Im Already Crying - Tumblr Posts
Help me Spadotto gang
Dancing or head in lap? I have three hours of free time to draw whatever the heck I want but I can't decide which I like better
No. I did not get blown away by a tornado.
But, I'm losing my mind when helping my friend with their book (I'm a proofreader and editor and I get paid in candy and bottle caps! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH)
I am not okay. I am this close to snapping 🤏
That moment where there's clouds seen spinning east of you and the sirens for tornadoes are going off: :D
RIGHT DOWN THE LINE | MMA SUKUNA X CHUBBY READER
READ FIGHT NIGHT HERE
saying yes to his proposal was the easy part. along with planning a small ceremony, deciding on a dress, sifting through names on your guest list, finding honeymoon spots, and booking flights. in the moments after you had said 'i do' therein lie difficulties. festering and revealing themselves when you least expected. you had supposed marriage wouldn't change a thing, that your lives would stay the same, what else would it mean besides strengthening the love you two already shared? after all, it had been a few wonderful years together, also, the most committed relationship you had. not for lack of trying but no one had ever wanted to put a ring on your finger until the day you stormed into his locker room. you were a living fire, such as he had never seen and at the same time is so tender, intelligent, so bold and spirited, he thinks that if anyone had half the gall you do, they wouldn't pretend to be anyone else but themselves. which is why he thinks he ever fell for you in the first place, so much so he had pulled you away in a hurry without it ever occurring that he had no place in mind, no flirty pickup lines, and no intention to ease you into it.
he took you to his favourite ramen place in the end. tucked behind a row of shops, you were swiping through alleyways and running across a busy street hand in hand, vehicles rushing by, they honk at the careless display. the old man taking your order owns the place, he pinches sukuna's cheek and asks him why it had been so long since he came back before shooting him a knowing grin when he catches you standing behind his towering figure. "the first woman you ever brought here and you don't give me time to prepare." he tuts in japanese.
sukuna sits you down across from him, then begins to make the jarring claim of being the only man for you, (to which you force every nerve in your body to not refute him). that was his way of flirting, never one to beat around the bush. headstrong and so sure of himself, he doesn't care that he slurps his noodles a little too quickly, that he dwarfs the wooden chair he sits in, he's just...unbothered, unabashed, and so unapologetically himself. someone so unlike you, there were times you still didn't understand it. how could this man be so in love and why was it so hard to believe it?
"maybe i was too persistent," he admits to you on your honeymoon; three weeks spent living in a traditional style minka he reserved just for the two of you, secluded and solitary, surrounded only by nature and the sweet, sweet, luxury of privacy. where the days were spent lounging in a makeshift pile of pillows, furs, and duvets, he ravaged you through the night and decided that he was never to be parted from you, not even when he's just finished inside you but is still hard, he switches positions and goes right back to fucking you. three days in, he had clung to you like a second skin, gripping on your hips and fitting himself between you legs, his cock pushing deeper and deeper. massaging the sore spots he's left and not feeling the least bit guilty about it when they're all there by his own hand, reminders of his passion—his insatiable lust for you.
"it was a little intimidating," you replied, bringing a foot up to his broad chest. placing some distance in between your bodies when he looks about ready to eat you right up. "no one had been as forward as you."
curling his hand around your ankle, a warmth blooms across your heel, up to your calves. you're watching his eyes turn dark, "it's a shame they'll never know," he sighs out, brings his lips down, and presses a kiss there along with his truth, a foresight to the whirlwind to come, a promise he speaks into your skin. "to have a life shared with you." it makes you so needy, so excitable that it was enough to keep the worries at bay. just for now.
then there's the new house. one he's bought in secret. emphasis on 'secret' because he knew how much the old apartment meant to you, there was a slight chance you might not have jumped on the idea. more so with so many fond memories and your love story written into the walls; from staying over once a week to never being able to leave his bed—leave his sight. coming home to you in his hoodie, in his t-shirt pooling over your shoulders. a sleeping goddess on his couch who wears his scent like a blanket, a comforting thing. how it fills the air around you, so intoxicating when he's joining you in the shower, getting all sweaty and steaming up the mirror. he wraps your damp hair in a towel after while you're laughing at a lame joke he's told and it's the most beautiful sound he's heard. slow dancing in a dim kitchen to lent et doulouroux playing in the background while the stew boils, preparing a bowl of rice and presenting it to him in a dish you brought from the flea market (the only one he happens to reach for, the one he keeps away from guests), cutting up fruits and feeding it to him, he licks the citrus from your fingers. he's coming up behind you by the sink, pulling you closer, hugging you, breathing you in. kissing and kissing for what feels like hours, forgetting that he reeks of the gym and sweat and a hard day's work but he knows you prefer him this way, smelling like a heady mix of musk and something so faint and masculine, it makes you want to press your face into his chest, your hands tug on his hair a little too hard, already so desperate, the soapy dishwater drips down your arms, and he groans, "be gentle, baby." and you do, because he's meant to be loved like this.
leading you to the front doors with hands over your eyes, he lifts them to reveal this large mansion that is so completely different. worth millions of dollars and counting with high ceilings and a swimming pool and a california king bed. you don't say it but there's such an emptiness here, there's too much light, too much space. what good was a house built for more than two? you wanted closeness, you wanted the old balcony with a view of the city, the supermarket right across the street, the neighbours who complain about the loud sex, the parts of the floor that would creak, you didn't even get to say goodbye to the dent in the wall from that one time he fucked you so hard he broke the headboard.
and he has never cared what people think, but as you wander around the house, taking it all in, he finds himself anxious to know your every thought. was it to your liking? had he gone overboard with it?...do you see a future here with me? pictures you lining the walls with those little illustrations you like, the quotes you found, maybe he'll buy you flowers like you always wanted but he thought it was so cheesy and overdone, he has never been the kind so why bother. only now he thinks he shouldn't start slacking just because he's married you, he'll get all romantic, woo you, and those flowers could sit in a glass, in a vase, in a beer bottle he was planning on recycling. your unfinished books stacked up in a corner, scraps of paper tucked into them, or maybe—just maybe, you could hear your children running down the long hallway, tumbling around in the grass out back, a baby boy struggling to stand atop his own two feet as he walks across over to your outstretched arms, waddling towards mama with determination, while papa guides him every bit of the way, would the four bedrooms be sufficient enough, do we need more natural light? has there ever been or will there ever be a good enough place for you because you deserved only the very best and more...or should we find a bigger home?
his parents ship his portraits over. in varying sizes with frames that are over a decade old but they blend right in with the rest of the decor; a large photo of him at the olympics, he stands tall atop a podium, waving to a crowd of loving fans, a wreath of leaves over the crown of his head, striking gold against his rose dyed hair. there's one of him on a field trip to the zoo, he presses his hands against the glass of a tiger exhibit as a mother holds out her paw, below it, another shows him holding a cub in his hands, "it was the first time i cared for something so much," he says. lastly, tucked at the very bottom of the box, lies his family's prized possession. with his grandfather's inscription on the cardboard backing and not a single blemish or streak on the polished glass, it presents to you a five-year-old sukuna in traditional wear, long robes stopping right at the tops of his feet in wooden getas, his chubby small fists by his sides. greeting you with an aloof expression that highlights his furrowed brows and striking eyes, saying everything he needs to say with just one look, longing to be done with it, take the damn picture.
"such a serious face for a young boy," you tease. heart melting at the sight of your husband as a child and looking up to find that same stoic face now chiseled by maturity and age, looking so, so handsome. he laughs, and your chest blooms at the sound of it. he need not even try when he possesses a beauty like this, so unlike any other. what was it about him? that his smile alone could fuel your deepest passions, a coil in your stomach, that heat starts to stir, pools in your middle, dipping low to your core at the rare sight. always brooding, always so indifferent, yet this is the face of your beloved when hidden from the world; never falls or falters, sinful lips parting to reveal the prettiest teeth, the curve of his smile on your neck, dimples popping at the corners you brush your thumbs across them and they only get deeper, his eyes cast onto you without judgement, taking you in as you are and knowing your thoughts without needing the words. when you reach a hand up to caress his jaw, loving the feel of his scruffy, unshaven face, you can't help but think this is what makes it so worth it. "i love seeing you like this." you whisper.
he bends down and leaves a kiss on your forehead before bringing his own hand up around yours, big and calloused and so very familiar. "it's because of you," his voice rumbles low, leaning into your touch and savouring every bit of it. admires your face with something fond in his eyes, they glaze over as he skims a knuckle along the apple of your cheeks, pushing stray strands of hair away, the tip of his finger trailing down the bridge of your nose before he taps lightly, it's so cute he's holding himself back from biting on it.
you help him unpack the rest of the boxes and watch as he marvels at how everything starts having its own place, loves the new bed so much he falls asleep right atop the uncovered mattress in the late afternoon. so you curl up next to him, his body pressed right up to yours and for that split second you sink into the padding, you forget to ask about the house. hoping that he'll come around to it when he's ready—his reasons for wanting a new place, the meaning behind it, of being so eager to move forward. and it didn't matter really, because he was all you wanted, he was your home.
the rest of the days play out like usual and being newlyweds starts to feel like it should; you have your routines, you get used to the space, the changes don't feel so new anymore, and the distance doesn't grow despite your initial doubts. everything is as it's always been.
but it doesn't last for long because it's not meant to, all couples fight, they argue, and eventually, so do the two of you. he reacts to it like anyone would expect him to, either by taking it out on a sandbag in some abandoned warehouse til he doesn't even remember what you were fighting about or stifling it deep down where he stores the other pent up emotions he deems 'negative' because after years of honing immense self-control, he's never lashed out, never shown you that side of himself.
but on a rare occasion like this, he appears to you in a way that's haunting, his anger rises and simmers over, he seethes, tipping over the breaking point. it had been the first time in years he ever lost a match twice, back to back. he had struggled with cutting weight, he's hungry, annoyed, exhausted, he's not making good progress, he hasn't had sex in weeks because he's too tired, because he's always got an ache somewhere or he's dealing with phantom wounds from past injuries. not to mention it was a new division, new opponents he's never heard of, a bunch of reporters in his face all the time, asking him stupid questions, 'where do you go from here?, 'what does this mean for your career?', 'are you retiring?' and he knows he's not at fault, it was bound to happen, it's just all part of the mental buildup, the suffering is what makes him great, undefeated champion and all that, a beast, but it doesn't make him less resentful—worried that he'd gone soft, age creeping up to him, and he sees himself falling from his peak, no longer the great fighter he used to be.
there's the medicinal smell of muscle patches lingering in the air, you pull a roll of gauze around his shoulder, bandaging the wounds over his eyebrow, then rubbing muscle gel behind his biceps, over his neck, and down his shoulder blades. when you tell him, "i'm scared." he doesn't turn to face you completely, glares at you from the corner of his eye like you were a mere stranger.
"when did you stop believing in me?" he spits out, getting up, he winces from the pain pulsing through his body. it stings in some places and it burns in others. he's meant to protect you and he can't do it like this, is already failing at doing the one thing a husband is meant to do. what was he if not the one person you could rely on?
with shaking, trembling fingers, you hold on to him, "i don't like seeing you hurt." you sob, but it doesn't reach his ears, watching his retreating back move further away from you. "baby, please-" you call out to him but this time he walks away from you. slams the door a little too hard and the portraits on the wall don't stay put, falling to the ground, the glass shatters, and those wooden frames are splintering to pieces.
he drives out into the night with no destination in sight because he's too afraid to face the damage he's done, aimlessly winding down a road and finding it within himself to make sense of his feelings, to acknowledge his shortcomings. maybe it's stupid for him to think that he'll ever settle a fight with you the same way he does in the ring. this wasn't a physical battle of strength and endurance til the bell sounds out. this was you, the love of his life. why had he been the man who hurts you; you had said he was mean once, the harsh words he spits out, to be everything all at once, blinded by his own ego to see the insecurities lying deep within you, old wounds he's unable to heal, the voices he can't silence. and you choose him anyway.
"you know what i am," he says when he comes home in the early hours of the morning. you had stayed up waiting for his return, just like how you always do when he used to travel a lot more, catching a long flight and you thought you'd go crazy without him around. then he'd find you in his t-shirt; the black one with the frayed hem, it smells like him no matter how many times you've washed it, and he knows it means more than it is about possession or claim but a sense of...security. that he'd come back to you. his safe solace.
curls up behind you when you're tucked under the sheets and wipes at your teary cheeks, his heart breaking at the sight. "i don't always have the right words" he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincerity and tenderness there was not a hint of falsehood—"but i don't want to lose you."
he makes love to you that night. after weeks. you spread your legs and he stares at the soaked fabric of your panties; there are no frills or fancy patterns, not the kind you save for special occasions, they were simply worn for comfort, plain, soft, and in no shape or form decadent but his mouth waters at the sight, at the thought of his tongue on you; of his face buried there as he licked and lapped at your most sensitive spots, bowing on his knees in between your thighs. he'd worship you like this, content with staying here forever, his mouth never leaving your pussy.
while he opens you up, sucking on your clit, your hips rise to thrust into his face, he scoops both your legs onto his shoulders, lapping at your folds and slipping his tongue inside. spreading your cheeks before he presses his tongue onto your little hole, reaching a finger up to stroke your clit. "i-i can't, baby, please, you have to sto-" you're stuttering, whining, ready to burst into tears, crying from how good it feels, how he knows your body so well, already so sensitive from the stimulation.
feeling that familiar tightening in your core, you squeeze your thighs around his head, feeling helpless with the things he does to you. hands gripping at his shoulders, you shove but it does nothing to push him off and he doesn't do shit but stays right where he is.
his large hands run up and over your thighs, it's so very hot to the touch you think you would melt from all this heat. sweat stars to bead over your bodies, your slick runs from your pussy down the seam of your ass and he licks into you deeper and deeper, you let out a sharp gasp when his finger starts to slip inside of you. he's slow and gentle enough to not hurt you but he wants you to feel every bit of it. with the flex of his hand, he presses against a spot that makes you tremble all over.
he wants it so much, and his tongue chases every drop, he's grunting and sinking his fingers into your thighs, gripping your flesh one moment and spreading your ass cheeks to lick it all out. you're a shuddering, whining mess by the time you squirt all over his gorgeous face, made even more so when he looks up with glistening lips and he brings his soaked fingers past them, tasting you and relishing in it. you kiss the smirk right off his face, so in love with him and he knows it. because you feel so wanted, so loved by him and it's so much, so intense.
pulling his sweatpants off, he fists his cock to relieve some of the pressure. slick fingers and veiny hands, he circles a thumb around the tip. he's not in a rush tonight, doesn't want to fuck you like how he always does, like an animal; rough and hard and like a savage, in positions where he doesn't get to watch your face, see the love in your eyes or hear your moans right next to his ear. pleasure above everything else, he takes and takes but as he crawls closer to you, watching you with hunger in his eyes, with intent, he only wants to give. here, nothing lacks, you laid back on the bed, jaw slacked as you catch your breaths, your pretty pussy all puffy and so wet, arms stretched above your head as he slides the edge of his t-shirt up your body, leaving chaste kisses along the way, up to your breasts, your nipples pert and begging for his touch, his tongue.
your hands come up to loop around his neck, the tips of your fingers run over the familiar curve of his scalp, pressing, massaging the tension by his temples. the tattered edges underneath, buzzed and shaved with a razor right above his ear greet you with that short, scratchy feel you love so much. it's in the little things, your husband wanting to look good for you, who pays attention to the details. from there your fingers thread into his sweat-dampened hair, soft to the touch and lush, clumping together and spreading apart, you pull gently and he moans, guttural and earnest, he keens into your neck, the sound so beautiful it's like he's letting go, letting loose, giving in.
he swallows around a lump in his throat, the tears prick along the ridges of his eyes, when the tears run over his cheeks, onto your neck, he gives in to the woman he truly reveres. adorning your body with his sweat, his scent, and all the things he can't be, "i'm sorry." he sobs.
you press his broad chest warm and smooth, a hand over his heart, feeling it pounding beneath the skin—just for you. “i'm right here,” you sigh and it comes out a little husky, a little breathless. holding his eyes, your breaths puffing out in short gasps, moaning into his ear the sounds of your pleasure, your want, “i'll always be here."
soon, your own tears slip from the corners of your eyes, something tight wrings in his chest, the weight of everything comes crashing down. he can’t go fast enough, get deep enough, he hooks an arm under your thigh for leverage, bringing you closer, stuffing himself further til his tip meets that sweet spot inside. lost in the rousing sensations, you wriggle and strain beneath him, his presence has never felt safer, he is all that you know, all that you feel, so full inside you as every drag of his cock rubs along your clit, stretching you out.
going mindless with pleasure, your eyes roll back, mouth parting around your moans. "cum for me," he pleads. gritting his teeth, he thrusts vigorously, just the way you like it; deep, fast, and with all his weight pressed into you from above. you are safe, you are mine, you are too beautiful for this world, too perfect for someone like me.
the moment he cums inside you, hips colliding with yours, the tight feel of your walls squeezing down on him, you sink your teeth into his shoulder, biting him hard and you feel just how much he wants you, how much he consumes you; “i love you," he groans, unable to stop moving, to stop fucking into you as he fills you with his cum.
setting his forehead onto yours, he showers you with kisses over every inch of your face. as your breaths start to slow, you slip under the sheets, watching him with half-lidded eyes, your hair spills over his pillow. his hand comes up to caress your lower belly, thumb swiping back and forth he lays claim to it, wanting to watch it grow as his seed takes root. fuck, he can't believe it, you're so precious, the best thing that has ever happened to him.
"why did you choose me?" you ask in the middle of the silence, your finger tracing patterns over his chest. he's heard it once before; two lovers floating in the middle of the mediterranean sea, he basks in the courage you have, the trust in which you bestow upon him at that moment. legs locked around his abdomen, he had held on to you then, your hair, your skin, gleaming under the moonlight, under the sparkling sheen of saltwater and lanterns by the dock. how long had a question like that plagued your mind, and what was he to do about it when he could only think to ask you the same. oh how inferior i am, if only she could look inside me, i'd give her permission.
is this not his proof? and wouldn't you be the only one worth receiving it? weathering the storm, holding his heart in his hands and watching it spill forth, see his naked body bloody and bruised, whatever it means—devotion, faith, love, however it's defined whether, by word or feeling or truth, he'd give it all to you and no one else.
saw a fanfic where finnick and annie divorce. physically not okay.