#help i'm going to choke

[wild-kindentities]

My cat is currently staring at my computer as I'm scrollling on Tumblr and sending texts, and that's kinda creepy.

Like...what got you staring like that ? 😃 What are you seeing that I'm not aware of ? 😃 Why did you spawn here just to purr at my computer ? 😃 Are you alright ? 😃

[yashley]

[royalarchivist]

Pac: I'm gonna see if I can manage to... to raise my- my kids [minimes], Fit.

Fit: Ok, yeah yeah! If you need any help with that, let me know, ok? By the way, here– [He tosses Pac some green mushrooms] Take a few of these. You might have to feed those to the kids [minimes], and it's like, a pain in the ass to get, so...

Pac: Fit, are you raising kids, like, underneath a van and giving them mushrooms??? What are you doing!

Fit: [Stammers] I'm a Florida man, I'm a Florida man!

Pac: Ok, yeah. Ok, yeah, you're a Florida man, everything makes sense now. [Laughs] You are a good parent, you are a good dad.

Fit: I try. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much Pac. [He pats his chest, over his heart, and laughs]

[ Full Transcript ↓ ]

—

Pac: I'm gonna see if I can manage to... to raise my- my kids [minimes], Fit.

Fit: Ok, yeah yeah! If- if you need any help with that, let me know, ok?

Pac: Yeah! Ok, ok, I'm gonna create the room, and later on we can chat!

Fit: By the way, here– [He tosses Pac some green mushrooms] Take a few of these.

Pac: Oh! Wait, what is this? Mushroom?

Fit: You might have to feed those to the kids [minimes], and it's like, a pain in the ass to get, so...

Pac: You- you have been feeding your kids with green mushrooms? [Laughs]

Fit: Look– they wanted 'em! So– you know? I mean–

Pac: Fit, are you raising kids, like, underneath a van and giving them mushrooms??? What are you doing!

Fit: [Stammers] I'm a Florida man, I'm a Florida man! I'm a Florida man.

Pac: Ok, yeah. Ok, yeah, you're a Florida man, everything makes sense now. [Laughs]

Fit: Yeah, yeah, yeah...

Pac: You just do some shenanigans with them, that's all! Yeah.

Fit: Yeah, exactly, you understand! You understand, yes yes.

Pac: You are a good parent, you are a good dad. You're a good dad.

Fit: I try. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much Pac. [He pats his chest, over his heart] Thank you. [Laughs]

[tropicalcontinental]

Derivative of a Derivative

[aelswiths]

*screams into the void*

[marshmellowtea]

i'm a "sandra fucking hates raymond bean so much but she's willing to play nice with him because she knows it's important to chris that he respects him and his drama society even though she knows that'll literally never happen for him" truther.......raymond actually likes her and she knows that and will play into that when she's around him because chris keeps looking at them with these pleading, hopeful eyes, like she can somehow help convince his father that this little acting thing he's doing is worth something, but the entire time she's thinking about gutting raymond like a fucking fish because he's an asshole to her and their friends and ESPECIALLY to chris but chris is so blinded by his desire to be loved by him and his absolute paralyzing terror of him to recognize that and her sympathy for him over that has won out over her anger that he brought this man into their theater <3

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

I was wondering what Akai is up to in the sweater weather AU, so here you go

I.

Akai Shuichi is a thrillseeker at heart, but even he has his limits.

So when his mother, conveniently pocket-sized but still as sharp as ever, threatens him with a gun and lays into him, not for faking his death, but, of all things, for not mentioning his partner to her, he privately questions her priorities but decides to tell her the truth. He certainly likes to live dangerously, but he wouldn't be alive today if he didn't know how to pick his battles.

While she seems initially confused, the conversation about Akemi quickly veers off-track when his mother asks him to repeat her family name. Miyano, as in, her sister's daughter Miyano Akemi. Shuichi didn't even know he had an aunt. Not that it matters much, since he knows Akemi's parents died years ago. Eventually his mother leaves him alone, both of them too caught up in their heads to continue the conversation.

Shuichi's not really sure what to feel about all of that. So he doesn't.

.

He's not always been good at managing his emotions, but it's pretty close. When his father taught him how to hunt, and the misery of seeing proud game succumb to his shots had almost swallowed him alive, something cracked under the pressure. And whatever that was, despite Shuichi's best efforts, it has never quite healed alright. It left him with a slight gap between his thoughts and feelings, giving him that bit of extra distance necessary to keep going instead of breaking down. He'd come to understand, then, with a clarity born from numbness, death as an integral part of life. It comes for all living things, sometimes too early, and there really is no way to escape it. There's no use in fighting. Better get used to it.

The FBI counsellor called it repression, many years later, and while it was not even close to immediate grounds for disqualification from the program, she tried to give Shuichi reading materials on mindfulness and self-reflection. He hasn't touched them; the ability has been too helpful so far. He would've shattered several times over without it; when his father disappeared and his world threatened to break apart; when he decided to leave his family, including an unborn sister, behind for the ghost of a chance to find his father; and most often since he went undercover for the FBI. There's no fooling himself, compartmentalization and repression are probably the only reasons he can talk about the years and years of dirty work, including everything from blackmail to torture and murder, without losing his sanity. People call him cold-blooded and emotionally unavailable, and mean it as an insult. Shuichi can't bring himself to care. Life is complicated enough without emotions thrown into the mix. He needs to control some factors and keep them simple. Himself, he can control - mostly. So he does.

And he's good at it, but some days, it's too much.

.

Dealing with Akemi's untimely demise has always been difficult. He made a mistake when he got attached to his target. He can't even claim that he didn't know better, at the time, because he did, he just chose to ignore his better judgement. Couldn't help it, really. She was so easy to get along with, gentle yet tough as nails in a way that gave him, too, the strength needed to make a name for himself as a hitman. Those first couple of months before he learned not to sleep too much, when he came back from his missions feeling stained in blood that never even touched him, when he maintained his cover throughout the day and threatened to break apart by night, she was there to steady him. And she allowed him to be gentle with her, to hold her and love her and promise her the world. He needed desperately to not just be a monster, and she managed to see the man in him.

Now he's left to wonder if the easy familiarity he settled into with Akemi was a result of their relation. Such a pointless question.

.

With the help of a few glasses of Maker's Mark, a pack of cigarettes, and a probably unhealthy amount of emotional distancing, he manages to lay the matter to rest, for now. Until the organisation is dealt with, he can't afford to let his emotions get in the way, so he buries them as deep as he can, and applies logic to the problem.

Ultimately, he reasons, rhythmically assembling and disassembling his IWI Jericho to give his hands something to do, it doesn't really change things. What matters is that he loved her and she died for it. Whatever he learned after can't tarnish that memory. It's a simple fact that he needs to keep going to avenge her; aside from that, all he can do right now is remember her, and honour her last request. That's the active parameter he can affect: he will see to it that Miyano Shiho is protected, or die trying.

Shuichi considers telling the girl they're cousins, and eventually, he will - if she doesn't figure it out before that, keen as she is. But for now, she still doesn't trust him, has too much to worry about, and honestly, for a supposedly dead man he has enough tetchy family connections already. Maybe, when all of this is over, he can tell Masumi - she's a bit too careless to be told now, and he hopes his mother shares this assessment. But his little sister is great at breaking the ice, and he's sure she would love to hear she has more family. It might do Shiho well, too, knowing she isn't as alone as she might think. Their family is odd enough that she'll fit right in.

He's not sure he'd wish it upon her, though. Dealing with his darling mother always involves a headache of some kind. He is reminded once again why he didn't join the MI6, and why he tries to keep contact with her to a minimum. Still, somewhere deep down and buried, he's glad she seems to be well enough to feel like going out and threatening him. It's almost cute, even if she's deadly.

.

Despite his best efforts not to let it affect him, emotional exhaustion sticks to him through the next couple of days, uneventful as they are. Sleeping would probably help, but he keeps himself awake with coffee where he can, only napping a couple hours a day. Shuichi's life is one of constant vigilance, of surveillance and planning and striking at precisely the right time. And it suits him just fine, patience is in his nature. But while he's not on a mission, it sometimes leaves him just a little bit bored. The Kudo library is extensive, but there's only so many mystery novels he can read before his mind starts to wander. Trying not to think of Akemi's death is like trying not to think about pink elephants once he has been reminded of them. The comparison is uncharitable, and he knows she wouldn't appreciate his brooding, but it's not like he has much else to occupy himself with. Yes, there are the preparations for a joint operation against the organization coming up in a little over a month, and there's a class Okiya Subaru has to attend Tuesday evenings, but it's not like they require his full attention. He still tries to give it to them.

II.

Shuichi's not sure whether it's a blessing or a curse that he's meeting with Furuya Rei a couple of days after the ill-fated encounter with his mother.

Their relationship is tumultuous at best, and murderous at worst, complicated in the way all interactions containing Furuya tend to be, as the man is dictated by exactly the kind of emotions Shuichi tries to avoid. Granted, it is a rather one-sided disagreement; as with most things, Shuichi has no strong feelings about Furuya. He respects the other agent's abilities, particularly the fact he is still undercover, and teasing him is surprisingly fun. That's about it. Shuichi's keenly aware of Furuya's flaws, but as long as they don't bother their operations, he's not going to do anything about them.

In fact, in the last weeks - months really, at this point - he's been enjoying going along with Furuya's whims, meeting him to exchange the sweaters he seems to be so obsessed with. When he's not trying to hound him, Furuya can be somewhat decent company, chattering away about the mundane things that irritate him. Until he realizes he's been too pleasant, at which point he gets a little volatile to make sure Shuichi understands they're not actually friends. It's nothing Shuichi can't handle, and to be completely honest, he appreciates a little less boredom in his life.

Today, though, doom and gloom and failure still on his mind, he's not really up for playing games with the PSB agent. They know each other better than anyone else alive, aside from maybe Morofushi. Furuya will understand.

So he prepares a bag, shoves the sweater Furuya requested in, double-checking it's the right one because he really doesn't need another lecture right now, and waits for the agent to break into the Kudo mansion so he can hand it over and be done with it. Considering he's an ally now, Shuichi would offer him a key, but he's got the distinct impression Furuya would somehow misconstruct it as an insult to his abilities.

.

Exactly five minutes ahead of schedule, there's the click of the first-story balcony door, and Shuichi pads down from the sniper nest in the attic to meet his guest. Wordlessly, he holds out the bag to Furuya in the hallway. "Not even a good evening? Lacking in manners as usual, Akai Shuichi." Shuichi shrugs, can't be bothered. Shakes the bag. "Here's what you came for." Furuya's eyes narrow, scan across his form, then his brows furrow. An expression Shuichi hasn't seen on him before crosses his face, and before he has time to interpret it, it's gone, replaced by a smirk. "Hey, Akai." He stretches, dangling his own bag overhead. "That takedown you performed on the serial killer two weeks ago. Teach it to me." Shuichi stares back, unimpressed. "Maybe next time, I'm not-" Two quick steps, and Furuya's in his space, eyes blazing blue, looking up at him so impossibly bright. "That wasn't a question, Akai." He grins, eyes shining. "Or you're not getting your sweater back."

Shuichi almost lets out a laugh. That's gotta be up there somewhere in the top five stupidest threats he's ever been issued. Which is really saying something, considering he spent his teenage years in a high school in the US, and then some more years with FBI trainees in Quantico. What is it with Furuya and his sweater fixation? Akai doesn't care, he can have them all if it gets him out of his hair.

Unfortunately, Shuichi's best death glare doesn't seem to have the desired effect. Determination is either Furuya's best or worst quality, depending on how much trouble his current agenda involves, and for the sake of Shuichi's time, it's probably quicker to go along with him than to try and forcibly relocate him, even if he's certain he could. With a quiet sigh he makes for the basement gym.

.

Where his temper shines through in conversations, Furuya's presence in a fight is that of a wildfire, contained in a person. When he fights, he burns, sucking the oxygen and attention out of his surroundings, doesn't allow for distractions or he'll singe and bite and sting whatever is in his path. He takes to Akai's instructions easily, and soon enough they're no longer practicing but engaged in a sparring match. Furuya doesn't leave him time to consider anything else, at all, and damnit, that fervour of his is contagious. The battlejoy kicks in, hard, and Shuichi finds himself mirroring the PSB agent's mad grin as they wrestle for dominance, toss each other into the mat, twist and turn and struggle on the fine line between play and serious fighting.

Once they're staying down on the mats, the battle is over quickly; one moment he has Rei in a full-body pin, sure of his surrender; only for the man to twist his legs, shift their positions, and straddle Shuichi, bending down to choke him. He's stunning like this, flushed and panting for breath, his scorching gaze focused intently on Shuichi and Shuichi alone, looking for an opportunity to make him yield. An effigy of life itself.

Shuichi can't help it; his heart soars, his blood sings, his body shivers. Rei is a pinpoint focus of light, and then everything goes dark.

.

Sweater weather AU masterpost

[felix-the-lemon-king]

Crying my entire eyes out laughing bc I'm watching the sinful indulgence music video for the first time in years and forgot about the fcuving HASTUNE MIKU LOL

[affluent-havoc]

so i maaaaaay have fallen deep into spirk suddenly 👉👈 without warning i don't even know how i got here sent help

[the-casbah-way]

i had a nap with my friend in his bed with their cat and i think it fixed something in me

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

suddenly feeling things I haven't felt since June

[cas---2y5]

.

[mcalhenwrites]

I cannot for the life of me figure out why I have to work to the bone with disabilities to make beautiful things only to discover that almost none of the people who follow me on any site even like any of it, and I have to question what I'm always doing wrong, as usual, for 20+ fucking years Additionally I have a history of people telling me, "You're not really trying to put your writing out there, I never see you link to it, I never see you talk about it!" Or I've had people make fun of me and the writing I do. What am I doing wrong? It's not ugly. It's not badly written.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.

[kitteninabunker]

i had a dream about this so i'm too far gone

giving nerdyclassmate!choso head for the first time ^^

"you're doing so good," you praise him, voice muffled as you bob your head steadily on his fat cock. spit strings from your lips, eyes watering as your throat strains around him, but fuck, it's worth it. he's huge. stretching your mouth to the limit, making your jaw ache in the best way. you’re honestly pissed at yourself for not getting in his pants earlier, who knew the quiet dork in the back of the class was hiding this?

"y/n i-i'm gonna cum..." he quietly huffs, running his fingers through your hair as he adjusts his hips in the chair. unlike the other guys you’ve been with—cocky, loud, full of bravado—he’s shy, shaky, almost scared of how good it feels, and his submissiveness stirs something deep in your core. you pull your head up, his cock slipping out of your mouth with a wet pop as you slap his tip on your tongue, looking up at him. "wait!" he jerks his hips up as his cock throbs in your hand. "don't stop, i-it feels good..."

total virgin.

"why should i?" you tease, dipping your mouth lower to trail kisses along his balls, tongue flicking playfully while your hand keeps pumping his soaked shaft. "beg for it."

his jaw clenches as he fights the urge to thrust. he’s flushed deep pink, glasses sliding down his nose, hair sticking to his forehead. you can tell he's close by the way he keeps twitching and you're about to ruin his orgasm, but that’s part of the fun!

"y/n, pleaseee." he whines, breath hitching. this time he yanks your hair, grabbing his own dick as he presses it against your lips. you give in, sucking his cock some more as he throws his head back.

you grin against him, giving in and sucking him down again, tongue dragging along the underside as you take him deeper, wetter, messier than before. he throws his head back with a choked moan, hands trembling, thighs clenching under your palms.

“shit—s-s’too much,” he whines, but his hips are still twitching, still trying to fuck into your mouth like he can’t help himself. poor thing doesn’t even know how to handle getting head.

you pull back again, licking up the length of his cock slow like you’re savoring it. “thought you wanted to cum,” you murmur, breath warm and filthy against his tip. “what, too much for you, pretty boy?”

his whole face is red, glasses slipping down his nose, lips parted and panting. “n-no, i want it—please keep going, i’ll cum, i swear—!”

you press a kiss to his slit, watching his whole body jerk. “then be a good boy and let me taste it.”

his hips stutter as he cums hard, moaning through gritted teeth as thick spurts paint your tongue, your lips, your cheeks. he tries to cover his mouth with one hand, but he’s shaking too bad, moaning your name like it’s the only word he knows. you milk him through it with slow strokes, licking him clean as he falls back against the chair like you just ruined him.

you crawl up into his lap, lips and chin still messy, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “not bad for your first time,” you purr. “next time, i’ll let you finish inside.”

[fragglerockopinions]

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