#im v v v v v sorry

[tacticalprincess]

imagining blue collar könig nd im going a bit feral rn 🧑‍🦯 ijk that man will get you pregnant any chance he can get

tw heavy breeding kink, lactation kink, pregnant sex.

blue collar!könig who gets off on being the cause of your wide hips and full, heavy breasts. goes insane seeing you walk around the house barefoot and swollen with his offspring, your soft, plump body a telltale sign of how well taken care of you are by your husband. a sick, possessive side of him loves knowing that when you're out in public, it's apparent that you're taken and claimed by him in every way, that his children are growing inside you.

pregnancy has granted you an ethereal glow that makes it impossible to say no to you, his cock chubbing up at the sight of you so domesticated for him. it doesn't help that your pregnancy hormones have you sopping wet and ready for it all hours of the day, keen on spreading your legs for him as soon as be gets home from work, begging for him to stuff you and make your cramps go away. and who is he to deny the mother of his children in her time of need? it's his duty as his husband to take care of you.

he fucks you as much as he can, the positions getting more and more accommodating as your stomach grows, but no less filthy and desperate on both ends. he helps relieve the pain in your tender breasts by sucking at your sensitive, leaky nipples while his cock pistons inside you, pumping your full womb while he laps at your sweet milk.

he falls in love with your wailing, chubby baby the minute you give birth, and it gets harder to adhere to the doctors orders of abstinence the more he sees how well you take to motherhood. he settles for eating you out after he's put the baby to sleep, helping you relax in the best way after a long night of staying up and tending to them. if you're up for it, he'll have you push your soft tits together so he can rut his hard dick into them, his thick cum mixing with your pearly milk.

however, the moment you come home from your follow up appointment after being given the okay, he's bending you over the nearest surface, intent on knocking you up again. promises to dote and take care of you all over again, as long as you give him another baby (or two or three.) doesn't let you off his cock until he's sure it'll take, only satisfied when your womb is bloated with his seed and your pregnancy tests come back positive. <3

[colealexmain]

nobody: imogen temult:

[sydmarch]

diversity win! the fucked up doctor who tortures people in the woods is gay

[umblrspectrum]

i think the idea of v finding uzis last name hilarious is a really funny one

[bad-and-drawn-that-way]

What about the moment Vox realizes he's head over heels in love with the reader? What made him fall for them, too? I'm such a sucker for moments like that. 😫

Short little drabble from bed! This is pre-hotel! (God, we need more visuals of him. I crave more gif options)

Unread Notification [Vox x Reader]

It snuck up on him.

Vox liked to think he was a self-aware guy. He knew his temper was easily triggered, and he spent years crafting charisma and charm to compensate. He knew he overworked, and though he'd never admit it out loud, he knew his weaknesses. So there was no reason his feelings for you should have caught him off guard.

Vox had a type. Or at least, he thought he did. He was attracted to power. To cutting edge personalities full of ambition. He thought he loved the rush of excitement that came with the more cutthroat personalities, even though more often than not, the repercussions of playing with fire was getting burned.

It was after getting burned once again by the careless hands of Valentino that Vox met you. The two of you crossed paths at a club where Valentino had dragged Vox in the name of blowing off some steam. Vox didn't feel up to the loud and busy scene, but he'd been desperate for Valentino's affection and was hoping his needs would finally be satiated. He should have known better. Because of fucking course Angel Dust had to be there.

It would matter if Vox just cut his losses and went home to angrily jerk off, but it didn't matter if he stayed. He'd never hear the end of it from Valentino if he left. The moth would just complain about Vox being needy. It had happened before.

So Vox was stuck sitting at a bar in a club that he didn't even want to be at in the first place while Valentino doted on his favorite collared pet. When Vox noticed you sitting beside him at the bar, watching Valentino and Angel Dust with similar disdain to his own.

At first, he thought you were just some random fangirl, but he quickly learned you had actually shown up because Angel had asked for a night on the town to recover from a porn shoot. You clearly weren't a fan of how things had developed, but the memory of how poorly things went the last time you tried to intervine in his addiction to Valentino's poison was fresh in your mind.

So despite how badly you wanted to leave the crowded place and just go home, you stayed. Just in case. You couldn't abandon him even if it was clear he was too far gone from Valentino's aphrodisiacs to be aware of your presence any longer.

At first, you were hesitant to voice your own frustrations about the reoccurring patterns to Vox. He was the overlord in a fucked up situationship with Valentino, after all. However, after a couple of drinks, Vox had gone off on several of his own rants and by the end of the night you had both let out all of your frustrations in a tipsy moment of relief. And no, not in the way you're thinking.

Eventually, the two of you left the club. It was late, and to both of your disdain, you'd lost track of the company you'd arrived with. It didn't seem to matter to the warm hell night, as you found an empty park bench to sit at and started shooting the shit. It was the start of an unexpected friendship that somehow grew into more without Vox realizing.

He'd come to look forward to the stupid memes you'd text him while he was at work. He liked coming over to your shitty apartment and despite how much he bitched about getting fur on his suits, Vox had passed out on the couch with you and your hellcat several times during movie nights. Unlike with the Vees, if you came to him to vent about your day, he genuinely listened. He wanted to provide the relief you gave him when he'd vent to you.

The realization of his feelings hit him like a freight train. As blaringly obvious the loud horns and bright lights may have been to any outside observer, Vox had blindly tied himself to the track without even knowing where he found the rope.

You had fallen asleep on his shoulder after the two of you spent the night marathoning some old, poorly written romcom series. There was popcorn on the floor from where you had thrown the pieces at the horribly stupid couple on the screen while Vox yelled at them for their emotional constipation. Your hair was messily framing your face as the tiniest little snores escape you on occasion. There was a small train of drool running down your chin, and Vox couldn't help but chuckle at how gracelessly you slept.

Without thinking, he tossed a blanket over you and leaned back, so he held you against him where he now lay on the couch. His arms draped over your back, and he smiled softly as your cat noticed the new position and hopped up to lay between your legs. Vox closed his eyes, content as he slowly rubbed your back and let himself relax.

He loved the smell of your shampoo. He loved how he had to use lint rollers after cuddling with you, as stupid and annoying as it could be to keep up the habit. It was worth it, just to remember your smile when he'd find a strand of fur he missed. He loved your stupid sense of humor, and he loved how at peace he felt when he was with you.

For as much as he loved his power and business, he loved getting to let his walls down with you more. He loved getting to just be the dorky guy with a bow tie and vest you poked fun at. He loved the time you tried to make him wear one of your hoodies, only for his head to get stuck. He loved you.

Vox's eyes snapped open as the peaceful sleep he'd almost slipped into was snatched away by the reality of his feelings. His heart was beating so loud, he was surprised you didn't wake up. If anything, you just wrapped your arms around him and buried your face against his chest and it took everything in Vox not to explode there and then.

For the entire night, Vox screamed internally as his body shook, and he repressed the shocks and jolts that threatened to spark and wake you from your peaceful slumber. The overlord looked like exhausted shit by the time you rose with the sun, but he couldn't be damned to care. Not when you sleepily rubbed your eyes and laughed like that. Not when your hair was sticking to your face and you said good morning to him like you were meant to start the mornings in his arms just as naturally as you would breathe.

No. Vox couldn't care less about how worn out he was from the realization if he tried. Just like always, the second he saw your smile, everything else just washed away into background static. He cupped your face and said some sort of sassy quip about your bed head, to which you immediately started freaking out over.

He watched as you started to pat your hair down frantically and smiled softly. Oh yeah, he was fucking whipped.

[suntails]

do you deserve to be loved?

[ihatebrainstorm]

Fort Max at a petting zoo + Fort Max being a ref at the puppy bowl bc I think he'd be a good ref

also this was meant to be an ask doodle but I think I accidentally deleted it??? That or I completely imagined someone asking for him...

[rusquared]

love that guy.

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed

{☆} characters furina, neuvillette {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, injury, light angst {☆} word count 2.3k

What was justice?

Focalors had asked herself that question many times during the long nights she spends awake pouring over the prophecy of a dead God, words replaying in her mind like a broken record until the sun rose like a blooming flower.

She was the God of Justice, an Archon, yet she herself lacked the answer to such a simple and yet so very complex question.

How does one define what is just and what is not? How does she know that what she believes to be just is right? Is it justice if one being alone may sway the scales of justice on a whim? What justice is there to be found in the cold, watery grave that awaits her nation?

She does not know.

Perhaps she may never know.

What she does know, at least, is that this is not justice.

It is a mockery of it.

She stands before the bloodied, broken body like the judge, her sword held so tightly in her hand her fingers feel stiff, a dull ache adding to the weight of what she's seen. For a long, horrible moment she almost thinks they are dead – something she would have reveled in, only a day prior – before she sees the subtle rise and fall of their chest. Breathing, but barely.

The rain felt heavier upon her shoulders at the realization – she was not sure if it was in relief or horror.

Her nails dig into her palm, mind stuck somewhere between that abject horror and confusion so palpable she swore she could hear the gears in her head turning.

For a long, silent moment as she stares upon the body beneath the heavy rain..she wonders if this is how it all ends instead. If the world itself will simply crumple in on itself and cease – without its heart, it will wither, after all – long before the waters ever swallow her nation whole.

Because, try as she might to rationalize it, for every drop of rain that hits her like pins and needles, soaking her down to the bone..the body of the imposter is completely dry. Even the water pooling along the stones dares not to leave so much as a splotch against their ragged, torn clothes.

She remembers the meeting so very clearly, and she thinks she is a fool to not have noticed sooner – the Creator upon their gilded throne, finger pointed in accusation at the visage far too similar to their own. The imposter. She remembers the lilt of their voice as they called for their death as easily as one would speak of the weather – and to no one other then herself would she admit the spark of fear it had ignited within her. Because beneath the divine charade there was a sick enjoyment in the way they looked upon the imposter – like a bug beneath their shoe.

She understands, now.

She had thought that perhaps finally – finally – she could do right by her people, by her Creator, if she rid Teyvat of this..intrusion.

Now she sees herself as what it all really is – blind lambs following the herder.

Perhaps she would be considered a heretic under the eyes of the law – beneath the weight of justice, heavy as the heart that bears its sins. Perhaps this is a mistake, one she would come to regret.

But for now, she sheathes her blade with unsteady hands, the sound making her ears ring – for what she had almost done, what she had already done – as she stumbles like a newborn lamb towards the broken body of..

..What, exactly? Human? Divine? She is not so sure what to call them. Creator? No. The name is bitter upon her tongue, now, burning like liquid flame down her throat.

Where once she had spoken it in reverence and admiration, it felt hollow and empty, now.

Her vision wavers as she kneels down against the rain soaked stones, the rain upon her back growing heavier as she reaches a shaky hand forth – and for a moment, however brief, she feels the weight of expectation, of a title she fears she may never live up to, wash away with the waters that fall from the heavens.

The bruises and blood smeared across their skin are like strokes of a paintbrush, their body the canvas from which such horrid art is created. It makes her ill.

Doubt wavers her composure briefly – her position is already unsteady. She has never been seen as an equal to many of the other Archons. Her own people do not see her as their Archon, but an actor in a grand play that they shall simply toss aside and replace like a broken doll the moment she bores them.

What does she have left to lose?

She reaches out again, her hand settling onto their shoulder and turning them onto their back. She..isn't sure what to do, actually. She's never been particularly physically capable – she tended to avoid fights, even if she oft provoked them – and she was certainly no healer.

Yet what choice does she have but to march on anyway? She is in the heart of the city, it is far more dangerous here then anywhere else..she had little time to make her move.

Fontaine was, after all, a nation founded on the principle of justice. To know an injustice has been made against the most Divine..the entire nation was in a frenzy.

Her eyes dart around nervously, hands clasped tight on their shoulders and her lips drawn into a taut line – someone would notice her absence. One of the Archons would point out her absence in the coordination of the search.

Her options were just as limited as her time – she couldn't just take them out of the city. Security was tight, and as much as she fancied herself an escape artist – Neuvillette could hardly keep her in one place for too long – she doubted she could do the same with the limp body of the imposter in tow.

..The Palais Mermonia it was, then.

Her room had a secret entrance that few knew about, and even fewer would dare to traverse. She just..had to hide them there for a bit and hope Neuvillette wouldn't notice anything different.

Probably.

Still, there was the problem of actually..transporting the body. As grim as it sounded. Her only solace was the fact she didn't have to worry about them catching a cold, at least, and their breaths were still audible, if only barely. So she had to resort to some..unexpected methods.

Seeing the limp form of, well, the imposter – she'd really have to ask for something else to call them when they woke up – stuck in a bubble of hydro wasn't exactly on her bucket list.

Then again, neither was treason.

Well, first time for everything, right?

It wasn't breaking the law if no one else knew about it.

..Neuvillette didn't have to know about it, really. It was fine.

She could, of course, technically try to talk some sense into Neuvillette – he'd listen to her, right? She thought she was pretty close with him..but he was also the one person more obsessed with justice then she was. Such a stickler for the law..so maybe she's breaking a few, it's fine.

But he was also pretty devout, as much as he tried to keep his worship private – with Focalors around, nothing was really secret. Maybe she could get him to settle down long enough to prove it.

..How was she going to prove it?

An exaggerated groan escaped her lips as she led the bubbled imposter – she really wished she didn't have to resort to that, it would be a lot a more awkward to explain then dragging the body around – through the winding streets of Fontaine. She's just glad she's already memorized the entire city like the back of her hand..and a little dramatics went a long way. People listened when the Hydro Archon spoke, and she was suddenly very, very glad for that fact, even if they treated her more like a mascot then a God.

And partially because she, maybe, just a little..stole a few documents detailing the layout and a little personal exploration of her own – but what Neuvillette didn't know couldn't hurt him!

After what felt like hours, though was really no more then half an hour at best, she'd managed to drag herself – soaked to the bone with rain – and the conveniently bubbled imposter up through the secret entrance and into her room.

The perceived safety, as flimsy as it was, was..comforting. Until she heard the rustle of fabric, the clearing of a throat and the pop of a bubble as she, in her surprise, popped it – and then the thud of the imposter hitting the floor.

She felt a bit of regret about that part, at least, wincing.

"Lady Furina." His voice was as sharp and cool as she remembered it always being – like fresh spring water, she'd heard it described. Soothing. It did not feeling very soothing right about now.

She turned sharply on her heel, a forced smile tugging at her lips on reflex, every muscle in her body tensed – she probably looked like a wet cat right about now, soaked with rain, but that was the last thing on her mind.

"Do you mind explaining what, exactly, you did?" Not what you're doing, she notes – what she did. He was mad. Oh, she was really in for a scolding now. She twiddled her thumbs, laughing weakly, though it quickly dies out at the awkward, tense silence.

"Well, you see – it's rather complicated! I can– I can explain." Her attempts to diffuse are met with a raised brow and the sharp tap of his cane. Every single thought is plagued with the urge to run, but the unsteady breathes of the 'imposter' keep her rooted in place. "Well?"

She was sweating bullets, her nails digging into her palm as she scrambled for any excuse that could warrant her not getting hauled off and scolded thoroughly at best – she was coming up empty. How was she supposed to prove that the 'imposter' was very much not what the 'Creator' said they were? Their unconscious body was doing no one any favors, certainly.

"The Creator is lying," She blurts out, immediately regretting her impulsiveness when she feels the sudden weight of his stare – the piercing hues of his eyes that remind her just who is the strongest between them. It is not her, she knows. It never has been. "You can see for yourself! Don't you trust me, Neuvillette–?"

Her voice is cut off by the sharp click of his cane as he strides across the room in only a few steps, his height making her feel like a child about to scolded. She hated it, but she grit her teeth through the exchange. She reminded herself that this was for the sake of the 'imposter' and any affront to her ego was..tolerable.

To her credit, too, she didn't immediately lash out when she saw him poke at their body with his cane, turning them onto their back – she wanted too, though. She considered it, but the thought was quickly shot down when his stare turned back upon her, and she felt frozen in place again, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth.

Yet she couldn't shake the sudden tenseness to his shoulders, his brows furrowed and a distant look to his eyes. It was..haunting, in a way.

She knows it well, she realizes. The realization and acceptance, the crumbling of every solid foundation you've ever known – leaving you to flounder in the waves, alone and afraid.

The gentleness in which he picks up the limp body surprises her though, his cane set aside. The rain howls like a horrid storm outside, but she cannot focus on anything but the furrow of their brows, the soft noise that escapes their lips.

"I trust that you know that this must stay between us," His voice is soft, like the gentle lap of waves against the shore, as he sets their body down against the bed, his hand lingering against their cheek with something almost like reverence – and if her eyes do not deceive her, affection. "Lady Furina."

She does not hesitate to agree.

"Well– well of course!" She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning at the feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her skin, a heavy weight that feels like it's dragging her down. "Just what do you take me for?"

He doesn't deign to respond.

It only makes her fume more.

Not that he seems to notice, unbuttoning his heavy outerwear and tossing it on the bed, rolling up his sleeves and focusing on the injured– er..yeah, she really needed a new name for them. Calling them imposter felt wrong.

"So long as you understand, then we will have no problems." She huffs again, pouting and puffing up her cheeks, sitting down on the other end of the bed with only an occasional glance towards him as he worked at peeling away the ragged clothes and examining the injuries marring their skin.

She suddenly felt out of place.

..What was she supposed to be doing?

As if noticing her sudden quietness, Neuvillette sighed, his back turned to her though his attention very much falling upon her. She really hated the feeling like she was being dissected whenever he looked at her. It was unnerving. She doesn't know how anyone else handles it..

"If you are so eager to do something, Lady Furina, then please have something brought up for when our..guest awakens. They will need to recover their strength."

Finally! Something she can do. She perks up, her heels clicking on the floorboards as she darts out like a bullet, unable to stay still for so much as a moment.

Neuvillette, for his part..

Feels an odd sense of serenity as he stares upon the troubled features of the..guest. A peace that lessens the burdens upon his shoulders, the weight of a nation upon his back.

He cannot hear the rain, anymore.

..It must have stopped.

[gunstellations]

In the world I love

_

In a different world

[modmad]

Wait you have a dog?!?!!? Any chance of pictures?

BEHOLD. THE SNOOTLE.

[cashmere-caveman]

putting the franklin back in franklin expedition 2k24 (x) + bonus frauncis at the funeral in question:

[cuteiemonster]

HI. IM PLAYING CATCH UP 24 DAYS LATER DONT MIND ME HERMIT A DAY DAY 1 - ETHOSLAB

[tinycozycomfort]

made by hand

pairing: contractor!joel miller x housewife f!reader

day five of @pascalisbaby and i's joeltober: bondage -> read her day five here

summary: He has nothing to offer, after all; no love letter, no borrowed jacket, no wedding ring. This is all he has to show his devotion, to seal his promise—a fist full of glossy blue and the willingness to unfurl his body and scoop out his insides just to allow you a place to lay. All he can give you is himself.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, bondage, unprotected piv, joel's pov, age gap (joel is 40s, reader is not), yearning, dom/sub dynamics, joel is mushy, fixation, pet names (sweetheart, honey, etc), infidelity (reader is married)

word count: 1.5k

rating: explicit! 18+ only, mdni

a/n: in the same universe as this one-shot but set far enough after to be readable w/out it!

main masterlist

Joel doesn’t know what he did to be able to have you like this—to be able to steal this time from you—when you have so much else.

Even worse, you’re a dream. Soft and gorgeous and strung up for him, belly flush to the mattress with your wrists laid over the knobs of your spine, gathered in a twist of baby blue. 

He sits against the backs of your thighs, his own bracketing the swell of your hips, cock bobbing in a sticky pool over the smooth surface of your inner leg. You suck in a breath and punch out a whine each time you can feel the firmness of him, grazing over every slice of skin except where he knows you want him most. 

He peers down, runs a hand across the link of your wrists, smiling when he sees the way you’ve tucked two fingers into the hollow of your palm—holding your own hand—like you have to discipline yourself one extra degree.

After taking his mouth and his fingers for as long as he’d pleased without too much push-back, your efforts don’t go unnoticed, “Go on and ask me what you want to ask me, sweetheart. Think you’ve earned that much.” 

“Can you touch me?” He can see you tug against where you’re bonded, an extension of your plea.

Joel thinks it’s a sad thing, the made-by-hand contraption he’s used to restrain you—a wide loop of tall ribbon sewn through the center to leave a pair of loose cuffs. He’d originally crafted it because he wanted to give you something pretty—a gift that wouldn’t cause concern or raise any unwanted attention, perfectly mundane when stowed in the safety of your sock drawer. It was the first for-you-from-him that went beyond his body, something he selfishly hoped could also serve as a memento should he ever become just the past.

It took him one weekend to make and two months to bring to you, driving up that long stretch of unfinished pavement and pulling it out of his pocket, red-cheeked and anxious. The seams are jagged where he spent hours sealing them shut, barreling over each other in a weave to keep the integrity, the deep color of the thread more than a few shades off—steel against pastel. He had tried to hide the imperfections, smooth side up in his hand as he muttered some lame preamble about something nicer than using the underwear, sometimes. He remembers the face you made at him when you unwound his hold, no huff of laughter at his break in character like he thought, telling him you loved it. 

It’s the only thing you use now.

“‘M already all over you; already put so much of me on you, in you. What do you mean, baby? Be more specific.” 

“I need you—need it inside.”

He tugs on the center strip—the binding—rolling a finger over the lip to tighten the slack that allows the accessory to be slip-on. That feature, other than making the contraption reusable, alleviated the issue of markings; his stomach sinks when he’s reminded evidence is even a factor.

He bends down, initially careful to keep his cock at surface level when he hovers over you, the bristle of his beard behind your ear making him sigh, that spark of possessiveness bringing something hungrier, “Say it again.”

“Can you please put–”

“Don’t be smart. You know what I want to hear; say it again.”

Tipping forward on his knees, he lets the length of him run down the crest of your ass, passing through where he can feel your heartbeat, shining folds of flesh that beg to be parted—ever the fool who can’t deny you much for long.

“I need you.” 

His chest constricts, heart dimpling underneath where you’re always holding it in your clutch; just the weight of your desire for him is enough to pull his body down through the ground, to the other side of the earth. He needs you, too, so desperately. Naively, in moments like this, with declarations like that, he sees success in all of this—sees keeping you.

Joel leans back, thumb sliding against the stripe of wet at your cunt, peeling back the seam to get a better look at the hole he wants so horribly to fill. His cock aches, heavy and hot and ready to take. 

He wishes he could savor it—tries to every time—but he never knows how long this will last. How long it will be before you attend the couples counseling sessions your husband asks of you. How long before you decide that a house and kids and the life he can’t provide for you might actually be enough. How long it’ll be before you just tire of him. So he’s greedy, takes everything you feed him straight to the stomach; he doesn’t have the patience to chew, in fear of not being able to finish. 

He has nothing to offer, after all; no love letter, no borrowed jacket, no wedding ring. This is all he has to show his devotion, to seal his promise—a fist full of glossy blue and the willingness to unfurl his body and scoop out his insides just to allow you a place to lay. All he can give you is himself. 

And he does—uses that exploring hand to guide the head of his cock to the slip of warmth you so meanly demand him to enter, so sweetly beg him to stay in.

“Again.”

He rolls his other wrist to gather up more of that silk, dragging the mess of limbs higher up your back, both for leverage and to remind you he’s strong—worth that, too.

When he slides himself in, he can feel the squeeze run through to the very tips of his toes, the points of his ears—boiling, syrupy heat that forces his body to lock up, terrified to fall over and take his last breath as a result.

“I’ll give you as much of this cock as you want, honey. Just want to hear a few little words.”

He pushes in firmly despite his threats, and so easily does he meet the end of you, apex of your womb perfectly made to receive him, like you’d been fitted for each other. He pants as silently as he can, setting aside his pleasure in favor of yours, not even to be distracted by his own voice. 

Joel forces as much of his weight as you can handle on the bundle at your back, swinging into you with the power of everything he’s too afraid to confess. He can fuck that reassurance into you, instead—make up for his inability to be confident in those more tender moments with the role he takes in this swirl of lust. 

He can tell by the way you constrict around him that you’re close, the squelch of where you meet heightening every time he moves in to the hilt.

“I’m gonna come, Joel. Fuck.”

“Don’t like askin’ twice. C’mon, focus.”

He bows again, bracing his legs so he can wedge his right arm through the slot at your hip, elbow flat to the bed as he reaches down, in. Your clit is smeared in your slick, running down from where he’s giving you everything, and thinks maybe you understand what he’s trying to tell you without words. He pushes as best he can against the bead, fingers working rhythmically to bring you there, knowing he won’t be able to take much more.

You’re crying now, it seems, from the broken shape your words take as they fall out, “I-I, Joel. I need you. Please. I love you.”

He can’t handle that, the pulse of his orgasm almost immediate, the fierce curl of your cunt around him no help. You whine under him, and if it weren’t for the risk of crushing you, he’d take his mouth to yours.

He fucks you until he can’t, until he expresses his response to exhaustion. He’s heaving by the end, forehead to your shoulder where it’s glued down with sweat. 

It takes him much longer now to come down, to shimmy out from over your body, to release and turn and fold you into his lap. 

Cruelly, he keeps the silk in his palm, thinking he can force another memory into it by making it bear witness to all of this; another knot in your ‘relationship’—as close as this will ever come to being that, anyway. 

Joel breathes at the crown of your skull, hair tickling his lips when he finally decides to break the silence, “Do you really?” And before it has the chance to be taken away from him, “I love you, too.”

[ayoedebiris]

So being a real hero means looking like a villain, apparently. MARIE MOREAU & JORDAN LI GEN V (2023— )

[dailyedgeworth]

today, what if i drew the blue badger like a sonic character