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#here you go yall
ascendingtostardust · 4 months
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Right….right…..
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gibbearish · 5 months
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love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking
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dozydawn · 1 year
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Fenton Vaseline Glass Snail, Vintage Yellow Opalescent Uranium Glass
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dumbbullet · 1 year
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I mean... I'd vote for him.
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mrpsychokiller · 2 years
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he.....is.....MY.... MEOW MEOW!!!!!!!!!! *my telekinesis throws all the furniture into the walls*
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usopps-devotee · 7 months
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Cockwarming buggy during a meeting
Imagine Buggy's cock sitting inside you while you're in the middle of a meeting. You can hardly even think as he talks to Crocodile and Mihawk, being the strategist of the group it's most imperative that you're able to focus. With the soft rocking inside you, the appendage separated from the rest of him, it's almost a wonder how you're not drooling over the table, a sharp thrust reminds you where you are and that you're being asked a question.
Without hesitation you snap at Crocodile, being one of the few people in the world to do so without facing his wrath. He gives you a moment to think while you can't decide who you're mad at more. Croc for bringing you back in the conversation or buggy for edging you once more in the middle of speaking, the loss of an orgasm more distracting than anything else the clown has done so far.
He looks so smug sitting next to you, Mihawk is sure it's because Buggy was the one who got you to join this group and under your careful guidance the odd group has managed to accomplish goals they wouldn't have thought before possible. Not the fact that you would be dripping his cum when you stand up yet have been left completely unsatisfied.
You'll let him have this for now but when the two of you are alone he will have hell to pay for all his little stunts he's managed to pull off today.
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carnivalcarrion · 15 days
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come get yer juice (aka some 'stocks i never posted </3)
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morgana-ren · 7 months
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I DONT KNOW IF YOU WRITE FULL FICS BUT IF YOU DO PLEASE WIRTE ONE ABOUT TGAT LAST ASK.
Just about Astarion sitting in his throne of sorts, in the palace, with tav sitting in his lap. He’s bored, tav sits there- dissociating and wishing they were anywhere else. He asks them if they’d like to do something fun and they say something like “Only if you do my lord” and he saddens some, expecting them to come up with something fun like they used to but they can’t think of anything that he would approve of them doing after so many years of breaking them down and he realizes it’s gotten so dull because tav was the person that brightened his life
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"Awfully dull today, hmm? How would you like to do something fun, my love?"
It's an oh-so rare quiet day in the Crimson Palace, and his favorite source of amusement sits placidly on his lap, silent as the grave and still atop him. Content as he is in the peaceful quiet with solely her company, he'd spend the day with her doing– well, something, surely. It’s been a while since they’ve had any time to themselves to truly enjoy each other’s company alone. In fact, he cannot recall the last time with any distinct accuracy.
It seems so terribly long since they've had any time to themselves. Being a Lord keeps you awfully busy.
In a tender moment, he reaches forward to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face and behind her ear with a long, pale finger. She doesn’t react save a slight instinctual flicker of her lashes. Not a hint of expression on her face. He expects her to lean into his touch as she used to and is almost shocked when she does not.
Odd, he thinks. She hardly even seems to notice anything at all.
It’s almost like she isn’t entirely present.
Still, before he can chastise her, she responds to his bid for her attention.
"If that is your wish, my lord,” She responds to his question, lifeless and monotone. Perfectly obedient, just as befits her, and yet—
He frowns, just a little. It irks him, but now that he thinks about it, he cannot recall the last time he saw enthusiasm on her face– or much of anything at all aside from the blank, hollow mask she has now. Completely impassive and unresponsive in a cruel sort of practiced indifference. 
He studies her for a moment and comes to the conclusion that it reminds him of the robots they found in that strange tower in the Underdark so long ago. Programmed to respond to the right things and make the right moves, but utterly incapable of acting on her own whims. Eternally awaiting instruction. 
Empty. Robotic. Precise and yet disingenuous somehow. Eerily so.
Has she been like this before? Has he simply not noticed?
Perhaps she just needs to awaken a little more. It was such a long night, and he had kept her remarkably busy. She must be exhausted, but surely, she will perk up. She always does. 
Doesn’t she?
“Come, darling. What would you like to do?” He jostles his knees, dandling her on his legs like one might a small, particularly grumpy child. She bumps up and down, only reaching to steady herself on the sides of his throne. 
“Whatever would please you would please me, my lord.”
He groans, rolling his red eyes, a very sudden burst of irritation bubbling in his gut. Always with the My lord, My lord, scraping and bowing like some sort of indentured serf. Proper respect is important, of course, but for the first time in a while— longer than he can honestly think back on, to be honest— they are entirely alone. He is her Lord, yes, but she knew him by another name once– did know him by another name. She knows better than to tease him in front of his vassals but surely—
He can’t remember the last time she said his name. 
His real name. 
How long since he has truly sat by her side and talked with her? Spent time with her? He's been so busy, laying plans and waste, conquering and shedding blood of those who oppose him. The Lord Tyrant, come to rule over his dominion of Eternal Night. She is always by his side, never straying and yet— 
(“I love you, Little Star,” She’d laugh, planting a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose, which would promptly crinkle in annoyance. 
“I’m not ‘Little Star,’ and I’ll never understand why you insist on calling me that.” 
“That’s what your name means, doesn’t it? Little Star? Or perhaps Little Starlight– I don’t really remember.”
“Then why make that my pet name?" He rolls his eyes, annoyed at the use of his own childish moniker that follows him like a shadow to anyone who speaks even a lick of his native language. "Of all the things your brilliant little mind can concoct, you give me a child’s handle? I’m strong, dashing, capable, handsome, fearsome– but instead you choose that absurdity” 
“Because you’re my little star!” And she would smile so brightly that it seemed impossible in the darkness, and he could not help but smile himself. “My light in the darkness. My Astarion, for as long as you want to be. And I love you.” 
His expression would soften once again and he would simply sigh, pulling her close to kiss her temple. The night was cold, but she was so impossibly warm against him, somehow fitting perfectly in his lap and into his heart, where she’d wormed her way in against his own will. The dim firelight reflects in her eyes as she tells him again that she loves him forever if he’ll have her, and he can think of nothing he’d desire more than to ride out the endless night of eternity with her here on his lap, cradled close.)
Something gnaws at him. Something raw and edged with a vicious sort of misery he’d done so well to avoid in ages. He cannot place it but as he looks at her, his stomach is as a dark, abyssal pit, circling and swelling like a maelstrom. 
Something is wrong.
He cannot place the negative emotion, and so he does as he always does now, making the strange yearning her responsibility to soothe. 
He lashes out at her. 
“I’m growing bored,” He says with a cold, cruel edge to his voice. “You know how much I dislike boredom, don't you, darling?"
What he seeks is a reaction. A sudden spark of life from within her. For her to grab his hand and take him to do— to do something. Surely—
And yet, with a motion so fluid that it implies an aged and practiced skill, she slides from his lap down to her knees before him, reaching towards the laces of his breeches. There is nothing behind her eyes as she extends her hand forward to unlace him, hardly even seeing him. Nothing at all. 
“What are you doing?” He slaps her hands away, scowling down at her, taken back by her brashness. 
“You said you were bored, my Lord.”
“And why would you think–” 
Because that is what he’d taught her. 
That her body was built for his amusement; his temple to defile at will. Because of the cold nights in the castle after so many years where he would reach for her, and she would quiver and shake her head with eyes rimmed red and puffy and beg to be left untouched and yet he would speak the words without thinking and she would bend for him any way he wished. 
Because even as she would obey, she would cry and turn away, and he would give it little thought until one night the crying and protesting simply stopped. He thought she had learned. Made peace with her duties and loyalty to him and what it entailed. Mayhaps she had come to realize that her theatrics had little impact on him and surely, he wasn’t so wretched to her now that these waterworks were necessary. His touch could not repulse her so that her weeping was remotely acceptable. She loves him, surely she—
Because he would command her until she would kneel, and so now, she kneels without command.
He sighs, breathing the fire from his lungs, reaching down to pull her back up into his lap. She does not respond, only obeys in kind to his guiding instruction as he settles her back down on his legs. He finds a semblance of patience from within himself which is a strange and unusual feeling, mustering it up to once again ask:
“My dear, what is it that you would like to do?” 
Her head cocks. She does not understand. 
"What would you enjoy? If you had the freedom to do anything, what might it be?"
It takes a moment, but for the first time, a reaction: Confusion. It is slow to take hold but becomes blaringly apparent as it does. It is not as if she doesn’t know the answer, but almost as if she doesn’t understand the question. 
“Whatever you would like to do, my Lo–”
“No, no, darling. What is it you would like to do?” He impresses, harsher this time, and she flinches, recoiling from… something. 
From him.  
If her heart was still capable of beating, he'd be able to hear the way it pumps into overdrive. As it stands, he cannot, but he is aware no less. Her scent changes entirely around him to something that has his brows furrowing. Shortness of breath, dilating pupils, hands beginning to quake— Adrenaline. Steel-edged anxiety. As if this is not a question at all, but rather a test and she does not know the answer, and failure means his displeasure and his displeasure means–
"I— What would you—" She hard-swallows, harrowed by the open-endedness of the question. "—I want what—"
("Come to the meadow with me, Asto," She would grab his hand with a mischievous smile when their compatriots were fast asleep, tugging him up from the comfort of his bedroll. "I want you to come with me."
"It's late, darling. Wouldn't you rather come here and lie with me?" He would try to tug her back down playfully, but would fall against her aggressive temerity, being pulled to his feet through her sheer will. She would stifle her giggling with a hand as she guided him past their slumbering companions, through the tree line and deep into the forest. 
"Come on, lazy boy, come! Come with me!"
"Well, I'm trying to—"
She would hush him and yank him by the wrist, out into the field where he'd first had her, down once more into a bed of wildflowers and long grass. Her melodic laugh like a strange song as she yanks him to the ground despite his weak protests until she would lie her head on his chest and trace gentle patterns on his white shirt against his flexed chest. 
"We don't have to come all the way out here to make love, darling—" He would move to try to kiss her, but she would adamantly press her head against his torso, insisting he stay down in the dirt with her. 
"I'm not trying to seduce you," She would giggle, pointing at the star-spangled sky. "I want to lie under the stars with you." 
"But… why?"
"Because I know we'll have eternity to do it, but it's my favorite moon tonight and it reminded me of you."
He squints, struggling to find anything different about it at all. "I don't notice anything, darling. It looks very much like the moon we see every night." 
"It's so full and bright! Look at the rays!" She holds her hand out as if to cradle a silvery moonbeam in her palm. "It reminds me of the color of your hair." 
She reaches over him to delicately pluck something from the grass, tucking it gingerly behind his ear after she does so. "These poppies are the same beautiful deep red of your eyes in the moonlight. I feel safe here; home, with you. I just wanted to enjoy it for a moment. Just the two of us."
He would wrap his arms around her waist, squeezing so tightly that she would gasp and worm about, trying to return the favor, and yet he would not relent. 
"I want you to feel safe with me," he would whisper into her hair, desperately trying to memorize the scent of it, as if expecting Bhaal himself to come and steal her from his frantic embrace. "Now and forever, I want to feel home in your arms, with you.")
He thinks, for a moment, to return to that meadow, and that perhaps his love— the one he remembers— will return to him. As if her ghost still lingers there, trapped and waiting to be rescued. 
He can’t. 
It is not a meadow any longer, but a battlefield, not unlike the vile destruction left in Ketheric's wake at Raithewait; another one in a million places sacrificed in his conquest for glory, littered with bodies and bones. A graveyard tribute to his power, scorched soil and dead grass. No flowers bloom there anymore— there is nowhere for them to bloom between the suffocating aura of death. 
All that is left is a beautiful memory buried beneath a river of dried blood, and you cannot water flowers with dried blood or wean them on bone dust. That meadow is one moment suspended in time as trapped in amber, impossible to claw free from its temporal prison. He cannot remember the last time he saw that jovial smile she had saved just for him in that damned meadow. 
He cannot recall the last time she said the words "I love you" and cried his name as a preternaturally beautiful siren song without being commanded. 
He frowns, feeling something strange and haunting in his chest. Something viciously clawing up his throat as he looks at her: at her empty red eyes that were once the most beautiful color, full of love and life when she looked upon him; at her contorted expression that used to be as radiant as the sun and he could have sworn that her light could have sustained him through the dark, miserable nights of his eternal curse if only she was by his side; at the frailty of her body that almost seems to creak and break beneath his weight. 
"My love, look at me."
And she does, if not by command, then by instinct. 
"Smile for me, will you? Can you do that for me?" 
And she does, her lips turning upward and raising to reveal two sharp teeth— and nothing more. It's uncanny and revolting and wrong. There is nothing behind her eyes, nothing at all. No light, no life, and certainly no love. 
He used to be able to see himself in her eyes. How her heart sang for him, cheeks blossoming with blood at the sight of him. He could hear her heart rabbit behind her ribs, her hands quaking with excitement to touch him even in the most innocent of ways. Through her eyes, he found his own value— his own worth— and finally began to understand that he deserved love; he deserved happiness. She had healed him, giving almost all of herself to do it, selflessly and without asking for anything in return even as he despised himself and refused his own agency—
And she stares at him now with soulless eyes, he is left to wonder if he has taken too much from her in his quest to take everything. Wonders if she will ever be that lovestruck, moon-eyed girl again, wanting nothing more than to lie under the moonlit meadow with him. If she will ever kiss his eyelids as a delicate butterfly and whisper eternity in his ear. If she will ever feel safe and home and loved around him again in his embrace–
Save she is no longer quaking with anticipation at his touch, but trembling from fear, lost and terrified at the posing of a simple question. Her scent is foreign even as it is familiar and he cannot recall when it began to change. There is something in her eyes that haunts him, and though he can see himself within him, what stares back is not him. A terrible realization rakes knives down his soul, a gaping maw threatening to swallow him whole. A tightening in his lungs, and even as he does not breathe, he does not believe he could even if he tried. 
“Darling?” 
“Yes, my Lord?” 
Her face is impassive once more. Perfect porcelain expression. Not a crack in the mask. Not a wrinkle in the facade. Practiced day in and day out until it becomes real. He remembers it well.
How long has it been? How long since he has looked at her? Truly looked at her? Spoken to her? Told her he loved her? 
Showed her he loves her?
When was the last day he did not command from her that which she begged not to willingly give?
He cannot remember. He cannot recall. 
He demanded and she had no choice but to give. More and more and more. He drained her dry and now where was once his sacred oasis, there is nothing at all. No matter how long he looks, there is never a flicker of anything in her glassy eyes. 
He wonders if even as he has gotten everything he has ever wanted, he lost the one thing he needed. 
It paralyzes him. For the first time in an ageless eternity, he feels something: Panic. 
Even his endless power cannot bring her back. His beloved is dead, and he has killed her. Upon him sits a pretty corpse, empty and devoid of all that made her her. A doll with her face. A doll with barely even that. 
Her laugh, her smile. Her passion and desire and love. The tenderness inside of her and the warmth she once held. Everything that pulled him from his shell and showed him how to love once more. He bloomed in her light– and then snuffed it out entirely. 
How long has it been? How long has she been gone?
Though she may be undying, he realizes with horror akin to a dawning sun that she is gone– and has been for some time. 
“You seem stressed, my Lord? How can I make you happy again?”
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Second part of the story HERE
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axolotlclown · 16 days
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Ok, none of you know what's going on. None of you understand why so many women and young streamers are stepping forward right now. None of you understand why this has to be public.
Multiple large streamers have used their fame, influence, and money to manipulate and abuse those they see as below them. So long as they continue to have fame, influence, and money, this cycle will not end.
This is bigger than just individual cases of sexual assault or other abuse. This is a break down of a much larger problem within the entertainment industry.
These women are telling stories about very powerful men in this space. They are sharing stories of abuse and manipulation. This is very scary for them—it could ruin their careers or lives.
Stop saying "they should have handled this privately." This isn't a private matter. So long as these men have power, they will hurt more women. They aren't sorry. They won't play fair.
By trying to stay silent and bury these accusations, you are ensuring these women never know peace. You are ensuring that more women get hurt.
One day your boss will assault you, and all the men in your life will blame you for waiting as long as you did to speak about it. They will find any reason to blame you. They don't want to get rid of your boss. They hope that one day, they can assault a woman just like you.
This is fucking serious. This is real life. This isn't just some fucking fandom drama that we can bury and move on from. These are real life issues that require real meaningful discussion.
Stop trying to discredit these women just because your streamer is in trouble. You are part of the fucking problem.
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salamispots · 1 year
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slides out of your kitchen cabinet at 4am
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bookshelfdreams · 5 months
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That is certainly - a statement.
What about Jim, who both metaphorically and literally discovers a path for themself beyond what they were raised to be? What about Pete, who learns to overcome his toxic masculinity, his posturing and self-importance? What about Ed, whose entire story is about deconstructing the performance that is expected of him?
What about, oh, idk, our main fucking character Stede Bonnet, whose arc starts with him literally breaking out from the hetero marriage he was forced into despite never fitting in? Who tries (and initially fails) to build a community where he can be himself? Whose entire story is about discovering his own queerness! He starts out not even able to put a finger on WHY his marriage made him feel so suffocated, and then journeys through s1 until he reaches the emotional climax - "His name is Ed"!
Contrast that with Izzy, who has to be dragged into a supportive community kicking and screaming. Who rejects care and compassion, even at his worst, who has to be forced to accept help. He receives the leg and calls the crew a homophobic slur for it, ffs. Only after that, only when people refuse to let him push them away, is he able to poke his nose into something approaching positive human connections. And that's a powerful narrative, sure, in it's own way; but it's hardly the Ultimate Queer Experience, and it's definitely not the "only queer arc".
And Izzy never lets go of the old ways. He never abandons the Blackbeard-era pirate lifestyle for something more positive, not fully. And that's okay, because ultimately, his arc isn't even about himself.
It's about Ed.
Ed keeps repeating toxic relationship patterns, and Izzy is a part of that. He's linked (on purpose, and I wish it had been done more explicitly) to Ed's father; because Izzy represents the poison that was instilled in Ed from a young age, and that has become so entrenched in his system that he can't imagine a life without it. He keeps Izzy around despite being hurt by him because Izzy is predictable, and in that, is safe, even though he hurts Ed; at least it's a hurt Ed is familiar with and can rely on.
When Izzy slowly changes it's to show that Ed is growing beyond the little voice in his head telling him to reject softness, that he can never be loved, that We're just not these kinds of people. If Izzy can evolve from someone spitting boyfriend at Ed like it's a slur to someone congratulating him on getting laid by that same person, Ed can overcome his inner demons telling him the same thing.
That's the point of Izzy's arc. And this is why he has to die, because Ed can never be truly free as long as Izzy is around. So Izzy goes, quietly, peacefully, and releases Ed of the poison; apologizes to him, tells him I was so wrong, and I am so sorry, because that's what Ed needs to hear to move forward.
And that's such a kind, positive way to end the story of Izzy Hands.
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wanologic · 5 months
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Happy Halloween 🦇🎃👻😈
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plush-rabbit · 9 months
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Hole in One
I promised nsfw of him and here it is:)
Word Count: 3K
A/N: I saw art where he has like these fucking tendrils come out of his face hole and I needed that&lt;3
Jonathan has certainly changed after the Super-Collider. Not only was his appearance affected, with his body elongating and compressing, but also features disappearing. However, his personality was also altered. He’s become more possessive, and clingy. He hardly ever allows you to leave your home during your days off. Sure, you have to go and buy groceries and run your errands, but he needs you. 
If you were to be honest with yourself, you like being needed. You adored the attention that he was giving you. You thrived under it, knowing that you were the one that he cared so much for.
So when you come home and he calls for you, touching and rutting against you while you sit on his lap, you roll your hips, feeling yourself leak arousal. It’s been too long since you’ve had any sort of intimacy with him that led to sex. Most intimacy ended right before it got physical, and you knew that would be an issue- he was still insecure about his body- you only had your fingers to pleasure yourself in the shower. Now that he has you on his lap, rutting and whining about how nice and sweet you are to him, you want nothing more than to have anything of him inside of you.
You press your lips to kiss against his jawline, peppering him in soft kisses and letting your hands cup over his chest. His hands find themselves over your hips, going under your shirt to feel your skin.  “I gotta say,” you mumble, “I miss your nipples.” He hisses out your name and you smile as you kiss down his neck. “It’s true. You were always so sensitive-” the pad of your thumb swipes over where they should have been- “always whined and buck when I’d twist them.”
“I wouldn’t whine,” he mewls, looking down at you. Pinching softly as the skin on your stomach, he tilts his head. “I miss being able to kiss you.”
Smiling softly, you press a kiss on the edge of one his spots near the collarbone. “I tried not to bring it up before, but you’re um, kinda flat down there.”
“Huh?”
“You’re missing your dick, Jonny,” you murmur, rimming a hole with the point of your index finger. 
“Oh um-” he clears his throat and the spot on his face divots at the top- “it's in a hole.”
Your brows furrow. “What?”
“Watch.” His hand shots down to his middle, and between the small space that you’ve created, his knuckles bump against your crotch. You roll your hips against his knuckles and he’s polite enough not to say anything. Oh, it really has been a while since you’ve had any sort of action. You watch as a spot forms, swirling and dark, little lines of it rippling around, and you blink and suddenly, you’re staring at his cock. 
With a watering mouth, you realize that it really has been a while. “Fuck Jonathan,” you mumble, trying to keep yourself composed.
“Good or bad?” He asks, uncertainty and insecurity twisted into his words. 
Having to peel your eyes away from his cock, you look up at him. “Mind if I blow you?” He nods rapidly. “Cool.” You kiss at the edge of the spot on his face. 
You sit on your knees, your hands pushing against his thighs to spread his legs. Appearing from the hole, the cock springs upwards, pure white, lacking any kind of spots. There’s a bit of coloration- a light gray that you wonder if it’s supposed to be his own coloration except in monochrome, or if it's blushing. From the hole, his package also exits the spot, resting over the edge. The spot itself is perfectly shaped for him with dark swirling lines around the edge of the hole, but there are no gaps- not an inch of room for you to rim and poke around. 
“You’re bigger than before,” you say in a whisper. Moving closer to his erection, you press your face against it. “A lot bigger.” You can feel your cunt twitch at the thought of him going inside of you. 
He’s looking down at you, his spot dilated and swirling. “You uh- like it?”
It really has been a while for you. You don’t even want to answer him- all that you can think about it putting him in your mouth. His skin is different than before, almost like a latex feel- or rubber. You aren’t entirely sure of the proper comparison but at the moment, it doesn’t matter.
Pressing a kiss against his cockhead, you pull back, swiping a tongue underneath his head. Other than the color and stretched size, it looks exactly like his did before- down to the vein on the underside, the soft curve to it, and the leaking head. You grab at the base of his cock, and he mumbles your names, hands lifting weakly before they fall back to the bed with a thump. Your tongue peeks out and you swipe over the slit, tasting the semen on your tongue.
It still tastes like him.
Oh, you’ve really missed him.
“Can you-” he falters with his sentence- “Please,” he begs.
You open your mouth to him, pushing yourself midway, already feeling his cockhead hit the back of your throat. He’s much longer than before. Pulling away, a thin sheen of spit covers him. Your hand wraps around his base, pumping him, and you return to him, feeling his thighs jolt at the touch. Taking him into your mouth, you can feel how hot and heavy he feels, and he leaks into your mouth, and you greedily swallow it all. 
There’s never been a stronger want than now. You need him. You worship him, suckling him and hollowing your cheeks, desperate as he is to make him cum. Your jeans rub against your crotch, and you can't think how his heavy scent fills your lungs and makes your mouth water. Unbuckling them right now is the least of your concerns when you can just rut against the friction with the thick material. Pulling his cock off of your mouth, it bobs and taps against your face, leaving your spit sticking to your skin. You watch in awe as it reaches well past your face. Even thinking about it going inside of you makes you want to skip the foreplay and just put it in. The sting of it might actually be worth it. 
Pushing yourself back against his cock, you take him again, shivering at how thick even his pre-ejacualtion is. Oh, your poor Jonathan- too pent up for who knows how long. You;d make up for lost time, you’re sure of it. You won’t let go of his cock until the both of you are spent and even then, you’d want him to be buried deep in your cunt, stretching and hitting deep at your core. You moan against him, the thought of him filling you with his seed and keeping it inside of you makes your cunt throb.
Your jaw almost hurts with how you have to push so far down, choking and spit dribbling in the corner of your mouth. But he sounds so good, moaning and panting your name with his hand holding onto the crown of your head. You focus on slurping him, suckling on his cockhead like it would produce you milk, moaning and rubbing yourself against the seam of your pants while he jerks and moans. 
He calls your name, broken and low, his hand fisting into your hair. “I’m gonna- Fuck!” He tilts his head back, bucking his hips into your mouth, his cockhead pushing against the inside of your cheek. “Your mouth- I fucking-” The sound of you gagging echoes in your ears, and you can feel strands of spit spill from your mouth. 
Your hand grasps onto his package, massaging and rolling the pair around in your hand. It feels so heavy in your hands- burning and weighted with pent frustration. Adjusting him in your mouth, your lips circle around the middle of his cock, his seed spilling and filling your mouth. It’s thick, and gooey, resting flat on your tongue and when you lean back, spills past the corner of your lips. Looking up at him, there are tears in your eyes, and your mouth closes, swallowing the seed and letting it burn down your throat. 
As you stand, you can feel how slick your underwear is. It slips and sticks and you need to take off everything. You’re too hot- too aroused to even want to consider giving him a show, but as he looks at you, his cock stays erect, twitching as a gossamer string of cum hangs and drips onto the floor.
Your clothes fall into a pile and he’s looking at you with his spot swirling and erratic, and you can’t help but smile. Oh, that has to be a good sign.  There’s fleeting spots of gray that stretch over his face, and you’re pulled on the bed. 
Laying on the bed with your legs bent, you watch as he dips his face down. The hands on your legs squeeze, and you suck in a breath through your teeth. You can feel his face nuzzle against your thighs, soft little upwards strokes that lead down to your cunt. 
A hand lets go of you, and you wait, and wait, the anticipation killing you and making you throb. You think about calling his name, wanting him to do something other than just stare at you. Something wet slicks against your cunt, and you yelp, body lifting and skin crawling with goosebumps. It’s wet and feels slimy- a feeling that you aren’t totally opposed to. His tongue- you think it’s his tongue- slides around your cunt.
“I’m sorry! I just- I wanted to try- Are you okay?” He peeks his head up from between your thighs.
“I uh- No, no. That was just a surprise. Keeping going,” you say breathlessly.
Your hands fist into the cover and you feel him lap at your cunt. It oozes over you, thin and viscid, snaking down the inside of your thighs to the bedsheets. You buck your hips. Gasps and moans fill the room, and you need him to keep going. His tongue zigzags over your cunt in fat strides, the point of it liking upwards around your hardened clit. Your hands find themselves at your breasts, pulling and twisting at your nipples. 
He does such a good job with whatever he’s using. 
“Fuck, Jonathan!” You yelp, lifting your hips when something else laps at your cunt, when something smaller and thinner teases at the edge of you, dipping in to feel you clench around him, but pulling away with ease. “No- Fuck, inside, please,” you moan, bucking your hips.
It doesn’t feel like it’s his hands, and it can’t be his hands because they’re holding your thighs, stretching and pushing them away. You don't have much time to think about it when your clit is rubbed with the flat of his tongue. 
Something wet is against your crotch and you aren't sure what it is, it feels like it's a lot- thick and slimy. You grind against his face with stuttering hips and a twitchy cunt. Wet, clicking sounds fill the room, his tongue working you into a frenzy, scuttling around your heat, and his face buries deeper as if he can’t get close enough, as he has to be in you- or you in him considering how his holes work. He eats like a starving man which isn’t completely untrue- and he’s simply lapping and swiping at your sex. 
Gasping and panting, you keen at how close you are, and in what is the cruelest he has ever been, he pulls away. You look up to see something slither back into his face hole, and he’s shining in your arousal, and his spit. 
Your face is flushed and eyes squinted in frustration. “Jonathan,” you wail, a hand shooting down to finish the job yourself. Except a hole stops you, and your hand shows up on the other side of the room, reaching for you, and grabbing for nothing. “Jonathan-”
“I wanna feel,” he says, grabbing at the base of his cock, and swiping it up your cunt. His head touches at your clit, and a jolt causes you to arch your back. He slides it back down and his cock enters you.  You pull your hand back, fisting when you feel him.
His hands find themselves back at your legs and he bends them, letting your cunt stretch and you feel him push further into you. Hands grips below your knees, and your hands bend to rest beside you. His thrusts are heavy and strong, and he’s bent over, looking into you as you whine and writhe under him. 
Frantically, he’s burying himself deep, and you can feel it all- every twitch of his cock, the way that it stretches and makes you want to cry that it’s far too much, but you’re unable to speak, too lost on the feeling of him finally being inside of you to actually think clearly. He ruts into you, and you stare at the hole in his face. He’s so much bigger than he was before, towering over you, having to hunch himself over to keep you at face level. He’s unforgiving, whimpering and cursing under his breath. He bullies your cunt, and it’s clear that he really needed this- that he needed you. You can hear soft gasps, and moans that sound deep and strained, and you think you see his hole twitch and spasm when you call his name. 
“Jonathan,” you mewl, tilting your head backwards. “‘S feels so good.” Your words are simple, mind hazy and muddled as the man before you slams his hips against yours. Sex is nothing like it was before, and you think it has to do with whatever built up pressure the two of you have had. You arch your back, your body shaking and squeezing against him as an orgasm crashes through your body. “More, more,” you plead, your hands reaching to grasp at his forearms, clawing at his skin. You don’t now why you waited to fuck him- you wouldn’t have if you knew that he was this needy and pent-up. 
The spot on his face is enlarged and swirling. Staring it feels too much- like you’re going to get sucked into it and never come out. You wonder if his holes feel good too. Reaching a hand, you swirl it around one near the crook of his elbow. He thrusts into you sharply, groaning and bending his head down. 
“You feel so good,” he laments. Something jolts inside of you- he sounds off, echoey and deeper. “Love how you feel.” he thrust into you and you gasp, fluttering your eyes close as he bullies your cervix. Through fluttering blinks, you watch as his jolts and the spots stretch over, almost encasing part of his shoulder in black. You wheeze and close your eyes when he pushes himself deeper into you. “‘S all mine.” You feel something wet drip on your chest and when looking, it comes out of his face hole in thick, dark drops. “I wanna be deep inside of you.”  He speaks in a guttural voice as he rocks his hips into you. 
There’s a knot in your stomach that tightens with every thrust, and you whine and moan, twisting and jittering as he pistons into you. You can’t bring yourself to speak, only moaning and wailing the closer that you get, the more that he fucks you in a way he hadn’t before. 
“Never wanna let you go.” You return the sentiment by clamping around his cock. “I wanna fuck you,” he slurs, giving short, quick thrusts into you. “Fuck you till you’re full.”
His spots swirl and move and the way that he speaks isn’t his voice, but an echo of it, devoid of emotion, only hunger and possession that lays mixed into the vowels and constants. You really do think you’re going to be sucked into him with how serious he is. 
Your body shakes and stutters as you reach your high, clamping around his cock, whining and clawing your nails into him to keep him close to you. 
“Where?” He asks, his voice melding to sound more like him. “I wanna- Where?” He calls your name, weakly and shakily pushing himself inside of you. His body jolts and twitches, the hands on your squeezing and scratching your skin. “Can I cum inside?” He lowers himself, resting his forehead against your own. “Please. I wanna so bad,” he mumbles. 
“Inside, please,” you mutter,  reaching up to kiss at his skin that burns under your touch. “Wanna feel full.” It’s enough to set him off, chasing his high, fucking you through your own. You squeal, legs twitching and body feeling as if it's on pins.
Even as he reaches his high, he doesn’t relent- his thrusts get sloppy, but they still hold the heaviness to them. It’s like he’s making sure that when he spills into you is going to be too buried inside of you to even leak out.
Past the twitching and calling of your name, he lets his cock warm inside of you, pulling out with a groan as if leaving you is too painful to even do. He lays beside you, his cock twitching against his thigh, leaking a thick cream that can barely be distinguished from his own skin. He takes heavy breaths, fingers dancing over the bedsheets in an attempt to calm down. 
You turn over, resting your hand over his. the middle of your thighs feel wet, and sticky. It leaks down and leaves a trail of warmth. His spots are smaller, back to his regular size, and while they move, they aren’t as erratic as they were before.
“That was good,” you tell him. “Fuckin’ good.”
“Mhm,” he agrees with a high-pitched voice. “Really good,” he agrees in a breathless voice. “Think we can go again?”
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spookberry · 9 months
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Why is the Pool at Haunted High an actual giant cup of water tho
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inklore · 6 months
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i love people who write for underrated characters and fandoms. i love people who barely get 100 notes and keep posting. keep writing. keep doing what they love and not letting lack of interaction completely hinder their enjoyment on here. you’re strong. you’re valid. you’re literally the backbone of the writing community on here!!!!
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jestroer · 1 year
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I love being a part of hermitcraft fandom, not a single normal person in sight, I think sometimes am i being too weird and then i see my mutual being absolutely fucking insane on dash and think ah no im fine actually 
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