❇️Cyrus✴️

21 year old loser who’s just living life

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just fucking inexperienced!ghost and he's absolutely starstruck.

He can hardly believe it's real. you of all people on top of him, pressing him into the bed by his shoulders. You, the fucking beautiful mechanic that he's been crushing on since you yelled at him two months ago.

"Mmhhh, so well behaved, baby–" you moan, hips moving against his languidly, working his cock in and out in deep strokes. Ghost swears you look like an angel, the soft light of his lamp back-lighting you in a halo.

"Ah– ah– mmghh– please, love–" ghost whines, hands running along your skin like he can't decide where to settle. Switching between your chest, waist, thighs. Rough callouses digging into you like he's trying to make sure you stay.

He gasps when you clench down, hips bucking up and head tossed back. He settles down as soon as quick as it started, thigh muscles clenched to stop himself. He doesn't want to ruin it, doesn't want to disappoint you.

"Ah! Fuck– whoah, hey, si. Simon–" you have to grab him by the chin and force him to look at you. Fear and uncertainty under that heavy curtain of lust, insecure about everything, about this with you. Your lips press to his jaw, quick, almost sweet before you pull back to smile "hey, it's okay. You can move, I promise you'll be fine"

His hips give the smallest twitch in anticipation, but he holds back to ask "what– what if it's wrong? What do I do?"

"Then I correct you," you shrug, grinding back into him slow.

"Oh." Ghost stares for a moment, processing. Slowly, his hands creep down to your hips, grip tightening like the springs on a trap "okay."

That's all the warning you get before he's physically moving your hips, your entire body, for you. The thick muscle on his biceps bulging with the force, first replicating your movements then slowly adding his own thrusts. "Ah– ahh, okay, that's good, si— FUCK!"

he angled your hips just right, hitting that spot inside that you had been avoiding in hopes he came first. A hint of that confident soldier you know slips through when ghost chuckles, shuffling his shoulders to pound that sweet spot relentlessly.

Ghost is staring at you with stars in his eyes while he fucks you stupid on his cock, brows knit together and flushed down to his chest. Thankfully, he cums first, and it's in that desperate chase to ride out his own orgasm that you do too, having to catch yourself on the headboard to stop from face-planting against him.

"Fuck, good boy, simon. So good for me, yeah?" You mumble lazily– wait. Surely not.

You roll your hips to confirm, almost shocked when you ask "holy shit, are you already hard again?"

Ghost groans under you, thrusting up hungrily "never stopped."

Oh you are so fucked and you are so never letting ghost go.

[lazarrusrising]

Important to me that Cas can't get anything right, like yeah he can't get being a good soldier for heaven right so he becomes a rebel but he doesn't get being a rebel right because he constantly goes back to the institution he's rebelling against hoping that it'll be different the next time (it never is), and he tried being a leader but he doesn't get that right either because he would ultimately abandon his cause of the many for the few near and dear to his heart, and he tried to confess his love several times but he never really got that right because he could only do it on his deathbed and he always softened the truth into ambiguity, and then he never got being dead right because he always came back, but then he got that wrong as well and the time he should have come back He Didn't, and yet he always tried, you know? No matter that he never got it right, he tried

[flwersfbffnery]

Every day I get closer to BLOCKING YOU STOP ANGST POSTING ABOUT MY BOYS YOU’RE UPSETTING ME ))):

[roycohn]

do it scared. do it stupid. but most importantly, do it bitching and moaning the entire time

[beansprean]

Thank you @rubyone for your post and happy anniversary destiel

Support me on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Shoulders up of Dean, Sam, and Crowley standing in a group, Dean's back to them and the viewer. Crowley scowls and picks idly at his nails, saying, "You're still pathetically sliming about everywhere - over what, Castiel? Isn't it time you get over it?" Dean shakes with emotion, the side of his face visible to the viewer going dark. Sam steps between them with a hand out, warning "Hey-", but Crowley continues. "Plenty other angels where he came from, if that's what tickles your pickle." Text next to Crowley points to him and reads 'blindingly jealous, screaming, crying, throwing up'. 1b. Dean snaps and whips around, grabbing Crowley by the lapels with both fists and pulling him close to his face, eyes wide with rage. He screams, "Buddy, I'm his WIFE!" 1c. Sam pops in in the background, blurting out "His what?" Dean freezes, his words catching up to him as Crowley sweats nervously in his grip. The word 'wife' echoes around Dean's head. 1d. Without a word, Dean spins around and walks away, facing the viewer, face blank but for an eye twitch and holding a bottle of 'Domestic Goose' whiskey. A thought bubble with a heavily chained and locked chest appears above his head. Behind him, Sam looks after his brother with concern and confusion. Crowley busies himself with fixing his now-crumpled suit and tie, cheeks blazing red.

2. Screenshot of a tumblr post by @rubyone that says "enough about dean calling cas his late husband post the empty. what about when someone insinuates dean should get over it and dean yells buddy im his WIFE!!!!!!!! does he mean to say it no. has he conceptualised this concept in any way no. does anybody else know how to deal with this statement no. everybody in the room including dean immediately goes WELL! i’m not touching THAT with a ten foot pole! and then it never comes up again ever" /end ID

[aransmind]

choose your fav gojo

[dipnpipsfishnchips]

these bitches are the hardest people to draw successfully I swear to god /affectionate

[chaumas-deactivated20240115]

these beds crack me up because I know the recliner on the side is a massage chair/for fuckin’ but I also imagine that it’s where you have your buddy/most trusted advisor/overly-familiar-but-not-too-familiar jester lounge for movie night while you and your consort spoon in bed

[chaumas-deactivated20240115]

the massage chair is to soothe his sword-sore muscles while he fiddles his thumbs and chimes in with some constructive criticism on your technique

[clownkiss3r]

learning a lot toda✍️y

[5bi5]

Yelling “we got company” right before being attacked by a horde of enemies probably feels good as fuck for an action protagonist

[fairycosmos]

i don’t like how endings in real life come on so suddenly without making sense, without much warning. one minute you’re in the middle of something and the next it’s all a very long time ago and you’re a different person and none of it is ever coming back

[heartfairy]

I would love to unclench my jaw one day

[probuccalfat]

a lot of ADHD behaviours and barriers feel like sims logic playing out in real time like i did my laundry but i had to pee and sleep so i stopped and i haven’t folded it yet except i can’t fold it yet because i need to eat but i can’t eat because the laundry basket is in front of the fridge. someone keeps queuing actions but they’re getting cancelled

[podcastwizard]

LIKES TO CHARGE REBLOGS TO CAST

[perequiste]

i think that whenever you sleep you should wake up with a full health bar

[firefox-official]

DO NOT sleep during the day. Youll be like What the hell later

[firefox-official]

oh man i say that but then i lay down all cozy …

[firefox-official]

What the hell

[thesixthstar]

they should invent a secret second weekend so that you can see friends and do fun things while still having enough time to do errands and sleep in without dying of exhaustion all the time

[viixa]

♥︎ ݁ 𓏲 your boyfriend turns into a #certifiedslut during bulking season

bulking-season him doesn’t just look different—he feels different. it’s in the weight of him when he lays on you, the way his chest seems broader overnight, how his thighs take up more space on the bed. his whole body feels denser, heavier, like he’s carrying an extra layer of warmth that only you get to touch. even his hugs change; he used to wrap his arms around you, now he engulfs you, pulling you into his chest until you can barely breathe, whispering, “missed you,” like it’s a confession.

you notice it first in the mornings. the way he stretches and his back looks huge—muscles thick and carved, delts rounded, veins standing out along his arms because he’s been lifting like a demon. when he grabs your hips, his hands feel bigger, rougher, more demanding. he picks you up without warning now, with this effortless strength that makes your stomach drop. you’ll squeal and yell at him to put you down, and he just laughs, voice still raspy from sleep, “can’t. i like carrying you.”

and oh god—the appetite. not just for food. bulking-season him fucks like he’s starving. like he’s been thinking about you all day, every rep, every set. he comes home already half-hard, chest pumped, smelling like sweat and something primal, and the second he sees you? it’s over. he doesn’t even take his shoes off sometimes—he crowds you into a wall with his newly heavy body, one big hand sliding under your shirt, the other grabbing your ass like he owns it.

he kisses you messy, urgent, teeth grazing your lower lip, and you can feel the extra weight behind every movement. he’s stronger. more grounded. when he presses you into the bed, you feel the difference—the solidness of him, the warmth that rolls off his skin, the way his thighs cage you in and you know there’s no moving him even if you tried.

and he gets feral when he’s inside you. something about the bulk makes him rut harder, deeper, like he can’t get close enough. he holds your hips still with those thick hands and fucks into you with this steady, overwhelming force that makes your vision blur. his groans are deeper, too—lower, almost animal-like—like the sound is coming from somewhere way down in his chest.

he’ll pin your wrists above your head, muscles flexing, veins popping along his forearms, and say shit like: “hold still. let me have you.”

“you can take it — c’mon, pretty girl.”

“fuck, you feel even tighter when i’m bigger.”

and when he gets close? he grabs your thighs and folds you so easily it scares you a little—not rough, just strong. the kind of strength that comes from weeks of training and eating like he’s preparing for hibernation. he buries his face in your neck, fucking into you harder, faster, chasing his release with this raw, hungry determination that makes you feel devoured.

afterwards, he’s still panting, still heavy on top of you, one big hand stroking your thigh like he’s calming himself down. then he grins—tired but still cocky, and murmurs, “round two in ten minutes. just need a snack first.”

and he means it. because bulking-season him isn’t just horny… he’s insatiable. he's stronger. heavier, hungrier—and every part of him feels made to ruin you.

we love big beefy men over here YUM

© viixa. do not copy, translate, or reupload my works anywhere.