#late night ramblings 🚬

[emjiroki]

Yuuta begs everytime to take the condom off. Wants to feel the warmth of you around him gripping him raw so bad he's near tears. Whimpering cries against your chest, throat, shoulder, anywhere he can sink his teeth

"Please baby, this time? Can I this time?"

"Wanna feel you all wet for me just once, let me slip it in please"

"Promise I'll be good"

The night you finally peel the latex off and give him the okay is the best night of his life.

He pulls three orgasms from you before hiking your legs over his shoulders and thrusting his sensitive cock in so deep he cums bucket loads against your womb, a contended sigh gracing your ears as he releases your legs and sits between your thighs to push his release back in with his fingers

[coffin-hopping]

you know you’ve made it big when the malevolent limb accounts reblog your late night ramblings🚬🚬

[moonillfated]

.・。.・✭ 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘰 & 𝘔𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘴 ✫・゜・。.

"Even before I met you, I was far from indifferent to you." 🚬

☆ !! Happy birthday @raggedy-dxctor !! ☆

As much as Corin hated summer, it was always a nice view to watch the town nestled amidst rolling hills and drenched in soft hues of fire riding the sunrise, he tracked all streaks of orange blazes and tiger fur sluggishly ascending behind the horizon and overlaying the mountain tops like milkweed monarchs, resin and the plumage of a scarlet ibis. He leaned against his palm and sighed annoyingly as the sky turned to acacia marmalade and tumbleweed cotton candy. Fucking shit, why did his birthday have to be during these heats? The final embers of daylight casted a veil of twilight upon the sizzling asphalt outside the diner, a box of inseparables matches and an empty butterfinger packaging. It reminded the honey haired male of his old treehouse, where it always smelled of burning chalk and late breakfast. He groaned again while pushing himself away from the window and heading towards one of the bar stools, in the cusp of summer's rich warmth a cold fruit punch easily did the trick. They closed about an hour ago, having spend a little too much time with the last remaining visitor - he gave the little girl a jawbreaker after she showed him her Lisa Frank sticker album.

After taking a seat behind the counter and turning of the shitty hallmark sitcom on the old cathode ray-tube TV, Corin took off his apron and threw it aside on one of the pub tables. One of his annotated books was laying open on the wood with condensation rings, passenger to Frankfurt. He grimaced and quickly grabbed it, mouthing a small 'sorry Agatha' while hastily scrubbing off the moisture from the cover. Some other unnecessary and less precious items were placed there earlier during customer service, like an envelope from his neighbor Sherry, who constantly rambled about government conspiracies and how she wanted to hook up with a royal guard. Probably a job rejection, dental records from her ex fiance, or ugly infomercial floral maxi skirt coupons. Corin fetched himself a drink and sipped on the icy cocktail slowly as he waited for the door bell to jingle. There was still time left before he was picked up so he began reading rather lazily, skimming over the pages through round lenses and enjoying his cooling beverage. A calico cat walked past the large windows of the building and Corin found himself smiling softly at the flecked feline, her soft fur was matted, all oriental rugs and marble cake. He hummed as he adverted his hazel eyes from the kitty and continued scanning through the paperback crime fiction.

1975, the outskirts of Sacramento, far away from the shore and bustling turnpikes. His best friend Milo had found an old pickup truck, whose tailgate has clearly been through stuff, abandoned in a messy, green understory. He recalls how the unruly boy handed him the red volume with busted knuckles, scraped knees and a missing tooth. They spent the entire day there as Corin quietly declaimed his new gift with pooh bear bandaged fingers, scrabble boards and a spirograph. If he were being honest he didn't concentrate much on the book, because he already went through it so many times - something about ministers insisting on kittens. Between the idyllic backdrop of their small hometown, was the diner that they spent all their money on to open. With regular patrons beckoned inside by the smells of rich coffee and the atmosphere of pure nostalgia and camaraderie, Corin's eyes drifted to the yesteryear polaroids on the wall. He emptied his glass as he jumped off of the chair to place it in the sink and shoved the piece of literature aside carefully, outside night was beginning to settle as one of the diner's owners started to turn off the fluorescent lights.

As if on cue the entrance signaled being opened, Corin rolled his eyes as he heard the soft thumps of canvas sneakers against tile. "How about you start showing up on time?" The brit snapped playfully and heard Milo scoff, he didn't even have to look at him to see the shrug of his shoulders. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks." Just like last year, the younger male agreed to prepare a birthday night-out while Corin took on the working hours. Corin laughed lightly as he switched off the last lustre of a bulb and turned to face his cocky friend, and just like always that stupid leather jacket squeaked like melting rubber. He noticed how Milo's shaggy black hair was even more disheveled and messy, top crinkled like he's been chewed up by a cow. "Did you get hit by a tractor?" The other clicked his tounge and eyed Corin like he was the most irritating thing he had to deal with. His demeanor was tinged with an edginess that tended to keep poeple at arm's lenght, but Corin found it cringe if anything really. "A baler if you really give a shit." They could go on bickering for the rest of the evening but he'd end up being beaten up like a pinata when the taller male had enough.

"My god dude." Corin ridiculed and grabbed his jacket from off of the hanger by the entry. Milo always had been too reckless and bold for his own good, raven between doves and words sharp like shattered glass. Throwing forks out of ferris wheels, climbing wicker braid utility poles and ever the misfit as Mrs. Corenthal oh so lovingly dubbed him. "Close." He teased and bumped his shoulder against Corin's as he followed after him, the older of the two shoved back against him flippantly. Just across the beanery was Milo's motorcycle, a sleek cruiser with shiny silver details. The tires rutted stubbornly against the hot gravel over the months, oil puddles now way too dry and long gone to see on the concrete. Before either of them considered the idea of a shared buisness, during days of madeleines and holographic boomboxes. They used to play with post soviet comics and pogo balls, when Corin wrapped those stupid sesame street bandaids over Milo's bleeding cheeks on the toilet floor during third period science. It was childhood stratagems, handwritten bonbon wrappers, something short of bittersweet and purple stained.

"You comin' or what?" Corin didn't realize he froze after wrangling the keys out of the locket, quickly jogging up to Milo and taking the spare helmet. Even blindfolded it was familiar to sit on the upholstery leather of the vehicle. Suddenly the blue eyed man shifted and Corin barely managed to grip a chain hanging from Milo's jeans to steady himself as the obsidian colored scrambler leaned to the side. "Can you at least warn me next time?" Flushing barely at the embarrassing yelp that slipped out, hands coming up to safely curl around his waist. A small twitch, but that was all. Finally settling according to the proper safety precautions and squirming around for a solid eleven seconds to get comfortable, Corin rested his forehead against the healthy shoulder of the rider. "Better not drag me off to the middle of the forest again." It was a rather nice suprise sure, but he wouldn't put it past the incendiary to bury him alive where nobody could find his body. An irked grumble is all he got in return, accompanied by a kick to his ankle. "Dick." Corin gritted out through a painful hiss, tightening his hold around Milo's stomach and gazing at the now closed restaurant.

He scarcely registered the engine starting before he felt the upcoming wind on his jaw, fluttering past them as Milo drove across the streets. Summer was hell but this made it bearable, now they were drifting over the highway towards the neighboring city far up east. Furrowing his eyebrows under the helmet and digging his fingers into the belt of Milo's pants it was an obvious, wordless sign of confusion that he hoped the other would get. Great, the guy finally got enough and he was going to end up behind a fucking graffitied dumpster by the side of the road. Ignoring that line of thinking as he pulled himself closer to the rough surface under his face, Corin watched the passing signs and traffic symbols. The zooming of the rolling tires brought back a memory from camp, when he used to smile at all the kites and paperplanes. Soon enough the scenery became brighter with neon shades of red and blue, a metropolitan aurora borealis. He lifted his head up to take in all the surroundings and upcoming tunnels when Milo switched gears to a faster limit. In a quick duck they overtook multiple cars with precise outstrips, fluidly retreating into a straight position. Corin's arms loosened again when the intrepid move was over and the motorbike continued to rush over even cement like before.

Nearly an hour later the two arrived in Memphis, both hunched over the dark two-wheeler. The city's center was busy as always, loud crowds and nightclubs, like a massive lambent slinky. Corin was hardly holding onto Milo anymore, the tips of his palms faintly brushing over his hips as the brash male set a steady pace. It was nice to be back here for a little trip and private party, with luck maybe his corpse wouldn't be vandalized. They drove into a parking lot not far away from where the majority of the people collected like moth balls and dust. Corin was the first to hop off of the seat like always and yanking the helmet down to place it down. His best friend rolled his neck and the snapping joints that popped under the movement made the bartender shiver.

"Are you actually planning on talking to me today?" Corin crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head gayly. Milo just quirked a split eyebrow and continued to lock up his beloved, his baby. "Are you planning on stopping with that whining?" As if genuinely offended by his comment, Corin let out an insulted gasp. Without further words or sarcastic remarks, Milo lazily strolled along the illuminated pedway towards the teeming center of arching magnolias and the Delta's melancholic breeze. 1983, Beale Street. On the eighteenth of August, the two were barely teenagers. Milo's broken wrist held a copy of Robin Run-the-hedge, and the smell of nicotine - charted remnants of tobacco and smoke, still used to bother him. And Corin collected poplar tree seeds behind his tutor's pergola, convinced it was a fairy's cotton hassock. And if they ever held hands because they were scared of losing eachother in the throngs of Tennessee? Well, that was between them and the hopscotch drawings.

"Forgot how vibrant this place is." Corin murmured over the booming music festival close to the sauntering pair. Milo nodded in agreement and nonchalantly jaywalked, flipping off the ruby red stickman as he crossed the avenue. "I'm not paying for your fine." The older scolded and flicked his arm when the they arrived on the opposite side, many shops and all sorts of niteries lined the jammed streets. Under the shroud of an indigo, starless sky they arrived in the heart of Memphis late at night. The charming blend of history and modernity followed the cyan ripples of the Mississippi River, devil-may-care attitude and escapade scars. "Quit acting like you don't already." Milo quipped back, flashing his teeth. That reckless abandon that Corin admired but could never quite embrace, a caged bird unsure of its newfound freedom. A radiant summer afternoon, near the koi pond veiled behind the ivy-clad stone walls of Mr. Corenthal's mediterranean villa - the lady with the polka-dot bucket hat and persian cat Edgar. They forgot their sandcastle toolkit, a bottle of mello yello and some indie blockbuster Looney Tunes strip in her garage. The two ambled down the streets and soon enough Milo abruptly halted infront of a small, tucked away bakery. The lanky male stepped aside, spiked arm cufflinks like a silver vice, and urged Corin to walk inside first. With a suspicious side glance, obviously baiting, the shorter headed over the threshold and Milo followed.

"What is this place?" Corin asked softly as the aroma of pastries and coffee hit his nose. Warm, crisp and cozy. Milo tapped the rim of his glasses, leading him to one of the booths in the corner. "The fuck does it look like to you? Not a fuckin' laundromat is it?" Scooting into the narrow seats was not really a challenge, both of them already had enough practice in their own diner. "Oh shut up." Corin grumbled, throwing his feet onto the bruiser's lap under the table out of spite. An annoyed half snare got caught in Milo's throat as the older pressed his soles into his stomach, sure enough leaving behind pale pattern stains. "Get your fuckin' feet down." He gritted the warning out with a joshing exhale but not actually making an attempt to remove them. Corin smiled and placed them over his thighs, feeling the torn patches of ripped denim under exposed calfs. "Don't push it birthday boy." He knew that Milo didn't really mean any of it but it was always fun to goad, so he applied even more weight onto the other's legs.

After a few minutes of back and forth bickering, a waitress came to take their orders. Milo decided on an espresso, while Corin allowed himself a proper treat. 1981, Cherokee. Beside a babbling brook they buried Corin's hamster and sent out origami boats. Way later the same day when the sun waned, they raced towards a meadow. Doodling in their tattered sketchbooks, penning over 'The taming of the Shrew' each time Shakespeare wrote Sly. The young girl who took their order shortly returned with a tray in her slender hands, with a joyful beam she handed it over. Milo lit a cigarette with his steel zippo lighter and took a single drag before Corin shot him a disgusted look, he was going to get an earful later definitely. The meringue pie arrived, a delicate confection of fluffy sweetness and zesty lime filling. Milo leaned back in his chair as he gazed out of the window at the moonlit cityscape, a contemplative expression played across his usually stoic features. Corin watched him fondly, stabbing his fork into the crunchy top layer of the pie.

It wasn't anything special, or extravagant, or expensive. But it was summer and they were young, it was still Marlboro boxes and slices of pie. They had time, to rewrite more chapters of assay mark romance novels, to freeze more ice packs. Summer lasted only so long, no matter how much they both disliked it.

Yeah, Corin thought looking at Milo, this made it bearable.