── Fudging Hell

The ✨Feminine Urge ✨ to let these men rip me apart 😍

ANDREW GARFIELD 2022 | Greg Williams ph. for British Vogue’s Hollywood Portfolio

ross lynch sang “cant do it without you” for austin & ally’s 10 year anniversary 😭😭 x

jack    harlow    on    tiktok

I need you to understand the importance of what Maneskin did on their concert in Poland.

In a country where president gained his votes by spreading hatred, in a country where right-wing activists spread rumors about LGBT people wanting to adopt children to r*pe them, in a country where conservatives think gays only want to teach the kids masturbation, in a country where so many young people are homeless because their homophobic parents kicked them out, in a country where people are afraid to hold hands with someone of the same sex, in a country where people were murdered on the street because they were gay, in a country where LGBT people have literally no rights, in a country where non-binary, genderfluid, trans people aren't even acknowledged, in a country where people are afraid to speak out about their orientation in fear of being publicly lynched, in a country part of which denies LGBT people the right to live, in a country where LGBT people are considered abominations in need of treatment...

Maneskin on public TV said love is never wrong. That everybody should be able to be whoever they want. On public TV Damiano kissed Thomas.

I can't imagine how many kids this has given hope to. How many unwanted kids who have been denied parental love because they dared to be who they feel they are, saw that they are not alone in the world. How many artists felt solidarity, inspiration and motivation. And deep down I really want to believe that maybe at least a small percentage of homophobes have thought about this message.

I cried. My heart grew so much bigger, knowing that it was shown on public TV. Even if it doesn't strike any change, many kids out there, being neglected, afraid and bullied, felt the representation and support they need.

Thank you, Maneskin.

I don’t know what Sam’s intentions are but if he doesn’t have Lexi throw herself in Fez’s arms after he is freed from prison and say “Where’d you go ? I was starting to miss you.” He is missing out on amazing emotional opportunity.

dylan sprayberry and his favourite finger : a continuation

( pt. 1 | pt. 2 )

why is charles looking so pale in a day dude we were literally joking about your uneven tan line .

so u may have expected a funny response from me but i'll actually wear my smart glasses for this and explain it to u how it truly is.

charles is, in fact, a vampire. the clues are clear, and they're right in front of our eyes:

he looks extra pale normally -> vampire

unless he just had his daily fill -> vampire

u may have noticed that when he's in the sun he shines brigh pink - it's a skin of a killer -> vampire

"lights out" and "away we go"? why can't u go in the light? 🧐🤨 -> vampire

have u ever seen him eat garlic bread? no and it's not because he's self conscious of his breath smell, it's because he can't touch it -> vampire

remember when he said no to being picked up by lewis? lewis has VARIOUS cross tattooes so charles couldn't risk it -> vampire

u think he's going to pee during sessions? think again. he's going for his refill -> vampire

sorry i'm the first one to break it to u anon, i couldn't keep hiding the truth anymore

for that was what you did— c.l

gif by @schumaclerc 💖

requested by anon.

hi my loves!! enjoy this little thing. mwah mwah mwah.

the screams were so loud.

the screams were loud, and you were drinking a glass of orange juice.

“mon bébé?” charles murmured from the couch in the living room. you looked out of the balcony, just out of view, sipping a mimosa at 7:45 in the morning.

you turned to spare a glance at your beloved, eyes bright and a blissful smile on his face.

“yes?” you asked.

he smiled. “i love you. i’m excited for you to join me.”

you couldn’t contain the delight in your smile, and he got up to stand over you, bending down for a kiss.

monaco. monaco was the race of charles’ dreams— yours too, now.

9:23.

you took a deep breath and slipped on a pair of sunglasses as you slipped out of charles’ ferrari, sparing a glance here and there at the crowd. the noise was like a mirage in the desert, disembodied waves of sound so loud you could feel the metal barriers rattle.

it sort of scared you.

but fear was a trademark at this point, a weakness to push below you as you held out your hand for charles to grasp, a fleeting kiss, tap on his wrist in comfort— this was what you did.

you did it every day, and everyone loved it.

your relationship with charles was sweet but unexpected — you, someone from humble roots who sacrificed everything to be here, films and premieres and media and this and that. charles, a kid with immense privilege but a heart of gold, and a work ethic to kill for.

your little summer fling one beautiful july in greece had come to an abrupt pause when pictures of you emerged, kissing on a cobblestoned street, limbs and lips entangled. you were determined to power through, wishing him goodbye when you worried for your career, knowing he wouldn’t care.

but he did.

a teary night in paris when he knocked on your hotel door, begging to take him back. a sneaky rendezvous here and there. and when more and more paps spotted you, this time you threw caution to the wind.

glasses of champagne, videos of him kissing your neck, a risqué duvet selfie.

it was a romance adored and beloved, and today was no different.

you turned to lock gazes with him when someone screamed obscenities about his choice of trousers to wear that morning, at which you smirked and he gave you a sly tap of the wrist with a roll of his eyes.

he whispered deliciously in your ear, sending a thrill down your spine.

“darling,” you called, as you waited patiently for him to finish signing caps and posters and books, and he came over to you, pressing your lips to his for a deep kiss that left you warm and flushed and people screaming.

“fuck off,” you breathed, and he slid a hand up your loose shirt, and you wrapped an arm around his neck delightedly, and got closer and closer to his lips, and then…

you pulled away, laughing, with a smirk, and people booed you, charles joining in.

“let’s go,” you breathed, and he nodded, and the two of you waved goodbye to the crowd while you ran into the hospitality.

another kiss behind the glass, a run through of his hair, a selfie and a social media well-wish… for that was what you did.

okay i know u were a in a hiatus just some days ago so feel free to ignore this but, i thought of this and for some odd reason it reminded of u and your writing? idk anyway i just thought it would be cute to do something like matching bracelets, or that change your painting every 5 minutes challenge from tiktok or any crafty romantic activities with timothée? it just gives me tiny apartment in paris smoking a cigarette naked in the morning vibes and in my head that’s literally him lol. love ur writing, hope youre doing well beb! <333

Mon Amour || Timothée Chalamet

a/n: i adore this request, u are creative as fuck and allowed in my inbox at anytime lovely :) psa, not my art! those two pics just sort of fit the vibe and the sketch is a reference, i switched up the request just a bit <3 also i listened to la vie en rose by edith piaf while writing, so i feel like it sort of fits the vibe :))

cw: nudity, language, suggestiveness

The white casement windows were slightly ajar, only a few inches above the floor with a bit of space before hitting the ceiling at the top. Through the space you could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a light breeze filtering through the small Parisian apartment.

Timothée had purchased it before you’d began dating, but it soon became a home away from home. Between traveling so much and several much needed breaks, you’d both spent a lot of time within the tiny space. It was like a step away from the outside, decorated in a way that could have been easily mistaken for a 90s interior.

Paintings were strung up on the wall, a white blanket skewed over the back of the sage green couch at the forefront of the room. There was no television, only a radio on the windowsill beside the balcony. It was old, lulling the tune to a French theme. The hardwood floor was always like ice in the mornings, clothes thrown all over the ground from the night before.

“Mon doux, mon tendre, mon merveilleux amour—bonjour.”

What a way to wake up, you thought.

Timothée’s voice rasped into your hair, his French accent thick when he fell into it carelessly. It was a good morning you’d never grow tired of, his curls tickling the apples of your cheeks as he leaned into you from his side of the bed. His arm was wrapped around your waist, tightening as you shifted to look at him.

Fortunately, you’d picked up on a bit of the language while staying in France so frequently. Timmy had helped tremendously, teaching you the basics and continuing to show you everyday. You listened to several podcasts in French now, retaining the intricacy of the dialect and articulation.

“Good morning,” you smiled at him.

The white duvet was nearly hanging off the bed, legs intertwined within the milky sheets. You were topless, all but a pair of light pink cotton underwear remaining on your person. He wore a simple pair of grey boxers, hanging low on his hips.

His head was laid on the pillow beside yours, hair spilled across the silk in a mess of dark brown curls. You took a handful of his hair in your hand gently, pushing it out of his face and leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. It was a look you’d never get tired of, his pink cheeks and cluster of small constellations peppering his nose.

The air smelled of sex and vanilla, the hum of music only adding to the ambience. Leaning over to the side table, you planned to pick up your cellphone and snap a quick picture of Timothée. You caught a glimpse of your open sketchbook, though. The tan sheets of paper were littered in drawings, some truly very good.

“Can I draw you?” You asked him, grinning incessantly as he yawned and nodded.

“Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack,” he murmured, referencing the Titanic humorously.

Giggling terribly, you picked up the book and flipped to a clean space. He sat up, leaning back against the headboard and reaching to his own side table. He plucked a cigarette up and stuck it between his lips, lighting the end and inhaling dazedly as you sat up in bed as well.

Going to pluck his white button down off the floor, planning to cover your bare chest, he pulled you back up to him with a shake of the head. You rolled your eyes, leaving your breasts uncovered and maneuvering yourself to straddle his waist.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to seduce me,” you smirked, beginning to sketch out the curve of his jaw.

“You’re sitting on top of me naked, of course I’m trying to fucking seduce you,” he chuckled, taking another drag of the cigarette.

A rush of cold air left a shiver down your spine, his hands rubbing up and down your unclothed torso. You shaded around his nose with a charcoal pencil, it was hard to capture just the right angle of his fluttering eyelashes. In the sketch, his eyes were shut and a look of euphoria was dawning on his features.

He cupped your breasts, running the tip of his index finger along the perky bud of your nipple. This earned a slap in the arm from you, shaping his eyebrows and beginning that mess of wild curls. The song had changed, the buzz of another French melody filling the small space.

You leaned forward, letting him stick the cigarette between your lips and taking in a deep breath. With your non-dominant hand, you pulled it from your lips and flicked the ashes into the tray Timothée held out to you. Handing back the remainder of the stick, you finished shading his Adam’s apple and couldn’t help sitting forward a bit.

Bringing your lips to his bobbing throat, you kissed up his jaw and landed on his lips gently. Sitting up, you finished the last of the sketch and initialed the bottom corner to claim the piece of art. Spinning the pad of paper, you put it on display for his to see.

“I love it, mon amour,” he flushed. “But I can guarantee that my view is a lot better. Can I draw you this time?”

“I can think of at least ten other things we could do,” you whispered, setting the sketchbook back down onto the side table.

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