#short thing for short idea

[pupmon1]

Static fingers drag against cold metal. You its softness. You miss its fur.

You miss your skin.

You miss..... You stop, missing does nothing now. Your fingers drag up, to the horn now adorning your partner's snout.

"They've been in the house a while."

"They're learning about timecraft..." Hackmon reminded you. "They'll come back. Tell us all about it."

"Were...were we that curious...before?"

It shook its head. No of course not. You're identical, you're the same and yet- and yet. He's doing more than you ever did. You were so focused, so afraid of going back. Is that why?

A bulky tail brushed your arm, and you focused down. A band marked the dark tipped tail...barely visible but you know it's there. You both know.

"Maybe its because of that little devil," Hackmon mumbled, and you quickly shake your head.

"No. You're the best partner I could ever want. It has nothing to do with you."

"I'm the only thing different."

You shake your head more and pull your partner close. No, it's not. You're different too. You're stupid and stubborn and useless...none of it was ever its fault.

[sysig]

Permission to headbutt: Granted (Patreon)

[pickersonpaints]

woe sad elf boy upon ya

[inthedarknessofnight]

Thinking about struggling musician Eddie who makes a living singing and playing guitar in a Metallica tribute band.

Thinking about bartender Steve who thinks tribute bands are the cringiest, most insufferable things to ever exist.

Thinking about Robin, his coworker, who made a bet on the very first day of their new job that Steve would eventually hook up with someone from a tribute band.

And the thing is, he almost makes it. Three years and he’s got a completely clean track record. Well, at least until the night some random Metallica cover band’s frontman has Steve questioning his sanity from the moment he sets foot on stage. Because Steve is mesmerized. By the way his lithe figure moves under the bright stage lights. By the way his fingers slide deftly along the neck of his guitar. By the way his voice permeates the room, filling the air to the point where Steve thinks he must be breathing the music into his lungs. And then, the motherfucker has the audacity to take off shirt his mid-performance, putting on display a well-curated collection of tattoos. Steve feels like an ancient deity has descended from the heavens and decided to play fucking Metallica, on a fucking Tuesday, in the shittiest fucking bar in all of Inianapolis. Well and truly distracted by the action on stage, Steve doesn’t register the glass slipping slowly out of his grasp, until the damn thing has hit the floor and broken into a thousand pieces. When he turns to examine the mess, Robin is already there, broom in hand.

“You might wanna think about closing that mouth, dingus. I don’t think you drooling all over this pristine countertop is good for business,” she says with barely contained laughter, quickly sweeping the shards into the dustpan.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he retorts, rolling his eyes, suddenly very aware of just how much he was staring. Instinctively, Steve shakes his hand to drive away the haze, grabs a new glass, and tries his best to focus on the task at hand.

It isn’t until the final number of the evening that Steve’s resolve truly crumbles. He’s all but managed to tune out the goings-on around him, which is why he nearly has a heart attack when he suddenly finds himself face to face with the beam coming straight from the main spotlight.

“Can we- Yes. Perfect. There he is,” says a low voice coming from the very center of the stage, followed by a cacophony of loud cheers.

And… Oh no.

“What the-,” he mutters, a hand flying up to shield his eyes from the blinding light. That’s when he sees him.

“Hey, pretty boy behind the bar. Get me some whiskey up here on this stage, will you?”

And Steve is so so so incredibly fucked.

He stares dumbly for a few seconds. Having seemingly lost any and all ability to think independently, Steve brain shifts into autopilot, causing him to grab the full bottle of Jack sitting on the shelf behind him, stroll towards the stage as if possessed, accompanied by the sound of cheering, which only grows louder with every step he takes. He climbs the steps leading onto the stage. As soon as he reaches the top, he finds himself face to face with…

He’s so close. For a brief moment, Steve wonders if he knew prior to this moment that a person can be this beautiful. They’re chest to chest. The guy is ducking his head to whisper something to Steve, his breath hitting the sensitive spot just below the ear as he does so.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, his like voice smoke, and milk, and honey, and all things Steve wants to breathe in, and drink, and savor. He plucks the bottle from Steve’s hand, ringed fingers grazing his.

He winks at Steve as he takes a few steps backwards, a devilish smile playing on his lips. Then, without breaking eye contact, he tips his head back, opens his mouth, and begins pouring the amber liquid until it spills over he edges, running down his neck and the length of his torso. After what feels like hours to Steve, the guy finally swallows the remnants of the drinking in his mouth, immediately leveling Steve with a dark gaze.

“Now you.”

Positively transfixed, Steve realizes a little too late that he has, in fact, missed his window to flee, and is headed head-first for whatever public humiliation the guy has in store for him. A strong, sure hand grips the back of his neck, long fingers tangling into the hair at the nape, tugging ever so slightly.

“Open.”

It’s not gentle. It’s a thing of lust. A command. Steve feels it in his bones. And he can’t look away. His body is not his own when he gives into the pull of the musician’s hand, his jaw going lax, mouth automatically falling open. The guy brings the bottle up to Steve’s mouth, pouring in a generous amount. Before Steve even gets the chance to swallow the liquid already burning its way down his throat, the bottle is being shoved rougly into his hand, the guy bringing his other hand up once again, only to press the palm under Steve’s chin, forcing his mouth closed. Forcing him to swallow. Steve nearly chokes.

“Good boy,” he says with a wicked grin, before pushing a spluttering, coughing Steve back in the direction of the stairs, causing him to nearly topple off the stage. The guy laughs maniacally into his microphone and the crowd goes wild, the drummer already counting them into the final song.

Still bewildered and absolutely dumbfounded by whatever just happened to him on that stage, Steve chances one last glance in the singer’s direction as he descends the stairs.

This time, however, he isn’t met with a sultry, dark look, or one of the guy’s infamous mischievous grins. Instead, he finds a pair of soft brown eyes staring back at him, and plush pink lips curved into the dopiest, most endearing smile Steve has ever seen.

…

By the end of the night, Steve has found the love of his life and Robin is collecting money from nearly every employee at the bar, sporting a smug, I-told-you-so expression on her face.

[stuckinsquahamish]

I’m sorry Jon M Chu, what do you MEAN your first idea was to have Idina Menzel and Kristen Chenoweth play Galinda’s parents. WHAT

[kate-bot]

a few more little pizza animations!!! they're a little rough around the edges but they were a lot of fun to make!!

[cozylittleartblog]

scribbling ultrakill at da fucking Air Port ✈

[starry-bi-sky]

this just in: danny fenton is just as much of a mask as Brucie Wayne? - another danyal al ghul au

Turns out, being placed in a civilian family who have no knowledge of your background is actually detrimental to the health and development of a child assassin due to lack of proper support! Surrounded by strangers in a foreign city, Danyal Al Ghul does as assassins do best. He hides. Espionage is one of many teachings one learns in the League, and it only takes half a day for Danyal to construct a new persona to hide behind: Daniel Fenton.

By the time dinner rolls around, Danyal al Ghul is safely and securely tucked behind the face of Danny Fenton; brand new adoptive child of the Fenton family who came from overseas. A shy, quiet little boy with a thick accent and curly hair, with brown skin and blue eyes, and an avid interest in the stars. The best fictions are always cobbled together in a little bit of truth, it's some of the only truth he ever lets through. He apologizes in a meek voice for his behavior early, he didn't mean to be rude, and he watches the three of them eat it up with coos.

Lies roll like silk against his lips, he struggles to meet their eyes and offers them his weakest, shyest smile. It's too easy. It's easy to go from there.

Danny Fenton, adoptive son, shy and awkward and unconfident but friendly. Who struggles in his classes and isn't the brightest, but tries his hardest. He makes bad jokes and has a quick tongue and a sarcastic mouth. He wants to be an astronaut. He's got the best aim in school, and is a terrifying dodgeball player. He's one of the least athletic kids in his grade.

It's like playing two truths and a lie, but there's only one truth, and the rest are lies. It's easy to pretend when he knows it's insincere.

Danyal Al Ghul, grandson to the Demon Head. Deadly, trained assassin. Has spilled blood, has had blood spilt from. Environmentalist, animal activist. He loves the stars. He owns a calligraphy set. A sharp tongue, an even sharper blade. He's clever, quick-witted, he would be top of his grade if he tried harder. He purposely doesn't.

He misses his family. He misses his mother, and he misses his brother. Mother visits a few times a year, so few times that he can count it on both hands. He cherishes every visit, as brief as they are. It helps remind him who he is.

Sam and Tucker are Danny's best friends. They've never met Danyal, but Danyal's met them.

It becomes routine to become Danny Fenton. As familiar and as easy as pulling on a shirt in the morning. Danyal wakes up and is always first to the bathroom in the mornings; stares at himself in the mirror until he can finally see Danny staring back at him. At night, he locks his door and sheds the mask.

Dying throws a wrench in his mask; splits a crack straight through the porcelain. He's able to smooth it over with sandpaper and liquid gold, but it's a little hard keeping his ghost form under wraps. It instinctively wants to shift to show his true self. Danyal can't have that, he's spent four years as Danny Fenton, he'll spend another four as him as well. Even if the feeling of the hazmat suit in his ghost form feels restrictive, like a too-small shirt suctioned to his skin that needs to be peeled off.

He'll live. Er-- well, you know what he means. It's frustrating however, trying to keep his Danny Fenton mask up even as Phantom - fighting in the air is something he needs to get used to, and the sudden propping of powers throws him off. But he is nothing if not adaptive, and he hates that he needs to slow his own skills down in order to keep pretenses up in front of Sam and Tucker.

The first time Danyal summons a sword when he's alone, is one of the few times Danyal gets to grin instead of Danny. He's fighting Skulker, and from an invisible hilt he draws a katana from thin air. It startles them both. Skulker takes a step back at the smile that spreads across his face.

They're both silent as Danyal examines his new sword.

"Do you know what people like me do to people like you, poacher?" Danyal finally asks him, the accent he began to hide a few months in slipping through. He drops all pretense, dragging the flat end of the blade slow and appreciatively against his palm. It's a good make, and when he cuts it through the air, it slices through like butter. He looks up at Skulker with a smile; "are you ready to find out?"

When Sam and Tucker ask about why Skulker seems so skittish around Danny now, Danny shrugs at them and says with a playful smile; "I don't know, I guess I kicked his butt too hard after our last fight." and he watches as Sam rolls her eyes exasperatedly, and Tucker snickers with his own joke.

By the time he reunites with Damian before their 15th birthday, Danyal is buried beneath so many layers of Danny Fenton that his brother will need a shovel to dig him out. He's not sure what he'll find.

[sgt-tombstone]

do you think the recruits make chuck norris type jokes about the 141?

lieutenant riley doesn't go hunting, because hunting implies the possibility of being unsuccessful. lieutenant riley goes killing.

one time sergeant mactavish threw a grenade and killed five enemies. and then it exploded.

sergeant garrick sleeps with a pillow under his gun.

captain price has a bear rug in his room. it's not dead, just scared like the rest of us.

oh my god, 100% yes

Everyone thinks it started with Ghost, but Price was the original hardcore spooky bastard (in a very Chuck Norris kind of way), especially after he got promoted to captain. All of the rookies who made those kind of jokes are gone now, though, so he hasn't heard a Norris joke in a while

Enter Simon Riley.

It starts out kinda small, just an exaggerated rumor every now and then (he wears a skull mask; no matter how terrifying he is, people are going to talk), but then someone brings back Ye Olde Chuck Norris Joke, just one, and the entire mess hall lights up

Everyone is SO CAREFUL not to let Ghost hear about it, especially not the rookie who originally brought it up. By the end of the week, every rookie on base is whispering them and giggling about it. They've gotten more and more outlandish, as jokes do, and because none of the 141 do themselves any favors, especially when they step off the plane from their most recent op covered head to toe in blood, guns little more than mangled pieces of metal, their gear nearly in tatters, but they're all smiling and laughing like they're out for a day at a theme park

Price loves it. It reminds him of his younger days, before he got strapped with so much desk duty, when he really struck fear in the hearts of friends and enemies alike. He's always been the monster in the dark for terrorists, but his years have softened him around allies. Hearing the rookies whisper wild jokes back and forth is incredibly nostalgic and very affirming for him

Gaz and Soap? They're in on it, 100%. They both heard about it almost immediately after it happened and all it took was a shared glance to decide to feed the flames. Whenever they have babysitting rookie training duty, they'll drop little tidbits of "lore", most of it fake but some of it true. They don't have to stretch the truth too much because they know the lunch break gossip the next day will have blown everything out of proportion anyway. Whenever they hear a rookie go, "well, I heard...", they'll always pipe up with, "that's not how it happened, here's what really happened..." and the rookies fall for it every time. They have a shared note where they keep their favorite jokes they hear around base

Ghost hates it. He's used to striking enough fear into the hearts of rookies that they stay approximately forty-seven feet away from him at all times because the very sight of him has them shaking in their boots, but as the jokes grew more bizarre, the fear has been replaced with amusement. It's an awed sort of amusement, but still. Every time he hears a rookie giggle behind his back, he can't help but feel a bit mocked. It's fine when he calls himself nothing but a tool in the army's hand, and he's gotten used to (and comfortable with) being seen as nothing more than a walking weapon, but there are enough true stories about him to garner fear and awe; he doesn't need people making up lies.

It all comes to a head when a rookie starts talking a little too loudly, probably unaware that Ghost is even in the room. It's something stupid, so stupid that it's not even funny, but then Soap butts into the conversation, and Ghost tenses. They meet each other's eyes and Soap keeps direct eye contact as he smirks and says, "In an average living room there are a thousand objects Ghost could use to kill you, including the room itself."

Which is, objectively, true. But there's a glint in Soap's eye, the sort of mischievousness that Ghost loves so much, and he realizes that Soap just gave him the perfect opportunity. Like bait in a perfectly hidden trap. Ghost steps close to the back of the unsuspecting rookie, surrounded by a gaggle of even more unsuspecting rookies, and leans down to whisper in his ear.

"And I'll use every last one of them on you if I ever hear another joke on base, Private."

God, he hopes he isn't a corporal.

Apparently he isn't because the man jumps almost two feet in the air, a choked-off scream escaping his lungs as he whips around to find Ghost standing far too close for comfort, staring him dead in the eyes.

"Me, sir?" He stutters out, and Ghost almost smiles at the fear in his voice. The other rookies shoot to their feet as well, already edging towards the exit but unwilling to take their eyes (or ears) off of the conversation.

"Yes, you," Ghost rumbles, deep and dangerous. "If I hear anyone make a Ghost joke, I will hunt you down and show you why they call me The Ghost."

The poor soldier stammers out an affirmative, or maybe an apology, but he and his friends are out the door before Ghost can really parse out the words, and then it's just him and Soap. Soap, who's grinning like a lottery winner, eyes ablaze.

"That was hot, sir."

"You're fucked up, MacTavish," Ghost grumbles, but he can't keep the smile off his face. Maybe he could have some fun with the 141 jokes after all...

[seiwas]

suguru looks at you and thinks he could tell you everything.

it's tempting—how you hold his gaze when others normally avoid it. anyone else and their eyes dart away immediately, blurring him into the background. not with you though; with you, he exists in central focus.

there's a strand of your hair that's fallen out of place, and he reaches to tuck it behind your ear, quickly. it's a trick, a sleight of hand that conceals the tremble of his fingertips.

(your breath hitches when he grazes your cheek.)

the noise in the cafe is a symphony of indistinct chatter and soft alternative folk music, with ceramics clinking as the constant underlying beat. none of it is supposed to go together, but it carries the ambiance in its harmony.

he leans in closer when you speak.

you continue your story, off on a tangent already; his head tilts to the side, a finger to his temple as he nods along, lips curling at the edges fondly. this same look has made others nervous, flustered, but you seem unfazed; meeting him eye-to-eye overtly.

which isn't normal.

and if he's being truly honest with himself, none of this—what he's doing, thinking, how he's feeling—is normal.

suguru believes in secrets, that some things are better kept to himself.

but, it's one look into your eyes, at the way you regard him so unlike everybody else that has him wondering how you'd react if he tells you you look pretty instead of nice today—how you are pretty much a frequent visitor to his thoughts lately.

(you talk and talk and talk because you can never tell what he's thinking—mysterious smile matched with an unnerving stare is a combination too deadly.)

he doesn't do 'brunches'—it's either a late breakfast or an early lunch, pick one—yet he finds himself seated in a cafe at 10:27 a.m., having one with you.

the lock to his chest has been tampered with; if he dusts it off, he'll find your fingerprints, left behind unknowingly. you are innocent until proven guilty, but his lips, usually shut tight, are now slowly unzipping; it's you, the root of all this.

if he tells you he likes looking at you—might always want to—would you consider having another brunch with him? to stay longer in that suspended in-between of breakfast and lunch time?

(you blink, suguru still leaned in, listening.)

(if you tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, will his breath hitch just the same?)

for @rinniessance; a lil birthday gift for you angie bby! (i might be a lil early posting this... oop!) i've never written sugu but wanted to try for you 🥹 ily you beautiful soul!! (not a birthday fic itself but i hope i gave a decent characterisation of him! 🥺)

thank you notes: @mysugu @soumies for helping me try to figure this man out 😭

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[robotclownindulgence]

Less "optimus and bumblebee fight megatron and starscream" and more "motley crew of ocean-themed beastformers try to get their old band back together and have to trek through various galaxies to find their missing members"

[quesocheeso]

In your Au,

What are things MK inherited from macaque ? Personality or powers

Hmmm I haven’t really thought out how much power-wise MK got from Macaque🤔 he definitely got his hearing, as for shadow abilities I would say he can manipulate shadows but he is still learning how to keep a grasp on them for longer periods of time, and he can shadow travel but not for very long distances unless he knows the place really well, it takes a lot of concentration and focus to use shadows and since I like the idea that MK got Wukong’s powers first, powers that are more physical and instinctual in a way, he ended up getting shadow powers later in life since he body took a bit of time adjusting to Wukong’s abilities first

(Another point to Wukong, Mac is so close to throwing him out the window, his genes can’t keep winning like this)

[n0pr0mises]

𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗

𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚢— 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢/𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎.

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝟷𝟾+ 𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚠, 𝚏𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚍𝚜𝚖-𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 (𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐), 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝/𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 (𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏), 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚢 😔, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎

All you did today was fight for every fucking thing, for respect from your coworkers, against criticism from your boss, with your family about what you were doing with your life, and now you can't stop.

Nanami recognizes that you need to be taken out of your own head and recentered. But you're stuck in fight mode, and you argue and push back the whole time bc even if you know it’s what you need, you just can’t let go.

And that just frustrates you more, almost to the point of tears, because you know that you are making everything harder for yourself and you're being downright mean to him, when he hasn't done anything except put himself in your path as an easy target.

Right now, he is part of the “everyone else” and you need him to force you not to fight anymore. you're home now, you're safe, you can let your guard down. but you just can't do that and you can't get those words out, so you just hope that he understands what you can't tell him.

And Nanami does understand. He always has a way of knowing.

He wondered, when you walked in and answered his greeting with a sigh and a hum. He had an inkling when you just shoved your belongings into a pile on the entryway bench. He was suspicious when you snarked at him for asking how your day was. and he was sure when you purposefully turned your head away from his kiss.

you have an unofficial routine when one of you gets home before the other. the first one home is who starts dinner and then helps the other begin their decompression from the outside world. sometimes it's light and soft. and sometimes it is not.

So he's rough with you. He grabs you, but he never throws you or pushes you. He holds you firmly, his movements sure and controlled. And as much as you back talk and push against him, he stays steady. the only thing that will let him know this isn't what you need, is that one word that you both know would stop all of this.

But you don't want that. you want him to make you let go, to give up your control, to stop worrying,

So instead, you try to pull away and he doesn't let you. he easily drags you to your shared bedroom and you complain the whole time. even as he undresses you, getting you to start letting the world fall away from you layer by layer. Your protests slow down, but haven't stopped, so he sits on the bed with you across his lap, bare ass easily within his grasp. He softly runs his hand up and down your bare back, giving you goosebumps, until you are a little less tense and your breathing has slowed. and then he smacks the flat of his palm across your ass and thighs.

You jolt and curse him, but he shushes you and holds your tighter. He tells you to count, because he knows that eventually you'll be too busy trying to keep track and forget why you're supposed to be mad.

You feel his cock harden underneath you, but he doesn't let you try to grind down against him. what he does do is lift your hips up just a bit, so your wet pussy is more exposed a delivers a harsh, stinging slap against it, causing you to let out a breathy cry.

His hand is a little bit wet now when he hits you, and it makes you feel some type of way knowing he's turning you into a perfect little mess for him.

By the time you've gotten to fifteen solid slaps to your ass and thighs, you're breathing heavy and kind of exhausted, lying flat and almost boneless across his lap. your eyes are a bit wet and the most prominent thought in your head is the sting in your backside and how you can feel the heat radiating from your own skin. and Kento is a master at providing a satisfying experience, not leaving any one area less red than another.

You shudder and jerk when he gently rubs his hand over your heated skin and he knows that you are almost there, but he needs to push you a little more. It's his job to look after you and he takes it very seriously.

So he helps you onto the floor with a small pillow under your knees (which he keeps beside the bed for this exact purpose). He arranges you how he likes and is satisfied that you are no longer pushing against his movements, but rather leaning into them.

Kento undoes his belt and pulls his painfully hard cock out. it's an angry red and the head is wet from all of the precum. Your mouth is already open, tongue eager for the weight of him on it. He rubs his thumb against your cheek before moving his hand to take a significant hold at the back of your head.

"Look at me," he says quietly, his voice steady and deep as always, lulling you even further into a tingling sense of calm. you tilt your head back as much as you're allowed so you can look up at him, eyes damp and mouth still open. the longer he admires you, you start to whine and he hushes you while guiding his thick length into your wet and ready mouth.

His head falls back, letting out his own shuddering groan and has to take a minute to just savor the feel of you around him. you hum around him, eyes fluttering shut and just holding him in your mouth. you're savoring the feel of him, how he fills your mouth, the solid weight of him against your tongue, anchoring you.

He pulls your hair gently so your open your eyes again, asking, "ready?"

You hum again and hollow your cheeks in a brief suck, indicating he can start at any time.

"Good girl." he praises while he starts to pull his cock out to angle your head and more easily fuck all the way into your throat. you immediately choke as he pushes it just enough into your tight throat. you easily accustom to his thrusts and relax further into his hold, the steady in and out of his tip into the tight heat of your throat lulling you into a sense of comfort.

And finally, you can't think of anything at all.

You've never felt safer or more at peace than when you're on your knees in your bedroom, Kento's steady hand gripping your hair just enough to sting, fucking his cock into your throat with shallow, grinding thrusts.

"I've got you, darling. just let me take care of you."

[powpowchaos]

Promise. 1 of 6 [ Next ]

[icewindandboringhorror]

I made a few new wax seal stamps out of clay (like the ones I did for my worldbuilding stuff forever ago), this time just of random symbols that I thought might look good done in the style of painting over the raised part of the wax or etc. :0c Some of them aren't carved deep enough to really show up that well, but overall they worked okay for being clay lol

[bisclavret]

this is so funny i knew eoin said he thought gwaine got up and went on his merry way with a concussion and zero recollection of the entire series but i didn't know he got super excited about making a short film about it. it's kind of a huge-brained idea actually since gwaine's character arc starts out with a concussion. mr macken please this could be your magnum opus there is still time