his temple. 

John says nothing in response, but he doesn't have to. You see it all—feel it. The vein in his neck throbs more intensely as his heart rate picks up, and that alone is more than an echoed sentiment in return. It's enough. 

But still:

His hand lifts with a deliberate slowness until the pads of his fingers kiss your wrist. He burns red-hot—skin just as fiery as his temper—and the warmth of his rough skin bleeds into you when he wraps his full palm over your arm, thumb brushing your flesh in a distinct pattern. 

When you recognise it, you falter. 

It isn't quite Morse code, but it's something he taught you on the eighth date when you asked if the wordless hand signals were accurate in the movie you'd just seen. His hand found yours as he led you out of the theatre, and down the cold, wet streets of Liverpool. 

"No," he snorted, derisively. And then spent the three blocks back to your flat showing you the different commands they used in the SAS, and the ones he taught his men. "If you can, skin on skin is better. Less likely to be seen. We save it for hostage situations. Like this—"

Blisteringly intense cerulean never wavers from yours as he lets you feel the words he rasps over your skin. 

You try not to tremble with the shears pressed too close to his skin, and quietly pull them away. He watches as you place them on the ledge of the vanity, hand never releasing yours. 

You brush the loose hair from his shoulders, trying to hide a smile.

"All done." 

John hums, the noise a crackling ember that fills the hush in the room, and notches between your ribs where it sticks against your thudding heart. 

"What's the verdict?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

Loose hair falls from his shoulders when he stands until it dusts across the tile below his feet. He leans over the sink, shaking his head above the basin, before settling, angling his chin as he takes in your shoddy handiwork. 

"Looks good."

You snort. "Sure. I'll have to go over it once you finish showering because someone wouldn't sit still long enough for me to clip around your crown, and—"

He turns to face you, and the playful diatribe is cut off when his warm palms fit against your hips. It's his turn to tug, and he does so with a sharp jerk of his wrists, pulling you taut to his chest. 

His eyes bore down into yours, mirthful blue. "Yes, yes," his eyes roll briefly toward the ceiling, lips curling into a soft smirk. "But someone kept tryin'a clip my ears, and pullin' on my hair."

"Someone, eh?" You volley coyly, reaching up, and curling your fingers into the bristles of hair spilling from his cheeks. 

At your gentle touch, his expression shifts to contemplative. His chin tilts when your nails graze his skin. 

"You like my beard, don't you?" 

Your brow lifts in question. "Yes, you know I do. Why? The boys making fun of you for it?"

"Gaz said I looked like an Edwardian lord—" you snort at the comparison. He pinches your side. "Watch it."

"Is that all?"

"Soap said they're grabable."

"Yeah, they are," you purr, taking in as much as you can in your fists. "Very steerable, too. But why is Soap concerned about that?"

"Said someone could grab 'em. Drag me by 'em, and—"

"Like his mohawk?"

He concedes your point with a flash of teeth. "You don't think I need to trim 'em?"

"And lose my handlebars? No way—"

His darken. "Dirty little thing, aren't you?" 

"For you? Always." 

"Mmm," he tilts his chin down, and presses his mouth to yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip. "Insatiable little minx."

"You love it." 

"You know I do." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. When you peer up at him, his pelagic gaze turns turbid with desire. "Now, about your payment…"

[kazutora-kurokawa]

Helloo! It's my first time requesting:)) I love your fics lol. You write so good!!

Can I please request yandere bonten men with a slightly chubby bimbo reader who's insecure about her weight. She's bubbly, gullible and naive. They caught her talking to someone who's tryna hit her up. For the nsfw part can I please get belly bulging 😔

no? *sigh* fine.. here's my offering..

🫱🏼(‿o‿)🫲🏼

Yandere!Bonten!Mikey x Chubby!Insecure!Bimbo!Reader

♡ NSFW, fem reader, wife!reader, mention of Sanzu and Bonten execs, brief mention of murder, gun use, lowkey naive!reader, size kink, belly bulging, big dick!Mikey, spanking, unprotected sex + creampie, kinda rough sex, not proofread ♡

note: I didn't know if you wanted a poly relationship or separate, so I just chose Mikey (I couldn't do all of them, I'm sorry but my brain is fried), I'm trying to keep the note short so anything else I have to yap about is in the tags

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You, your husband, and the Bonten executives were out at one of their nightclubs, trying to enjoy the little bit of time they had to spare due to their demanding jobs. You were in your cutest little dress, Mikey's favorite dress to be more precise. The one that hugged your curves just right and drove him damn near insane from how bad he wanted to rip it off of you.

Bonten had all gone their separate ways throughout the night, essentially leaving Sanzu in charge of watching you. He walked away from the booth you were sitting at for not even five minutes just to turn around and see a man, who he recognized as one of your coworkers, sitting across from you and quite obviously flirting with you.

Sanzu's first thought is to get this man away from you, by any means necessary. He walks back over to the booth, drawing his gun and pressing it to the man's temple.

"I don't know if you know this, but this lady right here is my boss's wife. So I suggest you move unless you want a piece of metal in your brain."

As soon as he's made aware of the situation, Mikey gets security to escort the man out the club, you can tell he did it because he has the slightest of smirks on his usually blank face. He sits down next to you and pulls you into his lap, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as if to give you a warning.

"What did I say about talking to strangers?"

"But he's not-"

"Don't talk back to me, I could have this whole place burned to the ground in a matter of seconds with that bastard trapped inside."

Soon, the rest of Bonten comes over and surrounds you at the table, naming off all the things they could do to your coworker.

"We could send some of our men to his house, teach him a little lesson without-" Koko tries to suggest.

"Or we could just take care of him ourselves." Sanzu interjects, itching to whoop some ass.

They couldn't care less about the man being your coworker because employees are always replaceable and they know Mikey would rather you not work with him anyway, so they all silently agree to take care of him permanently later on. For now, Mikey has to take care of you. He excuses himself, dragging you from the club into the car, and as soon as he gets you home he's bending you over the kitchen counter and pushing your dress up past your hips.

"C'mon baby, you know better than to test me like that, don't you?"

Mikey brings his rough, calloused hand down on your ass, smirking as he hears the little squeak that slips out your mouth. He grips your soft hips, his bulge pressing right against your pussy through your panties. He unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants and underwear down. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your plump thighs to reveal your soaked cunt.

“Look at you, all wet and ready for me.”

His middle finger slides back and forth between your folds, brushing lightly against your clit and making you weak in the knees. He lines himself up with your entrance and eases in, his fat cock stretching you out and causing a painful yet pleasurable burning sensation deep in your stomach. You can feel the tip of his dick knocking against the inside of your tummy, bulging through and pressing you firmly against the counter.

"Fuck! You're squeezing the life outta me."

"T-too big 'Jiro.."

"Too big? C'mon you can take it baby, you always take me so good."

His hips slap against your ass as he thrusts hard, his hand burying itself in your hair and pulling you off the counter to get a deeper angle. His free hand reaches around, cupping your tummy and applying pressure to the bulge formed there.

"You're so full of me, aren't you baby?"

All you can do is nod hurriedly and spew out nonsense in the form of moans, too fucked out to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. He presses soft kisses down your neck to your shoulder, his thrusts slowing down as he feels your pussy clenching around him as you cum. He lets out a raspy grunt shortly after as he starts to cum, filling you with his hot, gooey load.

He chuckles breathlessly as he pulls out, high off of his orgasm as he watches his cum leak out of you and drip down your thighs.

"You did so good princess. Gonna start behaving now, right? No more talking to strangers yeah?"

You mumble a soft 'Mhm' as your legs start to give out and you lie against the counter.

"Good." He peppers kisses on the nape of your neck before fixing his pants and helping you walk to the bathroom, knowing that he wouldn't have to worry about anyone stealing you away.

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Taglist

@arlerts-angel @i-literally-cant-with-this @trevengersprincess @giugiette @katkusuo @happy-trenchcoated-impala @drunkcheesecake @darkstarlight82 @reiners-milkbiddies @manji-hoe @southside-otaku @xxchthonicreaturexx @evergreen-endo @hanmaslilslut @dystop4in14nd @mysouleaten @mdsbabygirl

[chemicalbrew]

The world is your canvas and blood is the paint.

Katana ZERO (2019) ~ color spectrum

[arttsuka]

They're holding a sign

[loveyouanyway]

[flickering-nightfall]

behold. ARM

(continuation of this)

[harundraws]

♫ Babeyyyyyyyyyyy, I'm your man (don't you know that?) You bet! If you're gonna do it, do it right! Do it with meeeeeeeee ♪ ... pocket-sized Tai and Van so it's easier to keep them safe 😊

[sp1resong]

i (tumblr user sp1resong) will see some bugs and go 'is anyone gonna put those in a maze' and not even wait for an answer

[elany]

[jentlemahae]

MARK LEE / BOSS @ NCT NATION (230826)

[marblerose-rue]

click for better quality!

must be fall

[arklayraven]

For the hell of it. I decided to make these to share anyway. Some little Obey Me! themed dividers for your posts. Originally made in hopes to add in the end of posts to help them show in tags because of the glitch/issue going on right now. But it didn't work...But these can still be used either way.

Like/Reblog if you use or save please. Thank you! 💜