#celebrities getting autographs

[retropopcult]

Young fan Eva Mendes gets an autograph from teen star Alyssa Milano, 1989

[colliholly]

One of my favorite aspects about Spamton is how so many of his battle sprites involve his face or just straight up smaller versions of himself, it’s such a silly egotistical cartoon villain thing to do. That being said if he were to give you a gift I think it would go something like this

[frecklystars]

i know nobody is online rn to read this but ;-; i gotta get it off my chest i love ken so much he means everything to me he's making me so happy and i've needed him so so so bad. he's brought me comfort when my ptsd has been so fucking unbearable and every time i'm having a crying fit over losing my tf f/os or every time i'm having a flashback i ALWAYS immediately IMMEDIATELY think about him rushing to my side, holding me and saying "hey hey it's okay, i'm here, i'm right here" and it's such a relief because i haven't been able to genuinely wholeheartedly believe any character would be willing to do that for me the entire time i've been struggling this year.

i've never gone so long without comfort from f/os, much less being triggered by the ones who used to comfort me the most. so to have barbie and ken right now is like the biggest wave of relief every single day when i wake up and the hyperfixation is still there. sometimes i will literally close my eyes and sigh in relief when i hear a song and my first thought is sebastian or ken or six or... whomever. i love being in love again. i NEED this. i love waking up and my first thought isn't my trauma most of the time now, it's ken. or it's six. or it's barbie. or it's harley. or it's officer k. or it's... yeah you get it. i needed these characters so fucking badly. every time i see a gifset and get excited over it, i feel a rush of gratitude bc self shipping has always been the glue holding me together. it doesn't feel as intense or strong as the SB musical or TF used to make me feel but i am not picky. not at all. i will take anything and i'm praying this lasts for at LEAST another few weeks please

i may not be at a sense of peace right now and i dont know when i ever will be, it could be years, but im so. so. so. so so so thankful to have these characters right now when i've needed someone so badly for so long. i hope ken knows how much i love him ;-; i hope barbie knows how much she has helped me, has saved me from one of my major triggers and has helped me to love and feel safe around the color pink again. i wish they could see me when i'm not so broken but i'm glad they're here even when i'm at my worst, i'm glad they still love me even when they deserve to see me in a much better light

[enakane]

So apparently my previous boss is famous in southeast asia but he won't tell anyone why

[kal-culator]

Bro I definitely didn’t start crying because I lost to I go and I needed to impress a fictional character LMAO

Fr fr

Doing super multi line is absolutely impossible because I don't know how to play multiplayer with my friends so I'm suffering in silence as I keep trying to complete the single line.

[arthur-r]

had a really good night. feeling a little bit sick to my stomach but what can you do

[bradleybeachbabe]

[quantumleapt]

One of my favorite things about Sam is that he’s canonically very famous (he played Carnegie Hall at 19, he won a Nobel Prize, he was on the cover of Time magazine and called the next Einstein, things like that) but has absolutely no memory of this whatsoever.

[sylvieons]

i met tony todd for the second time in my life tonight and it went just as bad as the first time around

"what's your name?" "terri" "kerri?" "terri" "jerry?" "...yeah"

[plumbobusuninterruptus]

whatever lmao i’ll forget worse later

gen 2 namesakes: john gilbert, minta durfee, oliver hardy, louise brooks, [i forgor lol some actress’s birth first name was eulalie and that’s really pretty]

gen 3 namesakes: norma shearer, rudy valentino, cary grant

gen 4 namesakes: farley granger, douglas fairbanks sr, georgiana drew

like. there’s a “theme” but it’s rather loosely adhered to. i also get like. Expectations for newborns

[vanderilnde]

rugby player soap fucks you after a win. that’s it. extension from this post of mine

cw for dubcon smut, noncon exhibitionism, and gross johnny + simon

-

“Did ya see that, hen?”

Johnny’s words come out stifled behind his mouthguard. He smiles, and it’s bulky, a little dim-witted in how he darts his tongue out, licking up a wash of blood that sluices down his lip. His eyebrow is split and his nose is bent out of shape, his cheeks all swollen and ruddy. 

He pulls you into a crushing hug, shaking like an ebullient dog that’s unaware of how big it is. His jersey, a royal blue, turns cobalt with his sweat. It sticks to his skin and outlines his chest, peeling off of your shirt when you sheepishly pull away. 

The pitch is glutted with celebrating teammates and their loved ones, but the broadcast camera is raptly focused on you and Johnny. On the grudging hold he has on your waist and the unwieldy trophy he’s just won for his team. 

Johnny grins like it’s a challenge. Like he wants to make the camera turn away. He forestalls the protests on your tongue by sinking into you for a hard kiss, bruising, and almost brutal in its force. It’s like he hasn’t separated himself from the game yet. Like he doesn’t want to compartmentalise you from the barbarous sport he plays. 

The scruff of Johnny’s stubble tickles you as you try pushing him back, try twisting out of his hands. But his fingers, as bandaged and torn as they are, press dimples into your jawbone and keep you in place. Keeps you squirming and shameful beneath the dissonance of celebration. 

He peels away with a kitten lick, pressing a wet smooch to the corner of your mouth. He’s smiling, pulling your jeans against the bulge beneath his spandex-like shorts, chuckling.

“Scored that last try for you, hen,” he pants. Spits out his mouthguard and passes his tongue over his bloodied teeth. “Did’ja see it?”

Johnny stinks of iron musk and sweat. He hands the trophy away and uses both hands to pull you close, clemently kissing your jaw. 

“I did,” you hum. You consciously lilt your voice upwards, telling it to Johnny how he always needs to hear it. “You did so well, Johnny. So good.” 

He whimpers into your neck. Just barely gyroscopes his hips against you. 

“Did it for you,” he slurs. Johnny’s words are all soft, melting on his tongue as if he’s drunk. As if his brain is belated and stuck in the grip of your praise. “Did so good, right? A’practiced so hard.”

You take the bait that Johnny has given you, petting him, because if not, he’ll get ratty and make a scene. You pull back and cup his face, preening under the cornflower blue of his eyes and the puppy-like dip of his lips. You smile. “So good. I’m so proud of you.”

Johnny is half-lidded and dizzy, nodding to himself, swallowing your praise like an empty-headed dog. Impatience and lust are written into him—you can tell by the darkened shade of his eyes and how hard he clutches your hand. 

“Let’s go,” he says, leading you through the stadium entrance, shouldering past fans asking him for autographs and photos. “We’ve time before the team goes for dinner. Nobody’ll be in the change room.”

Your cheeks flare with the implication of Johnny’s words and how purposeful they are. Marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. 

He tugs you like a puppy pulling its owner. Excited, working against its leash, your feet struggling to catch up. Johnny pulls you into his team's changing room, slamming the door shut behind you. The sound of you getting pressed against the lockers is thin, tinny, and fleetingly impairs you. When you reorient, Johnny has his skinned knee between your legs and against your pussy. His hand palming his cock through the tight material of his rugby shorts.

“Johnny,” you pant, “what if someone comes in?”

“Let ‘em,” he huffs out a laugh. “What’re they gonna do? Ban me from the league? I just won us a trophy. ’m on top of the fuckin’ world, baby.”

Annoyance cycles in your stomach at his lack of consideration. You try wiggling out and mewling, but the thigh between your legs is an immovable object. Your clothed clit catches on his sinews at every angle, pushing a gasp out of you regardless of how you twist and turn. 

“Haud y’r wheesht,” he barks. A hint of aggression bleeds into Johnny’s words, and that makes you pliant. “We’re just celebratin’, hen, no need ta ruin my win.”

Your eyes are on the door while Johnny shucks down his shorts. It rolls down his thighs and he leaves it at his knees, too eager to toe off his cleats and pull it all the way off. He stands awkwardly now, a little stilted because he can’t stretch his legs all the way, but that doesn’t stop him from bevelling his thigh into you and flexing, grinding into you. 

Johnny peels your shirt—a replica of his jersey—off of you, and kisses you deeply. You can taste the salt and blood crusted against his lips, feel his small smile. 

Johnny spins you around and folds you over the bench. Your knees bruise against the rubber flooring and your chest flattens against the cold wood, your brain reeling in the gross implications of it, whatever Johnny and his friends get up to in this locker room. 

He rips down your jeans, almost popping the buttons off, almost burns your skin with the denim, and settles himself behind you. Johnny grabs a fistful of your ass and spreads you open, swatting your pussy with his other hand.

“Johnny…” you mewl, and he chuckles. Gives you a waggle, slipping his large hand over and thumbing your clit.

“Thought you were feart of bein’ found?” He asks, lowering to his knees and kissing your dewy folds. “Why’re y’being so loud?”

Johnny waits for a second, giving you time to think of a reply, but with the first sound to leave your mouth he’s licking a fat stripe up your pussy, collapsing your words. 

He laughs at himself and it sends vibrations up your spine. Your bones are grinding together, your nerves filaments of live wire under Johnny’s hands that dig divots into your thighs and his mouth that sucks on your clit, tonguing your sticky folds. 

He spits on your cunt, spreads the wad of saliva around with his tongue. He pulls you into his mouth and suckles, moving his wet lips against your dewy ones. 

You stretch your arm back and tug on Johnny’s fleecy mohawk, scratching your fingers against the dew-skinned, shaved parts of his head. He expels a groan against your clit and you mewl, pushing into him, wiggling so his nose buries further, his tongue plunging into you and licking a stroke up your walls. 

You’re quivering now, shaking against the cold bench and Johnny’s hot mouth. A knot of energy crackles in your stomach as he wraps his lips around your clit and slurps.

“Gonna come on my mouth, hen?” Johnny pants, but pulls away before you reply. Punches a whine out of you by spinning you onto your back against the bench, pulling his cock out and giving it a few tugs, his dick so hard it droops with laden weight and a slaver of precum.  

“Or would’ya rather do it on here?” He asks, stroking himself. His balls low-hanging in front of you, the fat head of his cock all ruddy and red and flaring as he pinches it. 

You stare, dull-headed, with your mouth hanging open and a hazy film behind your eyes. Johnny giggles. 

“Cannae think with this in front of ye?” He smears his cockhead on your lips. “Sweet girl. So cute.” 

Johnny winces and pulls away. He swings one leg over the bench, settling himself on top of you. His cock is a heavy mass of muscle between him. Swinging, bobbing in place. Dumb and drooling with precum that drops onto your navel. 

He slips himself between your puffy folds, panting like a dog. Equally as impatient as one, squeezing his cockhead past your first ring of muscle, writing off your small cries of pain. He thinks cupping your cheek offsets the burn—still, Johnny’s cock is so heavy and so big inside you. Spreading you open, stretching you out. Making a home inside your belly. 

You hic his name, and he shushes you with a kiss. Johnny weaves into short, quick thrusts, because pulling himself to the tip means losing most of your warmth, and he can’t have that. He settles on barely rolling his hips, focusing on burying himself deep, folding himself into a frog position if that means fucking you meaner.

“Takin’ so much cock, bonnie,” he moans into your neck. “So good. So good.” 

Johnny’s ears turn pink and his eyes turn glassy. He keeps rocking inside you, his cock filling you out so well, so full, your thighs shaking and damp with slick. He fingers your clit, and in his pace, wild and unfettered, you wrap your legs around his waist like a cobbled together leash that you use to pull him closer.

Johnny grows feral at that. He slaps his balls harder against you, biting your shoulder. Sweat and blood rolls down his cheek and onto your face, augmenting the icy gold of his first place medal. It drags along your chest with each of his thrusts, turning into a ball of liquid fire as your body saturates with sweat. Johnny leans down, his lips slick as he kisses you, the push and pull of his hips ripening into a more jagged, desperate rhythm.

“Gonna fill y’up, hen,” he pants. There’s a strong dissonance that impairs you, echoing within the locker room. Johnny’s degenerate moans and the slap of skin against skin. The pitched sound of the wind being knocked out of you, the sticky sound of your cunt getting spread open on his big cock. 

Something else poises itself on Johnny’s tongue, something impure, but it gets shaved-off as he cuts himself off with a long, flinty moan. Johnny quivers as he comes, and that pushes him deeper as he fills you with his warm ropes.

He presses down on your clit, pushing the rise of your orgasm out of you. Your spine curls off the bench, your nails digging divots into Johnny’s arms, your mouth hanging open and a rough wave of pleasure curling over you and breaking into your skin. Your orgasm is so consuming it burns, eating you whole.  

It chews you up and spits you out. You tremble around Johnny’s softening cock as he peppers kisses down your sternum, and while you reorient, you see an unearthly spot of colour in the corner of your eye. It isn’t composed of matter—it’s big and blurry and hides between two rows of lockers. 

Then, you realise the drapery England flag, the absence of a Scottish one. 

The man who stands in the corner is blonde and huge and has his fat cock out, curling his fist around it, pumping. He’s so quiet, an ambush predator as he just stands there, continuing to beat his dick even after you make eye contact with him. 

He turns to Johnny, grotesquely smiling.

Johnny returns it.

[acornmoment]

My Reputation went up to 3.

[gingiekittycat]

Getting an author reply to a fic comment is just the best feeling. Like a celebrity stopping to sign autograph

[leah-lover]

Girlfriend duties. Alexia putellas x reader.

Angst, smut, fluff.

90 minutes and not a single successful shot from you. You were beyond devastated when the ref blew her whistle . Another olympic gold escaping through your grasp. Another lost opportunity at redeeming your country. Another moment of weakness. Another loss.

The stadium erupted at the final blow but at the moment you couldn't hear anything. You just sat down, your head in your hands, and felt nothing. Nothing was going through your head for a few seconds. Then you remember your girls. Most of your teammates were young. This was their second consecutive major loss. You got up quickly, collected yourself and went straight to the first person to console them. You made the round of everybody. You told them how proud you were of them, how good of a job they did throughout the Olympics , and how lucky you were to play with them in the final. Your regard to your own feelings was invisible. You were the captain, it's your duty to help them.

After the team huddle, you made the round of the pitch and met every fan you could. You signed autographs, took pictures, and spent as much time as you could before getting your silver medals.

As expected the winning team clapped for you as you went to get your medals. What hurt you the most about the loss was how better the Spanish team was than you. They were on a different level than you for the whole 90 minutes.

While walking to get your medals, you kept eye contact with the Spanish captain of the night for a little too long. All you wanted was the comfort of her arms. You wanted to cry in her chest, you wanted her to tell you how good you are, you wanted her to talk Spanish to you, to south you, to make love to you, but you couldn't be that selfish. Tonight was her night.. She deserved to celebrate her hard fought win along with you Barca teammates.

It was like she knew your exact thoughts. The look on her face was enough to give you the confidence to wake up those stairs, get your medals and help your team heal.

You didn't stick around to see them get their medals. Instead you followed as a crying teammate to the locker room. After consoling her more, you showered and picked up your phone.

“ I need to see you meet me in the hall please.” texted alexia. Once you saw her name you smiled. You didn't want to ruin her fun so you hesitated in responding. “ please mi alma.”

“ okay.” you responded, dropped your phone and headed to the hall.

The music was getting louder as you approached the Spanish locker room. You stood, your head against the wall,your eyes closed, waiting for alexia. You didn't hear her come near you, you just felt her arms pull you in for a huge. Your head on her shoulder, you didn't dare to open your eyes.

“ mi niña estoy orgulloso de ella.” she whispered kissing you temple.

“ I am not sure there is anything to be proud of.” you respond. she then brings your head in front of her so she can look you in your eyes.

“ don't you ever say that again. You're an olympic medalist now. Plus I saw the way you handled your girls. You were so good to them mi amor.” she added, her thumbs rubbing your cheeks.

“ don't let me ruin your night go celebrate with the girls and tell aitana, ona and the others congrats.”

“ I want to celebrate with you.”

“ We can do that once we are back in Spain, baby. We can't now.”

“ Come with me, we can travel together back to barcelona.”

“ You are kidding right? Baby they don't know about us.”

“ They are our family. It's fine if they knew. I want to be with you.”

The Spanish plane was going to land in Barcelona because they want to do the press there, so going with them would be an easy flight to your home, back to your bed and in ale's comfort. You hesitated before saying yes due to the awkwardness of the situation but you knew that while alexia was there she would be the only one who got your attention.

“ hola bebita, nice of you to join us.” said aitana as soon as she saw you enter their locker room your hand intertwined with alexia’s.

“ merda les capitanes estan juntes al llit.” said ona.

“ no es permeten preguntes de moment. celebrem-nos en pau.” said alexia shutting down the confused faces.

The Spanish girls lit up your mood even though half the time you were texting your teammates. Once you were in the bus, you and alexia sat at the front where no one was. You put your head on her shoulder and she put her hand on your thigh. She kept rubbing her hand along the length of your thigh the whole journey back to the hotel. Once you got to her room and shut the door behind you, you whispered in her ear. “ mommy, i need you.'' She then picked you up, put you down on the bed and proceeded to strip you. She knew that you wanted her too much so she didn't bother to tease you. She just kissed you all over. She kissed your lips, your neck; your chest, your stomach until she arrived at your inner thighs. She spread your legs slowly, and teased your entrance a little before putting two fingers inside you. You arch at her action and release a small moan. While thrusting into you she whispered in your ear how proud she was of you, how good you were for her, and how much she loves you.

“mi amor eres tan bueno para mí. que buena niña." She whispered again before speeding up. Once she realized how close you were she started kissing the sensitive spot on your neck unleashing filthy sounds from you. You came without her permission which she doesn't like. You thought that she would punish you for it. Instead she put her fingers full of your juices in your mouth and said, “límpialos por mí.” After you cleaned them, she got up, handed you water and said, “ I am gonna prepare a bath for us then we are gonna go down and celebrate with the girls okay?.”

“ I love you so much. You are perfect. ” you say to her.

“ I am just doing my girlfriend duties.”

[footiecent]

not your fault

(emily fox x reader)

in which you're obsessed with your girlfriend (especially her jawline)

warnings: slightly suggestive? almost all fluff

word count: 1.1k

It's not your fault. Really, it's not.

“Baby, don’t you have to get up soon?”

You hum in reply, half asleep. 

You’re so comfortable. Your head is tucked protectively into the crook of your girlfriend’s left shoulder and neck while you lie almost entirely on top of her, the covers burying the both of you into a warm, delightful cocoon. Emily’s left hand is slowly moving up and down your back, and everything is just perfect.

“You can’t be late for work again.”

You open your eyes at that, but at the first moment you start to untangle your arms from her waist and feel her body heat dissipate, you realize that maybe you can stay for just another minute.

So, you decide to flop back down. Though, you’ve at least managed to roll your upper body partially off of her, giving you a perfect view of her side profile as she closes her eyes, not having to get up for practice for another half-hour. 

You can’t help but to reach out your hand and run your thumb along her sharp jawline—mind assaulted by memories of the night before when you see the marks littered below it.

Damn. She’s gonna kill me, you think. She’s told you so many times that covering hickies up before practices is a bitch, and looking at these marks—ones that might be a few too many shades past concealable—you realize you’re fucked. 

You start to analyze the best plan of action, landing on one that has you placing a gentle kiss onto her jaw before springing up from bed and hurriedly walking to the bathroom to wash up. All you have to do is leave before she gets up. Easy work. Easy peasy…

You’re so close—you’re at the door, knelt down with one shoe on when you hear her.

“Y/N! Come on!” she yells. 

Yikes.

You manage to put your other shoe on right as she appears in your vision, very clearly ticked off. 

“It’s not my fault?” you try, walking towards your very beautiful, and very pissed girlfriend.

“Oh, so it’s my fault I have to cover these up?” she says, pushing your shoulder when you stand in front of her.

Looking at her face, you decide that telling her you literally just look so incredible at every moment it’s not my fault you’re mine and I can’t help it would not exactly help your case. So, you decide to resume your quick exit, quickly kissing her cheek and saying, “Have a good practice babe, I love you!” as you grab your keys and leave your shared flat. 

You do make a mental note to buy Emily’s favorite chocolates after work. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

Like really, it's her fault. Who gave her the right to look that good after a game?

You’re reminded that you’re always completely in the right when you’re sitting at the Emirates two days later, watching your girlfriend wrap up a defensive masterclass against Chelsea. For the first time in a while, London is sunny, and the beautiful weather only adds onto the incredible mood in the stadium as the full-time whistle blows and cheers thunder throughout every corner.

You can’t help but stare at her while she celebrates with the rest of the team. Lotte likes to joke that the two of you could melt taffy with just one of your lovesick glances, but you can’t help it. It's her fault for looking so good after a game—sweaty, smiley, and positively glowing after helping her team to a win. 

She spends time walking around the stadium, signing autographs and taking pictures, while you chat absentmindedly with Alessia, who came to greet you before starting her rounds of the stadium. But when Emily finally makes her way towards you—lifting her shirt up to try and wipe some sweat off her face—you start thinking about your plans for after. Alessia catches your change in demeanor, rolling her eyes and walking away while muttering something under her breath. 

“Did you enjoy the game?” your girlfriend asks, stepping in front of you, grinning from ear to ear. You both look disgustingly in love as the sun shines down and highlights her vibrant smile. 

“Of course I did. How could I not, superstar?” 

Being in the stands means you hover tall over Emily, enabling you to comfortably wrap your arms around her neck as she looks up at you. You ignore the few stares that direct their way towards you two as you relentlessly press kisses onto her jawline and cheek. She’s laughing as she playfully tries to shove you away, but you can’t help but hold her a little tighter and whisper just how excited you are to get home. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

So, she should stop getting annoyed. She should know that you’ll never truly be satisfied. 

Your watch reads ‘8 P.M.’ as you cuddle up to Emily’s side on the white couch in your living room. The two of you had rushed home from the afternoon game, unable to resist the allure of enjoying each other’s company for a few hours.

And now, after redressing yourselves, cooking and eating dinner, washing the dishes, and tidying up the kitchen, the two of you are sitting together, more innocently enjoying each other’s company. She has a book out while you scroll mindlessly through Twitter, poking her side every few minutes to draw her attention to a funny tweet. 

After thirty minutes, however, Emily is deeply immersed into her reading and you’re bored. So, you resort to beginning your favorite activity: staring at her. You look up at her while your head rests against her arm, and you’re still mesmerized by her beauty even years into your relationship.

“What?” she asks without looking away from her book.

“You’re hot.”

She dismisses the comment with a small snicker, but places a kiss onto your forehead regardless. 

“We already fucked today, let me read in peace.”

You huff, but the both of you are well-aware that you aren’t deterred by small obstacles. So naturally, you begin to press a few open-mouthed kisses right below her jaw. She indulges you for a moment, closing her eyes and letting her book rest on her lap. But when a kiss turns into a stinging bite, she opens her eyes and grabs your shoulder. 

“C’mon, stop it. I have to go in for recovery tomorrow, you know that,” she whines. “I already stopped you from leaving marks once today!”

But she should know that you simply can’t help yourself. She should’ve known that you were going to toss away her book from her other hand, grab her wrists, and straddle her lap. She really should know that the stern look she sends you—with her jaw clenched, almost sharpened—while sitting underneath you only makes her hotter. 

She should’ve known that she was going to wake up the next morning with quite a few more marks. 

After all, it's not your fault.