#quasi-exactly | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

In Q3 of 2020, 31% of US users access the Tumblr app daily.

mxq0scethxvo · 1 year

Text

Outstanding Bella Jane interviewed and impaled by a BBC Skinny Ebony Floppy Tits Nasty girl dominates and grinds ramrod with her hawt feet Housemaid Gabriela Lopez bouncing on big boss cock Teen blond blow job Great gang bang Raw smashing phat ass milf Nice mature mom sex Local women searching for an anal sex Aria Rae visits her gf to taste her ass

0 notes

ivan-fyodorovich-k · 13 days

Text

OK, listen

You go outside, basically everywhere I have ever been, there are good looking women everywhere. They are not rare.

But listen, they all look completely different. Different complexions, different hair and eyes, different figures, heights, sizes, clothes, etc.

On the internet, there are good looking women basically everywhere and they all look exactly the same.

I know why, you don’t need to explain it to me. I just feel like pointing it out. It is very evil.

#what prompted this?#saw a pic of an e-girl cosplayer on someone’s blog #as you will know it is impossible to say who it was because they all look exactly the same #there are other versions of this #i remember after a few years on deviant art it became pretty clear what was the winning formula #and now it’s what AI images look like #that quasi-realistic anime digital painting style

20 notes · View notes

smallfrenchstudyblr · 3 months

Text

Does anyone even know an adult you would confidently be able to say is doing ok.

Or was "being an adult is fine" a lie you tell kids, like the tooth fairy and home ownership.

#quasi midnight thought #I know exactly one adult doing fine #but I am only mildly confident in this assessment

9 notes · View notes

theheadlessgroom · 1 year

Text

https://www.tumblr.com/beatingheart-bride/712546278858440704/theheadlessgroom-beatingheart-bride

@beatingheart-bride

“Ah, not quite...” he confessed shyly, rubbing the back of his neck at this question, as he began to answer, “Er...you know how I have...asked for a salary in the past, and used it to leave tips and the like? Well, here’s another way I’ve used it for.

You see,” he explained, a little nervously. “Not long after I came to the opera, I...quickly came to realize the rags I arrived in didn’t really suit my new home, but I couldn’t find anything that really fit me in the costume room, so I had to think of another way to dress up. So...I started looking into how to make clothes. I would watch the men who came to the opera, all their nice suits, and I would...draw them out. And then I would watch the wardrobe mistress construct new costumes, I would study her closely, and so...I started to make my own clothes. I learned how to measure myself, how to cut cloth, sew, stitch, all of it...

At first, I was no good at it,” he admitted, with a little chuckle. “My first suits looked terrible-but I was mainly making my clothes from scraps, so I sent away for some better cloth, and left some money to the admittedly confused wardrobe mistress, she was very, very confused when all these fine fabrics came in, but accepted the money anyhow. With a little time and practice, I...got better at it, and so, I was able to make these clothes of mine-both daywear and some evening wear. I...I’m quite proud of how it’s all turned out, actually.”

#((and that's EXACTLY the energy i was going for!! :D))#(('hunchback' is my favorite disney movie and i think it defidently informed the whole relationship between randall and the ringmaster))#((right down to the ringmaster rubbing in the murder of randall's face during their last confrontation))#((just as frollo brings up killing quasi's mother; stunning him briefly enough to get the drop on him so to speak!))#((and true; quasi still tries to save frollo-in spite of everything he's done-while randall on the other hand? not so much!))#((i totally think randall and quasi would get along great! they're both shy and gentle; have similar backstories))#((and are both artistically inclined; and i totally agree that emily would get along well with esmeralda!))#((they're both fiercely independent; but also have extremely soft and gentle hearts))#((and have no problem being friends with an 'outcast'; feeling similarly lonely too!))#outofhatboxes #beatingheart-bride #V:Phantasm of the Mansion

6 notes · View notes

suguann · 3 months

Text

an. part two of this | masterlist

You tell him you broke up with your boyfriend while he’s away for work, bunked up in a safe house in the middle of nowhere with shit reception, hearing your words as clear as day as if they weren’t the chopped-up version coming through his burner phone.

“It just…didn’t work out.”

It didn’t work out.

He pretends his stomach doesn’t pleasantly twist because he’d expected it to happen eventually. He’s not happy about it—although it does make the desert heat more bearable in his heavy tactical gear—and tells Soap to fuck off when he comments on it.

It was a one-time fuck because Simon doesn’t date. He’s tried in the past before he met you—the flowers, the late-night dinners—but with him being gone almost every other month (sometimes longer, shorter if he’s lucky), it never works out in the end. Sleeping with you twice would fall under that category, the quasi-relationship kind, and make everything messier than it needs to be.

Just some fun, no strings, those are the words he promised.

If only he believed them.

He does, for all of two weeks until he’s home again, and it’s summer, so you’re wearing a flowy dress that shows off the long expanse of your legs.

(He’s a goner—not even sure why he tried to think otherwise.)

That one time he’d promised turns into a second, both of you stumbling into your apartment after a night out. The music from the pub still thumping loudly underneath your floor as he pushes you against the front door, hands in your hair—on your waist, underneath your skirt, down your thigh to hitch it over his waist—teasing your mouth open with a swipe of his tongue across your bottom lip.

You make this delighted little noise in the back of your throat, arching into him, and his hand spans down your stomach, beneath your underwear, to nudge your messy clit with his knuckle, wanting to hear all the sounds you make now that he has you alone.

A whiny cry of his name rewards him—jeans tightening around his waist at the sound—when his fingers go down, down until they press against your tight little hole, one finger pressing inside slowly. "If I make you cum, I get to fuck you here.”

You smile prettily, and it disarms him. “If you make me cum, you can fuck me however you want.”

Neither of you makes it to the bed, falling asleep on the living room floor instead, the blanket from the couch draped haphazardly over both of you with his arm curled over your waist.

That night had been a slip of judgment, a product of wanting something warm and soft after several months of only having his hand for company.

It happens again and again, and he keeps letting it happen until there’s no more hiding under the guise of just fun because it somehow turns into a lot more than that.

Simon can’t explain how it happens—maybe becoming something he can touch and hold and think about often—but he finds himself in an exclusive relationship with you that isn’t exactly a relationship because he’s unsure of the ins and outs that they entail.

(Always has been.)

His father was a shit role model, and it was always easier finding someone new who didn’t know his name or care about his scars and only wanted a nice fuck. There had never been any point in shooting for something serious when it was always out of the question for him, until now, that is.

He takes you to that over-rated restaurant overlooking the Thames Marcus never brought you to. A picture of you and him with the sunset in the background—your smile almost blinding in the photo—becomes his home screen, and he finds he doesn’t care when Soap has something to say about it.

He lets you do nonsensical shit, like buying small plants for his house that are surely going to die from him being gone before he comes up with the great idea to give you a key. It’s just a key.

(It’s more than just a key.)

Simon finds himself asking if he can come over more often throughout the week, which slowly moulds and shifts into nights filled with things other than sex—sleeping after a long day of work, cuddling on the couch, cooking together, going to the movies—he doesn’t try to make a big deal out of it because you used to hang out all the time without sex.

(Somewhere, there’s a but in there.)

There’s still no label to whatever this is, and he wonders if you want him to be the first to say the thing you’ve both been dancing around for a little over…he can’t remember, but he knows it’s been long enough for your things to mix in with his at his house.

Be with me because I’m yours, and you’re mine, that’s what he’s trying to say, and it’s never the right time. Men like him—a little broken, rough, and jagged around the edges sharp enough to cut—aren’t good with words like that.

(That’s what he thought.)

If he hadn’t seen you talking to a guy at the pub, eyes crinkling in that same sweet way whenever Simon makes you laugh, he wonders if he would’ve been the first to break from the start. He knows it’s your job as a bartender to be nice, but his jaw clicks at the sight of the guy leaning over the bar and into your space, almost too close.

The feeling doesn’t go away until he has you spread out on your mattress under him—clothes haphazardly peeled out of the way for him to put his mouth on you—your lips pursed tight around two of his fingers to give you something to focus on as his other hand works between your thighs, pressing down on your tongue when gurgled little sounds slip out.

He teases you with a small, pink vibrator he found inside your bedside table, your legs kicking out and toes curling into his calves.

“Mine. This is mine, love,” he groans, pressing you further into the bed with his weight. “Do you understand?”

You nod, tears pearling and leaking from the corner of your eyes.

“Lemme cum,” you whine, words muffled. “Simon, I want to cum. Please.”

He won’t lie that he’s close after jerking into his fist to the sight of you writhing on the sheets—swears he can feel his heartbeat throbbing against the back of his fingers—takes in your surprised expression when he pushes forward, impaling you on the first few inches of his cock.

His stomach twists from the squeal that escapes your throat, and fuck, your cunt, so hot and tight with little pulses that drive him crazy, only growing tighter when he turns up the speed on the vibrator.

“‘Mm, gonna cum. I’m—”

He grits his teeth as you start to flutter around his cock once he’s rooted inside you. “Go on—fuck—go on, love. Let me feel it.”

You look so perfect like this, like a dream: lips parted into an enticing little O with his name tumbling out in breathy mewls, tits hanging out from the bra he shoved to the side, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“So fucking pretty.” He kisses your throat, panting into your sweat-slick skin, and it’s not long before he’s falling over the edge with you.

Next time, he’ll have the courage to tell you: that you’re not someone he calls for a meaningless fuck on the weekend, that Simon misses you when he’s gone and can’t wait to come home, that he wants to try with you—except not when he’s balls deep and trembling inside your heavenly cunt.

But the smile he feels against his shoulder makes him think that maybe…

Maybe you already know.

#simon riley smut #simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod smut #cod imagine #cod x reader #mw2 smut #mw2 x reader #mw2 imagine #ghost x reader #ghost imagine #ghost smut #.things i write

4K notes · View notes

daemon-in-my-head · 2 months

Text

Idk exactly how you trigger it anymore, but Gortash has that one line where he's essentially like "idc what happens, you're already a god, we just need to get the world to see it" to Durge. And. Boy.

By the grace of having a godly parent, all Bhaalspawn, strictly speaking, are quasi deities. The only difference between 'normal' Bhaalspawn and Durge is that the others are Demigods while Durge is a titan. Yet all Bhaalspawn have a divine spark and are technically deities. But nobody ever really pays any attention to it nor mentions it.

Except for fucking Gortash. Who's determined to make sure Durge is seen as the deity they are. It's common knowledge what Bhaalspawn are. They are feared by everyone. Even Minthara knows of them and she spend the last centuries below ground. And yet Gortash is the only one who really, fully acknowledges what Durge is and wants the world to see it too.

Only the one person who really shouldn't do that as the chosen of tyranny.

#not even Minthy goes as hard cuz she hates gods #its just the trashman #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 gortash #enver gortash #bg3 durge #durgetash #lord gortash #gortash x durge #durge #dark urge

934 notes · View notes

artbyblastweave · 2 months

Text

So the project I'm working on may have arrived at a useful insight into resolving any lingering questions regards to the matter of the death of United States President John F. Kennedy. See, we've been working overtime to clone the man- at first I think we were planning on running some kind of quasi-Arthurian King-in-the-mountain-returns kind of scam to unify America behind a universally-appealing figurehead, and these days we're mostly just trying to figure up what was up with his hair. All that's a digression. The point is- and I'm willing to admit that the accelerated aging techniques we've been using to speed up production might be fudging this a bit, but what we've found, right, is that it probably doesn't matter who shot him because any individual sharing JFK's genetic code appears to be ontologically doomed to be killed in their biological forties by massive head trauma of some kind. It's just fate. Doesn't matter what we do, doesn't matter what measures we put in place, it just keeps happening. So far we've lost three to bog-standard out-of-the-blue aneurysms, four to shower accidents, two to horseplay, one to a secret handshake gone horribly wrong, three to baseball accidents, two to football accidents. One fatal Croquet incident, two fatal Crochet incidents. There was a thing with a falling sandbag when cohort 54z was doing their amateur production of Cats. Something really stupid happened last week that involved the compound dumbwaiter, I didn't even want to know the specifics. We took one birding and he brought the binoculars up to his eyes with too much force. We lost a dozen at once during a group trip to a travelling carnival, most of them to that strength-testing hammer game. One of them did a netti pot and there was exactly one single brain-eating amoeba in it. It never ends and it's super fucked. Honestly it's really good that we stopped teaching them what death is or else they'd be super fucking stressed all the time for no reason

#shitpost #my writing #thoughts #meta

395 notes · View notes

izvmimi · 7 months

Text

cw: longer drabble but no title because i suck at titles. you are bakugou's photographer. mostly sfw.

“Mr. Dynamight,” you start, sweet as can be while erring close to the side of professionalism in present company, “would you please humor us with a smile?”

Katsuki, hounded by his personal assistant amongst a horde of personal assistants rearranging the lapel of his slightly open white shirt, adjusting his cuff links, dabbing one cheek with powder and blotting excess product off the other, arranging the spikes of his hair, grimaces at you in response. Yet by the time you have settled back behind your camera and adjust your lenses to snap your next photo, his displeased look is replaced with a smirk that is cheeky yet suits his handsome face well, and you are satisfied.

“Great!” you reply cheerfully. The shutters close, then open, then close again and Katsuki moves surprisingly gracefully with the camera, a naturally adept subject, and grins, smirks, jeers even, all manner of looks to satisfy the demands of the shoot.

You, on the other hand, are having a blast.

It’s your biggest gig so far, being an up-and-coming photographer, and the chance to do a celebrity profile for a rising star as Dynamight is one in a lifetime. You still wonder how you managed to get so lucky anyway - even your first meeting was a stroke of serendipity - but you are good at capitalizing on any opportunities once presented to you.

You reach the end of the shoot and the crew offered to you by Katsuki’s team sets up around you. You stand there behind the tripod, still watching as his personal assistant, well paid but heavily burdened, begins to recite the remainder of your friend’s schedule to him, and he rolls his eyes dismissively at something she says, something that nearly causes a vein to pop on her forehead.

“Listen, I already accommodate so much of your nonsense, so the least you can do is fix that attitude,” she hisses. You wonder if he’ll yell back, but instead his eyes shift to you, and he grins. His assistant watches his attention shift, and she groans then shakes her head before reminding him he has somewhere to be in exactly two hours, and she storms past you, giving you only a millisecond of a glance as her heels click rapidly down the hall.

You quickly avert your eyes, pretending you didn’t see that altercation, then look down at your camera to review the photos. Katsuki is quick to find his way around you, leaning in close enough that you can smell the cologne for which he is now spokesperson for, his chin nearly rested on your shoulder. You find your body stiffening slightly, but rather than let yourself be quasi-intimidated, you decide to assert yourself in return.

“You should be nicer to her, you know,” you remind him, as you click through to return to the first of the set of pictures to show him.

“I am nice,” he answers quickly.

“Just a little bit more effort,” you suggest, turning slightly so that he can see the way your eyes crinkle when you tease him. He huffs, but his lips turn upward.

“Instead of worrying about my personality, we should focus on how good I look.” You move out of the way, hands behind your back, as he peruses through the stack, one after the other. His brow furrows as he looks, back hunched, and suddenly he is so focused you find it entertaining.

“Anything not to your liking?” you ask. He doesn’t answer immediately, and that does actually concern you a bit. What if he doesn’t like the pictures?

You move in a bit closer to look, aiming to catch any mistakes before he does, but he places his elbow on your shoulder which makes your heart skip a beat.

“Perfect.”

You look up at him and feel the apples of your cheek warm ever so slightly. Just before you can say anything else, you hear the door down the hall close loudly. You both turn, remembering that the studio is closing. Katsuki shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll let you know if I need any more pictures taken,” he offers. You nod quickly, then berate yourself for looking a little too eager. But the extra cash can help, and he’s aware of it. He’s aware of a little too much.

He waits as you pack up your own equipment, the most expensive thing you own at the very moment.

“Do you need a ride home?” he asks. He always does.

You shake your head.

“I have to make a few stops anyway, and I know Suzume will get irritated if you’re late again to a program.”

“Suzume gets irritated regardless,” he replies, as he follows you out of the studio, trailing close behind.

“It’s nice to see that you found your match,” you retort. He snorts, but doesn’t respond to that directly, making sure to let the door open for you to go through.

—

You met Katsuki in the wintertime, in the last place you’d expect the star rookie Pro Hero to be. He was the second student in an intimate pottery class of just four, and you had hardly recognized him in a large orange hoodie and khaki pants, the hood he’d been reluctant to take down the course of the entire lesson. You’d gently advised him to at least roll up his sleeves just to keep the clay away and he’d tutted at you, annoyed by the intrusion, but he’d taken the whole hoodie off anyway, and the large scar along the left side of his face, trailing down into the collar of his T-shirt had surprised the instructor and the group of students but it was the awe of recognition.

“I didn’t come here to sign autographs, I came here to make some pots,” he quickly redirected the group. You’d heard that Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight was a bit of an asshole, but somehow you’d spared the arrogant nature of his words in favor of the plea in his voice to just treat him normally. No one asked him for an autograph or really asked him any questions further, although you could see the two young women who shared the class with you eye him quite ravenously in between focused spins of the pottery wheel, paying particularly close attention to his fingers as they curved and shaped the clay.

He didn’t say anything to you or any others after that for the first two lessons.

By the third however, as you washed your hands clear of glorified mud, he took the sink next to you and asked you why you’d come.

You turned and looked at him, startled by the question.

“To learn how to make pottery,” you answered. Why else does anyone show up to a pottery class if not to learn?

His eyes softened at the sound of your voice, adjusting his tone as he asked the question, and something in that action, the soft warmth of the red of his eyes, disarmed you and put you at unease at the same time.

“No, why are you here really?”

You can barely remember why you answered what you did at that moment, but you remember thinking about that question all night.

“To do something with my hands.”

The faucet turned off and you bowed politely before leaving quickly, unsure of where the conversation might lead you if you managed to continue.

Things had been particularly hard then. A slew of unfortunate circumstances, then outright tragedies had seemed to sap your energy into nothing, until you were no longer sure of what your raison d’etre was anymore. But learning to do something with your hands, the slip of clay through your fingertips, an oven to refine your work, the precision of colored glaze and something to finally sip warm tea in and hope that it not only fills your belly but your heart - that was promising.

The next day Katsuki told you he came for the same reason, and a small friendship, perhaps out of guilt that you’d treated him coldly, bloomed.

Once Katsuki learned about a few of your troubles, the search for a new job being one of them, he’d honed in on your skill in photography, offering you to be his personal photographer for any shoots coming up. You’d asked him why he immediately trusted you with the job, and he shrugged.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” he replied over a plain cup of coffee.

You blinked, your half-eaten crepe seeming to be as shocked as you were from the smiley face made of syrup on your plate.

“That’s it?”

“If you’re bad at it, I’ll fire you. Deal?”

His directness made you laugh.

“Deal.”

So here you were, editing pictures of Katsuki, a man you know called friend, who’d learned a few more of your secrets than you truly needed to offer him, in the dead of night. Picking up on every detail, there were very few things to retouch; a man as naturally handsome as him is blessed by the camera, after all.

A message from him on your home screen tells you to sleep and not worry. The pictures are already great as is.

He’s right. He’s always right.

—

The next time he hires you, it’s for a family magazine, and you tease him endlessly for it. He reminds you that he’s argued for hours to insist you get this paycheck and it only slows down your banter for a moment, until you say,

“What does an unmarried, only child, have to contribute to this shoot?”

He blinks and you wonder for a moment if you’ve gone too far. Then he smiles.

“Are you trying to change that for me?”

Your cheeks warm, yet again, like soft clay unmolded, but he turns to leave and take position, and you are left to ponder on what he meant, thoughts formless.

—

Months later, Katsuki asks you if you’d like to come to a shoot again, but not as a photographer.

“What’s the theme?” you ask. Katsuki’s half-sitting, half-laying on your couch, having decided not to go to his own apartment to shower, but borrowing yours. Something about renovations. You’re not sure you believe him, and public baths are a dime a dozen, even if he’s possibly too famous to end up at one.

“Heroes and their loved ones.”

You nearly choke on your popcorn, but he seems unfazed by what he said, more concerned about whether or not you’ll need a Heimlich maneuver in the next few moments.

“You couldn’t bring your parents or something?” you ask.

“My mom’s annoying, and Deku is already bringing his mom. Shoto brought a partner, so I think it’s fair to bring a friend.”

A friend. Something washes over your body and you’re unsure if it’s relief or disappointment.

“Okay.”

—

You should have asked why Katsuki doesn’t have other friends, people he’s known longer and better, but the interview goes well. Shoto and Deku seem very pleased to meet you, Deku asking a million questions, and Shoto asking next to none, but telling you that you seem very nice and that they’re surprised Katsuki could make friends in such a setting.

“We make art together, I suppose,” you suggest. “That probably makes it easier to connect.”

Deku nods affirmatively. Shoto watches you carefully as though he’s trying to parse out the nuance in your words.

Art. Art is what you make together.

—

The number of selfies in your phone with Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight increase dramatically. It starts off with a few candid pictures taken of him in the background of your selfies, then slowly becomes intentional.

Katsuki offers you a trip that you only realize when meeting downtown will be the next island over. He asks you to bring your camera, and you take pictures together. It’s a week before your birthday, but when he unwraps a box to hand you a pair of bowls he made in secret as a birthday gift, you find your eyes welling with tears.

“Does that mean you like them?” he asks. He carefully allows a finger to wipe away one that escapes and runs down your cheek.

“I love them more than anything in the world.”

—

“These pictures need you in them.”

His head lays in your lap as he leaves through the latest edition of Heroes Weekly. He looks great as usual - you made sure of that - but he’s lamenting the fact that there are still questions on tabloids and forums of where his romantic feelings lie. You let your fingers run through his hair, and he reaches out to grip you gently by the chin and pull you closer into a kiss.

“We should go public,” he says, as your lips part.

Yes, but you’re not ready yet. A year has passed and things have settled into place but part of you wants to keep this, whatever you and Katsuki are creating in your hearts, the art of your relationship, to yourself first.

“Soon.”

He pouts which makes you smile, and then his hand catches yours in his hair then pulls it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the back of your hand.

“Okay.” He won’t press you on it, and you’re thankful for that.

“Suzume told me to remind you, you have another program tomorrow at 4.”

He grimaces again and you gently tap his forehead.

“She only messages me because you don’t text back,” you add. He sighs.

“Annoying.”

“All you have to do is listen,” you reply. He shrugs, then rises to a sitting position. You lay against his back for a moment before he turns and adjusts you so that you rest on his shoulder.

“Everything okay?” he asks. The gentleness in his voice soothes you, draws you into slumber. It’s late.

“We should take a painting class,” you suggest as he picks up on your cue and carries you to your bed.

“I’ll fit it into my schedule,” he offers, laying you down. You wrap your arms around his shoulders before he can escape, pulling him back into a kiss.

His eyelids lower, and both of you continue to do something with your hands - rather, your whole bodies.

#bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #dynamight x reader #daydreams: bnha #mimi's notes

620 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

penpalspencil

Hi! Hi!

chernobogina

kendallville

Kendall Roy Interested In Becoming a Human

ragazzo-dagli-occhi-bassi

Lo scrivente

toothy-crow

crow's art blog