#slather

[drinkinboilingcoffee]

[22ratonthestreet]

the passangerette

[floramau]

Y si los muertos aman, después de muertos amarnos más

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ touya-nii + his nasty habit of sneaking into your bedroom

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest, noncon, a slight bit of degradation, implied size difference words: 1.2k

he’s always careful when he starts. careful when he creeps into your room in the middle of the night, sock clad feet quiet against the hardwood; careful to keep the doorhandles latch from catching on the strike plate as he closes it behind him; careful not to wake you as he slinks into your frilly little bed, knocking stuffed animals and extra pillows onto the floor, as he worms his way beneath your pink-piped comforter and slithers his hand between your silky thighs—ah, good girl, you’re not wearing those pesky sleep shorts, just like he told you not to (good little sisters only wear panties to bed; and sometimes, they don’t even wear those, he had informed you)—and then wiggles his fingers under your lacy undies.

that’s when he stops being careful. 

because he loves that sharp gasp of surprise, that sheer unadulterated bolt that courses through your body—shock in the purest, prettiest form—that jolts you from your blissful slumber almost violently; skin shuddering, eyes snapping open, when he shoves two dirty fingers into your ill-prepped cunt. 

it’s his favourite sound in the world, he swears it is, swears he would bottle it up and keep it close to his heart if he could, swears he would wear it around his neck like the cutest, daintiest little noose, tethering him to you. 

but this is the next best thing, he supposes. 

your eyes slip shut again, so tightly they crinkle the corners and furrow your brow, and a whine of his name spills from your lips; first in frustration, then again all wispy and dumb when he curls his knuckles against that plush spot buried deep inside of you—that spot he knows so well, that spot he discovered, then claimed as his own. 

yeah, not so irritated now, are ya, y’little brat. 

no, you’re not. you’re sighing out his name in time with the pumps of his fingers, all melty and stupid and oh-so-cute, knotted with his honorific and seeping into your lace-trimmed pillows in little threads of drool. you’re grinding your ass back against his hard cock as you pathetically hump his palm, indulging him as his hips rut into your plush flesh, pre-cum steadily leaking through his thin pyjama pants, staining plaid in dark wet patches.

“touya-nii,” you whimper, back arching a little, nipples peaked through the thin cotton of your camisole. “stop, stop.” 

this is the routine almost every time, practiced and perfected through night after night of rehearsals, and you play your part flawlessly; effortless and enticing and full of emphasis, because you know he gets off on it—the no!s and wait!s and don’t!s, sometimes spit from your lips, sometimes dribbling out the corner of your mouth, only heightening the whole sordid affair.

because you’re just as fucking sick as your big brother is. 

he can’t stop, don’t you know?

it’s all your fault, he’s telling you, voice caught somewhere between accusatory and mocking. if you weren’t such a slutty little tease, nii-chan wouldn’t have to do this. 

but it’s all just a game; he knows you love it just as much as he does, knows you’re just as depraved as he is, because your actions don’t match your words, you bad girl, the rolling of your hips encouraging the rocking of his own, one of your free hands threading itself over his and guiding it to your breast, bony knuckles pressing into a soft palm as his fingers flex around supple flesh.

if you didn’t love it, if you didn’t want it, then why would you prance around the house in those short, short little dresses? the ones that fan out when you twirl to your music in the living room or ride up when you bend over while cooking in the kitchen, gifting anyone within the immediate vicinity (your vile siblings and their prying eyes) a coveted glimpse of the silk and lace clinging delicately to your cheeks; the ones that are an inch or two too short to be considered wholly decent, and the ones Daddy has repeatedly told you to stop wearing around your big brothers—especially the eldest. 

“m’sorry, touya-nii, m’sorry, m’sorry.”

no, you’re not, but that’s okay. he isn’t, either. 

at least you have each other.

your other hand snakes between your tensing thighs, cupping his own, little fingers layering larger ones as they try to speed up his motions, push his digits deeper, fuck you harder, give you more. 

these trysts never last long enough, though; no matter how hard he tries to lengthen them, to savour them, you’re both too eager, too hungry for one another, cumming too quickly in the dead of night as your bodies tremble together, as names shatter on tongues in sharp whispers and limbs seize and tangle and fuse into one.

it’s always so fucking messy, your cunt clenching around your conjoined fingers, slick dribbling down his knuckles in thick dollops to pool in his hand, to settle in the lines of his palm and streak his inner wrist in pretty shimmering streams.

it’s always so fucking messy, his grunts hot and humid against the nape of your neck, forehead pressed to the crown of your head as his cock throbs, filling flannel with copious amounts of burning, sticky cum—so much it seeps through the material to soak your scrunched panties, so much it dries in a hard glaze, welding lace to your ass. 

you don’t ever dare to wash it off, clean it away, eradicate the evidence, instead allowing each other’s pleasure to stain your skins, wearing it like a mark of honour, a claim of ownership, barely visible when it dries into something firm and translucent, but there nonetheless. 

his fingertips continue to flutter against that swollen spot until ripples of overstimulation are shuddering through your flesh, until your little hand is wreathing around his syrupy wrist and nails are biting into his flesh and tugging, tears beginning to bead your lashes.

only then does he chuckle and pull his hand free, knuckles hooking in an attempt to scrape your walls, a heavy coat of your arousal glistening on his fingers. 

“you cum so fucking much for your big brother,” he growls in your ear, lips wet against the cartilage, voice tapering off into a whine. “look at how wet you get for me.” 

two of his fingers flatten against your cheek and then swipe, slow and hard and thorough, smearing a thick film of your slick across your face, from the tip of your temple to the corner of your mouth, back and forth and back and forth until it’s been rubbed into your skin. 

callused fingertips push past your parted lips, weighing down on your tongue and cramming themselves into your throat, forcing you to taste yourself—to taste him, painted in you; spicy nicotine and heady salt.

“you’re fucking disgusting,” he pants out, but his pupils are gaping, watching as your gorge yourself on your big brother’s flesh, lips puckering and cheeks hollowing as your tongue curls around his knuckles and tries to siphon him further down your throat. 

a whine splinters in his chest as he pulls his extremities free from your voracious grip, slathered in spit, viscous cords strung between his knuckles as he spreads them apart. 

“yeah, you’re real fucking sick, y’know that?” 

“you made me like this, nii-chan,” you breathe out dreamily, already drifting back into sleep’s welcoming embrace, body going lax in his arms and snuggling back against his chest. 

yeah, he fucking did. 

and neither of you would have it any other way. 

[thebibliosphere]

So, I'm one of those weirdos who finds heat more beneficial for relieving migraine pain than ice, and I've just realized I was in so much pain yesterday that I burned myself and didn't notice.

Thought I still had a migraine and that's why my forehead hurt. Nope. It's a burn from where I was grinding the heat pack into my skull to try and relieve the pain. My fingertips are burned, too.

But god forbid the pain clinic prescribe me anything stronger than Tylenol and Asprin because, apparently, this is a better scenario than giving me opioids, aka, the only pain relief that actually works for me.

Fucksake.

[show-tunes]

You know what? Fuck you *blingee’s your scrybes*

Bonus Leshy jumpscare where I was trying to learn how to use the fill tool

[nay-lon]

BEACH EPISODE!!

[mirrorhouse]

they had food in that apartment in the 70s... there's crackers, peanut butter, bread(?), a jar of pickles and a bowl of apples but why. was louis letting his hookups slash murder victims have a little snack first or was it just like for decoration purposes

[akakris10]

[buwheal]

Man although I can't send this and have Spamton see the image (cuz it would be text instead) I'll send it to you and you can give me your opinion about it.

What do you think...

...about...

...snowy Spamton?

IT SNOWED YESTERDAY YESS!!!

(this was on a car btw, which made it even better)

[babsaros]

they talk about testosterone gel like it’s the fentanyl of hrt

[housecow]

i wanna be y’all’s gardener feedee authority. i will post fattening recipes using home grown veggies and herbs >:))

[skinnylorax]

let’s be real jean is horrifically pale from the lack of sunlight during his time with the ravens so he definitely got sunburnt rather than tan in the california sun

[wombywoo]

May I give Quinn very silly tattoos?🫣😂

please feel free~ 🙌

[permanently-stressed]

if you are my moot remember that mentally I am preparing you guys a warm meal of good Brazilian food cause a lot of y'all are americans who are in desperate need of a good rice and feijoada combo