(Smugly after failing at a task) and they said it could be done.
almost home
ojovivo
Peter Solarz

JVL
Sade Olutola
đŞź
NASA
KIROKAZE
RMH
art blog(derogatory)
todays bird
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
cherry valley forever
One Nice Bug Per Day
h
$LAYYYTER

Product Placement

titsay

oozey mess

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@bluefairyhere
(Smugly after failing at a task) and they said it could be done.

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hello male writer. before you is a typewriter. you have one day to write a novella with a woman as the protagonist without describing her breasts. the timer begins now
Her ass was like a peach, and brother Iâm in her pit.
well. that oneâs on me
No because why is this me
â Ocean Vuong, On Earth Weâre Briefly Gorgeous (via letsbelonelytogetherr)
âDonât we touch each other just to prove weâre still here?â
Yes. Yes, I think we do. And yet, the truth is more elusive than our skin dares admit. Even in our most intimate collisions, the particles resist. Atomsâthose stubborn sovereignsânever truly touch. They hover. They repel. They dance in electric tension, suspended by invisible laws that govern even our most desperate need for closeness. A fingertip against a wrist, a mouth to shoulder, a body curled into anotherâs warmthânone of it is contact, not really. Not in the language of physics. There is always a sliver of space, infinitesimal and insistent, that keeps us from becoming one.
And yetâwe do not live at the scale of atoms. We do not measure our ache in nanometers. We live in the trembling of fingertips, in the warmth of a palm across a cheek, in the hush between two chests breathing close in the dark. We name that illusion touch because we must. Because something in us needs to believe that connection can be more than theory, more than ghost-light and probability. We insist on calling the space between us real. Because if we didnâtâwhat would anchor us?
I think of all the times I have reachedânot to hold, but to be held in return. As if contact itself could stitch my outline back into place. As if your skin beneath mine might convince me Iâm not just wind in a borrowed body, not just thought draped in flesh. I reach not to possess you, but to be remindedâgently, desperatelyâthat I still weigh something in this world. That I exist where I am touched.
Isnât that why we reach for each other in the night? Not out of lust, not always, but because we fear weâve gone translucent in the silence between words. Because in the dark, when even our own voice feels distant, we need the echo of anotherâs hand to tell us weâre still here. We press our lips to anotherâs skin not to conquer it, but to echo within it: Can you feel me? Then I must be real.
Touch becomes our evidence. In grief, in joy, in the staggering ordinary. We clasp hands at funerals not only to console but to resist disappearing into sorrow. We kiss not always out of hunger but to etch ourselves into someone elseâs memory, even if only for a moment. We brush hair behind ears, trace scars with reverent thumbs, wrap arms around torsos like lifelinesâbecause the body, even with its limitations, offers a kind of truth the mind cannot. Because in a world where so much dissolves, the pressure of your hand becomes scripture.
We touch to tether ourselves to time, to one another, to something that answers back. We cling during grief not to heal but to anchor, because sorrow makes ghosts of us, and anotherâs touch calls us back from the edges of forgetting. There are days I wonder if weâre all just looking for proofâin the pressure of a hand, in the echo of a heartbeat against our ownâthat we havenât vanished. That we havenât become dreams walking through fog.
And even if our atoms never meet, something deeper does. Something wordless. Call it soul. Call it longing. Call it the gentle defiance of the human need to feelâand be felt in return. Because presence, at its core, is not a matter of physics but of faith. The faith that to be touched is to be seen. The faith that to be felt is to be remembered. The faith that if someone reaches for me, I must still be here.
So yes. We touch each other just to prove weâre still here. Because without thatâwhat else could we hold on to?
Narcissistic personality disorder is so funny like yes I find everyone absolutely disgusting and vile and unworthy but thatâs actually a projection of how I am aware I am the most disgusting, vile, and unworthy of them all. Except that isnât actually true and I am the shining beacon of hard work and worthiness that all human beings should strive for except I lied again I really am as foul as I described before but oh gotcha again Iâm actually perfect and

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medicine
law
business
engineering.
these are all noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.
but poetry,
beauty,
romance,
love,
these are what we stay alive for.
happy aniversary dead poets society. you make me bawl like a little baby every time.
âTortured poets department?â Back in my day it was dead poets society
HYUNJINÂ | 240726 @ GAYO DAEJEON SUMMER
sorry i can't shut the fuck up do you still wanna fuck me

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MOTHER: now eat your vegetables honey so you can grow up big and strong
WOKE SON: i dont WANT to grow up big and strong. i want to be a Twink
My heartđŠ
Mozu is too cute. Man is setting off my tism-dar.
Seriously I wanna squeeze this mans
I'm so glad I get to live in a world where there are Octobers, aren't you? đđ
ANNE WITH AN E (2017 - 2019) | s02 ep01 'YOUTH IS THE SEASON OF HOPE'

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âď¸; SWEATER SEASON. - T.KAGEYAMA.
đ; synopsis - your boyfriend finds you wearing a piece of old high school memorabilia, his number nine kurasuno jersey, and it drives him absolutely insane.
âł length: 2.07K
âł warnings: smut, mdni 18+, fem!reader, characters aged up to 20s, post-time skip!au, unprotected sex, clothed sex, pussy jobs, soft/mean!kageyama, praise!kink, reader is wearing kageyamaâs clothes.
âł notes: a very self indulgent piece because i finished hq s4 and cant stop thinking about kageyama ?? itâs giving obsessed with him i think <3! not betaâd ! enjoy my loves hehe - m.list âĄ
âare you gonna tell me where you found it? or do i have to fuck it out of you, baby?â kageyamaâs voice is tender as he asks, speaking to you like youâre a timid creature or somewhat of a street cat that might scurry away from him at any given moment. but the way he treats you is mean, his hands that are both large enough to cover the globes of your ass grip at your soft fleshâ easily pull you back and forth, back and forth on his cock while youâre seated in his lap, your dainty fingertips just peeking out of the sleeves on his cold kurasuno jersey, gripping into his shoulder blades to somewhat ground yourself. ââm talkinâ to you sweetheart,âÂ
you know that he is, god, you know.Â
but words are hard to come by when youâre seated on your boyfriendâs cock, letting him bounce you up and down mercilessly until you can practically feel him in your throat. you know kageyamaâs talking to you, his pretty girl, angel dressed in nostalgic shades of burnt orange and obsidian blackâ he loves how you canât respond, blubbering and babbling incoherent sentences while you hide your swollen lips under the collar of his sweatshirt and drip so sweetly down his shaft from your heavenly little hole.