I Think What’s On A Person’s Nightstand Is Very Telling So Reblog This And Put In The Tags The Things

The inclusion of Jean-Jaques Leroy has me on the FLOOR dude

i got a college degree and the thing i’m most proud of producing in the process is a full academic presentation about what makes a himbo

it has happened folks!!!!! the black sheep cover is real

mr/ms/mx 3303 (I don’t know your pronouns I’m sorry) i am begging on my hands and fucking KNEES to share that lactation Drabble before I go feral

you may call me ur lord 3303😌 (that's a jk u can call me whatever u want lmao)

but okay okay okay seeing as u want it so bad and im a benevolent ruler, here u go😌

Max had noticed Daniel’s eyes on him every time he fed Norah.

At first, he’d thought it was just to make sure their little girl fed properly and Max didn’t have any discomfort like he had when Norah was first born and feeding her had been painful. However, the longer they’d had Norah, the easier feeding her got and Max could easily still be answering emails on his phone over her head whilst Norah was latched onto him.

Yet now, Max thought there might be something more to it than Daniel just being an attentive partner. 

They’d been told their sex life could return to normal a couple of months after the birth, and Max had noticed that whenever Daniel fucked him, his hands would inevitably end up touching Max’s chest in some capacity. Max had always had sensitive nipples, even before he’d fallen pregnant, and during his pregnancy, Daniel had been sure to worship Max’s nipples and have him cum numerous times just from his tongue on him. 

“You’re so beautiful feeding her,” Daniel murmured sleepily, scrubbing his eyes where he stood in the doorway to Norah’s nursery and smiled over to Max. Max was sat back in the plush rocking chair, Norah latched onto him and her tiny fists pushing at Max’s chest. 

“I know, you tell me every time,” Max hit back. Daniel simply shrugged and walked over to Max’s side, sitting on the arm of the chair and stroking his fingers over their daughter’s chubby cheeks. 

“It’s because you do look beautiful. It’s such a cool thing that you can feed her.”

Max didn’t say anything aside from quirking an eyebrow up at Daniel but instead focused on Norah, pulling her away and gently shushing her when she whined. Norah latched on easily again to his opposite nipple, suckling against him happily. 

His nipple leaked slightly, however before Max could grab the cloth and wipe it away, Daniel’s hand shot out and swiped it away. 

There wasn’t much Max could do other than watch as Daniel stared at his fingers before he sucked them into his mouth. Norah was still feeding and Max knew she wasn’t going to be done soon but the dark look in Daniel’s eyes and the sensual way that Daniel sucked the milk from his fingers away made one thing very fucking clear to Max.

Daniel’s kink for Max being pregnant really did go beyond just knocking Max up, it was the whole thing. 

“You can go back to bed,” Max said thickly, swallowing down the sense of arousal that was running through him. “I’ll be fine feeding Norah by myself.”

Which he would be, it wasn’t a lie.

Norah was two and a half months old now, Max had fed her hundreds of times and he knew what he was doing. Norah was a very good baby at getting fed and Max knew the signs of when she was done and when she was still keeping going. And she loved being latched onto Max so he really did never have any problems with her. She fed happily and well and Max could easily look after her. 

Plus, it was 4am and there really was no need for them both to be awake. 

“Nah, I’m good, I’ll stay up with you,” Daniel shrugged, shifting on the arm so that he could put his arm around Max’s shoulders and kiss his hair. His hand was hanging down around Max’s neck and Max watched as Daniel ran his fingers lightly over Norah’s dark mop of hair she’d been born with. 

“You can go to sleep, Daniel, you don’t want to just sit here in silence.”

“I love watching you with our daughter,” Daniel shrugged.

They didn’t say anything else, simply let Norah feed silently and after Max had winded her and put her to bed, Daniel wrapped his arms around Max’s waist from behind and pulled him in tight. 

“Are you seriously hard?” Max sighed as Daniel ground into his ass.

“I love seeing you be a parent I’m sorry!” Daniel laughed lowly, mindful to not wake the sleeping baby, and pressed kisses across Max’s neck. 

Max grabbed his t-shirt that he’d previously been sleeping in and pushed himself out of Daniel’s arms, walking out of the bedroom and through to the living space of their apartment. 

“Max?” Daniel asked, following after him with a deep frown. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Max shrugged and sat down on the sofa, watching Daniel with an intense gaze. 

There really wasn’t anything wrong. 

He wasn’t uncomfortable or anything, but there was shit running through his mind and he needed to think away from the tiny being that had created this issue. 

Tentatively, Daniel sat down beside Max and put his hand on Max’s knee. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Seriously. There’s nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable-”

“I told you nothing is wrong!” Max interrupted, slamming his hand down onto Daniel’s and looking at him properly. “But you need to stop fucking lying to me.”

“I’m not lying?” Daniel frowned.

“Really? So you just got hard because I was being a parent?” Max questioned and Daniel’s face went eerily blank. Rolling his eyes, Max shifted so that he was straddling Daniel’s waist, leaning up on his knees so his chest was at the same height as Daniel’s jaw. 

Max saw Daniel swallow thickly and his eyes flick down to Max’s chest before looking back up at him. 

“Do you want to tell me the truth?” Max whispered.

“Um, I um, I may find it really fucking hot that you can feed our child with your… your nipples.”

“You can call them tits, Daniel,” Max murmured, sliding his hands down Daniel’s body to grab his hands and bring them up to press into Max’s chest. “You used to call them tits when you’d make all your jokes about me being so much broader before we had Norah. What’s the difference now?”

“It’s so fucking hot, Max,” Daniel groaned, and Max moaned when Daniel squeezed his chest and lent into him to suck Max’s nipple into his mouth. 

Max’s hands immediately flew to Daniel’s hair and grab hold of it tightly, moaning loudly as Daniel’s teeth scraped and pulled over the nipple. They were already sensitive from just spending half an hour feeding their daughter, but with Daniel sucking and licking and biting, it was a plethora of arousal and pain that Max was in love with.

“Shit, Maxy,” Daniel whimpered, pulling away and Max grinned when he saw white stains around Daniel’s lips. “You taste so fucking good baby.”

“What’s better, coming down your throat or my milk in your mouth?”

“Both. Both are so good,” Daniel moaned. One hand came around to press into Max’s back and pull his chest in tighter, going back to sucking on Max’s nipples. 

When he fed Norah, he could often feel a slight tingly feeling in his chest, the feeling of his little girl suckling on his milk sending his nerves on fire, and of course his dumbass boyfriend was able to create the same reaction. 

Daniel was sucking and moaning, tongue lapping up against Max’s nipple with each pull of milk from his chest. Of course, Max could still feel Daniel’s hard cock under his ass, and as Daniel sucked on Max’s lactating nipple, Max started shifting his hips, rocking back and forth as his own hard cock starts to leak in his shorts.

“So good,” Daniel mumbled, pulling away to grab Max’s head and pull him back down for a deep kiss. Daniel’s mouth tasted like nothing Max had ever tasted before. There’s a milky taste but also something so different, something so uniquely Max, or Daniel. Max really didn’t know. 

What he did know was that his boyfriend sucking on his nipples and lapping up his leaking milk like a child was turning him on more than he could imagine. 

It was a very different sensation to feeding Norah. When he fed his daughter, it was clinical. She’d stay relatively still, little fists on Max’s chest and sucking happily.

With Daniel, he was moaning and flicking his tongue all over Max, his hands squeezing and pressing at Max’s skin as though he was a dying man and needed Max to keep him alive. It was very much like it was when he was torturing Max to his orgasm, rough and loud and Max can’t stop whimpering at how hard Daniel was going at him. 

“Dan- Dan- shit,” Max moaned, tears building up in his eyes as his hip movements became more frantic. The little noises of Daniel drinking down Max’s milk sent him hurtling towards his orgasm, and Max’s head dropped forward to press into Daniel’s. 

Daniel’s mouth was still moving, still sucking Max dry as Max lost control above him. As Max’s shorts dirtied with cum, Daniel pulled back, mouth open so that Max could see the milk in his boyfriend’s mouth before he swallowed it down. 

“Fuck,” Max groaned, pushing his ass down into Daniel’s cock and trying to push him towards his orgasm himself. 

Max’s fingers were still tangled in Daniel’s curls and pushed his face between Max’s chest, throwing his head back as Daniel started sucking hickeys onto his sternum. His hands were still on Max’s chest, massaging his skin with every touch having Max’s skin erupt in goosebumps.

“You like sucking my nipples, yeah?” Max breathily asked, “You like my leaking tits? You like it when I can feed you and our baby girl?”

“Yes,” Daniel moaned out.

“Is this gonna be a thing? Every time I feed our baby I gotta feed her daddy too? Or should I keep it as a treat for when you’re a good boy?”

“Fuck me,” Daniel whispered, eyes screwed shut as his head dropped backwards onto the sofa.

“Not now. But you could cum for me, show me that you liked what I gave you. What you made possible. You put a baby in me and now my nipples leak with milk because you knocked me up nearly a year ago, baby. A whole year since you bred my little ass and put a baby in me. I made you a Daddy, Daniel. And you should cum to show me just how much you love me for that,” Max cheeked before biting down on Daniel’s bottom lip and tugging on it hard.

Daniel wailed as his hips jumped and Max could feel his cock pulsing through both their pairs of shorts. Max kept rocking, humping lightly at Daniel’s front as he rode his man through his orgasm.

Once Daniel had managed to catch his breath back and his eyes were able to open and look up at Max, Max saw the dark arousal still present in Daniel’s eyes. 

Before either of them could say anything, Norah started crying and Max instantly climbed up, ignoring the discomfort of cold and sticky cum in his shorts to go and check his little girl was okay. There was definitely no chance he could get back to sleep now.

“You just sit there and think about what you just got, Daddy, I’ll be back soon,” Max grinned, wiping his hands over his chest before wiping them on the back of his shorts, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he walked off. 

Yeah Max was definitely going to have to get Daniel to suck on his nipples again. 

That was the most amazing thing he’d ever experienced and he absolutely was going to get himself off numerous times just thinking about Daniel sucking on him.

Maybe there were perks to a post-pregnancy body. 

Reblog art guys. Seriously.

Sometimes

Sometimes I start to cry reading the work of others and my tears are made of salt. They burn rolling over my skin but I like the taste of each one as they clean my bloody lips. 

Sometimes I cry and my head starts to ache with the hammers I couldn’t build and it’s ringing ringing ringing,  

and it hurts. 

Sometimes the lump in my throat refuses to go away so I choke it down until I’m coughing, but that’s okay because all breath is temporary. 

Sometimes I tell myself to revel in that fact. 

Sometimes I try to force my fingers into something they are not. They burn and tremble as I twist them into tools, into something of value. I plead with them to bring me joy, but my throat hurts from the crying and they do not want to help me. They turn into weapons instead, and I suddenly understand my friends who sunk into existing all those years ago. 

Sometimes I wonder why I did not fall too. 

Sometimes I think I’m still falling.

Sometimes I think of Him and I try not to because I despise still having a Him, because I thought delusions of a mangled past would last longer. Because he never thinks of Me. 

I know I don’t. 

Sometimes I think about being seven and how much I hated being seven. Even when it was all I knew.

Sometimes I think about being seven and listening to Taylor Swift because I hadn’t been told not to, not yet, and knowing that the words contained a future. I miss thinking of a future. 

Sometimes I think about flying off of a swing and I don’t know why. The word ’outstretched’ comes to mind. 

I am reaching. Always reaching. Always for something. 

Sometimes I think about being seven and listening to Taylor Swift and how I would never compare my words to hers. Not then.

Her words were a distant beckon, mine a supercilious shout. And they were mine. Then.

Sometimes I worry that my words are no longer mine, but sacrifice is a picture I admire, never beckon. 

Sometimes I cry reading the works of others, and I when I ask myself why, the answer is a ball of yarn. My cat bats it away before I can unravel it.

Sometimes my friends tell me things. 

They tell me they would die for Harry Styles and I try to imagine such an altruism, but then I am consumed by thoughts of darkness, of endings, of gone, and I lock my thoughts away into the drawer my mom built for me when I was seven.

Sometimes my friends don’t tell me things. Sometimes I ask them not to. They forget, and I forget, and we move on forgetting together. I am grateful that my friends have more faith in the weapons attached to my hands then I do. I am grateful that their words are still theirs.

I am grateful they do not know that I have lost mine.

Sometimes I look for my words, before the fallacy of it all starts to choke me, and I am a turtle in an ocean of trash, alive but struggling. I claw it off my neck and stagger on anyway, realizing that having weapons instead of fingers can be useful.

Sometimes I lie. I told myself I wouldn’t, not ever, but that was when I was seven and believed the world deserved truth. It still does, but I do not. So sometimes I lie to myself, and I tell myself I’ve lost my words. 

My words are not lost. They are locked in the drawer my mom gave me. The drawer I despised even more than being seven. 

Sometimes I unlock the drawer. I had to unlock it to write this, and I wrote this because I was crying over the work of others. 

Sometimes I consider smashing the drawer. But would my words return then?

Or would they be lost forever?

All poets are narcissists. I ate dinner alone; a little solitude is good for the soul. But when  I write it becomes a metaphor, it becomes a  balancing act, and suddenly everyone who  reads it watches through the looking glass. 

You are picturing me as you do for the women; young and slim, with hair falling like a curtain  as I raise my head to be watched, always unsure of the correct performance until the cameras  start rolling. Do I know how to be alone anymore?

Do I know how to carve an instance where I have  existed for myself, without the noose of inspiration hanging between my adept hands? I could construct a narrative where you stand at my door and you love me, I could construct a poem about our wedding even if we

never spoke. All poets are narcissists for thinking they can be loved without being watched. And if they - we - if I were seen, I would trip from the trapeze, I would land on the pedestal of persons to be pitied but never emulated,

the category of artists who hold torches so long they burn to the bone and sting the blood where poetry grows. It is  for simplicity’s sake that the performance goes on, it is  exhaustion with the mundane and craving to find purchase

from the vanities of self that have worth only when displayed.

because I reblog your shit you cynic

why are people liking my shit i’m only here for @theothermercedesdriver

...

I actually can’t express how much I appreciate and need this. 

I was in the process of scraping at my skin when I saw this on my dash. Not even thinking about it.

This made me cry almost instantly.

Thank you ❤️

Hey

please remove your hands from your skin. You are fine, your skin is fine. You don’t need to pick anything off. You don’t need to dig anything out. It’s okay. Breathe. It will heal. It will go away. Don’t let this illness control you. You control you. Okay?

Waves

A short story by Me

“You want to join us?” She asks before she knows me.

I shake my head, telling her I’m happier staying inside with Caroline. I say that because it’s the truth. I don’t know that it’s my truth, but it’s a truth. Not that she’ll notice the difference. The excuse washes over her like sand. She shrugs, blows a kiss that is caught by the glass between us, and scampers away, hoisting her surfboard higher under her arm.

I turn away from the window, to where Caroline is crouched on the floor, her green dress splayed in a halo, the blizzard of paper around her coating the grey carpet like a snowfall. She clutches a shriveled blue crayon in one hand, dwindled to below the length of her pinkie. The crayon moves across the paper in front of her in careful strokes; Caroline thinks as she draws.

Tucking my knees to my chest, I sit down beside her and ask what she’s drawing. It’s a foolish question, and I almost expect her to face me with the expression shared by many adults when foolish questions are asked. But Carolina doesn’t look up from her work. “Waves,” she answers, and they are- soft, cascading waves, folding in on each other, one after another. Tame stallions bounding through the water, side by side, before dissolving back into the mist. I enjoy looking at her waves. They do not send spikes of nausea down my spine.

She returns after a couple of hours, sun-browned and shivering with adrenaline. Her ankles are brushed with sand, her hair looks the same, and her feet leave behind ponds of salt water with each tread as she walks through the house. When Carolina sees her emerging from the hallway, she beams, and rushes forward into her mother’s arms. Their smiles are identical. Caroline pays no mind to the dripping wetsuit or rough brush of sand against her skin.

I mop up the trail of water with a towel while she takes a shower, and soon after we sit down to dinner. The evening is brief, dimming as the sun outside burns the rippling water with golden light before plummeting beyond the horizon. Carolina is sent to bed as soon as the sky fades to a dull, deep blue, and her mother follows, confessing that she is exhausted from the day’s activities. She bids me goodnight, but I’m too restless to sleep, so I stay in the living room, curled up on the couch, salty sea air filtering in through the open window. It fills my lungs as if I were inhaling the water itself, and for a brief moment, I don’t mind.

Outside, the moon is the eye of a great beast, holding my gaze, great and pale and luminescent. It casts a silver glow over the ocean, who’s waves have subsided, though the ripples remain. Something catches my eye, so I walk to the window, peering out into the night as much as my diurnal eyes will allow.

The water shifts. It bobs and sways, moving around without any particular rhyme or order. The sound of splashing, distant but unmistakable, pierces the air. Somewhere in my head, an alarm goes off, and it sounds like the pleading shrieks of a child. A child thrashing underneath the pressing weight of a current. A child being pulled down by the cold grip of saltwater. A child about to die.

Carolina.

My heart stops. Then it revives, and it’s a hammer, because there’s blood pounding in my head, stronger and more insistent than any tangible sound in the darkness. I reach the front door, and I can see her now, moving underneath the water. It reminds me of a snake shifting underneath sand in a desert. Tiny, and unseen. But there.

Then I’m running, and I’m not running fast enough.

I force myself to go faster.

Sand coats my feet as I hit the shore.

And faster.

Her screams grow in volume, and I want to respond, to tell her I’m near, but I can’t seem to form words.

And faster until I’m breaking the surface of clear water sliding up the shore. My toes curl around clumps of sand in the cold but I don’t stop moving.

My knees sink underwater, then my waist, then my shoulders. I can feel the panic attempting to claw me back to the shore as my ears threaten to go under, and I shove it down. She’s in sight, but her screams have stopped, which turns my blood colder than the water in which I am submerged.

I don’t know how to swim, but my body is stronger than hers, and I trust it to support us both as I cross the final couple of feet to reach her side. Her hands still brush the surface, though the rest of her limp body is slowly descending to the depths of the ocean. I grab what I can reach of her arms and pull her close to me, forcing her head back above the water. She isn’t moving anymore, nor breathing, but her body is warm, and this information is what carries me back to shore, her tiny frame slung over my shoulder. 

“I’m here,” I tell her, over and over. “I’m here for you.”

Can you and the other Pierre stans manifest Pierre beating Max?

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·. we’re on it .·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.