#this is everything
@polarcelldrewnicky in that one måneskin outfit and in doing so somehow reached right into the depths of my ridiculous brain and pulled out a goddamn eurovision au where joe is a pop crooner (a la netherlands 2019 except more soulful), nicky a rockstar, and they’re both complete disasters offstage
I think the most damage this site has done to me is making me think “It’s fucken wimdy” when it is, in fact, fucken wimdy outside.
I taught one of my ranching buddies “it fucken wimdy” and now he says it around his older more established ranching buddies
The exhilaration I get- upon hearing an old rancher (I’ve never met before) in cowboy boots and a cowboy hat while on a horse, grimly saying “it fucken wimdy” in a thick west Texas accent as he looks down upon his cows- is incalculable
One of my former students, Danielle McLarty, shared this with me, and I honestly lost it .
Farewell, Mona
Pairing:Sirius Black x fem!reader
Warning: NSFW! MDNI 18+, fingering, swearing, dirty talk, exhibitionism, Let me know if I’ve forgotten anything.
Summary:Reader and Sirius have some fun on a plane.
A/N:Just something I’ve been thinking about. I’m not responsible for any typos.To be added to the tag list click here
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Long flights were never fun; uncomfortable seats, zero leg room, crap food and a snoring old man behind you? Yeah, not Sirius’ idea of a good time. Unfortunately for him there was still a fair few hours left before the plane lands and to make it worse, you (including practically everyone on the flight) were sound asleep.
Sirius craned his head to look down at your sleeping form cuddled up next to him, you looked so peaceful. Your lashes resting delicately against your cheeks, your chest rising ever so slightly as you breathed. You pulled the blanket tighter around your body letting out a content sigh. Sirius wondered what you were dreaming about, he hoped it was something soothing and cheerful. Maybe of the two of you running around in a field of daisies, a group of tiny black labrador puppies chasing you and it’s the middle of spring where the temperature is just right. Sirius smiled at the image of you getting ‘attacked’ by the puppies, them jumping up and licking your face and leaving sloppy kisses across your skin, your laugh would be loud and carefree as you throw your head back and give in to the small puppies surrounding you.
Sirius watches your face some more, you lips were parted a little as your breathed. He had the sudden urge to kiss them, so he did. Sirius gently pressed his own lips to yours in a simple and short kiss. He paused for a second, waiting to see if you would wake, you don’t. God, Sirius loved kissing your lips, amongst other things. He loved the taste of you, how you would hum into his mouth when you were happy or whimper when you were needy. You had a habit of talking mid way through a snog. Breathing into Sirius mouth about how wet you were for him or some other dirty thought that was running through your mind.
i wonder if actors ever get their scripts and are like
well this is fucking stupid
[image description: photos of the cast of Game of Thrones at the season 8 table read, in various stages of grief]
My name is Vimes
And wen its nite,
and wen I tuck
yung Sam up tite
I moov the urth
to keyp my vow.
I rede the buk.
Where Is My Cow?
first encounter
In Sylheti Bengali, there’s a sweet dish called “ফিদা (phida)” and it sounds like the word for “punch/hit” which is also “ফিদা (fida)”. So as a joke, cousins and siblings would ask “ফিদা খাইটা নি ? (Fidā khā'iṭā ni ?)” which means “Do you want ‘fida’ ?” and if you say yes they might punch you playfully because after all you agreed to a punch (fida), not a sweet dish (phida).
Submitted by @nanacians, with the help of @bonedholt
We had a similar joke in Brazil. The word “bolacha” can mean cookie or a hit/smack depending on what region of the country you’re in. So one kid would ask “quer uma bolacha?” which the other kid interpreted as “do you want a cookie?” and would answer yes, and then would be given a slap, because they did agree to taking a hit/“bolacha”
In Dutch we’ve got this thing where you say a fruit or vegetable and you tell the other kid to say ‘mij’ (me) after every fruit/vegetable, and then at a certain point you say ‘sla’ (lettuce, but also imperative of ‘slaan’, to hit) and the other kid says ‘mij’, so they say ‘sla mij’ (‘hit me’) and you can hit them.
COC 02. wings
I posted this earlier, but the post mysteriously refused to show up on people’s dashboards??? Anyway. Tried a new colouring technique. Timelapse below the cut.
Victor: *slow dancing with Yuri* it’s a beautiful night…
Yuri: Victor, it’s 3 pm.
Victor: This music is so much better dancing with you…
Yuri: There isn’t even music playing Victor.
Victor: your eyes are so beautiful…
Yuri: I’m wearing sunglasses.
Victor: Has anyone told you how soft your skin is…?
Yuri: god damnit Victor I’m wearing sunscreen.
Phichit: *Tosses beach ball at them* WHY ARE YOU GUYS SLOW DANCING AT THE BEACH?
The Artist
Word Count:800
—–
There was a man, the studio assistants tell him, who came by earlier to buy pencils. He offered to be painted after they had mentioned that their master was looking for a new subject, bored with the usual fare around.
He is young, apparently. New from the capital, blown in like summer. Soft blond hair and expressive, dark blue eyes above a strong jaw and elegant shoulders. A face that can capture attention but not dominate a work, draw in the eye like an arrow and not let go.
This is high praise indeed from the artist’s assistants, who see all across town in their many shapes and sizes with critical, well-trained eyes, and so this man needs to be assessed soon, lest he is taken and marked as muse by someone else hungry for their shot at greatness.
Where he is staying or how long for is unknown, but the assistants tell him that the man wanted to draw by the river and so there the artist goes, considering on the way whether or not the description will match the man himself. It is hard to stand out in a small town like this, and the booming art scene flooding the upper classes all over France to dilute the recognition that emerging talent deserves. A new muse, a fresh face, might provide the fire of imagination that he needs.