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if I have to encounter one more "hear me out" post with nick wilde or pyramidhead or any human woman I'm going to start biting. freaks of tumblr please share your ACTUAL hear me outs. truly challenging characters or things or what-have-you that you genuinely find sexy and want to fuck, physical possibility be damned
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oughhhh the sinking visceral horror of "I did it all for you" when what they've done is appalling. the look of fierce devotion with their hands bloody, standing in the sickening viscous mess they've made. "I've done everything for you" oh god
a sweet but desperate dom grunting and panting and cooing "I know, baby, I know, you're doing so well, I know it's a lot but you take me so fucking well, my good boy, I needed this so goddamn bad and you feel so good, if you clench on me like that I'm not gonna last long, just a bit more, love—" and a gluttonous lustdrunk sub lost to the sensation hitching and whimpering and sobbing with their arm thrown over their face, chanting, "fuck, fuck, fuck, oh god, it's too much, it feels too good, fuck—!" you agree.
you want me to "sub scribe"? uhm. okay hang on. ahem. wait, my lord, please, slow down! dictate slower, I can't take it all down so fast... my lord, the ink is still wet, I can't—gahh! it's smudging! oh fuck—please, sire, mercy, not so many run-ons at once! these paragraphs are too big, my page can't take it! wh-you... you want me to continue in the margins? oh god, sire, that's... r-rather unorthodox... yes, my lord, whatever you desire. I am merely the tool for you to immortalise your voice with. wait wait wait, hold on, mind the ink pot! it's too much, I have to tap off the brush or it'll—fucking hell, I'm going to drip everywhere—!!
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I'm an 'arthur hides his face in the crook of merlin's neck during sex' truther. join me on this hill the view is beautiful here
accidentally put on my fellow knight's helm today and when I smelled his sweat and musk on the metal I became so undeniably aroused I had to excuse myself from the armoury to go jerk it. is this normal or is my soul in jeopardy be honest
my princess only lets me take my gloves off for her. at all other times I must wear them, saving my flesh for her eyes and touch alone. I feel near to naked even with only my leather when my gauntlets are off, lest I am sequestered with her, and even (or especially) then, to feel revealed in that way is maddening.
"these," she tells me, trailing a delicate fingertip along the ridged hinge of my gauntlet's knuckle, "are the hands of the kingdom, the deliverers of god's will."
then she slowly unbinds and releases me from them, a task so unbecoming of her own silk-soft hands, the duty of a squire carried out by her highness—and with such grace, such unhurried dally, as if she is savouring me.
"and these," she tells me, holding up my hands laid bare in her own warm palms, the only touch that skin knows and that which I have known no comparable hunger for, she says, "are mine."
