I love my tv headed twink

Big beefy himbos are mentally incapable of understanding how huge their cocks are compared to your little holes and I think that's beautiful

A violent man calling me a good girl would fix me

Nope

i wanna sit on his dick in that chair real bad

edit : 09/04 a fic has been posted

“STOP TRYING TO FUCK THAT CLOWN”

WELL HOW ABOUT YOU MAKE ME🙄🙄

unbelievable

my personal favorite

someone had to pick up Carrie Fisher’s mantle and by the gods, Pedro Pascal did it. 

Bravery is not the absence of fear... it is the courage to do what is necessary, to keep moving forward in spite of that fear.

Me: I could take him

Soap: in a fight right?

Me:

Soap: right???

Pov: everyone that's simping for ghost

i wanna suck his dick so bad

it's a man's world ; jim moriarty/reader (smut, 18+)

part i | playlist:you're moriarty's favourite toy

Jim likes to show off his possessions. Especially, when all the the small flies in his web are present.

word count: 10,1k

warnings: kinda non-con, power play, gun kink, public, degradation, oral (male receiving), facial, grinding on the tip of his shoes/getting yourself off, corruption kink if you blink, name calling ; sebastian moran has a cameo bc I am still mad we didn't get to see hiddleston in that role, irene is also there (besties alert), death, blood, light misogyny if you blink/power imbalance, jim has his whole army of super-criminals around for an annual gathering so beware of the stereotypes , i googled bri-ish roadman slang for this so please forgive me

inspired by that one "hello james" spectre scene

v said moriarty strikes them as the "expressive type", sooo I'll blame this on you bestie

You look down on the thin fabric in your hands. This surely isn't all, there has to be more.

You carefully drop the dress onto your bed and scram through the box and its expensive wrapping paper once more to find it - empty. Nothing, except a matching pair of longsleeved gloves and a thong in the same soft nude colour.

The material is just as sheer as the dress is, a soft rose tone, interwoven by hundreds of small crystals. They sparkle in the dim light of your bedroom.

This is a joke. He's gotta be joking.

You pick up the dress - if one can even call it that - again and give it a closer look. You are very sure that this isn't supposed to be worn on a night out, this is a bedroom-exclusive. It's long and sleeveless, with a deep neckline and a halter-neck, closed with a string of what looks suspiciously like multiple diamonds dangling from it.

You walk over to the closed door, leaning against it. You can hear Mister Moran and his colleague chatting quietly on the other side. Should you ask?

The fabric is light and soft in your hand and you tilt it in the dimly lit room. It sparkles and you can see through nearly completely, your painted nails shining through. You definitely should ask.

"A-are you, uhm, Mister Moran are you there?", you lean your forehead against the cold wooden door, taking one or two deep breaths. The low murmur ebbs, your cat meows and then there's footsteps, followed only a second later by a soft knock on the door. It rings in your ears.

"Are you ready, Miss?"

"Yeah, uh, no. I have a question, I reckon."

Silence. "Alright, Miss."

You swallow.

"A-are you sure, that this is all? All h-he bought, I mean."

There's a slight chuckle. "I was reassured by Mister Moriarty that the package is complete, Miss. So yes, this might as well be it."

"Jesus", you huff.

"Please, do hurry up."

"I am not leaving the house like this", your mouth is quicker than your brain and you can hear Moran freezing behind the door.

"I fear, that will be non-negotiable."

"I will not-"

"Don't keep him waiting."

You burst out a dry laugh, one, that catches in your throat. "I am nearly naked in this."

The other side falls silent. Where there was shuffling and rustling before and someone talking to your cat, is now dead silence.

Moran clears his throat. "I have my orders, Miss. We are already running late."

You shake your head. "Call him, then. I am not-"

"You do not wanna do this", the tone of his voice now has you falling dead silent in a heartbeat, a sudden cold creeping up your spine, "We may offer you a coat. Now, please, do get ready."

You swallow. "Are you certain?", your voice is a lot more silent now, giving away your blooming surrender and anxiety.

"Yes, Miss. I am afraid I am."

You nod and let go of a shaky breath, hand slowly lowering on the door. Its wooden surface is cold beneath your touch.

You know a warning when you hear one.

the devil is a gentleman; jim moriarty/reader (smut, bc I can't contain myself, 18+)

pt. II

You started working at the National Gallery a couple of months ago. Today, the whole staff has gathered to give one of the most benevolent private sponsors a tour. What could possibly go wrong?

word count: 10,3k

warnings: female reader, kinda noncon, spanking, thigh riding, undernegotiated kinks, power play, choking, unprotected sex, name-calling, semi-public, slight bimbofication if you blink, sir/daddy kink, jim's pleased that you're not boooring

on the day our lord and saviour has risen we continue to sin - happy easter, y'all 🐰

pov: you're moriarty's favourite toy - THE PLAYLIST | pinterest

You're running late.

It's your first offical and important meeting since you started working at the National Gallery and you're bloody late. You're running down the halls, the heels of your shoes clicking against the pale marble or shuffling over red carpet.

You huff out in annoyance, as you press the elevator's down button once (and another four times, for good measure) and whip out your phone.

Five minutes left for a way that most likely will take you up to ten; seven minutes, if you're lucky. You fix your lipstick in the now darkened display and take a deep breath.

You don't really know who you and your colleagues will be meeting today. You only have a name.

Moriarty.

You tried to google him, like you usually do when someone from the curator's team has a guest over - someone with either a lot of money or a special piece from their private collection to offer. You hadn't found anything. It was like he didn't exist.

In a doubt-ridden moment, with all the insecurity and innocence of a newbie at office you could muster, you wrote a mail to the curator in chief, asking who exactly would be meeting with the team.

You recieved a response in light speed, written by the chairman of the board.

Our principal sponsor will be visiting us this Friday afternoon. Mister Moriarty holds a chair at the board, but likes to keep his investments private and thus, requests a certain privacy concerning his financial involvement with the National Gallery Art Fund. We will expect all members of higher staff to be on their best behaviour.

To be honest, that had your imagination run wild. You immediately thought of an old man - like, nearly ancient - with a cane and medals pinned to his jacket's lapel. Friendly and maybe a little senile already, moving slowly and talking even slower - telling stories of a life well lived and loved ones long passed. You flick your thumb across your phone's screen to check the time and it comes back to life. Only a couple minutes left. The elevator pings lazily and you hurry to get in.

[aggressively supports and encourages young artists]

YES. THIS. FUCK YEAH THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE

awww yeah! Support young creators!

TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN!!!

WHAT THE FUCK IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE WHY DID SOMEONE REBLOG THIS

TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN!!!

TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN!!!

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TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN!!!

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃

TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN