#i sound like a child hello
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teddybeartoji · 4 months ago
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WAHHH PEOPLE ARE SO CREATIVEEE AND SO FUCKING COOL I NEED TO KISS YOU ALL
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b4kuch1n · 1 year ago
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crumbs in your bed
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#bakuspecial#comic#horror#cw: child abuse#cw: body horror#ask to tag#hi! hello. this is basically just a goosebump story I think. or a scary stories to tell in the dark entry#that's kinda what I aim for? along with the good ol vibe of fuan no tane#and also the like. Thing in east asian art where they make the main character a generic white person and then#every other thing about the setting is deeply recogniseably common asian shit lmao#that's entertainment for me. this came about extremely haphazardly... its why the first two pages look nothing like#the rest of it fsdjfhdsjhf. I slammed those out at a cafe like two days ago#went into this one no plan outside of a general sense of direction#I dont think Ive ever actually designed a single character in any of the short horror comics I did. like either its me or#I made someone up as I went. genuinely didnt know what the character'd look like until I sketched em#and then I kept referencing previous panels to draw em. dont know if I recommend this method#mmmm on reread not super sure if the sound effect of the bed leaving the room is clear enough... oh well there are other comics#been writing a lot about food and places recently Ive found out. oh yeah dyou know whats funny#I watched a wayner highlight vid of the kingdom heart charity stream today (I do not know anything about kingdom heart) and realized#how much of kingdom heart (at least the first one) is about like. places.#which is like. good job baku great deep read there isn't kingdom heart literally behind a door. arent there doors all over the place.#isnt the biggest symbol from that game taht EVERYONE knows about the KEYblade. for locks on door#fskdjfhdj but yeah its just. very cool to me that that game really does have iconic recogniseable sites. like the scenes are all tied to#where they happen at. and the climactic battle happens in a black void around a door. its good#good story about leaving ur home after ur friends aren't there anymore and being changed so much by what you go through that#you can no longer call where you started at home anymore. I am being conned by the music#anyways. yeah I go sleep now. powered thru the last 4 pages of this so its done and out there. hope my bed will not do this#have a good night lads! be careful of bugs
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aromanticasterisms · 4 months ago
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this whole epilogue is just a little treat for me oh my god. "familiar faces arrive in simulanka" does not even begin to cover it
#personal stuff#thorn plays genshin#literally gasped aloud seeing kaeya and jean#the besties........ hi.... i missed you guys so much. i'll cry#why'd the eng add that line in for kaeya. sounds like he just says ''thank you [?] miss''. why do they make him flirty he's just being nice#alice inviting the knights to simulanka once everything has calmed down... kaeya making jean take a break... what if i cry#kaeya i'm sorry . if it were up to me i never would have let you drink literal magic ink#COLLEI'S HERE TOO YIPPEE#we need to stop sneaking up on her. i feel bad whenever she gets scared :(#AWWW. she sounds happy to hear from him and wants to go say hello................... growth from her voicelines omg#AND MONA'S HERE TOO. WOOO#so glad we get to see her with the barbeloth stuff#i love when they use her idle animation in the middle of conversations it's neat :] also it using klee's constellation...#FISCHL TOO???? HII.#wanderer seeing fischl who absolutely does not remember him: oh god#ALBEDO AND KLEEEE. OH MY GOD.#klee saying mini durin is her big brother wAUUUGH.#alice just inviting her whole extended family [mondstadt + collei] is so so so so sweet. oh my god#HARD LEFT TURN?? HELLO??#albedo popping up to be like yeah that prophecy that durin will come back to life is true i've been studying it.#HELLO?????#REALLY interesting stuff. cannot believe they stuck this in a limited time event. Again#not sure if durin really will be the one coming back to life?they'd have to remodel all of dragonspine if so. or get him a new body#but yeah it just says ''rhinedottir's child'' will come back to life that could be any one of her creations right?#anyway we didn't get a fontaine event with albedo visiting elynas but this is a suitable substitute. i liked it a lot
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rearranging-deck-chairs · 8 months ago
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only good thing abt the vous situation is that it lets me experience tecteun calling 13 the child that im 100% convinced she actually would bc shes the only one who uses tu for her
#what language do you think theyre actually speaking#bc like on top of all the other um disconcerting stuff abt the whole situation on that spaceship for 13#iamgine walking into that tree room and refinding that woman there and then she starts talking to you in like. this ancient gallifreyan#like old high gallifreyan hours#a language you only kinda learnt at school a couple millennia ago#im a big believer of the doctor and the master speaking gallifreyan when theyre alone i have fun with that in fic#(i dont think they speak entirely the same native language i think gallifryan is a diglossia but not the point)#but neither of them Speak old high like thats a dead language#i think 13 would drop into gallifreyan after opening in english#'hello im the doctor' in you know good old sheffield english#and then tecteun responds with 'i know' but in like....fucking latin#latin is probably not the best analogy but i dont know the history of english#old english i gues but we dont really learn that in school#anyway imagine how disconcerting#and i imagine she'd switch to gallifreyan sure but like. her modern mountain gallifreyan from lungbarrow right?#that vs tecteuns fucking classical dead textbook gallifreyan#or thats how it would feel to the doctor bc tecteun is pre-timelord. this is just her language#or....her language would be what would later become old high#so maybe she speaks to her Child as she used to actual eons ago#and to the doctor the closest this sounds like is old high gallifreyan bc she doesnt remember this language any more than tecteuns eyes#it's close-enough-sorta-dead-gallifreyan-???#so she switches to the closest shes got. which is just. lungbarrowian#tecteun trying to rewrite history and the doctor not-entirely-on-purpose re-establishing the one she has/knows/remembers#holding on to her actual history#which tecteun tries to rewrite/unwrite/dig out from under known history with this old old gallifreyan#anyway. more language thoughts of this evening
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hauntingblue · 8 months ago
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I have connected two dots... yamato kaido and momo (and kinda shirahoshi with her top) have clouds above their shoulders... and luffy in gear fourth has them also.... I can see the signs
#momo must be so emotionally confused omg poor child. this guy says he is my father and treats me like his son and also this samurai who has#been acting like my father just died. and now i turned 28 and a dragon and i need to save this island or my shougnate will die. jesus#FUCKING ROB RUCCI!!! I SURE HOPE NOT ONE STRAY ATTACK REACHES THE ROOM FULL OF CP0 AGENTS!!!#now the government is going to invade wano AND TAKE ROBIN!!!!! ROB LUCCI DIEEEE!!!!! AND YOU WILL FAIL AGAIN!!!#now how tf did the heart pirates get there... who can fly on there or did they just tag along on momos tail#the dinosaur head snake???? hello?? qjdhakshsk and it worked.... sanji... 'thats what a brachiosaurus is!' well i do not think so....#wtf sanji.... so much of that wiggly dance he does with the heart eyes has brought him here...#talking tag#watching one piece#episode 1053#poor killer man.... why doesnt he cut off the arm kid doesnt have... that should do it right???#jesus.... goodbye kid and law.... hawkins just hitting his head to a wall.... CUT OFF HIS ARM!!! oh no..... another self sacrificing mate..#YEAAHHH THE ARM!!!!! is he gonna take it and give it to kid akdjsksj OH HE TOOK THE STRAW DOLL!!! killer your brain is so huge..#the death card looking JUST like killer.... that was such a slay... they had this one thought out for a while.....#THE MUSIC!!! GOODBYE HAWKINS!!! KILLER OUTSERVED!!!! whats with the cutting of arms this arc.... kid now its your turn to slay (big mom)#episode 1054#sanji having an existential crisis and queen just: WELCOME TO THIS MOMSTER WORLD#having issues with his body transforming doesnt help with the transfem allegations#APOO IS STILL ALIVE???? CUT OFF HIS HEAD!!!!#i was gonna say KINEMON!!! BUT I KNOW ITS THAT FUCKING KANJURO!!!!!! nami drawing the moon on his asscheek akdjsksj#KIKU AND KINEMON ARE ALIVE??? I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS THIS IS A TRAP!!! DON'T GIVE ME HOPE!!!#NOOOOOO THE CP0 IS IN ACTION TOO NOOOOOOOOO#they are breathing.... omg.... kiku..... ORICHI DIEEEE!!!!! i knew this couldn't end like this for her... i have been completely bamboozled#kinemon appearing like the first time... just legs.... amazing#how does big mom ikoku inside the castle are we insane... yamato can you like bite off kanjuros head off or smth... finish him off PLEASE#why do they have steel beams in kaido's castle. everything else is wood and stone. who designed this.#bepo being in law's mid episode animation akdjaksns.... thats really his beffo (bff) bepo#big mom being crushed by some beams doesn't sound right... kid should turn into magneto and start bloodbending... or repel her into the sea#episode 1055#episode 1056
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clancyycat · 2 months ago
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just wasted so much time going through that article thats like “1000 books you may have actually read” that gets passed around on here every once in a while and um. the list kinda sucks
#like i know 1000 books is a lot and there’s bound to be some that anyone looking through it would side eye#however. there should not be one malcom gladwell book in there let alone several#like imo those lists at least give the impression that they’re more literature geared so in that case there shouldn’t be any self help#books in there at all. and few ‘airport books’ a la colleen hoover#like one colleen hoover book is like okay whatever. she’s popular. but there should not be that many#also not one poetry book in sight (besides shel silversteen which i’m only kind of counting bc we all read his books as children)#children’s lit is fine imo. you aren’t likely to have read much else on these lists if you didn’t read as a child. it’s different#it’s also fun to check off books you loved as a child in these kinds of lists! it’s like oh hey that’s my friend i know him!!#also like. you’re not gonna put anything by shirley jackson or joyce carol oates in there??? toni morrison? mary oliver?? octavia butler??#HELLO this list sucks#sorry for sounding like a pretentious asshole but unfortunately i have a degree and a half on this shit so. i AM a pretentious asshole#sometimes at the very least#anyway maybe i’ll make my OWN list of 1000 books you may have read (already acknowledging that i will most definitely not have read#everything i put on there!!!) okay sorry i’ll shut up i need to go to bed#btw my score on that list was something like 83 and i consider myself a fairly well read person and am like. always looking to improve upon#my personal scope of the world through reading. idk if that makes sense but i think it does okay goodNIGHT
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one-winged-dreams · 5 months ago
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I'm just so fucking tired of it all
#vent#abuse mention#it IS the blow motor that's fucked and dad says it'd be a super hard day long job to do it yourself#i'm just so fucking pissed because 'oh we couldn't help you with your electric bill* because we had to drop 1000 for your sister's new car'#*last week#and i don't want to sound like an ungrateful bitch but 'oh your ac's broken? let me point you at a guy who can do it for like 300'#hello???#i'm not asking my parents to shell out for me or anything but every fucking time i call them it's like#'oh we had to buy your sister a new car battery'#'oh we had to get your sister's bumper replaced'#'oh we had to pay your sister's rent'#this is the sister that's just the meanest rudest bitch you'll ever meet by the way#the one who was my OTHER abuser (physically and psychologically)#the one that claims that i was the favorite child and she was the poor little sole abuse victim#yeah i was the favorite. the favorite to get the shit beat out of me and told i was the oldest so i had to be The Most Perfect™ or else#i'm not saying you didn't get abused but don't you dare fucking come at me saying that you had it worse than me#abuse is abuse but boy howdy if there isn't some favoritism at play going on NOW#fuck out of here with that shit i see how it is#what fucking ever#also i had to just disassociate through an entire paranoid psychosis rant from my mother talking about how my dad's ex's husband#is going to fly down from Illinois to kill them both specifically because my dad talked to a guy who knows them and asked how they were#so i'm feeling great
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kkujo · 2 years ago
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#seeing weird t //rf takes abt surrogacy is so. 😨 'you can't pay to use a woman's body!!!!' ok first of all that is. Not how it works.#like. obviously in some situations people choose to be a surrogate as a last resort which is absolutely not good#but i really really really hate this black and white mentality these people get where if it's bad sometimes it's labelled Bad#some ppl genuinely choose to be surrogates bc they enjoy the process of pregnancy & helping people achieve their dream of starting a family#'surrogacy should be illegal' do you realise how fucking insane you sound?#forcing women into surrogacy should be illegal sure. but can we like. focus on making a society where women don't feel forced into that.#rather than ruling it out and labelling it bad overall when it's so much more nuanced than that??? it's really really weird?#if a woman knows the risks of pregnancy but genuinely wants to experience it to allow someone else to have a child??#that's? their choice?#the least f*minist thing you can possibly do is say hey actually it shouldn't be allowed for women to do that w their body#like you do realise that sounds fucking crazy right#and then the whole 'they only 'enjoy' it bc they've been conditioned to think that blah blah blah GOD do you HEAR YOURSELF...#why are you acting like all women are immature children incapable of making informed decisions.#in the name of f*minism too like you must realise how patronising it is.#'she THINKS she wants it but no one wants that!!!' or maybe you just don't understand that different ppl feel differently abt stuff.#if YOU don't want to be a surrogate then don't 😭 it's no one's place to tell anyone what they want.#and for those with fertility issues etc etc who can't have their own children biologically it's such an immense kindness & blessing#to have someone willing to carry a child for you. like it's really incredible that people choose to do that#and undermining it by acting like they've been groomed into it by the patriarchy...... hello.#anyway rant over it's just such a weird take and not what i expected to see today#'just adopt' yes adoption is super important and there are so many kids who need homes but. it's also an extremely lengthy process#and rlly difficult sometimes too#& if a couple wants their own biological child that's their choice yk as long as everyone involved is ok w it ur opinion does not matter😭
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sovaharbor · 2 years ago
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Generation X Epic Collection: Emplate's Revenge (2022)
this. has me SO fucked up. "every time i ask myself why we're doin' this, every time -- somethin' happens to remind me." and, like. it's really giving 'chicken or the egg.' is this school necessary to protect these kids from incidents like this, or are these incidents simply happening to them because they're at the school and training underneath the x-men, thereby exposing them at a much higher level to all the crazy fucking shit the x-men get involved in, but then that makes it seem like they NEED to be at the school to be protected even though it's actually putting them at more risk than if they weren't there??? GEE I WONDER.
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florshedworf · 4 months ago
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dude when i was 12 i thought VERY clearly and VERY specifically “huh. there are probably people older than me that used XD back in the day and are surprised we still use it to this day. ah well”
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free-gaza2 · 3 months ago
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🙏🛑 stop ‼️
Hello wonderful people, how are you? First, I want to thank my wonderful friend Alison for standing by my side and supporting me with a sincere heart Secondly, I want to thank everyone who donated or participated to help me reach my goal of obtaining a sewing machine and tools to start working again. As soon as possible, I will document the purchase of the machine and tools with pictures for you and start working soon. And I am here again because I trust your humanity and I know that you will not stop supporting me. There is a new goal that we want to achieve with your help and donation in order to get my husband out of Gaza, and this will cost him approximately $5,000 since I left Gaza. I have been asking him to be by my side and Omar, but he refused, wanting to stay. In Gaza next to his family, he cannot imagine that one day he will be able to leave his homeland and go to live somewhere else I thought that I would be able to take care of my autistic child in Egypt after everything he went through on my own, but the war affected him horribly and his condition is getting worse. He is very attached to his father and his presence among us. It will make a difference in his psychology and improve his condition. I trust in your humanity and your standing by every Palestinian. I hope for your support so that I can reach my goal before the Rafah crossing is opened so that I can register his name on the passenger list so that he can be by our side as soon as possible. My child has the right to be with his parents and feel safe and to be treated for his illness. All the traumas he went through and the sounds of rockets and artillery that are still in his head do not leave him, even in his sleep. He wakes up screaming like crazy. I'm sorry to all of you that I'm asking for your help again Thank you very much, my friends.
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osaemu · 1 year ago
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GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ CAN I PUT YOU ON HOLD? ❜❜
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.ೃ࿐ he picks up the phone in the middle of fucking you. NSFW
contents: fem!reader. cunniligus, lil' bit of dirty talk and more... i'm too tired to type it all out </3
author's note: idk personally i wouldn't take that.. but i guess i would if it was satoru. anywaysss enjoy
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satoru's a busy man — balancing his responsibilities as a teacher and as a sorcerer is no easy task, but he finds a way to make it work.
anyone who's known him for longer than a minute can easily tell that satoru's committed to his line of work. as much as he complains about it, the truth is that it's one of his top priorities. maybe even the first one.
and you get a taste of just how devoted satoru is when he picks up the phone in the middle of fucking you. 
"hello?" satoru cooes, eyes focused on your indignant expression as he holds a finger to his lips. "yeah, i'm free to talk. what is it?"
"free to talk?" you mouth at him incredulously. satoru replies with a wink and grins, enjoying the show. you're still pinned underneath him, bedsheets haphazardly strewn across your body, and satoru savors the sight of you all needy and pouty.
"yeah, take your time," satoru says amusedly to whoever's on the other side of the phone after a moment. when you reach up and swat satoru's chest indignantly, he uses his free hand to pin your wrists above your head, a clear warning in his eyes.
after a couple of mhm's and of course's, the conversation still isn't over. your patience is waning — who is satoru to just stop in the middle of fucking you to pick up a phone call and say that he's free to talk?
you try to distract yourself by thinking about the mindblowing sex you were having just minutes ago. the longing, glassy stares; the red scratch marks down satoru's back; and of course you couldn't leave out the words.
"fuck, you're taking me so well, sweetheart." "atta girl, you're a natural slut, aren't ya?" "your pussy was made to be fucked by me, wasn't it?"
how did that turn into "yeah, make sure the higher-ups know about this, otherwise they'll give me hell for it. mhm"?
after another bland minute, satoru rolls off of you and sits up with his back against the headboard, sheets falling to expose everything from his waist up. 
you whine in impatience, glaring at him like a sullen child. satoru basically just edged you — one second you're about to get to best orgasm of your life, the next you're forced to watch your boyfriend chat on the phone nonchalantly as if he wasn't just moaning your name like a slut three minutes earlier.
satoru shoots a glare at you and pats his lap, pressing a finger to his lips as a reminder to stay quiet.
well then, he shouldn't have picked up the phone in the middle of fucking you.
you scoot yourself into his lap, purposefully positioning yourself so that your pussy just barely rubs against the head of satoru's still-dripping cock.
it's so worth it when you hear satoru inhale a sharp breath and start to squirm under you, somehow both trying to push himself inside but also trying to inch himself away. it's like he can't decide, but the way his face flushes red speaks volumes.
his voice is breathier than normal as he squeezes his watery eyes shut. "yeah yeah, that's perfect. you mind if i put y'on hold for a sec? alright, thanks."
you glance over at satoru as he retracts the phone from his ear and puts it on mute. not even a second later, he's back on you, manhandling you into a position where he can comfortably eat your pussy, a cheeky smile on his lips.
"you think you're so fucking funny, don't ya?" satoru cooes, looking up at you as he eats you out sloppily. a mixture of his saliva and your essence drips down his chin, and the lewd sounds slipping from his lips are pornworthy. the wail that slips out of your lips when satoru bites down on your thigh hard enough to leave a mark is anything but appropriate, especially when he presses his lips back to your pussy and laughs in the middle of tonguefucking you.
"fuck, you're so lucky my phone's on mute right now," satoru groans, still buried in between your thighs. "god, if my old man could hear you now—"
"your dad's on the other end of the phone?!" you gasp, swatting satoru's head and frantically reaching over him to check if the phone was actually on mute — knowing satoru, it could've just slipped his mind. intentionally.
satoru scowls, muttering a reminder for you to stay still while he eats his dessert before rolling his eyes and grumbling "what does it matter?"
"uh, that's embarrassing!" you whine. when satoru nudges his nose against you again, you reluctantly spread your thighs for him so he can continue his meal. satoru mumbles a thanks, but he doesn't respond beyond that.
"satoru!"
"what??"
"don't you have to finish your call?"
satoru sticks out his bottom lip, fixing his cerulean eyes on you and pouting. "you were just complaining about the call and now you want me to go back??"
"it's your dad, satoru," you groan, pushing his shoulders away from your legs and ignoring his protests. "you don't get any more pussy until you finish that damn call."
"i hate you."
"love you lots, baby."
satoru sighs dramatically and unmutes the call, not bothering to respond to his dad's questions with answers longer than a word or two. after another minute of this, his dad finally hangs up and satoru lets out an elated cheer.
he turns to you with a mischievous smirk. 
"now, where were we?"
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crabs-nonsense · 2 years ago
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How is honey mustard not an option 😭 its so freaking good!!
I had yet another amazing idea for a poll, so get ready for this super divisive question that WILL tear families and friendships apart.
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rememberwren · 5 months ago
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Skin Deep
Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand her horizons, gets her first tattoo from Simon. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.
Sequel here.
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“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.
“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep. 
“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!” 
She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking. 
“What guy I recommended?” she asks. 
“Kevin!”
“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?” 
You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.” 
“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.” 
You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day. 
A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life. 
“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.” 
Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?” 
“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all. 
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What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it. 
The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him. 
“Hello?” 
“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line. 
Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?” 
He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him. 
“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says. 
Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted? 
“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?” 
“Five. Don’t be late.” 
He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.
-
You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in? 
All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy. 
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost. 
Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting. 
Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize. 
“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”
He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.
“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”
You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek. 
“The water is for you,” he says. 
“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”
“This is your first tattoo.” 
“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh. 
He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.” 
“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.” 
His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.
 He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question. 
You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair. 
He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing. 
He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book. 
“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?” 
“I mean, it hurts?” you offer. 
He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.” 
You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him. 
He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again. 
“Here.” 
You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean. 
His thoughtfulness touches you. 
“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you. 
“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?” 
“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”
He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death. 
“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.” 
“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?” 
“No, my car is just there.”
“I’ll wait.” 
And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears. 
-
You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend. 
GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks. 
You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?  
Masks are cute, you say. 
Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free. 
You’re terrible. 
You’re…thinking about it. 
-
Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST. 
The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness. 
I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one. 
Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.  
And fuck, you didn’t even think of that. 
-
“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another. 
“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.” 
The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed. 
“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.
“Very glad of it.” 
You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions. 
“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’. 
That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary. 
I’m a little nervous.
You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.
It’s not that. 
What is it? 
Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true. 
But all he said back was: how can I help?  
I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working. 
I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better? 
Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better. 
-
You bring the pasties anyway. 
-
The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass. 
When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs. 
You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free. 
“Hi,” you squeak. 
Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.
“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t. 
“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”
It’s exactly what you want, and more. 
“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.” 
He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing. 
The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years. 
You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.
“Ready?” he asks at length. 
You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas. 
Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you. 
“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way. 
“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”
“I’m just teasing you.” 
“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.” 
“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face. 
“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.” 
You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax. 
After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass. 
“Good?” He asks. 
“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.
But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt. 
“Thank you,” you say softly. 
He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.” 
“I’m not backing out.” 
He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line. 
It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins. 
“Good?” He asks. 
“Good,” you squeak. 
You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.
“Let me know when you need to break.” 
You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs. 
“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”
He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it. 
“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.
“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”
It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up. 
“Good for more?”
And so it repeats. 
At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through. 
His thumb gently strokes your sternum. 
“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”
Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast. 
“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”
“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again. 
He hushes you, surprisingly tender. 
“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.  
“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain. 
You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.” 
“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.
You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He vanishes again. 
He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again. 
This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow). 
“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length. 
“Eager to be done?” you wonder. 
He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said. 
“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply. 
So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently. 
“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.” 
It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.
“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”
“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.” 
“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way. 
After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?” 
“I understand.”
“And if you have any questions—text me.” 
-
You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable. 
-
Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call. 
Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much? 
The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.   
With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring. 
He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering. 
“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello. 
“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry. 
“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”
“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”
“Well? What is it?”
“It’s falling off, for one!”
He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?” 
“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.” 
Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”
“Worse than getting it.” 
“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?” 
“Twenty minutes from now?” 
“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye. 
-
The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop. 
Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow. 
He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes. 
“Well. Sit. Show me.”
You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”
“Nothing I’ve never seen before.” 
Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands. 
“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation. 
“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”
“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”
You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks. 
“Not that I’ve noticed.” 
“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”
“No,” you admit. 
“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”
“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”
He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.” 
“Forget what?” 
“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”
You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.” 
He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one. 
“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”
“You were with friends,” you insist.
His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?” 
“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.” 
“Nosey.” 
“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out?  “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.” 
“Maybe.”
God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt. 
“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”
He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off. 
“Maybe you should look closer.” 
His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”
Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”
“Can’t get much closer than I am.” 
“You could—if you wanted to.” 
“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”
“Mhm.”
The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching. 
“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat. 
“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly. 
“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair. 
“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.” 
“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.” 
His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”
“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness. 
You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex. 
“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple. 
You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind. 
He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?” 
“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing. 
He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”
“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips. 
“What else do you need?” he asks. 
“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly. 
Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 
“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.” 
You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure. 
He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth. 
When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.
Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh. 
Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso. 
“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola. 
“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”
You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite. 
“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.” 
He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?” 
“I want more.”
“Want my cock?” 
You nod, feeling like a bobble head. 
“I want to hear you say it.” 
“I want your cock.”
His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps. 
He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief. 
“Oh my god,” you mutter. 
“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art. 
“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.” 
“Good,” you breathe. 
His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right. 
He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length. 
Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily. 
“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure. 
“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.
“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?” 
“Your cock—want it—please—“
“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.” 
He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin. 
His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it. 
“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”
“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“
“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.” 
He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit. 
You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat. 
“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”
“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms. 
“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit. 
You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex. 
“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again. 
He hums behind you, a smug sound. 
“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.” 
“Ghost!”
He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead. 
He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you. 
The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs. 
He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you. 
Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat. 
“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?” 
“Yes.” 
He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see. 
-
“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself. 
“Regretting it already?” 
“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.” 
“Dinner?”
“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”
You shake your head. 
He scoffs a little. 
“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.” 
He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.
“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly. 
“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.” 
You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?” 
“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”
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ahmadwaleed555 · 2 months ago
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My 14th birthday during the War
Hello, my name is Ahmad. I’m 14 years old, and I want to share my story with you—one that comes from the heart of Gaza, a place I call home.
A year ago, our lives changed forever. The world around me grew dark, and the sounds of laughter turned into echoes of sirens. Every day became a struggle for the basic necessities: clean water, food, and safety. I watched as our once-vibrant community faced unimaginable sorrow, losing loved ones and friends—a total of 41,000 martyers, including 16,000 children. Some of them were my friends.
On the eve of my 14th birthday, I sat in our small tent with my little sister, Rema. She smiled at me, her eyes glittering with a hope I wished I could share. “We can celebrate, right?” she asked. My heart ached because I didn’t know how we could celebrate amidst the chaos.
The morning of my birthday was filled with joy, even in the midst of difficulty. Rema and I sat together, sharing the simple but precious feast we had. As we ate, I closed my eyes, making a wish. “I wish for peace,” I whispered. Layla squeezed my hand, and we dreamed together of a future where families like ours could reunite without fear, where children could play and laugh again.
I want the world to hear my story, to understand that even in the darkest times, there is still a flicker of hope. My home may be caught in the storm of war, but our dreams are strong. Each story shared, each voice raised in unity, brings us one step closer to the peace we long for.
So, I speak for myself, for Rema, and for the children of Gaza. Let our voices echo across the world, so everyone knows that we are here, hoping for a brighter tomorrow. Together, we can create a future filled with laughter and love, a future where every child can dream without fear.
@sar-soor @appsa @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @thatdiabolicalfeminist @sayruq @tortiefrancis @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @vivisectionmoth @belleandsaintsebastian @kordeliiius @brutaliakhoa @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @ot3 @the-bastard-king @pcktknife @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural @northgazaupdates2 @90-ghost @skatehani @awetistic-things @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @variantsofblue @schoolhater @thedigitalbard @socalgal @paper-mario-wiki @ibtisams @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness-blog @nabulsi @lesbianmaxevans @transmutationisms @buttercupagere @malcriada @dykemarcille @dlxxv-vetted-donations @paparoach @neptunerings @newporters @postanagramgenerator @alivehouse @meshugenist @mangocheesecakes
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karmaphone · 1 year ago
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why does my moms washer have the ghost of a singing or possibly weeping child in it
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