Ever since you’ve introduced the idea of puppy Bakugo I can’t get the image out of my head of him dragging his ass back and forth on the floor trying to get his tail plug deeper inside of him and whimpering all the while

he would absolutely drag his ass across the floor because that’s what bad puppies do. I don’t feel like he’d be whimpering though; he’d be leering at Midoriya the whole time, cheeks brick red and tongue lolling out of his mouth because he knows Midoriya does not like what he’s doing, which makes the whole thing all the better in Bakugo’s book.

That he’s getting a nice, spot on prostate massage is almost second to the satisfaction of seeing Midoriya’s frown.

have any thoughts on tentacle face zenyatta👀👀👀

DO I HAVE ANY

HECK YEAH

I feel like it would be so good and slimy. Him kneeling between Genji’s thighs, his tentacles lovingly spread out all over his crotch, holding him close while his mouth with thousands of needle sharp teefies is suckling at him. Whenever one of his tentacles moves, a sucker noisily plops away from Genji’s skin, leaving a perfect brick red mark behind.

Everything is so slick and warm and gooey… 

I really like your work and I don’t want this to sound like I’m attacking you, but I feel as though you fall into racist stereotypes sometimes. you tend to make bigger, darker men hypermasculine and smaller, lighter men feminine and submissive. i just think maybe you should be more conscious of tropes you might write without meaning to. I think you’re a great writer but I really feel you could improve in this area.

I will definitely keep this in mind, Nonnie. Thank you for bringing it to my attention

Persuasion Check

robotfvckers:

Fandom: Overwatch
Pairing: Hanzo/Zenyatta
Warnings: valveplay, PIV, manhandling
Notes: Based off of @nsfwank’s Hanyatta drawing. Sorry this drabble ain’t as good as the pic. orz


The man has Zenyatta on his back before the omnic realizes his presence, orbs scattering in a cacophony of chimes. He fists his servos into his hair, sensors registering its silken texture. The harsh thunk of an arrow’s point inches from his faceplate ring in his aural receptors. Pressure at his wrist, his mechanics whispering as he tugs Zenyatta’s arm over his shoulder, grip tight enough to hurt.

“Do not move.” The man orders, gruff and low, like he is used to being obeyed.

That is when Zenyatta knows.

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