#Watch The Masters

[thelesbianthespianposts]

imagine: you get your memories back after years of amnesia to find out your whole species is dead and earth doesn’t exist anymore. that the only thing left of your culture is your weird ex and his busted honda civic that barely even works that he stole from the government when he was 13. And he’s been taking members of an alien species for trips in his honda civic and they’re all like “woah it’s so cool” and you get upset because it’s NOT COOL it’s a honda civic, the turn signals don’t even work “wow it can go up hills” yeah OF COURSE IT CAN GO UP HILLS EVERY CAR COULD DO THAT. but they’ve never seen a car before so everything it does is the coolest thing ever. And your ex’s only tool is a fucking screwdriver which is somehow also cool to this dumbass alien species even though it’s a fucking screwdriver so you just look like an idiot screaming about how none of this is even cool it’s actually really shitty but your whole planet is gone so you can’t even prove it but also you’ve had a constant drumming sounding in your head since you were 10 slowly driving you insane. I would become evil too.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny: Welcome to Danny's comics, how can I help you?

Damian: I require the assistance of SpaceGhost. That is his handle for an online Catacomb Master profile. The web page said he could be found here

Danny: That's me. You're a bit young to be into the Wizards and Wands fanclub, though.

Damian: I am not part of that ridiculous club. My elder brother, Timothy, on the other hand, is a fool enough to dress like a wizard and fight imaginary dragons on a weekend.

Danny: Ah. That makes sense. So what can I help you with, buddy?

Damian: I am not your friend. I am barely a acquaintance.

Danny: dully noted

Damian: I've come to request your presence on July 19th for a private in person session for Timothy.

Danny: Um, I don't know. I would have to close the comic book store and-

Damian: I shall pay you twenty thousand dollars. I have ten of it now. Cash. *slaps open suitcase on counter*

Danny: Count me in! What's the address?

The night of Tim's Birthday

Damian: I have purchased Timothy a private entertainer for his birthday, as requested, Stephanie. He is in there now setting up, so it is best we do not enter until the session is over

Steph: Leaping Lizards Batman, I was joking about the stripper!

Damian: *slow blink* I was supposed to get a exotic dancer?

Steph: Wait, if it wasn't a stripper what did you hire for Tim?

Tim running past dressed like a wizard of old: THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE. SPACEGHOST IS MY IDOL

Damian: I read his diary and found multiple hearts around his Catacomb Master handle name. Timothy has been obsessed with his online videos since before learning of Father's second identity.

Steph: This is somehow worse than a twelve year old booking a stripper.

[calkestis]

if sith why goofball

[solargeist]

loses once, becomes socialist

[columboposting]

rewatched Last of the Time Lords

[egophiliac]

(almost) four years in, and I finally had time to draw something for the anniversary! woo! 🎉🎉🎉

[bixels]

I've been watching Teen Titans for the first time with my partner. Saw the "Apprentice" arc and "Haunted."

[fantasyinallforms]

"The Hobbit movies aren't accurate. The Hobbit's movies made the dwarves too hot"

SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Shhhhhh.... shh

Look into my eyes right now and know I'm being so serious.

I. Don't. Care.

I don't care that it's basically Tolkien fan fiction. I'm under no delusion that it's accurate, I know the studio used the movies as a money grab insted of letting PJ do what he actually wanted. I KNOW. We *all* know.

I still don't care. It brings me joy.

[sentientsky]

forgot i made this kajskajs

[charlotte-queen-owl]

Y'all wouldn't BELIEEEVE me if I told you which one of these losers is God and God's little Champion.

[newvestroia]

What will happen in the future? Do you think it will be better than today?

[softestaries]

The master watching from inside the gold tooth as the Doctor bi generates.

[moondirti]

daddy kink. inspections. female reader. mean price. fluffy ending. mention of cunt slapping.

latching on to price’s forearm when he anchors it between your legs. he has the soaked gusset of your panties yanked to the side, fingers prodding for purchase along your doughy folds. callouses slipping, slicked. prying for something — what, you don’t know, though you bite your lip to settle through the pain. his touch isn’t as placatory as it would be if was trying to arouse pleasure. sturdy, rather. a little forceful.

similarly, the kitchen countertop is unrelenting below. cool marble digs into your behind, edge cutting into the soft flesh of your thighs. it makes you wish you wore bottoms this morning — before acknowledging how short-lived that would be. there’s a multi-purpose tool on every flat surface available (gifts, from those who don’t know that all he wants, on every occasion, is a tight thing wriggling atop his lap and a bottle of glen scotia), and you’ve suffered enough torn shorts at their doing to have found that the most you can get away with is a pair of cotton briefs and a loose shirt. easy access, he calls it.

like now. you focus on anything but the intrusive ministrations he doles to your poor pussy, whimpering quietly behind bitten lips. though it’s ritual, you have yet to get used to his morning inspections. they alway feel a little cruel in a way you don’t deserve. you’ve been good in the time since you’ve seen him last — sitting on your hands, declining every invitation to a night out, locking your toys in the safe he keeps in the closet — but no amount of pleading your case will get you out of this. he has to see it for himself. feel the undisturbed skin around your hole, the ripe fruit of your clit, plump as it has yet to be unpicked.

“daddy,” you breath, leaning into the strength his shoulder affords when he shoves a finger in dry. it’s hard to keep still as he searches your insides, probing through velvet walls like they’re his own. at this point, all of you might as well be.

“wiggle again ‘n’ i’ll slap this stupid cunt silly.”

your tongue notches itself between your teeth, struggling when you bite down to stifle further complaint. he’s so mean; never as indulgent in the mornings as he is in tipsy afternoons, when he’ll place you down onto his thigh, and let you suck on his fingers to sate the oral fixation that had you mouthing at his groin.

what you find, in your new effort to stay silent, is his arm serves as a better distraction than the metallic wash of blood around your gums. your nails trace it delicately, drifting through the tufts of dark hair that veil old tattoos. the way it will comb to your direction, going one direction when you pave the way, is so unlike the man currently pulling your clit hood back, watching it twitch in cool air. price is fixed, mulish in a manner you’ve learnt is best to let go. rooted in the disciplinarian logic taught to him by his father, and his father before him — tradition sticks, tacky in his marrow. trying to scour it out of him, urge him to see differently, is like taking trouble with the one thing that makes him… him.

you say nothing when he spreads either lip apart.

the muscles creaking from elbow to wrist are more analogous to his character. they twist, writhe, sinew stretching in a way that seems impossible to you. if you squeeze hard enough, you swear you can feel each individual fibre working minutely beneath the surface of his skin. his body is ignited, emanating a dry heat always — which serves your purposes nicely on frigid winter nights, tucked into the expansive furnace of his back. when your fingertips tap the crease of his arm, they sap feverish warmth, along with the elastic efforts that keep you pinned in place.

“legs.” he demands, knuckles rapping on one knee to complete his demand. you’re a little dumb, pleasure slowly bleeding into your veins, making the best of the rough attention your cunt receives, so all you do is blink. once, twice. “wider, now.”

but he doesn’t give you another chance. instead, he shoves them apart himself, his watch scratching the thin skin of your inner thighs.

his watch. black dial and brown leather strap, worn a little with use. though he’s told you the specifics of its make and model, most you remember is that it can also be used as a stopwatch. tactical, utilitarian, as things tend to be with him, but inflated at such a cost that you blanched upon hearing he uses it on the field. don’t you worry about it?

there are far more important things to worry about.

you’ve tried it on your wrist, once, and found that it hung uselessly, several sizes too big. he fills in that extra space so well, veins branching from where it hugs his carpal, adding dimension to the hand that disappears into your pussy.

you wish you would worm your way into his skin, nestle there with all the things that paint this portrait you love so dearly. it would do a great deal for the anxiety that plagues you while he’s away, stressing about loss of mind or limb, or the loss of your daddy in his entirety, out there somewhere where you cannot reach him.

(you wonder, briefly — ridiculously — whether he feels the same about you. but those suspicions are eased when he pulls away from the bracket of your hips, proud smile warping the moustache atop his lip, and places a scratchy kiss to your temple.)

“that’s a good girl.”

[fictionproblem]

who hired bro 💀💀💀

[zarla-s]

you can't do this to him kabu he's a gourmand

[patreon]

[voidedjuice]

Lavender witch and her most treasured doll