#poor guy is just trying to get through the day
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plumipal · 2 days ago
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The Tattoo (part three)
After scarabias overblot, and seeing what Ace and Deuce were willing to do for you, you were so touched that you decided to get them tattooed on your body as a small heart and a spade. After that chaos ensues-
If you wanna read the whole prolouge, then it's here
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Oh poor Idia, where do we even start for him?... poor guy is absolutely shattered as soon as he saw those two tattoos on you through the cameras. He felt his entire reason to live just shatter. He feels his entire world collapsing in on itself. He completely just, breaks down, sobbing to himself on the floor trying to rationalise how the tattoos were not real, to try to keep his sanity in tact.
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The days after that disastrous breakdown, he has been stuck in bed, too depressed to frankly do anything but to sulk. He had not eaten, not drank enough, and his personal hygiene is downright awful.
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Once Ortho has convinced him to get up because crowley demanded him to actually attend his classes or it's byebye NRC for Idia, his pity for himself has turned into rage. Whenever he sees the dumb duo he can't help but to want to do anything against them, he sure would LOVE to doxx them...
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But after some reconciderence from Ortho (statistics show he would be one of the top suspects for it and therefore make the prefect hate him even more (he believes)) he instead chose to take care of himself, putting actual effort in how he looks as to win you over with that. He sure hope it works, please...
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Don't think ortho is just hyping up his brother, cuz he is sure helping on the sidelines. Digging up info the students don't want anyone to know abour sure is easy when you have unlimited internet access (and some illegal ways to obtain the info)
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That's the easy way of getting students away from you, but getting you trapped up with them is almost just as easy. He starts calling you his siblings as well, subtly telling you how you and idia would be the greatest siblings ever to him, even backing up and glorifying hos brother in your eyes, anything it takes to get you to chose idia.... you will all be a happy family....
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Sebek, for once in his life, is stunned to silence. He cant quite grapple the thoughts and feelings swirling within him is making him feel quite sick, making him quiet for the rest of the day..
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Once classes has ended, he bolts over to his dorm only to dramatically lock himself in his dorm room and let out the worst crying session ever. He is sobbing,
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The whole ordeal and emotions results in him having the need to constantly watch over you, as a way to show that he too can protect you, he can be there for you, just like ace and Deuce, but better! Please, he needed you, he needs you to need him too, please...
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Silver don't quite know what to think about this. He cant blame you, the heroic stunts of your friends sure are nice, but why with something so permanent? He could do what they did and so much more for you, give him an opportunity and he will show you.
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After "the talk" the four of them had, he has had a hard time sleeping for the first time in his life. He feels exhausted yet can't close his eyes, pictures of you happily being with ace and Deuce clouding his poor exhausted brain. He will take this on the only way he knows, a duel for your love and your hand.
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You're not dumb either, you see how tired he had been and the lack of sleep he has been getting, and feeling bad for him you let him sleep on tou if that would help him. He takes this opportunity and sure is greedy with it, wanting more and more sleep time with you. It's one way to claim you, and at the moment it's enough for him, but don't think he won't demand more in the soon future..
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Lilia feels heartbroken. First that the prefect, his beloved, has shown this love that he would love to have for someone else (especially two people), it breaks his heart. What breaks his heart even more is how he needs to go against his own sons for his beloved too. But he will do whatever it takes to secure you for himself.
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When he meets you after hearing about the tattoo, he tries act as normal as possible, not wanting to scare you away with his desperation. Despite that though, he will also try to advance, because he is NOT losing to all these youngsters, he's old enough to know exactly how to treat someone right. Let him treat your right, please, he begs of you....
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Malleus feels like there's a storm inside him, getting worse by every second he thinks about that forsaken tattoo you have. He activately tries to think less about it, not wanting the whole school to be stuck in a storm for weeks, especially when you're situated in that poor awful old and decrepid building. He will try to smite ace and Deuce if he has the choise to though-
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After the anger dies down, that's when the sadness flows in. The fact that he was not your favorite, that he was not worth his own tattoo, frankly brings him to tears. He has never been denied something in his life, especially something that he wants so badly. It's a foreign feeling, and a horrible one at that.
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He is an attention hungry dragon, give him what he wants and he will give you the world without question. Just, please, give him the love and affection he both crave and deserves...
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Chat, im tired. Let me sleep- FINALLY THIS SERIES IS FINISHED! or so I thought- o will focus on other comics/ideas before I come back for the endings tho, because I kinda wanna do other stuff and not just the tattoo shenanigans yknow :) one again huge thanks to @artdolliewishes for lots of support and help lmao
I hope yall enjoyed this shitshow of a series atleast, was lots of fun to create after all
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November's Naughty and Nice Stories
Day 13: A Little TLC
Stan Pines x Reader fluff
*Does contain language, and some description of throwing up*
Sitting at the counter, staring at the clock, waiting for the day to just wrap up, Stan came up behind you, and scared you back to life.
"Waddaya think you're doin'!?? Loafin' around, gathering flies with that dead stare! Get wor- cough, cough, cough-" he began hacking up a storm, putting his hands on his knees, then trying to compose himself again.
"Uh, Stan, you aren't looking too great. Don't you think you might be getting sick?" you said, looking a little concerned, as his face looked pretty red from all the coughing.
"Ack," he said, clearing phlegm from his throat," I ain't got the time to be sick! I'm Mr. Mystery, and Mr. Mystery --" and he puked on the floor, and you jumped.
"Stan! Holy shit!" And you grabbed plastic bags from the counter, seeing him puke...pink glitter? You shook your head, and dropped in front of him, guiding him to heave in there instead.
"Stan, we need to at least get you upstairs to bed! I'll call Soos in a little bit, but I need you to lean on me, and throw up in the bag if you're gonna do it again!" And you could see his poor face was sweating and pale. You climbed the steps with him, as he kept talking and tried not to gag.
"Oh, babe... Y'know I'm good....I'm Mr. Mys-" he swallowed hard, and glanced at you. "Wow...You're strong....And really cute...I always think that shit, but... I figure....I figure...Blaaaa-" he went into the bag again.
The man was delirious. He is ill, and loopy, and yet, hitting on me. Huh, he's got balls, you thought. No, he's just sick. You pushed the thought out, and got him to his room. You got him plopped on the bed, and talked him through it. You were going to have to get most of that off him, and lay him on his side.
"Stan, I'm going to undress you, and get you down to your underwear or whatever. You need to cool down, and lay on your side after that. You could drown in puke this sick."
"Oooooo...Getting to third base....And you...haven't taken me to....dinner. Whatta naughty....thing."
"Yeah, whatever ya old pervert. Let's get this stuff off you," and you helped him along, like a doll.
The jacket, then dress shirt, then shoes, pants, and finally, after 15 minutes, the girdle. You popped his fez off, and he thankfully didn't vomit during the process. You laid him on his side, and found a bucket from the hallway, and got him a cold wash cloth. He shivered a little, but he had some color back in his face, but was still sweating.
"Alright, Stan, you look a little better, so I'm going downstairs, and I'm going to close up, and let Soos know you are sick, and, I don't know. I'll be right back."
He looked up at you, his eyes misty. "Thank you. Sorry, hon."
Huh, he was being polite, definitely delirious, but hey, a broken clock is right twice a day. "Stan, you're sick. I'm not going to just let you feel like this and be alone, sick as a dog." And you went downstairs.
You made calls to Soos and the local pharmacy, and went to town to grab meds, soup, another blanket, crackers, cat litter for the puke, and ginger ale. You got back, and he was sleeping, but he left a note in terrible handwriting.
Sooooorry I'm an asshole.
Xo. Xo
Stan
You had to laugh a little, the poor guy was just out of it. Probably something going around as the temperature dropped, along with some weird food he ate. You set everything down, got some ice for the ginger ale, then grabbed a blanket and pillow from the next room over, and propped yourself a little ways from him.
"Goodnight Stan...I'm here if you need me."
The next morning...
You woke up before Stan, and crept to him, feeling his head. No fever or sweating now. And he must have got some ginger ale in the night. It was half drank, so he was at least hydrated. He actually did look really sweet sleeping, and not smelling like puke. You snuck out, and called Soos, then made some soup with crackers on the side.
When you went back up, he was at least awake. He was rubbing his head and smiled weakly at you. "Hey, sweetie...."
"Hey Stan, how are you feeling today?"
"A bit better. The old gut just ain't up for handlin' the concoction Mabel left in the summer."
"The WHAT?" you said, confused and peeved.
"Well, I was thirsty, and ran outta Pitt in the fridge, so I may have took a few swigs...." he said nervously, as you pressed your fingers into the bridge of your nose.
"Stan Fucking Pines, that bottle of....I don't even know is...I don't know! You may as well have drank paint thinner! If you weren't so sick still, I'd slap you." And you were very tempted to actually do it.
"Oooooo, didya worry about me?" he said, swatting his eyes at you as you rolled them so far back you almost saw your brain. "You like me a little."
"Stan, you were delirious yesterday," you told him, your cheeks getting pink from his taunting. "I was trying to be nice and all, and there you go-"
"Ya know I remember, right? You're strong and cute. Is it a crime to say that, even if I'm a crook? I just wanted to let you know in case somethin' really was up," as he turned his head to the window.
"Oh. Well, I do like you too, a little more than like, but I still want to slap you."
And he turned and looked back at you with a shit eat grin. "Ooooooo, I might like it, babe."
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lazyjellyfish300 · 2 days ago
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The flufftober!! The prompts are so cute omg...
You know what they say about when men having fever, they'd act like they're at the end of their life?😭
I think Atsuya would be one of those men lol. Acting like its the end and pushing us away when he's sick, because its rare for him to get sick, poor guy cant even get up to eat porridge... so... may we get that with the ended up falling asleep together, please? Thank you!
Hi Nonnie!! Thank you so much! 🥰🥰 Omg yes the man cold 😂 he so would, huh? I can definitely imagine Atsuya being one of those men lolol. This is so cute!! Thank you for requesting my love!! 💕
a sick day with atsuya
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CW: XFEM!READER, FLUFF, CRACK SLIGHT SUGGESTIVE, MINORS DNI
words: 721
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"Atsuya?" 
You call into your quiet apartment as you shrug out of your coat, shed your boots, and hang your keys. You got off work after a slightly concerning text from your boyfriend. Usually a sparce texter, you didn't take notice something was wrong with his one word answers until he mentioned he was home from the school already. 
"Kusa?" You try again, walking down the hall, heart racing slightly if this was some kind of sick practical joke or the worst really did happen and you were about to walk in on him dead on the floor with his tongue hanging out.
You approach the cracked door to your bedroom and push it cautiously, shoulders relaxing at the sight of your Atsuya, shirtless in his boxers, hairy chest and stomach to match in all his manly glory on display for your viewing pleasure with an arm covering his eyes, tissues, and a mangled box of NyQuil on the nightstand. 
No doubt about it, your boyfriend was on the verge of death. 
Well, at least that's what he would've lead you to believe with the inhuman groan that left his throat a moment later. 
"Jus' kill me, it'll be less painful..." He grumbles, keeping his eyes closed. 
"Oh, Kusa..." You shake your head and pout your lips sympathetically. "Baby's got the man flu?" You climb into bed next to him. 
"Not the flu, doll." He grumbles. "Baby has a disease. The godforsaken black plague. This is the same shit that killed healthy strong young men like me back in the day." 
"Ever the drama queen, my love." You kiss his stubbly jaw and he sighs a little. "Well, did you eat anything, drink water, perhaps?" You run tentative fingers carefully through his spiky dark tresses, taking note of his increased temperature. 
"Nah. Didn't wanna wait for the goddamn noodles to heat up in the microwave."
"What the...Kusa! You're killing me." You shake your head. "No wonder you're knocking on death's door. We need to hydrate and get you fed immediately."
"Nnnggghhh." 
"Chop, chop, mister, no exceptions."
-----
The apartment grew warm and cozy eventually as the freshly chopped vegetables stewed in the broth alongside the boiled chicken. Atsuya sat on a stool at the counter with a blanket around his shoulders with a large glass of water and a curly straw, gazing at you like the sun stopped and started with the breath you planted in his lungs. 
Three hearty bowls of bubbling chicken noodle soup and a begrudging 32 oz of water later, color had returned to Kusakabe's face. He looked at you with weary, grateful eyes as you lay curled up next to him on the couch as your favorite show played, heart aching at the adorable sight of your cheeks and your hair squished against a pillow with your legs in his lap. 
"Thanks for saving me, cutie." 
"Mhmm, don't mention it...." You smile lazily and go back to watching, keenly aware of his hands that became a little more daring as they worked into a tantalizing massage on your thighs and hips.
"Atsuya..." You sleepily chastise him. "Thought you were too sick..." A breathy low chuckle as he leans over you, playfully nuzzling his face against yours. 
"Yeah, I'm sick, doll, not on hospice..." he purrs suggestively, brushing his lips against yours "The day I turn you down for sex, just g'head and pull the plug..." He captures your lips in a soft peck. "'Cause I'm obviously not of sound mind..." 
"Mmm...you might get lucky in the morning. I'm exhausted, sweetheart." 
"Hehe, no worries, doll..." Kusakabe lets out a yawn, laying his head on your stomach as he feels himself also being pulled rapidly under the increasing spell of sleep. 
"Haha, Atsuya Kusakabe, grade one sorcerer, is a formidable opponent against any and all curses, but let him catch a cold..." 
"Hey, now..." Kusakabe murmurs. "This doesn't leave our apartment... S'far as everyone at the school is concerned, I'm still unstoppable... I'm only weak for you..." He pauses then drowsily hums, "Don't tell Panda." 
"Mhmm...of course of course... your... *yawn* secret is safe with me, darling..." You manage to get out before you drift off to dreamland. 
"Thanks, baby..." Before he follows right after you while holding you close to his chest.
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vroom--vrooming · 16 hours ago
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F1 drivers in the apocalypse
Max Verstappen
He was not prepared for it, nor he ever imagined something like this would ever happen. That being said, the poor guy had to kill the infected or zombies on day one, and at that time they were still considered "people" so Max was kinda in shock.
He had blood in his hands for at least two days because he was still trying to make sense of what's going on.
He learned that no one can be trusted pretty soon when a loving family teamed up with him and on the second night they tried to kill him and take his weapons and supplies. He survived but decided to never trust anyone, no matter who they are.
He quickly became very skilled with blades and axes. He always carries an axe.
Avoids trouble. Kills anyone who seems shady.
He has lived days he won't even wish upon his enemies...actually he would.
Charles Leclerc
When the apocalypse started Charles thought either it was a big prank or somehow Halloween arrived early. He really screamed his lungs out when he saw a zombie eat a person alive. The guy literally froze and went completely cold.
Let's just say Charles found out quick enough that butter knife is not that effective in killing zombies, and neither is a chokehold. Ran over a few zombies with his Ferrari
Went completely paranoid and didn't sleep for a week until he passed out. Woke up to find his survival kit and Ferrari gone. Couldn't believe he got robbed. Got very angry and decided to track the guys who robbed him
Found the guys who robbed him. Asked politely to return his stuff and his car, got laughed at. He got even more angry. Had a blackout, and when he came to his senses everyone around was dead and he was covered in blood.
Went back into paranoid mode, but this time he is scared of himself as well.
Lando Norris
This guy locked himself in his house, thinking it's the safest place. But he almost died from a heart attack when the dead came banging on his door at night. He had to climb through his balcony and jump to escape. Dislocated his shoulder and only realized it when he stopped running. Popped his shoulder right back in after an hour of crying in pain.
He figured out that the zombies smell the living so he covered himself with the disgusting insides of a few dead bodies. Got him far enough and without harm for three days.
Almost got killed when he ran into a group of few humans, they thought he was a zombie.
Killed a living thinking it was a dead guy coming for his brain. Because of it he had nightmares for weeks.
Found a group and stuck with them for his safety and survival
Oscar Piastri
He tried to drive himself out of the city but the car broke down and he was trapped inside with the dead surrounding him. He waited till dark when the zombies slightly stepped away, and then he made a run.
He Home Alone an entire department store and stayed there for a few weeks until his traps stopped working. He gathered everything he could and left, and went out of the city.
Soon learned that in the new world politeness doesn't always work, but a gun always does the job.
Got offered to join a group, but he declined. The group started to hunt him for other purposes. Each one of them died a horrible death after getting stuck in his traps.
Took shelter where the group were staying.
Carlos Sainz
This guy was on vacation and got stuck in a foreign country. Literally stole a boat and escaped thinking that only that country was infected.
Reached a completely different country and saw the same chaos. Wants to get home but there is no way.
Kill count went from 0 to 20 in a day when both dead and living came after him. He never recovered from that. When he looked in a mirror after weeks he barely recognized himself.
Turned a little psychotic but still has a good heart...at least that's what he believes, otherwise he is no longer a human.
Killed a group in their sleep to take over their farm.
Alex Albon
Probably the only guy in the world who refuses to kill anyone, living or dead.
An excellent thief. First time he stole he left a sorry note. Carries a cat with him, his companion. Survived on cat food for a week till he found an abandoned market.
A master at staying out of trouble. No one can catch him or even see him until he wants them to. Very polite but talks to himself and the cat, may have gone a little crazy.
Franco Colapinto
What would you do if the girl you were picking up for a date gets bitten by a zombie and then comes back to life? Well, Franco tried to take her to the hospital. Not a good place to be when the entire hospital went into lockdown, trapping the living and the dead inside.
Franco ran and found himself in the morgue. A few more people joined him. They only lasted there for two days before one of them died and turned and bit another. Franco had no choice but to get out and lock them all there. He somehow got to the roof and escaped through the fire exit.
Almost got killed or bitten many times over the next few weeks. From innocent flirtatious guy to a ruthless killer. Very brutal kills.
He got out of the city right before it got nuked. Took shelter inside a train tunnel. Anyone who tries to pass it dies.
Lance Stroll
He was safely in his basement, had no idea how bad it was outside. Thought it was just an extreme version of covid. He was forced to get out when his cook died. When he got out it felt strange, like he was the only man on earth. That didn't last long when his security team turned zombies came after him.
Got the helicopter and flew away. Went to search for the military, hoping he would be safe. Soon learned that all organizations no longer exist. Ran out of fuel and had to land. Spend the night at an abandoned military base.
Was surprised in the morning when he found out there were people there. Begged them to let him stay there and in exchange he will tell him his address and they can get all the resources, including weapons. The leader agreed.
Eventually turned into some sort of caretaker of the group.
Fernando Alonso
Poor guy lost all his loved ones in a month, and not only that, he also had to kill their zombie version. It drove him crazy. He almost gave up, putting himself in dangerous situations just so he could kill.
Others like him started to follow him, respect him. Fernando felt like it was his responsibility to protect those who are loyal to him. But by this point he has become ruthless, and any trace of pre apocalyptic Fernando was gone.
He led his people to a military base and settled there. No one goes in or out with his permission.
Others have tried to attack the base and take over but Fernando is too good with his strategies and they always end up running away or dead.
Lewis Hamilton
Always with the faith and positivity. First he was all about saving and protecting people. Soon realized a little bit of fear and kindness will get him followers, people who would serve him and be loyal to him.
Doesn't like to get his hands dirty, but every now and then he will punish or kill someone to set an example and to keep the fear alive.
He thinks of himself as a saviour, and by his logic everyone should surrender and join him if they mean well.
Tried to take over Fernando's group but failed miserably. Revenge is still his priority but doesn't know where Fernando currently is.
George Russell
He was just minutes away from getting eaten alive when Lewis saved him. He owes Lewis his life and wholeheartedly follows him.
Lewis' right hand man. Loves to do all the dirty work. No one can question him.
He doesn't talk about his life prior to joining Lewis, mostly because he is no longer that man. But he was a killer even before the apocalypse
Cruel is his middle name
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wassupmygays · 1 day ago
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okay im back hi guys <3 im putting this under a cut because it got very long and also its spoilers for the broadway production! but please please read and indulge me if you dont care abt that <3
literally just the start of it, before any dialogue starts, crushes my heart. johnny looks so small and. resigned? about it all. his arms are crossed over his knees, his shoulders hunched. then the first scream comes from the house, and both dally and johnny turn to look at it. johnny looks away pretty quickly; he's used to this. his eyes are tired, staring out into the darkness of the night. but dally stays watching the window, no doubt wondering what all could be happening in that house, and what all johnny has seen. and dally looks so sadly at johnny, just sitting there and listening to his parents hurt each other.
then dally makes himself known, and johnny damn near jumps out of his skin. and dally puts on a little smile when johnny looks back at him, to make sure johnny knows hes okay. that hes not in trouble. and then theres more screaming and hitting and johnny's eyes go dark again, and he plays with the gravel to give his brain Something Else to focus on besides those damn screams. and god dally just looks so helpless behind him.
"um... your parents going at it again?" "yea." "you cant go in there, huh?" "nah. but.. i cant leave either, cause im afraid hes gonna kill her"
johnny says that last bit so nonchalantly. like its just another normal sentence. and god that hurts. this poor goddamn kid stuck sitting outside his house in the cold, listening to his parents fight, wondering if his dad will finally go that far. hes just sitting and waiting to see if he needs to go in and somehow save the woman who probably wouldn't do the same for him. but that doesn't matter to johnny. he doesn't care if his mother hasn't given him the time of day for over half his life. he doesn't care if his mother never patches up the wounds left by his father. that's still his mother, and he loves her.
and then dally offers him the hershey bar, and johnny grins at him. but that little joy is immediately replaced by his instincts when he hears another scream. he hides the chocolate and resumes his position on the tire, making himself tiny and quiet. he knows that yelling leads to him getting hit, so hes gotta try and hide. also, the insinuation that he thinks the chocolate will get him in trouble.. something as simple as a hershey bar will get him beat, so hes gotta hide it. and god he just looks so tired and scared and empty.
and then suddenly dally is marching towards the door, and johnny can't let him go and break up that fight. he can't let his dad beat on his friend, who knows what he would do and it would all be johnnys fault, right? thats what i imagine is going through his head when he literally leaps on dally and shoves him away from the door. he doesnt even say anything,
but i know dally can see that panicked, scared look in his eyes. so he backs down. and he decides to help his friend, this kid, his brother, in the only way he knows how: a switchblade to defend himself. im sure he wishes he could help more, but he isnt equipped for this. not when johnny refuses to just get up and leave, and that's the only thing dally knows how to do.
this got very long and kinda just turned into a summary of the scene but just. johnny and his tired, sad eyes, and his nervous fidgets, and his flinches and jumps at every noise. johnny who refuses to leave his parents, his mother, no matter what they do to him or each other. johnny who cares so much, who craves the love of a family so much. johnny who sits outside in the cold in case he needs to go into a war zone to save the woman who never even picks up his personal belongings from the hospital after he dies. johnny cade.
the scene with dally and johnny before the drive in is so beautiful and painful. after class i will be back right here to elaborate <3
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stevenrogered · 7 months ago
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9-1-1 7x04 | "Buck, Bothered and Bewildered"
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phantajam · 3 months ago
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my hot take about descendants is that NONE of the core four were ready for a relationship until maybe like, the third movie (rant in tags)
#they were still adjusting to living life without struggling to survive#a girl should not be jumping into a relationship the same week she just tried her first piece of non-rotten food lol#thats not to say I don't like the canon ships#but mal married literally the FIRST man she met in auradon. at 18.#and even as far as in descendants 2 we see them still struggling to adjust in different ways (mainly mal)#in d3 they seem to have fully assimilated into life in Auradon (as much as a VK can anyway)#so it makes sense for them to THEN seek out relationships if that's what they want.#but disney ofc wanted to act like romantic love just automatically fixes a person's problems ig?? as if a relationship wouldn't just be#added stress given the position the VKs were in in d1#not to mention dating just like. wasnt a thing on the isle (mal even says this)#and I get that the kids are craving to be loved because their parents didn't gaf about them. But I wish the first movie focused more on the#finding that love in each other than romantically with outside people. a sort of “they had love in them all along” moment.#and then this fandom loves to argue about whether Jarlos/Janelos was 'rushed'. at least Carlos (and Jay +lonnie) waited a few months before#throwing themselves into the dating scene. Poor evie had her heart broken within like 3 days of being in Auradon. no wonder she was willing#to help steal the wand lol.#Anyway to wrap up this rant I didn't even mean to go on#I just think that kids who have spent the first 14-16 years of their lives fighting to survive and being put through continuous trauma on a#daily basis don't need dating right away. they need THERAPY.#if anyone here has seen stranger things its kinda an El and Mike situation were its like. the girl grew up in a lab and fell for the first#boy in regular society who was kinda nice to her lol. thats how I view Mal and Ben#same with doug and evie. he was nicer than chad but he still fell for her for her looks and she still fell for him because he was the first#guy in auradon to be genuinely interested in her. also evie had a whole “I dont need a prince” arc and ended up with a man anyway?#my problem with janelos was always that Carlos never quite worked out his mommy issues or his anxiety. I feel like he'd be afraid of hurtin#her even though that boy wouldn't hurt a fly. and we see Jane get pretty stressed out herself- have you ever been in a relationship where#both of you have anxiety? cause it either goes really well (you help keep each other calm) or REALLY terribly (you make each other spiral)#I actually really liked Lonnie and Jay (though I feel like it would've had a bigger payoff if she was in d3. not sure why she wasn't but I#wont dunk on that because it couldve been smth to do with her actress). I think Lonnie is someone who can 'handle' Jay well and match his#energy. And I like the idea of Jay finding someone he's loyal to after being commitment-phobic for 1 1/2 movies and the whole first book lo#and ofc I have to throw this in here: any auradon kid the VKs get with is never going to grasp even half of what they went through.#this doesnt mean they can't try to understand and be empathetic. but it will always cast a shadow on VK/AK relationships.
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bunnyb34r · 8 months ago
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I need life to slow the fuck down bc my skin is starting to hurt real bad from all this picking :/
#marquilla#i need a healthy coping mechanism but nothing hits like self destruction dgdgdghddg#my brain is hard wired from genetics to pick at my skin and hair on both sides 😭 i was doomed from the start#i do try to not do it btw im not like oh well guess theres no options! like no i know but i need a foolproof one#or for life to fucking chill#every four years i become an over plucked chicken for 10 months and think ab pulling my head hair out bc yall are driving me up the wall#i got into a fight in 2016 ab the election and i nearly started punching... like i had to hit the bed instead bc im like god i cant hurt#them but GOD DO I FEEL THE NEED TO TO GET YOU TO GET IT#i think i like plucked DEEP that day just taking my anger and frustration out bc good lord#like how can you be like hmm well im gonna vote for this guy bc fuck poor people. i work retail and so i see people abusing ebt a lot#therefore it makes me mad and i wanna stop it.#like you only notice the 'fraud' and misuse/bad choices people make bc thats negative in your mind so#your brain holds onto it. youre not noticing the poor people who are just minding their business using ebt and feeding their family#ive gotten through to them at least a little ab how fraud is less than 1% and that the fraud is usually selling stamps for cash for diapers#and shit and that it's people sharing cards bc they need to pool their funds to feed their families#that the people you see stealing or buying expensive ass meats on ebt are not the majority and if they wanna waste their limited funds each#month like that then thats a them problem. mind your business.#anyway im fucking like deteriorating sggdgdggd
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rosicheeks · 6 months ago
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You could post cute pics and get validation from strangers on the internet while you wait.
Fr tho I hope you're doing okay ❤️
What do you think I’ve been doing 😂😘
#haven’t posted in literal ages#and then I post multiple things in the past day or two l o l#your girl wants attention and validation all the damn time!!!#was trying to reblog old content but yall have seen that too much and don’t have the same reaction#I want your mouth to drop and you can’t help but drool from looking at me#that’s my goal 😇#but seriously I’ve been looking at a lot of my rosie content and deciding what’s good enough to post#looking for someone to go through all my content and tell me what are the true gems#so I can post those#it’s actually insane how much content I have#and most of it has never been seen before lol#have this school girl post I’m working on 😇#just working on the cute tags hehe#if you guys are ever bored and looking for something to do#give me attention#and praise#and worship me#pretty please 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺#on a real note I should be fine? I hope.#every day is different… today I’m doing my ehhh alright?#but I can’t complain cause some days I feel like death#I’m also lucky I have weed to use as my crutch#I’m just in between jobs right now cause I was trying to get into this dumb program#but now that I’m on a waitlist I’m gonna have to find some sort of income#I saved up some from my last job but that is slowly dwindling away#maybe I’ll do some sort of driving/delivery job#I’m just so sick of working when I know it doesn’t make a difference#I’m going to be poor and broke the rest of my life so who cares#welp getting sad and don’t wanna do thaaaaaat….. also running out of space lol. so gonna smoke the little weed I have left and ignore ignore#ask
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nyankochan · 3 months ago
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Hashira Training: Wifely Duties
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Synopsis: Your husband is working hard to train the members of the Demon Slayer corps in preparation for the upcoming battle with Muzan. However, they seem a bit stressed. You decide to help in other ways, like a good wife. Pairings: [SEPARATE] Uzui x Reader, Giyu x Reader, Obanai x Reader, Sanemi x Reader, Rengoku x Reader, Gyomei x Reader
Content: MDNI, fem! reader, oral male & female receiving, dacryphilia (Uzui), bath sex (Uzui), bondage (Obanai), pregnancy (Himejima), unprotected sex, rough sex (Sanemi), overstimulation, breeding (Rengoku), I hope I didn’t forget anything else but sorry if I did.
Word count: 7.2K (bruh)
A/N: Just finished the Hashira Training Arc. No anime episode has ever stressed me more than that finale...Added Rengoku as a hypothetical what-if since he's my favorite hashira. Muichiro excluded since he's a little baby but I still love him.
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Uzui Tengen: Former Sound Hashira
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“Move your asses! If you don’t finish the last rep, no dinner for you tonight!”
Your husband’s loud voice carries a great distance, no surprise coming from the former sound hashira. This allows you to find him and your other co-wives fairly easily as you make your way up the mountain side where Tengen’s endurance camp had been set up.
You’re met with a somewhat…comedic(?) sight..of your flashy husband dressed in a casual kimono swinging a wooden sword at the fallen demon slayers who were clearly on the verge of passing out from exhaustion. You couldn’t help but feel pity for the poor kids.
“If you don’t get it together you’ll never survive what the other hashira have in store,” Tengen huffed, seemingly more annoyed than angry.
“Now now, Tengen-sama, don’t be so hard on the kids,” you sigh, setting down the extra pot you had been tasked with bringing to help prepare dinner. “You’ll end up giving them all nightmares.”
The way Tengen’s face lights up when he sees you makes your heart flutter. "Y/n! I was wondering where you went off to."
"I asked her to go back home to grab another stew pot," Makio chimed in, all while throwing a subtle glare towards a Suma. "Since someone forgot to do what they were told and bring it like asked.
Suma proceeds to hide behind you and Hinatsuru as you help her with the rice for the onigiri. "Uwahh! Y/n-san! Hinatsuru-san! Makio-san is targeting me again!"
"Please, don't start," You sigh.
"We all need to do our part," Hinatsuru said, like the mature woman of the group she was. "Let's do our best with dinner so that we aren't inconveniencing Tengen-sama."
With four sets of hands, you guys get dinner done by sundown, the smell of fresh onigiri and beef stew wafting through the air. However, the poor demon slayers were so worn out from your husband's brutal training, you don't think any of them would have the energy to even think about eating. Still, Tengen snaps at them to do so as to not let you all's hard work go to waste.
"Tengen-sama, please try to relax a little," you gently say, tugging on the end of his kimono. You offer him a bowl you had prepared. "It's not good to get so worked up."
Although grateful, Tengen doesn't say anything as he takes the food you offered, sipping the broth in silence.
That night, you soak in the Uzui Manner's private onsen, the stress of the day clouding your thoughts. You’re worried. You know the final battle against Muzan will inevitably happen, but you’re terrified. For your friends. For your family. What if Tengen has to come out of retirement to help? What if you and your co-wives are caught in the middle like in the Red Light District?
You’re so in your head that you don’t even hear the door open and someone enter. “What a surprise. I thought you were in bed by now.”
Tengen’s voice startles you and you’re quick to sink into the water to cover yourself. Your husband’s laughter fills your ears. “What are you being shy for?” Clad in nothing but a towel, you gawk at your husband’s physique. Despite officially retiring from the Demon Slayer Corps, his consistent training kept him in shape.
“You just surprised me…that’s all…”
Tengen settles behind you in the bath, the water sloshing as he enters and pulls you into his lap. You relax against his chest. “You wanna tell me what you were thinking about?” He asks, tracing his hand down your side making you shiver involuntarily.
“N-no….its nothing. But you seemed stressed earlier, Tengen-sama. Is there anything I can do for you.”
Tengen sighs, leaning back against the edge of the bath, arms spread and muscles tense. “It’s nothing, love, don’t worry.”
You frown. You then turn so that you’re straddling Tengen’s lap, the water splashing with your movement. Tengen raises a brow in confusion, but doesn’t question your actions. “P-please allow me to help you, Tengen-sama.”
Tengen chuckles, cupping your cheek gently. “You already do more than enough for me, and for that I’m very grateful.” The kiss he pressed against your lips starts off soft, only to grow more intense and desperate. You squirm, letting out a small whimper.
Feeling you rock against him, Tengen groans, his cock beginning to harden. He scoops you up underneath your thighs with one hand, not breaking your kiss. As he lays you down on the onsen deck, you shiver at the cold feeling of the stone. Tengen trails gentle kisses down your neck while his fingers grace your clit, stimulating the sensitive nerves.
“W-wait. W-wait,” you suddenly protest. Tengen pulls back, worried he hurt you. “I-I want to be of use to you, Tengen-sama. Please let me please you.”
Tengen wears a rather perplexed expression before chuckling. He sits back on the end of the bath. “Ok then, please me.”
You drop to your knees before your husband, taking his cock gently into your hands. It’s already stiff with arousal, pre pearling at the fat tip. Your finger traces the thick vein running up the side of Tengen’s length, making him twitch.
Tengen groaned as your warm mouth enveloped him, his head leaning back in satisfaction as his fingers gripped your hair tightly. You immediately began to suck, feeling your jaw strain as he began to swell in size. Tears prickled in your eyes, and you rest your hands on Tengen’s thighs to steady yourself.
"Mhmm fuck," Tengen moaned deeply. His low raspy voice only turned you on more. He gripped Your hair harsher and pulled you closer; you nearly gag. "Fuck. Don't stop. Use your hand. Fuck. There you go.”
You eagerly obliged, sucking him harder and taking more of him, or as much as you could cause he was just so damn big. Tears trickle down your cheeks, and it takes all Tengen’s willpower to not buck into your mouth. The sight of you looking at him so innocently, crying as you try to take his size almost has him coming down your throat. You can tell he’s close to his release from the way he tenses, muscles tightening, yet he quickly pulled you away.
“T-Tengen-sama?” You question, out of breath. Before you can react, Tengen has you pulled into his lap and your knees pressed to your chest with his arms wrapped under your legs in a rather embarrassing position that has your cunt exposed. In a single thrust, the tip of his cock kisses your cervix and you’re crying out.
Tengen rests his head against your back, breathing heavily. “You’re so good to me.” He groans at the feeling of your warm cunt wrapping snuggly around him. “I love you so much.” Tengen’s grip tightens, pulling your legs back further as his hips buck up, stretching you further. The slightly uncomfortable position makes you whimper.
“But tonight, I’m going to fuck you like I don’t.”
Iguro Obanai: Serpent Hashira
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You know how ruthless and impatient your husband can be, so you pity the poor slayers who were stuck in the vicious vice-like hold Obanai’s training has. Most of them had been there for at least a week, if not more, unable to perform at a level that satisfied your husband. So, you’ve taken on somewhat of a nurse role, providing first aid to the many bruises, welts and rope burns the slayers received as part of the training. Your hope was that your treatment would lessen the pain of entering the baths.
“There! All done,” you say, closing up your first aid kit having just treated the cut on one member’s face. “Next time, remember to guard your vital spots. You’re lucky it was only training. A demon wouldn’t be so forgiving.”
“R-right! T-thank you Mrs. Iguro!”
You wave the slayer off as you finish packing your things up. Though you try to ignore it, you can still hear the whispering about your husband.
“How did such a sweet woman end up with a man like the serpent hashira?”
“Yeah the only real demon here is him…”
You grit your teeth in annoyance, prepared to say something when the sliding doors slam open. The atmosphere tenses as your husband walks in, a very angry and intense aura surrounding him.
“If you have time for idle chatter then you must not have worked hard enough,” Obanai scowled, Kaburamaru hissing around his neck. The slayers all quickly scramble to their feet and ran to grab their swords and avoid Obanai’s wrath.
You tug on his haori, stopping him from moving. “Dear, be nice.”
The scowl on his face somewhat softens only to immediately return when a new person announces their presence: Kamado Tanjiro.
“I look forward to training under you,” Tanjiro says, as cheerful as ever. Either he didn’t see your husband’s murderous look or he didn’t care. “Ah! Hello to you too Mrs. Y/n!”
You return the bright smile with one of your own. “It’s great to see that you’ve recovered well, Kamado-kun.”
“Oí! Don’t be so casual with my wife like you’re friends!” Obanai snapped. “And the rest of you stop gawking at her!”
You can only sigh. Of course, anything that you said practically went in one ear and out the other, and Obanai was so rough with the trainees you were surprised he didn’t break anything. Poor Tanjiro in particular seemed to get the brunt of your husband’s annoyance, leaving him with thankfully only some bruising since the training was conducted with practice swords instead of real blades. However, Obanai wouldn’t let treat anyone’s wounds this time around. The moment he ordered for them to scram somewhere, he dragged you out the dojo and back to the main house.
His grip on your wrist was tight, and you knew better than to protest when he was in his foul moods. But the fact that he hadn’t uttered a single word was making you somewhat anxious for what was to come. Was he somehow pissed off at you too?
Once you make it to your shared room and Kaburamaru slithers off somewhere, Obanai closes the sliding door. It’s just the two of you, the tension in the air is suffocating.
“U-um…O-Obanai…a-are you mad?” you try to break the silence only to receive the most piercing glare from your husband’s dual colored eyes, making you hush up instantly.
“Mad?” Obanai scoffs. “Nothing you do can make me mad at you. But…” His eyes trained to yours as he backs you into your shared futon. “I hate the way those idiots gawk and act too friendly with you. You’re my wife. You’re mine and mine alone.”
Obanai grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. His intense gaze while nerve racking is so insanely attractive that you’re whimpering quietly, trying to rub your thighs together in desperate need. Obanai picks up on this and lets out a low chuckle.
“I guess I have to remind you in other ways that you belong to me. Clothes. Off.”
You quickly start taking your kimono off, untying the Obi sash. Clearly you don’t move fast enough for your husband’s liking as he flips you on to your back and starts pulling the fabric off of you.
“W-wait, O-Obanai!” Your cheeks flush in embarrassment. Obanai ignores your pleas, and proceeds to use your obi to intricately tie up your l your wrists behind your back, pinning your arms almost uncomfortably together.
“Don’t you look pretty,” Obanai hums in amusement, pleased with the way the bindings were. He grabs your wrists and forces you to bend over, ass in the air. Obanai nudges your legs up to have a clear view of your dripping cunt, to which he inserts a finger, then two. You helplessly squirm against the restraints, keening against his touch.
“You’re so greedy,” Obanai scoffs. “You’re just sucking my fingers in.”
“Please, Obanai,” you beg. “I need you inside me.”
“Hm…since you asked so nicely.”
You hear him shuffle around, presumably to remove his clothes. You then feel the heat of his chest as he leans over you. Although he was somewhat rough with the restraints, Obanai is tender when he kisses your shoulder blade.
With one hand on you waist and the other on your wrists, Obanai inches his cock into you, groaning at how tight you feel around him. He bottoms out easily and you moan at the uncomfortable arch the position puts you in.
“M-move…p-please…” you whimper.
Obanai chuckles. He pulls out just to the tip before thrusting back in, setting a rough yet steady pace. His cock reaches so deep thanks to the position he has you in, making you gasp each time it kisses your cervix.
“Fuck…you feel so good…” Obanai groans. Usually he’s not one to be overly vocal during sex, but the heat of your cunt was just so addicting and he thought he would lose his mind.
“P-please…” you stumble over your words as he pounds into you. “C-can I hold you?”
Obanai falters briefly, his chest feeling strangely full. How do you always find a way to be so sweet to him? You were going to be the death of him.
Nonetheless, he unties the knot to release your wrists. He flips you over, realigning his throbbing cock at your entrance. You immediately wrap your arms around his neck and legs around his waist to pull him close. Both of you let out shaky moans as he thrusts back in. You gently kiss at the scars on his mouth, and he shivers in response, taking one of your hands to intertwine with his.
“I love you,” he mutters so quietly you almost don’t catch it. You nuzzle into his touch.
“I love you too.”
Shinazugawa Sanemi: Wind Hashira
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You’re currently pissed at your husband and ignoring him. You ignoring him has him even more pissed off, so the Shinazugawa mansion is tense and a literal war zone. The impending war against Muzan is inevitable. While you understand that, you see no reason why your husband has to be such a dick to everyone. Especially to his own younger brother.
“That damn bastard, who does he think he is, going off the rails like that,” you angrily mutter under your breath as you threat Genya’s injuries. He winced at the antiseptic on his cut. You frown. “Sorry sweetheart…”
“It’s ok…Y/n-nee…” Genya says half heartedly. The recent fight between the Shinazugawa brothers ended up escalating to a dangerous point. If it weren’t for Tanjiro’s interference, there probably would’ve been more injuries. And having known the Shinazugawa brothers since childhood, you were fiercely protective of Genya. So seeing Sanemi attack his brother the way he did without any hesitation was literally your last straw.
“I’m sorry…” Genya said.
“Hm? For what?”
“For causing trouble in you and nii-san’s marriage…” the younger boy avoids looking you in the eye. “if only I could use breathing techniques and weren’t so weak…then maybe he’d acknowledge me.”
“Awe, Gen, don’t say that,” you say, pulling the younger boy into a tight hug against your chest. “Your actions have nothing to do with my marriage. Your brother is just being a pain in the ass but that doesn’t mean I still don’t love him. I know he has a shitty way of showing it, but he does care. I’m sorry that you’ve somehow gotten in the middle of our marital problems. I promise things will get better. For all of us.”
You finish tending to his injuries before placing a tender kiss on his forehead, like you used to do when you were kids. Still, Genya’s face explodes red at your babying, making you laugh as you take your exit. As you leave, you’re surprised to see your husband standing outside the door with his arms crossed. Your face sours.
“The fuck you want?” You snap.
“Still got a fuckin attitude?” He retorts.
“Says you.” You walk off in a huff. Sanemi sighs and runs after you.
“Y/n, wait. Please talk to me.”
“About what?” You say bitterly. “I don’t got shit to say to you after the stunt you pulled. I don’t want to hear anything from you unless it’s an apology.”
“Fuck, fine I’m sorry! Now will you listen to me?!” Sanemi desperately said, grabbing a hold of your wrist to stop you. Your eyes narrow, not trusting his words. “Look. I know I was wrong but I can’t take anymore of you ignoring me and doting all over Genya.”
You snatch your hand away, scowling. “So now you’re jealous of your kid brother? I used to change his goddamn diapers.”
“That’s not…ugh fuck. Come with me!” Once more Sanemi grabs your arm, dragging you through the manner against your protests. He brings you to your shared room, which for the past few weeks you’ve stopped sleeping in out of spite. Sanemi closes the door, locking it shut.
“Now what? You got me alone.” You scoff.
“Ugh just shut up!” Sanemi yells, grabbing your chin and kissing you frantically, almost desperately. Your response is muffled and your knees immediately go weak as he forces his tongue in your mouth to deepen the kiss. You’re gasping for air by the time Sanemi pulls away. He buries his head into your shoulder, inhaling your scent that he’s missed so much.
“I’m sorry…dammit…” Sanemi’s voice cracks slightly. “I don’t want to lose you too. I couldn’t bear losing another person so important to me…so please, stop being mad at me…I’m sorry.”
“Nemi…” You cup his cheek before pinching it harshly making him hiss. “You dumbass. That’s what this was all about?I didn’t realize you were this goddamn emotionally constipated.” You sigh, Sanemi now glaring at you while rubbing his cheek. You gently kiss the tip of his nose. “I’m not going anywhere any time soon, okay? I promise.”
Sanemi exhales, almost like a sigh of relief. “Okay.” He kisses you again, this time gentler as if he’s afraid you’ll leave. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper. “I’ve missed you.” Sanemi muttered. His hands begin to wander, trailing up the side of your waist under your uniform.
“Did you miss me, or my body?” You tease.
“Mhm? Both.”
“You’re such a tease.”
“Yet you love me anyway.”
Sanemi kisses you again with more force, all while guiding you down to your shared futon. His hands are rough, groping your breasts, pinching your nipples that stiffen at his touch. You roll your hips upward to press against the growing bulge in his pants. Sanemi groans, biting your lip.
“You like testin’ my patience, don’t you?” Sanemi huffs.
“That depends,” you taunt, beginning to unbutton your uniform top. Sanemi swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You gonna do something about it?”
Sanemi grit his teeth. He grabbed you by the waist, flipping you on your backside, the rest of your clothes torn off from his own impatience. “It looks like I’ll just have to fuck the attitude out of you.”
Your husband makes do of his promise, fucking you senseless into the sheets, weeks of built up tension between the two of you finally being released. He’s aggressive and rough, gripping at your hips so tightly they’d probably bruise. Your neck is littered with bite marks, while Sanemi’s already scared torso has fresh red scratches from the way you grabbed at him. Not that he minded.
“F-fuck,” Sanemi groaned, relishing the way you clenched around his cock. His hips snapped against yours, making you gasp and shudder. “Fuck I missed this. I missed you. Don’t ever fucking ignore me again.”
“N-Nemi, please, I’m close,” you whimper.
Sanemi grins. He puts your legs over his shoulder, pressing down to pin your thighs back in a mating press. The position, though uncomfortable, allows for his cock to reach even deeper. You feel so deliciously full, Tears prickling in your eyes. you cover your mouth trying to hide the sultry moans leaving your lips.
“Nope, I need to hear you,” Sanemi pants, pulling your hair. Your cries are music to his ears. “I need everyone to know how good I fuck my beautiful wife.”
He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away your stray tears before kissing you tenderly. His pace faltered just a bit, making his thrusts more sloppy as his low grunts turned into airy moans. "Ah fuck I'm gonna come."
Sanemi gave one last deep thrust that had you gasping for air. You shivered feeling yourself be filled while your own orgasm hit. After he was sure he finished, Sanemi pulled out and sat back on his heels. He stared down you with a satisfied look on his face as some of his seed leaked from your swollen sex.
He scooped up some that spilled on to the bed and shoved it back into you. You whimpered from the overstimulation. "N-no more."
"Don't tell me what to do," Sanemi huffed. He aligned his cock at your entrance again and sank in with ease. He lets out a satisfied sigh and pulls you to his chest. "There. Now it'll stay in."
Tomioka Giyu: Water Hashira
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“Tomioka-San? Hello! Tomioka-San? Excuse me? Are you there? Sorry to bother you. It’s Kamado Tanjiro!”
It’s the third day in a row the young boy has come by. At this point, you find it quite comical but you can tell your husband is losing his patience.
“Just entertain him, dear,” you say, folding up the laundry. “You know he’s not going to stop until you answer.”
Giyu doesn’t say anything before picking up his katana and leaving the room. You sigh. He had been so distant since the hashira training started. For some reason, he opted not to participate, and you could only assume that’s why Tanjiro’s been by every day to convince him otherwise. Nothing you could say would really change his mind either. The last few nights Giyu had been staying out later, only returning when he knew you’d fallen asleep and leaving first thing in the morning.
You didn’t want to push and pry, but you hope he’d open up soon. Or maybe, hopefully Tanjiro could talk some sense into him. You decide to at least go to the door and greet the boy.
“Giyu-San!? Maybe he’s not home…”
“He just left, in fact,” you say, opening the door. “Maybe you can catch him for me.”
“Ah! Y/n-san! H-hello! Sorry if I disturbed you!” Tanjiro said with a bow.
“No not at all! You’re always welcome here.” You then sigh. “Sorry my stubborn husband is causing you such trouble. If it’s not too much to ask, please talk some sense into him. I’m sure whatever it is it’s important.
Tanjiro smiled. “Of course! Leave it to me!”
For the next five days, Tanjiro shows up, trying to get your husband to talk to him. You’re thoroughly entertained by the situation that you do little to mitigate, ignoring Giyu’s obvious and desperate looks for help. After almost two weeks of this, Giyu finally comes home early one night with a rather defeated expression. You’re in bed reading when he enters your shared room and immediately collapses on the futon.
“Rough day?” You tease.
“Tanjiro doesn’t know when to quit,” Giyu sighs. He sheds his haori and places his is katana off to the side. “He wanted to have a soba eating contest?”
You laugh. “Did you win?”
“No. I yielded and promised to help with the hashira training.” Giyu doesn’t seem to thrilled by it from the tone of his voice. You frown, close your book and motion for your husband closer. Like a child, he crawls into your lap, laying his head against your chest and wrapping his arms around your waist. Giyu sighs contently, inhaling your scent.
“Why were you so against participating in the first place? I’m sorry, but I’m having trouble understanding,” you say, gently running your fingers through his long hair, pulling it out of his usual ponytail.
“Can we talk about it later?” Giyu mumbles. He nuzzles his face into your chest. “I just wanna hold you right now.”
You cup Giyu’s cheeks, forcing him to look at you. You smile. “It’s ok. I’m here for you.” You kiss him gently. Giyu relaxes into the kiss, groaning at the softness of your lips. “I love you so much. Don’t forget, okay?”
Giyu exhales. “Okay.”
He kisses you again, this time with more urgency. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him close as you lay back down into the futon. Giyu trails kisses down the side of your neck, leaving love bites in their wake. His wandering hands tug at your nightgown, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His hair tickles your cheek making you giggle.
“Come on,” you tease, unbuttoning the top of Giyu’s uniform. “Clothes off.” His cheeks were flushed red, and his arousal was evident from the growing bulge in his pants.
“Help me, will you?” Giyu asks, shyly hiding his face in the crook of your neck. He watches while you unbuckle his belt and losen his trousers so that they fall to the floor. He could almost sigh from the instant relief when you release his erection from the confines of his boxers.
You give his cock a few languid strokes, making Giyu shudder in response. He twitched in your hand as you rub your thumb over the sensitive tip, precum beginning to leak out.
“A-ah…f-feels good…” Giyu groans. He has to steady himself on his elbows, resting his forehead against yours. It takes all his strength not to cum right there on the spot. He hikes your leg up around his waist and aligns his cock at your dripping entrance. “Relax, okay? I got you.”
Giyu slowly thrusts in, your wetness causing little resistance. You both groan at the feeling of him stretching you out. Your hips buck upwards, searching for more.
“G-Giyu, m-more,” you plea.
Your husband grunted and picked up the pace. He couldn't get the enough of the way you felt around him. The way your gummy walls would convulse with each snap of his hips. Your high pitched and needy moans for him and him alone nearly drove him over the edge.
"T-there! A-again!" You beg. You wrap your arms around Giyu’s shoulders to hold him close. Capturing your lips again, Giyu sucked hard on them in order to bruise. His thumb jabbed against your clit.
The action caused You to cum. You squealed, biting down on his tongue, making him growl. Your clit pulsated, feeling like it was still vibrating. Tingles raced through veins, rocking your entire body.
"F-fuck, I'm close!" Giyu pants.
His own high was reaching. His thrusts became less rhythmic and more sloppy. Low grunts and moans left his lips. The feeling of You tightening around his dick even more was enough to send him over the edge.
He comes with a low groan. His body rocks and he collapses on top of you, burrying his head into the crook of your neck once more. You squirm feeling him release into your womb.
Giyu pulls out, almost reluctantly and pulls you into his chest. He holds you close as you lull off to sleep. Before you doze off you hear your husband mutter a soft “I love you.”
Himejima Gyomei: Stone Hashira
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“Damn it!” You huff. “Why…huff…did his…huff…training…huff…have to be on top of a stupid mountain!”
You slowly waddle your way up the top of the mountain side, on your way to deliver lunch to your husband who had been preoccupied for weeks with the Hashira training. He barely had been home. If he was, it was usually long after you had gone to sleep just to check on you and your unborn child. Then, he was gone before dawn to resume the training.
You missed him dearly. You hated how empty and cold your futon felt without his warmth. You hated how antsy you felt with not only the fear of the upcoming battle with Muzan looming in the distance, but the anxiety knowing that your due date was approaching within the next month. Sitting around was driving you crazy, so you took it upon yourself to make your husband a home cooked meal and bring it to him, asking the crow to guide you. What you didn’t expect was him to be at the top of a literal fucking mountain.
“Ugh I can’t do this…” you groaned, pausing at a random tree to rest. “My feet are cramping and if this child kicks me in my bladder one more time…”
“Eh? Mrs. Himejima?”
“Eh? Ah! Genya!” While you’re thrilled to see the boy that you’ve quite honestly grown attached to like your own child, he on the other hand is freaking out. Why were you out here alone in your condition? Did Himejima know that you were here? What should he do? Help you get home?
“Genya, have you seen Gyomei?” You eagerly ask, grabbing the boy’s hands. “I was trying to surprise him with lunch, but I kinda got lost on my way up here. It’s such a ways away from the other hashira isn’t it.”
“U-um I-I,” Genya stammered. He then sighed. He couldn’t say no to you when your expression was so innocent. He also wouldn’t forgive himself he let you get hurt. “Ok. I’ll lead the way. P-please be careful. Let me know immediately if you need anything!”
“Of course!”
You follow Genya down a path, asking the boy how his training has been with the other hashira. Eventually, the sound of roaring water fills your ears and you both arrive to a massive water fall.
“Namu Amida Butsu,” someone chants and you realize that there are demon slayers standing under the water, bracing the impact.
“Oh my, this is Gyomei’s training?” You gasp.
“Only the first part,” Genya sighs. “Most people collapse and don’t get past the rest.”
“I see.” You’re not that surprised that your husband’s session was the seemingly most physically challenging and demanding. It would of course be no issue for him as his giant stature and inhuman strength made even the most impossible of tasks look like a breeze. But you feel for the younger ones who haven’t quite figured out how to unlock that same inner strength.
“Eh? Wait? Is that Zenitsu!?” You exclaimed, realizing you recognized a head of yellow hair floating down the river. “Ehh! Oh dear! Zenitsu!”
“Wait! Mrs. Himejima!”
You’re already waddling toward the riverbed, trying to reach out and grab the seemingly unconscious boy. You strain as you try your best to grab him, but he slips past you. The rocks are slick with water and before you realize it, you lose your balance. Before you tumble forward, someone grabs you by your waist and gently lifts you out of the river.
“My love, what ever are you doing here?” The low, calm rumble of your husband’s voice fills your ears. Your cheeks warm as your face lights up in excitement.
“Gyomei!” You turn in his arms to hug him around his neck. “I missed you! I bought you lunch! Come on, let’s eat it before it gets cold.”
Gyomei chuckles. “Let’s get you out of the wet clothes first so you do not catch a cold.” He looks over to Genya and gives a slight nod. “Thank you for looking after her. You can be done for the day, Genya.”
“R-right! Thank you, sensei.”
You talk your husband’s ear off about nonsense, him listening with a smile on his face as he carries your back home. By the time you make it back though, you’re sneezing, shivering slightly from the cold.
“My love, what ever were you doing up there?” Gyomei asks, setting you down. He gently unties your Obi, sliding the wet kimono off your shoulders. “You could’ve been hurt, dear.”
“I wanted to surprise you with lunch…” you say somewhat bash fully. “I haven’t seen you much and I’ve really missed you.”
Gyomei softly smiles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel neglected.” He unties the juban undergarment and you’re left completely bare and exposed before him.
You feel slightly self conscious. Your body has changed so much from the pregnancy. Your breasts were constantly swollen and tender. Your stomach now round and full with stretch marks streaking across your thighs. Yet, Gyomei’s hands are gentle as he explores the new changes to your body. His fingers grace over the curve of your belly, smiling as he feels his baby…your baby…kick against his palm.
“It’s ok…” you let out a shaky breath. “I know it’s your job.”
“No, my first priority is you and will always be you,” Gyomei insists.
“M-mei, can you touch me?” You plea.
“But you’re so far along now. I do not wish to hurt you, my love.”
“You won’t!” Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been missing the gentle intimacy with your husband due to his busy schedule. Either way, you’re finding yourself overcome with desire, wanting nothing but for Gyomei to take and fill you up. “Please?”
Gyomei sighs. He can’t say no to you. “If I hurt you at any point please let me know.”
Laying down, Gyomei pulls you by your waist over his face, his hot breath tickling your core. Your face flushes. “W-wait, Mei, I’ve gained so much weight cause of the pregnancy. I’m so much heavier now and-“
“I don’t care,” Gyomei says, his gentle hands caressing your skin. “You can sit.”
“B-but-“
“Sit.”
The command leaves your legs weak and you settle down over your husband’s face. He grips your waist as he begins to eat you out. You gasp, for some reason more overly sensitive than usual.
“M-Mei-“ you whimper. You rock your hips in tangent with his tongue. Gyomei’s touch tickles your skin. He traces the curve of your stomach, making you shiver. He cups your breasts. They feel larger, and more swollen than usual in preparation to breastfeed. Your nipples are more sensitive too, stiff from Gyomei playing with them.
Your thighs try to clench shut, which Gyomei puts an immediate stop to. He forces your legs open wider to have deeper access to your dripping cunt as he greedily laps up everything you drop. Your essence is so sweet and he can never get enough of you.
As much as he hates to admit it, he’s hated how much his responsibilities as hashira have taken his focus away from you. He’s missed your touch, your taste. He’s missed your scent and your presence. He has noticed all the subtle ways your body has changed and he hates that he hasn’t been around more often to witness it.
“A-ah, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper, gripping at Gyomei’s hair. You let out a soft cry as your orgasm hits. Your body shudders and you feel your clit tingle as Gyomei sucks on the sensitive nerves. He laps up your release, squeezing your hips to ground himself. “W-wait. T-too much.” Suddenly, a second orgasm rocks your body that leaves you gasping. Your legs have lost their feeling, and you couldn’t stand even if you wanted to.
Gyomei pulls you into his lap. He hugs you into his chest, his hands snaking under your stomach to lift it gently and provide you some sort of relief. You sigh contently now that some of the weight was lifted.
“Are you alright my love?” Gyomei asks, kissing the back of your neck.
“Mm..” Your cheeks flush as you can feel your husband’s straining erection by sitting on his lap. His hard cock presses against his pants, yet he makes no effort to deal with it. “M-mei, do you…um want some help with…”
Gyomei chuckles, his chest rumbling. “Please do not worry about me, love. Your comfort and pleasure is my first priority.”
Rengoku Kyojuro: Flame Hashira
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Like Uzui, Rengoku came out of retirement to help with the Hashira training. His session would take place after one passed Tokito’s endurance training and focused on working on Total Concentration Breathing.
Seems easy, no?
Reality is most people pass out due to their inability to regulate their breathing correctly, thus having to start the process all over again. Your job is to go around a bring water to keep the slayers hydrated. But most are unable to drink due to the constricting feeling of the lungs after trying to recover from constantly using total concentration breathing. That along with the other physical strains it puts on the body. So you just do your best to encourage people to drink when they can.
“Come now! You must focus on the flow of your breathing and raise your awareness of your entire body!” Your husband’s loud voice carries across the training grounds. You can even hear him when inside. “Mastering this will even allow you to detect the most hidden injuries and slow the progression of poisons”
“Darling, don’t overwork them,” you say, coming outside with a new pitcher of drinks and cups. You offer him a cup, which he gratefully takes. “Let them catch their breath first.”
“Very well! 3 minutes then we shall start the next rep!”
You can feel all the gracious looks from the junior slayers as they can finally recuperate for a moment, even if brief. You know your husband isn’t intentionally trying to be harsh. He just gets so passionate about something and sometimes seems to forget that others do not possess the same strength or stamina as him.
“Hello? Rengoku-San?” A familiar voice calls out. It’s a face you and Kyojuro haven’t seen in a minute.
“Ah! Kamado! Long time no see!” Kyojuro exclaims. “I’m glad to see you’re in good condition!”
“It’s good to see you again! You too, Y/n-san!”
“I’m glad you’re doing well,” you say cheerfully. “Good luck with the training.”
Since Tanjiro had already had some experience with Total Concentration Breathing, his session was slightly modified. He’d have to tackle the XL gourd, bigger than the one he did at the Butterfly Mansion and then would spar with Kyojuro. If he stopped his Breathing he’d have to restart. But before any of that, for a warm up, all slayers had to run a 5K while maintaining their breathing.
By the time the sun set, just about everyone was passed out, beyond exhausted from the day. Kyojuro was still in overly good spirits, and full of energy as if the training didn’t even cause him to break a sweat.
“Kyo, I think it’s best to call it a day,” you deadpan.
“Really? But it’s not even dark yet?” Your husband has the most innocent look on his face.
You frown but then an idea strikes you. You lean in close to Kyojuro so that others around you can’t hear the next filthy words that leave your lips.
“If you still have so much energy left, why don’t you use that to put a baby in me like you’ve been wanting.”
You walk off without letting him respond, so you miss the way Kyojuro’s face explodes red. He rambles off some sort of excuse to the other slayers about training concluding for the day before rushing off to find you.
You wait patiently in your room, undressing so that you’re in nothing but your underwear by the time your husband arrives in a frenzy. Kyojuro’s face is flushed, chest chest heaving. The moment he spots you, he picks you up and pins you to the nearest wall, kissing you with urgency.
You groan as Kyojuro’s tongue forces its way into your mouth. His hands gripping the meat of your thighs tightly as he presses his growing erection against your exposed core.
“Feel so big, Kyo,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his.
“My flame, did you mean what you said earlier?” Kyojuro pants, his voice husky and airy as what little restraint he had started slipping away. He needed to fill you up and feel you around him bad, but he wouldn’t unless you were serious.
“Put a baby in me, Kyojuro,” you all but demand.
“If that is what my lovely life wishes,” Kyojuro chuckles. He lays you on the futon and sheds his clothes quickly. “Then I shall fulfill.” His cock is already stiff against his abdomen, twitching in his hand as pre cum oozes from the tip. You trace your fingers down his scared torso, noting the way Kyojuro’s muscles tense at your touch.
“I can’t wait to see what you look like when you tummy’s all swollen and full with my child,” Kyojuro said, aligning his cock at your entrance, his cheeks flushed. “You’ll make such a good mother.”
In a single thrust, Kyojuro sheathed his cock into your cunt to the hilt. The penetration left your eyes watering, crying out in pleasure. Kyojuro groaned. You felt so snug and warm around him that it took everything to keep from pounding into you right away.
“G-gods…you feel so good…”
“K-kyo, m-move,” you beg, trying to move your hips for some sort of friction.
Kyojuro grunts. He pins your legs to your chest, With a languid roll of his hips, he experimentally pulled his length out from the clamp of your hole. And with a sharp snap, he drove himself back into you. The sheer force of his scorching length shot the first wave of pleasure through the both of you. The two of you let out low moans. That first penetration gave way to a succession of increasingly rougher thrusts that had your body burning with pleasure.
Kyojuro’s body shuddered slightly anticipation. You clung to him and dug your nails in his shoulders trying to keep him close. The way his cock stretched you out had you feeling so full and lightheaded, leaving you babbling his name like a mantra.
Kyojuro groaned. He hovered over you, leaning down the kiss you passionately. His hands trailed up side to your nipples that became erect from pleasure. Lips trailing up the side of your neck, he left several bite marks.
"Ah a-ah t-that feels funny." You squirmed. "Kyo ~"
The sound of you moaning his name made Kyojuro’s cock throb. He fumbled slightly, his aggressive and frantic rutting becoming slower and slightly sloppy, instead.
“Ugh, coming,” Kyojuro groaned. He buried himself all the way to the hilt inside you. His orgasm hit and it hit hard. His dick pulsated with each subsequent spurt of cum. His hips still as he emptied inside you.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel your insides snap. Your pussy clenching tightly around Kyojuro, practically milking him as your own high shakes your body.
“S-shit,” Kyojuro gasps. He pulled out of your abused hole, watching the way his seed trickled out. The sight made his dick twitch. “This won’t do,” he chuckled while pulling your legs up around his waist. “At this rate, I won’t get you pregnant. Guess I’ll just have to fill you up again and again until it sticks.”
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bonebrokebuddy · 2 years ago
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Unbeknownst to Wally, the notes are from Clockwork desperately trying to contact anyone who can actually influence the timestream outside the Observant’s watchful eyes.
After getting the notes to Bruce, they reveal the frantic ramblings of a [Parent? Mentor? Guardian?], desperately crying out for them to save his [word untranslatable but presumed to mean son, mentee, or child] from a government organization a few universes over.
The being, who introduces himself as Clockwork, reveals he cannot influence anything himself but can watch over the streams of time and has observed Wally’s ability to interfere and change it’s threads. If his [son?] dies, it will mean the destruction of all of the infinite realms (a cosmic foil to the speed force that’s a force of death and timelessness instead of life and the constant movement forward of the universe).
All in all, the letters are rushed, barely explain anything except location, date, what condition he’s in, and how to save the boy.
Who exactly is this boy? Why is he so important to the Infinite Realms? What are the Infinite Realms exactly? Who is this “Clockwork” and why are they so important? Who are the Observants? And so many more. All are valid questions, and all are entirely unanswered.
But regardless, with Captain Marvel confirming the existence of the Infinite Realms, that it was under attack, and the very real negative effects it would have on their universe if it collapsed; Wally must now gather a crew and embark on a rescue mission across universes to save this kid[? They actually don’t really know his status of age other than he’s younger and in the care of the mysterious “Clockwork” who sent the letters in the first place].
Batman, because… of course he’s going to go investigate what the hell is happening. Not only can his eye for strategy, stealth, hacking, and intimidation give the team an advantage in getting the most answers out of the government ages there. But Bruce also has so many damn questions, barely any of which were answered by the notes Wally received, so he needs to go into this mission to investigate not only this new alternate universe government threat but to get as much information possible before they leave, in addition to ensuring Clockwork’s child is safely rescued.
Clark is elected as he is most likely to handle whatever this government organization has in store (and Clark “got injured” in the most recent supervillain battle that smashed into the Daily Planet, so he conveniently has some time off while he “recovers from his injury.” But also because he heard a kid was in danger and, well, it feels wrong to not help someone in need).
Captain Marvel (god, they gotta get to know the guy more. he’s so damn reserved but is great at this particular brand of buck-wild missions), not only because of his incredible intelligence, invulnerability, strength, and being great with kids and teenagers; but also is primarily chosen for the team due to his knowledge of the Infinite Realms. He can also give live feedback on the state of the Realm that’s apparently actively tearing apart and crumbling! If something goes wrong, Cap will be able to give them a warning before all shit breaks loose.
Next recruitment is Patrick O’Brian, aka Plastic Man. His abilities of stealth (if he can keep his mouth shut), infiltration (absolutely), invulnerability (overpowered as high hell), versatility (dear god he can literally become anything or anyone as long as it’s in his own color pallet), and because he has a particular soft-spot for kids.
(Plas and Clark are already moping to each other about having to leave their respective partners (Woozy and Lois) behind. Meanwhile Wally is biting at the chance for just a tiny break from the twins, sorry Linda.)
Lastly, brought surprisingly by Captain Marvel is Booster Gold. His additional experience in time-travel and time stream manipulation will come mighty in handy during the mission. It helps that Booster has some “Bona fide genuine ecto-weapons, dudes! Let’s go and save Phantom!” that he brought from the 25th century. And, well. At least now they had the name “Phantom” from Booster to work off of.
Kon and Thad are notified to be on-call for the Recovery Team’s arrival back as clones were mentioned in one of the hundreds of notes and Clark thought it might be nice for the boys to have another friend they can relate to. Tim and Bart are close behind because despite Bruce and Max telling them to not interfere, they want to also meet the alternate universe breaking guy who has enough trust from Clark to keep Kon and Thad on-deck in case they’re needed to help the guy make some friends his age.
—-
This is rushed and not super refined, I just wanted to get the basic initial idea out of my head & get it out there. So sorry if this is a tad wonky to read at times, that’s my bad
Short DPXDC Prompts #576
Wally doesn’t understand these strange messages written on bright green post-it notes that keep appearing near him. Whatever it’s trying to say, the messages keep increasing in amount every day.
#god this was mean to be short but the ideas just kept coming#this isn’t particularly well written or has a great plot and is just the set up but I’m tired and heading to bed now so this is what ya get#bones writes#dp x dc#bones replies#modern takes on ​the Golden Age characterization of Plastic Man and Captain Marvel/Shazam supremacy#i think their vibes. especially plas’s comedic antics faced with a serious written character such as Marvel#that derived humor in the original comics Not from words or quips (although they definitely were there! just Marvel wasn’t the one doing it#generally) was often from the situations Marvel got into. not the words or puns he said#meanwhile Plas’s Quality Comics combo of physical and verbal comedy present a delightful foil to the Captain#in addition to their shared Pure Goodness and insistence of never doing crime because it’s Bad#(for Billy: because it makes him feel bad bc of his extremely strict and rigid moral compass)#(for plas: because he’s a reformed crook and he’s not going back to those days. no siree. he’s reformed through and through.)#plus their mutual fright of women and avoiding women’s advances on them (sure they have different reasons for doing so with Billy being bc#he’s a literal child and for Plas it’s because he’s not only uninterested in women but actively avoids literally any romantic invances#with the same furiosity an extreme arachnophobic would have to avoid spiders at all cost#) that and Plas’s yearn for taking care of kids but being utterly piss poor at doing so#so a self sufficient child like Billy would be genuinely perfect for him to try to take care of#honestly? golden aged Billy Batson is probably more sufficient than both plas and woozy combined for acting like an adult#don’t forget. woozy and plas ARE smart. they just forget that and fuck up horribly whenever there’s comedic gag to be had as a result#also. Billy in this is Golden Aged Billy Batson so Captain Marvel is as well#his WEAKNESS is magic. NOT his strength. he is op smart. strong. wise. etc. and is the physical form of the magic lightning#so Billy and Cap are simultaneously the same yet different people and can essentially astral project themselves to talk to the other#bc while I like the modern shazam… in concept. the ‘hard down on their luck orphan who was a last ditch effort for Shazam + mind of a child’#really is not the interpretation I think they should’ve gone for at all and I like the Captain Marvel ‘different guy than Billy +#billy is actually pure of heart with a rigid moral compass with the original heart of gold and NOT the ‘mind of a child’ metaphor instead’#bones writes in the tags#also. one last additional note. even though this has never been in character for booster gold. I feel like he Should talk like bill and Ted.#it’s just vibes. but god I want someone So Fucking Badly to write a crossover of them meeting in time and booster giving them terrible#just fucking absolutely terrible girl advice until bill & ted realize that they should just be themselves and that’s what truly matters
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lymtw · 4 months ago
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Toji can never shut up about you when his friends get him drunk. It's the one topic that never fails to be discussed when his friends manage to drag him away from your warm security for a night. Once the amount of alcohol he drank starts to hit and his overly chatty side is lured out, he spends the entire time talking about you, and the others just kind of listen to his ramblings and remain utterly shocked by how smitten he is. He talks so much about you, like he's trying to make up for the time he isn't spending with you.
It's always, "Shh... listen, shut the fuck up. Listen, listen, she smells so fucking good. Like she's fresh out the shower all the time" and "God... she purrs like a little kitten when I take her to bed" and "She's out of my league, but i'm not gonna fuck up the chance she gave me".
If it weren't for Shiu taking his phone, he would constantly be trying to reach you. Sometimes you're the one who calls when it gets late, just to see how things are going, and Shiu's always the one who picks up before he hands you over to Toji.
"Hey, Shiu! How is everything?"
"It's going pretty well, aside from Toji being a drunk mess." He scouts the area in search of your boyfriend and spots him next to another friend. Toji's all starry-eyed as he talks the poor man's ear off about you. "Wanna talk to him? He's been talking about you nonstop and it's starting to make the other guys jealous."
You giggle. "Sure. Let me talk to my idiot."
You can hear the commotion as well as the faint sound of Shiu alerting Toji of you being on the other end of the line.
"Heyyy, baby. You miss me? You need me?" You can hear the smile on his face. He's pacing back and forth as he waits for your voice to come back on the line.
The sound of Toji's voice makes your heart beat a little faster. It sounds like he made good use of his night out.
"You know I do, baby. Be safe, alright? Have Shiu send you home in a cab when you're ready to go and text me when you get home."
"I love you, ma. I fucking love you. I don't wanna be here anymore." He sighs, heavily. "Can I just go home, already? I've been trapped here for like five days now."
"I love you, Toji, and it hasn't been five days. More like five hours, but yeah, you can head home if you're done. Put Shiu back on the phone."
"No." He simply says, as he continues to pace around the crowded bar. "I miss you so much. I don't wanna see anyone else, anymore."
"Okay, baby. Tell Shiu you're ready to go. I'll see you tomorrow."
"I love you," he says once more before putting the phone down, leaving you to do the hanging up.
"Shiu, i'm leaving. I'm ready to go, man. She said okay and I... Well, I wanna go see her."
"You're not going over there like this," Shiu responds. "She's not gonna be able to handle you alone, right now. I'll call you a cab and you're going straight home."
He was so wrong about that last part. Toji got in the cab, and Shiu told the driver his address. He wouldn't ever find out about how Toji ended up redirecting the cab to your place.
"Psst, hey. I'll give you another ten bucks if you turn around and go to this address."
Without hesitation, the man accepted the money and dropped Toji off at your apartment. He slowly made his way to your front door, ringing the doorbell and knocking right after to make sure you hear him.
You put down the dish rag you were using to dry dishes and headed to the door. You looked through the peephole and as soon as you see Toji standing on your doorstep, you gasp. Your brows furrow in confusion as you continue to stare at him for couple more seconds, just to make sure it's actually him and not some random, sketchy man.
"Babyyy... Open. Your boyfriend is here." He knocks again, his fist like a mallet on your door.
"Toji, shh. Stop," you say, voice low. You quickly pull him into your apartment, dismissing his laugh as you shut and lock the door when you both make it in.
"Oh, baby." He smiles as you approach him again. "Baby, baby." He pulls you into an overly tight embrace and sways you side to side, effortlessly. You smell a mixture of alcohol and cologne on his shirt. "My pretty girl. Fuck, I missed you and your body." He buries his face into the crook of your neck and allows his hands to settle on your lower back. You hear him take a whiff of your scent before carrying on with his rambling. "I didn't even wanna be there..." he mumbles. "...but they stole me away and I-" He hums in confusion when he realizes you aren't reciprocating the hug and pulls your arms around him before putting his hands on your lower back again. "I'm just gonna say no next time. Those drinks were disgusting."
Normally, you reciprocating his affection wouldn't be an issue, but you're still stuck on how he's there, standing a couple feet from your kitchen and not at his place. You can hear his quiet, labored breaths beside your ear. His looming frame and the tightness of his arms around you bring a lot more reality to the situation.
"Let's get you ready for bed, okay?" You say to the giant who threatens to tip you over. You gently tug at his arms for him to release you and create some distance.
You take his hand and guide him to the bathroom first, where both of you do your nightly routines of brushing your teeth and washing your faces. He made a mess with the water when it came to washing the cleanser off his face, but you paid no mind to it as you grabbed a towel and dried it up.
You walked out of the bathroom and Toji was hot on your trail, toothbrush still in his mouth as he followed you into the kitchen. "I'm just grabbing some water. It'll just take a quick second." You smile as he continues to sluggishly brush his teeth. He pauses to respond.
"Why do you wanna leave me so bad? You didn't tell me you were leaving the bathroom. You were just gonna go and leave me alone in there?" he says, slightly muffled by the toothpaste that fills his mouth.
You laugh when some of the foam falls to the floor.
"Okay, okay. Let's go back to the bathroom together, then."
"You can't leave me on the couch," he says, out of nowhere, more suds falling onto the floor. You push him a little so that by the time he reaches the bathroom, at least some toothpaste remains in his mouth.
He dips his head and spits out the foam into the sink, rinsing his mouth after. You have to go back and tidy things up, like the cloud he didn't make sure was washed away before stepping away from the sink, and the bubbly spume that spilled out of his mouth in the kitchen and the hallway.
He's following you again, like a lost puppy because you didn't comment on what he said about not wanting to stay on the couch. He's quiet because you're quiet. You're not saying anything because you're focused on wiping up the cleaning spray and toothpaste mixture on the floor with a paper towel, and he's leaning against the wall, silently watching, feeling like you're mad at him.
You stand up straight and make your way to the trashcan before washing your hands. "Let's go, Toji," you say. He's looking at you like a scolded dog, reaching his hand out for you to hold. In his mind, if you take it, you can't be too mad at him. His chest feels so much lighter when your soft palm meets his. The heaviness is replaced with a racing heart as you take him to the room with you. You're not leading him to the couch like he thought you were going to.
"You're letting me sleep next to you?" He asks, watching as you put up a couple more pillows for him to use.
"Since when do you sleep on the couch? You know I need you here with me whenever you sleep over." You turn around and pinch his cheek, stepping behind him to creak the door shut.
"Yeah? You like when I stay in your bed?" His voice goes low with the question. His hands go to your waist and he's walking you backwards towards your bed. "Well I like staying in your bed too, mama." He lays you down, your head cradled by his hand before he slides it out of the way for your pillow to take its place. He grins as he takes up all the space between your legs, his hands taking their position on your waist again. He takes your lips in his, the minty flavor of his mouth seeping into your taste buds. It's a short lived moment, because the second his hands try to tug your shorts down, you put a stop to everything, your own hands pulling your shorts back up.
"Mm..." you hum, releasing his lips with a quiet smack. "N-No, Toji. Not like this."
"No?" He repeats, a small crease of confusion between his brows as he pulls his hands away from your hips. "Okay," he complies, quickly diverting the situation by resting his whole body down on you. His chin rests on your chest and he just looks up at you with the most loving expression. You have to try not to laugh when you notice he isn't blinking.
You gently scratch the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair. "What?" You ask, a soft smile following the question.
"I don't know," he says, sighing with that same adoring gaze still fixated on you. "I can't explain the way I see you." Not having the sufficiently accurate words to describe how you are depicted in his eyes is a strange, void-like feeling for someone who could talk about you for days on end.
You just hum at the declaration. His mind isn't exactly operating at one hundred percent, so you won't judge him for his inability to think of ways to describe you.
He lowers his gaze and buries his face in your warm chest. You can feel him kissing you through the thin material of your tank top. "Love you," he mumbles. "You mad at me?" He asks, not pausing his kisses as he waits for your answer.
"No, baby. There's nothing to be mad about." You smooth down his hair when you're done playing with it and rest your hands on his shoulders.
"Just wanted to see you." His warm breath filters through your shirt. "Shiu told me no, but I didn't care. I just had to see you, and now... i'm here." He inhales and lets out the breath slowly. "And I don't wanna go home." As if he's scared he'll be denied of you again, his arms go under your back, and he effectively molds his body into yours.
"You could've let me know over the phone rather than giving me a heart attack. You know you're always welcome here, my love." You rub soothing circles into his back with one hand, and the other goes to the back of his head again.
"Surprise," he says, lacking so much enthusiasm that it even makes him chuckle. He pushes his face further into your chest and lets out a sigh that reveals his tiredness. "Mm... you're gonna put me to sleep if you keep doing that."
You laugh, slowing your movements until your hands are just flat in their positions.
"No, ma," he groans, frustrated by the lack of your soothing touch on him. "Do it again, please. Feels good." He turns his head so that the side of his face rests on your chest.
It's impossible to deny him, especially when he asked so nicely. You like being able to help him relax this way. Never mind the lack of feeling in your legs from his weight and the minimal movement you've been allowed. You just can't seem to find it in yourself to whine about your position when the sound of him rhythmically breathing through his nose takes over the silence of the room. You tilt your head slightly to get a look at his face and as you suspected, he's out. His eyes are shut and he's motionless, save for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders and back as he breathes.
A kiss to the top of his head was your show of making peace with having him as your weighted blanket and human teddy bear for the night.
Shiu said you wouldn't be able to handle a drunk Toji all alone, yet there you have him, piled on and drooling on you like he's getting the best sleep.
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ceilidho · 4 months ago
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Soap coaxing his new girlfriend into fooling around on the couch while they have the apartment to themselves (he has a roommate, but "Gaz isnae comin' hame 'til after" he coos, already shoving his hand down the front of your pants and sawing two thick fingers between your folds).
You let him paw at you and peel your clothes off because you've been wound up all day and he's the hottest guy you've ever dated, so why wouldn't you let him feel you up whenever he's horny? (Which is more often than you thought; practically all the time actually.)
(Tw: noncon/dubcon)
Only Gaz walks through the door the second Soap has you spread on your belly on the couch with your ass in the air, fat cock buried to the root. And he doesn't stop when you shriek and Gaz cocks an eyebrow, unfazed by his roommate screwing his girlfriend on the communal couch.
In fact, he wanders over after taking off his coat, greeting Soap in a totally normal voice while you struggle under your boyfriend, trying to cover your bare tits with your arm at the same time until Soap gets irritated by all your fussing and twists both of your arms behind your back.
"Yer back early," Soap grouses, hips pumping into you in shallow plunges, like his roommate coming home early is distracting enough to reign in some of his excitement, but not enough to make him stop.
"Shop closed early today," Gaz shrugs, dropping his bag by the shoe rack, still remarkably unbothered by what's going on in front of him.
You're humiliated, horrified. More upset with yourself than anything (that's a lie - you're way angrier with Soap, but he doesn't even flinch when you scream about covering up and try to buck him off; he just moans and braces a foot on the floor to get a better angle) because you've only gotten wetter since Gaz walked through the front door.
"Fuck, dae that again, sweetie," he pants, cock so deep that you can feel it nudge your cervix with every stroke.
Squirming doesn't help much because all it does is make you tighten around Soap's cock.
"Poor girl," Gaz tuts, standing in front of the two of you now. You think the situation can't get any worse and then he strokes your cheek with the back of his knuckles, looking almost pityingly down at you. The shock at being touched by him leaves you tongue-tied, struck dumb. "Being a bit rough with her, aren't you, mate?"
He smooths a thumb over your cheekbone. You clench up tighter at Gaz's touch, dragging a guttural moan out of your boyfriend. It's awhile before he finds his voice again.
"Christ," Soap hisses through his teeth. "Och, yer fuckin' nasty, bonnie; git aff oan Gaz watchin' ye? She clenched richt up whin ye spoke."
"Can't blame her - miss having someone be nice to you, huh, sweetheart?"
Soap's voice is dismissive and panting when he responds. "Nah, she loves this. Begs fer it rough."
"Aw, that's not true, is it, sweetheart?" Gaz coos down at you, and you swear you're going to say something, swear the next thing out of your mouth won't be a slutty moan.
But a thumb slips into your mouth and presses against your tongue when you part your lips, and you close your lips around it reflexively.
"Yeah; there we go," he says in a low voice, smooth as molasses, unzipping his fly with one hand when you give his thumb a suck. "Nah, Johnny, you got yourself a good girl here. Gotta treat her right."
And that's how you wind up pinned on your belly with your boyfriend's cock deep in your cunt and his roommate's spreading your lips wide, eyes welling up from the stretch. You lose patches of time after that, thoughts fizzling out until you're only aware of being filled at both ends and the slick, wet sounds of the two of them making out over your prone body.
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luveline · 5 months ago
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Jade can I please get a chatty af yapper sunshine girlfriend with Sirius?? Like May be someone tells her she talks a lot so she's super quiet around him cuz she's worried he'll get annoyed and break up with her but poor Sirius he misses his chatty girl and just angst with fluff
thank you for requesting! fem, 1.4k
James Potter means well. Honestly, you don’t think he has a mean bone in his body, so you try not to take it to heart. 
Unfortunately, your attempts to do so don’t work. They really, unquestionably don’t. By the time you’re outside of Sirius’ flat that afternoon, James’ small comment is all you can think of. 
“You’re so chatty I’m surprised you don’t run out of breath,” he’d said. Not without love. You’d bumped into him in Sainsbury’s and ended up talking for ages about one thing or another, you know him well, you’d even say you were friends, though he’s of course Sirius’ friend rather than your own. “But I’m the same. God, Sirius used to hate how much I talked, he’d be sick of me. I think I numbed him to it over the years.” 
You can’t imagine it. Sirius and James are best friends. With Remus, they’re the most in love threesome of friends you’ve ever met, and it’s nice; it makes you very proud to have a boyfriend who cares for others as deeply as Sirius cares for them. It’s like a constant demonstration of how he’s a good man. 
But you’d never stopped to consider that they weren’t always so seamless, and you’ve regrettably never considered that your constant talking is something that could put him off. 
You talk to Sirius about everything. There isn’t a word to describe the excitement of having someone waiting to listen to you every single night. You could tell him every detail of a day down to what colour socks you wore and you know he’ll sit there listening with his hand on the small of your back, or his fingers twined between yours. You’ve never felt so loved as to be able to just talk about everything and have him talk back. 
But… what if, this whole time, he’s been wishing for a little bit of quiet? 
What if eventually, the talking becomes too much? 
He must be with you for a reason. You aren’t holding the poor guy hostage, he acts like he’s mad for you ninety percent of the time (while the other ten percent is spent sleeping on your shoulder). 
Like now —you knock his door and you can hear him scrambling up from the sofa, the sound of a book dislodged or a remote hitting the rug, you’re not sure. The door yanks open and Sirius smiles at you, pulling you in through the gap with a familiar hand on your hip. 
“Hey,” Sirius says, tucking you against his side, “hey, did you get lovelier over the weekend?” He shoves the door closed and gives you a hug with one arm, pausing in the hall. “Sorry I couldn’t see you. I don’t think we should miss another weekend.” 
You have a lot to tell him. It’s been ages since you spent nearly three days apart, but James’ conversation stays at the front of your mind. 
You decide to be less overwhelming, but not less loving, curling your arm behind his head to pull his cheek down for a kiss. “I don’t think so, either.” 
Sirius tilts his head away from you in an invitation for more kissing. 
You’re at home in his flat. You take off your shoes and hang up your jacket. You change into a pair of jogging bottoms with loose legs and let him hoist you onto his bed for a few stolen kisses, though he isn’t propositioning you, and you end up laying across his bedspread with one of your legs in his lap as he tells you about his days without you, his thumb sliding with pressure down your calf. 
“Mostly I wished I’d asked you to come over anyways, even if it was just to sleep together at the end of the day. Maybe next time we can do that?” he asks. 
“Of course we can.” You smile at him indulgently. “I’d come over for twenty minutes if it was all I could get.” 
“Or I can come to you,” he says, “even if it’s just twenty minutes.” 
He smiles, a beaming thing, and leans down slowly for a soft kiss. 
“So,” he asks, his breath on your lips, “how was your weekend? Lonely?” 
“So lonely,” you tease lightly, eyes fluttering closed as he continues his massaging of your leg. “But it was okay. I missed you, really, and didn’t do much else.”
“No?” he asks. 
Your voice takes on a shine as he squeezes your knee, “Missed your hands.”  
“I missed your everything.” He grabs for your forearms and pulls you into a sitting position. “But everything was okay?” he asks more seriously. 
“Everything was fine.” 
He raises his eyebrows, but eventually lets them relax. “Well, okay. Good, sweetheart, I’m glad it was okay.” 
He persuades you into the kitchen to sit with him as he makes dinner, refusing to let you help, and yet insisting you be there in the same room, as though you’d like to be anywhere else. Sirius makes your favourite of his usual rotation, offering you spoonfuls for tasting, gaps of silence stretching as he struggles to find new conversation. You start answering his questions but remember time and time again that Sirius could become totally sick of you. He might already be. 
Sirius puts the food on a low heat and washes his hands. He wipes them dry, but when he takes your face, dampness lines the inside of his fingers. 
“I’d like for you to tell me what’s wrong,” he says gently, stroking at the line of your startled frown, “before it gets worse. Do you want to talk about it?” 
“Nothing’s wrong.” 
“Please don’t, lovely. If I’ve done something wrong, please tell me. I want us to last forever, and we can’t do that if you won’t tell me when I upset you.” 
“It wasn’t you,” you say instinctively, then regret it. 
“So someone has?” he asks, still so gentle as his hands coast down your neck like he’s sculpting you, coming to rest on the slopes leading to your shoulders. “You can tell me anything. You don’t have to keep it to yourself… please.” 
“Are you sure?” 
“Sweetheart.” He frowns deeply. Couldn’t look more upset. “Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” 
You chew it over, not wanting or willing to cause ructions between Sirius and his oldest friend. “Well, I saw James today at the shop, and… we were talking about you…” 
He waits. “And?” 
“And he told me you– you don’t like talking. That you didn’t like talking, that James used to make you sick of it. So I know I talk too much and you’ve never made me feel like I shouldn’t, but I guess I got into my head thinking you’d get sick of me, too.” 
“When we were younger I didn’t like much of anything.” He curls an arm behind your neck to hold you in place, but it’s not a dominant sort of movement, only protective as your noses inch together. “Did you ever read that poem by Bukwoski? Let It Enfold You?” 
“What?” 
“I’m not very good at explaining myself. I thought if you knew the poem, you’d–” He laughs near your cheek. “I hated everything. It wasn’t James’ fault. He did make me sick of it sometimes, but I just wanted to hide from everything.” He breathes out slowly. “I’ve never wanted to hide from you. I can’t get sick of you. Do you get that? I can’t get sick of you. Listening to you is the best part of my day, you’re my personal chatterbox.” 
“Chatterbox,” you repeat teasingly. 
“You could talk for Wales,” he says. “And I love it, I don’t want you to stop, because I’ll never be sick of it.”
“I don’t want it to be some secret resentment.”
“I don’t resent you for anything. I knew exactly who you were when we met and I love it.” He takes your face again. “I love it,” he repeats. 
You steal a little kiss against the corner of his lips. “What was the poem?” you ask. 
“I’ll find my book, and you can read it to me. What do you think?” He takes a slow kiss as you had in the same place, words like honey. “I miss your voice.” 
He’s basically pleading. It’s not like Sirius to plead, but you pull it out of him. 
“Can I have my dinner first?” 
“The one I made while you deprived me?” he asks. “Yes, if you must.” 
He takes another kiss, but you’re happy to give it. 
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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.
-
“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. 
-
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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fardf150 · 1 year ago
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start school in a week im going to throw uppppp
#ik it's not going to be nearly as bad as i think it is and by god do i need a routine#but man . one week.#plus im transferring after just getting used to my old school. so. eugh#but like i have friends there. which is rhe whole reason im going there specifically#modtly im just worried abt like. getting lost. it's a pretty big school. and i havent even had orientation yet#ive soent the last like 3 months trying to psych myself up for it snd it worked for a while but mow im so scareds agh#The Only Way Out Is Through The Quickest Way Is To Just Get Through It I Will Be Brave#[said through gritted teeth between groans of misery]#SIX FLOORS!!!! IT'S SIX FLOORS!!!! i could barely keep track of the 3 at my old school 😭😭 my poor poor fucked up hips..#but also the layout at the old one was fucked up bc like it had even numbered rooms on either side of the whole floor#and then rows between with all the odd numbered ones. hated that#hoping it's more straightforward there + i hear the building's a lot taller than it is wide. so hopefully the floors arent as big#uuuuuuuuugh and it's a catholic school so i have to do jesus classes. and my scholarship requires an extra curricular#AND i have to do public service stuff and also i have like a whole extra semester of phys ed required to graduate#like it's not really all that much but added up compared to the pile of jack shit i had to do at my old school. it deels intimidating maybe#mostly im just worried bc my friends that go there tell me abt all this stupid drama meanwhile all last year i talked to like 4 ish ppl ever#but i mean when we went to school together before i somehow avoided knowing abt any of it until at lesst the next day. so.#i have faith in my ability to be completely ignorant of everything around me 💕💕#also my sister's been talking to some ugly creepy guy who apparently goes to that school. hoping she drops him and i never have to see him#fred.txt
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