I Love Randomly Posting On My Instagram A Crazy Absolutely Drop Dead Gorgeous Model Casting Worthy Photo

karasu come and tame this thang rn.

@inloveinsickness

Would it be okay if I just snuffled directly in your face for a bit?

BLUE LOCK LEAKS HEHEHE

why did i just get krissed…TOKE WHAT THE FUCK😭😭😭

@stockholm1996

kaiser gives me pretentious filmbro, and everytime u watch smth of his choosing, ur sleeping with ur face pressed against his shoulder in ten minutes top. he only huffs out a little laugh, pulling you closer.

sigh what if i js go bald

ILLECEBROUS ⋆ Nagi Seishiro

(adj.) alluring, attractive, enticing, suggestive

NAGI still struggles to wrap his head around the concept of living; so much so, that he still wonders why we think its necessary to feed ourselves. Maybe not in the way that food keeps us alive — but when the sapid taste of cherry still lingers, sincerely from your lips to his? What else could he possibly be hungry for? Esuriently chasing the taste of that cherry lip oil, sitting on your lips so seductively — so delicately, like something sweet he was never meant to have, but keeps starving for anyway.

“It’s gone… put more.” He suddenly pulls away from your face with eagerness — eyes locked on yours like they held the answer to something he couldn’t name. “Huh?” you raised a brow, confused by the sudden loss of contact. “More what?” you answered; one hand still holding his jaw while your thumb hovered tenderly over his cheek and the other placed neatly on his shoulder. The tension lingers. A frisson trailing down your spine every time your gaze flickered from one of his eyes to the other. “The red thing.” His voice was low and almost breathless; like he’s asking for more than just lip oil. Like he’s asking for another taste of living. “The stuff. You know, the cherry…”

You can’t help but laugh, finding it almost endearing how lost he looks. “You’re not meant to eat it you know.” you tease — amused. “If you keep licking it off you’ll probably get sick.” He barely registers your words, already leaning in closer. Desperation clear as day, and not a single thought behind those eyes. “Don’t care. Want more.” He pauses, his voice barely above a whisper. “It tastes… good.” You giggle and shaking your head, how could you not to find him too cute. He’s completely fixated on the lip oil now. “You’re addicted huh?” You can’t help but laugh a little. “I’m not addicted…” He says, tone seriously. As if he was trying to convince himself more than you. He leans forward — mouth slightly agape. Giving you the cutest most impatient stare.

You roll your eyes but the soft smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “Only once though okay? Dior lip oil is too expensive to be licking off every second. Even if it’s you.” He tilts his head, as if to process what you’ve said. “Dior…? Mmm. Worth it.” You can’t help but laugh again, while reaching out for the little bottle on your bed side table. “see look” you say, unscrewing the cap, the scent of cherry filling the air as you dab a little more on your lips.

He watches with rapt attention, and then without missing a beat, he leans in the moment you finish. He presses his lips to yours — slow and deliberate, as if he’s savoring every single second of it. The kiss is languid, but it carries that same sense of urgency from before, like he’s trying to capture the last bit of the sweetness before it’s gone. His mouth moves against yours with almost a reverence. Like he’s trying to hold onto the taste for as long as he can.

And when you finally pull back, he stays close. His lips barely apart and his eyes were still closed in that blissed out way. “Mmm… better than food” he murmurs.“An I gonna have to put lip oil in your food now?” You tease. His eyes flicker open, still half-lidded and a dazed expression. “Maybe.” He shrugs lazily — as if it’s the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “Wouldn’t mind.” You shake your head, laughing at how ridiculous he is. And he looks at you with that same almost lazy affection. His gaze says everything; he could live on this moment forever if you let him.

SIA HERE ! : was so close to naming this ‘dior dior, flex!’ but i didn’t let the intrusive thoughts win </3 okay goodnight guys before liv shoots me in the face 57 times 😊 (its nearing 6am im so sane im so sane im so sane im so sane im so sane im so sane)

i want to watch nana again but i don’t want to fall into depression.

ty for the tag meeya! i dunno anything abt this i just picked cute ones LMAO

ntp; @wholemeallbread @kissunday @egotisticalmav

starting a tag game because i'm obsessed with this pokemon team planner thing and i need to know all of your dream teams (if no one does this i will actually sob)

here's mine:

(it's okay if you don't know pokemon, there are options to filter out by type/colour/generation and you can just pick out whatever speaks to you)

tags: @stellar-headquarters, @3p1logu3, @kameyyy, @sahrberrii, @mayyhaps, @inloveinsickness, @bakery-anon, @earier, @nectardaddy + anyone who's reading this!

FOR YOU ｡｡｡

↳ 「 osamu miya 」 ␥ 宮 治 .ᐟ

⤦ wc ⨾ 611

⤦ cw ⨾ no pronouns used, mentions stress baking, kind of hurt to comfort, i forgot how to write.

“what‘s wrong?” his voice, a soft murmur peppered with specks of concern, loud enough to be heard above the monotonous whir of the white fridge placed in the corner of the kitchen.

He rushed to your side, dropping everything, and calloused hands came into contact with your clothed back.

Despite wearing a thick jumper adorned by a delicate dusting of pills, an attempt to protect your skin from the sad bite of the cold, you could feel his fingertips surging small waves of heat through the dense material of your jumper.

Osamu had just come back from work. It was 12am—fridays are always busy for him. A thin layer of salty sweat coated his skin, reflecting a slight glow. He did not expect to come back to find you, a flushed face graced by a sad trail of tears, standing in front of a tray of burnt cookies.

You took in his smell—a subtle sweetness seasoned with the aroma of roasted seaweed—while you let out a soft sniffle.

Within his presence, the previous sense of panic has dissipated into thin air—every breath he drew out matched the melodious rhythm of your heart.

“Stress baking again?” he asked, his head leaning in closer as his eyes trailed the cookies spread out atop the counter, an ugly black furnishing the uneven edges. His hand never left the small of your back.

Your lips pursed into a thin line as you shook your head in agreement. Stress baking, again.

Osamu was tired. Every muscle in his body yearned for sleep—screamed for it. Anyone would be after working a 12 hour shift in a busy restaurant on a Friday.

The hand previously stitched onto your back removed itself—and you felt naked in the aftermath. Your head turned, eyes trailing his figure. He made his way to the fridge.

“What—what are you doing?”

“What do you think?” he turned around with a toothy grin, his arms hugging a few ingredients. “We’re baking cookies,”

You blink at him, furrowing your brows. “But you—“

“I’m craving some cookies,” a tired smirk etched on his lips as he approached you once again. He handed you the butter and sugar and went off to get the rest of the ingredients.

With a confused sigh and a soft sniffle, you measured out the ingredients into the mixing bowl previously laying in front of you and began whisking.

It was quiet for a while, until you felt warm breath fanning your neck and a pair of big arms wrap around your torso. His nose, now brushing the crook of your neck, sent shooting stars down your arms. His toned chest was against your back.

“Hey—“ You began, but he cut you off right away.

“We’re about to make the best cookies—ever” he mumbled into your neck, his voice carrying a hint of exhaustion. It was genuine.

Your eyes soften with a bit of water dampening them, guilt seeming to make its way into your chest, almost swallowing your heart whole. Making cookies after a 12 hour shift wasn’t the best way to wind down.

“I’m sorry you’re…you shouldn’t have to come from a busy day at work to bake some cookies“

He raised his head from your neck, arms still lazily wrapped around your waist, fingers intertwined and resting steadily in front of your stomach. “Hey, you better not be crying! I don’t want salty cookies,” he replied, pointing at the bowl in front of you with his head.

Osamu miya loved you dearly, and he was willing to prove that—even if it meant making cookies at 12am—because if it’s with you, he’d do anything. If it’s for you, he’d do everything.

@kameyyy

IRIS ITS IUT ITS OUT

RUNNING RUNNING RUNNING TO LISTEN