#enamel sink

[departmentofinteriors]

[chloeeruby]

Sauna - Contemporary Bathroom

[cantankerouscatfish]

have been gifted 2 cassettes (Tears for Fears and The Police) and a stack of plates with sunflower patterns on them that my mum garbagepicked 🎉🎉🎉

[mybrainproblems]

Making my kitchen live-with-able with one small yet aggravatingly expensive purchase at a time 🚬😑

Begging the universe 🙏 that my fridge continues trucking on past service life until the reno 😭

[vibrantbells]

oh no, cute batfam enamel pins appearing on the gram!

Me: LOOK (politely and respectfully)

Also me: AAAA

[natesmithcomedy]

Minneapolis Bathroom

[heckyeahdeathnote]

Kitchen Dining in Boston

[houzersink-blog]

Are you looking for poreclain enamel sinks? Visit https://www.houzersink.com/porcelain-enamel-steel/. Porcelain sinks is the superior evolution of the classic cast iron sink. At the core of the Porcela is galvanized steel with a higher tensile strength than iron that weighs half as less. Baked at over 1500 degrees Fahrenheit, Our Porcelain enameled sinks are twice-fired at 1500 degrees Fahrenheit resulting in a perfectly smooth surface that is stain, chip and scratch-resistant. For more details watch this video.

[vieoeil-riae]

playing with his teeth.... like.... he's got FANGS and you, stressed out, isekai'd, and tired to the bone from all the walking you're doing with the destined one, you, poor thing, have veryyyyy little logic left in your head when you guys finally settle down for the night around a fire.

it's not as dark as you'd expect, much differently from your home, the moon and stars shine brightly without the light pollution blocking it and makes his fur shimmer. and you're staring, because you're tired enough you can't help yourself anymore.

you see the way his teeth glint in the firelight when they peek through his lips, a rare sight considering your dear destined one doesn't talk - his open mouth saved almost entirely for the yips and chitters he lets out when he strikes down his enemies. sharp teeth and lithe muscles, an incredible display of prowess.

it also felt.... almost intimate, seeing his teeth as he concentrates on the knots tying things to his belt. his tongue, pink and soft, pressed between two sharp canines in concentration and he hisses every once in a while when his sharp nails don't catch right on the strong threads.

your staring wasn't unnoticed either, the destined one's senses were nothing to sneeze at so of course he figured out you were staring. he'd known for a while now, tonight wasn't the first time you'd let your gaze fall heavy on him, but he'd never let you know he knew - never looked up and met your eyes. subtly he'd stand or sit a little taller, puffing up because even without confronting the feelings, he could recognise he loved your attention on him.

tonight, your gaze felt more.... just more, and it was distracting him from his knots. tonight he looked up and caught the way your eyes, sparkling with firelight, widened as you were caught. a flicker of mischief in him purred at your flushed cheeks.

cheekily, he tilted his head in question.

after months of travel together, of course you knew what his gestures meant. you were pinned by his gaze, by the quirk of his brow and the small amount of teeth you could see through what was almost a smirk.

god he looked good in warm lighting.

you scrambled over your words, "I just- sorry I'm not trying to be rude, honest! I've just never seen teeth like yours and I was wondering if maybe..."

you stared down at your hands and his brow quirked, urging you to continue.

"if maybe I could see them closer..?" you asked with your cheeks flushed red enough for it to be seen through the fire's red hue. you wanted to see him? look at him? get up close?

fizzing pride trilled in his chest and he nodded. your eyebrows raised in surprise and he could almost see the skittish joy in your irises.

you shuffled over, sitting in front of him on your knees with your back to the fire and got impossibly close to his face. he stopped breathing as every sense became focused on you, the twinkle of your eye, the halo the fire cast around you and the gentle hand you - seemingly unknowingly - brought up to his face.

his eyes weren't soft per say, but they were half lidded and warm enough you didn't feel the need to pull your hand off of it's course, reaching to gently press on one of his canines. the rest of your hand cupping his face, fingers sinking into his fur, as your thumb explored the sharp point of enamel.

there was a thrill to it, as plenty docile as the destined one was around you, those teeth were made for ripping flesh apart. he had the complete capacity to take your thumb, already part way in his mouth, off in seconds probably if the speed at which he dispatched yaoguai said anything. but here he was, letting you, proke and prod him, sitting nice and still and following your eyes with his own.

the soft pad of your thumb pressed down on the sharp peak of his tooth, it was ever so slightly blunter than you were anticipating - but still sharp even when the majority of their potential rested in his bite force. you could imagine how easy it would be for him to draw blood with his teeth, it excited you a little - what a quirk of nature to give such a quiet monkey such sharp teeth.

but also you couldn't help but imagine them on you, thinking about the amount of blood a wound by them could cause, about how the light press of them on your shoulder would feel. you swallowed, but pushed the thought aside, shifting in your spot.

the rest of his teeth weren't as sharp, though when you looked back into his eyes as your thumb edged towards the tooth just behind his canine you were met with a heated look. it took you by surprise, too lost in the sharp feeling under your thumb, but you were met with no resistance as your thumb brushed over the duller, but still pointed tip.

curiosity mostly sated, your own tongue running over your teeth out of pure comparison, you pulled away.

your thumb brushed back over his canine, and your breath hitched at the feeling of the flesh of your thumb pad being held between two sharp points, the light friction sending a spike of jittering electricity down your forearm before the sharp, light feeling settled in the space between your thumb and your wrist.

you glanced back up at the destined one's eyes, they regarded you with intense observation, holding your gaze but flickering to chase the twitch in your facial expression.

you noticed it now, your other hand resting on his thigh and the warmth beneath the hand you still had on his jaw and the new pressure as he'd leaned into it. the slow flick of his tail. his blown out pupils.

your cheeks felt like they were on fire and you swallowed.

you pulled back, thumb dragging against the sharp point of his teeth and sending a new fizz of raw feeling down your arm, almost whimpering at the ghost of the feeling of the tip of his tongue following your retreat.

you averted your gaze quickly, not speaking, and he followed your every movement. the shift of your clothes on you and the ever so slight movement of your heart hammering beneath them.

he smiled. small, proud, and mischievous. you were awfully cute when you were bashful, he should bite you more often.

[smusherina]

bridges burnt - chapter 2 [epilogue series] (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: When an invitation to Gretchen Wieners' wedding ended up in your mailbox, you'd been sure it was a mistake. Only, it read your name in neat, swoopy calligraphy. It was addressed to you. And Regina George, whom you hadn't spoken to in years.

additional clarification: This is set in the universe of yard work, a series of mine that can be found on my page! Reading this one might be a bit challenging without the context of the series :)

chapter 1 / chapter 3

You stared at yourself in the mirror. Your suit was still immaculate thanks to your incessant fiddling, adjusting, and pruning. If not for the gel wearing out in your hair and the sweat beading your brow, the illusion was almost believable. Your rings clinked against the sink's enamel, your silver accents glinting in the fluorescent lighting, while a person did their business in the stall behind you. You sighed and washed your hands.

Damn, the soap was nice. They'd really gone all out for the reception, the fall theme extending even to the cinnamon spice soap bars.

Who were you even trying to fool? You were hiding in the bathroom. You'd arrived on the scene of the reception party in relatively high spirits, convinced all was fine and dandy, that Gretchen was looking to make amends in this small way. But you'd been wrong.

The invitation hadn't been a fluke. There hadn't been some mistake, because on the little plaque where your name was scrawled in neat cursive sat another right next to it. On the round table where you'd be sitting, there would be Regina George directly to your left. On your other side would be Shane Oman. Across from you, Damian and Janis.

You stepped out of the bathroom, a lump still firmly lodged in your throat but resolve found. You'd brave it, be an adult about it. The breakup had been perfectly amicable, for the most part anyway, so there was no reason for you to be so wound up.

"The maid of honour is a major bitch." Amanda sidled up to you as you walked towards your table. She directed you to the bar by the arm.

"She won't let us switch?" You asked, dismayed but not surprised.

"She won't even let you move to the spare table," Amanda said indignantly. "The whole time, I swear, she was lookin' me up and down all judgy."

"Ugh," You groaned. "Can she get your strongest drink?" You motioned for the bartender. The man nodded with a smile, seeming relieved to be rescued from the old lady chatting him up. He was a good-looking fella, tattoo sleeves and a military haircut.

"Anything for you?" He asked you, eyes lingering on Amanda shyly. Amanda leered at him unabashedly, batting her eyelashes while he made her drink.

"Just a coke." You'd been sober for a good couple of years now, free of all substances. You'd had a nasty relapse in college, a disgraceful return to party drugs and obscene amounts of alcohol, but you'd been able to find your footing since. Largely due to Amanda's intervention.

"You gonna be alright?" Amanda asked, for now deciding not to make a move on the bartender. You knew she was biding her time, establishing tension before she struck. She picked up men like a shark.

"Sure, yeah. It's gonna be okay. It's just, y'know, my ex. And her ex. And her nemesis and that nemesis' best friend. All good."

Amanda eyed you warily. You sipped at your coke through a straw. She, too, took a large gulp.

By the time the bride and the groom made their entrance, you were sitting in your spot, desperately trying not to make eye contact with the other occupants of the table. Shane was squirming on your right, fiddling with what seemed to be an engagement ring. Janis and Damian, sitting across from you, didn't seem to have changed much, except obviously grown up.

Janis was still unapologetically goth, though seemingly turned more toward clean, angular lines rather than messy, smudged blacks. She had on a dress and a shawl, beaded bangles and silver jewellery covering her wrists. She'd gotten more piercings since you last saw her. Angel bites on her upper lip, a bridge between her eyes, and stretched ear lobes. There were some bold tattoos as well, such as a rose crawling up her neck and the head of a snake on the back of her hand, extending up her arm.

Damian was in a cute, velvety green suit. His shirt, white with light green fleur de lis patterns, had ruffles going down the buttons. The length of its sleeves also surpassed that of the suit's, which made the whole look seem kind of piratey. His natural hair, a poofy afro, the bulky red-tinted glasses, and the pointy boots he had on gave off a bohemian seventies disco star vibe. He had a very specific aesthetic and you couldn't help but be impressed.

The seat on your left was pointedly lacking a person. Only the plaque was there along with its elegant scrawl. You crossed your legs and threaded your fingers together, bracing for the moment somebody said something to you. Or you were forced to do it yourself.

"So..." There it comes. Surprisingly it was Shane, of all people. "You and Regina."

"Huh?" You made a sound.

"I mean, you're here together, right? That's what I heard." He scratched at his neck, seeming nervous. All the confidence and obnoxious self-assurance seemed to have melted off of him.

"No, you- what? Where'd you hear that?"

"Just some nasty gossip. Don't worry about it. Aaron and I know what it's like." He smiled supportively but somewhere in the crevices of his cheeks, it seemed sad. "Have you been out for long?"

Your eyebrows furrowed. Shane and Aaron? Was he saying what you thought he was saying?

"Um, pretty much since high school. To be fair, I didn't tell a lot of people back then. You know how Northshore was." He nodded along solemnly. "But in college I sort of bit the bullet."

"That's really brave. Aaron and I haven't been out for long, only since the new law passed." He still seemed cautious and shy, but talking about Aaron clearly made him happy.

"When did you two get together?"

As Shane began to tell the tale, you slowly began to relax. Maybe Regina wouldn't even show up. If you and Gretchen were estranged, Regina and she were even more so. Regina had never given you details, but you did know Gretchen had been heavily involved in your shitty junior year. They'd had an explosive, very public falling-out that'd led to a whole lot of drama.

By that point, you'd sort of checked out of high school as well as your relationship with Regina, so you'd paid very little attention.

"Oh, here she comes," Shane pointed behind you, cutting off his own story. You whirled around, back crackling as you twisted your spine.

Regina George, in the flesh. Your mouth watered, pupils dilated, and there was no way you could've suppressed your reaction. Her eyes were locked on yours, a predatory glint in her eye as she strutted towards your table.

You almost didn't hear Damian's whistle or Janis' stunned laugh, but as Regina shifted the white fur stole she had to reveal her shoulders and chest, you went wholly deaf to all but the clack of her heels.

She had on a baby pink bodycon dress with a slit sinfully high up on her thigh, satin hugging her hips sensually. She had on white high heels with thin straps at the ankle and fur at the tops of her toes.

Her makeup was natural, with subtle browns and blacks, except for the prominent blush she'd picked. Her hair was a warmer blonde than before, complimenting her tanned skin. She had on golden jewellery, a familiar golden necklace resting on the dip of her clavicles like a taunt.

She kept on advancing towards the table. You could do little else but stare, slack-jawed at the visage of her. Other people were staring too, you could tell. You could only imagine what Gretchen was doing with her face at the moment, perhaps scowling like a pug or maybe looking like she was about to cry. Regina was but a guest and yet...

Regina was never just Regina. You knew that better than anyone. No matter how she dressed, behaved, or what her priorities were, she was an innate presence that influenced those around her. Gretchen inviting her to this wedding was essentially like shooting herself in the foot.

Regina didn't have to try to snatch the attention of the room, but when she did, there was no competition. And Regina had gone all out. You could tell by the movements of her hands, the way her lashes fluttered, and how her mouth parted just a little. It was obvious, at least to you, that Regina was doing what she did best: Revenge.

"Hi, baby," She cooed down at you. You took a moment to react, surprised by how she was suddenly there, right in front of you.

Her hands reached for you, long acrylics brushing against your collar, then your neck, then the back of your neck and in your hair. Her thumbs directed your head to tilt up. She pulled you close as she leaned down and then—peach lipgloss, glittery eyeshadow, saccharine perfume—your skin tingled where she touched you, sparks going off behind your eyelids as they fell closed, bliss pouring out of your pores as you became filled with it.

You kissed her back, took hold of her hips and pulled her to stand between your legs. Fuck, this was bad. But, fuck, it felt good to kiss her again.

Distantly, like someone shouting into the water in which you were submerged, you realized that this was perhaps the worst way, place, and time you could've reunited with Regina.

Even so, you kissed deeper, licking into her mouth until she made a sound you'd so missed all these years. Just as you began debating the pros and cons of laying her down on the table right there in the open, Shane tugged hard on your shoulder.

"What?" You grumbled, turning to him with a glare already in place.

He was red-faced, and frazzled, but had on a wide grin. "Get it, girl, but calm down. The mother of the bride looks like she's about to implode." He inclined his head towards the long table where all the important people sat. The mother of the bride did indeed look to be on the precipice of a furious blow-out.

"Okay," You swallowed, sense slowly coming back to you.

"Ugh, you're such a party pooper, Shane." Regina pulled away, leaving your palms achingly empty. She didn't go far though. She sat down on her chair before reaching into her white Valentino bag and pulling out some napkins. Then, she leaned in again.

Your eyes fluttered closed and lips puckered. Regina laughed.

"Silly, you have gloss all over your face."

"Oh," Your eyes opened. Gosh, that was embarrassing.

Regina wiped your mouth. Then, she pulled out a compact mirror and fixed her own lips. You watched her do all this. She and Shane started chatting. Apparently, they'd been in somewhat regular contact.

You'd just kissed Regina George. After, what, eight or nine years? In front of the whole goddamn venue. In front of Gretchen, in front of Gretchen's family, in front of basically your entire year from high school.

You got up. "Oh, where are you going?" Shane asked, all innocent. You hoped you didn't look as panicked as you felt. He didn't seem to think anything was wrong. You glanced at Regina.

Fuck. She totally knew. Obviously, she knew you. She could read you like a book.

"Smoke. Be back in a few." You fled.

"I'm coming too," Janis said.

Notes: Sorry for the long break everybody! I graduated and had a party for that! Went on a little trip to the countryside with friends! And now, at last, I'm back at my desk and ready to churn out some long overdue chapters.

Taglist posted separately! Comment on that post to get on it if you want!

[bits-and-babs]

𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 – 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

↳ summary: Miguel, believing he understands the extent of his mutation, takes a bite. Only- you don't react the way he expects. At all.

↳ pairing: Miguel O'Hara x f!Reader

↳ content [4.2k]: 18+ MDNI. SMUT, literally 4k words of porn without plot with a little extra at the end. Miguel's venom is sex pollen (therefore DUB-CON by default), biting, blood drinking (I know he’s not a vampire, I don’t care), oral (f receiving), fingering, use of name mami because I am disgusting, unprotected p in v sex. Not proof read, possibly OOC, I haven't seen ITSV, I was forced to write this against my will (jk) ((but not really)).

main masterlist ୨୧ join taglist ୨୧ ask

Crimson burns itself into your retinas as Miguel steps into your line of sight, and the spider-skull hybrid symbol emblazoned across his vast chest swallows your vision. Brown locks of hair drape across his forehead, over his lashes, and frames the intense scarlet gaze he levels you with. Staring up at the impossibly tall man through your heavy lids, you catch the tick in his jaw, the muscle twitching when he reaches towards your neck and traces his fingertip across the length of your jugular vein with a delicate touch. It tickles, skittering across your goosepimpled skin above your bludgeoning pulse.

"Shut it," he speaks flatly, the quiet lilt of his tone amplified by the silence in the room. Your heart thuds painfully hard against your ribs at the sound of his voice, your toes curling when Miguel settles his thumb and forefinger under the curve of your jaw. His palm stretches the length of your throat, fingers splayed across your neck. You can feel the knuckles of his pinky dig into your collarbone, a reminder of just how massive the wingspan of his hand is. 

"I- I didn't-" you fumble, the words dissipating when you see the fleshy pink of Miguel's tongue drag over the enamel daggers that protrude from his lips. The slight squeeze of his hand across your throat impedes any attempts to regain your train of thought, blood rushing to your head as he applies pressure to the vital blood flow to your brain. 

"I can hear you," he insists, a snarl curling his lips as bitter irritation flashes across his face, burning in the carmine of his irises, "Can hear what you're thinking."

Heat floods your cheeks, prickling warmth proliferating and creeping down your throat. Miguel seems anguished by the sensation of your heart palpitations pounding against the fissures of his palm, his thick, dark brows pinching together as he wets his full lips with the flat of his tongue. 

"Stay still," he urges you, a twinge of something that sounded as though he was pleading sparking through your nervous system. Crushing your eyelids closed, red and navy rotate in kaleidoscopic swirls in your vision as you feel Miguel's hair brush against the curve of your cheek. You whimper softly and flinch at the sensation of the tip of his nose skirting the angle of your neck. You hear him inhale, drawing the intoxicating scent of you into his lungs before letting out a groan, the exhale fanning across your skin. 

"Just a taste," he husks, mindless as he squeezes your neck harder. The pad of Miguel's thumb probes your thrumming pulse, and he moans loudly when he feels your heart lurch at the soft drag of his fangs against your throat. 

"Miguel-" you choke out, his feral grip tightening at the sound of your voice. 

"Fuck," he whispers, whimpers, slowly sinking the point of his fangs into the delicate flesh across the nape of your neck. You cry out, the pain of the punctures pinching sharply, and bury your nails into the expansive muscle of his bicep. Miguel's chest heaves dramatically, brushing your arm with each shuddering inhale as your blood seeps across his tongue. 

It's an odd sensation, the suction of his lips as he draws your ichor into his mouth, but it simmers deep and low in your abdomen, the weird feeling made worse by the vibration of his delighted moan. The gulping sounds his throat made echo in your ears, and you can almost imagine the flutter of his thick lashes as he lathes his tongue over the puncture wounds. 

Miguel inhales deeply as though he's chugged a pint of water, his lips barely departing from your weeping wound as he mumbles to himself repeatedly; just a taste, just a taste–

His wanton tone dries your mouth, your head throbbing with a mind-numbing migraine as you feel the muscles in your body tense. Coated in blood, Miguel chases the blood that had settled into the cracks of his lips with his tongue and savours the last morsels he can find.  

You could cry. Could burst into tears on the spot because Miguel looks gorgeous. He always did, always made your stomach flip when he entered the room and cast his brooding gaze over you, but you felt breathless as you gazed at him now, weightless. 

Fuck, he's so beautiful. His rich, dark features all fight for your attention; the arc of his cheekbones, long lashes dipped low as he takes you in and the way his obscenely large muscles ripple as he leans back to look you in the eyes. 

Blinking slowly, you whine when Miguel leans back into your throat for another taste. Something warm pools in the depths of your stomach when his tongue drags over the chords of your neck. Fuck- are you turned on right now?!

"Hng-Hot," you mumble in embarrassment, feeling a prickling warmth creep over your body. The damp sensation of perspiration clings to your forehead, moistening your hairline as Miguel pulls away from your throat to look you in the eye with a hmm?

"Hot," you repeat, the simmering sensation rapidly roiling to a scalding temperature. "'S too hot, Miguel–"

The fabric of your clothes clings to your back, your fingers itching to rip the material from your body. Miguel looks perplexed by your sudden lack of composure, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion as his eyes flick between your own. 

"Your pupils," he assesses, tone clinical as he reaches to take your chin into his hand once more, "They're dilated– you look sick."

The instant his fingertips brush the skin of your cheeks, you flinch from the scorching sensation that sparks beneath his touch. You pinch your eyelids together, letting out a sob of his name as you frantically attempt to push him away. 

"Miguel, no!" Your voice strains, pleading that Miguel stays away from you despite the evident worry that curls his fingers into tight fists. Fuck, why are you thinking of jumping his bones? It's desperate, a carnal need to rip that stupid fucking fancy lycra suit from his enormous, sexy muscles. You could grind your hips across those abs, ease the sudden pulse in your clit-

You wheeze, the stifling temperature causing your body to shift to autopilot as you pinch the hem of your shirt between your trembling fingers. "Hurts–"

"I cannot help if you push me awa-" Miguel's vexed attempt to reprimand your childish behaviour does little to knock you back to your senses, your eyes dragging the length of his ridiculously formed body with a searing desperation that stops him in his tracks. "What are you doing?"

"Hot, it's too fucking hot, Migu– Shut up–" you beg him for silence, his voice only worsening the frantic, irregular thrum of your heart. It's fruitless, though, because the flitting of his eyes across your body is enough to arc the arousal that blooms through you. 

Concern finally begins to worm its way into Miguel's body language, his hands searching over the messy countertops. He clears his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. 

"Blood sample," he speaks with that air of finality he always led with, "I will take a blood sample. You may be having a reaction to somethi-"

Shame does little to reason with your wandering hands, yanking your t-shirt over your head as he speaks. You're following what he says, but your mind lags behind like a faulty video-call signal. Blood sample, mhm-hmm, yeah, god, you wanna fuck him so bad– reaction?

When you finally pull your head from the neckline of your t-shirt, you find Miguel rooted in place. A needle rests in his loose grip, and he holds it aloft as if ready to take the sample from your arm– but it appears his plan is obliterated as his eyes zero in on your tits, his usually stoic expression rendered astonished by the view in front of him.

"... It's the venom," he rasps, slowly, achingly slowly, dragging his eyes back to your face, "You're reacting to the venom." 

Perhaps it should be a relief that Miguel is a genius and that he'd managed to deduce the reason for your severe discomfort reasonably quickly, or maybe you should feel more concerned that you're experiencing a severe reaction to a venom that he held in his fucking teeth, but the sheer desperation to ease the arousal pooling between your thighs overtook any and all fear. Instead, you frenziedly shove your hand down the waistband of your jeans... Right in front of Miguel. 

"Aye- easy, easy–" he attempts to placate you, but once again, he finds himself lost for words as he watches you flop back into your desk chair, head lolled back and thighs spread wide as you undeniably rub at your clit beneath the denim of your jeans. 

"Ahaaa-" you wail, tears welling in your eyes and slipping down your temples as you rock your hips up to meet the friction of your fingertips, "S'not enough, Miguel- it's not enou- it hurts." 

It's disgusting; the wet squelch of your fingers entering your cunt practically bouncing off the walls. An anguished groan rattles in your chest as you cum. The sensation is as though your orgasm has been spoilt, the ecstasy that accompanied a climax instead curdling into a painful need for more. Slick weeps into the crotch of your panties and jeans, and you rip your hand from your jeans to tear the whole stupid item of clothing over your hips as they arch off the seat. 

"Cariño," you hear Miguel's soft voice urge you to look at him, and your vision blurs as you glance up with tear-soaked eyelashes. You sob when your eyes finally focus, observing the blackness of Miguel's eyes as he watches you get off. The wet sounds get louder, more hurried as you frantically rub your clit at the sight of him, the sound of his voice.

"I can help you," he promises, voice firm. The declaration pulls another devastatingly cruel orgasm from you, your back arching off the seat as if attempting to escape the brutally painful orgasm that does nothing to satiate the toxins Miguel had accidentally inserted into your bloodstream. 

"Yes," you pant loudly, tears streaming down your face as you nod your head wildly in agreement. The ethics of this agreement, sex with him, are lost on you at this moment, far too occupied with the notion of stopping the debilitating clench of your cunt and nerve-searing heat beneath your skin. 

Miguel says nothing as he strides forward, crossing the line of demarcation you had drawn between the two of you effortlessly with his broad stride. His hands immediately find the waistband of your jeans, where they settle just above your knees, and shucks them from your legs as you continue to appeal for mercy. 

"Please," you beg, grasping the arms of the office chair so hard that they threaten to splinter between your fingers. Miguel simply scowls at you from his position between your thighs, kneeling down on the floor and peeling back your drenched panties to gain access to your dripping, fluttering cunt. "Please, Migu-ughhh!" 

Miguel leads with his tongue, pulling the entire length across your engorged clit so slowly that your toes cramp when they curl. You sob loudly, fat tears streaking down your cheeks and throat as you rock your hips up against his face. It's rough and messy, and your clit bumps his nose each time you thrust upwards despite the vice-like grip that Miguel holds on your thighs. 

"Oh my god-" you keen, your fingers grasping onto the hair at the crown of his head to brace against the onslaught of pleasure that drenches you, "Oh fu-fuhuck- don'tcumdon'tcum-" you ramble, eyes rolling back into your skull as the tip of his tongue draws lazy circles around your clit.

"F-Fuck- fuck me-" you wheeze, expelling all the oxygen from your lungs when his fingers prod at the slick entrance of your pussy. 

"Shut up," he rasps, slowly sinking the first two joints of his index finger into your wet heat. He watches your hips raise, thighs spreading wide as you wordlessly whine. "Do not speak."

It's cruel, but there's no malice to his words because he shifts his wrist slightly and sinks the entire length of his index finger into you. You rock forwards to meet it, feeling yourself clench around the intrusion. Miguel can feel it too, you're sure of it, because he lets out a devastatingly sexy hum before dropping his head down to tongue your clit again. 

You try; you truly do, but the mixture of Miguel's tongue on your clit and his fingertip just barely missing a calamitous spot inside you launches the words from your throat before you can stop them. 

"F-Please-" you gasp, "Please let me taste you. Ohh- please don't stop- j-just put it in my mouth, I wanna feel the stretch of it in my thro–" 

"Quiet," Miguel snaps, his voice strained as he pulls back from your clit but hastens his finger's movements. It's there- it's right fucking there, that spot inside you that you know will eviscerate every atom in your body. Your head falls back again, your spine lifting from the chair as you brace against the rising threat of your orgasm. 

"I'm- Oh fuck, I-aham gonna cum-" you sob towards the ceiling, rocking your hips down and taking his maddeningly long digit even deeper. Miguel hums in acknowledgement, resting his still tongue on your clit for you to fuck yourself on. The barbarically wet sound of you sinking onto the length of his finger reaches your ears and–

Sudden, painful bliss bursts through you, a garbled slur of Miguel's name tearing through your throat as static rings in your ears. You feel yourself clench and flutter around his fingers, Miguel's tongue lapping at your pulsing clit and hurling you even further into the rapture that streams through your body. 

Your thighs tremble on either side of his head, knees draped over his robust shoulders. Miguel groans softly and licks and sucks on the mess you've made, slick smeared all over his mouth, chin and nose. You can barely move, your muscles screaming in exhaustion, but-

"M-Miguel-" you whine, shaking your head with tears in your eyes, "M-more, I need more-" 

"Dios mío, mami," he groans into your cunt, and you see white. His oddly affectionate name for you resets your orgasm, and you're teetering over it again. Your feet brace against his back, pushing your heels into the thick, chorded muscles to pull him impossibly closer to your pussy. It's as though your hips have a mind of their own, grinding feverishly against Miguel's pretty nose. 

Through the blur of your ecstasy, you see Miguel's brows lift in surprise in a wordless question of 'already?' It's all you need, euphoria smashing through every nerve ending and setting them ablaze. It soaks his face even more, you feel it gush, and Miguel rumbles with the most delectable groan. At the peak of your orgasm, he inserts a second finger. It brushes against that mind-bending spot inside you that makes your body writhe when the ridges of his fingertips tease the neglected pleasure centre. 

Strands of your hair cling to your sweat-damp face, dried tear tracks wetted again by the flow of more of the salty liquid from your eyes. You look absolutely wrecked; you feel it. So why did your clit still pulse with need when Miguel withdrew his cum-soaked face? 

"God, I wanna fuck you so bad," you ramble, voice stripped hoarse by your constant barrage of whines and moans. 

Glancing down, you note the tight pinch of Miguel's eyebrows. He's straining against the skin-tight material of the suit, the thin canvas clinging to his body so well that you see the lurch of his cock as he licks your cum from his lips. "We should do this all the time-"

Miguel rudely interrupts you, using his godlike strength to effortlessly hoist you from that stupid office chair. He doesn't bother taking you somewhere comfortable, your panting breaths and writhing hips evidence you wouldn't last the thirty-second walk to the sofa. Instead, he drapes you over his workbench, discarding the invaluable equipment over the table's edge and spreading your thighs wide. 

"Never again," Miguel insists, but he'd already revealed his weak constitution at the beginning of the ludicrous mess. Just a taste, he'd said, before leaning in for more of your blood. That same lack of self-discipline infects him now; you can see it in his eyes as he strips himself of the ridiculous spider suit and presses his cock against your fluttering cunt. 

You can feel it, the size of the bulbous head that sweeps through your slick folds. It brushes over your clit, the velvety skin rendering you helpless to the heavenly pleasure that bursts through you. But-

"It's not- it's not gonna go in-" you whimper softly, stretching your arms out to push his hips away desperately. "Oh god, Miguel- I can't take that-"

"You will," he nods firmly with a jut of his chin. He's determined; his eyes alight when you writhe beneath him. It's so loud, the sound of your leaking cunt soaking the underside of his cock in your slick. "You're drenching me, Cariño; you can take it."

Miguel notches at your entrance for emphasis, lightly pushing against where your flesh gives way to his adamant intrusion. The smooth, rounded head threatens to sink inside of you, stretch you impossibly wide. "Dios-" Miguel grunts, bowing his head low. His shoulders tremble, hips frozen in place as he takes deep, shuddering breaths. Wha-

"What's wrong?" You stiffen at the worrying body language he's displaying. Had you done something wrong? Did he not want to go through with it now-?

Another quivering exhale expels from Miguel's lungs, his huge hands gripping onto your hips as though they were the only thing preventing him from plunging from the side of a New York skyscraper. It's bruising you, ten sharp points jabbing into your skin, but the pain encourages the pleasure. It's too much. 

"So fucking tight," Miguel wheezes, rocking his hips forward slightly. He's met with resistance despite how your head hangs from the edge of the desk, wailing a mixture of profanities and his name at the ceiling. "It's too fucking tight, mami; you gotta relax-"

"Miguel!" You sob in anguish, tears sliding from the corners of your eyes settle in the hair at your temples. "It hurts- I need it so bad, c-can't wait- just fucki-" 

A snarl rips up Miguel's throat, using his grip on your flesh to pull your hips back onto his as he plunges forward. You see his nostrils flare, the flash of his fangs before the white-hot bliss rocks through you, his cock slipping past your walls and burying itself to the hilt in one heavy push. 

Your sharp inhale stretches the mass of your lungs as your fingers dig into the tanned skin of his forearms. Pain stabs through your abdomen, and the sudden thrust ripples pain through your expression before the excruciating arc of bliss surges when you feel the head of his cock nudge against your cervix. 

"Holy shit-" you squeak out, nails stabbing bloody crescent moons into the rippling muscles you hold onto, "I can-ahan't! Fuck, Miguel, you- hgnnnn fuck!"

It's as though Miguel loses control of his hips. He begins to ram into you, his flesh slapping against your own and echoing and ricocheting off the walls. Damp sweat already clings to his body from the exertion, each harsh slam into you pushing your trembling body up the length of his desk. 

"Hah," he gasps out when you involuntarily squeeze around the girth of his cock, Miguel's eyes snapping to your own in a frenzy, "So tight for me, Cariño. This little cunt's so greedy for me." 

The pistoning of his throbbing cock into your sickeningly wet pussy has your mind spinning, the velvet of his voice numbing your mind like some kind of neurotoxin. You're drenching the both of you, the thighs you'd locked around his waist slipping down his hips as you struggle to brace against the onslaught of your arousal. 

"M-Miguel-!" You croak, voice wrecked. 

His dark eyebrows pinch together as he continues his devastating pace. "So fucking greedy. Always looking at me with those eyes. You think I don't- fuck- don't hear your dirty thoughts about me?" 

Whining loudly, the embarrassment does little to quell the rising orgasm that prickles the edges of your body. It feels enormous, threatens to tear your body apart at the seams and stitch you back together all wrong. Like you'd never feel complete again without the delicious stretch of Miguel's cock.

"I can feel it," Miguel murmurs, voice uncharacteristically soft despite the way he's brutalising your cunt, "Can you? I can feel you squeezing me- fuck, you're so fucking wet, mami-"

"S-Shut up–" you hiccup, voice sounding distant to your own ears. It feels like your nails have burrowed down to the calcium of Miguel's radius and ulna, your grip vice-like as you steel against the terrifying sensation of a universe-altering orgasm quickly approaching. 

Miguel's neck flexes, veins bulging against his bronzed skin as the swell threatens to take over. 

"Come on. Ah, fuck- fuck, you're gonna cum again. Come on," he urges you, dark eyes flitting over you as Miguel reaches to push the pad of his thumb against your clit. 

It barely brushes the fraught nerves before ecstasy settles between each of your vertebrae. Your pussy flares, gripping onto the throbbing thickness of him. Shaking violently, your thighs squeeze Miguel's waist as everything tightens, pulses, spasms. Anguished, pained wails pour from your lips in a deluge, jaw slack, debilitating ecstasy rendering you utterly helpless to the instinctual motions of your body. You're rocking up against him while simultaneously attempting to escape the sensation. 

A rumble vibrates through Miguel's chest as he dips his head low, sweat-drenched ebony strands of his hair falling in his eyes as he focuses on how you tighten around him. 

"Oh fuck, yes," Miguel's voice pierces through your mind-numbing bliss, all lilted and pitchy, "That's it, mami, that's what I need- th-that- oh fuck–"

It's a heavenly sight, the way his body flexes and ripples above you as he buries his cock into you, down to the hilt. Miguel's dark, gorgeous eyes roll back in his head, eyelashes fluttering as his orgasm is pulled from him. You feel the hot, thick spurts of cum paint your walls as he empties his load over and over and over. You're exhausted, powerless to do anything other than bathe in the sensation of your cunt convulsing around Miguel's throbbing cock. 

A heavy exhale fans across your face as Miguel's hands settle on either side of your head, the two of you fighting to draw oxygen into your burning lungs. The blazing need that had charred your abdomen ebbs into smothered embers, and you peer up at Miguel with a mindless, dazed expression. 

He doesn't move, his softening cock still buried in your cunt as his hands tighten into fists beside your ears. Miguel opens his eyes, a heavy glare aiming at the corner of the room, at nothing in particular, as he attempts to come down from whatever height you'd thrown him to. 

"That-... That's not what's supposed to happen."

☆☆☆

Bright, florescent lights beat down on you in the doctor's office, and you squint against their intrusion in your eyes but also the dull, painful throb of your brutalised cunt. You should be curled up in bed, mortified by the mindblowing sex you'd just had with Miguel and drafting up a text message to tell him you will never be seeing him again due to the ruinous humiliation you felt every time you recalled the stupid shit you'd said. 

Instead, you were simmering in that very same awkwardness, but with Miguel settled back in the seat beside you. He's wallowing in his own form of abashed grief as he awaits the results of your blood tests from the man in the white coat across the table from you. 

"Aha, here we go!" The indecently cheery doctor cuts through the tense, funeral-like atmosphere that had settled between the both of you. The mouse in his hand clicks as he sorts through the file, reading it through. "They've just come in now." 

"Is it anything I should be worried about?" Miguel speaks before you can draw breath, and you don't fail to note the word I. Why is he worried?!

"No, not at all," the doctor smiles, glancing between the two of you as he taps the computer screen with his finger. You can feel Miguel settle, the tense energy that had been drawing his shoulders up tight seeming to dissipate with the threat of danger ruled out. 

... What? 

"Elevated heart rate, the sweats, shivers, flushed skin, pain," the doctor reads through your list of symptoms that Miguel had given before you'd even stepped into the doctor's office. Conveniently, he'd left out the more obvious traits that had taken precedence over the milder afflictions. "While these are all very scary, it's not much to worry about."

"So then, what happened?" Your voice is a mumble, hoarse from the strain of your activities with Miguel.

The doctor smiles, a shrug lifting his shoulders to evidence his lack of concern. "Says here you just have an allergy to spider bites."

Miguel, usually stoic and indecipherable, sinks into his seat with an expression that bleeds mortification.

... Oh. 

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[departmentofinteriors]

[camelidae]

Art tour of my room/studio! I caught the bug for buying little pieces from other artists to brighten up my space a few years ago – it’s addicting! (and wonderful!) I want to make sure I get everyone’s names in here (at least the ones who have an online presence), so be ready for a long post! 

It always feels a little ignomious hanging art in my bathroom, but I get distracted brushing my teeth a lot so it’s important there’s nice stuff to look at! I love my big crocodile print by Amanda Myers so much. He’s so Green and so lovely and he has so many teeth to contemplate while I brush my own.

I felt a little bad putting this magnificent tiger by Paleopanthera (paleopanthera.com) above the toilet, but the colors just work so nice and it makes my bathroom look so rad ;~; Do you think the tiger’s mad at me? Does he look mad?

I got this little scrollwork shelf from ScrollSawArtbyBC (etsy) and I love it so much! Makes a perfect little nook for my sink things~

And who is this peeking out from some of my nature treasures? Why it’s one of Becca Jane’s little blue snakes (BeccaJane.com). One day I’m going to save up my pennies and buy one of her big beautiful platters and on it I will serve the prettiest of pastas~

Also adorning my nature shelf is this beautiful mix-media plaque by Cephasparagus (insta). She also seems to adore collecting little bits of nature like an aesthetic magpie - my kind of gal!

I have a bevy of these little animal prints by Amanda Myers (Admers on etsy) on my walls – I love how combine with my pressed leaves and flowers to bring that "forest hermit" vibe I've always strived for.

The stained glass folk flower piece is from Leadleaf_ (insta) - it really makes my little terrarium corner look cozy and magical!

I got my Artistic License and my Poetic License from Kenspeckle Press (kenspeckleletterpress.com) - they didn’t even make me take an aesthetics test or metaphorically parallel park. (Plus another beautiful thank you card from Amanda Myers.)

The little kitty mug from Heikala (heikala.com) is what I drink iced cocoa from almost daily. I like how the ice clicks on the enamel <3

I still maintain that the embroidered flower pendant from DandelionDoiley (etsy) is the cutest thing that I own. Feels like holding a jewel! And the Hope pendant from BonbiForest (etsy) is such a lovely design with cheerful colors <3 The hummingbird I got from a local artist on a trip to Yellowstone, and the gold pendant is from a local artist where I live!

[edensdahlia]

Hey, really appreciate your work! can do something about Ghost waking up on a very cold night and seeing reader shrunken, then he realizes that he is using alone the blanket they share, indicating that while he slept, he pulling the sheet to himself, leaving the reader without the blanket. (sorry for my english, it's not my first language and I used translator, so some parts may be confused 😭💀)

༊*·˚ Inside This Place Is Warm

CHARACTERS: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Gn! Reader

RATING: SFW

CONTENTS: Exactly what the prompt says, + a little extra, doing skin care for him, super soft Simon, I headcannon he has dyed hair in this, may be ooc, some wintery themes (even though it’s mid-summer where I am lol), established relationship, just lots of fluff, title is a Sweater Weather lyric, nicknames used: love

A/N: Absolutely no worries about your English lovely! I was literally giggling and kicking my feet as I wrote this, I just love him so much :( I live for domestic moments so I honestly may have gotten a little carried away but I really hope you enjoy!

ೃ⁀➷ WORD COUNT: 1K

In the warm glow of the bathroom light, Simon became the picture of pure divinity. Surely, if Nirvana existed it was there between the sun-kissed pink of his cheeks and the way his hair hung, mussed and slightly damp, across his forehead. It was there written into his irises as he peered down at you. Adoring and sickeningly reverent as if you could ask him to split the very Earth for you- to tear apart each layer with his bare hands- and he would do it without hesitation. He would. If you asked.

You slid your fingers through his curls, pushing them away from his face with a gentle sweeping motion. His roots were beginning to grow out, their umber colour striking against the rest of his pale locks. He was due for a touchup soon, and a haircut. A small huff of a laugh escaped you, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, attempting to trap your smile behind enamel as you gazed up at him.

“Your hair…” You explained at his imploring look, voice feather-light and so incredibly tender as if you feared anything more would disturb the domestic bubble that had descended upon the room. Simon stepped closer legs slotting into the space between your open thighs, hands pressed to the cool ceramic counter on either side of you.

“’S bad?” He whispered, breath warm against your skin and smelling faintly of mint. His head dipped in your direction crowding closer to you as his eyes searched yours, dangerously easy to get lost in. Hickory and honey melting into an amalgam of a colour so distinctly Simon. Your hand trailed from the crown of his head down to his cheek lingering there fondly before you pulled away, reaching for the jar of facial cream at your side.

“Not at all. Just needs retouched- unless you’re going to grow it out again?” You undid the lid of the container gathering its contents onto the tips of your fingers. It was meant to repair scar tissue and soothe the skin. A luxury he hadn’t thought of affording himself before you.

“Maybe I will. I kinda miss the brown.” Simon’s eyes fluttered closed a content hum echoing from the recess of his chest as the pad of your thumb slid over his cheekbones and down the side of his face, tracing over long-faded scars with a gentleness he’d come to accept. He was spoiled when it came to you. So incredibly spoiled. And the thought didn’t terrify him as it may have in the past. Instead, he relished in it. Took comfort in the way your thumb slid down the bridge of his nose and then across his temples, rubbing soothing circles into his skin with each movement. Every touch sent small jolts of electricity through him as if you were holding a live wire to his skin, molding every nerve of his to the shape of your name.

Your nose nudged his and his mouth parted automatically, lips meeting yours in a brief sleepy kiss. “Bedtime.” You murmured. Simon’s eyes peeled open at the sound of your saccharine voice a rare content smile teasing the corner of his lips and tugging them upward. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribcage, imprinting the marrow of your bones with his blissful expression. How could one person be so beautiful?

Simon wondered the same thing as he gazed down at you.

♡ 。

As it crept into January the weather in Manchester went from mildly annoying to an all-present nuisance. Outside your house the wind began to howl something fierce, the sound drawing Simon into barely there consciousness. True to his callsign it seemed he was always cold. A spectre of frost and ice, built from winter itself. But there buried beneath four blankets he was warm, finally, mercifully warm; and yet something was still missing. He blinked into the darkness waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting as if he’d find what it was in the emerging shapes. The outline of a dresser, a laundry basket with clothes spilling over the top-

Slowly he shifted, limbs like molasses as he rolled over finding the answer to the little voice that nagged in his mind. “Oh love…” Simon’s voice was a breathy sigh the edge of his words turned soft by guilt. Illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the parted curtains was your sleeping form. You were folded together like an origami piece, legs tucked in close to your chest, hands pressed palm to palm in an attempt to regulate your body temperature. Even in the semi-dark, he could see the goosebumps that broke out across your skin.

Simon lifted the blankets reaching out a hand to brush against your arm. You stirred at the contact hands unfolding, reaching out in search of his warmth. His hand slid into yours bringing your knuckles to his lips so he could lay a gentle kiss on each before gathering you in close, pulling you into the safety of the cocoon he’d managed to build for himself.

Your lips parted, a content hum loosening the sudden tightness Simon felt in his chest. The guilt easing into something softer, endearment settling into the empty spaces of his ribcage with a quiet, relieved sigh. His hand flattened along your back dragging down the length of your spine and then back up again in a soothing motion. You snuggled closer to him head tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder.

He waited there with his head resting lightly on yours, waiting for the goosebumps to disappear and your skin to warm beneath his touch. Through the window he watched as snow begin to spiral from the sky, white flakes dancing past on a stray gust of wind, twinkling like stardust in the worn yellow light of a street lamp. There with you tucked into him, warm and alive beneath his fingers, and the snow just beginning to fall Simon Riley found the definition of peace.

[theshinazugawaslut]

can you maybe… do sanemi with a wifey with small tits and a big ass? i know it seems random but i’m curious to see how you’ll write it! /nf

a/n: thank you for sending this! i was not very sure about what you wanted other than small tits and a big ass so that's what I gave — let me introduce sanemi being a lewd bastard, ogling you and trying to control himself, he's also kind of pathetic because when is he not? anyway, here's sanemi being weird. also, for reference, i'm big-chested and with a big ass so it might not be the best? but then again, i've never had sex and i write this shit.

You're pretty — always so pretty that it hurts.

He'd do anything for you to keep looking into his eyes; anything for your shimmering, sweet eyes to stay on his. Even when he's making love to you, little groans of your name leaving his kiss-swollen lips, he's kept a large, broad hand cupping the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair as he keeps your head down so he can see your eyes.

Others might find it strange but he likes watching your eyes, when they roll back into your head as he keeps his hands on your hips to sink him back down onto his length as he sits up in the futon as he swallows your mouth with desperate, wet kisses.

He loves your lips, too, loves it when you open your mouth and let him prod around, even if you find it rather peculiar. He loves your mouth, all bite and sweet and his. Sometimes he likes looming over you just to press a thick finger into your mouth, feeling over your enamel and gums, sometimes pinching your tongue between two fingers just to hear the pretty choke sound you make. Your jaw remains slack though, allowing his fingers to fuck your throat, feel the inside of your soft and chubby cheeks.

"Swallow," he'll say, voice rasping and eyes becoming hazy as he sees the amount of spit gathering in your mouth, saliva begin to drool down your chin.

He'll watch, mesmerised, as your mouth closes around three of his fingers and your throat bobs, momentarily tightening around his knuckles and nails before you open you mouth again. Your pink tongue flattening as he places the pad of his index finger against it, feeling the warm, wet muscles slowly lick across it.

He was filthy for your smell, too — it made him drool like a bitch in heat, and he was always moaning against your hair as he rained kisses like rhinestone eyes across your hairline as he breathed in the scent. His rough hands holding onto your hips, blunt fingernails pressing into your plump skin as he pressed his nose against that precious crook between neck and shoulder, peppering kisses slowly down your arms, your waist, till his nostrils flare till when he reaches your drooling cunt.

"My darling girl," he'll coo, nudging his cheek against your inner thigh. "Pretty, pretty, pretty," he almost sings like a child, placing feverish kisses against your pudgy folds, sucking like a lunatic at your puffy clit till you come all over his face, and he loves being soaked in your honeyed essence, still muttering mean little praises against your cunt.

He'll gasp loudly as his face is covered in the smell of your gushing pussy, moaning like a whore for you as it drips down his chin and sharp jaw, smeared across his lips lewdly, even dripping from his hair, just for him to bury his face against your slit once more, teething against your sex, smacking his jaw against your juiced-up clit, swishing his head side-to-side as if he were a hyena ripping flesh from bone, letting out drawn-out moans and whines.

"You're doing so well, so fuckin' well, baby," he'll moan one day as he keeps his bulging arms wrapped around your neck, squeezing till you see stars as he drags his cock in and out of you on your shared futon.

This is when he likes your voice the most, when you're all strangled whimpers and silent screams as he fucks the air right out of you. "Uh-huh? You want it like this, don't ya? That's right, atta girl, take my cock, take that fat fucking cock."

His grin is lopsided against your neck as he bites hard into the supple flesh but he smacks your cheek lightly as he almost violently thrusts into your spasming cunt, watching how your mind turns to dumb cotton. "Oi, stay with me, 'm bouta cum." But he'll kiss your glittering skin like gold. "Fuckin' bitch... Got me actin' like an animal, love you so damn much."

Though as soon as you cum, he'll be gathering you in his arms, littering kisses across your face and when you reach up to touch his hot skin, he'll grab your hand, kiss each fingertip like god-given twilight.

"My love, my love," he whispers against your forehead, kissing the arch of your brow sweetly, both of you sweaty and sticky, and you're just oozing with his seed. "My sweet girl, are you alright?" His lilac eyes worriedly look at your neck, a little red forming from where he had choked you a little but as you nod, giving him a weak but content smile, he beams right back. "That's my girl..."

"You're happy...?" you'll ask in your sweet, shy voice. He'll grin, and say he's the happiest man in the world.

He loves all of you, if that wasn't obvious, loves all the sweet parts of you. Loves how you stroke the silvery, jagged scars on his chest; loves how you watch random children with tender, soft eyes, and he decides to stuff you again in hope you'll carry his child and he can kiss your plump stomach one day; loves how you forget to take your sword or your shoes with you for missions; loves how you glower at younger slayers for lacking ambition or soul; loves how you stare at flowers or stars like they were calling to you with siren song.

But sometimes he feels like a filthy animal with how much he slobbers at the sight of your small tits and big ass.

He knows all too well how you glare at him when he tries to explain his obsession with your breasts — you weren't flat like tree bark but you weren't very big-chested either so you didn't understand your husband's odd like for them.

"Doesn't stop ye moaning though," he'll hiss into your ear before ducking his red-cheeked face down to suckle on your pert nipple, his other calloused fingers squeezing at the small mounds like a hungry mutt. "Love these pretty tits of yours so damn much...."

And you know he likes your ass, always touching it; sometimes out of genuine, sheer innocence. It's just that natural to him for his large hands to rest on the rather fabulous swell of your ass as he stands next to you, though he'll be a tease and pinch it and grin when you yelp and go hot with embarrassment as he grins like a man man.

Though you've gotten used to him trailing around after you in the estate, sometimes patting your ass like a fucking bongo drum as you cook and he talks to you casually. Sometimes he'll take his chopstick and keep poking at your bum, smiling innocently when you turn around to pinch his nose affectionately.

But right now, he feels kind of bad for salivating.

You're not even dressed up, nor are you doing anything particularly special. Simply wearing a matching slayer uniform with him, haori and all, though he insists that you keep your gakuran shirt all buttoned up so that nobody stares (that's his job anyway) which you do per his request.

But he feels vile right now and he knows he looks madder than usual as you and a few younger slayers investigate a certain village today, waiting till the stars begin to twinkle to hunt down the demon.

You keep staring at him too and you're making it worse. Hell, he keeps blinking slowly as if reality isn't really making sense to him because why the fuck does your uniform look so nice on you? The swell of your ass still incredibly prominent despite the flowing hakama.

He wants to touch you, bend you over wherever, whenever but he can't because he'd never, never do that to you. You're too sweet, too innocent (he supposes) for that.

"Sanemi, are you alright?" you ask him, the back of your hand coming to touch his forehead, knuckles brushing past his brow as you worry about his feverish state, and just the touch of your hand has him reeling. "'Nemi, honey?"

"'m- 'm f-fine," he says through gritted teeth, trying not to moan at just the sensation of you checking his temperature; his eyes are more bloodshot than usual, becoming pinpricks as they look at you. He reaches up so that broad fingertips can light graze your jaw, he repeats with a forced smile, "'m fine, doll..."

You don't look convinced but you walk just a few steps ahead of him, using your sweet voice to guide the younger slayers, and it's like you're doing it on purpose. The audacity. Walking in front of him, where he has perfect view of your ass, why did god give him such a perfect wife?

The mission itself went well, the kakushi cleaning up as always, and after tending to a wounded slayer. You notice your husband hadn't returned from the forest and so, you panic.

Your strong legs running through the thicket of trees, uncaring of the darkness that envelopes the forest, even with the glittering tendrils of moonlight slipping through the foliage, casting an eerie glow.

"Sanemi!" you yell out, adrenaline pumping in your veins at the thought something might have happened to your husband, your uniform occasionally getting stuck in brambles but you truly don't care, simply letting it shred through the fabric. "'Nemi? Sanemi! God, 'Nemi, where are you?! 'Nemi-"

You shriek as you're grabbed as you run past the trunk of a particularly thick tree but a familiar, warm hand covers your mouth, desperately kissing your temple like sin.

"Fuck, 'm sorry," Sanemi sobs against your ear, hand now snaking around your chest to grope at your small tits, other hand reaching down to touch your ass and squeeze. His throat is raw, almost as though it's been ripped apart, voice shredded. "'m sorry, dolly, 'm sorry- I'm filthy, I'm so fuckin' filthy but I wanna touch you so fuckin' bad."

You realise very quickly that your husband had come over here to jack off in the middle of the dark forest, his hakama barely pulled down his thick, muscle-corded thighs. His dick strained against you and he moaned loudly as your clothed body brushed against it, panting into your ear.

"Oh, 'Nemi..." you say softly. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry, jus' fuck me, please, I beg you, just- Shi-hiit," he whines as you turn around in his arms, looking at him through spotted moonlight.

God, he looks insane: eyes blown wide and bloodshot, jaw going slack as he looks at your pretty eyes, mouth, skin, tits, heart, soul- He surges forward, trying to desperately kiss you, grabbing onto your ass as his dick slaps against his stomach. He looks so fucked.

"Can- can I?" he croaks out and as you nod, allowing him to unbotton your shirt. "All for me?"

You nod and all that's left is for Sanemi to hoist you up against a tree, meaty forearms easily hooking under your thighs and pressing you against it as he slobbers over your tits and trembles against you, he's all but crying and whimpering as his throbbing, heavy cock splits you in two.

The pace he goes at is feral and he's huffing against your neck, letting out wanton moans as his balls clap against your ass, dragging you up and down his cock.

You feel so fucking good and god, it's all for him.

The thought makes him paint your insides white.

[leebrontide]

After two years in this house we're finally doing the DIY project I've wanted to do since before we closed.

The kitchen in Rhombus house was last updated in exactly 1990. It features knobless honey oak cabinets, a Styrofoam tile drop ceiling, florescent lights, a sad and cracked yellow and beige vinyl floor, and, my personal top pet peeve, a badly chipped warm beige laminate countertop.

But new countertops are VERY expensive and we spent all our money on insulation and windows with fancy features like being able to close all the way.

But the countertops are so sad and chipped and pathetic that it's kind of like...we can't really make them worse, you know? And there's a freedom in that.

So, last year, we got a fancy white concrete skimcoat mix, and bits of colored recycled glass to add some shimmer. It was incredibly cheap. Like $100. Now we have finally secured childcare and means of keeping cats out of the kitchen.

I wouldn't do a poured concrete countertop because my sister had one in her house and after a decade it warped so badly you could get your whole hand under the hump.

But we're gonna try this skimcoat, then sand it, then seal it.

Because, again, we can't really make the countertops any worse.

Plus, I got a bigass white enamel farmhouse sink for free on craigslist we can put in.

Will report back.