#I don't know how to end things

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The math just adds up!

[yeyinde]

You want a baby. Simon can't get over his hangups to give you one. The solution to both problems? Johnny.

18+ SMUT. breeding. mildly dubious consent. Johnny feasts on your pussy and then does his best to knock you up while Simon watches. slight body worship. bastardization of religious imagery. Mean!Dom Simon. rough, messy sex.

He's not the type to saw off his own hand to feed you, but would rather find a third man to satiate you both. The only one who can care for you, he said. Can't do that when he's dead, can he?

Maybe that's why he calls for Johnny.

down boy. eager mutt. lil' pyedogs got himself all twisted up in a rutt. help him, won't you, pet?

Johnny's softer than Simon but only just. This margin of distance, however, could be the gaping maw of a canyon for how wide it really is when scaled down to fit. Boxed inside a narrow bed—on your belly, cheek on Simon's knee; ass up, legs spread. Johnny behind you—colluvium to Simon's mountainside, but still so broad, so thick, your hips twinge with the effort of keeping your knees so wide apart.

You feel it whistling through the chasm when he licks his lips behind you—a loud, lascivious smack, a wet suckle—and feel the burn of his stare riveted on the split of your flesh. This bare seam Simon swears he found nirvana tucked deep inside of. A buried ravine. Aquifer he quenches himself on.

A pilgrimage Johnny has been aching to take.

And that's what this is, isn't it? Yatra to the hidden piscina. A procession to pollute the tarn—something Simon can't bring himself to do.

Bad genes. Trauma—sticky, noxious tar that oozes from the rotting filaments; festering deep inside. Cancerous: a mass you long to cleave from bone but know it's not cosmetic. Not just the ball joints, or the studs, but the foundation itself. If you start tearing up pieces now you'll have nothing but an empty plot and a pile of damaged debris.

So:

Enter the third man.

A tool. Vassel. Pays fealty by fucking a baby into your womb.

It's what you wanted, isn't it?

(yes, but—)

It happens faster than you can keep up with. Hands on your hips. Coarse hair tickling the back of your thigh. Warm breath against sticky, wet flesh. A broad nose parting your folds. Inhale. Exhale on a deep, reedy groan.

"fuck, ye smell heavenly, doe."

Simon hums before you can peel your tongue from the roof of your mouth, answering for you with a brassy invitation: tastes even better, Johnny.

It's all the permission he needs before he pushes his head closer to your bare cunt, groaning as his tongue cleaves a silky, thick line between your folds. Gorging himself without much preamble. Hands curled around your hips like expensive silverware, pulling you back into the wanting, eager suck of his mouth.

All at once, it's too much. Your hips shift, squirming away from his tongue, the too-sharp press of his teeth against soft, sensitive flesh. Mewling, whimpering into the rain-wet fabric of Simon's jeans.

His hand falls on your head. A gentle tap. Behave, it says, but you can't.

Johnny tramples over that thin line between pleasure and ecstasy, blurring them both until it becomes pain. Overwhelming. Shoving you towards the edge before you've readied yourself for the fall.

"Can't, Simon, can't—"

The words elide, slurring into a high-pitched whine as Johnny feasts on your cunt. Devours you from the inside out—all teeth and tongue, sucking your clit until your thighs cramp from how tight your muscles tense, bleeding lactic acid over sore flesh. The scrape of his stubble over your folds, chafing them until they are raw. Swollen. Drenched hole fucked with the spear of his tongue, digging so deep you begin to fear that he's trying to crawl inside of you. Salt your womb with his own two hands—

"Can take it, birdie," is all Simon says before his hand slides down your arched, trembling spine. Fingers digging into the meat of your cheek, spreading you wider for Johnny to eat. "Look how eager he is. Can't get enough of that sweet cunt."

"It's—it's too much—"

You don't feel him move. Can't see much from the blurry tears in your eyes. But his other hand whips out, cracking over your untouched cheek in a firm, burning smack. One that makes Johnny moan when it lands. Cruel. Open palm. Hard enough to leave a welt in the shape of his hand—something that makes him groan when he sees it.

"fuckin' hell—" his fingers dig into the aching flesh, grip bruising.

Johnny peels his wet, open mouth away long enough to pant into the slick spread of your cunt, resting his cheek on the swell of your ass. "Bit rough wit' 'er, Lt."

Simon considers it. Body shaking the bed when he shrugs, leaning back to trail his hand back up your spine, curling over the arch of your nape. Keeping you still as you sob into his knee. "She likes it."

"know she does. Fuck, Lt. Can feel 'er little pussy twitching. Tryin' tae suck me in."

Another hum. The grip on your asscheek eases as his hand peels away, sliding over swell before notching a finger between your cleft. Dry. Rough. It drags down your seam until it brushes over your fluttering hole, calloused tip digging in.

"soft, too, ain't it?" He asks, words mockingly cruel in their conversational tone. Nonchalant. But Johnny's hands tighten on your waist, palms slick with sweat. Glueing to your flesh. You can tell he likes that. Likes the way Simon talks about you. Demeaning and brutish. Butcher selling a piece of meat. "Bit of a tight fit at first—" he curls his finger inside of you, stretching your sore walls with the width of his knuckle. Sinking in deep. Another follows before you can remember how to breathe around the sting. "But swallows you up like a goddamn dream, Johnny."

His breaths grow ragged. "Fuck, Lt. Look at th'."

It makes you clench up around Simon's fingers, embarrassment scorching through your chest. "Please—"

Neither of them acknowledge you. Simon's fingers split, spreading wide apart as Johnny shuffles forward for a closer look, and nearly choking on his next inhale when he does.

"such a pretty fuckin' pussy—" he says it like a curse. Spitting the words out on a snarl. Angry, now, for reasons you can't discern slobbering over Simon's leg. "God, Lt. ah cannae—"

Johnny shifts back. You hear the clink of a belt. The rip of a zipper. Choked groans barely swallowed down as Simon buries his fingers inside of your weeping cunt over and over again, blunt tips cruelly skating over a spot inside, just behind your navel, that makes you feel liquid and loose between your hips. Debris floating down a whiteriver.

Pleasure peaks with each brutal thrust until you're howling into his leg, unable to move with their hands on your body, holding you down. Making you take it. Making you come undone as Johnny watches.

"fuck, fuck, Lt—she's gonna cum, ain't she?"

"Wanna feel it, Johnny?"

Simon's name falls out of his mouth on a whispered prayer. Drenched in thick reverence. Arched in need.

"aye, sir—" there's something about the hush of his voice, the way it slurs into putty. Enshrining his need in a halo of gold. It sends shivers down your spine. Heats you up fast like a fever. Sends you screaming over the edge—

"gonna miss it, Johnny. She's squeezin' me so fuckin' tight—"

Whatever else they say is swallowed by the keen clawing at the hollow of your throat when you feel the blunt, fat press of his cock knocking against your swollen, stuffed rim.

It's a burning thing—a sharp, heavy ache. Knock, knock. Simon spreads his fingers again, forcing you open. Pulling your hole wide apart for Johnny's engorged head to push up against.

It feels like being split down the middle. Ripped apart. Simon's fingers flex around your nape, thumb brushing soothingly against the knob of your spine.

Can take it, he mutters, brassy and low. A rumble just for you. Gotta take it, birdie.

You forget why. Why you need Johnny's too big, too fat cock inside of your cunt until the head bullies through, scissoring Simon's fingers apart until they're pressed tight on either side of the flared glands. Squeezed between your taut rim and Johnny's cock.

Johnny makes a noise like you've gutted him. A gutwrenching sob. "Oh, shite, Lt. M'—m'nae gonnae last—"

"gonna cum inside 'er, Johnny? Knock my pretty birdie up?"

Right. Right. A baby.

There's a heavy push. Your flesh wrenched apart to fit the fat, throbbing length of his cock—

(the cock that's gonna knock you up—)

Simon's fingers slip out of you as Johnny bucks forward, burying himself deep inside with a long, throaty groan. It's a horrible sensation—a bellyache. Without the splint of Simon's fingers forcing you open wide to near numbness, you're forced to feel the thick girth of his cock. Rim fluttering, spasming over the flared base. Too much, and somehow, not enough.

You sob through it. Each one ripples through your chest until it feels like it will collapse. Every inch of your body burns, throbbing. You don't think you'll survive this ache—

Johnny sets a brutal pace. Likes pistoning into you in quick succession until you're nearly howling into Simon's thigh before slowing to a crawl. Force-feeding you every inch. Making you feel every single one. Long strokes that batter the plug of your womb, bullying against the aching seal of your cervix until the flashes of pain, the savagery of this pleasure, makes you feel sick.

Getting fucked by Johnny like this is both a punishment and a reward. Baptism in hellfire.

Be careful what you wish for—

"gonnae fuck ye 'til it takes, doe. Knock ye up. Want th', don't ye? Aye. Can feel it. Feel this little cunt beggin' fer ma cum. Dinnae worry. Ahm gonnae give it tae ye. A' o' it, doe. Every—fuckin'—drop—"

Each awful word lands like acid on your spine. Chewing through flesh, tissue, until it melts bone below. Liquified. Helpless.

And with Johnny's hands on your hips, anchoring you in place as he hammers into your sore, abused pussy, possessed with the need to carve a space inside of your flesh where only he fits, rots, and Simon's hand on the scruff of your neck, holding you down, there's nowhere to run. Nowhere to escape the ragged breaths that spill from Johnny's slick mouth, the desperate way he pumps into you—thrusts growing sloppy as he stretches towards the precipice they dangle you off of, kicking and screaming as the scent of iron fills your nose, as his flared cockhead scrapes over that place you thought only Simon would ever know. Bluntly battering into the altar that sits, nestled behind your navel, like he's allowed.

Holy offering in a handful of seeds he'll sow over fecund land until something grows.

"Look at you take it," Simon coos, sticky, damp fingers petting over your tear-stained cheeks. It smells of loam. Salt. Iron and ozone. "So pretty when you're gettin' bred, ain't you, birdie?"

It rips a mournful keen from your chest, a feverish moan following on its heels when the lewd squelch, the echoing slapslapslap of Johnny driving into your cunt fills your ears. So wet, so messy, you can feel the slick drying, tacky and thick, on the inner crease of your bent knee.

"He's gonna put our baby in you, ain't he, birdie? Like a good mutt—"

The hands holding you over the precipice let go. Johnny's answering moan spears into your head, fluttering around the pulsing heartbeat of liquid bliss frothing in the pit of your belly. Overflowing over the rim.

Too much, you think, but that's not quite right because you can't feel anything at all except the length of his thick cock lodged deep inside you. Throbbing in tandem with your second pulse.

"gonnae cum, Lt. Gonnae—oh, fuck, Lt—"

His voice is a warm river washing over your spine. Pooling ecstacy. Something heavenly. Divine—

Molten gold blooms in the pit of your belly. Cockhead spitting against the seal of your womb as he cums, filling you to the brim. Fucking it into you even as his cock softens, unable to pull out he says.

Feels like fuckin' heaven, Lt.

"ain't she just?" Simon volleys back, sounding oddly dissonant. Off-key. "Pretty little birdie got what she wanted, huh?"

The drawl of his tone—acid-scorched, electric—forces you to blink through the tears, lifting your aching, wet eyes upwards at him. Searching.

He has the eyes of a predator. Leonine. The gaze of a beast after it's devoured something whole. His touch is as gentle as he can be—a rough, cracked scratch over your blistered cheeks—and when he meets your divining stare, he coos.

"Maybe I'll 'ave a go next time."

In the pounding, soporific slurry of your mind, you can't wrap your head around the words. Can't make sense of them. Struggling to keep your burning eyes open, even.

Not that it matters.

Johnny huffs a scorching breath of laughter over your sweat-slicked spine before wedging his forearm under your belly. Keeping your hips tipped up as he falls into you, resting his broad chest against your back and smothering you into the damp mattress.

"Yer cruel, Lt," he rasps, chin nuzzling over the arch of your shoulder, cock giving a feeble twitch inside of you at something you can't seem to piece together.

"m'jus' givin' my pretty bird exactly what she asked for." Huh? He prods, fingers tapping over your cheek when your swollen eyes slide shut. "Forgettin' y'manners, ain't you? Say thank you, pet."

With Johnny's half-formed chuckle echoing in your head, you mumble the words out on an exhausted sigh.

"an' say thank you to this mutt f'knockin' you up."

It comes out slower this time. Sluggish. His cock gives another twitch as he buries his face between your shoulder blades, smothering a groan.

"Sweetest thing, Lt. Christ—"

"more where that came from, Johnny. Jus' you wait an' see." Another tap. You mewl in response, feeling war-torn and achy. Unable to open your eyes for a second time, all you can do is whimper, burying yourself into his thigh. Pleading, silently, for clemency. Later, you think. Later—

But Simon has other plans.

"Fallin' asleep on me, birdie? Ain't even gonna give me a chance to put my baby in you? Greedy little thing, ain't she?"

Buried under the weight of Johnny as he peppers sucking, open mouth kisses over the width of your shoulder, cum leaking out around the softening plug of his cock, all you can do is snuff out the sob on the arch of his knee, resisting the urge to bite instead.

"Maybe next time then, eh, birdie?" Since you've been so good for this mutt, huh? Maybe I'll give you a reward.

Just be careful what you wish for, huh, birdie.

[egophiliac]

I loved your drawing(and I love your style in general) with Leia in your recent post! If/when you have time can we see more of her in your style? I get so happy whenever I actually see people mention/talk about her and she’s not just forgotten because we didn’t get to see much of her. 😭

thank you! 💙💙💙 Leia/Leah/Lea/whatever is fascinating to me. she is the ultimate unknown. what was she like? how involved (or even aware of any details of the invasion) was she? Silver's basically a physical carbon copy of his biodad, so what did he get from her? like, I understand why the two of them kind of have to stay as these super vague and mysterious figures -- the whole point of them is that their story ended 400+ years ago and they're not really relevant anymore (and. well. the more that gets explained about them, the less that can just kinda be handwaved as "oh the politics were Very Messy") (we can sit here and theorize all day but let us acknowledge that, ultimately, canon gave us almost nothing about them post-Meleanor and we'd just be making things up). I do still wonder about her though! RIP Lea, we never knew you and we probably never will.

actually you know what, as long as we're here, I think I WILL go ahead and just make some stuff up about what Silver might've inherited from her instead.

[rocketbirdie]

face value

[woodensteaky]

Someone is being swept off his feet

[thirddoctor]

Belinda's plotline is kind of a horror story, which would be very interesting if that's what they'd been going for.

She's kidnapped by a creepy guy who wants to marry her, and she's rescued by another guy who also comes off as kinda creepy to her, and she doesn't trust him or want to be with him, but conveniently he can't take her home so she has to stay with him for a while. And she's forced to start trusting him as they go on various adventures together, but then she sees him casually torture a guy and she has a moment where she doubts him again, but she's able to sort of brush it aside, and she even tells him how amazing he is.

And then she gets stuck in another creepy man's conservative utopia, where she's a housewife married to the man she's travelling with and they have a daughter together. And deep down she knows there's something wrong with this, and she even has a moment where she has to scream because this isn't her life, but she forces herself to keep on believing in the fake world and her daughter, and even when she gets her memories back her daughter is still there and she feels compelled to protect her. She shuts herself in a box, knowing she might be trapped there for eternity, because what else can she do? This is her daughter, right?

And then the girl fades out of existence and she forgets her, but the man she travelled with can't bear to let the girl go, so he rewrites the universe to save her... and rewrites Belinda's whole life in the process. Suddenly she's always been a mother. This has always been her daughter. Once again, she's had a new life imposed on her by some creepy guy, and she doesn't even know it's happened. He doesn't tell her, he just says goodbye and leaves her with the child she never used to have.

Will she ever feel the wrongness of her new reality? Will she ever have a nagging feeling that this isn't her life?

[mymarifae]

guys twitter dot com doesn't like when you criticize toriel's parenting decisions. don't do it

[arttsuka]

isabella and phinease qpr? /lh

Yes

Rewrite of that one scene because I didn't like it

Bonus:

[solarmorrigan]

“Oh shit, what’s wrong?”

Steve watches, horrified, as Eddie reaches up with his free hand to swipe at the moisture gathering beneath his eyes.

“Nothing, man,” Eddie croaks, and Steve doesn’t believe him for a moment.

“Did I hurt you? Is the bandage on wrong? Too tight?” Steve becomes aware as he speaks that he’s all but clutching Eddie’s hand in his own and makes a conscious effort to loosen his grip.

This only seems to make things worse; Eddie makes a noise of protest and grabs more tightly to Steve’s hand and then looks twice as mortified as before, and that’s not at all what Steve wants.

Changing Eddie’s bandages is a goddamn ordeal; there are so many of them, and they seem to be everywhere, and Eddie doesn’t have the good drugs anymore, just Tylenol, and he’s always exhausted and sore by the end of it all. Steve doesn’t want to make him feel worse.

He would start fixing it, if he only knew what he’d done.

“Eddie,” he says softly, “please tell me what’s wrong.”

Eddie shakes his head, swiping under his eyes again. “It’s seriously nothing, it’s stupid. It’s just…” he hesitates, and Steve squeezes his hand encouragingly. “It reminded me of my mom, what you did, with the little – like, the little kiss on the bandage when you finished putting it on. She used to do that.”

“Oh – shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, like, overstep, or–”

“You didn’t–”

“I thought it would make you laugh or something, not drag out some sad memory, and–”

“Steve,” Eddie cuts in more firmly, “you didn’t. I’m not fuckin’ sad, it just – kinda hit me weird. That’s all.”

Steve purses his lips, staring up at Eddie from the kitchen floor, where he’s been kneeling in order to work at the bandages. He’s not sure if he should get out of Eddie’s space now, maybe give him a minute to himself, because Eddie is still holding onto his hand, and Steve still has another bandage to change out, and then Eddie rolls his eyes at him.

“Stop looking at me like you ran over my dog, man. I swear to god, I’m fine. It was kinda nice, actually, alright?” Eddie huffs. “Like, I forgot about that, until you did it, so it was– it was kinda nice.”

“Oh,” Steve says.

“Yeah. So do you think we could just…” Eddie gestures at his cheek with his free hand, and Steve nods.

“Yeah, lemme– I’ll finish up.”

The bandage on Eddie’s cheek is the last to change out, and Steve tries to make it quick. He has Eddie hold his hair to the side as he works, mostly to give him something to do with his hands – there are a million hair ties still floating around the house from before Robin cut her hair (Steve finds more every time he vacuums, he swears the things multiply in the dark), but Steve’s found that giving Eddie some kind of task keeps him still while Steve deals with disinfectant and gauze.

He's gotten the process down to something simple and efficient, and it feels like he’s done too soon. Eddie takes a sidelong glance at him when he takes his hands away, though he’s obediently holding still until he’s given the all-clear.

“Done?” he asks.

“Almost, yeah,” Steve says. “One last thing.”

Slowly, in case Eddie wants to pull back, Steve leans in and presses a featherlight kiss to the center of the bandage, holding his breath in shivery anticipation of Eddie’s reaction.

“That alright?” Steve asks quietly.

“Uh.” Eddie drops his hair and turns to look at Steve, eyes wide but dry this time. “Yeah. That’s– Actually, no.” Steve’s stomach drops when Eddie shakes his head, but then Eddie goes on, “I think you should do it one more time. Just, like, to make sure it works.”

“Yeah?” A slow grin curls over Steve’s face as his stomach makes its way back up from where it had landed near his ankles. “I think you’re right. Better safe than sorry.”

Steve leans in again, giving the bandage a quick, gentle peck. Then, because he can’t quite help himself, he presses another kiss to Eddie’s chin. And then, because they’re right there, pink and inviting and slightly parted as Eddie watches Steve with rapt attention, Steve presses one last kiss to his lips.

Eddie barely has time to return it, but he laughs when Steve pulls away. “Pretty sure my mouth was never injured, Steve.”

“You sure?” Steve shoots back.

“I mean– Well, you could check,” Eddie offers.

“Yeah, I could,” Steve says, leaning back in for another kiss – one that he thinks should be much more thorough.

All in the name of proper care, of course.

[Prompt: Kissing your partner's wounds]

[feal-the-grinch]

Agatha's quiet pleading here is killing me. Mouth agape, she shakes her head. Agatha knows why Rio (Death) is here, she feels it, yet, her disbelief is clear, and she still holds hope Rio won't do it.

But then, Rio takes a first step towards her, and then another. The next shot shows Agatha realising that Rio is going to take their/her child. The only person who has ever loved her is going to take away the little being Agatha already loves with her entire heart and soul...

It's no wonder Agatha's defences went up right after. In her eyes, from the moment Death took those steps towards her, Rio chose her job over Agatha and Nicky. From that moment on, something broke between them.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[aquanutart]

desert flygon

[sweetsouldhavernas]

paint me like one of your french murfs

[halflifebutawesome]

genuine question am I the only one around here that sees the gman as actively antagonistic or am I the outlier

[johnnyshrine]

★ 016 // “Mourning A Fate That Hasn't Happened Yet”

[luna-loveboop]

There is sooo much fun contrast between Breath of the Wild and Age of Calamity Link, and the one I can't stop laughing at is SHIELD SURFING it is ridiculous!

Like here's Shield surfing in Botw-

It's pretty, and if it's rainy I can slide even more. I do it for fun off a nearby hill if I have a shield to spare. I press Y or X to do a fancy kick or spin, and I can attack some monsters with it passing by. The greatest danger with shield surfing is Link hitting a rock, his shield breaking, and him dying or using a fairy/Mipha's grace. More likely he eats some a lot of apples. Outside of Link potentionally breaking a leg tho, it's fun! I once caught a horse in botw by shield surfing, I spun and accidentally flip-flopped onto her, named her Flip-flop in remembrance. If I do some kicks and jumps while shield surfing Link will even laugh and make happy sounds, which shows he's enjoying it. Fun happy times in botw while shield surfing :)

Then there's Shield surfing in Aoc-

Link screams HYAH! or some other raging and loud battle cry, as he hops on his shield and speeds, not towards, not around, but straight into whatever monsters stand in his way. The agonised cries of dying monsters fill the air as Link turns into a tunnel of pure deadly force. Is he going uphill? downhill? Doesn't matter, he's going, gravity has no hold on him. The worst case scenario you ask? Link shield surfs straight into a bomb barrel. Takes everything out quicker, and he loses half a heart from it. I finished an entire mission using only Link's shield surfing the other day. The game reminded me how to dodge bc it thought I forgot the other controls. I didn't need to dodge, just surf. Aoc Link doesn't go shield surfing for fun, he is on a mission and he becomes a whirling funnel of death.

And I mean all that literally by the way-

Botw Link: Shield surfs for fun and freedom while trying to survive! :D

Aoc Link: Shield surfs to KILL and destroy, he is out for blood

tbc I love Aoc Link he's a sweetheart just a very deadly one

And hey, looking at how the ability controls are explained in the game-

Botw- "Hop on your shield and slide down hills."

Aoc- "Link: One-Handed Weapons / Press X while running to shield surf."

So- in Botw it IS for fun- 'hop on'- whereas in Aoc shield surfing is an attack. hmm

..It makes sense I guess. Aoc Link killed the enemy, and Botw was the one who was killed- but it seems in the end Wild's the one who gets to live.

YEAH so anyways I actually cannot at the moment shield surf in Aoc without laughing bc he is so. so very violent.

I mean look! Look at the difference of scenes left behind after Link goes shield surfing (Botw, then Aoc)

An everybody-lives story is really a everybody-dies story for the enemy huh