#part two is tomorrow

[halfhissandwich]

@analoginceweek Day Four: “Are you okay?”

Story below! (Warning for angst) (this is part 1 of the story, part 2 I’m saving for tomorrow for day 5)

Logan was glad that the others were happy, he really was. Thomas had been waiting to hear back from Nico all day, and while he had promised Logan that he’d spend the day being productive with him, it still makes sense that upon receiving an invitation to spend time with Nico, Thomas would jump at the opportunity. That wasn’t what bothered Logan.

What bothered Logan was what happened during his encounter with that Duke. Logan expected it to go poorly, it was Remus after all, but this was just… cruel. How Logan had been provoked. How Remus went out of his way to remind Logan of just how little Thomas cared about his advice.

How nauseous Logan felt when he saw the color orange…

Logan forced himself to snap back into reality when Nico would ask Thomas a question, though he wasn’t really paying attention. Roman and Patton seemed to have the situation under control, fairly well too since Virgil was just sitting off to the side, minding his own business. Logan smiled at his fellow sides before making eye contact with Roman, when his smile suddenly breaks, feeling like a liar for ever having smiled in the first place. As little as anyone wanted to admit it, Roman and Remus had many similarities… too many similarities. And thanks to Remus, the concept of creativity made Logan sick to his stomach, a feeling that Logan felt terrible for having in the first place.

“Lo?”

Roman was better than Remus! Roman had been his friend since the logical side had first formed, and had been one of his two boyfriends for, what, 3 years now? Logically, Logan knew that Roman was harmless, especially compared to his brother.

“Logan.”

But the knowledge that if Roman could do something similar to Remus if he so chose made Logan want to vomit. Was his love for Roman fake? No, it couldn’t have been, could it? But Roman hated Janus for comparing him to Remus, will Roman hate him too? He’s not trying to compare him to Remus, he’s really not! It was like a reflex to look at Roman and imagine a mustache where one didn’t exist, as little as Logan wanted to think about it. It was almost… intrusive…

“Logan!” Logan’s spiraling is interrupted by Virgil’s soft hand being placed on his cheek. Despite his trait, Virgil was exceptionally good at calming Logan down when he needed it, not that Logan was the type to ever admit he needs it to begin with.

“Oh, um… yes, Virgil?” Logan asks, trying to act like he wasn’t just picturing Roman as Remus for… how long had he been staring at Roman in horror?

“Are you okay?” Virgil’s quiet voice sounded so damn comforting, despite the fact that Logan hadn’t even planned to tell him anything. It makes him feel like a traitor. He claims to be in love with Virgil and Roman and yet he can’t be honest with them even though he knows how much they hate lies? And even worse, he had betrayed Roman by subconsciously comparing him to the one side he hates being compared to the most? “L-Logan?? Why are you crying, L?”

Logan tightly wraps his arms around Virgil before he can stop himself, which prompts Roman and Patton to also look over with concern before rushing to Logan’s side to comfort him. “My dear, what’s the matter? Did Thomas say something wrong or something?” Roman tries to make eye contact with Logan, who avoids looking up from where he’s buried his face in Virgil’s jacket, desperately avoiding Roman’s gaze. Don’t look at me, Roman, I’m so sorry… I’m the worst boyfriend ever, how could I do that to you? And not even have the courage to tell you about it??

Virgil shoots Patton a pleading look, and Patton gets the message, gently instructing Thomas that it’s time to leave. Thomas, despite his initial disappointment, agrees after a bit of prodding, wishing Nico a good day before leaving to go home. Virgil carries Logan on his back, not wanting to force him to walk when he’s so miserable. Roman tries repeatedly to get Logan to look at him, to no avail, which worries both Virgil and Roman.

As soon as they arrive home, Logan sinks out to go to his room to be alone, leaving Virgil and Roman in a state of confusion and worry for their boyfriend.

[nipuni]

Timelock 🕰️

A speedpaint video of this will be available at my Patreon on december 1st!

[keferon]

Monster hunter au part 9

I wanted to cook a bit more fluff before I get back to drama hehe

Previous Next

[bluuscreen]

on being a hero and the irrational guilt that comes with being imperfect — part 1/2

part 2 | headcanon/au being referenced

[moonsart]

Part two of my gift for @berivokcs for the @isat-secretsanta-2024 !!!!! Some post-canon isafrin hugs for you!!! Hope you like it ^^

[sarcasticscribbles]

my legacy

[spotsandsocks]

A Place for You, Next to Me Chapt 1 and 2

Buck finds out that Eddie doesn’t really ‘do’ birthdays so what’s a best friend supposed to do, obviously he can’t let Eddie think he doesn't care. So he makes a plan to celebrate and it’s a good plan, it really is and is it really his fault if one little thing goes wrong with their booking.

It’s certainly not his fault that Eddie’s reaction to the unexpected problem would turn a pleasant weekend away into an agony of temptation.

A tale of pining and love and only one bed.

Fans of only one bed shenanigans - this one’s for you.🥹🌈🛏️🎂🛏️🥃🥃🥃🛏️🤯😍🌈❤️‍🔥 Chapt 1&2 today 3&4 tomorrow 💕

Now I was half way though writing this when @bobbysfirehose posted this stunning piece of art that blew my mind away (all their art is magnificent btw so go check out and shower with love) and with permission I tried to describe the pose towards at the end of the fic because it was just perfect for the situation, so you have a nice visual to go along with the words.

Eddie hadn’t expected any reaction at all, least of all the one he’s getting. Standing in his kitchen he watches Buck process the information he just casually mentioned as part of thier conversation about Chris’ next birthday.

“Are you serious?” 

His best friend is standing there with his mouth hanging open, eyes wide, a puzzled frown on his brow, it’s adorable and amusing and God he loves this man so much. Eddie however is wise enough to look away and keep the sentiment out of his voice.

“Yes I’m serious, Buck. I’ve never done anything special to celebrate any of my birthdays.”

If anything that simple statement makes matters worse, Buck's mouth opens and shuts. He looks like a goldfish, apparently he’s managed to render him speechless and that’s quite an impressive feat.

Eddie takes another sip of beer to hide his smile as Buck flounders. The other man is looking horrified, “Your 15th? That’s special right?”

He shrugs. “Dad was away. We did some stuff at church, nothing big. I got a cake.”

“What about 18?  Or or your 21st?” 

He throws Buck a raised eyebrow, “Think about that for a second.”

A pained look crosses his friend’s face “Oh.” Then his nose crinkles “ Oh.. I don’t think I want to.”

Buck sounds upset. Eddie can just imagine what he’s thinking, how he’s comparing the life that he himself had between 16 and 21 with the one Eddie had. The tragic sympathy emanating out of sad pools of blue is a bit much though, it really wasn’t that bad. Yeah, he didn’t get a lot of time to be young but that’s ok he got other stuff instead. He ended up with the best kid in the world so he can’t really complain about missing birthday celebrations. 

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me, so my life’s been a bit different than yours, but that’s ok . Still got cake, even got a balloon once.” 

His joke falls flat, Buck looks devastated .

“Honestly, all completely normal, I promise, don’t freak out on me.”

He moves around him heading back to the couch and if he touches his arm on the way past, well it’s a tight space to squeeze through. Buck’s own fault really, for filling so much of it. His friend's voice follows him out of the kitchen. 

“But nothing since you got old?”

Eddie turns just so Buck can appreciate the eye roll, “I'm not exactly old Buck, I’m the same age as you.”

“Are we sure about that?” 

Abruptly Buck’s mood shifts and he’s teasing, humour replacing the tragic look that had been there only seconds ago.

“You do kinda look older than me. Pretty sure I spotted some gray hairs on you the other day.”

Eddie glares and throws a handy cushion without aiming. Buck catches it easily and grins, before taking another swig of beer. Eddie tries not to watch his lips or his throat too closely.

[clockwayswrites]

I apologize to Danny in advance because it is a long day and I still have to go to the basement and grade. Blorbo is going to suffer after.

[morethanmemory]

Imagine being his right hand while he's still a mob boss and he helps you put on the skeleton paint <3

They'd probably get to choose the colors of the paint, too, as he'd want his right hand to be easily distinguishable from the rest of the goons

Pairing: Doctor Phosphorus/Reader

Warnings: None; Some suggestive touching heheh ;)

Notes: anon this is lowkey so cute !! i'm a lil obsessed so a short blurb about it for you >:3c dragon reader makes a comeback in this au!

---

"You're kidding, right? I'll look like a walking Halloween decoration," you deadpan, fiddling with the lid of the neon green face paint as a frown tugs at your lips.

He scoffs as he takes the jar of glow-in-the dark paint from your fingers and unscrews the top.

"You already look like a Renaissance fair prop, so what's the big deal?" he retorts, tittering as he gestures at the sturdy horns atop your head. Your eyes narrow as you fix him with an unamused glower, but undeterred, he strides forward. As he takes another step closer, Phosphorus dips his fingers into the paint jar before waggling them at your face. The luminescent paint glitters on his fingertips under the dim lights of his office, sizzling against his fiery skin as the sparkling rivulets roll down his palm. Another step and he's leaning over you, pressing you up against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk.

"C'mon," he urges gently. The simple plea rumbles in the back of his throat, deep and warm, and briefly, you're tempted to give in to his stupid, gaudy idea and let him paint you his. The soft purr of his voice makes your knees weak, and the sharp scent of radiation has your head spinning with its own stupid idea. The thought's crossed your mind more than once. Fleeting moments of curiosity when you've wondered what it'd be like to taste him. You could do it now if you wanted to. It'd be easy. Get on the tips of your toes, close the little space left between the two of you. But it's a bad idea—Phosphorus and you. He's as brash as he is flashy; you're hotheaded and stubborn to a fault. You'd both be playing with fire, and when neither of you can burn beneath the flames, you'll be stuck in hell forever.

In a poor attempt to bury the nagging desire to yank him down by his tie and kiss him stupid, you bat his hand away, but he's faster. With a swift swipe of his thumb, Phosphorus smudges the tip of your nose with a dab of paint, snickering as you scrunch up your face.

For a split second, he feels whatever is left of his heart stutter in his chest as you splutter and scowl. The twitch of your nose, the pinch of your brow, the pout of your lips, the shimmer of your scales—you're surprisingly adorable for a beast with hellfire in your veins. Despite himself, Phosphorus reaches up to brush his knuckles along your cheek, smearing green paint along the sharp scutes. In the silence of his office, with you silhouetted by Gotham's skyline and the stars above as his only witness, Phosphorus lets himself pretend—even if just for a moment—that this is something else, something more.

But your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging his hand away, and he's dragged back into the world of endless, empty parties and drugs that never really numb the pain. Shallow and vapid is the life he leads now, but, at least, there's you at the end of every day.

And that means more to him than he'd like to admit.

His hand drops to his side, and Phosphorus chuckles quietly, praying his nerves don't bleed into his words. "What, not a fan of the brand?"

You shrug as your hands slide up to his chest with the crumbling intent to push him away. Your touch lingers a little longer than it should just to feel the warmth of his radiation seep into your palms through the fine wools of his dark suit.

"Sorry, boss," you apologize, half-hearted at most. Gently, you pat his chest. "Neon green's not really my color."

You haven't pulled away; he hasn't stepped back.

"Then," he begins coyly, grinning even if (or, perhaps, because) you can't see it, "what is?"

You don't expect him to take your answer seriously, to take you seriously—not for something as frivolous as this anyway. Sure, as his right hand, there are matters he takes your word for in a heartbeat. Phosphorus doesn't forget the faces of the rats you've sniffed out in his ranks. Still, you didn't think he'd ever actually remember your favorite color.

But, the next night, there it is, just sitting in his hand—a small jar of phosphorescent paint in the shade you love most.

"Do I have to?" you whine, arms crossed as you slouch against the back of the leather couch. The frown tugging your lips downward belies the fluttering butterflies in your stomach. He remembered your favorite color. The logical part of your mind (the part that's hopelessly in denial) says it means nothing, but your heart knows otherwise—and it's screaming in protest.

He reaches toward you, and you turn your head, sticking up your nose. You don't trust yourself to look at him when the lines between the two of you start blurring. It happens more often than not these days.

"Uh, yeah," he smirks, shuffling closer. "I didn't break into an arts and crafts store for no reason."

The cushions sag under the sudden shift of his weight, and you can feel his soft breaths tickle the back of your neck, making your scales rustle. You laugh under your breath, eyes trained on the intricate wooden molding trimming the ceiling of his office, and you try desperately to snuff out the simmering warmth in the pit of your belly.

"Oh, so that was you?" You spare him a quick glance over your shoulder. "The Carol's Crafts arson on the Upper East Side?"

"Actually, it was Gary."

You can't stop the bright laughter that bubbles up past your lips. Trust Gary, of all of Phosphorus's dim-witted lackeys, to be the one to set a store ablaze all for a few cans of glow-in-the-dark paint.

"Well, then, send him my thanks," you tell Phosphorus as a small smile curls your lips. You're turning back to face him before you can stop yourself, and you don't say a word when he moves close enough for your knees to touch.

"I'll make sure to get him a gift basket."

Phosphorus inches nearer, his thigh pressing against yours, and he holds up the jar between the two of you.

"Now, I don't know about you," he drawls, low and larky, "but—me, personally—I wouldn't want all of Gary's hard work to be in vain."

With a roll of your eyes, you reluctantly take the paint from his hand and unscrew the cap.

"Just so you know," you scoff, smiling despite the hint of annoyance lacing your words, "I'm only doing this for Gary."

A whispery laugh leaves him as he dips his fingers into the paint.

"Whatever you say."

The embers of something you'd long forgotten smolder to life in your chest, and you don't even realize you're holding your breath until it escapes you in a sharp gasp as cold paint and warm fingertips touch your cheek.

He chuckles, leaning in and crowding you against the couch. "Relax."

Phosphorus is walking death, but when he cups your jaw in his hand and strokes your silver scales with his thumb, you think you'd welcome the end with open arms. Your eyes flutter shut. You don't see how his hand trembles.

He's never told you this—and he probably never will—but every single time he touches you just a little too long, he's terrified. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of his office echoes through the room in a taunting, torturous melody as his fingers slowly glide over the planes of your face. Tick. The radiation should have seared your skin. Tock. By now, it should have ripped through your flesh. The clock strikes the quarter-hour with crystalline chimes; every single cell in your body should have been incinerated. He waits for the horrified shrieks of unimaginable pain each time. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. They never come.

Instead, your soft sighs and quiet giggles tinkle through the air as you squirm away from his ticklish touch.

"Stay still," he grunts, dragging his finger down the bridge of your nose.

But you can't stop laughing, shoulders shaking, as the contrasting sensations of cool paint and scorching skin make your scales tingle. "This paint smells like shit."

The pad of his index finger swirls over the button of your nose, and he bites back a smile when you wrinkle it. If he squints just right, Phosphorus thinks he can see something real through all the cheap thrills of this hollow life, and it's there in the twinkle of your eyes.

ACHOO!

Dragon fire skitters down his hand when you sneeze, and he flinches away, streaking the colorful paint across your face and up one scaly ear.

"Seriously?!" he cries shrilly, but there's no real bite to his words. "Did you just sneeze all over me?"

"S-Sorry, sorry!" you stammer between wheezing laughs, handing him a tissue. "I c-couldn't help it!"

You can't make out much of his indignant muttering as he wipes his hand clean before flinging the soiled tissue into the waste bin behind him, but you're certain he's not singing your praises. You're about to apologize again, but the words die on the tip of your tongue when his fingers gently grab your jaw, tilting your head back until your eyes meet his hollow sockets.

You wait for his usual scathing sarcasm, but he stays silent. Without a word, Phosphorus takes another tissue from the box and gently dabs at the paint in your hair. His tender affection is unexpected, unfamiliar, and yet, you lean into his touch anyway. "I can do this myself, y'know," you murmur in poor protest. It's not very convincing when you do nothing to stop him.

"I know." He brushes away the flecks of paint that litter the shell of your ear. "But..."

Whatever he's about to say catches in his throat.

You peer up at him through your lashes. "But?"

You can't see it, but you swear he's smiling. Really smiling.

"Nothing," he mutters. "Just don't want you fucking up my handiwork again."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you apologize dramatically. "I had no idea Picasso had blessed me with his presence."

He groans, cringing. "Don't compare me to him."

"Why not? You hate Cubism or something?"

"The whack job was an asshole," Phosphorus bristles. For a moment, you think you catch a glimpse of the old him. Alexander Sartorius isn't a man you know very well, but he's always there just beneath the radiation. Sometimes, he breaks through the deadly flames, humming along to Bach or quoting Dante's Inferno (usually at your expense). You tuck away the tidbit that Alexander hates Picasso in the back of your mind.

"And you're not?" you shoot back with an impish smirk. He pinches your cheek.

"You are aware that I can always fire you, right?" he threatens lightly, wiping up the last stray splotches of paint from your temple.

"Doesn't mean you will," you reply with a simple shrug—stubborn and smug as always. He shouldn't like it as much as he does. Phosphorus brushes off your little, uppity remark with a click of his tongue before reaching for the paint once more.

This time, Phosphorus works with precision. Yet, despite his newfound determination, his touches remain oddly tender. He evens out the curves of the skeletal face, superimposed on your own, with the smallest scratch of his fingertips around the apples of your cheeks. His digits slide gently down your jaw to fill in the missing pieces of the mandible. He traces the Cupid's bow of your lips with his thumb in a stroke so slow that a shiver runs down your spine. He prays you can't hear the thundering of his old heart.

Phosphorus mumbles a flimsy excuse that you—too lost in the feeling of his free hand running down the arch of your back—don't really hear. You're too far away. You're moving too much. He needs you to come closer.

You let him pull you into his lap, fighting down a soft sigh. He lets your thighs straddle his hips, biting back a quiet moan. So, this is what it's like to hold a fallen star.

He drags his paint-tipped fingers down and over your lips. The finishing touch.

And yet.

He tucks a finger under your chin.

Your name falls from his lips in a wisp of a breath, and you know, without a doubt, that the battle your mind wages against your heart is a losing one with every tick of the grandfather clock.

His lips brush against yours in a ghost of a touch.

The heavy wooden doors to his office slam open, followed by a cacophony of hollering cronies, and your quiet world of stolen touches and words unspoken shatters like glass. A sea of bright green skeletal faces flood into the room just as the two of you jump apart. Their words all blend together as you try to orient yourself, but as the haze in your head clears, you manage to make out enough. Ice Lounge. A big party, an important party. Phosphorus is late.

So, you let them usher both of you out and into the elevator. Phosphorus berates the idiots for not knocking. Gary compliments you on the hue of the skull painted over your scales (you thank him for the arson).

The few centimeters between Phosphorus and you might as well be a chasm. Still, your eyes meet across the distance. Neon green, you think, is growing on you.

[turtleplushi]

I need to stop drawing them my god

[moeblob]

Anyway I'm still happy to have seen Hrid in FEH recently. Thank you for asking.

[themortaldraw]

My thoughts have dried up. Where’s God in that? My rage and other such things vanished long ago but though I perform my act, I’m ignorant. Still, this story is still going because I wish for it to reach you, listening constantly.

shunran//spring storm (john ft hatsune miku)

part one

part two

[alex-the-bringer-of-chaos]

Honestly, aesthetic attraction is such a powerful thing in me, cause my ass is 4 and a half drinks in (going home from college in the van) and just complimented 9 different people, who might be women (though idk nor care) and this just reinforces my belief that i would be such a powerful Sapphic, and that maybe I should identify as being a Sapphic aroace, due to tertiary attraction. Noice, ik.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS Equineswap AU part 1: Bro we are horses. It’s okay to cry around me, we are best friends. Bro we are kissing.

[girl side of the swap]

[osamusriceballs]

Last-Minute Plans

Ushijima x fem reader

Warnings: NSFW (cockwarming, rather soft)

Words: ~ 1,5 k

About: Wakatoshi got a ring for you, and he needs to make sure it fits.

A/n: Happy Birthday to our beloved Wakatoshi-kun~

"It fits,"

he mumbles with a sigh of relief, one he hadn't realized he was holding. He looks contently at the jewelry now adorning your ring finger.

Ushijima knows that he's late with this. He should have attempted this plan a long time ago; he despises last-minute actions. Lately, however, you've insisted on waiting until he returns home late from practice due to extended training sessions just before the crucial match, making it impossible for him to secretly slip that ring onto your finger to see if it fits. He's aware he hasn't been giving you the time you deserve lately, but he's determined to make it up as soon as he can. He intends to spoil you as soon as the match is over and his schedule finally allows him to have more free time, treating you like the princess you are.

He had nearly abandoned the idea of trying the ring on your finger. He considered simply hoping for the best, planning to alter the ring quickly after proposing if it didn't fit. He knows you wouldn't have minded, but he wanted this moment to be perfect. The first difficulty he had encountered, however, was that you had rings in various sizes in your jewelry box- probably for different fingers, but even after sorting through them, he was still not convinced that he chose the right size.

Relief washes over him as he sees the ring fitting comfortably, and for a short moment, he envisions your future together. He dreams of having you sleep beside him every night, of going on the vacation you've always dreamed of, and of giving you the beautiful wedding ceremony you've always wanted. He's already asked Tendou to be his best man and informed his parents of his plans. He even decided to send his father a notice that his son will be getting married soon—hopefully.

The ring looks stunning on your hand. It's noticeable yet subtly elegant. He's confident you'll love it; you've often praised his taste, describing him as simple in his choices, which you adore.

His gaze drifts to your peaceful sleeping form. You must be exhausted not to have woken up yet. Normally, you'd wait until he returns or awaken when he quietly lies down beside you, an act he's yet to master. You'd always greet him with a tender kiss, a gesture he cherishes most during his days and misses the most when he's away. Yet, you sleep soundly, your face soft, breathing steady. You're wearing one of his shirts, the old Shiratorizawa jersey you claim is the comfiest—adorable on you, he agrees.

He's fairly certain you're wearing only flimsy panties beneath, but he'll take his sweet time tomorrow to explore every inch of your body.

"Toshi," your sleepy voice pulls him from his daydreams, and he quickly hides the ring, clutching your hand in his. You stir, turning towards him, brows furrowing as you reach out blindly.

"Y/n, go back to sleep. It's late," he murmurs in a soothing tone, knowing you find his voice calming.

"I missed you," you groan, squinting your eyes as you try to make out his face in the dimly lit room.

"I missed you too," he replies, smiling softly and leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. You smile in return, bringing your free hand to his cheek, a bit clumsily—almost slapping his face, but he doesn't mind; he is simply happy having you close.

"You haven't shaved today," you mumble as you caress his cheek. He hums in response. "I forgot. Does it bother you?"

"No, it doesn't. But you never forget to shave. What was on your mind today?"

You, he thinks, but for once, he refrains from sharing his thoughts. He needs to distract you, to take back the ring unnoticed. How you haven't noticed it so far surprises him.

"I was thinking about…" he begins, his voice trailing off, unsure how to respond without you getting suspicious.

"Wakatoshi, come to bed. You seem really tired," you yawn, and he suddenly knows what he needs to do.

Ushijima leans down to kiss you again, this time deepening the kiss with more passion. He feels your response, your body arching into his touch, your lips moving in sync with his.

"Toshi," you're already breathless after a few kisses, and he finally feels your hand relax, fingers intertwining with his with the metal still on your finger. He typically holds your hand more firmly, but now he keeps his grip gentle, ensuring you don't feel the ring on your finger. With his free hand, he traces the hem of your shirt, his fingers gliding beneath the fabric, encountering the softness of your skin.

"Want you, but I'm tired," you whisper against his lips, prompting him to nuzzle against your neck. "Should I pleasure you? Should I make you feel full?" You moan softly and weakly nod, your eyes barely open in the dark room. Unbeknownst to you, a wave of relief washes over him. This may not be going exactly as he planned, but making love to you with the ring already on your finger is better than he could have imagined.

He quickly runs through potential scenarios in which he could smoothly slide the ring off your finger, deciding to position himself behind you while maintaining a hold on your hand in front of your body. Shifting his body weight, he maneuvers behind you until his chest presses against your back. He skillfully settles beneath the blanket without releasing your hand, making sure not to tighten his grip around your fingers. His lips find your neck, where he places the gentlest kisses against your skin, earning the softest, most beautiful moans from your lips. His hips begin to rhythmically move against your backside, and he feels how he hardens in his pants.

You contently hum while you lean into his touch, raising one leg to allow him to slip his thigh between yours. "Feels good," you murmur as he starts a grinding motion against your pussy. He feels his growing need, a nearly instinctive response to your body. His earlier suspicion about you wearing only his shirt and panties appears accurate; that much he notices when his shorts ride up and his bare thigh grinds against your cunt. As much as he wants the feeling of your bare skin against his, he knows that undressing might raise too much suspicion. Instead, he guides his free hand downward, gently tracing circles against your clothed center.

"You're so perfect. So beautiful. I love you so much," he whispers into your ear, causing you to shudder in his arms. Your grip on his hand tightens, while your other hand softly clutches the sheets. He understands your needs. Grateful that he's still wearing the soft shorts, he pushes them down slightly, quickly freeing his cock.

"Should I use some lube?" he asks, concern lacing his voice, worried about hurting you since he hasn't fully prepared you yet—a truly challenging task when ensuring your hand remains held and he can only use one hand properly.

"Think I'm wet enough," you mumble, and he dips two fingers between your folds to confirm, and he is rewarded with enough arousal to forget about his worries.

As much as he wants to ravish you right now, he knows you would probably drift off to sleep if he makes love to you tenderly—so that's precisely what he does. He gently spreads your legs further with his thigh, allowing his cock to rest between your legs. It has almost become a routine for him to set aside your panties and gradually ease his cock inside you- a practice that you often do after he comes home late from his practice sessions.

A breathy moan escapes your lips at the stretch, and he feels his own body tensing at the sensation of your soft walls around him. He continues to push until he's fully inside of you. You always take him so well—it feels breathtaking to be buried deep inside you. He still hopes you'll succumb to sleep in this embrace, even though he's surely wide awake himself.

"Feels good," you hum, your breathing gradually returning to a steady rhythm. He pulls you closer, inhaling the soothing flowery scent of your hair- a scent that always brings him comfort and calms his mind when he can't seem to rest. You might not fully grasp how much he loves you—how every fiber of his being yearns for you, how he wishes for you to be happy and to be his. This is precisely why he plans to propose to you tomorrow and to place the ring back on your finger. You wouldn't refuse him on his birthday, would you?

"Sleep well, my love."

[callmebyyournamephoto]