quite literally on my knees BEGGING for an older man (30s-40s) to come swoop me up off my feet and spend as much money as they want on me oh my gooodddd !!!
i just got this shirt today and omg it’s so amazing lolzzzz can this help me pick up older men lolzz pls ignore my messy room, i lowk can’t find the motivation to clean
pls pls pls hit me up, don’t be a scam, i don’t want money, i just want love, and photos sent to me of attractive older men who are the real thing and are contacting me
i lowk can’t do anything in my house without a child being there — It’s a long story and hard to explain — and i’m glad that they are moving out for good but i’ve spent months with them and it’s coming close to a year now and it’s so fucking stupid. i need my living room back, my normal calm life back
Older gruff daddy with a scruffy beard & tired expression from a long day at work that let’s me sit on his lap and ramble on about my day while gently caressing my hair ♡
i don't want to be an older man's sex toy or secret. i want to be an older man's darling, to be loved and treasured, i want to be doted on and treated like a princess, and in return i'll treat him like a king ♡︎
Older men with dad bods, guys with scruffy beards, men with tattoos, dads with deep voices, older men with soft tummies, middle aged guys with glasses, men with large hands 😵💫
i’m not really sure what i should do but i wanted to know what people recommend and placement ideas, this is gonan be my first tattoo so i want to get everything “right” before it happens. i know i want to do something with a “the pitt” saying (“i love you, thank you, i forgive you, please forgive me”(and i’m calling it that because it’s said in the pitt and yes i understand it’s a Hawaiian practice))
as delicious of a concept as needy perv dennis humping robby's pillows is, I think touchstarved dennis is probably more accurate.
dennis who's guilty about it, guilty about even sleeping in robby's bed. he was going to crash on the couch— trying way too hard to be polite, not a bother, not a problem— but he couldn't help himself, padding down the hall to robby's bedroom, peeking inside.
when he carefully crawls onto the covers and curls up, the pillowcase still smells like robby. warm and inviting, cedar soap, some sort of masculine shampoo. spicy and woodsy. it makes him ache, makes him yearn, makes him wanna bury his face in Robby's chest and never come back up for air.
he sleeps timidly on top of the covers the first night, and his breaths shake a little as he settles down. his chest hurts. it always does, at night, alone. sometimes he'll bring a hand to rest on his shoulder, mimicking robby's heavy hand from ten months prior. it's not as warm. it's pathetic, to still want it so bad, think about it so often.
when the touching stopped, it gutted him. he wanted to ask what he had done wrong, how he could fix it, how to be good again. he wanted to beg please, just touch me, please, just my shoulder, like before. you don't have to hold me. something. anything. I'm so alone.
after a few nights he takes more advantage of this opportunity he's been given, to make a mock-up of something he's craved for so, so long. years before Robby reignited it. the ache that's always been there, that comes from a childhood of being forgotten and a life of being left behind. he soothes himself by dressing a pillow in an old sweatshirt of Robby's and curling fetal around it, nuzzling in, taking deep breaths of any scent that remains on the fabric.
it makes him hurt worse, emphasizes how bad he needs it. but he can't stop doing it. sometimes he'll whisper to himself as he cuddles the makeshift robby, pretend the older man is the one whispering, sweet nothings that makes his cheeks go pink in embarrassment. no one is here to witness how pitiful he's being, but he's so ashamed all the same, gut twisting as he murmurs 'm'here now, baby, I love you,' to himself, like Robby would ever tell him something like that.
often, he ends up crying himself to sleep. muffling little hiccups into the fabric of robby's sweatshirt, reaching to pet his own hair with a trembling hand. sometimes it gets so bad he prays. please God, please God, please. take this away from me, please. or send me an angel, anything, anyone. please, God, I am so alone.
it's on one of those nights that Robby gets home. he's late, awful late, so when he shoots Dennis a text he doesn't receive it, his sound long since turned off for the night. robby's quiet, careful. it's his own house, after all. kid's probably just sleeping.
he pads to the bedroom to check in on him, and the sight he sees cleavers him in two. blond-haired, angel-eyed dennis is curled up and crying into his pillow, body shaking with the force of trying to keep it quiet. why, baby? there's no one around. why can't you let yourself just cry?
hesitantly, he makes his way over, sitting at the edge of the bed. robby watches as Dennis stiffens from the dip, trembles, like he's terrified, like the worst thing in the world is being seen like this. open and aching, horrifically vulnerable.
"Dennis? Kid, are you alright?" Robby tries to sound soothing, tender, voice low and quiet.
Dennis muffles something that grows louder and frantic, until Robby realizes he's saying I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I really— I just needed—
Robby reaches out. gently unfurls Dennis, heart breaking further as the boy trembles at his every touch. his cheeks are pink and glistening with tears, eyes imbued with shame. oh, pretty baby.
"Dennis, I'm not upset," Robby tells him, gentle, almost a croon. "I'm not upset with you. You've done nothing wrong, baby, (the pet name is new in his mouth, and he likes how it feels, when he uses it to address the sweet, breaking boy laid out on his bed), absolutely nothing wrong. can you tell me what happened?"
"...nothing," Dennis manages, sniffling, little shudders working their way up his body, wracking his frame. he looks like a child like this, reduced to something small and tender, sensitive and fragile. "I just— m'really sorry, I guess I just get, um. lo— mm. lonely?" it looks like it hurts to admit, like he has to force it out of an unwilling mouth.
"hey," Robby whispers, reaching to stroke his knuckles gently over Dennis's warm cheek, something soft and aching in his chest. he feels caved in, wants to pull Dennis closer til this sweet boy can fill the empty space. "hey, it's okay. ...do you want me to hold you?"
"please!" Dennis begs, desperate and wide-eyed, embarrassment dropping for a moment in his need. "I mean, I'm sorry, I— you don't um, have to. that's... I'm sorry."
oh, pretty angel. who told you to apologize so much for just existing?
Robby shushes him gently, careful in the way he lays beside Dennis, pulls him into his arms to cradle him against his chest. rubs over his back, pets his hair, presses kiss after kiss into the top of his head. the boy is warm in his arms, soft, and holding him is an intimacy he doesn't think he'll ever be able to give up. he doesn't want to give it up.
Dennis starts crying again in his arms, childlike and full-body, clinging and clutching to Robby like he'd die if he let go. hiccupping little incoherent pleas into his shoulder, unable to relax into it, so unused to it.
Robby will stay. he'll stay as long as it takes for his angel to settle, realize that it's not being rationed, that touch is something he can have forever now, if he likes. Robby won't let go. he stays wrapped around his baby all night long, stroking and petting, lulling him into the softest sleep he's ever had.
shh, shh. oh, sweet, precious baby. it's okay, it's okay now. you're okay. m'here, angel-boy, shh, shh. just cry.. it's okay... not going anywhere, I promise. I gotcha, darling thing.
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