but it's the curls man

I do admit, I’m stalling a bit on writing the next chapter of CF mostly because I want the story’s outline done first. So far I have the rough outline for 6 chapters!

Anyways Enjoy some Wastelander!AU Rhys (basically the crooked feathers universe, calling it Wastelander because it’s easier and more catchy) 

Link to fic

It’s olden times and there’s a man with a wagon pulled by a horse through a forest road. He hears a heart stopping scream of agony in the far distance. 

This is a good man, so he stops, he ties the horse up and he hurries towards the source of the pained cries. 

He finds, in a small clearing, a heavily pregnant male naga in labor. A naga who’s slave collar is still on and who’s been chained with his hands behind him to a tree. 

The naga’s bare stomach is squeezing itself and a small slit in the scales beneath his half hard cock is getting bigger and bigger. Something is making it bulge and then flatten, bulge and then flatten over and over again. 

The man with the wagon realizes it must be an egg. 

The naga, tears in his eyes, begs for help. The man with the wagon tries to free him, but can’t. The naga tells him just to worry about helping him birth the eggs right now, that’s all he cares about. Just save them. 

The man with the wagon says he may have some tools to help get him free, because the naga can’t push properly like this. He races off back for his wagon and the naga begs him not to go. 

As fast as he can, he races back to his wagon and maneuvers it and the horse through the forest and back to the naga who’s straining and straining and gives a hoarse, terrified warning before his slit opens wider and wider as speckled ivory shell begins to emerge, pushed out just on the force of the contractions alone.

With a scream, the naga’s belly clamps down and the egg finally slides out, almost shooting out. He prays the man with the wagon will catch it in time before the fragile shell shatters on the ground. 

Luckily he does. 

The naga pants and tells the man with the wagon to press down on his belly as hard as he can to help the naga birth the rest of the eggs. It’s the only way.

The man with the wagon has a better idea. He has rope. He ties it tight around the naga’s stomach and makes a knot that allows him to pull with one hand and tighten the rope while the other remains free to catch the eggs. 

The man in the wagon cannot help but find the naga beautiful, even like this. His magnificent form swollen at the stomach with eggs, his gorgeous face and piercing eyes now made so vulnerable. The serpentine coil of his tail. His dark, hard little nipples. Even his slit and his cock.

The man in the wagon asks if there’s anything else he can do while they wait for another contraction. He’s hoping there is. He’s hinting.

The naga looks relieved and ashamed at the same time. “Please,” is all he says.

The farmer takes the naga’s cock into his hand. He licks and sucks the blunt, salty tasting head of it to get the naga fully erect and then strokes his shaft. The man in the wagon tugs the rope tight one more time. Then he lets it go so his other hand can press three fingers into the naga’s slit and make circles on the little round bump he finds there. 

The naga can say nothing as he comes. He just groans, then he strains for a whole different reason and then his belly squeezes down so suddenly the man with the wagon barely has time to remove his fingers before it’s time to catch the next egg that the naga births into his hands. 

The man with the wagon makes the naga come again and cloudy white seed shoots from the naga as the pleasure sends his body into one massive contraction. A contraction that pushes out the next egg and the next while the man with the wagon coaxes and comforts the naga who sobs that he’s going to die of all this and then screams that the next one is coming. 

The man in the wagon sees the naga through the birthing of six eggs. 

When he gets the naga free, he helps him into the back of the wagon. The naga curls it’s lower body and tail around its six eggs. 

The man in the wagon takes the naga home, and helps him tend to the eggs until they hatch. The man in the wagon tells them to stay. He could use the help around the place and he wouldn’t want the naga’s former master coming after anyone.

The six baby naga become adults in just five years. Adults that must leave home and make their own way as naga tradition instructs them to.

The house and the farm seem so empty with all six children gone. 

But empty can be good, the naga teaches the man with the wagon. With all the space to themselves, the naga can slither into the man’s room one night and lay beside him. 

The naga say he knows the man with the wagon was aroused by the sight of his pregnant body, and by the experience of helping the naga lay its eggs. The man with the wagon can’t deny it, nor can his hardened cock under the blankets. The naga strokes the man and asks if the man would like to experience it for himself. He can do this for the man. There is ancient naga magic. 

The man with the wagon says yes. The naga reaches down and begins to stroke him. Then the tip of it’s tail teases the man’s balls. The man with the wagon starts cumming and can’t stop as the teasing tip changes him. Gives him a womb, a birthing hole. 

The man with the wagon asks the naga if it hurts to get impregnated. The naga assures him that the way he does it, it won’t.

The naga, hard and thickened with arousal, pushes himself into the man’s new birthing hole and soaks his new womb in seed.

Then, months later, there is a man with a wagon pulled by a horse, going through a forest road. He gives a loud groan of pain and grabs his huge belly. He has to get home fast, because it won’t be long before he’s birthing the naga’s eggs, their first clutch together. And as painful as it will be, the man is aroused by knowing he’s heavy with his lover’s offspring, and that he will be birthing them for him. 

When he gets home hurts and he is hard at the same time and the naga spreads his knees to get a better view of the first egg crowning.

The naga tells him he also is beautiful this way, and he should see what it looks like each time he pushes and the egg comes a little closer to emerging. 

Five years after that, there is a man with a wagon racing to get home because this time the naga carried their clutch and he wouldn’t miss the sight, or the feel, of a creature like that giving birth to his offspring.

Matters of the Heart.

AH/AU. A Klaroline historical story.

This is the first of this type I have tried my hand at. I hope you all enjoy it! It took forever to get this thing done.

Thank you, Ashleigh and Eve, for keeping me going during this whole process! You girls are the best!

This has a few NSFW moments.

Please excuse any mistakes. 

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Caroline’s stockinged foot slid up his back, wrinkling his waistcoat with each upwards and downwards pass. Her naked bottom sat perched on her tall cushioned stool with his fingers pressed firmly in its soft flesh. Her rose colored dress fanned out behind her while the front was clutched tightly in her fist. Only one of her long stocking covered legs and the man currently feasting on her nether regions were laid bare to the morning sunlight filtering in through the window.

Her chest heaved within the confines of her corset as her other hand gripped and pulled at his long blonde hair that had long since been pulled from its tie.

A deep throaty hum vibrated against her core at her tug pulling a gasp from her lips that turned into a soft whining moan as his hot tongue slithered around her throbbing clit.

He pulled back just a hair, his heated breath warming her center, “Shh Love. Your Lady’s maid will hear.”

Her rosy cheeks deepened in color as she realized she had forgotten herself, as she so often did when it came to him, yet again.

Her hips undulated, seeking out the friction and pleasure only his mouth could give her. She felt his chuckling breath puff over her soaking core a mere second before his lips closed around her throbbing nub.

His suction combined with the rapid flicking of his sweet tongue had her gripping his hair tighter, her head falling back as her climax rushed over her trembling body. Caroline’s mouth fell open with a soft cry as he continued licking her vigorously, his calloused hands pulling her hips closer to his face as he extended her high.

The sudden sound of a rapid knocking at her door had her scrambling with a gasp of surprise. Glancing down in fear she was met with equally frightened gray eyes.

“My Lady, are you all right?” The voice of her Lady’s maid inquired at the same time the handle on her door began to turn.

Thinking quickly, she flung her obscenely large skirt and petticoats over his form effectively hiding him from view just as the door creaked open.

“Is everything alright My Lady? You look a touch flush.”

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tooticklishforyoo  asked:

OMG If you get Todoroki's or Bakugou's feet tormented by tickle villains I would die.

bakugou’s feet r super sensitive he would Die…………….

which is exactly why the villain hones in on them after he’s done w bakugous upperbody

bakugous feet r really soft as ive said before cause he only wears boots and he sweats a lot cause its bakugou Duh. so his feet r soft and he tries to kick the villain but the villain gets his feet secured and just. sloooowly rakes his nails up bakugou’s soles and bakugou lets out this broken helpless sound and curls his toes in and its over man. 

(also the center of bakugou’s feet, like right at his arch, is horribly ticklish and the villain just stays there and presses his thumbs in for what feels like hours and bakugou is laughing so hard he’s wheezing and he nearly passes out ok bye)

How different types of music students appear to me
  • horn players: chill
  • Trumpet players: I have no idea I've only heard them practicing and they're LOuD
  • Flute players: either super duper nice and kind of quiet, or straight-up Extra
  • Tubists: cool but tired
  • Oboists: very busy underneath but appear to have their shit together
  • Harpists: the few elusive students of whom I have spotted only one, headed into the single practice room of maybe 2 reserved for harp
  • Cellists: cute outfits and chill AF
  • Bassists: Jazz is ur life isn't it
  • Violinists: super high energy, no chill, it's just go go go
  • Viola players: I may have met one. I'm not entirely sure
  • Pianists: insane pieces of shit who look either hella put together or hella homeless there is no in-between, it's all in or all out man. I have no doubt you've curled up under a piano and fallen asleep there it's not weird
  • Guitarists: pls stop the with fingering jokes they are not funny anymoreeeeee
  • percussionists: I haven't met a whole lot of 'em but the ones I do know are really into marimba ensembles and I hear them practicing at the weirdest fuckin hours of the night
  • I'm probably forgetting some but yeah that's my idea of different music students
7

It’s the way he pulls him closer                         Natural magnetism draws him in   

V app Edition 


Fansign Edition 

The Moment After Suffering

Characters: Thrandiel and Tauriel
Word Count: 2, 280
Summary: A conversation between a banished captain and her king, shortly following the events of “The Battle of the Five Armies." 

It takes her half the night to find him.

Erebor has about it a vast and ceremonious silence, so that traveling down through its chambers is rather like descending into the early darkness of a valley. Her boots make no noise on its stone, and her breaths are lost in its deep, sunless air.

But in six hundred years Tauriel has never once managed to approach the king unnoticed, and so can guess perfectly well why he does not turn when she approaches. 

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What I Call Life (Final Chapter)

Part Twenty of the blangstpromptoftheday mpreg fic.

Parts 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 
15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19

This is the last chapter! I hope it lives up to your expectations and that you enjoy it. I may write more for this verse in the future but until then, this is it for now. Thanks for reading/reblogging/liking and for being patient with me. Hope you like it! <3

No songs in this chapter.

This fic is on FF.net too.

What?

Kurt froze in place, eyes widening as he looked up at Blaine, his heart throbbing wildly in his chest as he took in the shy smile on his ex’s lips and the way Blaine’s eyes watered and shimmered in the streetlights that shined down on them. His words bounced around in Kurt’s head: I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. “You… what?”

“I love you.” Blaine whispered, stepping forward until he was just inches away from Kurt’s body. The heat from his form radiated off him, close enough for Kurt to feel as it surrounded him with its warmth. His gelled curls brushed Kurt’s forehead as the younger man leaned in and then his lips were on Kurt’s, silken and soft, bitter tasting from the wine and slightly salty from his tears. Kurt moaned softly, sliding his arms around Blaine’s waist as he pulled his love closer, his fingers clenching in the smooth fabric of Blaine’s shirt as they continued kissing, ignoring the bustling people around them as they stayed wrapped around each other.

It wasn’t until Blaine pulled back that Kurt remembered to breathe again, his hazy eyes blinking open as he took in the beautiful sight of a smiling Blaine before him. “Do you mean it-”

“Yes. Kurt, I’ve always loved you. I just… didn’t know if I was ready to say it again. But I am now.”

“You’re sure?”

“More than anything.”

“Really?”

Blaine laughed, his voice airy and light. “Yes.”

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Listen

Ahahaha…so I’m terribly busy right now because I have to hand in a 15 pages paper for my Japanese politics course but then a friend was talking about Kamenglish on twitter and I had to watch the Tokyo hi-Imagine video and now I’m dead and my life will never be the same again.

The pleasure is mine…Joker


*cries*

anonymous asked:

No matter what Bucky always has to have his flesh hand anchored to some part of Steve. Whether its tangled in his fingers or hair or curled around the other man's hip during intimacy. Doesn't matter where they are either. They could be in bed or curled on the couch or pressed into some tiny corner of hell during a mission.

It started after Steve and Sam found Bucky and brought him to live with them, he wouldn’t talk much but he would always find a way to keep his flesh hand on some part of Steve, he would follow him everywhere either holding onto his belt loop, holding his hand or tugging at his shirt.

Sam said noticed this right away, but it didn’t bother Steve, he knew Bucky wanted to stay close to him just in case he thought this was all a dream.

Sam said it was a coping technique and to help him adjust since Hydra didn’t give him any special treatment or attention.

Steve didn’t mind, he would tell Bucky that everything would be alright, kiss his hair, stroke his face softly and ensure him that nothing bad will happen.

After a while Bucky started to talk but he still latched onto Steve, one day Steve had to ask why, “Because I don’t want you to go where I cant follow.”

That brought tears to Steve’s eyes and he smiled and kissed Bucky softly, “Don’t worry Buck, I’m with you to the end of the line, jerk.”

Bucky kissed him back and whispered, “To the end of the line. Punk.”

Send me stucky headcanons, and I’ll write a small headcanon back!