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#tales of rays
berryetto · 1 year
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Tales of the Rays 6th Anniversary Outfits
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labeckinator · 11 months
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Sketch commission of Veigue Lungberg from Tales of Rays
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jadeazora · 2 years
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One thing I wish is that Pokémon Masters got more animated stuff beyond the original promo trailer.
Like, I would freak if they gave us an anime OP. Bleach and Tales gacha games have really cool animated OPs. (Tales has legitimately so. Freaking. Many.)
They're all super good too, here's a few of my fave cuts:
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feathersnek · 8 months
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Curiosity question that may or may not go somewhere. (Tales of the Rays)
If you could have one major scene and/or one event heavily featuring Kocis fully translated that isn't yet, video/script and all, what would it be?
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waffietato · 2 years
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Why is.
Why is.
Why is Yuri's wallpaper the gayass picture of him and Flynn smiling at each other
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shinebbk · 2 years
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テイルズオブデフォルメ!
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anthonysperkins · 3 months
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Blu Kennedy and Zach Alexander Tales from Last Summer (2010) dir. Ray Dragon
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classichorrorblog · 9 months
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Tales From The Crypt - "Split Personality" - (1992)
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raypakorn · 2 months
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do you take care of me because of duty and nothing else? you don't feel anything at all, right? || all these times we've been happy together. everything was a lie, right?
requested months ago by @akkpipitphattana
BONUS - because they made their mistakes but their hearts were pure
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mangabookclub · 5 months
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Tales from the Mana Crypt #78 - Getting Crafty
I'm not convinced that Jurassic Park was the only UB intended for this set.
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k-wame · 11 days
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AARON COBHAM as 'Y' & RAY CALLEJA as 'X' TALES OF BABYLON (2023) · dir. Pelayo De Lario · Action/Crime/Thriller
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berryetto · 1 year
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Character Costume Sheets for Tales of the Rays 『英傑たちの標』 “Mark of the Heroes” Event
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tropes-and-tales · 5 months
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A Bit of Color (Redux)
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Day 7: Virginity (Ray Merrimen x F!Reader)
(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 
CW:  Light angst (implied attempted SA, but nothing graphic); loss of virginity; smut (Fingering, PiV, protected); 18+ only.
Word Count:  4448
AN:  This is a sequel to this, and it was requested for Kinktober by @chemicalalice)
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After the debacle of the Christmas gifts, and after Ray apologizes, he tries to do better.  After learning about your similar childhoods—growing up in difficult military families—he finally feels a kinship to you.  It’s a commonality he never had before.  You with all your color and light, you baked goods for the crew, your care for them.  Ray’s never known anyone so much his opposite, yet that common facet of childhood give him an in to understand you.
He tries to do better by you.  He tries to not be such a dick all the time, tries to remember his home training and thank you when you do something nice for them.  He tries to tell you when you do a good job; he tries to offer one of his small smiles when you make a joke.
He doesn’t tell you:  when LA has an unseasonable cold snap, he uses the quilt you made him for Christmas.  He doesn’t tell you that when his insomnia plagues him that night, he runs his fingers over the small, neat stitches of your handiwork, over the small blocks of soft cotton you cut and sewed together. 
He doesn’t tell you that months after you gifted it to him, months after he hurt your feelings and then clumsily apologized…months after all of that, he finally realizes how much time and energy you put into this quilt.  For him.
It doesn’t make him cry or anything like that.  Ray has no outsized flood of emotion at the realization.  It simply knocks something loose in his chest, scores a microscopic crack in the flinty wall around his heart.
-----
Your secret reveals itself after a heist.  You hacked the security system of a club, the guys robbed it, and now there’s a celebration out at Bosco’s house.  It’s low-key, just a laid-back thing.  There’s plenty of beer in the backyard strung up with lights against the Los Angeles dusk, music playing on the speakers. 
Everyone is loose, relaxed.  The guys start to reminisce about their glory days in high school, and by the time there are through their first case of beer, they shift to reminiscing about their high school conquests, their first times.
Ray sits back and listens; he barely participates beyond the occasional grunt of acknowledgement or chuckle when someone makes a joke.  He thinks back to high school, his football days.  Holly had been a cheerleader, and they’d been each other’s first—and Ray slips back into those memories.  The chatter and laughter around him fades, and he thinks back to how young he’d been then, how his future seemed to stretch out in front of him—
He's yanked out of his memories by Lavoux’s bark of laughter, then Bosco and Mack joining him. 
But not you.  Whatever joke Ray has missed, you’re not in on it.  Which makes sense—you didn’t go to high school with them, so you’ve been quiet for most of the night.  But when Ray sits up and looks at you closer, you’re slouched in your seat.  You look…discomfited.
It takes a long moment for Ray to catch up, but he does.  Amongst the memories of the guys’ respective first times, they asked you for yours—and when you told them you don’t have a “first time” story yet, the guys reacted with incredulity.
Ray just watches at first, his eyes bouncing between the guys and then you, their questions, and your squirming discomfort as you give sheepish answers.  The guys don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Ray guesses, but you clearly are.
“Are you religious or something?”
“No.”
“You waiting for marriage?”
“No.”
“Are you one of those…what are they called?  Asexuals?”
You shake your head at that, and it makes you stammer out an explanation:  that you want to, you’ve wanted to for a long time, but it’s complicated now that you’re older, that guys aren’t kind about it—
“Do you have any experience at all?”  It’s Mack who asks the question, and you drop your gaze into your lap.  You give a halting explanation about some moment in college at a party when a lacrosse player tried to…well, you hedge around it, you don’t say the word of what that guy tried to do to you, but you’re clear that he failed, that he’d been unable to get it up enough to do that to you, but that the moment made you fearful, and now you’re stuck, and it seems like only Ray can hear the edge of tears in your voice, the wobble in your words like you’re about to cry.
“Leave it,” he cuts in, but when you glance up at him in surprise, Ray is looking at Mack and Bosco and Lavoux.  “Leave her be.”
They do.  There’s a moment of awkward silence, but then Bosco shifts the conversation to the Lakers, and within a moment, everyone seems to have forgotten it.
Not you.  Ray catches you staring at him from underneath your eyelashes, and when he meets your gaze, you tip him a slight nod. 
Then you mouth a grateful, “thank you.”
Ray tips you a nod back.  He doesn’t acknowledge the feeling in his chest, the dull ache:  another knock against that flinty wall, another hairline crack in his defenses.
-----
Months pass.  If any of the guys remember that night and the revelation of your virginity, they don’t mention it to Ray.  You obviously don’t mention it either.
Ray doesn’t forget it.  It surfaces in his thoughts when he has a quiet moment, when he’s lying in bed during one of his bouts of insomnia.  His imagination pulls together that moment in college with the lacrosse player, and it makes Ray sick to think of you:  sunny, colorful you.  Young but already so steeped in tragedy with the death of your father.  The universe was cruel to put you in the path of a drunken rapist, so much larger than you.  Even if you escaped before the worst could happen, you didn’t escape unscathed, and here you are years later, wanting to be intimate with someone but too scared to do it.
You need someone you trust, Ray thinks.  Someone you feel safe with.  Someone who will keep your confidence, who won’t tease you.  Someone who will take you seriously and understand how important losing your virginity must be for you.
Sometimes, when he’s lying sleepless under your quilt, he wonders if he might be that someone.
-----
More months pass.  The crew is laying low since Mack got busted for a bullshit parole violation.  They go semi-straight, work in the garage working on cars and trucks.  They spend their evenings on their own, in a fallow season until Mack gets sprung in a few months.
You pick up work bartending, and Ray stops by a few nights a week.  He sits at the corner of the bar and usually stays silent, but when it’s quiet in the bar, you’ll come and talk to him.  Which with Ray mostly means you talk to him and he listens as he sips at his beer.
But the bar isn’t in the best neighborhood, and soon Ray finds himself there every night you’re scheduled.  He stays until closing time, and it isn’t long before he goes from walking you to your car to just driving you home outright.
It isn’t long before you go from sliding out of his truck with a thank you and a wave to inviting him in for a beer.
When he notices that you’ve started stocking your fridge with his beer of choice, he doesn’t mention it.
If you notice that he lingers longer each night he drives you home, that he nurses that beer a little longer, you don’t mention it either.
-----
Mack’s release date keeps getting pushed back.  It’s the legal system and its red tape at its finest.
You and Ray fall into a rhythm.  He drives you home after your shifts at the bar.  You give him beer, but you also feed him a late-night dinner.  It’s never anything spectacular, usually just reheated leftovers, but he likes the cozy domesticity of it.  Eating your food while he sits on your couch, you eating beside him.  Nearly close enough to touch.
A long time has passed since the last heist.  A long time since your reluctant admission to being a virgin, but Ray has never forgotten it.  He’s mulled it over like it’s a problem to solve; like the complex blend of your past trauma and societal expectations are, say, the schematics to a bank vault.
“You need someone you trust,” he blurts out one night.  You’ve been chatty all evening, telling him about some friend of a friend who got engaged.  You’re a little down on yourself—the news of the engagement has sent you into a minor tailspin.  You think you’re so far behind everyone that you’ll never catch up.
“Huh?” 
“If you want to lose your virginity,” he clarifies, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the bottle of beer in his hand.  “You need someone you trust.”
“Oh.”  He feels the tension seep off you.  He winces inwardly to have made you uncomfortable, but he plows forward.  It’s a problem he wants to help you solve, and he doesn’t examine why he wants to help you so much.
“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he continues.  “You just need someone you feel safe with.”
It takes you an entire month more when you finally ask him.  You don’t meet his eyeline when you haltingly tell him that you trust him.  That you feel safe with him.
You’re so quiet, so unlike yourself when you tell him.  He can feel the fear and hesitation in you, and he can feel his own response to you trusting him enough to consider this:  the hairline cracks in his stony heart growing wider, fault-lines nearly wide enough to let you slip in entirely.
*****
You keep expecting there to be a reveal, a moment where the guys jump out and make fun of you.  You keep expecting this to have been an elaborate put-on by Ray and the guys, a cruel joke at your expense.
You’ve never been more wrong in your life.
Ray plans everything, which is pretty much Ray’s thing.  You wonder how much difference there is between planning a heist and planning the loss of your virginity, in Ray’s eyes. 
You don’t have enough experience with men to catch the way his gaze falls on you, turns soft by a degree or two.  You don’t notice that he gifts you with his rare, small smiles more than ever.  You don’t notice—how could you? —that Ray has fallen in love with you, a falling of miniscule moments, of quiet instances where you creep into his heart like groundwater finding its level. 
How could you notice that?  Even Ray hasn’t noticed it, and he has far more romantic experience than you.
He plans everything.  He sets the date.  He comes to your house, paper bag in hand, and you guess it’s condoms, but you notice that he’s put effort into himself:  he’s cleaned up his facial hair.  He’s put on a nicer shirt, and when he walks past you, you catch the scent of a recent shower—the slight spice of his body wash, the clean smell of his shampoo.
He brings a bottle of Moscato for you, but he’s clear—stern, in fact—that it’s just to take the edge off.  It’s just to smooth out the rough spikes of your fear.
“You need to stop if you feel yourself getting tipsy,” he tells you as he pours you a glass.  “You are in control tonight, so you need to be in control of yourself first.”
When your hand trembles as it grasps the wine glass, Ray’s eyes turn soft.  He reaches out and lays one of his big hands over yours, steadies you.
“Everything is fine,” he tells you, low and soft like he doesn’t want to spook you.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, okay?”
-----
Ray has thought of everything.
The realization of how much thought and effort he put into this makes you flush from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.  Ray Merrimen, your favorite grump.  The stone-faced, unsmiling behemoth who glowers from the shadows and leads the crew like some grouchy demi-god.
Who thought he could be so gentle?  He takes his time.  He leads you carefully, but he checks in with you at each new step.  From sitting together on the couch, his palm gently laid on your bare knee as you sip at your wine.  From when he eases the glass out of your hand, then carefully tilts your face towards his.  From when he studies your expression before he leans in and presses a plush kiss to your mouth.
From when he builds up the kisses:  from closed-mouth to open, to teasing you when he sucks against your lower lip, when he slips his tongue against yours.  When he chuckles at the first low, involuntary moan you loose just from his mouth against your neck.  When his hands find your breasts and palms them softly through your shirt, when his thumbs find the pebbled nipples even through your shirt and your bra, and when he breathes in your ear how much fun he's going to have drawing your pleasure from you.
When you shiver at his words, he draws away and studies your face again.  There’s a question in his eyes, so you nod at him.
“I’m okay,” you say.  “I’m fine.”
He studies you a beat longer, then nods back.  He smooths his big hands down your arms, then reaches out and grasps your waist.
“Bedroom?” he asks.
You swallow hard, and you hope he doesn’t hear the gulp that sounds so loud in your own ears. 
“Bedroom,” you agree.
-----
You know from working with Ray that the man is meticulous.  He never rushes a job; he always takes his time.
He takes his time with you.  His patience for your insecurities feels infinite:  he strips you, he eases a thick finger into you, and he stills when you gasp, when you freeze up.  When you tell him to keep going, he doesn’t—instead he kisses you, works his hot mouth against your face, your neck, your breasts.  He kisses you until he feels you relax, and only then does he keep going.
He works his finger in you.  He adds another, kisses you through the stretch of it as he scissors his fingers to help stretch your tight channel open.  You can feel where his erection presses against your leg, and sometimes he presses himself against you hard, an involuntary reaction to whatever lust he may be feeling.  But he never rushes it, and he mumbles shy words of praise in your ear, and he takes his goddamned time.
He makes you come with his fingers first, the blunt end of his finger stroking some inner part of you, his thumb circling your clit.  You’ve masturbated plenty, but this feels like nothing you’ve been able to coax from yourself before:  his hand works you like a finely tuned instrument, but his other hand works against your breasts, pinches lightly at your nipples, rubs the pad of his thumb over the curve and swell of you until goosebumps prickle against your skin.  His mouth breathes out low-voiced orders in your ear, his breath hot against you as he commands you to come for him, to let yourself go, and you do.
It's not like anything you’ve felt before.  It’s the sudden release of tension.  It’s the hard snap of a rubber band pulled taut, then loosed.  It’s a flood of heat and light, its epicenter right where Ray’s hand skillfully works you, and it courses outward like shockwaves that make you tremble and whimper as you give yourself over to the sensation.
“That’s it,” Ray whispers in your ear, and you feel the brush of his lips a beat later against your cheekbone.  “Just like that.”
-----
Then comes the main event, and Ray slows down even more.  He checks in with you, props himself on an elbow to peer down as he interrogates you.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, and his stern face is softened by his low, quiet voice.  “Do you want to stop now?”
You lay a hand on his shoulder and study his tattoos as you answer.  “I’m sure,” you assure him.  “I don’t want to stop.”
“I’m gonna need you to look me in the eye when you answer, sweetheart.”
You take a deep breath, then you do as he tells you.  You feel shy, suddenly, exposed at the realization that Ray Merrimen—grouchy Ray, the leader of your crew—has essentially fingered you, wrung an orgasm out of you.  Shy too that you want to keep going, that you want him to be your first.
“I’m sure,” you repeat, and you look him square in the eyes when you say it.
The corner of his mouth twitches into his version of a smile.  “You’ll tell me if you want to stop, right?”
“I will.”
His small smile falls, and he hesitates before he adds, “I won’t hurt you.  I promise.”
You can’t know that he’s thinking about the man who hurt you all those years ago.  You can’t know that Ray is uncomfortable to be so much bigger than you, so much stronger.  You can’t know that Ray worries that something about this moment—him looming over you, you defenseless underneath him—will spark against your trauma and cause you anxiety.
If you knew any of this, you’d be able to reassure him:  that other guy is so far from your thoughts, he may as well not even exist.  Nothing about Ray’s care and attention conjures up the specter of that unhappy memory.  You feel safe underneath Ray.  You feel safe with him.
He takes a long moment to roll the condom onto himself, and then another long moment easing himself between your legs.  He props himself on one forearm and then presses forward, the tip of his cock brushing against your slick and swollen folds.  He pauses and looks down at you.
“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he says, and for the first time, he sounds uncertain, even a little shy.  It strikes you all at once that maybe he’s nervous too, so you lift your hands and cup his face, draw him down to you.  You gift him a sweet kiss, then you deepen it.  You tilt his head and suckle against his lower lip as he had done to you earlier, and the groan that breaks free from him is sudden and loud.
“I trust you, Ray,” you tell him.
He drags the thick length of him along your slit, coats himself in your arousal before he pushes forward, breaches your entrance with the crown of his cock.  He never looks away from you, and his unflinching, unblinking stare feels almost unbearably intimate.  Like he can read your thoughts, like he can see into your soul.
He pushes forward, draws back.  He works himself into you, but he pauses to kiss you, to whisper in your ear how well you’re doing.  It doesn’t hurt, not really—it’s just the sense of pressure, of stretching, and you can see how it might hurt with an inconsiderate lover, but Ray takes his time to let you stretch to his invading length, so there’s no pain.  There’s only the overwhelming sense of being taken, claimed.
You realize he’s fully seated when you feel the press of his hips flush against yours, and he lowers more of himself onto you.  You feel the hot flush of skin on yours, slick with sweat, and his hot breath pants against your neck.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.  His voice sounds strained, but he lays a trail of kisses along your collarbone.  He doesn’t move otherwise—doesn’t pull out, doesn’t thrust.  He’s letting you get used to the feeling of him being inside you.  He shifts his head and gazes down at you.
“Good,” you mumble.  “I feel good.”
“Need your eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You do as he says.  There’s tension in his face, and you reach up to brush your fingertips over the lines in his brow, the two deep lines between his eyebrows.
“I’m good,” you repeat. 
“I didn’t hurt you?” he asks.
You shake your head.  “No, it’s…”  You trail off, try to focus.  You’d heard the term ‘cock-drunk’ before, had always scoffed at how stupid it sounds, but having him inside you, thick and hot and throbbing leaves little room for intelligent thought. 
Ray dips his head and kisses you deeply, licks against the inside of your mouth.  He kisses you until you’re breathless then breaks away.
“Gonna need you to use your words too,” he says, and it comes out gruff except for the smirk curving his lips.
You smile back up at him.  You lay your hand on the back of his head, run your fingertips through his close-cropped hair.  “It’s good.  It’s better than good, Ray.”
“Ready for more?”
You nod.  “Yes.”
Another long, lingering kiss and then he starts to move.  He pulls out halfway, pushes back into you, and his thrusts are smooth.  No jarring, no rough jolts as he reseats himself over and over.  The motion renews just how big he is; the tight walls of your pussy grip him, the friction of it knocks the wind out of your lungs.  You cling to his broad shoulders, and you feel the flex and tension in his muscles as he fucks you gently.  But he’s big, he’s so fucking thick, and you gasp each time his hips settle against yours.
“Still okay?” he grunts out, and you whisper that you’re fine, you’re perfect, but that he’s so big, so goddamned big like he might split you in half—
“No,” he groans.  “Fuck, don’t.”
You freeze underneath him, suddenly terrified you’ve said something wrong, but then he groans in your ear before he lifts his head and stares down at you, clarifies.
“You can’t…. shit, you can’t say that, sweetheart.”
“S-sorry—”
He shakes his head to interrupt, quirks his mouth into that half-smile he has.  “You can’t look at me with those goddamned puppy-dog eyes and say stuff like that.”
“I’m sorry, Ray—”
“I’m already on a hair-trigger,” he grits out, and you’re too inexperienced to know the warning signs of his impending orgasm, the erratic way he’s thrusting into you, like he’s trying to hold back but his body is working independently of his will.  “Fucking jacked off twice before I came here…shit, want to make it good for you…”  He groans again, drops his head beside yours.  “Fuck, you feel so good, I can’t—just don’t—”
But he’s passed the event horizon of his pleasure, it’s too late to stop himself, and you’re bewildered for a beat as he groans out a string of curses, as he deals you a couple of shallow, rapid thrusts…but then you feel the throb of his cock inside you, his body rigid above you before he sighs and sags against you.
“Shit,” he breathes out.  “Shit, shit, shit.”
*****
Ray would be ashamed, but you don’t let the feeling take root in him.  Once you realize what has happened, you soothe him.  You kiss him, you stroke your hands over his arms, his shoulders.  You tell him everything is fine, that you enjoyed yourself.
Only you.  Sweet, sunny you.  Only you could turn your disappointing first time into a loving moment for him, and after he cleans you up, he grumbles as much to you. 
“But I’m not disappointed!” you protest.  “Not at all!”
“You didn’t get to come.”
“I did,” you point out.  “And it was amazing.”
Ray rolls his eyes.  He’s trying to argue with you; he wants you to yell at him for failing you.  “You know what I mean.”
“It still counts.  And I’m not a virgin anymore, so…mission accomplished.”
He sighs, and he makes one last attempt at wallowing in his failure.  “You want me to leave?” he asks, and he doesn’t know what scares him more:  you sending him away, or you asking him to stay with you.
“No!  Not at all.”  You look at him with those big doe-eyes, like some anime baby animal, and it’s made worse that you have no idea the effect you have on him.  “Will you stay?  Please?”
And maybe getting a lousy lay under your belt gives you some courage because you hook your chin on his bare chest, cast those sad eyes on him until he’s staring back at you…then you drop a kiss on his chest.
Then you bare your teeth and nip him there, light as air, but enough for him to feel the indent of your teeth against his skin.  And then your tongue on him, laying wet line along the line of his tattoos, and the whole while you bat your eyelashes at him.  Ray’s cock twitches at the sensation.
You goddamn menace.  Has he created a monster?
He stays.  Ray gets his hands on you, manhandles you until you’re underneath him again—your squeal of surprise makes his cock twitch again—and he cages you in with his arms.  There’s a split second of worry that you’ll react badly to him being a shade rougher than he has been all evening, but there’s a gleam in your eyes, and your lips are parted as you gaze up at him.
He opens his own mouth to tell you he’ll stay, that he owes you after his embarrassing premature ejaculation, that he intends to make you come on his cock more than once, but maybe he has created a monster after all. 
You don’t let him get the words out—you arch up towards him, you surge up and kiss him hard.  It takes far less time than usual for him to recover, and when he finally slides into you the second time, he’s able to make the first time up to you—he makes you come twice before he finally joins you on your third orgasm, and when Ray comes with you, it’s not like any orgasm he’s had before:  sparks of color explode behind his eyelids, and it’s damned near percussive—enough to finally bring down the stony remains of the fortress ‘round his heart, leaving him defenseless to you.
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crestfallencrest · 4 months
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The way I think about Yuri and Flynn's spirit gear designs almost daily omg it's just so pretty and further solidifies who they are to each other
The dark/light comparison, the one wing, each on the opposite side of each other
I'm a sucker for this trope
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weirdlookindog · 10 months
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Boris Dolgov - There Was An Old Woman
(Weird Tales - July 1944)
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totextposts · 23 days
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