tumblr will talk about all the gay shit in a new episode no matter what. girls a man just died
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omg there are adult women who truly think and live like this as if its not fucking insane.....
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imagine if your city was saved from certain doom but by a robot named The Rock Em Sock Em Racial Slurinator Bot 3000
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⌗ jensoo ⨾ locks ♥︎!
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Bokuto is coming home as fast as he can to bred you. All he wants to do is empty his beeg breeder balls in you and fill you up all night long that your legs are shaking and his cum is leaking out of you and he pushes it back in making you clench around nothing. - 💫
pls all it takes is one text:
‘m horny kō, come home soon :(
and he’s fumbling over his weights and the rest of his equipment, cock already half hard in his shorts as he thinks about everything he’s been dreaming about all day. his balls ache, and he swears he can feel the cum weighing him down. he needs to get home, needs to bury himself all the way into you and empty them deep inside, over and over until you’re both oversensitive and too fucked out to go on :((
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GASP! Girl please 😩
AHahaha @mourningbirds1 you caught that tag did you? 😌 Thank you for the ask!! 💕 I’m so happy you want to know about the nonsense that goes on in my head.
Girl listen I have very loose thot here - a friends to lovers situation that starts with Javi being your neighbour - and it all stemmed from a prompt that @yespolkadotkitty sent me a while ago…
“I can’t keep kissing strangers in the dark and pretending they’re you”
You're still not sure what he does for a living but his hours are long and the walls are thin and you have some idea what he does to decompress because it’s not that much different than your own coping strategies and over the next few months, an easy friendship evolves.
There was the night he found himself sitting at your kitchen table in an adrenaline induced haze after a bust gone wrong and with whiskey on his breath he’s apologizing for dripping blood on your floor. You just wave it off and press a fresh glass into his good hand. You know better than to notice the dark circles under his eyes or ask what the other guy looks like. He watches your gentle fingers at work cleaning and bandaging the gash on his knuckles with smooth ease, like you’ve done this a thousand times. So mesmerized by your soothing touch, he forgets the whiskey altogether until he sees you reach for his hand. His brain takes too long to realize you’re reaching for the booze, not his hand. You down it in one gulp and refill the glass for him, ripping open a box of butterfly stitches. His eyes are on the smudge of lipstick on the edge of his glass, the shape of your bottom lip left behind. Dregs of whiskey blur down the side and he wants to taste it.
And not the whiskey.
You give him a frozen bag of peas to help the swelling over his cheekbone and he does as he’s told, wondering why your first aid stash contains 8 bottles of hemostatic agent and fishing line, wondering how you know what kind of whiskey he drinks, wondering why you care about him like this.
Fast forward a couple more weeks…
He knows you had a date tonight with that accountant again. Fourth date this month if he was counting. which he’s not.
So he definitely wasn’t expecting to hear you climbing the stairs by yourself at such an early hour.
He has no right to the sheer relief that settles over him. But the pang of his misguided heart is getting harder to ignore when he’s wishing it was his fourth date with you instead, so he washes the sting of it down with something equally harsh. He doesn’t worry about you when you go out no matter how plain and boring your dates are with their polo shirts and obnoxiously expensive shoes (but the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray on his coffee table tell a different story)
Then he hears your apartment door slam louder than usual. judging by your cursing, cupboard doors echoing in your kitchen, the evening didn’t go well and he’s off his couch and across the hall without even realizing it.
You’re standing there on the other side of the threshold, barefoot, in a dress he’s never seen before, the glass in your hand is half full and it’s not the cheap stuff. The furious storm in your eyes had already spilled over at some point and smeared your mascara.
There’s a special place in hell for anyone that makes you cry, he thinks, eyes darting across your features, sweeping for any other indicator that might require a little interference in a certain accountant’s affairs. Javi comes up short and he can’t decide if that’s good for him or not.
Once again his chest floods with the overwhelming need to protect you like you’re his.
He steps into your space, and it’s all the coaxing you need. Your face crumbles and he slips the glass from your hand, setting it down on the tiny hall table before gathering you in his arms, soothing your shuddering breaths against his chest.
you don’t see the seething rage darkening his eyes, trembling just underneath the surface.
‘What did he do?’
‘He had a wife.’
In conclusion this is nothing but pure self indulgence where javi desperately wants to be the one to show you that you deserve better 😌
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This show is weird, but Guillermo couldn't be Nandor's horse reincarnated because we saw the ghost of his horse.... also the one time Nandor said he treated Guillermo as a son, the joke was literally because he doesn't do that in any shape or form. Why are reddit people like this
they will make up anything to keep them from being gay
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jellyfish lighting by geraldine gonzalez
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@romcommunist //Jenny Slate//Unknown-from Pinterest//Mary Oliver//Keith Haring
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Mina Loy, from The Collected Poems of Mina Loy; “Three Moments in Paris,” // Eva Antonini // Benjamin Alire Sáenz, “To the Desert” // Eisha Tandon, from “A poem for a moment with you” // Emery Allen, “Become”
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the colin robinson community is in shambles
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read this again.
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who is that kaiju with the eight pack and whats her number
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theindianexpress / pascalchampion / hozier, ‘to noise making’ / titanic (1997) dir. james cameron / my chemical romance, ‘sing’ / abc news / dead poets society (1989) dir. peter weir / bertolt brecht
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do you ever realize how beautiful your name looks when someone else writes it down. no matter if it’s in print or cursive, pen or pencil, on a thank you card or a love letter, i just adore how my name looks when people write it in their own handwriting. we all have our own personal, identifiable way of how we write things and that makes it feel all the more special and personal. if a thousand people wrote my name on a slip of paper and my mom was one of them, i could identify which one she wrote in a heartbeat
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Ep 2x10 had Guillermo leaving, Nandor having a mini meltdown, and Guillermo coming back to save him. Ep 3x10 has Nandor leaving... more parallelisms????
something something guillermo still hasn’t had his breaking point this season . thoughts.
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what are ur fave poems of all-time?
hi 💌 here are some:
“Love After Love” by Derek Walcott
“Hanging Fire” by Audre Lorde
“Mayakovsky” by Frank O'Hara
“Rain” by Roberto Bolaño
“Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver
“Spring Torrents” by Sara Teasdale
“Tulips” by Sylvia Plath
“Summer Morning” by Mary Oliver
“You Are Tired (I Think)” by E. E. Cummings
“Emergency Management” by Camille Rankine
“Thanksgiving 2006” by Ocean Vuong
“Suicide in the Trenches” by Siegfried Sassoon
“Warning” by Jenny Joseph
“[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]” by E. E. Cummings
“Love Sorrow” by Mary Oliver
“Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre)” by Warsan Shire
“Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out” by Richard Siken
“Pig” by Hieu Minh Nguyen
“The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass
“Mad Girl's Love Song” by Sylvia Plath
“The Century’s Decline” by Wislawa Szymborska
“A Primer For The Small Weird Loves” by Richard Siken
“Unpainted Door” by Louise Glück
“Spring has come back again” by Rainer Maria Rilke
“Homesickness” by Marina Tsvetaeva
“Don't Hesitate” by Mary Oliver
“Poem for Haruko” by June Jordan
“To Be Human Is to Sing Your Own Song” by Mary Oliver
“Edward the Confessor” by Eileen Myles (under the cut bc i couldn't find it online)
“Edward the Confessor” by Eileen Myles
(content warning: graphic description of sexual activity at the end of the poem. i added *** right before that part just in case.)
I have a confession to make
I wish there were
some role in society
I could fulfill
I could be a confessor
I have a confession to make
I have this way when I step
into the bakery on 2nd Ave.
of wanting to be the only
really nice person in the store
so the harried sales woman
with several toned hair
will like me. I do this in all
kinds of stores, coffee shops
xerox shops, everywhere I go.
And invariably I leave my keys,
xeroxing, my coffee
from the last place
I am being so nice. I try
so hard to make a great
impression on these neutral
strangers right down to
the perfect warm smile
I get entirely lost and
stagger back out onto
the street, bereft
of something major.
It’s really leaning
too hard on the everyday.
My mother was
the kind of woman who
dragging us into stores
always seemed to charm the pants
off the cashier. She was such
a great person, so human
though at home she was
such a bitch, I mean really
distant. I imitate her and
I don’t do it well. She didn’t
leave her wallet
or us in a store.
I’m just a pale imitation
it is simply not my style
to open the hearts of
strangers to my true
personhood. I hope you accept
this tiny confession of what
I am currently going through.
And if you are experiencing
something of a similar nature
tell someone, not me,
but tell someone. It’s the new
human program to be in. It would
be nice for at least
these final moments if
we could sigh
with the relief
of being in
the same program
with all the
in school. I can’t quite locate
the terror, but I am trying
to be my mother
or Edward the Confessor
smiling down on you with up-praying
hands. I am looking down at the
tips of my boots as I step
across the balcony of the
church excited to be allowed
to say these things. Outside my church
is a relationship. On 11th street
this guy and this woman are selling
the woman so they can
get more dope. All their things
are there, rags and loaves of
bread and make-up. ***
And there was—
this was incredible.
Two men lying by the door
of the church giving
each other blow-jobs.
They were sort of street
guys, one black one white.
I said hey you can’t do
that here. They jumped
up, one spit come
out of his mouth. If you don’t
get out of here I’ll call
the cops. Don’t call the
cops we’ll go, we’ll leave.
That was a shock. That was more
than I expected to see in
a day. Something about
seeing the guy spit
come out of his
mouth. He didn’t
have to do that.
I guess I scared
him. I couldn’t
believe my eyes.
I was scared too.
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