#fuckers i hate you

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The dog days are over.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[piss-stained-jorts]

"i wanna see something other than the same edgy horror stuff when a beloved character becomes public domai-"

FUCKING MAKE IT, THEN.

the literal only difference between you and those horror directors who took mickey and winnie the pooh and made them into the horror you hate so much is that they made something and you didn't.

MAKE the romcom. MAKE the deep and existential meta horror you want to see. MAKE something cozy and child friendly. MAKE MAKE MAKE MAKE MAKE

don't just sit there and bemoan the things you don't want to see! MAKE THE THINGS YOU DO WANT TO SEE. BECAUSE NOW WE CAN MAKE ANYTHING. THAT'S THE FUCKING POINT!

YOU DON'T NEED PERMISSION. YOU DON'T NEED TO BE SOMETHING FIRST. JUST MAKE WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE.

YOU CAN'T STOP AN ARTIST FROM TAKING A CHILD FRIENDLY THING AND MAKING IT INTO HORROR. THE LITERAL ONLY PERSON YOU CAN STOP, AND ARE STOPPING, IS YOURSELF.

DON'T FUCKING WAIT FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO MAKE IT FOR YOU. PICK UP A DAMNED PENCIL/KEYBOARD/WHATEVER AND MAKE THAT THING YOU WANT TO SEE, GOD DAMMIT!!!

[cheesomancer]

What are you waiting for? I'm totally ready, I tell you.

Full art (with close up!) is here!

[saetoshi]

itoshi sae can’t sleep well when you’re gone. he’s too used to the feeling of your warmth next to his on the bed.

he spends his nights lying awake, a frown on his face as he rolls around to your side of the bed. he gets a wink of sleep before his alarm goes off. his brows furrow as he contemplates throwing his phone against the wall. (he never does—he hates the thought of not seeing your face pop up on his lock screen more than going another day without sleep).

his phone buzzes in his hand, an incoherent grumble leaving his lips before he rolls out of bed. he glances at the screen, disappointment bubbling in his chest when he sees the text isn’t yours.

he goes through the motions when you’re gone—his eyes lingering a little too long on your bottle of soap on the shower’s shelves. his hand subconsciously reaches for your shampoo, his heart swelling when the fresh, fruity scent fills his senses. he doesn’t linger for too long when brushing his teeth, his eyes actively avoiding your missing toothbrush.

sae can’t stand going to practice when you’re away. somehow, he gets more irritable than usual. he gets pickier with the passes he gives—even pickier with the way his teammates receive the passes. it’s bad enough that his coach sends him home on days like these. (it’s even worse how his manager lectures him on the way home).

he expects emptiness when he opens the door to his apartment, a sour look on his face. he kicks the door closed, a loud slam echoing through the place, his eyes shut closed as he tries to calm down.

“what’d the door ever do to you?”

his eyes snap open, his head whipping to the side. his annoyance melts away almost immediately—the corners of his eyes softening the longer he looks at that grin on your lips.

“nothing,” he breathes out, kicking off his shoes in a hurry before closing the distance between the two of you.

a smile worms its way onto his lips when you stretch your arms out. he walks into your embrace, hugging you tight until you’re patting his back and telling him you can’t breathe.

he rests his chin on your shoulder, his eyes drifting to your suitcase next to the couch. “when did you get back?” he asks, his voice soft.

“not too long ago,” you reply, gently rubbing circles on his upper back. you chuckle when he pecks the crook of your neck, giving him a small squeeze. he huffs, his arms tightening around you before he kisses your clavicle.

“i missed you,” he whispers, the words muffled by the fabric of your shirt.

“i know,” you say, patting his back in a soothing manner, “i missed you too, sae.”

“don’t leave for long ever again,” he adds, pulling back just enough to look at you. he frowns when you laugh, bringing his hand up to flick your forehead.

“i was only gone for a week,” you grumble, rubbing the spot he flicked. your eyes scan his face, your brows furrowing slightly. “you’ve been gone for longer.”

“it’s different,” he murmurs, the tips of his ears flushing. “because we’re on different timezones.” (it makes ignoring the distance easier, he wants to add. but he won’t—not today, anyway).

you sigh, faintly shaking your head. he tsks, pouting as he rests his forehead against yours, “it’s not the same when we’re in the same time, but in different places.”

his hands gently pry yours from his back, the corners of his lips quirking up into the hint of a smile when he laces his fingers through yours. his eyes find yours, a soft hum leaving his lips. “don’t leave for too long ever again,” he repeats, his words hushed.

“it was just a week,” you murmur, your eyes softening in amusement.

“a week too long,” he quips, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. you open your mouth to reply before he cuts you off, “don’t ever leave for too long without me ever again.”

you puff your cheeks, softly sighing before you nod. “okay,” you say, shaking your head when he smiles. he can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth when you call him a spoiled brat under your breath.

“good,” he says, giving you a quick peck.

“good,” you echo, leaning up to give him a peck in return.

a soft hum leaves your lips, your eyes warm as you gently tug him into the bedroom. (neither of you choose to say something about the way he grabs your suitcase as you drag him away).

he doesn’t complain when you shove him down on the bed, placing his head on your pillow before leaning down to kiss his forehead.

“i’m too old to be tucked into bed,” he says, his eyes following your movements as you pull up the comforter to his chin. (still, he can’t help the grin growing on his lips when you smack his knee).

“just go to sleep,” you say, hoisting your suitcase on his side of the bed to unpack. your eyes flicker to his, a teasing smile on your lips, “you look uglier with those bags under your eyes.”

“i hate you.”

“whatever you say,” you stick your tongue out at him.

“i missed you,” he yawns, his eyes struggling to stay open.

“i missed you too,” you reply, your voice full of affection when you glance at him.

“you better be here when i wake up,” he murmurs, yawning once more as his eyes close. there’s a smile on his lips as he drifts off to sleep, his heart lighter than it’s been for the week.

“i wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”

[bikefuckersoftheworldunite]

Valentino Rossi drinks champagne as he celebrates the victory of Yamaha team in the MotoGP class of the World Motorcycle Grand Prix at a Tokyo hotel, 2005

[izzystizzys]

it’s canon to me that anakin skywalker and marshall commander fox are archnemeses of a shakespearean nature to eachother

why? well, fox’ life is a tragedy of galactic proportions. he’s a slave at best and straight up non-sentient property at worst, caught at the crossroads of being the face of the republic’s most corrupt establishment to his brothers who resent him for being forced to bear an authority he has no actual control over, and being the closest and easiest target for that very authority’s ire. made to enforce the rigged and deeply unjust laws against his own oppressed peoples, and no one understands better than fox how much coruscant truly despises them. the chancellor at the heart of it all, and anakin, the favored pupil - taken in by the flattery and empty promises like all the rest of them, the jedi most intimately connected to the senate who yet cares so little to know the clones who shed their blood in it every day that he never sees beyond his own very nose. no one asks the guard what they think, and fox despises them all for it, but the jedi who play at caring more than anything. it’s an impersonal, distanced dislike for the most part, but with skywalker it burns all the brighter for how often fox sees him walk the halls of the senate and never think to ask.

also fox cut anakin off in traffic once and he never forgave him for it

[moeblob]

Capri Sun... I miss you... (it still exists).

[wildechildwrites]

Run, Rabbit

König/Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Warnings: 18+, Violence, Injury, Smut, lightly noncon but in the way that you're fighting it but are down, König being insane

No use of Y/N

Summary: You're on a solo mission in Romania, and König goes hunting

A/N: "Oh look another predator/prey coded Konig fic how original" SHUT UP I KNOW

AO3: Run, Rabbit

18+

You’re in the forests of Romania on a solo mission, snooping around an abandoned military base that’s been the location of some suspicious activity, according to your sources. You find the ghost of the for-hire group Kortac in rat-chewed maps and files, faint footprints in layers of dust, but the trail has long gone cold, the building slowly being reclaimed by nature. The trees show no sign of the changes of autumn, but it's in the air, the late summer whisper of a chill in the breeze. You take your time picking your way along the overgrown roads, enjoying the tranquility of the forest. The extraction point is ten clicks west of your position, but you’re content with your steady pace, the sun still high in the sky, shining brightly through the thick foliage, and the hike is an easy one. Your meager findings are carefully folded in your bag of gear, your gun snug on your hip. Ten meters to your right, a red deer raises its head up, watching you warily, before bolting away into the trees. You smile to yourself and raise your face to better feel the sun. 

You hear the crack of the shot and drop, but not quickly enough. Your ears ring, your shoulder burning agonizingly, like someone’s pushing a hot poker against it. You fight against the nausea and pain, willing yourself to move, scrambling into the brush for cover. The shot came from your six, and you grapple for your binoculars, trying to locate the shooter on the hill above you. You recognize the mask first, the bleached tear tracks down an executioner's hood, the hulking form of the figure wearing it unfortunately familiar. König is standing casually, seemingly unafraid of any return of fire, staring down like he can see you through the trees. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle instinctually as he begins to move, a sauntering pace down the hill like the slow lope of a wolf. You drop down again, ignoring the pain in your shoulder as you crawl through the underbrush. 

Nestled low on a hill, large body half buried in the underbrush, König watches you through the scope of his rifle, toying with the idea of killing you. He recognizes you from the files he’s seen on the 141, but there was nothing left at the base for you to find, no reason to draw suspicion and attention back here. You were harmless like this, and magnetic, head tilted towards the sun, your face lit up in a wash of gold light that plays up the color of your hair. His finger brushes lightly across the trigger as he contemplates his options. He rolls his neck loose before glancing through his scope again.

You stop behind a small boulder, pressing your back to it, breathing heavily, and pull your radio off of your hip. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo Seven Four, over.” 

The crackle of the radio is a relief, Price’s voice faint but firm. “Go ahead Bravo Seven Four, over.” 

“Enemies one; direction east of my grid two hundred meters, injury sustained, six clicks out of extraction point, over.” You peek out from behind the rock, but can't see anything, so you continue your crawl, waiting for a response. The birds have stopped singing, a deadly quiet that warns of danger.

“Stay calm Bravo Seven Four–” Price’s voice is cut off by the sound of another bullet whizzing near you. You can’t have your radio giving away your position, and the squad is too far away to reach you before König could. You grab your radio and quickly press the button. 

“Bravo Six, silence, meet at extraction, over.” You turn it off, not waiting for a response, and tuck it back into your belt. Ignoring the growing burning in your shoulder, you move as quickly through the underbrush as you can. You need to cover more ground if you’re going to make it out of here, so you weigh your options, propping yourself into a low crouch, scanning the woods behind you. You can’t see or hear anything. You inhale deeply, then break into a sprint.

The cracking of branches is faint, but König is listening for it, his rifle slung over his shoulder as he searches for you. He immediately changes directions, moving towards the noise and quickening his pace. If you want to run, he’s more than happy to indulge you, relishing the adrenaline of the chase. Your trail is clear, broken branches like a beacon beckoning him closer. He spots blood on one of the low boulders, and swipes it up on his gloved hand, smiling under the mask. 

You're hyper aware of your disadvantage, the sounds of snapping branches as your pursuer draws closer, the sluggish flow of blood down your shoulder from where the bullet grazed you. Your lungs burn, head woozy as you run hard, branches scraping at your form. You risk a look over your shoulder, searching for König behind you, and your heart drops when you miss a step. 

All of a sudden, you're falling, hands stretched out in front of you as you tumble down a steep hill. You hear and feel the snap of your ankle in your boot, a whimpering sob yanked from your chest as you finally land heavily in some thorn covered bushes, branches scratching your body even through the thick fabric of your uniform. You pull yourself out, ignoring the pain as thorns drag against your face, drawing blood, then scan yourself quickly, the prognosis bleak. You can't run, not with what is definitely a broken ankle, and your shoulder is still oozing freely, but you won’t go down without a fight. You drag yourself through the dirt using your good arm, stopping periodically to listen to the sounds of König moving through the trees. Your entire body burns, and you fight against the growing fatigue that’s threatening to overwhelm you, trying to hold onto your quickly waning adrenaline. 

The sound of breaking branches draws nearer. He’s moving faster, heavy footfalls that make your leg muscles twitch with the urge to run. König whistles, high and loud, and you reach for your gun, cocking it as quietly as you can, turning around to face the direction of the noise, crouching low. Your heart pounds in your chest, fear creeping in, the weight of your situation crashing down on you.

“I heard you cry out,” a voice rings through the trees. There's something light in König’s tone, like this has all been a game of tag. “You can't be too far.”

Then the only sound is the breeze, rustling in the leaves. Blood from a cut on your forehead drips into your eye, and you resist the urge to wipe it away, scanning your surroundings as best you can without moving.

The unwelcome feeling of the muzzle of a gun presses against the side of your head, and your body shudders involuntarily. 

“Drop your weapon, Häschen,” König murmurs. You comply immediately, tossing it at his feet, unwilling to argue with a Beretta at your temple. The large man quickly kicks your gun into the bushes. “Sit up,” he commands, and you move slowly, trying not to aggravate your broken bone. 

The small shack hasn’t been used in a while, the table in the center of the room is covered in dust, and spiders have made their home in the corners, spinning silvery streamers that hang down, brushing against his helmet. König places you lightly on the small bed in the corner, stooping over uncomfortably in the low room. Your hair is full of sticks and leaves, your face scraped and bleeding. He needs to look at your shoulder, and the ankle you’d been hovering over protectively, but work comes first. You’ve thrown him off, his fingers tingling where he held you to him, the phantom pressure of your head on his chest as he carried your unconscious body through the woods haunting him even now. He grabs your gear bag, dumping it unceremoniously onto the table, pulling your medkit to the side before rifling through the papers you’d found. The information was outdated, but he shoves the papers into one of the pockets of his pants for disposal later regardless.

You knew he was large, but kneeling at his feet he feels like a goliath, towering over you, the gun held in his grip looking comically small in his giant hands. He holsters it, and you get a stupid, moronic, brilliant idea. In a quick motion, you’ve ripped your radio off of your belt, pressing down on the button and bringing it to your lips. “MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY–” König slams the heel of his palm into the back of your head, and the world goes dark.

He doesn’t bother stripping you properly, just takes his knife and slices it up through the collar of your shirt, baring your shoulder to him. His eyes, unbidden, trace the line of the now exposed column of your throat, and he swallows loudly in the quiet of the room. König draws his attention back to your injury with some difficulty. He barely even grazed you, the puckered wound bleeding sluggishly, and he quietly gloats at his own aim. When he pours alcohol on it, you awaken with a hiss, throwing your arm out hard in his direction reflexively before your brain catches up with you. He deflects you easily, wrapping large fingers around your wrist, enjoying the feeling of the delicate bones, watching with silent smugness as your confusion reads clear on your face. 

“Guten tag,” he says, pleasantly casual, as though you’ve run into him at the grocery store. Your head is pounding, and you’re thrown, trying to grasp your surroundings. Your shoulder is burning, and you’re suddenly aware of the air on your bare skin. You rip your hand out of his grasp, pulling yourself as far away from him on the small bed as you can manage. He tilts his head, studying you. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, your voice hard. 

König gestures with the alcohol he’s holding. “I’m patching up your injuries.” His voice is low, his accent curling around the syllables of his sentences like smoke. 

You blink at him, utterly disarmed. “Why,” you pause, biting your cheek as a wave of pain radiates through your ankle, “Are you patching up my injuries?” 

“Would you prefer it if I left them?” He volleys back lightly, tilting his head. 

You don’t say anything, staring at him with suspicion. He’s got you cornered, quite literally, and there’s no way you can get away from him with your ankle like this unless you can get your hands on a weapon. There’s a knife tucked in your boot, but you can’t exactly pull it out subtly. His beretta is on his hip, his rifle is leaning against the table, but you’d be lying to yourself if you thought you had a chance in hell of reaching either before he could. 

 König takes your silence for compliance and goes back to dabbing your wound with alcohol. You flinch when he places his hand on you, and he makes a dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat. “Such a nervous little rabbit.” The mask conceals his expression from you, but you can hear the frown in his voice. 

“You shot me,” you respond dryly. “Doesn’t exactly foster trust.” 

 “Just a scratch. I could’ve killed you, if I wanted to.” He shrugs, a casual movement that’s unintentionally intimidating, your eyes on the way his shoulder muscles move beneath the layers of clothing he wears. 

You spend your time with large men, the boys of your team all averaging above six feet, but König is just startlingly gigantic. You scan his torso, eyes tracing across the wide planes of his chest, lingering too long to be decent. You catch yourself and drop your gaze down to your hands. “If you don’t want to kill me, what do you want?”

“I want to know what you are doing here.” His tone is still pleasant, but interrogative. His fingers are deliberate, surprisingly gentle as he bandages your shoulder, but there’s an unspoken thread of tension in the air. 

You’re much more docile when he patches up your ankle, an uneasy truce between the two of you. You sit still as he splints it, legs draped almost intimately over his lap, his large fingers curled around your injured leg, gentle pressure holding you steady as he works. He adjusts his hold, squeezing lightly on the meat of your calf, and your breathing stutters. His eyes flick to yours, something dangerous in their expression, and you hold his gaze as you deliberately drag your uninjured leg closer to you, your boot trailing across König's upper thighs intentionally. His eyes slip close at the sensation, just for a moment, and that's when you act, yanking your knife out of your boot and sinking it into his thigh and launching yourself to the floor. He lets out a snarling cry, and you scramble up, your vision going white from the pain of your ankle, but you push through it, sprinting out of the shack. 

“Chasing shadows.” You respond, your voice equally mild. You know he looked through your pack and probably found the papers. You wonder if he thought it was ironic that you came sniffing after KorTac, just to run right into him. You certainly did.

You can't run properly, reduced to a hobble that's made all the more difficult by the fact that you're on uneven terrain in the quickly growing dark. You need to figure out your location and find a way to contact your team, but you’re disoriented and disarmed. You haven’t made it more than a few meters when you hear the sound of the front door slam open. You pick up the pace, trying to put as much distance between you and the very angry Austrian hot on your trail. 

“Häschen,” König’s voice rings through the trees, and a trickle of fear runs through you. You duck behind a tree, pressing yourself against it firmly, trying to blend in with the darkness. 

“Always trying to run away,” he snarls, shoving his body against yours. He thrusts his uninjured thigh between your legs, pinning you further, and you let out an unintentional gasp at the sudden pressure of hard muscle against your core. König instantly pulls away, his eyes shooting down to your ankle with concern, before dragging slowly up your body, his gaze accusatory.  

He can hear you breathing, light and quick, and he doesn’t even try to disguise the heavy sound of his footsteps as he closes in on you. He whips around the tree you’re cowering against, and you try to bolt, but he wraps his fingers around your bicep, yanking you back, slamming his hands above your head, trapping you against the tree. 

“You like this,” he says, and you shake your head desperately. 

“I don’t–” he interrupts any denials you might have, deliberately grinding his thigh in between your legs. You clench your teeth against the noise it draws from your throat. 

He leans impossibly closer, your noses almost brushing through the hood he wears. “Did you like the chase as well?” His voice is a husky rumble, full of heat, and you have to bite back a whine. “I liked the chase.” You realize the hard length against your stomach isn't his Beretta, and an unwanted spike of arousal shoots through you in response.

“You’re insane,” you snap, grappling for some semblance of control over the building pleasure in your core. König pulls away from you abruptly, and you flush at how wet you are, soaking through your underwear. 

“How about a game, Häschen?” his voice has lost its edge, back to the pleasant tone he used in the shack, and your head spins at the sudden change.  “I'll give you five minutes to run or hide, and if you can make it ten minutes without me finding you, I’ll take you to your extraction point myself, safe and sound.”

Your heart races. You don’t trust him, but there's no way you'll get another chance to get away from him. “And if I can’t?” You ask. 

You know you’re fucked, but you scramble through the darkness as quickly as you can, trying to find a good place to hide. If your ankle wasn’t broken, you’d climb a tree, but you’re stuck searching for ground cover, listening with mounting paranoia to the quiet noises of the forest. You’re a celestial body pulled unwillingly into König’s orbit; collision unavoidable.

He says nothing, just purposefully presses his hard cock against your center. Traitorous want flows through you.

You hear him coming, branches breaking as he stalks towards you. You stand as straight as you can, letting him approach you, his eyes bright in the dim of twilight. When he comes within range, you lunge for his gun, almost succeeding in yanking it out of the holster before he grabs you around the waist and pulls you to the ground, pinning you roughly beneath him. 

Even as he manhandles you, you're hyper aware of the delicate way he avoids putting any weight near your injured shoulder. He's got your legs splayed around him, but he's careful, adjusting you just so, keeping your ankle tucked safely away, angled so he won't jostle it. His hips press obscenely against your ass, and you can't help arching your back into him, begging for his cock even as you swear at him.

“Get the fuck off of me,” you spit, and he just laughs, an off-putting, mean sound, before reaching around and ripping open your pants. The button pops off, and the zipper teeth split forcefully apart as he shoves a hand into your underwear. 

“Complain all you want, Häschen, but you're soaked for me,” he coos into your ear, roughly rubbing your clit. You moan at the contact, and he moves his hand lower, pressing his palm against your clit before shoving a finger into your wet center, roughly splitting you open. You gasp at the sudden stretch, König giving you no time to adjust as he pulls his finger out for a moment and plunges it back in, moving in and out at a punishing pace.

“Tell the truth.” He orders, adding a second finger. He curls them, stroking your inner walls, bullying you open until he finds the spot that makes you see stars.  “Say you want me to fuck you.” 

You're beyond words, making a derisive noise that transforms into a whine as you move your hips back, driving König's fingers deeper, your ass rubbing against his clothed erection. All you can focus on is the press of his body against yours, his fingers unspooling you, pulling you apart as he pants along with you. The tension is building, the knot in your stomach tightening as König forces you closer to the edge. 

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you devastatingly empty and unsatisfied, and you let out an anguished whimper despite yourself. He pushes your pants roughly down around your thighs, and the purr of his zipper opening makes you clench reflexively around nothing. 

He presses right against your entrance, a breath away from splitting you open on his cock. You shove your hips back, trying to fuck yourself onto him, and he pulls back. “Say you want this,” he demands. 

“Fuck. You.” You snarl, even as your thighs tremble. He drags the head of his cock up through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, and you gasp. 

“Such spirit,” he murmurs. In a single motion, he sinks into you, splitting you in open, pulling the air from your lungs. 

He thrusts into you fast and hard, like he wants to tear you open, and it hurts, even with how soaked you are. You cry out, trying to squirm away from the pain. His fingers find your clit again, his breath hot in your ear. He dwarfs you, your legs shaking from pleasure and the weight of him on top of you, pressing you into the dirt. 

“You wanted this.” His voice is a panting snarl, his talented fingers stealing your senses as he forces you closer to your orgasm. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the forest air as he pounds into you without mercy. “Say it.” 

“I want this,” you whimper. You feel the shocking whisper of his lips against the junction of your neck and shoulder and realize with a start that means he’s not wearing his hood. All thoughts are shoved out of your head as he sinks his teeth into your skin, and you wail as you snap, the sensation dragging you over the edge, your body trembling as you cum. His thrusts become sloppy, his cock twitching inside you as he shoves his hips against yours, filling you up. He stays like that, flush against you, as his dick softens, keeping you full and trapped under him. 

You lay in the dirt panting, hollowed out and raw. There are pine needles prickling against your skin, soreness awakening in your limbs as you come back to yourself. König climbs off of you, still cognizant of your injuries, and pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you like a lover, the brutality melting into tenderness like watercolor. His hood is back in place, and the world comes crashing down around you as your senses return, the weight of your actions pulling you down as regret and shame bubble under your skin. 

The walk to the extraction point is silent. König holds you cradled against his chest; your hand fisted in the front of the vest he wears. His thigh burns, his entire body consumed with exhaustion, but he clenches his jaw against the pain, focusing instead on your face, turnt up towards him, open and vulnerable, eyes rimmed with red. If he was a better man, he'd be sorry. 

König notices your eyes glazing over, the warble of your chin, and reaches up a large hand to cradle your face, wiping away tears you didn't realize were threatening to fall. “Hush bunny, you did so well,” he croons down at you, his saccharine actions thrown in high relief against how violently he handled you before. “Such a good girl for me.”

He sets you down gently on a large rock, and pulls your knife out of a hidden pocket, his hand raised in a placating gesture as he slowly places it beside you. It’s still got his blood on it, dried to rust on the tip. You don’t reach for it, pulling your uninjured leg up and wrapping your arms around yourself. You look even smaller than you did before. 

He straightens his spine against the odd sensation in his chest. “Tell your captain to keep a closer eye on his men,” He orders, then reaches out a hand, hovering just above your cheek bone. Neither of you bridge the gap.  

You watch him disappear into the trees, the shadows swallowing him whole, the sound of a helicopter in the distance.

[philosophiums]

Megumi Rant bc I'm So Tired

I was gonna talk about 271 and the ending chapters of JJK in general, specifically focusing on how Shonen Jump puts a hard end date on each series it publishes (which are based on conversations with the mangakas, sure, but with no leeway once it’s determined because SJ wants to keep cycling through new publications in order to keep making money - and those hard line end dates cannot possibly account for, say, sudden illness that would prevent a mangaka from releasing a chapter) and how it’s the best end to the series that many fans could have asked for given that info, but I’m tired and I don’t feel like yelling at a wall, so here’s a rebuttal aimed at a lot of Megumi hot takes™ I’ve seen since, really, 269 dropped.

Obligatory thing up front bc I know the JJK fandom hates reading and critical thought more than anything in the world, and that it operates on a very "but what about me" mentality: It's totally fine if you are dissatisfied with JJK in general or even just the ending. It's totally fine if you have mixed feelings about the way the story was wrapped up. It's totally fine if you think it could have been handled better even given the above information in the link above on how SJ operates. I'm not telling you to feel a certain way, but I'm walking you through the end of the story (read: Megumi's character specifically) bc I am so fucking tired of reading bad takes about "Gege hating Megumi" or whatever.

Holding everyone's hands as I go through these. Let's take these steps in shedding directionless rage together.

(Forewarning that this is long as hell. Gomen.)

Common Argument Number 1: Megumi didn’t have a character arc/didn't grow as a character

The first thing that needs to be understood to realize why this is wrong is that all of the characters in JJK have arcs based around power - gaining it, losing it, being overwhelmed by it, and so on. This is not new information as of the last few chapters; we've known for years now that JJK isn't a story that's focused on deep introspection nor prolonged emotional development. Power. Cursed Techniques. That's where Gege kept his focus. However, it's impossible to write a story with heavy themes of loss and fear and love without touching into a character's emotions at all, some of which become central enough to turn into arcs. (We'll circle back to this in just a moment.) The second thing that needs to be understood here is that, in the general sense of All Media (and not just JJK), not all character arcs have to span the entire length of a story. A full and complete character arc (which is to say, the movement that happens while a character is actively changing) can happen in half of a story or less, and it is no less satisfying for having done so. Now, what does all of that have to do with Megumi? Very explicitly, it means that Megumi not only experiences growth as a character, but that he also goes through not one, but two character arcs. ((He's not the only character with two arcs, but he's the reason for this post, so you guys can track down the others on your own.)) Both of his arcs are complete, in my opinion, even if they're not 100% satisfying. But satisfaction isn't the argument here, so we can touch on that later. Maybe. Megumi's first arc (his power arc) starts right out of the gate, but it doesn't begin to take shape until the chapters at the detention center (I would argue it specifically starts to become an "arc" [which is to say, experiences movement] right at the point where Yuuji dies - this is the inciting incident in Megumi's story), and it concludes during the Culling Games (the exact place of it's conclusion is a little waffle-y for me but it's between either the moment he is able to use his technique to beat someone solo within the depths of his shadows OR the exact moment that Sukuna looks at him and thinks that he's strong enough now to be Sukuna's vessel). This arc follows Megumi coming to terms with the reality that if he wants to save people, he needs to get stronger and he needs to get more in touch with the side of himself that is/creates his CT. And he accomplishes that. Is there more growth in this department that he could have had? Yes, absolutely. Taming Mahoraga, a fully realized domain expansion, etc. All of that could have happened, but none of that needs to happen in order for this arc to be complete. He sought power, he got power, and he used it to save people. That's a fully realized and completed arc. Megumi's second arc (his emotional arc) happens during the time Sukuna is wearing him like a suit. This arc has nothing at all to do with anything that happens before this point in time (it has nothing to do with power, nothing to do with fighting, nothing to do with saving people). Before this, Megumi's emotional state is fairly stagnant; any goals and/or momentum that he has outside of wanting to become stronger are usually skipped over or not acknowledged at all. Once his bodily autonomy is stripped from him, all that's left is emotion. And we get to see a complete emotional arc here - starting in stagnation, inciting incident of being possessed, and then the slow chipping away of his resolve as Sukuna kills his sister and performs a ritual to suppress Megumi's soul completely. Megumi is at his lowest point here, but he overcomes it and chooses to live. That's a complete arc. That's a conclusion. No amount of wanting him to mourn Gojo or of wishing for This, That, or The Other things change the fact that his arcs do in fact reach natural conclusions within the story.

Common Argument Number 2: Megumi didn't have a satisfying conclusion

I think this argument is a bit of a pull from a misunderstanding that revolves around argument number one. People are looking for an arc that is wrapping up in the final chapters, and they're upset that they're not finding it. And the reason they're not finding it is because, as mentioned above, Megumi's arcs concluded before he regained consciousness post-Shinjuku. Also, this may come as a shock to some people, but "satisfying" is relative. Which also means that I can't exactly argue against what people are feeling, because in this specific instance, it's all feelings based. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to try!! I already covered that Megumi fully concluded both of his arcs, so it's not that he's lacking in power or emotional development. I think what people get stuck on is what Megumi says before he begins to fight back against Sukuna: that he wants to try to live for someone else. A lot of readers seem to take this as a step backwards for him, a return to who he was before everything in the story, but I disagree. I think it's actually a large step forward for him and, beyond that, I think it's realistic beyond simply satisfying the narrative. At the beginning of the story, Megumi is living for nothing. It's common for the fandom to think he's living for Tsumiki, but she's fully comatose and cursed; I doubt that he's living for her. At most he's living just in case a miracle happens and she wakes up, but that's not living for her. He's in what I think of as a transitional space, and he's stuck there. He's the only one in his year at Jujutsu Tech, he's not trying to develop his CT, he's just existing - going on missions and rolling his eyes at Gojo and doing school work. At the end of the story, Megumi actively chooses life. He had a way out, he felt that in many ways he was already dead - or at the very least, that he was irredeemable and better off dead. But he chooses to live. He chooses to fight back. And, more than that, he chooses to become an active participant in life. Yes, for him that means living for Yuuji, but even that still requires wanting to keep going, wanting to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He wants to face the world and all it has to offer - despite all the bad, and maybe in spite everything he went through. That's a satisfying character conclusion in my eyes. Everyone wants realistic representation of the struggle surrounding mental illness and how victories with them are not as "grand" as for neurotypical people until they're actually presented with realistic representation. Then all of a sudden it's "bad writing" and "unsatisfying" because the character didn't end the story without any gaps or holes and with a perfect little bow wrapped around their neck. God forbid there be an implication that a character gets to continue to live and grow beyond the last page. Anyway, just because he didn't have the conclusion you wanted for him that you built up in your head after years of living with the fanon version of Megumi you created doesn't mean his conclusion was bad or unsatisfying.

Common Argument Number 3: Megumi's characterization went right back to how it was during the Culling Game arc

...Duh??? I mean... where else was his personality and his behavior supposed to go? He spent a month completely suppressed by Sukuna. The only thing he was going to do without intervention is regress, not progress. What happened to Megumi when Yuuji reached out to him was him coming back to himself - and the only "himself" he had in recent memory was who he was immediately before Sukuna took over. Character progression cannot happen in stagnation, and stagnation is all Megumi had while he was suppressed in the bath™. Expecting any of that to change him for the better or to push him in any "forward" momentum is, quite honestly, ridiculous. The only direction Megumi could have gone is backwards, and he is (which means also we are) just lucky that he was able to be dragged into the version of himself that had already grown and that was waiting for his return.

Common Argument Number 4: Megumi didn't do anything during the fight against Sukuna

What gets me about this stance is that it seems to be the only one shared between the "shonen bros" who only read manga for the fight scenes and the hardcore Megumi stans who wish so desperately that he was the main character of the series. But like... what do you want him to do, here, exactly? Somehow find within himself the urge to get up and fight what seems to be a losing battle after watching his own hands kill not only his sister but the most prominent adult figure in his life? Resist all on his own (with no prior arc moments to support it) whatever mystical magical bs makes the bath™ work in keeping his soul suppressed? Do you want a good and well-structured character arc with logical emotional weight, or do you just want your favorite character to defeat a villain that is not "his" villain? I'll wait. Megumi's struggles during this story arc are internal, and his inability to fight is reflective of that. If he were to be resisting against Sukuna the whole time - trying to wrest control of his CT back or attempting to attack Sukuna's soul himself - then we would still be sitting in his power arc during this time. Megumi's inaction is physical representation of the inner turmoil and struggle that he was in during the fight, and I don't think that's very hard to understand. He is fighting; it's just that he's fighting himself. And he wins that fight. And he does do something in the fight against Sukuna. I firmly believe that Megumi choosing to live sealed the deal on Sukuna's death. Why else would Sukuna have been panicking so hard and doing everything he could to keep Megumi depressed and stuck in the ruts of his mind? If Megumi hadn't chosen life, hadn't decided he wanted to keep fighting in that moment, Sukuna would still be kicking. I don't think it's a stretch, actually, to say that Megumi delivered the blow that weakened Sukuna to Yuuji's kill shot. Megumi was integral to the fight - he just needed to go through his emotional arc first.

I'm sure I'm missing things, I'm sure I forgot things. But this isn't college and I'm not writing for a grade. What I am is tired of both Megumi hate and Gege hate. Megumi is a well-written character who is good representation of depression (at minimum), and who is also not the fucking main character. Like, I'm sorry that the character you project your mental illness onto acts mentally ill, and I'm sorry your favorite character is a side character who is written like a side character. These things tend to happen.

Yes, obviously, more could have been done with him and the wrapping of his character (and all of the characters) if the ending wasn't rushed, but that's not Gege's fault. Blame capitalism if you want to point fingers. JJK isn't the first manga with a rushed ending for exactly that reason, and it won't be the last.

Okay, I have to force myself to stop talking or we'll be here forever but:

The ending of JJK is not "bad writing," it's the best outcome that could have happened given the time constraints and publication constraints.

I agree that it would have been nice to see acknowledgements from the characters of the trauma they went through, but also I think that those things realistically take time. I don't think it's unreasonable that their first instinct would be to pretend that everything is normal for as long as they can. However, Megumi was not handled poorly, and he was not abandoned by Gege, and Gege does not hate him. He was well-written start to finish, and he was given a lovely ending that leaves his future wide open for possibilities.

Take a deep breath and stop trying to be the loudest voice in the room. Look at the text and supplement it with reality and the hard truths of a really shitty work culture, and understand that being upset is valid, but it's not valid enough to justify seething hatred for a mangaka whose entire work you probably read for free <3

[allyendergirl]

The person Jason has the hardest time warming up to when he’s in the process of assimilating into the family again, is Dick.

Dick hated him when Jason was a kid. And with all that hatred, Dick reminded Jason of Willis. Sure Dick never laid a hand on him like Willis did, but he sure looked like he wanted to.

The glares of hatred that Jason was on the receiving ends of sent Jason spiraling into a PTSD attack more than once. Dick’s glares we’re always filled with so much more vitriol than Willis’ were. The thing that terrified Jason most about Dick’s glares was that Dick did them when he was sober, unlike Willis.

Dick also sounded like Willis, with his heavy angry footsteps stomping all over the manor, just like Willis’ sounded around the apartment. Dick would throw things against walls, break doors and chairs, rip cabinet doors right off their hinges, something that Willis wasn’t even able to do. Willis would hit and throw things, but he never broke them, they were too poor for that, even Willis realized that.

And the shouting. Dick never got far when it came to shouting at Jason, Alfred or Bruce would always shut that shit down on site. Physically dragging Dick away from him so he wouldn’t say something triggering to Jason. But watching a nearly grown man, practically feral with anger, looking like he wants to kill you, be dragged away from you by your older family members wasn’t a calming sight either. And the sound of Bruce and Dick shouting from behind closed doors was a staple noise during Jason’s time in the manor, just like Willis’ yelling was in his time at the apartment.

Sure Dick’s anger was different than Willis’ anger. Dick’s anger was a righteous fury that was big and explosive like a munitions shed on fire. Willis’ anger was solid and dark, festering and painful like acid forced in your mouth. But that didn’t mean that Dick wasn’t scary. That all of Dick’s traits that he unknowingly shared with Willis didn’t unsettle and haunt Jason.

Dick was never kind to Jason while in the manor. So seeing Dick after Jason’s death, and seeing him filled with joy, looking so soft compared to what Jason knew him as. It was a shock. Of course Jason knew that people can change, just look at him pre and post death. But to see Dick smile at Tim, smile at Robin was like a cold water gut wrenching feeling in his stomach. It was weird. It was unlike the Dick he knew in every way. And yet there Dick was looking after Tim and Damian as a big brother should, when that was all Jason ever wanted from Dick when he was a child. To see Dick give that to Tim and Damian so freely when it was withheld so viciously from Jason, made Jason want to cry. Cry at how unfair it was. Scream to know what had made Dick have such a drastic change of heart? Did Jason really have to die for Dick to want a brother? Did Jason have to die for Dick to see that how he treated Jason was wrong? Did Jason have to die for Dick to realize that he should never treat a child that way? Did Jason have to die for him to be worthy of Dick’s love?

Did Jason have to be a martyr for his younger brothers?

Did Jason have to pretend that Dick’s torment over him just, never happened?

How do you go about mending such a Brocken relationship? A relationship that was barely even there to begin with.

Does Dick even feel sorry for what he did to Jason? Does Dick even realize what he did to Jason?

Will Dick and Jason ever be able to be brothers like this? After all this time, after all the violence?

Would Jason even be able to forgive Dick?

Would Jason be ready to confront that fact that he already has. Because if forgiving Dick, and all the yelling, and the threatening, all the screaming, all the breaking got Dick to smile at him like that, like a brother, like family. Then, it would be worth it.

Wouldn’t it?

[angelyuji]

seafood, see food!

happy halloween and also happy last day of kinktober!!

eddie brock x venom x f!reader

tw // she/her pronouns used, kidnapping, implied noncon, monster/creature-in-the-woods symbrock, yandere content ahead

minors dni!!! 18+!!!!!

you had started your hike an hour ago, excited to see the waterfall your friends had been raving about. however, after following the wrong path for an hour, you ended up stranded with no cell phone connection, no food, and no person in sight. you turned the map once more, looking for rest station, “maybe i was holding it wrong…” you mumble, head aching as the map only got more confusing. you take a breath and fold the map back up, continuing to follow the path. you walk into the forest for another 5 minutes when you hear a branch break. you stop, straining your ears to listen. your heart pounds as you notice the trees shake one-by-one before stopping at a tree behind you. you hear an animalistic growl from above and you take off, sprinting down the path, veering off to lose the animal. the voice in your head screams at you to run faster as the growls get closer. you can feel tears dripping down your face, blurring your vision. you try to wipe your face when you slam into a large warm chest. you scream as you fall back, spraining your ankle on the way down.

“oh god, i-i’m so sorry.” a hand reaches out to help you up. you look up at the man, taking in his half-naked appearance. chiseled jaw, tattoos down his arms and chest, and a rough beard. he looked exhausted, anxious, and soaked. “you alright?” his voice was soft, as he grasps your elbow to help you up.

you try to stand but pain shoots up your ankle, you hold onto his bicep, “s-something’s trying to k-kill me.” you sob and the man keeps you steady with an arm falling around your waist.

“woah, woah, what’s trying to kill you?” he looks around. you try to point behind you and he looks around. “i don’t see anything… but let’s find some shelter just in case.” he gives you a small smile and you nod, sniffling. the two of you start walking and after a couple minutes of silence, he speaks, “eddie.” he looks at you, “m-my name. it’s eddie.”

you manage a small smile as you limp, “(y/n).” he opens his mouth to respond when you feel a drop of water fall onto your cheek. eddie wipes it away, but you start to feel more fall. “shit” you look around, hoping to see some kind of shelter, and spot a cave in the distance. “eddie, over there.” you point towards the cave. he nods and picks you up. you let out a startled noise as eddie sprints, trying to get out of the rain as fast as he could. the two of you duck into the cave and he settles you onto a relatively flat rock.

“you okay, sweetheart?” eddie kneels down to look at your face, you feel your face warm at the nickname and you nod. he sighs in relief, “good…” he looks out at the pouring rain, “we’ll have to wait for the rain to stop.”

you look out, lips pursing in annoyance, “yeah…” you sit back against the wall of the cave, the exhaustion catching up to you.

“you should sleep. i’ll- uh- wake you up when the rain stops.” he gives you a reassuring smile and you barely got out a thank you before you dozed off.

“she’s perfect”

“no.”

“eddie, i am hungry. you have been starving me for days.”

“she- i like her. you-you can’t eat her.” … “i’ll let you eat the next person we see, i swear. just… not her.”

“fine. i won’t eat her.”

“thank y-”

“however, i am still hungry. so what will you allow me to do?” you peek an eye open as you watch eddie whisper to himself, you hear him continue to argue to the air before huffing and relenting.

“fine. just… make it quick. the rain looks like it’ll stop soon.” he turns and you quickly shut your eyes tight.

‘keep your breathing even, (y/n). don’t let the crazy stranger you basically followed into a cave know you’re awake.’ you start to feel yourself panic at the realization. the rain continued to steadily pour outside.

“you awake, sweetheart?” eddie’s smooth voice crawls into your ear and you feel a hand on your thigh, your breath hitched at the feeling.

‘shit.’ you open your eyes slowly, pretending to just wake. you fake a yawn, testing your ankle as you stretch, “h-has the rain stopped?” you try to smile, wincing in pain.

eddie sits back onto his heels, putting your hurt foot onto his thigh. “no, the rain doesn’t seem like it’ll stop for a while…” he looks at you, eyes filled with worry. you try to pull back, but he grips your calf. “ankle still hurts?”

“y-yeah, but it’s fine. i think i can walk now.” you try to move, but eddie keeps his hold firm.

“no, it’s not safe.” he shakes his head. he starts to massage your ankle and you feel tears start to fall. he looks at you, worried. “hey, hey! it’s fine, just go back to sleep. i’ll wake you up when-”

“NO.” you start to hyperventilate, using your other leg to shove eddie off by the shoulder. he falls onto his butt in surprise. “i want to leave. now. i am going to leave now and-and you can’t stop me.” you grip the wall, pulling yourself up. eddie’s face wilts, hurt painting his face.

“i know you’re scared. i’m sorry.” he stands up, turning away from you to face the entrance. “i really would’ve rather done this when you were asleep.”

“done- done what?” you carefully move along the wall, keeping your distance. you pause as you see black tar start to envelop him. “what the fuck…” you watch as the black goo completely encases him, your head tilts up as the creature towers over you.

“hello, pretty.” it turns to look at you, giving you a sharp toothy grin. “our dear eddie was keeping you all to himself…” he stalks towards you, you limp back. “but at the end of the day, there is nothing eddie loves more than to share… with me.” he leans forward and you cower.

“p-please don’t. p-please don’t k-kill me.” a sob rips out of you as the creature opens his mouth. it barks out a loud laugh.

“i will not kill you.” his tongue stretches out to lick up your face, tasting your tears and leaving behind saliva. you shiver at the feeling. it grins as it’s face opens up. you watch eddie’s eyes shine with glee, “we am going to make you feel very, very, very good.”

[dreamsinmoonlight]

Angel Cocoon

(Blame the brain rot. I watched Hazbin and had a dream about pathetic Adam and found myself deeply in love with this asshole. I did not expect it and I feel if I don't write I will explode so have this. Probably not my best work but it was stuck in my head all day at work; I have ideas for other stuff, including a more indepth fic (might be x reader, might be x oc, haven't decided yet). Hopefully this isn't too bad though

Update: Now with a sequel, whaaaaa? Angel Massages up and running

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Characters: Adam (damned pathetic man), angel!Reader

Pairing: Adam x Reader

Genre: Comfort, fluff (not smutty? For Adam? I'm impressed by myself sometimes)

Summary: Every morning this happens. You do not mind.)

Every morning you were thankful that heaven's temperature was always perfect. Because every morning you woke up in a state that could best be described as the Cocoon.

When you first started dating the egotistical, loud mouthed, foul mouthed, perverted asshole known as the leader of the exterminators, aka Adam the first man or “Dick Master” if he could ever get his way, you had expected a lot of things. Getting your ear talked off on a regular basis, all sorts of pet names running the gambit from honestly a bit sweet (what, you liked being called sugartits) to you're-lucky-i-don't-take-you-seriously-Adam (who calls their significant other a slut, really), being expected to go to most if not all of his music gigs, occasionally having your back blown out because damn could that man fuck, learning to find some of the stupidest things funny because he managed to make it so; these were things you expected or at least got better used to. It was sort of like dating a hyperactive teenager but nine feet tall and with the strength enough to swing around a guitar-axe like it was a pool noodle. You had not had a normal day since the moment you agreed to this and you had quickly realized that that was fine by you.

But this. This you did not expect. Every morning, every single morning because God forbid you be allowed to sleep alone, you woke up not to your room, not to the ceiling or the sunlight filtering through the window or even your blankets. No, instead you woke up to the first man, first of the human angels, curled around you like you were going to disappear if he didn't hold you as tight and completely as possible. To call what he did a koala hug would be a disservice and did nothing to describe this phenomena, which upon the first morning after you had fallen asleep in bed with him you had freaked out a little over. You still were startled every time you woke up to it since. It was more like what you coined it as: a cocoon, created by the combination of two factors.

One: Adam. He was of course much bigger than you, a giant among angels and that was how you liked it. After all who didn't daydream of climbing a tree once in a while? Except this tree loved to talk and could make you feel things you were pretty sure was very much not pure. You were a good, solid four feet shorter than him, almost half his size; this worked in your favor when you wanted to hide behind him because of some stupid prank or when you again decided to climb onto him or honestly generally being picked up by the troublemaking angel which he certainly liked to do. The other side was that when he curled up his body enough it could surround you with little effort at all. Those arms of his wrapped easily around you and you could feel the fraction of true strength with which he held you, still more than enough to hold you where you were. His legs were folded up just enough to cut off escape from below, leaving you cradled against his body. His head tucked down, buried in your hair, he was warm and hairy in multiple places, and if you were absolutely honest a little overweight for someone who lived in heaven of all places. But none of these things bothered you and in the position you were in, your head pressed against his bare chest, you could hear the ever surprising existence of a heartbeat within a long dead man's chest. You felt your own calm hearing it; you couldn't help but love it.

Two: his wings. Oh those beautiful golden appendages, almost as beautiful as those golden eyes of your idiot boyfriend's. The feathers shimmered and shone near enough to rival the sun and you could see them past your prison of Adam flesh. How he could sleep so peacefully with them wrapped around you both was a mystery you spend every morning contemplating; it could not possibly be comfortable. Your own shuddered lightly on your back in sympathy but trying to stretch yours only brushed them against his and his, as they always did when this happened, quaked but did not open. He slept with them wrapped around you two like an eggshell, encasing you both and leaving no escape all around.

You reached out by instinct, running your fingers lightly along the feathers. They too were warm and soft as down yet you knew how strong they truly were, how strong his wings were like all other parts of him.

Save maybe his psyche. You felt the feathers shiver under your touch and he made a noise in his sleep, nuzzling his face further into your hair, his arms holding tighter to you. You woke like this every morning, since the first time you'd fallen into bed with him, and at first it was a mystery why, like so many things about him. How could he be so loud, how could he be so crude, how could he be so rude. But bit by bit you'd learned and you had come to understand.

He held onto you like you might disappear. Somewhere deep down that's exactly what he feared would happen. You knew about Lilith, you knew about Eve, and you knew how to read subconscious messages. He encased you like he was afraid otherwise you'd slip away, that you'd leave, that you'd go too. You woke to your head against his chest; how often had he fallen asleep with his on yours? Adam was many things, and truthful about what was really going on in his head and heart was definitely not one of them, but it didn't take a genius to know why he hated letting you out of his sight. Why he always held you like this in his sleep. Why he got enraged whenever the idea of you ever meeting Lucifer Morningstar came up.

Could you blame him? You couldn't and nor could you resist a smile as you wrapped your arms around him, closing your eyes and snuggling close to your ever-so-troublesome lover.

Sure you probably should get up soon but honestly it was hard to want to when you felt comfy right where you were. Besides it wasn't like you really minded all that much what would happen next after you both woke; he'd whine and you'd massage his sore wings. But you'd long since stopped trying to convince him to not sleep like that.

It was hard not to love being loved so deeply after all.

[cweampier]

leon loves it when you cry, your face covered in tears as he coos at you and licks them away <3 (i know from first hand experience)

god what he’d give. what he’d fucking give to have a cute girl crying in front of him IDK if i stuck with what you asked for sorry if i went off the rails a bit.. hehe

fat tears rolled down your cheeks as you pouted, the way you mewled as leon fucked himself between your thighs, chasing only for his release. he was so mean for that, and he knew it. but he couldn’t help it, seeing you so desperate for his dick enough to shed tears for it really ignited something inside him. an insatiable appetite presented itself to him.. and fuck did he love a good chase every once in awhile.

“l-leon.. please, want you so bad..” you hiccuped, trying to angle your hips to potentially get the head of his cock to penetrate your aching cunt to no avail. he couldn’t help but feel amused by your unrelenting pleads, so oblivious to how greedy you sounded. “poor baby.. so dumb and needy, what am i gonna do with you, mn?” he cooed as he leaned in closer to your face, swiping his tongue over your glistening cheek, tasting the saltiness of your tears. he felt almost guilty for enjoying this as much as he was. he decided to continue to chip away at your patience, making sure to calculate his thrusts tactically enough to make contact with your neglected clit, bumping the tip of his pretty cock against it teasingly.

you were so confused, it was like you weren’t being heard. usually he spoiled you rotten, what’s with the sudden change? you stared back at him glossy eyed, in which he responded with a cocky grin before frowning mockingly. “you’re.. g’na finish what you started,” you responded, pathetic. he raised a brow, slowing his hips as he pressed them against the plumpness of your ass, cock slotted snuggly between your folds as he pressed his chest against your back. it earned a groan from the both of you, feeling his breath tickle your neck.

“it’s a good try but i don’t exactly take orders from desperate little brats,” he began, watching another tear roll down your disheveled face in awe, you really were something. “look at you all snotty face just cause you didn’t get it your way. want my cock bottoming out inside that greedily little pussy of yours so badly, don’t’cha? need me to pay extra attention to that clit’a yours? so cute..” he continued to egg you on with a filthy mouth, trying to get you to admit defeat. your lips pursed flatly together, feeling them tremble as more tears threatened to fall. you shut your eyes tightly before giving into his attempts to pester you further.

“inside,” you cry out dumbly, on the verge of tears once more to no one’s surprise. “wan’ your cock inside, leon, please-!” your head spun, leon fucking kennedy. only a man like him could ever hold the capabilities of having a pretty girl wailing for him to fuck her. “fuck me, leon, want it s’bad. promise, i’ll be good for you.. so good.” leon sat there, admiring his work, reducing you into nothing but a beseeching mess before him.

he sneered lightheartedly before parting your thighs swiftly with his hand, positioning himself in front of your sobbing pussy as the cool air brushed against it, sending shivers down your spine. “atta girl, that’s all i wanted to hear. see what happens when you use your words?” he lectured softly before unsheathing himself inside you, relishing in your plush walls as they welcomed him with earnest.. <333 ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

[hmmenthusiast]

If I ever find out who is out here harassing Tom Glynn-Carney’s friends and family, it’s on fucking sight. These people are ACTORS. They are NOT their characters. They should never have to worry about their safety or the safety of their loved ones for the role they play in a FICTIONAL INCEST DRAGON SHOW. And DON’T start throwing around shit like “omg, it’s team black” or “omg Rhaenyra supporters.” If you do, you’re part of the problem.

[irlwakko]

everyone being shocked by Chappell Roan’s “downfall” meanwhile every lesbian i know has expected this from the start because we know that yall hate lesbians and the second they slip up or even just set a boundary everyone will pounce in a way they never would on a man or even on a straight woman <3

[mrwoodohwan]

Mr. Plankton [ Mr. 플랑크톤 ] (2024) (1/?) — Woo Do Hwan as Hae Jo | dir. Hong Jong Chan – Ep. 02