#skedaddles-

[shepscapades]

Collection of (mostly dbhc) Ethubs doodles from over the past two years or so :]

[thatsbelievable]

[catnix328]

oohh they are so cute ❤️💕

:)❤️💕👍

[krasytoonz]

HOWDY'S HOLIDAY HULLABALOO!

[astrolavas]

have some permadeath hunter au sketches from 7 months ago, caused by accidentally getting way too invested and emotional while discussing "what if hunter hadn't woken up in ttt" scenarios with friends.

in which, uh, hunter wakes up in the inbetween realm instead of back at the old gravesfield cemetery...

[ruinme-please]

Alternate angle of the ass kicking fight (x)

[teachyouhowtodothesponge]

Doodles of Wally giving his art to some of the Pillars! :) He is a wonderful little artist!

[jinstronaut]

plaidkook, for @jiniekook happy birthday, san! ♡♡♡ (cr. dwellingsouls)

[swordymacaroni]

A/N- Okay. So. Soft, sweet Konig who is nowhere near harsh and threatening as the tales tell. He's just so pookie.

@go-go-gadget-autism-I'm sorry I couldn't do the OC request, but here's Konig x Reader

Pairings- Konig x GN Reader

Warnings- Slight Body Dysmorphia/Diabetes Inducing Fluff/Author is sleep-deprived and unsure of her writing

Konig, whose salvation is his Liebling and no one else. As soon as he comes home from absolutely anywhere, he'll drop everything he has and sprint through the house to find you. Whether you're cooking dinner or doing laundry or just staring into space, he's barreling towards you, ignoring your surprised yelp as he turns you around and picks you up, holding you close, so close, listening to your breathing, leaning into your warmth, your softness, your love, that he's been deprived of for the last few days.

Konig, whose just big and awkward wherever he goes. He'll eagerly join you for a family reunion or friendly gathering, but boy, he has the social skills of a suitcase. He'll just walk behind you, head down, trying to shrivel into himself. You have to remind him constantly, that he can take up space, and everybody here loves him, especially you. Even after that, he manages to say hi to five people before his social battery dies out. Now he's tugging on the hem of your top like a befuddled puppy, eyes pleading as he asks ever so politely, if you can come home with him and cuddle for the rest of the night.

Konig, whose mostly silent, spiraling in his own thoughts, until they're too much for him to handle. Then he'll grab you sleeve, pull you to the couch, and lay his head down in your lap. If you're distracted, nose in a book or in a device, he'll nudge your stomach with his nose, wanting attention. When you start carding your fingers through his hair with a small smile, he finally relaxes in your lap, brain promptly shutting down. Yes, he'll fall asleep, and no, even in his sleep, he won't let you get up. You're gonna have to pass out on the couch with him. Sorry about the kinks in you neck the following morning, schatz. :(

Konig, whose seeking your touch as soon as something goes wrong. He'll be upset about the smallest of things, and nothing except your physical reassurance will fix it.

-He burned the pasta? He need you to take the spatula from him with a gentle smile and a kiss to his nose, or he won't eat for two days out of guilt.

-He knocked over a vase? You'll have to cup his face with your hands and declare that it's alright and mistakes happen before he finally calms down, blinking away tears and clutching your hand as you go to grab a broom.

Konig, whose constantly nitpicking his flaws. Everyday before he showers or takes a bath, he spends forever in front of the mirror, locating if he has chub or cellulite. If he sees any, calorie counting has started for the next three months. But that all changes when one day you walk in on him pinching his stomach in disgust. He whips around, blabbering something before you throw yourself onto him, maliciously kissing every part of him. His face, his arms, his chest, his stomach, and then finally his lips with a threatening, "You think you're not good enough ever again and I'm gonna start withholding kisses." Now Konig catches himself every time he starts to think negatively about his body. Your kisses are too precious.

Konig, whose eyes practically have hearts dancing in them when you emerge from the bathroom, hair damp and face devoid of makeup. His voice catches in his throat because you're so beautiful, so perfect. His feet are carrying him towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. "Don't deserve you, liebling. You're to good fo' me."

Konig, whose heart beats in his body but beats for you. This big, burly military man, who has been trained to survive absolutely anywhere, cannot live without you.

You're his refuge,

his redemption,

his home,

his.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

[pyjamacryptid]

I’m not sure how I got here but I’ve been thinking about the intimacy and devotion of washing another’s hair, the hair of someone you care for (how unconditional a gesture it is) and I then thought of Merlin doing it for Arthur.

It’s not in the job description (a lot of what Merlin does for Arthur is not in the job description) and it’s unlikely something that started his first day as Arthur’s servant. Nor the second or the 20th or by the 6th month. Arthur may be a prince, a prattish one at that, but when it comes to his baths he only expects of Merlin what he expects of any manservant - call for the tub, draw the water, lay out a towel, place fresh clothes close by and so on. But, naturally, he’s also a prince that commands the knights and with training comes injuries. Perhaps an arm was dislocated and he’s on strict orders from Gaius not to utilise it, and definitely not to reach above his head. Later that same day Arthur sits in the bath and realises too late he can’t tend to his own hair. But he doesn’t call Merlin over from where he’s making the bed. He tries to do it himself. He’s still got one working arm, after all.

Arthur only knows how to command things be done. He doesn’t know how to ask for things. He doesn’t yet know that asking isn’t weakness.

But he can’t hide his struggling from Merlin, who’s more mother hen than manservant.

“Here, let me,” he says, suddenly behind Arthur, “before you lose all the bathwater and your arm, both.”

“I don’t need your help, Merlin.”

“Of course not, sire. Now, pass me the hair oil.”

“Excuse me, who is it that gives the orders here?”

“You, sire. The hair oil.”

“…”

“Thank you. Right, hold still. I said hold still—“

After, Arthur will wonder why he ever thought Merlin would be anything but gentle. After, Arthur will wonder when his eyes closed and why they feel a little wet, especially as Merlin took great care to catch anything before it fell in Arthur’s face.

Over time, a stool begins to sit beside the bath, whenever it’s drawn. Over time, Arthur will notice Merlin’s fingers never grow any less gentle (even when he knows his manservant is angry with him). Over time, Arthur will want to ask why Merlin added washing his hair to his list of jobs indefinitely, long after his arm healed, but is afraid he’ll only prompt Merlin to stop because it’s not a job at all. Over time, Arthur will wonder what oils Merlin uses on his own hair, if he has access to hair oil at all, and how his cropped hair might feel to touch.

[d8tl55c]

[hallucxnating]

Suits you say

[ratatatastic]

cats: in bath robes

the nhl: well i guess we have to put provactive "lively" music over it

2024 nhl global series finland game 1 | 11.1.24 (x)

[catnix328]

Pillar family❤️

Latter 🦋💜💜

[nicstylus]

Get stickbugged skuldugged lol

hiding my unhinged thoughts in the tags

[syoddeye]

under the table

gaz x f!reader x price. ~2k words. +18 only. What is this? Who knows. Just wanted to write a little smut. Very loosely based off this. tags: dubcon, manipulation, semi-public fingering

Ten months into your marriage, you give into Kyle’s pestering. No, perhaps that’s an uncharitable way to phrase it. You finally accept one of his many invitations to meet his commanding officer, his Captain. 

(Though, is there any other way to describe Kyle’s incessant requests? When he asks repeatedly over breakfast or on dates, or when he drapes himself over your back mid-fuck, slowing to a teasing grind in an effort to make you change your mind? Think you’d like him, babe, like him almost as much as–)

You tell him it’s weird to bring up his boss while he’s inside you, but he just laughs and wipes the sweat off your brow.

“He’s important to me. He saw my potential. Just like you.” And how can you refuse when he puts it like that?

You tell him one evening after dinner, drying the dishes as he washes. Ceramic meets steel in a clatter as he drops a plate to cage you into the countertop, pressing kisses to your neck. You can feel his big, pleased smile against your skin, the chorus of thank yous. He barely remembers to turn the sink handle before he drags you off to bed, dishes half done.

It’s only drinks at the pub around the corner, and you don’t know why Kyle’s stressing and fussing over your outfit. Not every day does your husband pick your outfit, so you play along. You perch on the end of the bed to judge the dresses he presents and laugh at the fact that he thinks you’re pulling on three-inch heels for a place with tacky floors.

Kyle relishes that you must lean on him the whole way to the pub, the impractical shoes seemingly bent on catching every crack in the walk. His grip around your waist tightens the moment you cross the threshold, his grin a sly crescent.

He settles you into a booth in the corner, stepping away to buy your drinks. Beneath the table, you tug at the hem of the dress he convinced you to wear. It’s a classic black number, short, one of his favorites, and a bit much for your surroundings. But the fact that he pulled it out tells you the end of the evening will be good for you, that you’ll be duly rewarded for finally agreeing to meet his Captain.

A man appears at the table, eyes giving your top half an unabashedly appreciative once-over. Your mouth falls open as he slides onto the curved bench, stammering out a protest.

“Excuse me, I’m–my husband is at the bar, I’m flattered, but I’m–“

“Easy, love, just wanted a moment alone. Get a look at you.” The deep timbre of his voice is practically a purr, his mouth an amused line beneath an imperial beard.

Your brow pinches in annoyance. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often anymore, not with the pretty ring on your hand. You make a point to lay it on the table. “I’m not here on display, so if you’d please fuck off–“

“Captain Price,” Kyle chirps, a pint in each hand. “See you’ve met the missus.”

A hand pinches your knee, and it’s not attached to your husband.

“I did. Spirited, like you said.” The hand retracts as Captain Price exits the booth, exchanging a look with Kyle you don’t quite understand. “Back in a tick.”

You watch the broad-shouldered man head for a drink, then glare at your husband. “‘Spirited’?”

“Aren’t you?” Kyle chuckles, sidling up until his leg is flush with yours. He pushes the lager to the space in front of you and slings his arm over the back of the booth. “Did he scare you, babe? He can be a bit friendly, but he’s harmless.”

You sincerely doubt it. ‘Friendly’ is a loaded word. It’s how you describe Kyle and his hands’ bad habit of wandering. Ask him, and he’ll say he’s simply smitten and proud to have such a cute thing for a wife. Like it is now, his arm practically lives across your shoulders or around your waist when you’re out and about until his hand ‘gets cold’ or ‘lonely’, and he slots it between your legs or rests it on the swell of your ass. ‘Friendly’ is not something you want his boss to be.

Cordial. Polite. ‘Friendly’ in the way bosses are supposed to be, detached and unassuming. 

The older man scoots in close, muttering something about the noise, effectively sandwiching you between him and Kyle. You retreat into your husband’s side as their conversation kicks off, catching up after weeks of leave. A few names you recognize from Kyle’s stories sprinkle in, giving you minimal context. You drink your beer and nod when appropriate, but otherwise, you people-watch. Though, you don’t watch the right people.

Over your head, behind your back, Kyle stares at his Captain, gaze darting down every so often to how the fabric of your dress pulls taut over your sides. The sliver of lace from your brassiere peeking out underneath a dress strap. He watches a man he trusts with his life openly examine his wife’s profile, effortlessly carrying on the conversation without meeting Kyle’s eyes once. 

“Have we bored you to tears, love?” 

You lift your head, pressing against Kyle, when Price plants his forearm on the table to lean closer. “Not at all. I don’t mind listening, Captain.”

“Told you to call me ‘John’.”

“Sorry,” You apologize. “John.”

John hums, musing. “So she can listen.”

The mild condescension leaves a taste in your mouth, but Kyle squeezes your shoulder, soothing.

“She is, sir.” 

John’s gaze is heavy, dropping to your mouth to your cleavage in one swoop before excusing himself to buy the next around.

“Kyle,” You turn, finding him staring at the back of John’s head. “Can we leave soon? I don’t feel well,” you lie, shifting in your seat.

“Really?” His eyes snap down, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You sure? You haven’t even finished your first.”

“Please,” you glance sidelong at John. I–We can skip to the good part at home.” Usually, the offer works. It gets him on his feet quickly, tugging you to the car or along the walk within seconds. But he hesitates, mirroring your quick look at John.

“One more drink,” Kyle insists, tugging you back into place and forcing you to face forward. His breath hits your neck as he dips his head to whisper into your ear. “Think you can handle it? Be good for me?”

The tone of his voice makes you consciously aware of your nipples protruding through the thin material of your bra, instantly rising to attention at the sheer promise behind his words. Without thinking, your knees press together, capturing his attention. You watch his tongue glide over his lip. Surely, he won’t. Not with his boss here.

His arm remains in place, and his free hand inches closer atop the table. 

“Kyle, don’t.”

“Don’t what, babe?” He smirks, looking away as John reclaims his spot.

“Miss anything?” 

“Not at all.”

While they return to their chat, you cannot disconnect as easily as before. Both men press against your sides despite the booth’s available space. Your heart thrums in your chest, ratcheted to a speed that makes you fidget. Twitch. Kyle’s honeyed words repeat in your head, and you subtly squirm, feeling the heat between your legs pulse.

You don’t notice Kyle’s hand slide off the table until his fingers cup your bare knee. You turn your head, lips parting, but he’s not looking at you. You swallow hard when he pulls, opening your legs. His name is on the tip of your tongue, confusion mixing with embarrassment, and it fizzles into a choked silence. Another hand, broader and more calloused, slips over your opposite thigh, searching.

The din of the pub meets the rush of blood in your ears. The edges of your vision blur, your thoughts static, and it isn’t until a finger drags up the gusset of your underwear that you come crashing into consciousness. You jerk, and two bodies of solid muscle keep you in place like bookends.

“Easy,” John purrs, repeating the movement, slower.

“Kyle–”

“It’s okay, babe,” He coos in your ear.

Your eyes fall to your lap, where Kyle’s hand wrenches your dress to your upper thighs, giving his Captain access. Indignation swirls, beating violently against your skull, a swell of shame racing with a rogue wave of want.

“We leave in a week, right? Cap could use a boost. Think you can send him off with something nice?”

“Kyle, I don’t–” Your breath hitches as a second finger joins the first in rubbing gentle circles, pressing into the dampening cotton. Your leg tries to reflexively close, and Kyle’s hand returns to your knee to stop it. Your hands, formerly weighed down by pure shock, reach for John’s forearm, sinking your nails into skin dusted in coarse hair.

“Babe–” Kyle starts sternly.

John tuts, unaffected by the angry marks you impress into his arm. “It’s alright, Gaz, I don’t mind. We’re just warming up, gettin’ used to the idea.” 

No, no, you are not getting used to the idea. You’re not. You’re not letting him, Kyle’s boss, John, touch you like this in a pub where anyone could see if they stare too long. Any second, you’re going to yell. Tear Kyle a new one. Then John’s fingers deftly slide your underwear out of the way, and instead of a scream, a squeak pushes out as a finger pushes in. Kyle’s hand lifts from your shoulder to guide your face toward his for a kiss.

John’s finger dips in, teasing, and you hear him groan while Kyle’s tongue licks into your mouth, keeping you fixed to him until you need air. You suck it in through short pants, eyes glazed over with a cloud of lust. You’re stupefied and trembling, inhaling sharply when the finger sinks to the webbing and curls. 

“How is she?” Kyle asks, pressing kisses to your temple as your chin dips to your chest.

“Warm, fuckin’ soaked,” John chuckles at how it makes you clench.

Your eyes, half-lidded, stare into the shadowed valley between your open legs. The table blocks the dim lamp above, but the slick on John’s digit, as it withdraws, catches the light. The noise of the bar ought to drown it out, and perhaps it does, yet you hear the lurid, wet sound of his finger plunging in.

The men hold their breath as you go offline, mouth opening and shutting several times like a fish dying in too-shallow of a tidepool. The hand continues its work, stoking a heat you want to both smother and feed. 

“Kyle,” You try again, a breathier, whiny pitch to your whisper.

“I know, I know,” He kneads the fat of your thigh, knuckles bumping into his Captain’s. 

The men exchange a few words you can’t make out. Your foggy eyes lift to scan the bar, some lucidity begging you to at least check for an audience. In the corner, there’s nowhere for someone to linger or gawk to catch what’s happening beneath the table. In a distant corner of your mind, it occurs to you that Kyle must’ve planned this. 

A mounting pressure digs your fingertips into John’s arm harder and harder, which he responds to with a quicker, more insistent rhythm. Kyle’s hand grips your thigh, but there’s no need with how wide you spread them yourself. You bury your teeth into your lower lip, then slap a palm over your mouth. The heel of John’s palm grinds into your clit. 

“Lookit you,” John puffs into your ear. “Thought you weren’t on display?” 

You come, whimpering behind your hand, squeezing John’s finger in a vise.

Somewhere in the bar, a glass breaks, and a chorus of drunken voices boo. Two fingers slip out of your heat and pat the ruined cotton against your sopping cunt.

Outside, the temperature dropped considerably, not that you’d feel it with your husband’s arm over your shoulders and his Captain’s hooked around your waist.

The world’s fuzzy, their words clear.

“She’s a good girl, Gaz.”

“You ought to apply, sir. You might get lucky.”

“Why would I do that, when we’ve got her?”