[littleluciddreamer-blog]

Reblog if you're hoping 2011 will be a fresh start.

[guerrillatech]

[segamascott]

like to charge reblog to cast obviously

[animentality]

[orbitalmirror]

reblog if you're an actual person IRL who gets genuinely upset if you catch someone using ChatGPT and view it as a serious moral failing

[sabertoothwalrus]

for those who don’t remember, “mole interest” was an experiment I did 2 years ago because I wanted to test what causes tags to go trending on tumblr. My hypothesis was that all it takes is one (1) post blowing up in an established tag to make the entire tag trend.

I had randomly generated 2 words, which is where “mole interest” came from. I failed to consider that by generating a new tag, it wouldn’t have had enough posts already in it to prove what I now call “the mole interest effect”.

But now it does.

In 2023, we said “fuck it” a la mythbusters and ended up doing whatever it took to get #mole interest to trend. And it did. And it happened to be September 11th that day, and we managed to get #mole interest to trend ABOVE #9/11.

So, in the name of science, I ask you to reblog just this post. Let’s put the mole interest effect to the test.

[autisticcodex]

We need to do what we can to protect the Internet Archive. Here is a petition that you can sign.

Sign the Petition

Defend the Internet Archive

This petition alone might not be enough, but everything we can throw at this counts.

[goatexx]

This is current- it was posted on 8/25/2025

[tentypos]

my man's a dirty talker

more burnout college student bf! hanta sero x reader

mdni 😴

“did you want me to leave these in the fridge? or d’you wanna eat ’em now?”

hanta’s already in the kitchen, arms elbow-deep in a tote bag crammed with leftovers from that bbq. someone denki knew, or maybe someone’s friend’s housemate’s cousin. didn’t matter. denki had screamed free booze through hanta’s phone until he caved, dragging you along while you were still trying to fix your eyeliner.

you’d had fun. more than you expected, honestly. one of those long, stupid chill nights where the speakers are duct-taped to a lawn chair, the firepit’s too hot, the beer’s warm, and it somehow still feels like the best night of the semester. the kind of vibe where everyone’s skin smells like smoke and coconut sunscreen, and hanta had his hand on your back the whole time, always. even when you weren’t standing close.

the crowd was decent. familiar faces from lecture halls and group chats, people whose names you knew in context only. hanta had talked to most of them, the way he always does, easy and effortless and a little too charming for his own good. and still, every time you caught his eye from across the backyard, he smiled like he only cared if you were having a good time.

you dropped denki off an hour ago, the car still stinking of watermelon vape and the awful soundcloud mix he insists on playing when he’s high. hanta didn’t even argue tonight. he just gave you the aux and told denki to shut up and crawl in the back.

he always does small shit like that.

quiet, subtle things that make your chest ache a little. stuff like making his boys jump in the backseat if you're also in the car, always walking street side, always passing you your drink first, giving you a hoodie before you can even say you're cold. a lighter before you’ve even touched your pocket.

he surprised you in the car. pulled out the tupperware with the leftover lamb skewers—the ones you liked. two cans of that weird canned mojito that everyone hated except you. it was dumb. it made your throat feel tight.

now you’re just standing in the doorway, watching him move around your half-clean kitchen, all slow and loose. he’s got one hand in the fridge, the other holding two drinks, and his shirt’s all wrinkled and tugged up at the back. bare feet on tile. hair flopping over his eyes, still smelling like firewood and cheap weed.

“baby?”

his voice drags you out of your staring, low and soft and a little hoarse. you blink. your eyes had been fixed on his hands—how they held the bottle, the easy grip, the carefulness.

his hands. those fucking hands.

hands that have held your face while you cried. hands that rubbed your back through the worst hangover of your life. hands that carried your tote bag all day like it was nothing.

his knuckles tap against the counter, sharp, and you flinch.

“you feeling okay, sweets?”

he turns to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded, bloodshot and lazy from the tail end of a blunt you’d both shared in someone’s weird-ass hammock earlier. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is pink and soft, a little chapped. he looks tired—in that warm, sunburnt, overstimulated way—but still so stupidly pretty it hurts.

you take the water when he offers it. your fingers brush. he watches you closely.

then he smirks. not big. not loud. just enough to twist something inside your ribs.

you don’t answer.

and he knows.

“oh… i see,” he hums, and it’s so smug, so unbearably cocky, like he just caught your hand in your pants.

your back hits the wall as he steps in. still not touching. his arms hang low, sleeves bunched at his elbows, the shape of his body all angles and slouch and sleepy menace. head tilted. that knowing look in his eyes like he already knows what you’re about to say, and he’s just waiting for you to beg it out.

he doesn’t move.

you’re about to combust.

“are we gonna stand here all night?” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper. “thought you wanted to watch that new episode of—”

you cut him off with your mouth. drag him down by the front of his shirt and kiss him like you’ve got something to prove.

he laughs into it, all low and breathless, one of his hands dragging lazy up your spine. the other finds your waist, then your thighs. he palms the soft curve of them like he’s holding something precious. like it’s not the hundredth time. like it’s still a thrill.

you bite his neck and he makes this sound, this soft, breathy groan that makes your stomach drop.

“what, no words, sweet thing?” he teases into your ear. “that party wore you out that bad?”

you shake your head, breath hitching as his thumb grazes under your shirt, warm and calloused and maddeningly slow.

“y’know,” he mumbles, lips brushing your jaw, “i’m not really into the choking thing.”

“s'fine,” you gasp, pressing your hips up into his. “just want your—your—”

he raises a brow, his grin going sharp.

“my hands?” he says, like he’s mocking you. his other hand’s trailing slow, pointless circles above your collarbone. “that what you want, baby?”

you nod fast, swallow thick. he pouts, faux-sweet, teasing.

“you gonna ask nicely?”

“hanta,” you whimper.

“hanta,” he repeats in a high-pitched voice that doesn’t even sound like yours, laughing as you twist his ear between your teeth.

and then—

his finger brushes your bottom lip.

you freeze.

his eyes narrow. you part your mouth. he slides two fingers in—pointer and middle—without saying anything else, and you take them. immediately. like instinct.

his breath catches. his pupils blow wide.

“fuck,” he mutters. “my girl’s so nasty. look at you. fuckin’—fuck.”

his fingers play with your tongue. your lips wrap around them, slow, messy. he watches like he’s trying to memorize it. you grind your hips against him, desperate now, soaked through your underwear and buzzing from the way he’s just looking at you like this.

his other hand finally slips beneath your waistband, slow and smooth and deliberate.

you whine when his knuckles brush against your heat, when he swears under his breath like he’s not expecting you to be this wet.

“jesus,” he mutters. “you been like this all night?”

you nod around his fingers.

“for me?” he breathes.

you nod harder.

“goddamn,” he grins, curling those thick fingers inside you, slow at first, then meaner when you shudder against the wall. “so fuckin’ perfect. my girl’s so pretty when she’s needy like this.”

you try to talk, try to do something, but he hushes you with his fingers still in your mouth.

“nah. don’t speak. just feel me, yeah?”

and he’s knuckle-deep now, his thumb working soft circles over your clit, his fingers dragging against that spot that makes your knees shake.

your back arches. your jaw goes slack. spit leaks past the corners of your mouth and he moans like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“so good for me, always,” he mutters, thumb pressing down harder. “can’t even wait ‘til the bed, huh? gotta fuck you right here. in the kitchen. s’that what you wanted?”

you let out a broken noise, a half-nod, half-plea.

his fingers leave your mouth with a wet pop. you barely get a breath in before he’s lifting you onto the counter, dragging your shorts off like they offended him.

he kneels.

and then he says, all sweet and cocky, looking up at you with that smug grin:

“be a good girl and hold on, yeah? lemme show you how much i missed you tonight.”

you barely register the sound of your shorts hitting the floor before he’s kissing the inside of your thigh, all slow and unhurried, his palms keeping your legs spread like it’s nothing. like he owns this. like you’ve always been his to touch like this.

his nose brushes the soft skin right next to where you want him most, and you twitch. his breath is hot. steady.

he grins into your thigh.

“sweet girl’s already shaking,” he murmurs, lazy and fond, his voice way too soft for what he’s doing. “can’t even wait, can you?”

you whine, your fingers already in his hair, tugging like you’re begging without saying a word.

“shhh,” he coos, kissing up, up, almost—and then not. “i got you, baby. i got you. just lemme take care of you.”

and fuck, when his tongue finally hits you, you actually whimper. legs instinctively try to close, but his grip gets firmer, thumbs digging into your skin in that perfect way that says he’s not going anywhere. not until he’s had his fill. not until you’re twitching around his mouth, begging him to stop even though you don’t mean it.

he eats you like he’s missed it. like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all day. licking long, slow, teasing stripes at first, then flattening his tongue and dragging it through you like he’s savoring it.

and the sounds—god, the fucking sounds he makes.

soft, greedy little moans against your pussy. gasping against you when you tug his hair. groaning when you grind your hips against his mouth like you’re losing your mind a little.

he pulls back just long enough to look up at you, his mouth shiny, lips wet, eyes dark and hooded.

“fuckin’ love this pussy,” he breathes, like he’s overwhelmed. “so soft. so sweet. fuck, you taste so sweet, baby. always do.”

your breath stutters. you’re trying to respond, trying to say something, but all that comes out is a gasp when he spits on your cunt and licks it back up with a groan like it’s divine.

“so pretty like this,” he mumbles, right against your clit now, tongue moving faster. “my pretty girl. always so fuckin’ good for me.”

you’re getting close. already. embarrassingly fast. you try to tell him, but your voice breaks and your fingers just tug harder on his hair.

he knows. of course he knows.

“mm, yeah? that close already, baby?” he purrs, tongue flicking faster. “go on, then. come for me. wanna taste you. wanna feel you fall apart just for me.”

and you do.

it crashes over you, sharp and warm and dizzying, your whole body trembling as he moans into your cunt, licking you through it like he’s starved. you try to pull away, too sensitive, but he keeps going until you’re gasping, thighs twitching, mumbling his name like a prayer.

“hanta, hanta, please—fuck, please—”

he finally pulls back, face flushed, lips wet and curved into the filthiest grin.

he kisses your thigh once more, then stands—towering over you again, hair a mess, mouth swollen, breath uneven.

“you okay, baby?” he asks, voice gentler now, his hand brushing your cheek like you didn’t just come all over his face two seconds ago.

you nod, a little dazed.

he kisses you soft, open-mouthed and slow. you taste yourself on his tongue and groan into it.

“still want more?” he whispers, pulling back just enough to search your eyes.

you nod again, this time quicker. more desperate.

“words, baby.”

“want you,” you gasp. “need you inside. right now.”

his eyes go dark again.

he cups your jaw with one hand, the other already sliding his sweats down enough to free himself, and god—he’s hard and flushed, already leaking, already twitching against your thigh. he grinds against you, slow and teasing, dragging the tip through your slick folds until you shudder and nearly sob.

“fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he mutters. “s’like you’re made for me, baby. every time. every single fuckin’ time.”

you try to roll your hips, but his hands pin you down.

“ah, ah—lemme in first,” he teases, voice wrecked. “i’ll give it to you, don’t worry. just gotta feel you clench around me first.”

and when he pushes in—

fuck.

it’s slow, deliberate, filling. you stretch around him in that perfect, aching way that makes your eyes roll back. he curses under his breath, head falling forward to press into your shoulder.

“shit, baby,” he gasps. “so fuckin’ tight. always so tight for me. how do you do that?”

you can’t answer. not with the way he’s fucking you now—deep and slow and so goddamn good it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“love this,” he mutters into your skin. “love this pussy. love this body. love you.”

his words are spilling now, soft and filthy and so real it makes your heart clench.

“my girl. my sweet, dirty girl. always so good to me. always let me have you like this.”

you’re shaking again. you’re close again.

“you gonna give me another one?” he whispers, biting at your neck. “hmm? can you do that for me, pretty?”

“yes—fuck, yes, hanta—”

his hips snap harder, fingers digging into your waist.

“yeah, that’s it,” he groans. “c’mon, baby. give it to me. wanna feel you fall apart again. wanna feel you cum around my cock, yeah?”

you do.

you break apart on him, mouth open in a silent cry, and he fucks you through it, gasping your name like it’s sacred.

and when he comes—it’s messy. drawn out. his hips stuttering, his voice rough, his body curling around yours as he spills into you.

you both just sit there, clinging. panting. wrecked.

and then he leans in and kisses your forehead like he’s trying to reset your heartbeat.

“jesus,” he whispers. “you’re gonna kill me one day, baby.”

you laugh, breathless and dazed.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“worth it,” he adds, smiling like a man absolutely down bad.

[udontneedtokno]

[silvermoon424]

Bro absolutely COOKED with this.

[chrispineofficial]

it’s 2028. trump is dead. elon is dead. zuckerberg is dead bezos is dead they’re all dead

[radiation-detector-official]

Like to charge reblog to cast

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

does it have to involve radiation

[dn-838]

Luigi Mangione could be getting the death penalty…

This man is innocent, his appearance and build doesn’t match that of the killers, the only “motive” he had was a convenient written confession showing that he supposedly viewed healthcare companies as “parasitic” and too expensive (which does somewhat contradict the actual killers actions) he had said note and the murder weapon conveniently on him while living his ordinary life, the killer held the gun in his right hand while Luigi is left-handed, Luigi and the Killer were potentially seen simultaneously, they wore slightly different coats.

The NYPD KNOW these are different people, they know the evidence is lacking, this isn’t a mistaken identity, it’s framing, they are trying to make themself appear to still be control by catching this man, humiliating him, killing him, when they know full well that the person they are prosecuting ISNT EVEN THE RIGHT GUY! This is an injustice! This is not a fair trial! This is downright tyranny!

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

They confiscated his bag at the mcdonald's, took it out of everyone's sight, unpacked it and repacked it, and THEN took it down to the station and wow there was a manifesto in there that he was just carrying around in daily life for some reason

Definitely the sort of thing that the Bag Of Monopoly Money Guy would be carrying to McDonald's

[thashining]

What the media won't show

[bite-sized-morsels]

It’s actually pretty nuts how there is no real mass media coverage of the protests that are happening all over the US. It demonstrates fairly conclusively that the unlawful activities at the White House aren’t just limited to Trump. There’s a lot of wealthy people in powerful positions in the US and around the world helping to support the dismantling of the US federal government.

[chaser]

Boss is asleep, cannot stop me from frogposting

[chaser]

First like and this has already found its intended audience

[chaser]

uh oh

[itsmyturnonthegender]

[depsidase]

[depsidase]

[crafteeauthor]

Gentle reminder that they almost definitely planted evidence on Luigi and arrested him to distract from the fact that the real UHC shooter got away with killing a billionaire. One of us successfully killed a billionaire and one of us could successfully do it again

[stayingwoke]

[intergalacticsociety]

But they aren’t documented so they wouldn’t be pa…..nvm

[stayingwoke]

This is a huge misconception for regular Americans. When the government uses the phrase “undocumented” they’re using it incorrectly because if they were truly undocumented then they would’ve be in system. However these immigrants are in the system and they pay taxes, file tax returns and get no benefits that citizens and legal residents get. They also get to see ICE showing up at their doors because the government has their addresses. Fun fact. “Undocumented” workers pays $12 billion dollars every year in taxes. https://www.google.com/amp/www.forbes.com/sites/niallmccarthy/2016/10/06/how-much-tax-do-americas-undocumented-immigrants-actually-pay-infographic/amp/

[flockof]

Reblogging for info.

[bemusedlybespectacled]

“Undocumented” just means “without papers,” i.e. a social security card, valid visa, etc. They’re still on databases and whatnot, they just don’t have the documentation that allows them to reap the benefits.

[mikkeneko]

Also, to be clear, even if undocumented immigrants are not “in the system, filing tax returns,” they still pay taxes.

They pay sales taxes. They pay road taxes when they buy gas, they pay medical research taxes when they buy cigarettes, they pay taxes on almost every consumer good.

They pay property taxes. Directly if they own their own homes; if they don’t, they pay rent to a landlord which goes to pay property taxes. Their tax money is going to support schools which they may not be able to enroll their own kids in.

They pay income taxes because income taxes in the US are withheld by the employer, not volunteered by the employee. And while a US citizen who submits a tax return might get some of these taxes back at the end of the fiscal year if their earnings fall under the poverty line, an undocumented worker will not.

[wifehaver103947]

mutuals do this!!!!

[paradoxolotl]

Reblog to pass around warm bread and soup

[despazito]

Nosy ass plant

[teethsmoothie]