Cove Holden!! This game was super cute, I love it dearly⊠totally different from the usual games I play! I like this particular hairstyle, it reminds me of my own lol
Monsterfucking is so normalized on Tumblr I kinda forgot it even counted as a kink. I thought it was like liking boobs on girls. The basic normal stuff most people like.
"If I stay perfectly still, perhaps a resplendent butterfly will bless my nose with a landing"
Tl: "Why ain't this guy a model?"
Old art:
đŹ 1  đ 32  â€ïž 219 · Just woke up from my hibernation and missed Elliott's birthday! đ Hnnng, so I rushed this RKGK while totally neglecting
i recently remembered something that made me start cackling
THEY ALL SLEEP IN THE SAME DAMN BEDROOM
THE THREE SERAPHIM, LEADERS OF HEAVEN IN PLACE OF GOD AND LUCIFER, SLEEP IN THE SAME BEDROOM
I know for a fact this was how they slept when they were kids and they still do so until adulthood.
do you think when they were kids, theyâd all just run to Luciferâs bedroom when they had a nightmare? Or they snuck into Luciferâs bedroom and started fighting over who gets to sleep closest to him
Iâm not getting over Michaelâs eye mask itâs literally that weird jelly angel enemy. New Headcanon, Michael likes the cute looking angels. I mean he already has Petite El under him.
damn i really need Lucifer and the Three Seraphim shenanigans like thereâs a total of one braincell amongst them and Lucifer is overworking it
Sitting at the farthest corner of the couch in Phainon's presence, is a declaration of war.
And no, you cannot counter this accusation with the fact that you're merely copying his own habit. Endeavoring to win a verbal spar with him is futile to begin with.
âOh,â he tends to begin with a long, dragged out sigh. âHow empty my lap is...â next, he builds his act by letting his head fall back against the couch, allowing his usual composure to macerate with a slump.
âIf only one such callipygian form of my beloved would soothe this harrowing vacancy...!â
It is a task to keep a serious face against his tactics, especially since your smile tends to be his target. If he isn't using his charming word-smithing to get you closer, the alternative will be a full on tackle.
But there's one pacifier to his anxious antics: if you let yourself lean back against the arm of this (un)fortunate couch and rested your legs on his titular harrowingly vacant lap.
At this point, you must pay attention to whether the golden flecks in his eyes have softened, or began to twinkle under the lights. If it's the former, one of his hands would find its home around one of your ankles and began a slow massage up and down the length of your calves â all without breaking that tender eye-contact.
But if it's the latter, he'll rest the heel of your leg on the crater of his palm and lift the dorsum of your foot to his lips ; the first kiss on that patch of skin will slide to your ankle, from where his lips will glide up the length of your calf, slow and steadily. He'll pause at the jut of your knee, and press the softest kiss there yet.
At this point, if you aren't flushed, breathless and dizzy from his teases, you could attempt one thing to get him to finish the rest of his journey â closing your legs right at his face.
Playing coy will only allow you temporary wins, for Phainon knows how to enact revenge at the least expected turns. But this one is successful in igniting that competitive blaze in his gut, and your momentary upper hand will cease as soon as he's pulled apart the gates to his destination with that clingy, firm hand.
Not that you'd resist, you can't. And nothing tells Phainon louder than the jolt that ripples through you when he angles his head up to press his lips to your hip-bone, that you don't want to fight this guest at all.
Yes, not even the subsequent hitched breath upon his nip at your inner thigh, which he will not soothe with his tongue this time, but let his teeth further inscribe the next page of this voyage.
Tenderness and power are weapons in his hands. With which he'll twist, press, intenerate and mould your form to obey his direction, and carve you into the you of his desires.
â
Phainon is less calm and methodical with your hands.
In general, he has a dear relationship with them. Holding hands, linking arms, warming your hands by stuffing them in his pockets during cold weathers, letting his thumb trace constellations upon them even in absence of attention.
But when his heart spills with joy at nothing in particular, or over one specific connection of your thoughts with his and words fail to capture the warmth of his glee? He'll take your hands and press a series of frantic kisses, from the tips of your fingers all the way to your shoulders.
The depth of his feelings is most apparent in these moments, that what a shame it is that he can't kiss every inch of your body at once â even if he could, he admits that it wouldn't be enough.
But he tries, he has no other choice but to try. Because if he doesn't let these waves wash over you through moments like these, they'll drown him instead.
â
Phainon's apologies carry with them a very particular pattern of mannerisms.
He'll first cautiously seek out your shoulders, withdraw like he's been burned when you shake his grip off and then let his hands hover over them for a moment. He'll try to burrow into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, distract you from your ire by pressing his lips behind your ear, and he'll murmur his stream of âsorryâs into that kiss as well. It is sure to have your heart skip a beat.
But since you are no less a prideful individual, you'll huff and cross your arms tighter, but you won't be pushing him off this time. And that is the leeway Phainon will utilize.
He'll let his hands slide down the length of your arms, before winding around your midriff, and his lips will draw a necklace of kisses over the expanse of your shoulder. When his arms have banded together right beneath your crossed arms and your back has pressed intimately close to his chest, he'll offer his encomium to the pulse point of your neck.
And if you're still insistent in your anger when he kisses stars on your cheeks and the side of your head, well, the truly good part is just up ahead.
â
It is no news that Phainon loves to use your lap as his very personal pillow.
Nothing soothes his soul more than getting to lay his head on your thighs, while wrapping his arms around your waist after a long day. His knees will most likely suffer later on in his life from the sheer duration of these prostrations, but for now, they're his own slices of heaven.
You often tease that he's the living embodiment of a puppy, and the way he rubs his face all over your thighs and belly during these sessions, really don't help dispel his canine allegations.
If he's feeling particularly under the weather that day, he'll dare to allow himself to wander further up and trace every one of your ribs with his lips, until he's face to to face with that ultimate evidence of your existence.
He both worships and envies your heart. How lucky it is, to get to occupy that cavern he can only dream of curling up in.
âIs taking up my mind not enough?â you'd asked back once facetiously.
He hadn't replied. But the way he allowed his fingers to dig in to dips of your waist, the blaze that'd ignited in his gaze when he pressed a kiss right over the beat of your heart, answered you loud and clear that it would never be enough.
â
You think âsurpriseâ could be one of the candidates for Phainon's middle name.
The man has always been unpredictable, despite posing as a rather simple person most of the time. His mind is a tortuous labyrinth, full of contradictions and qualities that shouldn't be able to coexist, but in the being known as Khaslana, they do.
Being in his presence can never be boring, and it isn't even stiflingly so. Because somehow, he weaves normalcy into every one of his quirks.
But sometimes, sometimes, you really wished that he'd give you a warning at least.
âMoonbeam, try this!â
Now, when one offers a food item to taste to another, the proper thing to do would be to hold out said item to the person. Not to slant one's mouth over theirs, not to hold them by gripping their jaw and certainly not prying open their lips with one's tongue to push the food article in question.
Phainon does exactly that.
He holds the impromptu kiss for five whole seconds and your lungs completely forget their duty during that timeframe. Spices ignite fireworks on your tongue at the touch of his, your eyes squeeze shut on instinct when he angles your face slightly left to let the last drop of the tangy sauce fall into the cavern of your mouth, the callouses of his thumb scrapes against the edge of your jaw.
You feel as though you've survived a fatal drop when he finally pulls back, your joined gasps create faint smog in the air between your faces.
âGood, right?â Phainon loosens his grasp, but doesn't let go completely and when you find the willpower to glance up at him, his eyes are shining with excitement. Like he'd retrieved a thrown ball for you instead of shoving his tongue down your throat in the middle of a restaurant.
When apparitions of fluttering canine ears wave in front of your eyes, you think he's fed you wine instead of a dumpling (and, really, who can blame you?).
You would've done something equally stupid (which does not include kissing him senseless right back) if his attention wasn't immediately captured by another item on the table.
âOh! Oh! And this!â
Your lover has superhuman speed, and you're not surprised at that, you just didn't expect to discover that by the way his mouth found its way back to yours before you could've even finished blinking.
In hindsight, it's your fault for not bracing yourself when you'd vaguely noticed the fact that he hadn't let go of his grip on your jaw. But still, could he not have been so absurdly abrupt and spared you the embarrassment of letting out a startled squeak, which he muffled with a firmer press of his lips?
Apparently not.
Because he didn't quit gambling with the prospect of making a public scene there, no no. When he was done thoroughly squashing your feeble protests by robbing you off the right of breathing, he dived right back with another sample of âfoodâ.
Again.
And again.
And again.
When you found yourself in the pitches of vertigo from the whiplashes of different flavors on your tongue and the very risky tasting ritual your lover was enacting in broad daylight, did he pull back for real.
But this time, when you could find it in yourself to observe his state over the near obscene slide of his tongue retreating from yours and the heat of your mingled breaths, you saw his eyes not shining like before, but mimicking the daze in your own.
But that's still not enough evidence to prove your suspicions, and luck strikes right there, in the stretch of saliva pulled taut between the widening gap between you two and in the twitching corner of his lips at the way you swallow when the string snaps.
âSweet... isn't it?â the twinkle in his eyes makes him look like the devil incarnate.
You don't know, and frankly you don't care. For this man has poisoned your interest in the food and made what was supposed to be an innocent lunch date utterly unappetizing in favor of something else.
But still, devil that he is, he swivels back to the food like nothing has occured. Like he didn't throw you off your axis and yanked you straight to his.
Leaving you to wonder dumbly as he resumes his babbles on roasted chicken and something else you couldn't care less about, what just happened?
I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesnât feel like a website youâd find them on, so to keep them away:
Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasnât clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed
synopsis : "one-two-three, that's enough for me!" let's properly rephrase that childish, quirky maxim: your beloved, degenerate roomie's horrifyingly psycho!âhis lovey-dovey heart has totally rotted into potent, sappy, deplorable filth he nurses solely for you; then, why must you bluntly ignore and neglect him like some kicked, bruised puppy? he'll go crazy if he doesn't tame you!
frustrated, teeth nibblin' at your lower lip like a bunny to a crunchy, juicy carrot, you utterly fretted, loathed, your current horrid, leery situationâbein' entrapped in a curse-inundated hotel by with your alleged "ex-roommate" whom you've been purposefully ignorin', even though he's hard to miss as a dorky, beefy hunk of a cutie-pie who's undoubtedly perverted.
'cos, seriously, what's with him ownin' that anatomically disproportioned, smutty cat-maid figurine which uncannily, religiously, replicates resembles you down to each individually etched mole, stuffed shamefully deep inside his cloistered nightstand's drawers much to your adorable obliviousnessâceramic, ornate doll face freshly glazed, like the glutton's overly frosted, icky dogpile of lemony cinnamon rolls he eats every mornin', in a mysteriously buttery, goopy residue?
in fact, after leavin' the abominable thing out-n'-about one night, he'd sheepishly blushed whilst donnin' a loopy smile that sheerly implied vice, stutterin'-assurin' to your cute, mortified suspicion that he'd merely "accidentally" spilled a jug of rotten milk from your shared fridge on the voodoo collectible, makin' it so horrendously sticky, and decidedly hadn't washed it from fear of scrubbin' off the delicate, intricate paint job, as though it wasn't homemade. . .
gullible, you'd softly giggled, too frivolous to connect the dots to the virgin boy's blatant lechery; unfortunately, it now adds up in your puzzled, dumb brain far too late! and you're thus stuck here with him and his filth as due consequenceâ
sure, you'll embarrassingly confess to bein' a rather fragile, pitifully-endowed sorcerer as compared to your tiny, estranged clique of classmates, but to be sternly coerced by yaga out-of-the-blue to partner with your creepy, intrudin' roomie was simply aggravating and muddlin', especially since he's unequivocally weaker than youâjust honeyed, powdered eye candy to indecently teethe upon and gobble up! right? absolutely not.
unbeknown to you, this particularly weird outin' was intentionally fabricated, perfectly constructed through gory, barbaric implications if not followed out by your egregious one-n'-only to snare you into a scandalously intimate bear trap among a category of cursed spirit plethora above yours, where you're rendered vulnerable and prettily tremblin' like a spooked newborn fawn, compelled to use your speech once againâto innocently beg, beseech, him to fuck rescue you as deserved!
it's honestly your fault, agonizingly deprivin' the addicted, sleazy man physically, mentally, and spiritually from your soft, melodic voice for a week 'cos he was "too good to be real"?âto clarify, he's not quite sure that's exactly your words verbatim as he somewhat diluted the understandable rationale in your one-sided argument to pacify his insanity, but he'd boldly, waggishly, assumed you're wrong!
perhaps he forgot the critical, revoltin' fact he might've sensually, molestingly, sketched talismans along your spine's lithe ridges to plague you from keepin' friendships aside his, repulsively peer at you dreamily snoozin', scant 'ole lace cami skewed up to your yummy ribs, or jerk off madly catchin' you strugglin' to dry hump your gifted velvet lambie whose beady, glowerin' eyes slyly video you; or, how about him grossly storin' y'er collection of dirty coquette panties, his beloved, cherished artifacts, with the pretense of "washin' laundry," only to nicely lay them underneath his pillow for easy, disgraceful meansâ
naw, he'd eagerly convince you and his own plagued conscience that you were merely bein' "melodramatic" and "moody" 'cos he hadn't bought you that kawaii axolotl warmie plushie for your crampin', lil' tummy last month; he'd feverishly prayed you would just let him pleasurably ease the churnin', brewin' soreness instead, especially by your bleeding, tender cunt squeezingly warmin' his fat, milky, weepin' diâ
oh, if only you weren't so blissfully unaware of his appallin', fanatically affectionate behavior, you'd squirt vomit over naĂŻvely befriending such a polar, vile person. . .
so, actually, what on earth were you doin' right now with the grimy dweeb?ânaked, gently spanked thighs quiverin' spasmodically in the mean missionary he's snug you obscenely tight in, draped prettily like his most prized, vulgar hentai over a vintage, squeaky ottoman, brain nauseously numb and total mush as your pleated uniform miniskirt's bunched up lousily at your lush hips, skimpy, frilly, thin cotton undies halfheartedly shoved aside for his greedy, selfish six eyes to delectably feast, cinched leather school jacket messily unbuttoned to expose your heavin', hickey-splotched breasts, a curated, sacred canvas of fanged, raspberry blots.
"aw, you're moanin' so loud, hon'," gojo cruelly admonishes, tone sardonically sugary, yet his long, thick digits are insistent in bludgeonin' into your gooey, sensitive cunt like you're some needy rag doll he has to tranquilize, appease, akin to a bitch in a kinky heat, your tongue lolled. "couldn't stay quiet another minute? thought 'cha hated me real bad. guess your slobberin' pussy couldn't manage the lie? she's talkin' up a stormâ"
"s-shut up, w-weirdo!" you feebly retort, pleasurably choked out from saturated reality, smudged, contorted face blisteringly rosy and dewy with skated, engorged globs of salty teardrops from his sour, blabberin' comments bullyin' you, as if you weren't wholly drenched, leaky hole puckerin'-blushin' for some disgustin', dizzying lovin' and nasty humiliation. yucky! "i c-can't thâ"
"think?" he lazily, foxily, drawls, bare hand kneadin'-gropin' your squished tits with long-overdue, fantasized attention, calloused palm nudgin' coarsely at your pert nipples beneath your cheeky polka dot push-up bra you unsuspectingly wore; and you're purely squeamish, lovesick, reachin' yet another druggin', heartfelt orgasm. "a freak's fingers have that stupid, bonny head of yours this fuckin' void?"
Imagine having a Drider boyfriend who isn't familiar to human "mating" rituals.
He had to do so much late night researching of weddings, marriage licences, vows, etc... because he wanted to make your relationship official in your way as well as his own.
You figured out pretty quickly what he was doing staying up so late to do "work", snooping through your jewellery, asking about your thoughts on mating...... Soon enough you found his search history and the excitement hasn't gone away since, but because you don't want all of his research to be for nothing, you act clueless.
It's so cute to watch him get all hyper focused when you show off your rings and casually drop your ring size three times in one sentence. You're just giving him a little help, that's all.
The day he plans to propose he keeps suggesting you wear some white, and of course you obliged without a second thought.
The whole day you were nervous, he took you out to eat, and then for a walk afterwards, so when he finally tried to bob down slightly since he can't really go down on one knee you nearly cry.
He looked so out of place, voice cracking while trying to string his words together, all while fiddling with the little box which contained the ring. "So, umm, _____ will you marry me?" He asks, having to try twice to open the box with the ring inside.
The tears finally spill out of your eyes as you jump into his arms saying yes over and over.
more drider husband here
Little note: Would you any of you guys be interested in maybe a spicy drider husband drabble??
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