Riding Tates face, but the boys so turned on he also cums in his pants. ❤️ I love your acc sm
You kept yourself up right with the support of Tate’s chest, the accelerated beating of his heart pounding through his skin and into your palms. His wet lips and tongue lapped at your sopping folds, one of his hands reaching upwards to knead your left breast. He was a moaning, spluttering mess under you, as your hips rut upwards every time he’d slide his tongue inside you.
“Tate, my god, that feels so fucking good,” you couldn’t contain your praise, and Tate couldn’t get enough of it. His cock pulsed behind the confines of his boxers, his toes curling with every lewd compliment that left your parted lips. He devoured you, lips wrapping around your clit and suckling on it gently.
Everything about it felt so intoxicating, and soon he’d formed a tiny wet patch where beads of pre-cum began to stain his boxers.
Every low moan that was elicited from Tate shuddered through your tense body, every minute of his pleasurable assault pushing you closer to your sweet release.
“Tate- fuck- I’m cumming.”
Your declaration had Tate chasing your orgasm, his lips swollen and his tongue aching as they expertly worked at your pussy.
When you came, Tate couldn’t contain himself any longer, revelling in the way your moans laced with profanity circulated the room, and the way your thighs shook around his head.
You didn’t have to touch him, not even once, for Tate to release himself, coating the insides of his boxers in a warm puddle of his seed. You groaned at the sight, letting Tate pepper kisses down your inner thighs between soft pants as you watched the last few twitches of his thick cock.
“I couldn’t help myself,” Tate muttered against your pussy, “everything about you is just so fucking pretty.”
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Machete and Vasco are so pomegranate-and-the-hand-that-slices coded. To me.
Pomegranates are seen as messy, bloody, inconvenient fruits. You slice or tear or bite and in return for your effort you come away underwhelmed, disgusted, and stained too deep to wash. The consumption of a pomegranate is a violent act of defilement, for both the fruit and the eater.
But that is because most do not understand how to open a pomegranate. They have little patience for the precise carving. They see no point in coreing the fruit gently, no reason to be reverent as they pull the quarters apart. When done correctly, opening a pomegranate leaves little mess. Your fingers will still stain, your knife will still slick, but there will be no pool of crimson drowning both you and the fruit.
The seeds are only sweet to those who understand the merit of a light hand and intricate slicing. Why put in so much effort for a food so bitter and clearly armored against consumption? Surely it must not yearn to be eaten.
(^insane about silly catholic dogs)
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gortash sets up a lending library at his estate after seeing durge’s in the bhaal temple. they both know they’re the only people who use them so it turns into a sort of game. durge loves music, so after enver’s last visit a book about viola has appeared in the temple library. enver fancy’s himself a jeweler so it’s only natural a scroll about gem welding would end up in his library. books relating to their schemes, hobbies, pasts, futures, inside jokes and aspirations get passed back in forth. the only extended pause is when a novel about star crossed lovers gets dropped in the bhaal library. it’s weeks before the favor is returned and enver receives a scroll about bhaalist marriage ceremonies. he doesn’t know whether to take it as an advance or a threat, so he accepts it as both.
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