#feet on the desk

[oxalisvulcanicola]

[shesgotbigfeet]

[splickedylit]

@ USAmericans that are following me, if you (like me) get anxious you'll somehow have issues with a mail-in or drop-off ballot: I forgot that in a lot of places (here's a site to check!) early in-person voting is an option, so I figured maybe you did too!

Lines are MUCH shorter than election day,

which means it's quick and you have more time to look things up at the voting booth if necessary,

and you have a LOT more ability to find a time that works for you than if you just vote on Nov. 5th (which I would be have been almost completely unable to go out and vote on).

Early voting y'all it kicks ass. A quick google of "early voting (my city/county" immediately brought up the exact address, days and hours of where it was available. Will definitely patronize the fine folks at my local polling center again in four years assuming that. Things go well. And we still have a democracy in four years. OTL

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ DUTY-BOUND ꒱ AKAGAMI NO SHANKS X READER

warnings ⟢ minors do not interact—i will block you! very suggestive. alcohol use. period talk. foot worship. scent kink. female reader. reader and shanks are married, and shanks uses a few pet names—some silly, some serious—including: “lady love” / “ma’am” / “my love” / “my wife.” please note that shanks only has his right arm.

word count ⟢ 1115

notes ⟢ this is part of @ficsforgaza’s kinktober event! my prompt was shanks + period sex. this is my first time writing shanks, and truthfully, it reignited my lust for him... i hope i did him justice. please enjoy!

“What’s running through that pretty head of yours?”

It’s late; you lost track of time when the sky was still an azure ocean, the sun floating peerless in its splendor. An expensive—now empty—bottle of spiced rum lies at your feet, its warmth eddying through your veins, limbs steeped in honey. Swathed in night’s royal velvet, your hotel room is illuminated only by shivering candlelight and stray moonbeams. You left the balcony door ajar. Outside, the balmy breeze stirs palm leaves, and the sea’s siren song plays, ebbing and flowing with the tide.

For the first time in months, you’re on a real bed. Swapping your trusty hammock for a down-filled mattress feels like a luxury—one you refuse to take for granted. While your earlier beachside dinner left you satiated and wooed, your date led you to a nearby bar for drinks and dancing. Laughter rang in your ears as you draped your wrists over his broad shoulders, a thick arm anchored low across your hips, chin kissing the top of your head. The merriment concluded with what he insisted would be a “borrowed” bottle of rum.

(“Cap’s favorite,” he whispers conspiratorially against your temple, cradling the stolen cargo inside the billowing fabric of his cape.)

But as you lounge in bed together, your mind wanders. Shanks rests on his side, head propped up with his right arm. You’re curled against his bare chest, the vitality of his battle-worn flesh and the ardent beat of his heart setting your nerves alight. His hooked nose is buried in your hair, lips pressed to your crown.

“Nothing much,” you belatedly reply.

“Hmm…” He pulls back to study your expression, playful gaze narrowing, mapping the contours of your profile as though he’s navigating an uncharted island. After a few beats of silence, he finally announces: “I think you’re hiding something from me.”

“Oh, is that so?”

He hums. “You always have something to complain about.”

(That earns him a swift smack to the shoulder.)

“Ouch!” he gasps, face contorting in mock anguish. “My lady love wounds me.”

“If you must know,” you huff, ignoring his antics to instead twirl a delicate finger through his chest hair, “it’s my time of the month. So I’m not exactly feeling my best and brightest.”

“I see…Is that it?”

You indulge the petulant urge to roll your eyes. “If only I could ball up my pain and force it upon you, Mr. Can’t-Leave-His-Hammock-All-Day-When-He-Has-A-Mild-Cough.”

“No—you misunderstand me,” he sighs.

Slipping his arm beneath your waist, he shifts to hover above you, the ring hanging from the golden chain around his neck gleaming with reflected moonlight. His frame is almost comically large; almost. The way he so effortlessly maneuvers you, his body eclipsing yours, trapping you in place—forcing you to stare up at him: your captain, your lover, your husband—has heat blooming in your belly.

“What I mean is that there are ways to deal with this sort of pain.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, craning your neck to brush your lips against the ring; his jaw flexes. “Enlighten me, then,” you challenge.

You’ve fallen right into his trap and you know it. His grin is devastatingly radiant. Vast and blinding as the horizon on a cloudless day, it holds a sly promise. He leans down, lips grazing yours, breath so sweet your teeth ache. “Yes ma’am.”

Shanks considers himself lucky that you’re mostly undressed: your frame drowns in one of his old, sun-bleached shirts, the excess fabric pooling at your thighs. Underneath it, a simple pair of cotton panties is all that separates him from what he desires most.

Sliding down the length of your form, his excitement is apparent as it strains against his breeches. He nudges the hem of your makeshift nightgown with his nose, teasing it upward, careful to scrape the stubble on his cheeks and chin across your tender flesh. Continuing until the garment reaches the apex of your thighs, he then bites down on the soft linen, dragging it up to your hips with his teeth.

When you raise an eyebrow—Leaving your work half-finished, Akagami? he can hear you goad—he rasps, “I quite enjoy this view. As long as my love doesn’t mind, that is.”

(If the quickening of your pulse is anything to go by, you don’t mind in the slightest.)

Sitting back on his heels, he skims his fingers along the sinuous outline of your leg, supple hip to the arch of your foot. He splays his palm across your ankle, rough thumb stroking the bone. Gingerly, he raises your foot to his mouth, blotting a kiss against the sole before lifting his lips to your toes, slick pink peeking out, messily dragging his tongue across each digit. His eyes never leave yours, stormy with lust—fresh ichor seeping onto the salt-damp deck of a pirate ship: sublime.

Even in the throes of worship, crimson strands marring his vision, he looks every bit the Emperor he is.

Soon, he works his way back between your legs, wasting little time as he shoves his face into the seam of your underwear, inhaling deeply with a groan. You want to harass him for acting like an ill-trained mutt, but the knowledge that he’s getting off on your scent—that after a day of exploring and sweating and bleeding he still yearns for you—makes your head fuzzy.

You clear your throat. “Shanks. You don’t have to…you know.”

He doesn’t move even a hair’s breadth, eyelids heavy, the low rumble of his voice resounding in your core as he drawls, “I’m a big boy; a bit of blood isn’t gonna hurt me.”

His hand creeps downward, slowly—purposefully—until it rests atop your final layer. His fore and middle fingers sneak past the waistband and tangle in your pubic hair. Meanwhile, he stretches his thumb out to stroke your aching clit, featherlight, still not touching you directly.

“Besides,” he adds, no mirth in his manner for the first time all evening, “it’s my duty to help my wife.”

[jojo-schmo]

(The Forgotten Land Roleswap: Chapter 2 55-57]

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[niuniente]

I forgot my drawing monitor's cord back home when I left to mom's. Luckily, my friend from USA had send me her old Wacom Bamboo tablet to mom's address some years ago so I was able to draw a little and guys.

Guys.

I love drawing tablet so much more than the monitor. I have had the monitor for many years now but somehow it just doesn't capture the right line vibe for me. My settings are the same but Bamboo does lines softer, rounder, heavier where as the monitor is refined, thin and calculated.

I think I'm going to go back to the Bamboo because while I have been happy with my art, I feel a proper, deep satisfied joy when I look at my art done with the humble Bamboo from 2007.

Perhaps you will spot a difference, too, when I get next the DHD update online.

[ninadove]

The thing with Flairmidable’s costume is — this isn’t Felix’s style, at all. And that’s what makes it so brilliant.

The entire point of this design is to be a credible copy of what Adrien would wear as the Dog holder, and as such, it is much closer to Chat’s suit than it is to Argos’.

Allow me to demonstrate:

✨ Ears! ✨

High collar + Bell combo

Shoulder pads

A geometric motif on the chest, which also elongates the arms

✨ Tail! ✨ It’s a shame you can’t admire it on this render.

The biggest difference between the two costumes is the absence of over-the-knee boots on Chat’s side — but you know who does wear them?

That’s right! Adrien’s miserablesona! The one who conforms to expectations and fake perceptions of his identity.

In other words, Felix (and the character designers, of course, let’s hear a round of applause for them) came up with a costume that is a perfect combination of:

What Adrien would actually wear as the Dog holder;

What Felix thinks his cousin would wear as the Dog holder.

And he slays. And he knows it.

[honestlydarkprincess]

where were you when buck kissed a boy for the first time

[spindle-and-nima]

Spindle wants outside and presents his case. In our review we see Very polite feet but very insistent nose on the door

[arsenicflame]

Bootblacking is my favourite kink to give Izzy, because of course this guy would get his rocks off doing precise, repetitive, manual labour. OF COURSE he gets off on what is essentially just another chore on his list.

[shrimpchipsss]

"u could call return to childhood boss baby" -twt user wifebeam

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Counterspell

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[despazito]

Emotionally invested in the spider that lives in my window, I like its multistory funnel contraption. Idfk what it eats but it's been surviving for like 2 months at least

[cellgatinbo]

the curse of having fit and pac's "gosto de você" "eu gosto de você também" repeating over and over again in my head nonstop, but knowing if i ever want to rewatch the actual clip of it i'll just immediately combust and die on the spot

[turquoisephoenix]

You are so powerful. Grubba gang rise up

Thank you! Grubba's really fun to work with because it's basically me turning a big dial that says "Washed Up Ex-Star" on it and constantly looking back at the audience for approval.

His laptop is playing St. Elmo's Fire.

[yaknowlikenyah]

The bad news: Mice have snuck in from the outside and have decided to live in my walls (they are adorable but I don't want my room covered in mouse piss)

The good news: My brother's cat saved me, put the fear of god in them, and has been patrolling the hole with the ferver of that dog that found a pie in a bush