But I Do - Tumblr Posts
Tumblr adding polls was the best thing because it doesn’t matter what you’re asking, tumblr users LOVE sharing their opinions. You could ask something wildly abstract like “What cardinal direction do you associate with the person you reblogged this from?” and by the end of the day it’ll have 20k notes and there’s probably some kind of discourse happening in the replies.
ppl who have one coherent aesthetic are so lucky .... bitch i spend every morning deciding whether i wanna be cottagecore or dark academia and end up putting on the same hoodie i wore the day before
What are the first three tags that come up when you type in ‘fucking’?
Ok, also with the Theseus slander.
How? Is it possible? To boil down a Greek hero so much that it’s actually possible to just flat out detest them.
I find it impossible to take the characters personally. Like people seem personally offended characters and I don’t get it. The characters are all so complicated that it’s impossible to just broad stroke psychoanalyse, and THEN proceed to act like the character has personally wronged you due to this diagnosis you have them based on your version preference when reading. Damn.
Yeah fun fact the villain in the story is Minos. The victims are the Athenian youths, the Minotaur. Theseus is the Hero, Ariadne is the Heroine. But Ariadne represents the suffering of the Athenians when she gets on the ship with them, even though she saved them, and Theseus’s dealing with that represents his tendency to make some very bad decisions, something that will haunt his character for the rest of his stories.
Maybe it’s the fact that I base my enjoyment of a character on how interesting they are. But Greek mythology is set up with these extremely complex characterisations alongside this tendency toward a deeply flawed hero. Not necessarily glorifying the fallenness, but using it to explore what happens to exceptional men when they are deeply flawed. That’s Theseus. He’s not a psychopath, not a narcissist. The texts paint him as a youth who began his ventures to find his place, who stepped up to save his kin, but whose chief and detrimental weakness was not thinking, and making bad decisions with big consequences based on just not fucking thinking anything through. He is a gut reaction person, he makes big moves based on where he finds himself in the moment. His character is glorifying the strength of the hero and, as so many men in mythology ARE WRITTEN, a cautionary tale against the flaws that lay a hero low.
Achilles is also one of these. Agamemnon is one of these. Hector, a great guy, but he has some flaws that get him in trouble. Jason too. Odysseus! And Theseus, a monumental figure, is one of these characters that implore men to be strong but to be wise, to think before they act.
tomorrow x together ✙ ‘2023 season’s greetings’ preview cuts (2)
in dead by daylight sometimes i crawl to my teammates when we're downed but not hooked so that we can have a Saw 1 moment together before the killer comes back to get us
Yeah my boyfriend’s pretty cool
But he’s not as cool as me
// “ 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴,
𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴
𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 ” //
So what if he killed people?
He’s innocent on the grounds of I said so
I'd care if the person I reblogged this from committed suicide.
Reblog this from anybody. literally. ANYBODY. even if you dont like them or even know them that well. YOU COULD SAVE THEIR LIFE.
bro how the FUCK do people make friends- don't get me wrong i have a decent amount but sometimes I look @ ppl and am just like "You're so cool how do I talk to you" (I want more friends 2 play games with :CCCC)
I...I just wanna...smack his forehead
Realising there are only two episodes left in yj outsiders and getting scared because I don’t see any sign of Wally West anywhere
𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓸𝓷 💿 ･ﾟ; * ✧ ･ﾟ.
𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 (hoard) x virgin!reader (fem)
✦ Michael teaches you how to ride a bike, among other things. ✦ 1.4k ⟡ AO3
18+ 𝗢𝗡𝗟𝗬 !! ⟡ 𝗔𝗴𝗲 𝗴𝗮𝗽; Michael (29) + Reader (22). Heavy touching, teasing, pet names. Minor injuries. Brief oral, v. 𝗩𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀, piv. 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺𝗽𝗶𝗲. Foster sibling incest; they’re out of the system. ੈ♡‧₊˚ ,
✦. Author’s Note: Reader was 19, when they met. They grew up in the same foster house, but they didn’t live together; they met later. Michael has moved back in with his foster mum, Reader is visiting. Don’t like, don’t read. 🤍
“22 years old, and you’ve never ridden a bike? Fuck off.”
And he’s laughing at you. He’s laughing at you — ushering you out in the garage after nightly tea, in search of the cycle in question.
When he finds it, he maneuvers you, kicking and screaming, onto the pivoting wheels of death. The bike is too big for you, clearly Michael’s size, though it seems no bother to your manic confrère.
“Up you go, pet,” Michael’s broad arms encircle your waist, guiding your plush legs up the thin metal seat. You straddle the faux-leather curves, cool to the touch beneath your billowing skirt, lurching with heat when he draws nearer.
Cat and cream, he’s spotted you staring, the amusement written plain on his face. His eyes crinkle in delight, that shit-eating grin ever-present.
“Come on, bird. Hands on the wheel,” he jests. His thick digits curl over your knuckles, willing you to hold on loosely. “These are the breaks…” Under the heat of his palm, he flexes your fingers on the trigger. “And this is the gas,” Michael squeezes your thigh, making you yelp, that sly smile easing the tension in the room.
“And what if I fall?” You ask stupidly, picking a hangnail.
“I’ll be right here,” he reassures you for the umpteenth time, cupping the scruff of your neck like a stern rugby coach. When you look back at him, he’s inches from your face, the summer sun melting his brown eyes a golden cream.
You kick your legs, brushing up against his cock, and turn your face to the light.
“Fuck it, let’s go.” You murmur, swallowing hard.
Michael lets you turn loose, stout hands fanning out in the air as you find your footing. When he cranks open the tiny garage, muscled arms refracting in daylight, you peel onto the street with little preamble.
You’re soaring, skidding on air — until suddenly, you aren’t. In a flash of skin and blood, you find yourself face-first on the cracked cement, your wrist bending in a way that it shouldn’t.
“Fuck,” he shouts, tearing the resident handkerchief from his left pocket to blot your skull. “Supposed to watch out for the curb, petal,” he laughs, though not unkind.
You want to hit him, for talking you into this, but the warmth of his hands at the back of your neck feels something like a dream. Callused fingers map the base of your skull, stroking up and down as he appraises your wound. It’s… Nice. Affectionate.
Without a shot at redemption, Michael leads you back inside, icing your sprained wrist with a bag of snap peas. It doesn’t take long for your whole hand to go numb, the frumpy pillow bidding little relief to your throbbing skull.
“You should really see a doctor,” Michael speaks for the first time, as if this much were obvious. Rummaging the kitchen cabinet for a jar of loose pills, he turns to face you with disdain.
“And you should really see a shrink,” you retort. “But I don’t think either of us will get that lucky.”
He leans down, his eyes wrought like knives, and slips the pills into your mouth with his forefinger and thumb. Rough digits trace your quarreling tongue, feeling the pharmaceuticals begin to dissolve under his grasp. Prodding your injured joint with the pad of his thumb, brown eyes flicker to meet yours, glazen with something dangerous.
When you cry out in pain at a particularly sharp touch, Michael crooks a weathered brow.
“That what you sound like during sex?” He scoffs, defaulting to his roguish ways.
You set your jaw in plain defiance. “Suck it and see.”
His eyes darken; you should not have tested him. He kneels down between your parted thighs, sprawled out on the settee, and tears the sticky panties from your crotch.
“Such a whore,” he chuckles, mollified by his findings, nuzzling his nose up into your cunt. “And such a sweet cunny…”
“Quit teasing,” you whine, using your good hand to press him closer to your clit.
Amused at your petulance, he works your button with his tongue, stirring your precious petals on his lips. He’s too good at this — too experienced, given his inability to live alone. By luck or misfortune, he’s moved back into the old foster house — the biggest cockblock of them all — helping your “mother,” for all intents and purposes, with the auto repairs.
It’s strange to be here with him now, all crumbling walls and cracking windows, knowing your love for him is anything but holy. Mercurial memories, unspooling like twine.
You can’t bring yourself to regret the decision to come home. Michael knows you. He’s known everything about you, from that very first glace. You are kindred spirits, parallel lives in the succession of love and grief. Two halves of a fucked-up whole.
Still, you’ve never done anything like this. Michael was your first kiss; your first heartache; the first man that you ever slept with naked. You wouldn’t want anyone else to show you pleasure, but those days have long since passed, or so you thought.
Who is he now, with his face in your cunt?
“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, hands snaking up to grope your tits. You’re a dream, and he doesn’t want to wake up. You wonder idly what more he could do, with those massive fucking fingers.
“Michael, please. Please, just fuck me.”
But you didn’t have to beg — he’s wanted this, from the day that you met. 26 and 19, he has always needed you in the very worst way.
He wrestles his jeans onto the ground, shucking his little briefs to align with your aching hole. Michael paints his cock with your juices, your pebbled tits flush to his hairy chest, his soft stomach brushing your navel. You wrap your legs around his waist; you want him, you want him, you want him; cracking open the shell of yourself, if only for his pleasure.
It’s raw, needy; a kettle that has boiled over far too long. You feel him deep in your stomach when he punches his cock, wet and raw, into your sweet little cunny. You rub your fingers over the freckled constellations of his back, tugging a hand through his gel curls. Your eyes start to sting; he’s much bigger than you would have thought; a man so large, with a dignity to match.
“Come here, baby. Wanna hold you.” He ushers you on top of him, watching your tits jiggle as you ride his fat dick, slamming your hips down on his thighs. Michael fucks you like a dog, ramming his cock in your wet hole with the frenetic intent to breed. His fingers dig deeper in your waist, a strenuous grip on your perfect peach.
“Good girl, bird. Just like that,” Michael whispers, petting your clit to make you sing. He throws his head back, eyes falling shut. “Needed you so bad.”
You arch your back, clapping your ass on his thighs, watching him keen into the fractional change. You’re losing steam, a pathetic failure at his lessons to ride, though your greed is infectious.
“I’m your dog,” you whine, blinded by lust. You belong to him, in every sense of the word. The feeling settles inside you like a blazing heat — You belong.
Impatient, he bodies you down on the settee, humping your cunt with his fuzzy balls slapping your legs. When he peaks, his husky frame bullies you further in the sofa, forcing his cum as deep as it can go. You can’t breathe, when he kisses you, dipping his tongue toward the back of your throat like a dying man’s wish. All you can see or smell is Him. Him.
“Michael,” you cry, and it’s the only name you’ve ever known. He cups a hand over your mouth, and you lick his callused palm until you scream.
“That’s it, biscuit. Be a good little whore,” he coos, folding you firmer in his arms, as if to save you from the world. You can’t see straight, you’re so breathless, spasming like a seizure around his spurting cock.
“Good girl,” he repeats, breathing hot in your ear. He tugs your panties into place, patting your wet pussy. “Good girl.”
You fall asleep to him cupping your neck, holding you closer than a corpse. It’s been so long since you’ve felt at home, you’d forgotten what he smells like. Spearmint, tobacco, sweat and sex. When he leads you up the stairs, toward the refuge of his room, you follow him into the sea of sheets, craving shelter in his arms.
“I’m yours,” you murmur, gentle as a child, when the ache settles deep in your cunt.
Michael kisses you deeper, knowing now.
“Always yours.”
✦ Author’s Note: To get real for a second: I’m a victim of abuse, and I related a lot to Maria’s character. This story is a way for me to rewrite my ending, on my own terms. 🤍 I hope you don’t mind.
Thanks as always @lorecraft for letting me vent in your DM’s. Thank you @stveharringtn for inspiring the ending. Go read her Michael fic here 🤍 Please REBLOG + COMMENT, if you enjoyed :)
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✧ 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 💫
✦ Taglist: @rowanswriting @mothellie @kingstevesgf @ali-r3n @paradisepoisons @feral-pumpkin-energy @stveharringtn @bl00d-puppy @combaine @gett-fukedd @s6raphic @asimpforthe80s @cinnamoncunt @joesquinns @joejoequinnquinn @eddiesxangel @voyeurmunson @willowsgrl @lemme-slytherin-that-dick @mediocredreams @madelynraemunson @hellfiremunsonn @scrumptiouslyangrystarfish @urdadsnewgiirlfriend @kassy-munson @readergf @wistfultozier @pervertedangel @seatnights @keeksandgigz @curlyjoequinn @lovlygrls @tlclick73 @strangerstilinski @artrmss
I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE USED OR REPUBLISHED, IN ANY FORM !!
personally, i'm much more interested in a shapeshifter's default form if they have one. in the infinite expanse of self-expression, is there still a place where they would gravitate?
but it's even more fun when they don't have one. the distinguishment between "this and many more" and "all things but no single one", y'know?
generally not super into shapeshifter characters being revealed to have like a singular True Form. isnt it much more interesting to imagine a creature so fluid and ever-changing that even they cant identify any one body as the "true" self, or simply dont see the need to?
is this you? yes. this one too? yes. but then which one is the real you? define "real" define "you" theyre all me. even the ones that are someone else? especially those.
You know how some people get angry when they see something cute. I get slightly aggressive when I see how incredible the acting is in The Godfather and Godfather 2.
"It had been a busy but satisfying day for Tom Hagen. Genco Abbandando had died at three in the morning and when Don Corleone returned from the hospital, he had informed Hagen that he was now officially the new Consigliere to the family. This meant that Hagen was sure to become a very rich man, to say nothing of power."
"A satisfying day"
I love how Tom clearly doesn't give a shit that this old dude he's known since he was 11, died. He's generally such a nice reasonable guy but sometimes you see his dark side emerge and I love it.