another notch in the bedpost // (byo)aphrodisiac
Donna
Connor
Murphy
Smecker
... Pappa Joe
Now, those names alone usually weren't ones that got David Della Rocco to cringe. Neither were the other names of every casual encounter he'd had here and back home, every girlfriend he'd ever had, every fuck-buddy. It's just these fuckers were tattooed all over his body starting at his neck down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He'd tried to wash the shit off in vain--they were real fucking tattoos.
Rocco knew better than to try to hide off in an attempt to wait it out by now. He knew that wouldn't work. It never worked. That's why he was moving through the halls, nervously lighting up a cigarette and trying to ignore the dark ink staining the back of his hand with Murphy MacManus and the details below it of just what he'd done--the hotel couldn't be discreet, could it? Couldn't just put a fucking name on his skin and leave others to wonder if it was just listing every fucker he'd met back home and here.
No fucking way.
It had to list acts he'd done. It had to add that he'd fucked as a chick, that he'd sucked guys off, that he fucked fucking Paul Smecker once with a gun, no less, and that Pappa Joe fucked him. At least the shit he'd done with chicks hadn't been near as bad, some of it, he would've been proud to show off really. Just not with the other shit tainting his skin.
Rocco didn't know where he was walking to in particular, just that he needed to walk, needed to keep himself busy or he'd freak the fuck out.
He didn't mind the hotel too much, not really. The shit with Pappa Joe had been... disgusting, man, sure, but it had been a one time thing and for all he knew, the fucker was rotting back in hell. Deserved it anyway. He just hated this shit that kept happening... fucking collars, fucking tits and a pussy, fucking false-pregnancies, and... fucking his best friends. Or maybe he hated that he didn't hate that last one as much as he should. He didn't know anymore.
One thing was for sure? It didn't matter how hard that aphrodisiac made him, it'd take a lot to fucking get him in his pants today. Or maybe just a lot of booze, he wasn't sure. His mood was fucking sour today, worried what any of those people who stayed in the hotel, who he'd fucked, would say if they saw the tattoos. He had a bad feeling he couldn't avoid them forever though.
Fuck, he felt like he needed a shower or something--maybe the third time's the charm and all those tattoos would wash off him, right?
But before he knew it, Rocco was lost down some random corridor. He slipped one hand in his coat pocket and dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, putting it out with his foot. "Fuck, where the hell did I wind up..."
(ooc: Rocco is covered from the neck down in tattoos of whoever he's slept with from here in the hotel or back home, along with any acts he's done in the bedroom. Feel free to come along and tease him or take his mind off it. Men or women are welcome as long as they're of legal age! Smut or CR, prose or action tags are all welcome.)
Connor
Murphy
Smecker
... Pappa Joe
Now, those names alone usually weren't ones that got David Della Rocco to cringe. Neither were the other names of every casual encounter he'd had here and back home, every girlfriend he'd ever had, every fuck-buddy. It's just these fuckers were tattooed all over his body starting at his neck down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He'd tried to wash the shit off in vain--they were real fucking tattoos.
Rocco knew better than to try to hide off in an attempt to wait it out by now. He knew that wouldn't work. It never worked. That's why he was moving through the halls, nervously lighting up a cigarette and trying to ignore the dark ink staining the back of his hand with Murphy MacManus and the details below it of just what he'd done--the hotel couldn't be discreet, could it? Couldn't just put a fucking name on his skin and leave others to wonder if it was just listing every fucker he'd met back home and here.
No fucking way.
It had to list acts he'd done. It had to add that he'd fucked as a chick, that he'd sucked guys off, that he fucked fucking Paul Smecker once with a gun, no less, and that Pappa Joe fucked him. At least the shit he'd done with chicks hadn't been near as bad, some of it, he would've been proud to show off really. Just not with the other shit tainting his skin.
Rocco didn't know where he was walking to in particular, just that he needed to walk, needed to keep himself busy or he'd freak the fuck out.
He didn't mind the hotel too much, not really. The shit with Pappa Joe had been... disgusting, man, sure, but it had been a one time thing and for all he knew, the fucker was rotting back in hell. Deserved it anyway. He just hated this shit that kept happening... fucking collars, fucking tits and a pussy, fucking false-pregnancies, and... fucking his best friends. Or maybe he hated that he didn't hate that last one as much as he should. He didn't know anymore.
One thing was for sure? It didn't matter how hard that aphrodisiac made him, it'd take a lot to fucking get him in his pants today. Or maybe just a lot of booze, he wasn't sure. His mood was fucking sour today, worried what any of those people who stayed in the hotel, who he'd fucked, would say if they saw the tattoos. He had a bad feeling he couldn't avoid them forever though.
Fuck, he felt like he needed a shower or something--maybe the third time's the charm and all those tattoos would wash off him, right?
But before he knew it, Rocco was lost down some random corridor. He slipped one hand in his coat pocket and dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, putting it out with his foot. "Fuck, where the hell did I wind up..."
(ooc: Rocco is covered from the neck down in tattoos of whoever he's slept with from here in the hotel or back home, along with any acts he's done in the bedroom. Feel free to come along and tease him or take his mind off it. Men or women are welcome as long as they're of legal age! Smut or CR, prose or action tags are all welcome.)