#🤤🤤🤤😋

[daikunart]

𝐓𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐙𝐚𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐫 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐳 𝐚𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝟑

[mr4serious]

[starrynightimagines]

Sometimes you just need to be hugged by your familial f/o and have alllll the sadness and stress squeezed out of you like a lemon. They’ll even take you for a treat if that doesn’t work, ice cream? Cake? Sub sandwich? Whatever’ll make you feel even a little bit better they’ll get it for you, don’t be afraid to ask, because they’d gift you the world if they could 🤍

Pr.oship / co.mship DNI

[17gz]

it should be illegal to be skinny and hairless everyone needs to get fat and hairy right fucking now

[christiecandor]

Have a transparent Odin Rick, my pretties ✌️

[kindle-garten]

[khaosrealms]

A CAPTAIN’S OFFER. / john price x reader —- after a hard day’s work, sometimes the only choice you have is to follow your coworkers to a local cigar bar.

a/n: this was something i had stewing in my old docs page that i never finished or released so, with the release of modern warfare 3– please enjoy! i thought you all might deserve some captain loving 🧡 perhaps some sade will accent the experience of this for you all.

“You might just be the first and only person to ever reject a cigar in a cigar lounge, you know that?”

You could play the fool and pretend this wasn’t your ploy, but you’d known the second he’d made the first approach that you had been made.

He’d caught your eye two months back when you first visited the lounge with a pair of coworkers. Cigarettes weren’t your choice of oral remedy but it was for your acquaintances and so— you’d budged. It was a nice-looking place, low light and the alcohol was fine but not cheap. It seemed like it’d be a one-and-done type deal. The kind where you’d talk about the night in off-hand reflections with your acquaintances about how work had been going. “It was really nice”, you’d say, and they would say “That’s great!” in proper response. Rinse and repeat ad nauseam.

You felt ill-fit here. Talking between the smoke and droplets of alcohol that would occasionally spray in your direction from their lips. Retreat seemed inevitable. All the air tasted of under your tongue was burnt ash and chemicals.

Maybe you’d drifted to him almost out of reflex. To something actually alive and breathing sitting there at the bar.

He’d been wearing a beanie then. Black t-shirt and rustic pants. Partially, you’d say he seemed almost— plain. Purposefully. No watch, no rings. Quiet voice, rich and smooth, that type that seemed to dip into the background. An accent, out of state, out of country. Transparent. But it was the scent of him that hooked you. Aromatic, like a dozen spices all pushing out from his lungs, springing out from the cigar smoke that left his lips. Warm earth and rich cacao. You weren’t the type to stare but you could admit that there were occasions. A necessity, perhaps. He’d been with a companion, a woman of fair hair, and you couldn’t help but feel that it made you hesitant.

He was gone by the time you’d left the bathroom to wash your hands.

The convincing took a bundle of confidence and a cupful of energy you hardly had left after your shifts but your coworkers were allowing. Three times you had gone, once without sight and twice with glimpses, and everytime he’d share the company of the same woman. Older than him, but you knew better than to assume, so you hesitated once more. Peeks. Moments. Taking an empty cup to the bartender to make their job easy for the sake of taking one last look. And he’d give. The slightest bit. Enough to let you know, but not enough to allow. You’d asked, once, when he’d left in silence, who he was out with out of curiosity and slight inebriation, and the only answer you’d received was a chuckle and five words.

“Funny. He’d said you’d ask.” Motherfucker.

The bar was empty when you’d arrived, stagnant, bustling elsewhere, but the hustle of the lounge never traveled even close to the bartender. It felt planned, but you knew it was a mentality— you wanted it to be empty. So you ignored the few passersby, the occasional patrons who’d come by requesting a drink, the scent of expensive cologne and cheap product. You’d thumbed through the pages of the drink menu for the good half hour. Sampled a wine, finished a cocktail, sipped through an two thirds of an old fashioned. It almost felt discouraging. Almost, if you weren’t so certain today would be different.

You’d been nursing the last sips of your drink when a hand wandered in from the corner of your eye. And when you lifted a hand to motion against accepting the offering, the face that held it was smiling. Almost betting your response. The scent of his tobacco held between his fingers almost as rich and warm as the smell of it soaked into the fabric of his sleeve.

“You might just be the first and only person to ever reject a cigar in a cigar lounge, you know that?” You’d come to expect the type of anger that came with rejection. The men who’d frequent the cigar bar and scoff at being told no. But not him, no. He’d seemed almost pleased. “Never had a taste for them, that’s all.”

He took response as a sign of approval. Sliding into the seat beside you without the need for hesitation, filling the open gap in there with ease. He’d foregone the hat this time and it’d done wonders at softening his features— but failed to make him any less as catching as he’d been from the moment you’d seen him across that bar two months prior. You’d never realized how blue his eyes were, but here, up close, they were dilated enough to skim the touch of dusk. They smiled with him as he spoke; slight wrinkles that tugged at the ends of his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Late thirties, maybe forties. Sitting beside him, you can only pretend the rush of blood to your cheeks was from your drinks alone.

“Perhaps—” There’s a heft to him as he adjusts in his chair and sets his untouched cigar on the bar counter between you both. Musculature that shows momentarily in the hint of skin you get from his wrist as his sleeve lifts. Gazing down for a moment at him and his offering. “No one’s ever taken the time to help you acquire it.” A taste. “If you’re willing.” There’s no curtailing the smile that sticks to his words. It’s no question; it’s a request, one he knows you’d be willing to accept. One that he’s hoping you will.

“Do the honors.” You abandon your last sips of scotch in favor of partaking in his poison. Pushing the glass towards the end of the counter; canting your seat in his direction. He follows in your movements. With his eyes, with his hips. Inclining himself towards your presence as he trimmed the end off the cigar. Catching it in the palm of his hand and setting it down out of sight.

“Here.” He’s so very precise, you’ve noticed. A measured slowness as he raises the cigar up to your nose; allowing you to breathe in the scent of the tobacco. “Smell.” Hypnotizing. With his words and his voice. When you inhale, the dry scent of maple and black pepper greets you. Teasing an aroma of dark cacao in the back of your throat. You do not miss the look of satisfaction that settles in his eyes as he leans back to light the cigar. Illuminating his features with warm, golden light. When the first puffs of his smoke clears and all that’s left is his form, legs wide and arm rested, it almost seems to be his own words left unspoken. Come, he says. Don’t hesitate now. So you resist— and lean forward, just enough to force him to lean as well. Turning the smoldering cigar towards your lips.

“Don’t inhale.” He rumbles, the vibrations of his voice following to the tips of his fingertips as you breathe in. The taste of molasses and dark chocolate laying itself over the expanse of your tongue. “Out.” You obey without hesitation, and the smell of almond stays in your nose as you exhale; blowing rolling smoke out onto the top of his strong hand. You resist the urge to cough, but it teases at your throat and in noticing, the man can’t help but chuckle. All but a stranger nowadays to that pain.

“Taste enough to catch your interest?” He can try and feign innocence. Maybe all he could mean would be of the cigars and the bar the two of you sat within, but you can still taste the sweetness on your saliva as you breathe in once more. The sensation of him; there at the back of your throat. You catch the corner of his lip tug when you lean back as well. See the blue in his eyes turn navy when the side of your shoe rests against his calf.

“I might have to savor it with something else to keep it down...” A good bourbon, maybe a fine scotch. Or maybe, a name— your long pause leaving him the room to fill it. “John.” So simple. It almost seems as elusive as the rest of him. “John.” And so simple, you know it’ll roll off your tongue just fine for hours. “What do you think?” After two months, it’d be a miracle if he’d get you to stop. But, guessing from the look in his eye, he looks hopeful you won’t. “A bottle should be enough, I’d say.”

[therhaenys]

was this fingers a threat or a promise 🤔

Matt Smith on The Tonight Show starring Jimmy Fallon | Friday 16th September, 2022

[uselessmicrowave]

not a request but can be if you want 👀👀

imagine coming home after a long tiring day at work. walking into your shared bedroom, sentinel remains in the exact same spot you left him.

gorgeous ropes place intricate patterns across his chassis, one strategically placed against his interfacing panel. the ropes there are tarnished with his leaky lubricants, and so is the pillow he is rocking his hips against.

somehow while you were gone, sentinel has managed to manoeuvre the pillow between his legs, and he’s fruitlessly humping against it. he wants to overload, and you can tell by his desperate optics and the cute little whines that leave his dermas once he sees you in the door way.

question is, what would you do with Sentinel now? punish him? or give him what he desperately needs from you

god this is so fucking tasty moni. never has writing something gotten me so worked up. he definitely needs to be punished though.

“I- Baby I didn’t mean- hnn-” His grinding falters and he whimpers, shaking. Sentinel’s faceplates are covered in heavy blue blush.

“You didn’t mean to?” You give him an unimpressed look. Sentinel managed to ruin that pillow and the ropes. “I thought you had better self control than that.”

“N-no!” He whines when you take the pillow from under him. Coolant gathers in his optics, you almost feel bad for him. You hook a finger under the ropes around his chassis, tugging on it and bringing his faceplates down to your level.

“You’re such a naughty boy. I leave for a couple hours and you can’t stop yourself from humping a pillow?” He opens his intake to respond, but static is all that comes out. “You’re so fucking pathetic, baby.” You say with a playful sneer, cupping his faceplates.

“I’m gonna edge you so hard you’ll never think of doing anything without my permission.”

[fat-fuck-hairy-belly]

Hot soup 👍

[mr4serious]

[dawdlecentric]

Yeag...

[tuffington]

ballin SO hard rn

[meirimerens]

it's kind of funny [in a manner of Pathetic] seeing female video essayists/"media analysts" youtubers who obviously hold (hyper)feminity in really high regards get allll angsty and bothered about """"masculine"""" female characters in their precious little media [& by extension, living masculine women in their spaces] & projecting onto them behaviors and beliefs of woman-hating/misogyny/Pick-Me'ism [goddess knows what the fuck that means] like there are not wide-spanning & crosscultural lesbian subcultures of masc/gnc women being the exclusive/preferential partners of feminine women [& vice-versa] in which both sides see themselves as complimentary expression of an expansive womanhood. like idk how to tell you this bestie but outside of them imaginary battlefields flooded by these masculine women in media and real life that the mold in your walls is making you hallucinate masc & fem women Are eating each other's pussies. the scary disgusting masc women you denigrate because seeing a woman step out of line scares and upsets you & the whimsical quirky feminine goddesses you worship are doing three little circles in a giddy dance at each other's feet, putting on a little napkin at the collar and kneeling down to eat. hands alllllll over each other. them long manicured nails leaving marks across women's muscular backs btw. stay blessed.