shake-it-for-me

anonymous asked:

So like... I was sitting with a beer, thought I'll read a fic or two. Bumped into yours with Finn x asra x Julian... Well, beer on me, beer on my notebook, I'm blushing and shaking. Pardon me, I need to use the restroom for a bit.. but while I do.. your opinion on the boys' dick sizes incl. Finn. From smallest to biggest.

Oh boy. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about this so…

(big to small)

Finn > Julian > Asra

Finn is slightly above average, kinda perfectly long with that ‘just right’ thickness. Also, a sweeeeet, subtle curve that hits all the right spots.

Julian is a tall boi, and the same length as Finn, just slightly less thick. Kind of ridiculously nice to look at.

Asra is by no means lacking, I just see him having a somewhat average, but still satisfying length and thickness. That’s all you need when you’re Asra though, he’s got skills.

maybe my expectations for it were just unfair because bastion is still like my favorite game ever but it just. still shakes me to the core how every individual aspect of the game from the art to the combat system to the voice acting was carefully and lovingly crafted by people who clearly gave a shit about what they were doing and yet it all ultimately supported and led up to uh. the vaguest, mildest, more blandly manipulative fart noise of a narrative possible :(

I’m writing to tell you
 
it hurts.
 
On the best days, he tastes like too much red wine
and it’s only now that it is easier for him
to tell you he loves you—
to tell you
what you wait/deserve/want
to hear.
After the bar, he fairytales into late night laughter
and falling asleep bare-skinned.
These have become the best nights,
and my sweetheart, they come so seldom.
 
It is now that you avoid eye contact
with the letters you wrote to yourself
at fifteen;
how she would shake her fists
and tell me she grew up
to be stronger than this–
that we didn’t bruise to become softer,
we didn’t love so damn hard
because we wanted silence.
 
More than I can paint in letters,
this hurts.
 
After you,
I don’t know if I’ll ever trust again.
After you,
is a life I never pictured.
—  Schuyler Peck, I Will Cross This River

Some people accumulate too much iron in their blood. And so it accumulates in their organs, wrecking them, destroying them from the inside out. The only solution they have is to bleed, every so often, to get rid of the toxic substance in their blood.

I- my body is healthy. It is my mind that accumulates too much words in my head. They weigh down my shoulders, make it hard to stand up straight. They put pressure on my eyeballs. The only solution I have is to write, to cry ever so often, to get rid of the toxic ink in my veins, until it all comes back again.

I am not asking for your pity. What am I with your pity? Pity is meant for a lost cause, and I am not lost. I am too weighed down, and sometimes I need to curl into myself when everything becomes too much but I am here. I feel it in my aching shoulders, I feel it in my pounding heart, I feel it in the breath my lungs take.

Sometimes I wish to be lost, but that’s not right, not quite. I want to be free. It is the opposite of being lost- it is knowing so profoundly where you are and where you can go and how much you can accomplish.

I am not asking for your pity, but I am asking for your understanding. Understand how hard this is for me, how tired I am, how much I want to give up. I am asking for your help. Help me rewrite different words with this ink in my head. Help me make sense of it all. Help me forget myself.

Listen.

Listen to me.

Listen to my quiet. Because I’ll never tell you this, it is too scary to share. But I want you so badly to know. When I go quiet it is not because of you; I am somewhere else. I am trapped into my head, pointing out everything I have ever done wrong.

When I seem cold or detached, it is not because of you. It is because I fear to let you know me, because I think there is something fundamentally wrong with me. It is because I am exhausted of being around people, because even when I am myself I feel like I am faking it.

I do not wish to be lost. I wish to be grounded. Not weighed down- grounded. They are not the same. I wish for these feet of mine to sprout roots into this earth, to be able to call this body of mine a home, and not a sin. To feel like I belong here, because I am here, to feel like I deserve to be taking up this space. To not feel like I should be shrinking myself to make room for you, or someone else. To not feel my tongue curling up because I don’t dare to spit out words, to not mute my cellphone because all my friends are talking and I feel like I have nothing worthwhile to say. Because I feel they would be better off without me.

I’d like to learn to just be a little, in peace. I’d like to live a little, I’d like to not feel like I should prove myself all the time.

It is hard for me. I’d like you to understand that so much.

I am not asking you to fix me, I am not asking you for anything. Just a second of your precious time to help me see I am here, and I am allowed to be here.

Just a minute of your time to help me remember how to breathe.

Just a smile, a little shake of your head, to show me that you don’t understand this world either.

Just a moment, so that I don’t feel so alone. Just a respite of this endless frustration of fighting against my own thoughts.

Their First Magic Item

(Backstory) So I just started playing with my group for the first time (I’m the DM) and about six sessions in I decide that one of the NPCs who likes the group is going to give them their very first magic item (pretty much all of my players are new to DnD so I felt like it was a pretty cool moment)

He gives them a Bag of Holding, the group’s in a tavern, trying to figure out it’s limits and what-not.

Dwarf Cleric: I climb inside the bag!

DM (Me): Okay. It acts as a black pocket dimension. Feels kinda like infinite nothingness

Half-Orc Paladin: I pick up the bag and shake it a bunch!

Me: Alright. Dwarf, you feel no moment. You’re still just in a pocket dimension, unaffected

(Dwarf is let out of the bag)

Half-Orc: I wanna buy 7 pints of ale at the bar… Wait, what happens to liquid in the bag?

Me: You dunno. You could test it out!

Half-Orc: Okay. Here, Dwarf, pour this in

Half-Orc hands Dwarf one pint of ale

Dwarf, without a moment of hesitation: Thanks!!

Dwarf IMMEDIATELY downs the drink in one. Room explodes with laughter

Don’t Freak V

Originally posted by kings-of-my-heart

Steve Harrington x Reader

PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV

PART V

AN: I AM COMPLETE TRASH. NO SURPRISE THERE.


Jonathan sat like stone, emotion vacant from his face while Y/N paced the living room.

Please say something,” She begged. Jonathan shrugged.

“I don’t know what to say,” Y/N sighed and nodded. A few moments passed before Y/N spoke again.

“He came by today,”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t let him in,” Jonathan took a good look at her face, then laughed. “He tried talking to me through the mail slot in the door,” This had Jonathan full belly laughing. “Why are you laughing?” He had a grin on his face and shook his head in disbelief.

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anonymous asked:

Prompt: eleven is popular And mike feels insecure about it (she gonna chose being popular over him) but she chooses him

HERE U GO THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS PROMPT (massive thanks to @el-mike-jane for betaing this bc she’s the best)

Word Count: 3.5k 

Pairings: Mike/El, minor Lucas/Max

Rating: T (for language)

Mike Wheeler walks into science class to see everyone chattering, which is massively different from the typical dead-eyed stares of Mr. Sherman’s physics class. It’s the first class of the day, and Mr. Sherman speaks the way gray looks, so it makes sense.

Mike takes his normal spot by Dustin Henderson, their bard and only member of the party he has in this class. “What’s up with everyone today?”

“They’re announcing the nominees for Homecoming Court during class,” Dustin says, looking bored. “It’s all bullshit, but everyone else is excited.”

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Time After Time

Summary: The five times the universe appeared to be against you when you wanted to ask Steve out.

Word Count: 4,447. (yikes, might want to grab a bowl of popcorn or feed your cat while reading this)

A/N: This is basically a remake of an old Peter Parker fic I wrote a while back, but of course I switched things up and improved it. Thanks to my pals @heaventide & @theassetseyeliner for being my betas. Hope you like! 

Originally posted by kings-of-my-heart


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fratgoblin  asked:

hey woosh! now that we're settling into cozy fall weather, do you have any chill music recs for the season?

I’ve been getting into Cage The Elephant again recently! If you haven’t listened to them before I recommend “Come A Little Closer” and “Shake Me Down” :)

The Ink of My Heart

Summary: Prompt 51 for @rotisserierogers ‘s writing challenge: A tattoo artist gives clients tattoos that determine their fate 

Pairing: Tattoo Artist/Alchemist!Bucky x Reader 

Word Count: 2824 Words

Warnings: Fluff, angst in the form of physical pain and being scared

Notes: This is pretty cute, but I’m so sleepy that I dunno anymore ahaha, sorry this is late Kumi!

Permanent Tags are OPEN | masterlist

Originally posted by winter-barnes

“Nattie, I’m fucking terrified. Is this even legal?” You’re gripping her hand so tight that you’re sure that you’re crushing her bones.

She gives you a withering look, before pulling up her sleeve. “It works, every time, guaranteed. Look at mine. Perfectly passive, and it’s gotten me my dream job and boyfriend.”

Your eyes linger over the highly detailed tattoo on her bicep, before looking back up at her. “You sure that this guy won’t use his…tattoo powers to murder me?”

She snorts, leaning against the brick wall. “He’s not allowed to do that, he doesn’t know what he’s casting but they can’t involve death or illness. Well…maybe illness, but there’ll be a good outcome. He sort of has a selection of objects, and you choose them, and they’re meant to influence your tattoo’s meaning. People don’t know what they’re getting, but in the end, it’ll be something that they’ve wanted for a while.”

“Do you know how sketchy that sounds?” You cross your arms, heart running wild with panic and oh shit this is a horrible idea isn’t it-

“Shut up, you’ll be fine,” Nat snatches your hand and marches you towards the door of the building, “you can’t miss your designated appointment, he stores his magic up for each client.”

“So what is he? A wizard? Like, from Harry Potter?” The bell tinkles as you enter the waiting room area. You take a brief look around, taking in the modern interior, with succulents on benches and plant pots dangling from the ceilings. There’s nothing ‘magic’ to this, what with fluffy blankets on the arms of the sofas, and industrial light bulbs casting a glow over the room.

“I’d prefer the word ‘alchemist,’ but you can call me a wizard if you want.” A voice says behind you, and you shriek, whipping around instantly.

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anonymous asked:

Hey PT what was your Papyrus like? (I read your bio and professional mourner hit me right in the feels >~<)

* Un-hit those “feels!” My great and gentlemanly brother is likely fine and in good health! I was a professional mourner for hire, you see!

* I’d be paid to show up to funerals to wail the loudest and deliver heartfelt eulogies as their “best friend!”

* People who didn’t have a lot of admirers and wanted to be remembered after their passing would need someone like me. I plucked on people’s heart strings like a professional lutist.

* ‘Course I stopped after one gig turned out that the man I was mourning for had secrets of treasure he took to his grave. His enemies wouldn’t pass up kidnapping his “closest friend” he “told everything to” and shake me down for information.