#pure folly

[nyan-ryder]

I ship Dreamwall, but like this

[regretevatorconfessions]

folly and wallter's dynamic make me insane whenever i think about it too much i just start thinking "god these guys make me ill i gotta make them kill eachother" and i don't know what the reason for this is.

anyways one time i remember i saw folly in the elevator and for a good 20 minutes i just kept giving her flower petals

folly the flower (this is an undertale reference)

[ceryceum]

disorganized viktor headcanons

really just headcanons mixed in with observations and thoughts of my portrayal!

workaholic to an obsessive degree. often will insist he's left to work in peace.

mixed, leaning negative, feelings on piltover and its beliefs; he firmly believes that their fear of necessary change stifles the progress he can offer

dire circumstances of the undercity left viktor without parents at a young age—yet, still mature enough to understand that death in zaun is not an uncommon occurrence.

not truly devoid of all emotion. a bonafide love for life rests within his being. mechanical, hexcore or fleshy heart, his wish to help others guides him.

viktor still created blitzcrank to help the people of zaun.

he is still heimerdinger's assistant in my portrayal.

over the years, grows increasingly bitter with his work now only serving to lay the foundation for the work of the elite, rather than being used to help the common man.

viktor's disease is one of his sources of desperation on making progress. fears that there's still too much left undone.

believes that by renouncing emotion and flesh, allowing to relieve others of that burden on their shoulders, he will herald a tomorrow where human error shall not inhibit progress.

does not care for the feelings of those that see him as a messiah of some sort.

slightly kinder in his earlier years, though sarcasm typically followed, even if unwarranted.

don't ask him about jayce.

[follineo]

I forgot my sketchbook at home, but I want to draw. So I started sketching Adele's random emotions on my phone!

I couldn't do much more than that, I'd forgotten how to draw on my phone.

[sarahcarapace]

Death Spiral Mimic Corpse Dollified commission fer @scranqueen >:3

[elipsi]

ascoltare mia madre che parla di come stanno distribuendo i fondi del pnrr per le scuole mi fa venire voglia di tornare alla preistoria. ricominciamo da zero perché qualcosa è andato decisamente molto storto

[toscanasoups]

is this a safe space. (kind)

wanted to try my hand at redesigning melanie and even writing a little for her since we still barely know anything.... criticism ahead (NOTHING TERRIBLE)

her design just doesnt. make sense to anything. its things mashed together and its cute but the more you think about it you go "....so why is this here exactly?" it reads more of an artists oc than a character that is crucial to a story.

so i decided "heh... how do i make most of this work." it leaned more into the tv head aspect, but i decided on a design that takes inspo from cartoons i saw as a kid! like max and ruby etc. i thought using the kids show idea would make it way more fun to write her post-resurrection. im a sucker for ai/characters that learn about their mortality and boundary break. Monika and Kinito Pet are big inspos. thought her learning about the game and her part in it would lead to some fun exploration into the elevator itself and whats behind it.... and more about folly eventually. not delving into the axosun cult i really think thats a poob centric story for the game.

!!pleasw dont take this as pure criticism. i think the potential for her character is really good!! (although i admit at first i was a bit upset she wasnt staying dead as a driving force, and i have seperate gripes about other designs) i just wanted to do this for fun really fast. im excited to see how the story continues!

[preqwells]

♡︎♡︎ SWEET.

simon riley x reader synopsis: you and your fiancé were settling in for the night, ready to go to bed until you insisted on doing a little skincare with him— he didn't know it'd bring about old memories. tags: fluff, slight angst/lots of comfort, mentions of blood word count: 1.8k

There you were again— another night of standing in front of the mirror, your menagerie of face products messily lined upon the white-marbled sink, the hum of a low fan serving as white noise as you got ready for bed. The bathroom’s humidity welcomed you, having just gotten out of a well-deserved shower. A white towel wrapped snugly around you as you reached your hand out to press it against the fogged glass, rubbing the condensation away in short and swift motions. You leaned over the sink in a feeble attempt to get closer to it, the edge of the sink poking at your stomach as your eyes squinted in concentration. An exasperated sigh left your lips, eyes daring to roll back into the back of your head out of sheer annoyance from the inconvenience. A sudden hand snaked around your waist, pulling you into its warmth as you jolted up out of surprise, your shoulders loosening once you put two and two together.

“Boo.” The gruff voice whispered, his voice reverberating from his chest into your frame. A huff of amusement escaped through his nose, seeming quite pleased with his ability to still catch you off guard doing such mundane things as taking care of yourself. He was met with a gentle elbow to his hardened abdomen, your elbow seeming to take more of the blow than him. “Rude, Simon.. I was busy!” You griped, reprimanding your fiancé for sneaking up on you when he was aware of how much you hated that. Years of military training seemed to only hone his stealth rather than diminish it, his tendency to loom in hallways and corners out of pure habit by now. “Uh-huh. Bet you were, love. Quite a shame.” Simon supplied simply, unphased by words that lacked any venom in them. He slipped past you with ease, extending his arm out towards the lid of the toilet seat, letting it fall as he took a seat atop it, legs spreading as he drank in your figure. Simon did this often, almost following you around like a lost puppy— dark eyes simply fixated on you and enamored with your movements. “I was! I was about to put on a face mask.” You said as your hand reached for a nearby packet, the small gray packet crinkling with each movement. Simon’s eyes narrowed in examination of the product, brows slightly furrowed as he took it from you without further hesitation, his eyes scanning it, practically burning holes into it. “Charcoal... paper mask. What s’all this for?” He asked with a hint of interest in his tone, his brows knitted in skepticism. He was aware of your interest in skincare, yet the topic remained foreign to him for the most part. He had no need for it although his skin was beyond needing care. A couple of ingrown hairs from messily shaving in the wrong direction, and purple under eyes that did anything and everything but blend into his skin. Skincare— what the hell does anyone need skincare for? Are soap and water not enough these days?

“It’s supposed to reduce oil by pulling blackheads out or something, I think.”

“Your skin’s oily?”

“Isn’t yours too?”

“Dunno. Just usually scrub the shit out of it and roll out of bed good as new...” He mused, rotating the packet between his index finger and middle, offering it back to you after he was done. Being in the military left little room to worry about the condition of his skin, the only liquid meeting his skin being water, sweat, and blood— his own... most of the time. It was a folly thought to think you believed he was informed about the condition of his skin, stifling a small laughter caught in his throat. You gently took it from him, attempting to rip the top of the plastic packaging off and absentmindedly setting it aside before an idea crossed your mind. Simon sensed this, his eyebrows slightly raised as interest peeked through his poker face.

“Si…” You began sweetly, your voice comically raising an octave in an attempt to persuade him. As predicted, Simon’s resolve slowly crumbled at the sweetness in your voice, mentally cursing himself for being such a sucker for you. “What is it?” He softly inquired, his head cocked slightly to the side as he awaited your words. “Would you want to try this with me?”

"Try what?"

"A face mask— don't act stupid."

"If I wanted to act stupid, I'd take notes from you, lovie."

"Oh, ha-ha." You stuck your tongue out at him, eliciting a huff of amusement from him. He remained quiet as he gently took ahold of your hand, getting your fingers to loosen their grip on the packet. His eyes scanned the foreign piece of plastic, reading the ingredients it contained. You caught his attention, moving closer to him as you pointed out the ingredients.

"These are just all the things it's mixed with. Niacinamide is supposed to help with oil reduction, the aloe is for calming inflamed skin..." You trailed off as you gestured for him to read the rest. He gave you a look that practically screamed, 'You don't need any of this', but he obliged in the directions you gave him anyway. Everything checked out with what you said, not that he'd doubt your knowledge. You always knew about little facts, odds and ends here and there-- maybe that's why you kept wiping the floor with him whenever you two would watch Jeopardy.

He inhaled deeply for a moment before letting the puff of air out through parted lips, finally giving you a nod of acknowledgment at your earlier offer. "Yeah, sure." He agreed, shrugging it off as if it were no big deal. The corners of your lips tugged to form a huge grin as he handed the packet back to you to rip open. You took a step forward between his legs, his dark brown eyes watching you with rapt attention. Pale eyelashes flicked up to trail your features as you struggled to open the packet, much to his delight. The shape of your lips, the way strands of your hair would fall into your face and catch against your long lashes that dropped over your eyes— Simon was by no means a saint, but God, did he want to be one for you. His hand found its way to your clothed hip, his thumb rubbing small circles over the fabric.

"Aha! Got it!" You threw your hands up in the air, fists clenched as you celebrated your small victory of getting the packet opened. "Ready?" You eagerly asked, practically teeming with joy. He stiffened slightly at your words, his eyes straying from yours for a moment. He didn't know what came over him— you had seen his face a thousand times, hell, it wasn't like he was wearing a mask now. Maybe it was the way that all these face products served as a reminder that he didn't have perfect skin. Better yet, it served as a reminder he was far from perfect himself. Scars littered his body, some from even when he hadn't been in the military— each scar on his body told a story, some nastier than others. "Yeah." He responded bluntly, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. You were his fiancé and accepted him wholeheartedly— he knew that. Your relationship had been through hell and back to get to where you are now. Countless missions he had gone on that you were convinced he wasn't going to come back from, dreading the day that you'd only have his dog tag to remember him by. You were the only person he had left and gave a promise of coming back to— everything be damned if he didn't claw his way back to you every time.

You fished the paper mask out of the packaging that was soaked in product, his eyebrow twitching in curiosity about how it was going to be applied. "Close your eyes." You cooed as he stared at you for a moment before his eyelashes fluttered shut. Your expression softened as you straightened the mask before placing it over his face, the coolness of the mask sending a chill up his spine. You began smoothing out the mask with your thumb, delicately mapping out his features. His nose was crooked from the time he told you he broke his nose at age 18 for getting into some barfight at a local pub, which served as no surprise since you were well aware of his temper when it was directed towards others. Craters of acne scarring embedded into his cheeks from his nails digging at the painful hormonal acne he had suffered from until the ripe age of 22. The scar on his chin from when he had scraped it on a rock as a rookie in training for the military. All of what made Simon, Simon.

"You're handsome." You said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know it." He replied, his voice mirroring yours. You gave him a weak smile as you shook your head, your thumb still smoothing down the edges of the mask. He always hid behind his cocky demeanor, vulnerability masked by his dry humor. "No, I mean it." You mumbled as a moment of silence fell between you two, filled by the low hum of the bathroom fan. His hand was still resting on your hip, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh blanketed by polyester. He didn't say anything in response, opting to say nothing as he blinked a few times, his gaze falling on a nearby bath towel that was strung up to dry. Even though his words failed him, you could've sworn you saw a hint of a smile threatening to grace his features.

The rest of the evening continued with him learning more about skincare, letting you ramble on about which products you were looking forward to getting in the future. Night fell as quickly as the evening ended, landing you two in the comfort of your shared bed. You fell asleep before he did, practically swallowed whole by the cotton blanket you two had picked out a week ago. Maybe it's too big, he thought to himself. His eyes landed on your sleeping form, watching as your chest rose and fell rhythmically. Your hair was sprawled across the pillow as moonlight filtered in through the curtains, almost giving an illusion of an aureole of light surrounding you— he could've mistaken you for an angel itself if he were half-asleep, honestly. He reached out for your hand, gingerly taking it in his as he admired the ring he had proposed to you with. His index finger grazed across the band of gold, the reality that you were his pulling at his heartstrings.

He fell asleep with you in his arms that night, peppering kisses to your temple before bringing his face down to rest in the crook of your neck with him tucked at your side. He wasn’t burdened by nightmares for the first time in a while— he dreamed.

banner credit: @/saradika

[shirefantasies]

Hi 🍄your work is so incredible! You’re literally keeping my hobbit/Tolkien hyper-fixation alive. I was wondering if you would want to write a first kiss situation with thorins company/hobbit characters? I hope your surgery goes well and you have a easy and speedy recovery!

Thank you what an honor omg!!! Man the surgery itself was ok but everything after was NOT IT 😭 so glad to be doing better now! This is a great idea & I sure do want to write it🫡😁 sorry it took so long because this request is apparently like 5 months old 🥲

Warning: loooooong post lololol, minor blood/injury mentions, some suggestive jokes/moments, corny at times hehe

Your First Kiss With the Hobbit Characters

Balin

“You can’t keep running off like that, you know.” Fingers closed around your wrist, but not so tightly as to provide entrapment, rather a secure anchor. Secure as the comfort of Balin’s deep brown gaze, something deep sparkling in his eyes you could never find elsewhere. Beads of sweat slid down your back as your breathing slowed, the adrenaline of battle washing away. Balin knew that feeling, saw it in you. “I know,” you answered, chest falling with a hard exhale, “But I can hardly leave everyone resigned to their fate when I can help.” It was then Balin’s turn to sigh. “I know, too,” he told you, rotating his grip around your wrist so the back of your hand was enveloped in his palm, “I suppose I am just being selfish.” Some number of seconds of you gaping passed before you managed to stutter out three words. “Does that mean…?” “Aye,” was all he said as he squeezed your hand, glancing down until you cupped his cheek, bringing his gaze back into yours before tugging him into your lips for one last adrenaline wave.

Dwalin

"You?" "Were you expecting Mahal himself?" You chirp in response, leaning on your hand and giving Dwalin a catlike smile. Unfazed, he continues. "What are you doing here?" "What do you think?" You answer with a question of your own, this one far less teasing. Softer. "You can't keep coming back. This is dangerous." Dangerous, he says as if it is not he who lies in a healer's tent with a broken arm freshly set and Valar know how many other bandages. Pain and pity cross your expression as you peer down at the warrior, rest your palm over his tattooed hand. "I can't lose you, too," he adds, gaze drifting from yours and eyelashes fluttering downward sheepishly, "You are far too precious. Too pure." Rosy glow overtakes you, shining outward through your smile and into your fingers, which spread to interlock with Dwalin's. "And too foolish, I suppose, for you, Master Dwalin, will never be rid of me. Do not let yourself be taken by such folly, for nothing is purer than you deserve, my hero." You feel his hand flex beneath you; his eyes finally flicker back upward before darting back shut as he leans up, cupping your cheek with his free hand. You taste salt and breaths of anticipation, war, relief, and love all in one. Pure indeed.

Thorin

A gasp startled you out of your dazed stare into the night, fire flickering at your back as you watched over empty hills. Turning your back to it, you returned your attention to those whom you presided over, protected for the night. The sight of Thorin bolting upright gave you pause, but soon you were at his side. “Are you alright?” “…Yes.” The king-to-be would not meet your eyes, his gaze falling into the shadows the fire cast upon his countenance. “Look at me.” Your command alone was enough to snap his head up; never had you spoken so to him or used do broken a tone. Thorin’s brows furrowed. “Worry not. It was just a dream.” “That was no dream,” you shot back, all but whispering. “No.” Thorin smiled wryly. “Sometimes it all comes back. I see it in the night when I cannot fight. I am helpless to it all. They cannot be saved. Then I wake and I wonder if it is to be so.” “No,” you laid your hand over his, “This weight is not yours alone. All of us are here with you, right? I am here with you.” A genuine smile crossed Thorin’s face, a shake of his head in wonder followed by a slow nod. “Thank you.” “Of course,” you answer. As you shifted, Thorin tightened his grip on your hand. “Stay.” “I will,” you told him, “I will.” “Good.” Not another word passed between your lips before they connected, passing over each other in moonlit words unspoken.

Oin

You hadn't even realized you were wounded at first. Shock overtaking you, you had run across the battlefield in pursuit of your comrades, only for them to gape and point at the blood seeping from your leg. You were fine, you assured them, but having none of it they hoisted you up over one shoulder each and dragged you over to a healer's tent, by which point a sharp sting had begun coursing up the expanse of your right leg. You were lowered down onto the tent's cushion-lain floor with it extended, and only when you looked up were you made aware of the familiar face before you. "Oin!" At your exclamation, the healer looked up and gave such a smile of recognition that your heart flipped. He spoke your name, too, although he did not match your enthusiasm, instead calling out with worry. "It's all right," you reassured him, "Not much more than a scratch." Rolling up your trouser leg, though, Oin winced at the blood before he began cleaning it. His bearded face fell into something much more serious than you were used to; for once he wasn't joking around as the jolly dwarf you knew and loved. That facade, the great focus, lasted the entire time he tended to you in fact. His hands were so dedicated and gentle as they worked over your torn skin. Upon completing your bandaging, he peered t you, dark eyes now intent upon yours. "You'll be fine." "Were you worried?" You couldn't help chuckling a bit. No healer were you, but the wound was nowhere near grievous or life-threatening. "Of course I was," Oin agreed without hesitation, "You know how much I care about you, don't you?" "I-" Lips parting, you stuttered for a moment. In your hesitation, Oin's hand found yours and gently brought you closer until his lips hit yours, beard tickling your cheeks. "Maybe now you do," he told you, smiling as you separated, "Now get some rest, alright?"

Gloin

“If you two do not stop acting like children," Gloin called to the princes, "We will treat you like children!” “What’ll you do,” Kili countered with crossed arms, smiling at his older brother, “Put us in the corner?” “We absolutely will,” you chimed in, mirroring the younger prince’s posture, “With pleasure, you ruffians!" "You two are like an old married couple," Fili tutted, shaking his head. "That's right," you agreed, grabbing Gloin's face with both hands and yanking him into a quick kiss that had one prince whooping and one calling out in disgust as they ran off. "What in Mahal's name was that?" Gloin asked you as you separated, auburn brows raised in distinct spite of the fact you'd felt him kiss you back. "Sorry, too much? I knew it'd scare them off. Might make them talk as well, though." "I wanted to kiss you first!" Gloin complained, pouting beneath his beard and prompting you to giggle as he took your hand, ready to make a more serious confession.

Bifur

Feet thudding against the ground, you ignored the shocks to your ankles and sprinted further. Dust clouds kicked up, but you clamped your mouth shut and ran, scanning across the black splatters of orcs’ blood and sheens of fallen blades. None of it stopped until you caught the sight of familiar braids, of black hair spilling out beneath a head trickling blood. “Bifur…” You whispered. He took your hand, gazing up at you with sad eyes. Muttered something faintly in Khuzdul…did you catch the word love? Your answer came in the way he leaned to press your forehead against his, ignoring the fresh wound and the axe still embedded in it. “I’ll take care of you,” you promised, “I love you.” Your lips met with all the passion of admission and promise and hope of recovery.

Bofur

“Come on now, won’t you have a drink?” You reached out a hand, wrapping it around the tankard over Bofur’s own gloved fingers, though you didn’t accept it straightaway. Instead, you kept your hand where it was and leaned in over the liquor. “Are you trying to get me tipsy, sir?” You teased. “Why, what’ll you do if you do get tipsy?” Bofur shot back with a playful, lopsided grin. “Use your imagination,” you replied, loosening your grip on the tankard and subsequently Bofur’s hand. The dwarf, however, was not giving up so easily. “Well, as a tipsy person myself, I suppose I would imagine something like this.” Tugging your hand back into his, Bofur ignored the tankard completely in favor of pressing his lips to yours, his mustache tickling your cheeks as you surrendered to the reverie of his lips’ sweet dominance. When you finally pull away, you both wore his playful look. “Alright, now I’m trying to get you tipsier,” you told him.

Bombur

“Wait, come back!” For a moment you thought you would finally get to thank the mysterious gifter of sweets, the one who left baskets of baked goods at the edges of your garden. Always tied with a different patterned bow, this time a gold-edged ribbon of maroon. Standing up, you’d made to follow the sound of footsteps only to see a form rounding the corner, just a wide bit of cloak trailing. “Please!” You turned around one way then whipped back the other when a skidding scraped the walls of your ears. Facing you was a very stocky, flaming-haired dwarf with his hands folded politely in front of him and rocking on his heels. "Since you said please," he said, his voice simple and sweet and a little bit scared. "I've really wanted to meet you," you told him, stepping forward, "To thank you." “Are you disappointed now?” Your gifter asked. “I promise I can do more than bake, I can fight, I will fight for-” Resting a hand on his shoulder, you shook your head. “You’re sweet enough for me just as you are. Never before have I had a secret admirer- someone who went to so much effort. That alone is amazing. Enough.” “You’re too sweet for me.” Pulling him closer by the hand upon his shoulder, you pressed a little kiss to his lips. “Just. Enough. Now, can I know my baker’s name?”

Dori

Of all the company members, only one of them supplied you with a spool of his own thread. Thick thread glittering with slivers of metallic sheen interwoven between lighter strips of the tiny cords. "So it matches the rest of my coat, you know," Dori explained, eyes flitting a bit sheepishly. "Ah," you set down your usual spool, a plainer brownish roll you'd just been using on one of Kili's pockets, "I see." You'd barely glanced up from your work, from ensuring you did not strike the thimble upon your finger, until you noticed the way Dori wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I…I know I’m a lot to deal with,” he said, “But it’s just that I know how I like things! I can’t help it.” “I do not think you’re a lot to deal with,” you replied, giving the dwarf your fully undivided attention, “I would be happy to deal with you.” The way his blue eyes widened, you could tell Dori was nowhere near expecting such a response, natural as it came to you. “Would you really?” “More than happy,” you added with a nod. “Well,” he fiddled with his hands, shifting closer to where you sat, “I would be more than happy to care for you in return.” “You already do,” you told him, eyelashes fluttering, “That is what I love about you.” Your allure got to Dori then, all glitter of threads fading in favor of your eyes, which he fell into, and your lips, which he leaned into.

Nori

“Get back here!” Chasing after Nori, you called out to the dwarf, who looked back over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. Of all things, he’d chosen to nick your undergarments, the fiend. Of course. Wheeling about, Nori ran up to a large rock and jumped up to the top of it, finally towering over you. He leaned down, your undergarments clutched triumphantly in his gloved hand as your noses nearly brushed. You could feel the warmth of his breath upon your face as you gazed upward, frown faltering and words failing at this new development. Nori, of course, still looked quite smug and had no trouble speaking. Remaining exactly where he was, he remarked, "Well, this is fun, isn't it?" "No," you answered, arms crossed, "It is not. Give those back!" "You're gonna have to make me, hm?" Fine. Two could play at that game. Frustration roiled in your chest, a fire burning as you eyes met Nori's. This whole charade had you quite ready to sacrifice whatever shred of dignity you had left to fight scoundrel with scoundrel. Taking the dwarf roughly by the collar, you yanked him into you and joined your lips. He fought back quickly, far less stunned and more passionate than you'd have expected. You were happy to escalate...at least until your hand slid down, felt his relax and drop the stolen article entirely. Jackpot. All but shoving Nori back, you mirrored his earlier smirk as you strode away, taking your turn to triumphantly brandish your undergarments. "Thank you, sir."

Ori

On the edge of your seat is the only phrase you could use to describe your position as you leaned over to watch Ori's work, the way his thick fingers slid so lightly over paper, creating shadows and the faintest of lines with subtle variations in that gentle pressure. Your eyes darted between his hand and his profile, staring as if keeping the focus in those brown eyes burning with the heat of your gaze. It is amazing that Ori can do that; you tell him as much. "Want to try?" He invites, profile swiveling to face you. "I can show you." You gave a nod, reaching out a hand in anticipation of pencil's weight. Thus it fell, but around your newly-filled palm his hand closed, coarse and warm fabric closing yours and lowering it to the paper. Several layered flushes of joy radiated through you as Ori glided you around, completing the lines of leaves upon a tree. "How's that?" An uncertain amount of time passed before he turned again to face you, this time inches from you given your shift and joined hands. "...Good?" The hitch of his breath and the quietening of his voice snapped something in you. Ori, too, for he leaned in and met you halfway through the inches, his lips connecting softly, joyously, to yours, only intensifying that soaring feeling.

Fili

"What's wrong?" "Can't sleep." "So you thought you'd bother me instead?" "Bother you?" You feigned offense. "Is that what my presence does?" "Your presence, no," Fili shook his head, "The way you keep kicking at my boots? Needless to say, yes." Grinning wickedly from your seated position, you gently darted out your foot to nudge his again, leading the dwarf to lean down to your level. "Do you want us all to get in danger? Is that it? I'm on watch, you know. You're risking the lives of all of us by distracting me." "Is that so?" "So it is." Nudge. This time, your foot slid along the length of his boot's side after you gave him your little kick. "That's it." Whirling around, mustache braids swishing with the motion, the golden-haired prince knelt down, his face inches from yours. "If you don't stop, I'll make you." Backing down was not in your vocabulary. "Make me," you commanded, voice low and expression smug and satisfied as ever. Before you could get another breath in Fili's lips were crashing onto yours, his facial hair tickling your cheeks in contrast to the hard, fast contact you made. His legs quickly wrapped around your waist, entrapping you beneath him as he cupped your cheeks in his hands, diving deeper and exploring your depths as far as he could for what felt like minutes until you finally parted for need of air. Fili's light blue eyes pierced yours intently, hungrily, as you stared back at him with much greater satisfaction than ever. "You're risking the lives of us all getting distracted," you repeated his words back to him, tracing a finger along one of his coat flaps. "I'll risk my life for you any day," Fili replied, cupping your cheek again and pulling you close, this time for a much slower, sweeter kiss that finally, finally, had you speechless.

Kili

“I’m bored,” you half-jokingly whined, eyes rolling back to look at Kili from the log you had draped yourself along. Straddling the log, he turned, leaning down to fix you with that glittering brown stare you loved. “What do you want me to do, hm?” Heart flipping, you swallowed, but painted a flippant smile across your face. “Entertain me.” “Entertain you?” He repeated, his own expression blooming with mischief. “Lot of ways I can do that.” “Well,” you crossed your arms, blood rushing to your head just as much from him as your upside-down position, “Choose one, then.” “Alright,” Kili hovered closer, his breath fanning your already-heated cheeks, “Let me know how this works, then.” The moment his lips crashed into yours, you responded, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his flowing black locks, which had a few leaves caught in them but still remained soft. As you gave them a little tug, Kili parted your lips for deeper entrance. You enjoyed your upside-down kiss right up to the moment you parted for breath, panting as he smirked down at you. “Still bored?”

Bilbo

Fog overtook the corners of your mind, dusting all your intents and purposes with a haze of questions. What were you doing in such a musty old place anyway? A voice at your side expressed a need for air. Why, you wondered as you jumped, startlement pumping pure adrenaline into your blood, were you with someone with a piece of axe blade protruding out of his head? Would the same happen to you? No, he was important, wasn't he? Think, think... Before you could get much thinking done, a hand clasped around yours. This time, the warm weight didn't have you jumping as far but it did pull you along, right along to the edges of the trees where you found yourself climbing after... Bilbo! Bilbo, the hobbit, the burglar, of course! The higher up you went, the more your lungs swelled and your head steadied with relief. How could you have been scared of sweet Bifur or not recognized Bilbo? Laughter sounded a bit above you; climbing faster, you burst from the treetops and squinted as you met the sun. Joined Bilbo's sweet mirth of relief and wonderment as light scattered over the clouds, illuminating the wings of gorgeous blue butterflies streaming out of the rustling leaves. "This is beautiful," you remarked, forgetting yourself and all the troubles of the forest as suddenly as they'd come on. "I'm glad you came with me," Bilbo told you softly. Turning away from the butterflies, you faced him only to see his grey eyes peering at you with the most utter sincerity. Had he drawn closer? A wave of emotion crashed over you, cresting as you closed the gap completely, feeling him gasp against your lips before he dove in himself. Sweet, gentlemanly, Bilbo never forced entry, his focus dedicated to a loving embrace of your lips alone. Giggling like a schoolchild as you pulled away, you grinned at the hobbit, whose expression you could only describe as starstruck. "I... am very glad you came with me," he remarked.

Thranduil

The king needed no advisors. Long had it been since he would have desired them, but concerns had grown and Thranduil did nothing if not care ruthlessly for his people. Thus, members of the nobility like yourself had come together as a council for the Woodland Realm’s ruler. Thranduil had been willing to listen, but your words grated against his like a block sharpening a blade; it seemed as though your every policy fought his in some way. Twice the meeting devolved into the two of you going back and forth across the table from your seats, which were quite unfortunately directly opposite one another. Such a scene it had felt to be that the king tarried in his room of council to speak to you at meeting’s end. “Do you take some form of issue with me?” Looking confident as you had in the meeting, you crossed your arms, smirking. “I take issue with your policies.” Thranduil must confess that in that moment he was shocked by the opposition, brows raising at your bold statement. “And you think you know what is best for our people?” “Maybe I do. They put me on your council, after all.” “You,” with great resounding taps the king crosses the room to stand before you, his face mere inches from yours, “would have us put at great risk right as we hit a point of prosperity.” “I would have us realize the threats at hand,” you replied cooly, tilting your head but balking not at all from the proximity. Thranduil moves ever so much closer, shaking his head and almost brushing his nose against yours with the motion. “Reckless warmongering.” “Hiding in fear,” you challenge back, smirking. “Do you wish to be shown your place?” “Do you need to ask?” A guard crossed briefly into the room, soft address of ‘my king’ dying upon his shortened breath at the sight of said ruler embroiled in a passionate battle for lingual dominance against one of his councilors.

Bard

You were never sure how the bowman felt about you. Certainly he was friendly and enjoyed spending time with you enough, but to what end? Perhaps you were doomed to live a life upon the edge of questioning. And yet the worst part was, you had yet to discover why you didn't entirely mind. Why, in fact, you found yourself in his barge once again, paddling out beyond the horizon of cobbled together buildings leaning into each other. Just as you could lean further into the thick brown furs of Bard's coat, perhaps even feeling it against your cheek as you lean against his shoulder. As it was, you simply stood at his invitation to take up steering, moving to the other side of the boat. Unbeknownst to you, however, Bard had left one of his fishing nets on the floor; shoe’s edge catching on the tightly connected loops of rope, you tumbled forward and made an unfortunate pitch into the cold lake. Swirling into the water and kicking back up through it did not last long, and soon Bard’s hand reached out to grab yours and pull you back into shivering safety. “Are you hurt?” He asked, hands hovering over your folded legs, the ankle you’d caught. Heart swelling over the look of concern in his dark eyes, all you could do was shake your head. Folding himself, Bard dropped to his knees at your side. “Good. I was worried about you.” “You were?” You asked dumbly, ready to blame shock over such a foolish question. You needed not, though, could not- not when his lips fell immediately upon yours.

Beorn

Neighbors minded their own business. This was a simple fact of making one's home out in the far woods, out also where more and more orcs and foul things had begun to roam. Thus you had always been left to wonder who the owner of the wonderful cottage you passed by was, never seeing a single soul beyond the great deal of livestock and pleasantly plump bees flitting about the immaculately-tended flowers. Was it a woman? A man? Some sort of trap like in the old tales where places and faces so fair were always the deadliest? But who, then, would be twisted enough to craft a trap so admittedly perfect in your mind... Such thoughts did not penetrate the desperation clouding your mind the day your beloved cow, the one you'd had from a young age, strained with the aching struggle of a birth gone wrong, your feet carrying you straight to your neighbor's door. If she died, you would lose a major source of subsistence alongside one of your few friends in the whole lonely woods. The look in her big brown eyes was all you could see as you rapped on the door, your look of pleading meeting yet another big brown stare, this time upon a man with a stern face and a great mass of brown hair. Brows furrowed in confusion and perhaps slight annoyance as they were, he had no chance to speak ill before you were begging him to come help your cow, you'd seen the shape his were in after all and you could tell they were loved, please, you needed his strength- she did. The unspoken promise that the man would see you this once, then never again, hung in the air as you led him to your home, to your pasture, to the dear friend whose life he saved. “Thank you, truly,” you told him as he made to leave, “You may not wish it, but you are welcome here anytime.” Before he could say anything, you leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. Not realizing, of course, that he was turning his head, connecting your lips for the briefest of moments before you stared at him wide-eyed. “You might see me again,” he told you with a small, wry smile.

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[katu-d2]

Oh you're so right, thank u this thought was bugging me all morning

Now I want to see college-era Ford dressed as Spock doing the "live long and prosper" salute (does it count as a salute?? It's the only one-word descriptor I can think of)

I love the idea of Ford and Fiddleford going to a Star Trek/sci-fi convention together during their college days. It'd be good for them, enrichment for their enclosure! And they could dress up and Ford would wear those pointy ear tips and the baller blue eyeshadow Spock had in the original show

I feel like Fiddleford would go either go all-out and be Captain Kirk from the Pon Farr episode with the ripped green shirt and a red line of makeup across his chest from where the shirt got slashed open, OR he'd be Scotty bc he gotta rep a fellow engineer

I just realized something

So we all agree that Ford Pines is a MASSIVE Star Trek fan, right?

...how does he do the Vulcan "live long and prosper" hand symbol with 6 fingers?? Is he sad that he can't do it right? Does he care at all?? I must have answers!!!

[spectrumos]

I have to say I love miquella. I adore his aspirations and desire to relieve the suffering of others.

but he has suicide bomb soldiers in the Haligtree!

I aint TRUSTING someone who can charm people and has fucking SUICIDE BOMBERS. No matter what justification you have for that! Whether they figured out how to do that on their own, or Miquella just intended to give them a blessing, or whatever you can think of.

A leader who commands that level of belief and fanaticism, whether intentional or not, NEEDS to look in a fucking mirror.

LIKE, HOLY FUCK

Soldiers shouldn't WANT to sacrifice their lives! A kind leader would want them to try to fucking survive, yeah?

I know I couldn't stand the idea that someone, BECAUSE of their belief in our cause, or worse their belief in ME!? would choose to MARTYR themselves rather than run!

the suicide bombers were in the Haligtree! Miquella only shed pieces of himself AFTER cocooning! which means the soldiers became like this either before or during his cocooning.

Edit: I've taken a closer look at the haligtree soldier ashes and it says they only started exploding after he'd been gone for a long time.

But anyway, that shit was BEFORE the dlc!

acting like Shadow of the Erdtree was a straight up lie, a retcon, and betrayal of the previous writing on Miquella is honestly very fucking irritating.

It's a consistent expansion on his character! Someone who's so desperate to do the right thing that they're utterly blind to the folly of the actions they've taken along the way, or FAR worse, rationalizes and justifies them?

Someone who's childhood taught him that nobody could be trusted to help him if they're not loyal to his cause. maybe too loyal.

screaming

Additionally, the defense of Miquella's charm being "he used it in an ethical way" is fucking laughable and I utterly hate it.

That power is unethical.

Full. Stop.

Coercion is already evil. (our society does it all the time.)

And directly influencing someone's mind in a way they literally cannot resist (the only person who could resist it was the tarnished because we got his great rune) is far worse.

No person, god, or BEING can just use a power like that ethically. The power to do that is a temptation in and of itself.

Try to look at things from an angle of power imbalance, will yah? There's a reason power corrupts etc. is a saying.

Whenever a person holds great power, no matter how pure their intentions, they will misuse it and cause suffering.

Which is why I could never willingly let Miquella become a god. I'd sooner see him dead than that, because there's no way he could possibly make himself "pure" enough by removing fucking pieces of his very self!

A god who never feels doubt, indecision, fear, and love?

That's just a tyrant with even more tyranny than before!

A leader HAS to doubt their actions! If they cannot doubt, there's no room for anyone to protest their decisions!

The options, given his powers, are coercion, literally either killing those who resist, or fucking brainwashing them!

in the end, this game, and this dlc, are

A

FUCKING!

TRAGEDY!

ALWAYS HAS BEEN.

Rant over. Sorry if this hurt anyone's feelings, I'm just so irritated it's turned to anger, and I NEEDED to let it out.

[vestaignis]

Башни Баллисаггартмор, Ирландия.

Башни Баллисаггартмор построил человек по имени Артур Кейли-Ашер, владевший поместьем площадью 8000 акров, большую часть которого он сдавал в аренду арендаторам. Он зарезервировал около 1000 акров земли в качестве своего личного поместья, где построил свою семейную резиденцию Ballysaggartmore House. Сам дом был большим, но очень простым по дизайну.

Существует местная легенда, согласно которой Артур завидовал более внушительному замку Странкалли своего брата. Кроме того, его чрезвычайно амбициозная жена Элизабет хотела иметь такую ​​же величественную резиденцию, какую ее невестка называла домом.Поэтому Артур решил построить на территории поместья изысканные башни Баллисаггартмор и величественные въездные ворота/домик. Это был огромный проект, который был чисто показным и обошелся семье очень дорого.После того, как они построили эти безумства, они начали обращать внимание на строительство большого особняка на замену дому. Но они быстро поняли, что у них заканчиваются деньги.

Это было в то же время, когда случился Великий го��од, когда люди голодали и едва могли позволить себе платить аренду. Артур Кейли-Ашер отказался заморозить арендную плату и начал выселять тех, кто жил на его земле и не мог позволить себе платить. После этого на него было совершено несколько покушений из-за его жестокости, а его состояние продолжало таять.

Когда Великий голод закончился, страна начала процветать, но Кейли-Ашеры продолжали скатываться в нищету. Семья быстро становилась банкротом и искала нового владельца для своего поместья. Кейли-Ашер умер около 1862 года, и поместье было продано ликвидатором. Дом, сады и часть земель были куплены семьей Вудруф, а позже они принадлежали семье Энсон. Дом был разрушен поджогом во время Гражданской войны, а разрушенная каменная кладка была удалена в середине 20-го века. Один из домиков все еще использовался как частная резиденция в 1970-х годах.

Несмотря на то, что великолепные башни и домики Баллисаггартмора находятся в руинах, они сохранились до наших дней и теперь открыты для посещения.

Ballysaggartmore Towers, Ireland.

The Ballysaggartmore Towers were built by a man named Arthur Caley-Usher, who owned an 8,000 acre estate, much of which he rented out to tenants. He set aside about 1,000 acres of land as his personal estate, where he built his family residence, Ballysaggartmore House. The house itself was large, but very simple in design.

There is a local legend that Arthur was jealous of his brother's more impressive Strankallie Castle. In addition, his extremely ambitious wife Elizabeth wanted to have the same grand residence that her sister-in-law called home. So Arthur decided to build the elaborate Ballysaggartmore Towers and grand entrance gate/lodge on the estate. It was a huge project that was purely for show and cost the family a great deal of money. After they built these follies, they began to turn their attention to building a larger mansion to replace the house. But they quickly realized that they were running out of money.

This was at the same time as the Great Famine, when people were starving and could barely afford to pay their rent. Arthur Caley-Usher refused to freeze rents and began evicting those who lived on his land and could not afford to pay. There were several attempts on his life after this due to his cruelty, and his fortune continued to dwindle.

When the Great Famine ended, the country began to prosper, but the Caley-Ushers continued to slide into poverty. The family was quickly becoming bankrupt and were looking for a new owner for their estate. Caley-Usher died around 1862 and the estate was sold by a liquidator. The house, gardens and some land were bought by the Woodroof family and later owned by the Anson family. The house was destroyed by arson during the Civil War and the crumbling stonework was removed in the mid-20th century. One of the cottages was still in use as a private residence in the 1970s.

Although in ruins, the magnificent towers and cottages of Ballysaggartmore still stand today and are now open to the public.

Источник://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g26655865-d26640163-Reviews-Ballysaggartmore_Towers-Ballynoe_ Upper_ County_Waterford.html,/declanhowardphotography.com/product/lismore-towers-hdr-co-waterford/,/tripbucket.com/dreams/ dream / ballysaggart -towers-lismore-co/,/www.reddit.com/r/IrishHistory/ comments/10l0vxp/ballysaggartmore_towers_waterford///thirdeyetraveller.com/ ballysaggartmore-towers-ireland/.

[regretevatorconfessions]

I had a funny feeling Melanie wasn't an actual NPC, their design seemed too simple to me (in terms of the newer NPCs). Love how it was just all a ruse for Folly's reveal.

-🐲

me too, it was a really good reveal! i’m shocked you expected it, though, i only found out cause i got sent asks about it before watching the trailer 😭

[dailyrothko]

"He wanted a skylight similar to the one he had in his studio. The paintings, he felt, should be seen in the same light in which they had been painted. His love for familiar surroundings was such that he wanted also to have the same cement floor, and the same kind of walls. The mere suggestion of white walls threw him into a panic. He had an abhorrence for pure white, which he equated to hospital sterilization. He liked irregularities, accidents. He liked ancient buildings with odd shapes, grown from 'the weaknesses and follies of men.'" -Dominique de Ménil in Art Journal, Spring, 1971

Mark Rothko, Untitled, 1969

acrylic on paper 51 5/8 × 41 inches, collection of Christopher Rothko

© 1998 Kate Rothko Prizel & Christopher Rothko, Artists Rights Society (ARS)

[adnauseum11]

H.E.S.H. (High Explosive Squash Head) (John Price x Reader)

You wake up with John and get your day started with a bang.

This is just pure unadulterated smut. MDNI.

1.5k words

CW: swearing, graphic depiction of oral sex

feedback welcome

HESH is an acronym for a British anti-tank round

You wake up way too hot, and immediately realize the folly of your ways the previous night. John Price is a bloody furnace, and at some point in the night ditched his shirt, leaving the expanse of his hairy chest exposed. Apparently even in sleep your subconscious is undeniably attracted to him because you’ve plastered yourself against his side despite the heat of the man. Your palm is resting on his sternum, rising and falling with his steady breathing. Your leg is shamelessly thrown over his thick thigh. He’s got one arm stuffed under a pillow and the other underneath your body, corralling you against him under the blanket. You lift your head, running your lips over the corner of his shoulder before you can stop yourself. He sighs reflexively but doesn’t seem to wake, buying you some time while you process. 

As you attempt to lift your thigh to shift positions you realize his heavy morning erection is resting dangerously close to the top of it. You pause and bite your bottom lip, risking a glance at John’s face. He’s still sleeping, his breathing unchanged, apparently immune to the tiny shifting you’ve been doing. You carefully slide your hand down his chest, the wiry hairs crinkling under your palm. You’re trying to get some leverage to lift up and over John’s hips but he’s not giving you much space to work. You shimmy your hips against him, wiggling slightly, and that proves to be your undoing. 

A deep inhale is your only warning before John’s vivid blue eyes crack open. When you look up at him from under your lashes you find him staring back, his expression soft. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” You’re apologizing gently in the weak morning light but John’s dragging his hand from under the pillow to cup your face, shaking his head slightly. Another deep inhale and then you can feel him speaking as much as you hear him, his chest rumbling with his sleep roughened voice. 

“S’alright gorgeous, we overslept anyway. Lucky it’s the weekend.” His answer soothes you immediately and you admire him for a moment. Lovely, dear John who’s always more concerned with you than himself. His sandy brown hair is askew and his expression still sleep softened, making him seem more like the young man you remember from your youth. From one clenching heartbeat to the next you decide on a course of action. Before you can overthink you move to action, catching John off guard.

Pushing yourself onto your knees you let the blanket pool behind you, suddenly revealing John’s broad form to the trickling sunlight. You flatten a palm on his sternum, holding him in place when he tries to sit up, his turn to play catch up with you now. You’re easing over his hips, settling yourself down on his stomach, knees pressing into his lats as he groans, slightly arching underneath you. You hunch over him, sliding your palm up his chest to cup his chin, holding him where you want him as you kiss him. 

For such a physical man John is happy to be pliant. Like a man who can’t believe his luck and isn’t looking to test it, his hands are careful on your body. His palms find your thighs, sliding up and grazing the meat of your ass before gliding back down to your knees. You don’t let him distract you, focusing on the rasp and glide of his tongue instead of what his hands are doing. You’re both panting for air when you finally break apart, John squeezing your thighs, fingers dimpling your skin. His groan as you shift over top of him makes you smirk, the only thing between the heat of your bodies a simple pair of black underwear and the soft, threadbare t-shirt he gave you to wear last night. 

“Christ, don’t know what I did to deserve this sort of wake-up call.” He murmurs, his fingers working their way under the hem of the shirt to smooth up your sides with languid strokes. His touch is addictive, pulling at your brain along with the glide of his skin on yours, making it nearly impossible to think straight. You can feel the flex of his muscles under you as he moves and before he can distract you further you shimmy down his body, trailing open mouth kisses over his torso as you go. He’s stroking and petting whatever part of you he can still reach, his stomach flexing under your mouth. He seems content to let you run the show, watching you through heavy lidded eyes.

John’s body is covered in scars, the thin strips of healed flesh devoid of hair, making your heart clench for him again. You linger, pressing wet lips to as many as you can reach for a moment, your hand stroking over his hip, curling over the band of his boxers. You can feel the tension vibrating off John’s body, his breathing beginning to turn ragged. You give a light tug on his boxers and he automatically lifts his hips, his abs jumping against the backs of your fingers as he does so. His erection bobs, his cut shaft thick, the head flushed deep red and beginning to weep beads of pre-cum. You drag your palm over the jumping muscles of his belly, wrapping fingers around the base and making him groan on an exhale. 

He's about to say something, gathering a breath, so you cut him off, running your lips along the side of the shaft. When you reach the tip, you brush your lips over it as you speak.

“Shut up, John.”

He huffs a laugh and then sucks a breath through his teeth as you close your mouth around the tip, sucking lightly. You drag the flat of your tongue around the head, lapping at the underside, making him twitch and arch his back. You swirl your tongue around the tip, reveling in the salty taste of his body while John’s fingers tangle in your hair with a hissed curse followed by your name. When you look up at John his eyes look nearly black, the pupils dilated with desire.

“I won’t last if you keep that up, love, I’m too sensitive –“

You squeeze the base, ignoring him as you run the tip of your tongue through the slit, applying the faintest sucking pressure before backing off. He groans, loud in the stillness of the room.

“I don’t care, I want you to feel good.”

You oblige him anyways, switching to bobbing on his cock, your fingers squeezing and gliding in tandem with your motions. You fall into a rhythm, your weight balanced against John’s thighs allowing you to feel each shudder and jerk of his body. Heat pours off him, sweat rising on his skin as you work him over, his body winding tighter like a spring. A tight muscle low in his abdomen flutters and you switch back to focusing on the tip as his fingers clench in your hair. 

“Fuck, you’re going to make me cum.” John warns, his head thrown back as he pants into the morning light. His desperation only encourages you, focusing on sucking on the tip as you swirl your tongue in tight circles, trying to hold his big body down with a palm on his abdomen. His hips stutter as he comes, his body locking up as his orgasm tears through him with a shout. His fingers grip your hair as you swallow around him, lifting off him slowly. You look up at him and fight to keep a smirk off your face. John’s wrecked, his chest heaving and his head thrown back in the pillows with his eyes screwed shut. There are spots of flushed colour on his cheeks and his chest, the effect you have on him written plainly across his body. 

You debate crawling back up his chest to plaster yourself against him, but decide to visit the bathroom while he’s collecting himself, a soft smile playing on your lips. 

You’re brushing your teeth with his toothbrush when John sways into view in his boxers, wrapping himself around you from behind and watching you in the mirror silently as you finish up. Some of the apprehension that had lodged in your ribs when John initiated this change in your relationship eases. It’s not awkward, as had initially terrified you, instead the intimacy comes easily like sinking in to a well-loved recliner. John’s steady demeanour makes it easier, soothing your frayed edges where you want to fly apart, a talent he’s had as long as you’ve known him. He nudges you towards the shower, taking the toothbrush out of your hand.  

“Have a shower before we get back to your flat, love, you’re going to want some of your own things here, I think.” He directs, and you flush at the implication but do as your told for once, the butterflies gone and replaced with excitement. 

Next Chapter

[shiyorin]

Hope I'm not too late for the NSFW request. I just want you to write about Guilliman's yearning, please. Maybe when he gets horny thinking about the reader but can only masturbate. We can't let the primarchs get everything they want anyway ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

#Horny Guilliman in your area.

#Guilliman x F!Reader (Reader is Imperial Agent)

#All is just Guilliman's delulu so yeah, it still fine

#NSFW, Horny Heresy, Delulu, I don't have summary....

Guilliman sighed as he glowered over the latest rounds of logistical reports from the various Administratum functionaries. Honestly, the rank incompetence displayed in some of these projections and inventories was staggering. How in the Emperor's name had the Imperium managed to keep stumbling along for ten millennia with such crippling inefficiency?

But then, he supposed that was precisely why he resurrected, to restore some semblance of organization and purpose to the monumental bureaucracy and martial apparatus that had continued to decay in his absence. The task was utterly hopeless, of course... but he was a Primarch. It was his essence to struggle eternally against the inevitable ruin through sheer force of will.

Sighing, he sat back and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, trying to massage away the tension knotting his brow. All around him, the echoing grandeur of the Fortress of Hera stood in mute testament to the folly of misplaced ambition writ cosmic in scale. A distillation of humanity's proclivity for turning inward upon itself, for laboring across eons and light-years towards ends that ultimately crumbled into irrelevance and waste.

Perhaps that was why one of the few true sources of light in his world had become the presence of you, the agent. An embodiment of lethal, peerless focus and self-possession... A being seemingly without flaw, ambiguity or irresolution to impair your duties. While everything else surrounding him seemed mired in grandiose failure, yours existed as a bladelike flensing of harsh efficiency amidst the futile sprawl of the Imperium he had reawakened to.

Guilliman shifted in his throne, tugging absently at the collar of his toga as he felt a familiar ache stirring in his loins. Despite himself, his thoughts had turned to the lithe, deadly form of you. Not for the first time, his mind's eye conjured vivid phantasms of your grace, that cool serenity masking a core of coiled menace...

A bead of sweat rolled down his brow as he squeezed his enormous cock. He stroked the heated, veined length slowly, dragging a groan from his lips as need lanced through him. But his calloused palm, slicked with oils, was a pale imitation of what he truly craved.

Your face swam before his mind's eye, delicate features hardened by an ever-present edge of danger, like a beautifully wrought blade. Those full lips slightly parted, smoky eyes heavy-lidded with rapture as you sank to your knees before the throne in supplication.  

"My lord..." You would murmur huskily, reaching out with hands far smaller than his own to grasp his pulsing girth. 

He groaned raggedly, hips jerking of the own accord as he imagined the satin caress of your fingers trailing up and down his throbbing length. Guilliman hungered to see your hands wrapped around his cock's furious girth, dwarfed and engulfed by his sheer immensity.

He stroked harder, revealing the slick, purpled head of his member. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, serving only to ease the passage of his fist along the red-hot steel of his erection. But even that scant wetness taunted him with thoughts of what your mouth would feel like, soft and searing and so perfectly snug around his achingly swollen prick.

A low growl of need rumbled up from his chest as he imagined you kneeling before him and looking up at him through heavy lashes with an expression of molten sensuality. He could see the tip of your tongue peeking out to wet those full lips in blatant invitation, all pretenses of innocence cast aside in the face of pure, ravenous hunger.

"Let me pleasure you, my lord," You would purr, reaching out to run your hands up the flexed columns of his thighs before boldly grasping the base of his member. Your gaze would smolder up at him with heavy-lidded lust as you leaned in close, planting feather-light kisses along his straining length. Your toned arms would likely ache within moments, struggling to contain his bulk, so absurdly outmatched in size yet persisting through sheer determination.

Muscles rippling and bunched with tension, Guilliman rutted into his encircling fist as the torrid fantasy played out in his mind's eye. He could practically hear your soft, panting breaths ghosting over his fevered flesh as you lavished worshipful kisses upon the blunt crown of his cock's head. A long, insistent lick up the underside of his shaft, finishing with a swirl of your devilish tongue into the weeping slit to savor his musky essence...

"Damn...." he growled through gritted teeth, redoubling his strokes and causing obscene, wet sounds to slap through the room. Your face contorted with determination as you finally parted those smoldering lips, your mouth stretching wide to accommodate his outrageous girth. Just the sight of your delicate features utterly overwhelmed by his flared cockhead, lips distended and clinging snugly to his pulsing, vein-wreathed length...

His other hand impacted the armrest of his throne hard enough to crack the stone, knuckles whitening as you began to take him deeper into that heavenly furnace of your mouth. Your breasts would sway enticingly as you bobbed along his slick, turgid length with agonizing slowness. The streaks of glistening spit and pre-cum would escape the corners of your cheeks, dribbling down to coat the flexed root of his cock. He longed to bury his fingers in your silken hair, yanking your head forward until your lush lips met the root of his cock so he might feel your throat convulse around his pistoning girth.

A hitched, guttural moan shuddered through him and Guilliman arched sharply, muscles cording as he worked his dick furiously with hand. Squeezed and stroked the base and main length, attended to the swollen cockhead with quick, frenzied twists and pulls of his thumb and forefinger around the sensitive crown. Slick, audible squelches of effort sounded through the room as his calloused palms glided with desperate urgency over the tumescent steel of his fleshy tower.

He was close, so punishingly close. Every nerve ending in his body screamed for release, demanding the blessed catharsis that only the ultimate climax could provide. He grunted harshly, abdominals clenching as his loins gathered themselves for that final, explosive eruption.

There kneeling before his throne, worshiping every pulsing inch of his cock with your mouth agape and gaze glazed with ecstasy. Your petite form is dwarfed by his bulk yet accepting of his sheer magnitude. Guilliman snarled incoherently as the fantasy reached its zenith, hips snapping forward to jackhammer his cockhead against your lush lips while your tiny hands...

"Nnnnngh ...!" he ground out in rapturous surrender, throwing his head back as the dam finally burst. His entire body went rigid, cords of muscle standing out in sharp relief and backlit by the guttering candlelight. Great plumes of steaming semen lanced from the flared tip of his cock, spattering out in his hand before him in whipping, gouting arcs of creamy seed. Pulse after pulse, driven by shuddering convulsions of his hips and loins until his very essence pooled in sloppy puddles. Only when the final pearlescent spurts dribbled over his fists did the tension gradually start to uncoil from his frame.

Panting harshly with exertion, Guilliman slumped forward, forearms draped over his quivering thighs as the hot, acrid musk of his release filled the chamber. He felt wrung out, hollowed, yet bearing a sense of fleeting peace in the aftermath of such feverish indulgence.

But despite the sweetness of release, pangs of shame were already taking root within him. The thought coiled in his loins like a slithering serpent, rebirthing his smoldering embers of desire into a rekindled flame, one eternally damned to burn even when physically spent.

The thought should disturb him, but it only makes his cock throb harder.