#it is really Everything Happens So Much Week over here

[spookyji]

yes or no… raw?! txt

txt on whether or not they wear condoms. nsfw… obviously. don’t come at me for my bad banner making skills lol

yeonjun? addicted to raw. it’s the creampie kink. he’s not as into breeding as much as he is addicted to the feeling of your raw pussy wrapped tightly ‘round his cock, and the mess he can make of your pussy as his creamy cum seeps out, only for him to push it back inside, god, loves claiming your pussy as his. ditched the condoms ever since you begged him for raw, can’t fuck with one now. or ever again. the kind of sex that leaves you with a pussy smeared and swollen with his cum, your panties shoved in his pocket, your thighs rubbing together when you try to keep it all inside but it’s dripping down your thighs when you walk,, and it’s not subtle.

soobin can’t. he really just can’t wear one anymore. happened by accident, when the condom broke and he couldn’t resist the thoughts anymore, the ones urging him to breed you to the brim and fill you up so full, oh, he was so fucked. so pussy drunk, so weak to his needs to breed, so romantic how soobin is obsessed with you, isn’t it? always praising you for taking him so well, asking you if you can feel how deep he is and how full you are of his seed, so sweet how he wants it all so bad. can it be considered an accident if soobin’s always coming inside… and if he thinks about it on the daily?

beomgyu means to, but he has a tendency to forget. mostly because while he has a box in his drawer in his room, he has a serious addiction to fucking anywhere but his room… and he hasn’t remembered to put another condom back in his wallet since who knows when. fucking in his studio, the practice room, living room, his car? yeah, he doesn’t have one, but his pull out game is the best, since gyu likes to cum on you. his favorite? all over your ass in doggy, dripping ropes of creamy cum down your thighs, fuck, until it’s such a mess… he’s not that interested in coming inside as long as he can cum on you. his dark bangs a mess over his sweaty skin, panting through parted lips, one hand jerking himself off roughly and the other gripping the plush of your curves, his milky white cum smeared and drooling down your skin, ‘s all beomgyu really wants.

taehyun might be the only one here with a fraction of common sense. like, he’ll eat you out for hours, make you beg for his cock, and he’ll still have the rational thought to make you wait to use protection. no birth control necessary on your part… taehyun isn’t that interested in coming inside, especially not when he’s so good with everything else, from his fingers to his mouth… you’d have to beg for him to not use protection, but then he’d pull out. he will come inside your mouth tho, loves blowjobs so much, his hand grasping your hair to push your head down further ‘til you’re choking, swallow it all, stick out your tongue to prove it. his guilty pleasure.

huening kai… really tries to remember, especially since his pull out game is so bad, but the thing about kai is he gets so seriously pussy drunk. like insanely pussy drunk. the kind of pussy drunk that makes him incoherent when he’s eating you out, he cums untouched in his sweats, all dizzy and blushing ‘cause it’s a little embarrassing how he can’t help it at all, a mess when you sink down on his dick and he completely forgot, feels a little too good to remember and then oh— he came inside. after sex, he’s so clingy, he doesn’t ever wanna pull out, sleepy and stuffed to the brim with his cock and cum, how much better can it get? kai is so cuddly he can make you forget too… sex with him is so sloppy and cute, how both of you are so drunk on intimacy that rational thought doesn’t exist anymore.

this took me 2 weeks to finish bc i am so lazy my god sorry

[justcallmedom31]

Ig it's Storytime with Dom now @not-so-local-lesbian lol Where do I begin. Hm. I really don't know how to start but basically, two bandits broke into my family home last week, and now i'm recovering from trauma 👍 Now for the long story. For context first. My grandparents built a home here where I live, that's in the Philippines. Locals call it, the Engineer's House, for the sole fact that my late grandfather was a mechanical engineer, who designed and built the home himself before he passed away 8 years ago. There's swimming pool, a pond, a farm, and a lot of mango trees. 80 Mango Trees to be exact. Quite proud of them heh. I am set to inherit the land in a couple years or so. I forgot how large the lot is exactly, but it's enough to fit a couple basketball courts within heh. Last week, two bandits broke into it. Thank gosh, my family and I weren't there at the time, as we were in Quezon City, hanging out with my two aunts from Australia who were visiting. How did we know the broke in? They were caught by my mother's CCTV she installed in the living room. At 2:28 AM, my mother was notified by the motion sensor, to which thankfully she was awake at the time, talking with one of my aunts. At first she thought it was a spider, but upon closer look. There was a man going down the stairs. She originally thought it was ghost, but looked closer to find that they were indeed, bandits. Two Bandits. their faces were covered. So, my mum panicked, and my aunt. my other aunt woke up to the panics, and also panicked herself. I woke up around the time they realized two people broke in, and rushed to call our relatives who lived nearby. Thankfully, we managed to wake up one of my aunts who lived in the same barangay (that's sorta like a village ig). Her husband went in with a flashlight which managed to scare away the bandits. and boy, was it a mess inside. And yeah, that's what happened. My family had to pack to drive all the way there to investigate what happened and clean up the mess inside. While we drove, which took 6 hours, the police were notified of the incident and investigated the crime. I won't go into too much detail from what happened when we arrived, but from what I could tell of investigating it myself, the two bandits were spying on the home from the mango trees outside. around late night, they made their way in over the fence, and up to the third floor balcony, through which is where they broke in. they searched through everything on the second floor. Only thing they could find that looked valuable was my late great-grandmother's bag of old coins and a few bags. When my relatives scared em, the only thing they managed to steal was two. fucking. bags. TWO. BAGS. OUT OF EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE. OUT OF THE VASES AND TECH. THEY ONLY MANAGED TO STEAL TWO FUCKING BAGS. I'M NOT BLOODY JOKINGG what's even funnier, is when they were inside our home, they fucking drank water in the kitchen and even popped out some of the ice, and wine. Oh yeah, and they also saw the cctv and managed to take it out, but THEY DROPPED IT OUTSIDE THE HOME. ALONG WITH THE BAG OF COINS LIKE WHAT?? HOW STUPID CAN YOU BE?? The coins date back all the way to 1972, so i understand they can't really be used... BUT LIKE, THEY STILL HAVE VALUE??? WHY WWOULD YOU DROP SO MUCH ON THE GROUND?? WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU DROP EVERYTHING??? It's a good thing at least, that they dropped them. BUT WHYYY???? AND ALSO GET THIS. THEY LEFT THEIR FUCKING TOOLS INSIDE. EVERYTHING. AND THEIR FINGERPRINTS. AND SANDALS. AND EVEN HOODIES. THEY'RE SO STUPID LMAOO So, yeah, there's my story. it was really traumatizing knowing i could have been there that day. and. i could have died. Because they had weapons when they broke in. the weapons were discovered to have been hidden under the bed. But yeah anyways, theres storytime for today. i'm going to be fine too dw, i can walk it off :PP

[themultifanshipper]

Carlos knew the backstory. Everybody did. It was front page news for weeks. 

Despite the divorce being mostly Charles' fault, he'd taken it like a betrayal. And when you signed with Ferrari as his teammate, the world of Formula One imploded. 

Warnings: threesome, angry sex, bickering, double penetration, reader is a vessel for Charlos to be insane about each other, quite angsty ngl, I had Cruel by Tori Amos on repeat while I wrote this  

Charles' ego never fully recovered from any of it. Even at the start, the fact that you rose through the junior categories so fast, that you got to formula one after him and yet still managed to keep up with him in your rookie season was too much to bare.  

He almost quit. Your Ferrari contract was the closest he ever came to truly losing it. 

He almost sued Fred. For what he didn't know, but someone had to pay. 

You'd been teammates for less than a season when it happened. 

You'd beaten him. In your third F1 season, in equal machinery, in the fastest car on the grid. No safety cars, no technical problems. 

You'd beaten him. Fair and square. 

He physically couldn't handle it.  

He almost smashed his helmet when he got out of the car, all the rage that had built inside him for the past year since he'd discovered you'd signed was about to be unleashed. 

Carlos found himself at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Or the very right place, depending on how you look at it. 

He was walking past the door of your driver's room, on his way to talk to Charles, when he heard what sounded like a screaming match coming from inside. 

Something akin to panic rose inside him and he decided to intervene before either of you got seriously injured. 

It had happened before. You and Charles got a race ban. Fred almost had a heart attack when he got the news that he had to find 2 reserve drivers for a race.

So Carlos stormed in, ready to separate you but he quickly realised his mistake. 

It wasn't a screaming match. Well not really. 

Your loud cries were mostly moans, with angry words thrown in. And Charles was panting above you, responding to everything with as much venom as he could. 

While fucking you. 

It was the strangest thing Carlos had ever seen. The argument was so heated neither of you noticed he was there and he just watched wordlessly while Charles held you down and ploughed into you angrily as you shouted abuse at him. 

Another thing he noticed was that neither of you were really undressed. Charles's race suit was just pushed down around his thighs along with his fireproofs, and you still had your fireproof top on, you bottoms were hanging off one of your legs as if Charles had ripped them off in his haste to get you exposed.  

“What the fuck” 

Carlos couldn't help the words from escaping him and of course your head turned towards him just as he took a step back to go back out the way he'd come. 

“What the fuck do you want?” You snapped. 

Charles stopped fucking you in favour of looking at his ex-teammate. 

“Don't talk to him like that. He's the only person here who doesn't hate you” 

“Is that why you've got your dick inside me, Charles? Because you hate me?” 

“Yes. But I bet he wouldn't mind having his dick inside you either, isn't that right Carlos?” 

The Spaniard opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out as he felt his blood pumping faster and louder in his ears than usual. 

“Don’t be shy, I know you want her” 

The ability to make split-second decisions was vital in their line of work. 

Carlos' jaw clicked shut, and so did the door as he closed it and made his way over to you. 

“I bet you're loving this” you spat at Charles “You've always wanted to show Carlos how much better you are than him” 

You hit a nerve there. 

“Carlos, come over here and make her shut up for me please” 

“Oh you're capable of saying please now? I don't think you've ever said it to me…” 

He thrusted into you as hard as he could to make you stop talking, and your cry of pain made him throb. 

“Carlos, put something in her mouth, now” 

Carlos had seen Charles angry before, perks of being a Ferrari driver for three years, but he'd never seen him look quite so deranged. 

Charles turned you over onto your knees and shoved his cock back inside you roughly.

He pinned your arms behind your back and held you still while Carlos approached. The spaniard kneeled in front of you, pulling his cock out of his fireproofs to stroke it in front of your face. 

This was weird for him, but just like in his career, he wasn't one for ignoring opportunities that presented themselves to him. 

“Suck him” Charles growled and you opened your mouth to take Carlos halfway down. 

Charles wasn't having any of that. He thrust into you and made you gag around Carlos, and the older man groaned as his fingers tangled in your hair. 

Charles knew you could take the rough treatment, but there was a part of him that hoped you were struggling, that somehow he was giving you retribution for all the shit you pulled during the race. 

And in his life. 

It was brutal, and Carlos was just along for the ride as he watched Charles's punishing thrusts push you further down on his cock. 

He pulled you off after only a few minutes because it was getting to him way too fast for his liking. The whole situation was frying his brain.

You heaved in a breath and crawled up his body, coming face to face with him.  

“I know you've always wanted me” you panted, lips inches from his, and it took everything in him to not close the distance and devour you. He couldn't do that to Charles. 

“Wanna know a secret?” You voice was getting shakier as Charles' cock was hitting your sweet spot dead on because of the change of angle. 

Carlos gulped, eyes darting back and forth between your lidded eyes and spit-slick lips that were parted in a half smirk. 

“Sure” he whispered, uncertain. 

“Charles…” you moaned, visibly right on the edge of your orgasm “Charles has always wanted to fuck you” 

And with that your body collapsed against his as you moaned loudly and rode out the waves of euphoria. 

His eyes landed on Charles and got a powerful shock to his system when he saw that Charles was already staring at him.

His eyes were dark while he continued the languid movement of his hips. 

That revelation felt like a punch to the gut, and it's a good thing that nothing was touching his cock in that moment because would have come on the spot just at the way Charles was looking at him. He'd never seen so much raw want in someone's eyes before. 

Charles had a plan forming in his head. He wanted Carlos to fuck you. 

He wanted you to get fucked. Not just in the literal sense, he wanted you to get. Fucked. 

He needed you to feel his pain.

You were so high on adrenaline from your first orgasm you barely registered Charles' spit soaked fingers slipping inside your ass. 

Your muscles were loose so he didn't meet much resistance as he stretched you out, just enough to take his cock without any problems. 

He hadn't done this in a while. Not with you, and he'd forgotten how slick you got from this, how much your body craved it. 

And he craved it just as much. 

So without further ado he pulled out of your sweet cunt and pushed in to your other twitching hole slowly. 

It was torture, it was heaven, it was too fast and too slow. 

It was... perfect.

As if rehearsed, Carlos shuffled closer, trapping you between the two men's bodies, and you felt his wet tip poke your inner thigh. 

“Carlos” you breathed, “Fuck me, please- I need you inside me” 

It was like he was in a trance, he nodded at you, intense eyes following the movement of your tongue wetting your lips. 

He hooked a hand under one of your thighs, lifting it to wrap it around his hip before lining himself up. He pushed the tip in, and groaned when he felt your velvety walls swallow him in greedily. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked 

“No you cannot!” Charles growled at him.

“I wasn't talking to you” Carlos snapped back but you didn't let either of them say another word as you grabbed Carlos' hair and smashed your lips together messily. 

Charles grunted and decided to focus on the way his cock was stretching your puffy rim around it. 

Carlos pushed in to the hilt and all three of you groaned. The fullness overwhelmed you and you had to take a second to breathe while the two men realised they could feel each other inside your body. 

You felt completely boneless, pushed to the limit by the guys inside you, selfishly chasing their own pleasure while you struggled to hold onto your sanity. 

You hadn't even noticed them lock lips. 

You were squeezed between their bodies while Carlos' hand weaved its way into Charles' hair to pull him into a filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth. 

The drag of their cocks inside you made you feel full and overstimulated, but you felt like you would die if they stopped, it felt too good. 

They were basically ignoring your presence, the body they felt between them was invisible while they made out, so to them it felt like they were mutually fucking each other. 

And if they were honest with themselves, this had been a long time coming.  

You saw them when they were teammates. You and Charles were at the dreg-end of your marriage and of course the tension and chemistry between the two men was undeniable, to you, and to anyone that possessed a functional pair of eyes. 

And here they were, wrapped around the barrier that both separated them and brought them together. 

You and Charles were over, but maybe, just maybe, there was hope. 

Hope for what? No idea. But this was certainly quite a bit of change in a short space of time, and there was no way of going back after this. 

Charles was approaching his end, and Carlos was lost in the feeling of the wet tight heat around his cock. 

“Gonna come” Charles grunted and Carlos hummed.  

“Go on then Charles” he growled, still holding the younger man's head close by his hair. “Come for me” 

The slight tug on his scalp made Charles lose it, and he cried out while his hips jerked uncontrolably. 

Carlos wasn't far behind, and they both filled you to the brim as your own body jerked with the shock of a weak orgasm they somehow managed to pull out of you at the very last moment. 

Charles pulled his fireproofs back on properly and gave you a disgusted look. 

“Next time you know what to expect.” 

He stormed out, leaving you and Carlos in a tense silence. 

You were slumped against the back of the couch, not making any move to clean yourself up. 

You were staring at the floor. Carlos felt the need to ask you if you were alright. 

“I'm fine. I can handle Charles, we were married for 4 years…” you gulped and kicked off the fireproofs that were still clinging to your leg. 

“I'm sorry” 

You looked at Carlos. “For what?” 

“I've wanted you for a long time” he said simply, and your gaze softened. 

“I’ve always known that. Charles did too. It was reason number four hundred and eighty six for our divorce” 

He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. 

“I never imagined it would happen like this”  

You smiled and took one of his hands in yours. 

“Life never happens the way we expect it to. All we can do is make the best of it…” 

Carlos scrunched his nose. “That is very cliché.” 

You laughed “Yeah, I get philosophical after getting my brains fucked out” 

A light blush dusted over Carlos' cheeks when he realised you were still half naked, and probably leaking his cum all over the couch. 

“Do you want some help to clean up?” 

You nodded and he picked you up carefully, carrying you over to the small bathroom. 

Now was his chance, his opportunity, and he refused to screw it up like Charles had all those years ago. 

[snail-day]

You got this, Nerdjo!

Part One // Next Part // Masterlist

Gojo Satoru was not stalking you. He just happened to be standing in the board games aisle of the popular bookstore near campus. At the same time you were. For the third time this week. Total coincidence. Really. He was just hear for an expansion pack. For Dice. Okay maybe he is here for you. He's been thinking about you since the moment he saw you checking out the Gundam section last week. Really. He wanted to give you his opinion but...he didn't want to seem like a total dick. A mansplainer of sorts.

Oh god, there you are again. Picking up a game. Oh you look so focused. So beautiful. So smart. Wait, is that - oh no. Not that one.

You were reaching for a notoriously convoluted board game, one even Redditors have many complaints about, and before he could stop himself, his feet were moving. Mouth was moving. Everything was moving except his common sense.

Okay, Satoru. Tap the shoulder. Speak. Be your usual charming self. It's just a girl. A very pretty girl. Say something. Be normal.

He tapped your shoulder. Lightly. You turned to look at him with the kind of expression one might give to a stranger who had absolutely no business tapping them in a bookstore. Which, honestly, he didn't have the business to do. Then cleared his throat - loudly, awkwardly - and blurted out:

"Ireallydontthinkyoushouldpickupthatgametherulesaredifficultactuallytherulesdon'tevenmakesenseImeanwhoevencameupwiththem - "

Oh my god. Oh my god. Did I just say that out loud? What did I just say?

First, your brows knit together slowly as you blinked, turning towards him with a touch of confusion and offense on your face.

“You don’t think I can understand… the rules?”

Shitshitshit

His heart dropped straight to his ass.

Going to throw up. Going to throw up. Going to throw up.

How am I fumbling this bad?

He could practically see the social bar above his head draining to zero. As your very pretty, bright eyes stared up at him. He wondered just where did you get those eyes from? His future mother-in-law or father-in-law? Wait no don't be fucking weird.

“No, oh god no! I didn’t mean - uh, that’s not - I think you could totally get it! I mean, you probably solve logic puzzles for fun! You look like you’re really good at thinking! Wait, not that you look like a nerd, but - uh - like, in a hot way - shit, no, I mean - "

End me. Just smite me down right here between Settlers of Catan and Uno.

Waving his hands now, panicking in real time. You, somehow composed, just turned the game box over and calmly read the back, letting him spiral like a dying Beyblade.

“I just meant - it’s a bad game,” he added weakly. “Like, the win condition is unclear and the rulebook has typos and there’s no official errata - it's just, um… bad design.”

You finally looked back up at him. “So what game would you recommend?”

For a second, Gojo just stood there.

You're still talking to me. Oh god. Oh no. You, beautiful and stunning, want my opinion. My professional opinion. I can’t screw this up

“S-Splendor,” Satoru blurted, voice cracking at the edges. “Or maybe Wingspan? No wait. Cascadia? Or - do you like deck-building mechanics? I could make a whole list. I actually have a spreadsheet. A whole reddit. ”

You absolute loser.

But you were… smiling. Just a little. And nodding like you were genuinely interested.

Gojo, poor nerd Gojo, practically short-circuited on the spot.

You ended up leaving the store with a board game you didn’t plan on buying. Not because of the game, really. But because the tall, twitchy, white-haired guy with far too much enthusiasm had somehow roped you into a monologue about probability mechanics, game balance, and “that one time my friend Nanami rage quit a co-op dungeon crawl.”

He was… weird. But kind of charming. In a feral raccoon digging through your trash for affection kind of way.

“So, uh,” he said, hovering beside you outside the store, practically bouncing on his heels, “if you ever want to, y’know, play a game or something - like, totally casually, not like, a date, unless you want it to be, which - no pressure - uh - I just thought maybe you’d be into - um…”

He trailed off. Heart thundering. Couldn't even ask Reddit for Advice You stared. He swallowed. Blinking rapidly, those pretty-blues darted anywhere but you.

“…I run a D&D campaign,” Satoru said suddenly. “Every Friday night. Very low-commitment! Very chill! High-level story arcs. I made all the NPCs. I do voices. I - it’s cool. I swear.”

What are you doing what are you DOING you weren’t supposed to tell them about the campaign yet they’ll think you’re weird this is why you don’t have a girlfriend Satoru you idiot -

But you smiled. Then handed him your phone - little charm dangling off the case. Something cute. You probably picked out without a second thought. God, he’d kill to have matching phone charms with you.

“…Add your number,” you said. “Text me the details.”

He blinked at the phone, questioning how he is worthy enough to text you. Then promptly fumbled it, typed his name with three emojis, deleted them, re-added one, panicked, backspaced everything, and tried again.

You mentioned you had class.

Right. You're busy. That's fine. Yes. He has your number. Oh god why is his heart pounding so loud. Can you hear it? Could you feel it when his hand brushed against yours?

Satoru nodded too fast. Rushed words as you trailed away with a wave. He was left there wondering what your major was. Who you knew. If you'd actually show up next Friday. If he’d just imagined all of this.

When he finally texted you later, it read:

Hey it’s Gojo from the bookstore 🧠 I asked my party and there’s a spot open in the campaign 👀 you’d be perfect. Unless you hate fun. Then we can just play Wingspan lol anyway let me know!! pls 🥺

And before you could even respond, another message came in.

also pls ignore any typos i'm at the gym 💪getting ready for all those monsters we're going to be slayin ⚔️

Friday night. Gojo’s apartment. He had cleaned. Like, deep cleaned. Scrubbed corners no one would ever look at. Decorated the bathroom. Lit a candle that smelled like vanilla and cedar. (He may or may not have spent an hour on Reddit reading forums titled “What candle scents make girls fall in love with you?” and this one had the best upvotes.)

He had set the scene. Maps unfurled like ancient scrolls of destiny. Dice sets lined up in a neat little rainbow offering to the gods of chance. Snacks meticulously arranged in what was supposed to be a dragon shape, though now it looked like a pile with tiny wings. Still. It was the thought that counted.

Everything was ready.

You're coming. Oh god. You're really coming. You're gonna sit here. With me. Maybe next to me. Or maybe not. No - no, no, you can sit next to Shoko. Or Nanami. Shit. What if you like Nanami? Oh my god, what if you like Nanami and not me? He’s got that broody thing.

He paced.

Screw it. Just play my campaign. Laugh at my jokes. Please. Just - please think I’m cool. Just once. Please don’t see through how desperate I am.

He adjusted his glasses. Then adjusted them again. Re-checked his rulebooks even though he wrote half the notes inside them himself. He’d already rehearsed your character’s intro fifteen times. But he did it again.

“…and as the tavern door creaks open, a figure steps through the mist. Cloaked in shadows, yet - no. No, too dramatic. They’ll think I’m trying too hard. Which I am, but like, subtle. Okay. Again - ”

His voice cracked mid-practice. He flopped down into his DM chair, then stood up again two seconds later, muttering, “Nope, can’t sit. Gonna combust.”

They’re gonna be here soon. They’re gonna walk through that door and I’m gonna die. Literally die. Headlines: Local Dungeon Master Dies When Pretty Person Shows Up.

The doorbell buzzed. Satoru physically jolted. Then stood there frozen in front of the door, hands out like he was about to catch a falling star. Or a live grenade.

Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Just breathe. Be normal. Don’t say anything weird. Don't tell them about the custom soundtrack you made for their backstory. Don't confess anything emotionally compromising in the first five minutes.

He opened the door. A stupid smile formed on his face.

Is he blushing? Please don't be blushing. Oh no. They’re even cuter than I remembered. I’m so screwed.

Wearing the coziest hoodie. Carrying a dice bag. Smiling. Beside you - because of course - was Geto Suguru. Satoru’s longtime friend. Fellow player. Tall. Cool. Calm. Hair tied back in a lazy bun that somehow made him hotter. That bastard. Satoru barely had time to panic before you laughed at something Geto said. A soft, amused laugh that curled around Gojo’s ribs and squeezed.

Then it happened. You looked at Geto. Blushed. Just the faintest pink brushing your cheeks. Just a second too long of eye contact. Just enough to punch Satoru square in his already fragile, overly romantic, nerdy heart.

You don’t like him. Right? No. It’s just warm. It’s almost summer. The hallway’s probably stuffy. Your hoodie’s too thick. That’s it. That’s all it is.

“Hey,” you greeted, blissfully unaware of his internal collapse.

“H-Hey!” Satoru yelped, voice cracking at a completely unnecessary octave. “You made it! That’s so cool. That’s - you look. Uh. Dice. You brought dice. Awesome. Good job.”

What the hell are you saying? Shut up.

Geto smiled at him. That smug, easy smile that Satoru had seen melt hearts and start trouble since freshman year.

“You didn’t tell me your new player was cute,” he said, tone maddeningly casual. You blinked. Satoru stopped breathing.

“Oh,” you said, voice softening, eyes flicking away. A little flustered. “Um. Thanks.”

You’re just being polite. That’s not real. That wasn’t real. Right?

Satoru forced a smile that came out more like a grimace. His brain was melting. His heart was clawing against his ribs.

“Haha! Yeah. So anyway! Let’s, uh. Go. Sit. Down. And have a drink. Or a seat. Or both. Whatever people do. When they enter rooms. With other people.”

Oh my god, please shut up. Please shut up. You’re going to die here and your ghost will be a virgin forever.

a/n: if you see any mistakes...no you don't totally not editing this while getting ready for wicked...totally not

[raveszn]

Love drought

Synopsis ♡ you and gojo had a hard patch in your relationship could you both make amends to fix your love drought?

warnings: cheater gojo, angst, and slight fluff

a/n: i will get to any request that you guys left i promise!! m.list

“ where have you been?” you stand infront of the brown wooden door of your shared apartment .

“ yn i just walked in can you relax please.” gojo says, visibly tired but you just can’t hide your annoyance. crossing your arms you lean against the cold wall.

“ no i can’t relax gojo you’ve been gone for days no text no call nothing i was worried.” gojo sighs heavily and takes his shoes off. “ you have a weird way of showing it, basically bombarding me with questions and i barely walked in the door. i came home to escape the fuckers at my job not to be met with another one asking me stupid questions.”

you scoff, shocked at his anger with you “ you’re being a dickhead could u blame me? last time you were gone so long i found out you cheated on me.” finally stepping into the house. “ really yn youre bringing that up right now. making my fucking day worse ya know.”

“ yes gojo i am bringing up because i don’t trust you.” you say as you follow him into your bedroom.

gojo chuckles finally looking at you “ so why are you here? huh? why are you still here if you can’t get over it and trust me.”

“ oh so now you want me to leave? don’t act like you forgot what happened the first time.”

the flowers were in full bloom and the sun’s warm rays radiated from the window onto

your skin heating you up in your shared king sized bed. you flicker your eyes open to see the person you love so dearly. just seeing him laying there sleeping so soundly could make your whole day. you move your hand to gently touch his silky white hair. moving it carefully out his face so you can admire everything about him and his presence. and that’s when you see it. the small purple bruise that made you pause in you’re movements, made you feel like everything you’ve maintained and built in this relationship just crumbled to your feet.

“ gojo don’t fucking lie to me, who were you meeting with when you were away for your mission.”

“ come on baby, i got it while i was in a fight. i wouldn’t lie to you, let not do this now it’s early.”

“ give me your phone”

“ wha- what yn stop playing.” you reach over the bed and grab the phone that laid face down on his bedside table and immediately went through it. You felt your heart dropped an inch every time you found something new; someone new, and he stood there with no excuses, no pleding, just guilt. “ you wouldn’t lie to me huh?” “ okay so whose lila, whose nudes are these cause they sure as hell aren’t mine.” “ what’s this screen shot…. fuck gojo i gave you everything i showed you my most vulnerable sides and this is how you repay me fucking bitches while you’re away on missions.”

“ no no baby i missed you they mean nothing im here right? i’m here with you not them… i love you i swear i don’t know what to do if you leave.”

A week later

“ hey baby, come back please i miss you, don’t let this break us apart, we’ll go to counseling, talk about our shit yeah… fix what happened between us.. i love you so much please baby.”

click you turn off the voice message gojo left you. sure you could have blocked him but something in you yearned for him. you laid on your bed in your apartment staring at the white ceiling fading into your thoughts. Could you ever feel as loved as gojo made you feel, could someone make you that happy again, and if not wouldn’t it be better to go back to him. a sudden ringing caused you to break from your thoughts, you turned to the phone next to you and picked it up, and stared at his contact. you shouldn’t answer you knew this. But would it hurt to hear him out?

“hello…” you said nothing leaving the silence to hang between you both. “ yn you there?”

you found yourself waiting on gojo in the middle of a coffee shop not too far from your apartment building. You wondered how you even got here, why did his words affect and push you so easily. Did he know how much you really loved him, is that why he was able to get you to meet him. the door to the cafe opened leading you to break yourself out of your thoughts.

“ hey baby thank you for meeting me and hearing me out…”

y/n i’m sorry love i’m so sorry i was so weak on that mission i needed someone around me and you weren’t there so I went to someone who was and I regret it… could you understand where im coming from?” he sighs and grabs your hands that were wrapped around a mug. “ please yn”

you pull your hands away “ but i was there gojo a simple call and i would have dropped everything for you.”

“ I know i should’ve called you, I should’ve confined in you, I was wrong please give me one more chance.” the moment you looked up from your mug and met his blue orbs you let your pride slip away, how could you walk away from him? “ okay one more chance that’s it.”

“ thank you baby.” “ if you do that shit again i’m done gojo.”

“ i swear i wont, i promise.”

“ do you even remeber how much you begged me to come back to your sorry ass when i left last time.”

he chuckles lowly “ left?? when did you leave me yn? oh you mean that bull shit ass week?” he walks closer to you. “ do you know how easy that shit was a couple of tears and voice mails, a few calls and i had your ass in a coffee shop.”

“ you know what, get out”

“ what?”

“ i said, get the fuck out of my house, gojo. “

He scoffs. “ you’re kicking me out of the house i pay for?”

“ the house we pay for. and yes, i’m kicking you out.”

the tension thick and slience fills the room. both of you staring at the other waiting for someone to speak up first. “ i’m done, gojo.”

“ you’re breaking up with me too, shit yn where’s this confidence coming from.” he mutters. you walk into the closet “ yes, so get your shit.” yanking out gojo’s black suitcase and shoving his clothes inside. “ and get out.”

with each second that passes your vision blurs. you can feel him behind you watching, waiting and judging.

with no hesitation he speaks “ you can’t be the only one who gets to decide when our relationship is over. “

“ yes i can gojo your draining me, ever since i walked back into this relationship i feel like im on my toes when you leave this house.” you turn to meet his face.

“ and you don’t give a fuck about me…. so i’m done.. i’m done with trying to teach you how to love me correctly. “

scoffing he leans off the closet wall and approaches you “ i’ll be back tomorrow.” he picks up his bags leaving you alone. when you finally hear the front door close, it feels like your heart caves in. everything starts to register. his words left what seems like a tattoo in your brain. “ fuck yn you think that shit was hard to do? a couple of years and a few calls and i had your ass in a coffee shop.”

you knew it, he always knew how much you loved him and how much you were willing to sacrifice and he played on that. Now you can’t help but wonder if he ever truly loved you. Did he ever care about you? Or were you just his safety net that he could fall back on until he found the person he was looking for.

But for all the uncertainty gojo gave you, you did know one thing, you were done with him.

[lefteagleblizzard]

ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔡𝔢 Mike Munroe x male reader

Summary: A request that i received: “before everything happened, Mike took a "friend" to accompany him to the cabin or something and this friend reveals himself as Mike's boyfriend in a scandalous way with a focus on what the reaction of others would be and maybe how this would affect the future.”

Tags: Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Secret relationship. Jealousy. Angst. Smut. Gay smut. Top Mike munroe. Dom Mike Munroe. Bottom male reader. Anal sex.

Words count: 4500

The lodge was perched like a secret at the top of the snow-crusted mountain. Josh's voice had been bright over the phone when he invited you. Chris added some dorky joke that made Josh wheeze with laughter in the background and you knew they were just trying to include you and assist in your attempt to break out of your shell, or whatever fucking metaphor they wanted to pin on your anxiety.

You didn't say no. You should have, but you didn't. It wasn't that you hated the idea of fun like some cold-blooded loner skulking in the corner of the party, arms crossed, music too loud.

No, it wasn't that at all. It was him. The reason you spent the first three hours of the trip practically holding your breath, faking smiles that split at the edges, pulling your beanie lower so you wouldn't have to meet anyone's eyes.

Because how the fuck were you supposed to pretend? How were you supposed to watch him laugh and flex every person in the room like you didn't know the exact cadence of his breath when he came, the way his tone shifted when he whispered your name the second you two were alone?

You were Mike Munroe's boyfriend and no one knew. Now, in this thick wooden lodge that smelled like pine and old whiskey and snow- damp clothes drying by the fireplace, it felt like everyone in the room wanted him.

Emily had latched onto him the moment you stepped through the door of the big lodge, her perfectly manicured nails dragging down his arm like she'd branded it. Her laugh was loud, effortless, too loud, pitched too perfectly for every half-ass joke Mike made. She sat too close. Touched too much. Her eyes flicked to you once, just once, and dismissed you the way someone might dismiss a stain on a shirt-something unworthy, something in the way.

Jessica wasn't better. If Emily acted like she already had him, Jessica acted like she'd earn him. Every flip of her hair, every giggle, or the way she bit her lip when Mike so much as looked in her direction. It felt like needles under your skin, a hot, ugly truth trying to crawl out of your throat and scream that he's taken.

And sweet stammering Hannah, with those big eyes and pink cheeks and the way she looked at Mike like he hung the stars in the sky. She never threw herself at him. But it was obvious in every shy glance. Everyone knew Hannah liked Mike and they all let it be like it was just a natural fact of life.

Here in this big house every step felt like walking on cracked glass. You were the one who'd kissed him first, trembling in your dorm room as Mike kissed you back like he'd been dying for it.

Now you were just "one of the guys," a friend, a tag-along. Something less than a shadow. You watched Mike grin as he slung an arm around Emily's shoulder for a photo. You forced yourself to laugh when Josh teased Mike about how many girls he'd pull this week. You felt every second of it like a slow, sharp twist between your ribs.

He met your eyes across the room, once and it wasn't enough.

His eyes held regret, guilt, fear, you had no clue. All it did was remind you that you were the secret, the locked drawer in his chest no one else was allowed to open. The thing he tucked away when the lights were on, when the others were around.

You weren't even angry. Not really. You were just tired of feeling like a crime scene or something shameful and hidden. Your chest ached in a dull, familiar way, like bruises forming over old scars.

Josh and Chris had long since passed out downstairs, the competitive fire of their third whiskey-fueled "rematch" sputtering out in snoring heaps. Their absence had stripped the room of even a thin veil of decency.

You were now surrounded by the people you were supposed to be calling friends, laughter a little too sharp, smiles too curved as they plotted something that made your stomach churn.

Emily's gasp was loud and dramatic, her hand flying to her mouth with faux shock. "You did bot just do that!" she cackled.

Ashley snorted behind a cupped hand, Matt beside her looking half-aware, fingers tapping mindlessly against his leg.

"Maybe we shouldn’t do that," Sam began, voice uncertain.

"No, no, come on," Emily interrupted, spinning around on her socked heels. "Hannah's had, what? Years? Years to grow a spine and confess to Mike. And now I want him and she knows it. So what's she doing?" Her voice pitched up like she was telling a joke. "Still simpering around him like some little wounded deer."

"And we're supposed to just let her? I’m just looking out for my bestie." Jess added with a grin that didn't reach her eyes.

Sam sat beside you in the armchair, her body close, caim, something grounding in the storm of this bullshit. She didn't say anything at first. She didn't have to.

Your eyes had caught on it without realizing that she was drawing you. The way her pencil moved, the curve of your brow shaded with delicate strokes. She wasn't hiding it. Her sketchbook was cracked open like a window, showing the version of you she saw.

One quiet, pensive, maybe even strong. It felt like a lie

Your voice felt thin when you spoke

"Guys," you tried, lifting your head, "I really don't think this is a good idea."

Jess glanced at you, her eyes narrowing with curiosity, lips twitching into a crooked grin.

"Let me ask you something," she said, slowly standing, moving closer like a snake. swaying just before it strikes. "If a friend of yours showed interest in someone you liked, would you really be okay with that?"

Her tone was light, but the edge razor. There was heat under her skin. A charge in her words.

Your heart skipped a beat. That wasn't a hypothetical. That was loaded. It was too pointed. Too precise.

You opened your mouth, closed it again, the words catching in your throat like dry glass.

She suspected something.

You shifted in your seat, glancing around the room like maybe someone else had caught It, but no one did. Emily was too busy twirling a strand of hair around her finger and beaming at what was gonna happen. Ashley offered a little "mmmhm" of agreement. Sam stiffened at your side.

"I get it,” you muttered, voice tight. "Hannah probably shouldn't be acting that way with Mike. But humiliating her like this? It's not like you can control who you're into."

Jess's expression twitched, her brows lifting slightly at your words, like she heard what you meant, not what you said.

You hadn't meant for it to sound personal. But it was hard when the person in question—your man—was across the room, sitting in that big leather armchair like some movie star.

Emily crossed the room in two easy steps, all hips and calculated charm, her arms opening in a theatrical flourish. "Just because he's class president doesn't mean he's everyone's man," she said, loud and clear, meant to be heard. "Mike is my man."

Mike glanced in your direction, sharp and fast, like his body moved without his permission. Your eyes locked and in that second, you saw the crack in his armor. The guilt.

It was in the flex of his fingers against the leather. The way his mouth twitched, not into a smirk, just tightened. A breathless second passed before he moved, rising to his feet as though pulled up on strings.

Emily spun beneath his raised arm like a fairytale version of herself, hair flipping, cheeks flushed with the thrill of feeling chosen. Your gaze dropped to the carpet, stomach twisting.

You missed the moment he looked at you again.

Mike saw your head down and his stomach turned over with something hot and cold at once. He suddenly hated himself for playing along.

Finally, he let her hand go. Let it fall back to her side like it had never belonged there in the first place.

"Hey, Em." His voice was low, firm and measured. "I'm not anyone's man."

The ache in your chest had already bloomed into something bigger, like being filled up with wet cement. You couldn't move or breathe around it.

Sam stood beside you, quiet and tense, her sketchbook closed now, hands tight around it. She leaned in, her breath tickling the shell of your ear.

"Please," she whispered. "Convince them to stop. This isn't right."

She walked out with purpose, calling for Hannah like she could still fix this.

Mike stepped in like a sigh of relief and a punch to the gut.

"Okay, okay," he said smoothly, a grin already curving his lips, charm dripping from him like heat off asphalt. One hand, strong and practiced fell lightly on Jess's shoulder, his fingers flexing just enough to steer her back with that calm, casual command he wielded like a weapon. "Let's all calm down, yeah?"

His voice was honeyed, warm, light, teasing and natural; it barely even sounded like he was defusing tension.

The rest of the room faded for you as Mike shifted, stepping in too close to you and the heat of him folded around you like gravity. His eyes caught yours and there was that softness again, that version of him that never showed up unless you were alone.

Both his hands lifted to your arm, settling on your bicep, palms warm through the fabric of your shirt. Thumbs brushing slow, rhythmic, like he was grounding you.

"Relax, alright?" he murmured, voice low enough that it barely carried, intimate in a way that made your spine straighten and your throat tighten. "No one's gonna do anything crazy.”

And god, his face so close you could see the gold flecks in his irises, the way his lashes dipped low over his gaze as he studied you.

You turned your face hard and sudden, your shoulder twisting away from his hands before you even realized you were doing it and you left.

Fast.

The air in the hallway hit you like ice-thinner, cleaner. Your heart was pounding, slamming against your chest like it was trying to outrun what just happened.

You didn't look back, your legs moved on their own until you found Sam halfway down the hallway, already scanning rooms like she didn't know whether she wanted to kick a door in or cry.

"I'll help," you said, voice tight and low

Her eyes turned to you and the relief was palpable. Her shoulders sagged, mouth parted in a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Thank you," she said and it wasn't just gratitude, she looked concerned and scared for her best friend.

"I'm gonna check her room first," she added, nodding toward the end of the hall.

Then she paused briefly to glance over your shoulder before marching down the hallway.

Your footsteps had barely started echoing down the hallway when a sudden pressure at your waist stopped you. The heat of a body behind you, close enough to steal the breath from your throat.

It was the kind of grip you knew too well, the kind that had once held you against a mattress in the dark, panting, whispered against your neck like a secret: mine.

You turned slowly, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat and there was Mike.

His hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing in a small, slow stroke against the fabric of your hoodie.

"Hey," he said, quiet, pitched low, rough at the edges. "Everything okay?"

His grin spread, charming and warm almost too much. Like he was trying to compensate for what just happened in that room.

But you didn't answer right away. You just looked at him and something in your chest cracked. Your face twitched automatically. A smile bloomed at the corners of your mouth.

The kind of smile people to say everything's fine when everything is fucking broken. It didn't reach your eyes and it tore through Mike like a slow moving bullet.

It was all you could give him and it broke him.

“You… sure about that?" His eyes searched yours. "Cause that smile's the biggest load of bullshit I've seen since Chris telling everyone he was gonna win."

You almost laughed but your throat was too tight.

You swallowed hard. "I'm fine," you said.

He tilted his head, a tiny, frustrated huff slipping from his nose. "That's strike two, baby."

The nickname hit you like a gut punch because he never said it out here.

"You keep lying to me like that," he said, his voice dipping lower, thick and so close to a growl. "I'm gonna have to do something about it."

He tried to laugh, stepping closer to get rid of the space between you, the scent of him wrapping around you instantly. Spice, pine, the leftover sweetness of that expensive cologne he only wore when he wanted to impress you. His hand at your waist slid a fraction higher, slow and deliberate. Fingers dragging along the hem of your hoodie.

His other hand rose, fingers brushing just under your jaw, thumb gliding over the soft skin beneath your ear while his gaze dropped to your mouth.

His voice dropped, thick with suggestion and something darker, hotter beneath the tease. "Need some help to relax?"

His grin was there, lopsided and full of the usual boyish charm he was equipped with.

His lips landed on your cheek with a ridiculous sound, exaggerated and playful.

"Mike!" you hissed, voice cracking, cheeks flushing hot as your eyes darted past his shoulder like some part of you still had enough self-preservation to worry.

But he didn't give a shit or even pretend to stop.

Another kiss landed, higher this time and nearer to your cheekbone. Another just under your eye. Then one at the corner of your mouth, so fucking close and his laughter spilled out, rich and warm and filled with mischief.

"Shit," he chuckled against your skin, "you still get this shy, huh?"

His lips lingered more with each kiss, hungrier. Your skin was at this point flushed hot, tingling beneath each wet press of his mouth and that was all the confirmation he needed.

He kept going with slow kisses against your neck now, breath hot against your throat as he chased the pulse hammering there. Your voice came again, small and flat, barely a whisper

"Mike… quit it." But it wasn't the way you usually said it. Not full of laughter or breathy affection. There was a dullness to it, heavy and tired, eyes locked down at the floor like it could hide the truth leaking out of your mouth.

Mike's jaw flexed. He bit the inside of his cheek, irritation blooming in his chest, never at you, but at the ache in your voice and at the silence he'd let grow between you.

His grip shifted, stronger now, hand sliding from your waist to your wrist as he walked backward and pulled you with him, not stopping when you offered the barest resistance, not even hesitating. He reached the first nearby door, shoved it open with the heel of his boot and yanked you in.

The soft click of the latch felt like a gunshot. Then your back hit the door with a low thud, Mike's body pressing against you, crowding you against the wood.

You gasped, barely audible and to Mike it sounded like a green light.

Your breath came in fast pants, shallow and shivery as his chest pressed firm to yours. His nose brushed your temple, hair tickling your cheek. Heat poured off from him like a furnace, sweat beginning to build where your skin touched, clothes sticking.

You were mentally somewhere else and he didn't like that.

His lips dragged slow along the edge of your jaw, hot and wet and deliberate, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, letting his breath linger on every patch of skin he painted with his tongue. He scraped you gently with his teeth, kissed where it hurt.

He groaned low against your throat, grinding forward again as if to underline the problem he was dealing with in his pants. His voice was rough velvet as he mumbled against your lips, a grin curling up as he kissed the corner of your mouth. "You not in the mood or somethin'?"

A teasing bite to your bottom lip. Light and testing.

Your hesitation was too long but you did answer. Quietly.

"It's not that…"

A wicked smirk twitched onto his lips like a reflex. "So you do wanna fuck,” he murmured.

You grinned barely. Small. Brief. But it was there. A twitch of heat in your expression.

Mike exhaled through his nose, just a bit, his forehead still pressing against yours as his hands cupped your jaw. One thumb stroked over your cheek. His voice was softer now, lower but still thick with heat, brushing your lips with every word.

"What's goin' on inside that pretty head, huh?" he murmured. He didn't stop holding you. Didn't pull back. His breath was hot on your lips, mouth parted and kiss-swollen, but he waited. Waited for you to give him something real.

You swallowed hard. Your throat worked, voice caught there behind the burn and weight of your emotions but you forced it out anyway.

"I just… I feel like your friends don't really like me. Y'know?"

A pause.

"And there's so many people here who think of you as a prize, Mike. It makes me feel like this isn't even real."

Mike didn't flinch, something in him snapped. His fingers curled under your chin and tilted your face up. His eyes burned into yours, all lazy charm gone. Gone Replaced with something raw, possessive and protective.

“I hate that you feel this way. I know that i joke too much and play it cool out there. I should’ve told them weeks ago.”

He pulled you back by the shoulders so he could look at you again.

“What we have it's not fragile. It's messy, yeah, sometimes stupid. But I wouldn't risk this for anything."

You felt your chest tighten. Mike leaned in again, his mouth brushing yours.

"And come on. You think I'd be this hard for anyone else?" he breathed, grinding slowly again against your thigh, his girth dragging along your body with every word. "Think I'd be losing my fucking mind if you weren't here? You drive me crazy, baby. No one else does that. That's what you do to me, baby. Every fucking time."

His mouth found your neck again, licking a slow stripe up your throat before biting, hard enough to make you hiss.

Your head fell back against the door with a thud. He pressed up against you harder and your legs parted instinctively, hips canting forward to meet the roll of his.

His beard scratched at your skin, deliciously rough, the friction sending shocks through your spine as he groaned low and deep, the sound vibrating through you.

"You know how long I've wanted to have you like this tonight?" he whispered, voice cracking with need. "Back in that room… I saw the way you looked at me when I didn't say shit. And I hated myself for making you feel like you were nothing."

His teeth grazed your neck and you whimpered, in turn earning a chuckle from him, kissing that sound right off your throat.

"I missed the way you sound when I'm deep inside you and you're trying not to beg." His hand left your ass only to return lower this time, pushing between your thighs, cupping you through your jeans, palm rough and equipped with fingers spreading wide.

"You remember last week?" he breathed. "When you were on your knees in the locker room for me? We couldn't even wait to get home. Had your mouth wrapped around my cock in no time, eyes all wide like a good slut."

You shuddered. Fuck. He was right. "I couldn't even keep quiet," he groaned, grinding into you again, cock jerking between you. "Had to bite my damn fist so I wouldn't moan your name loud enough to echo."

He pressed his forehead to yours now, eyes burning into you, pupils blown out while his hand stid up your shirt, hot and possessive, dragging against your abdomen, past your chest, fingers grazing a nipple to watch you twitch.

Your jeans were shoved past your thighs with no patience, letting them crumple around your ankles as he kissed you like a starving animal, teeth that took hold of your lower lip and tugged before he ducked down to kiss a path along your throat, biting, sucking and marking.

You tilted your head back, hissing through clenched teeth. His fingers dipped between your cheeks, spreading and pressing against your hole through your underwear before impatiently hooking the thin material to drag it down.

You gasped when a familiar intrusion was detected, knees buckling, hands flying to the back of his head, grabbing messy fists of his hair as he groaned into you.

He spit directly onto his hand to breach you, working you open with slow, calculated thrusts that had your thighs shaking.

"Fuck, Mike—”

"Yeah?" he panted, eyes dark as he looked down at you. "What's that, baby? Need more?"

Another finger slid up, two of them now pressing against your hole, slicked from his spit and pushed in together. You choked on your own moan, head slamming back against the wall as your hole fluttered around him.

"God, fuck," you breathed, nails digging into his scalp.

"That's it," he groaned. "Squeeze me, baby. Fuckin' love how tight you are."

He fingered you hard with deep thrusts, curling his fingers to rub that spot inside you he knew would make you whimper.

There was barely any time to blink before he spun you around and bent you over the side of the bed, chest to the sheets, ass high, hole wet and ready. You heard the rustle of fabric, his jeans and boxers shoved down in one frantic motion.

The head of his cock landed against your hole, hot and thick and leaking, smearing pre all over your rim.

You pushed back instinctively, desperate, whining. Mike gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise and shoved in.

One hard, brutal thrust and he was buried to the hilt, thick cock stretching you open so fast it burned.

You shouted, voice caught between pain and need and he groaned loud behind you, head dropping forward.

"Fuuuck-God, you take it so good," he panted.

He started fucking you the second you gave him the signal you were ready. hard, fast thrusts that had the bed creaking under you, his hips slamming into your ass with wet, slapping sounds. His cock dragged against your walls perfectly, every vein rubbing against your insides and wrecking you.

Your hands clawed at the sheets, fingers curled in tight fists as you moaned into the mattress. He grunted behind you with every thrust.

"You love how I fuck you. Say it." He growled, leaning over you, his chest pressing to your back, voice hot in your ear.

You gasped, sweat dripping from your forehead, your body shaking as he fucked you harder, deeper.

"S-say it—"

"I love it," you moaned. "Fuck, Mike, I love—don't stop—"

He growled, biting your shoulder, fucking you so deep your toes curled, dragging you back onto his cock with both hands gripping your hips, fucking you like he meant to split you open, balls slapping your ass with every brutal thrust.

The tightening in your abdomen, dick twitching under you, untouched but aching. "Gonna cum, baby?" he grunted.

"Yes—yes—fuck—" He reached under you, jerking your cock with the same savage rhythm he was fucking you with, fist sliding up and down as your whole body tensed when the limit was reached, spurting across the sheets in thick ropes, ass clenching around Mike's cock like a vice.

And he soon followed you. Hot and thick. Spilling inside you in heavy, shuddering spurts, his hips twitching with every wave as he buried his face in your neck and groaned your name.

The silence afterward was thick. You laid there, sprawled across the bed, chest heaving, body boneless, glistening with sweat, streaked with Mike's cum and your own. The sheets were ruined beneath you, stained and crumpled and far, far from innocent. Your legs were still splayed, too lazy to close, too drunk on everything he'd just given you.

You didn't bother covering yourself. Couldn't, really. Even the air was too warm.

Mike was sitting on the edge of the bed, jeans only halfway zipped, still shirtless, bare chest flushed, muscles glistening. He leaned down over you, dropping loud and chaste kisses across your chest, obnoxious on purpose, wet and smacking. His grin stretched against your skin between each kiss.

"You're such a mess right now." He muttered, voice low and lazy, dragging his mouth to your nipple and licking it once, slow and hot.

You rolled your eyes, laughing breathlessly, fingers carding through his sweat-damp hair. "Asshole."

He grinned wider. "You loved every second of it."

Another kiss, right over a blooming bruise he'd left earlier.

A sound was barely registered at first due to how quick it was. You were too high off him and relaxed.

A gasp. It slipped into the air like a ghostly breath and the moment it reached your ears, it swelled, filling them entirely.

Ashley's voice, halfway to a whisper, but instantly sharp. "Mike? Are you here—oh—oh my God—"

Everything slammed into motion. Your body tensed under Mike's immediately, like a live wire yanked from the wall. You turned your head so fast your neck cracked, locking on the door where Ashley stood with Matt behind here, pale-faced and frozen, mouth open mid-word.

And he shouted too the second he realized what he and her had stumbled into when they were sent by Emily to search for Mike. "Oh! Fuck! Jesus! We're—we're sorry—"

Ashley backed up, hand flying to her face, babbling fast, her voice already rising. "Oh my God—oh my God, I didn't—I'm so sorry—oh God, we didn't know—"

"Fuckin'—GET OUT!" Mike barked, already grabbing the crumpled sheet from beside you and yanking it over your waist, shielding your lower half as he stood, chest heaving, voice snapping like a whip.

His body was between you and the door now, wide and furious.

But the door was still open and you saw Hannah peeking in at the back.

Her eyes found yours immediately and you couldn't even breathe.

She looked like someone had slapped her. Face drained white. Mouth parted, the whole picture clicking into place.

You could barely hear anything over the pounding in your ears when she turned and ran away.

The door finally slammed shut by Mike, rattling in its frame as silence dropped like a hammer.

You were shaking Heart still jackhammering. Sheet pulled tight to your chest. Breath shallow.

Mike turned back. His chest was rising fast, hair stuck to his forehead. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something but his eyes, when they locked on yours, were full of panic and devastation.

You tried to speak and nothing came out as well.

Mike dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands sliding to your thighs, gripping tight and dropping his forehead to press it to your knee.

His voice came out wrecked. "I'm so fucking sorry." The silence swallowed it.

[pyrographic-memory]

Holy shit, great to see the internet imploding once again lmao (srsly I'm also pouring one out for the discord mods holy fuck. I joined that server when it was at 17k people and THAT was already too many people for me...)

So uh. I know my * post * talking about us seeing Vessel prepare for war didn't blow up quite as much as my tritanopia post (still fucking stoked about that actually sosjehshjwh), BUT I am happily back again with the military jargon breakdown!

I'm going to say now, everything I mention here is declassified, you can find it with a Google search. Please don't freak out on me lmao

The Morse code from the Pan and Echo audio files was summed up into eight lines of dialogue (for lack of a better word).

At first I thought it was a 9 Line, which is a call for medevac report, due to the SOS. But it is missing a ninth line, so I asked a friend of mine what they thought. And they said it looks like a weird mix of two report formats: BLUE 2 and GREEN 6.

BLUE 2 is SITREP, or situation report - rather self explanatory. Brief summary of threat activity, then you list off how ready your men and your vehicles/equipment are, and then you give a summary of The Gameplan.

GREEN 6 is EPW (enemy prisoner of war)/Captured Material Report. You've executed The Gameplan, and you've captured people and stuff. This one is a two-parter technically, because you list off who you've captured first and then what you've captured (this can include land and buildings, so like if you captured a hilltop or castle or smth), you state the unit that did the capturing, when the capture happened, and a brief summary of how you did it.

So now, we break the message down. The first two lines don't really align with any report, so we'll focus on 3 onward.

Line 1: "I've been waiting long for you"

Line 2: "Behold"

Line 3 (friendly locations as from a BLUE 2): WA and RL, which ended up being WRAL, which is the news channel for Raleigh, NC (NORTH CAROLINA BABY, LET'S GOOO). Their meteorologist made a * post * about 3/29 on Instagram.

Line 4 (DTG [Date Time Group] of capture, as from the second half of a GREEN 6): "Two days in the morning", two days from now it'll be 3/29, AND there's a partial solar eclipse that day (though it's very close to full), and where the eclipse will be most prominent over the Atlantic, it'll be at maximum around 10:47 AM UTC. So the DTG would be written as 291047MAR2025.

Line 5 (place of capture, as from a GREEN 6): "In Arcadia"

Line 6 (circumstances of capture, as from a GREEN 6): "Carpe" (Latin for "seize")

Line 7: "Broadcast interruption, nothing"

Line 8: SOS SOS SOS KN AS

Everyone knows the mayday call. But KN and AS are CW radio signs (telegraphing, Morse code, all that shit they used in both world wars). KN means "only the station named should respond", and AS means "wait". The broadcast was interrupted, but the broadcaster didn't hear anything from the interruption. They're still calling for help because the interruption means someone is listening in when they shouldn't be, so the broadcaster may be compromised, and they're asking for an answer from whoever they were broadcasting to before saying "wait" (maybe as in "don't send rescue immediately").

Now, let's look at something else rq. The metadata of the audio files.

Uploaded by: The Observer

Another report to mention: BLUE 1, SPOTREP. These are written up when scouts observe any known or suspected threat activity in the AO (area of operation).

And I want to amend rq, the emails from a few weeks ago with the respective wording: House Veridian "observe", and Feathered Host "seize".

This is a House Veridian SPOTREP of a Feathered Host SITREP/capture broadcast, probably done by our Observer doing what the green bois call channel hopping, and the Broadcaster not securing their comms line.

I really want to know who Vessel knows. Cuz while ts is available to the public, you gotta know someone who can tell you that these report documents even exist. The US Army has like a thousand reporting documents, something for everything. Every country does a lot of this stuff differently and has differing names for it, but I just find it really neat that it seems to be US-based (unless the UK military also operates this way 👀👀👀)

[mysoulbelongstothe60s]

Pairing: FEM!Reader x Caregiver!Elvis Presley (Late 70s)

Warnings: Age regression themes, tantrums, crying, mild angst, hurt/comfort, sweet and fluffy moments, babyish speech (e.g. replacing "l" with "w"), emotional reconciliation

Summary: After a month of Elvis being away on tour, the reader is left at Graceland feeling abandoned and neglected. His cold phone calls only add to her frustration, leading her to throw a tantrum when he finally returns. Accusing him of not caring, the reader lashes out at Elvis, the Memphis Mafia, and everyone around her. But as the dust settles and she reflects on her actions, she realizes that Elvis was simply doing what he loves—singing for his fans. In an attempt to make things right, she writes him a heartfelt apology letter and goes to find him, hoping to patch things up and show him how much she truly loves him.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Graceland felt bigger when Elvis wasn’t there.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. You knew his tour schedule by heart, marked the days with little stars in your head, whispering, One day closer. The first week, his absence was manageable—his voice still fresh in your ears from late-night calls, the lingering scent of his cologne on his pillow. The housekeepers doted on you, Red and Charlie checked in, and the routine stayed the same.

But then, the days stretched. The calls got shorter.

By the second week, Elvis was different on the phone. Tired. Distracted. Sometimes, cold. You’d cling to the receiver, voice soft and needy, only to be met with clipped answers and heavy sighs. “I know, honey. I miss ya too. But I gotta go, alright?” The dial tone would ring in your ears long after he hung up.

By the third week, you stopped expecting warmth. You stopped hoping he'd say something sweet before hanging up. You still answered every call, still waited by the phone like a lost puppy, but the excitement had dulled into something else. Something bitter. Because even when he was there, he wasn’t really there. “Ain’t got time for this, darlin’. You know I love ya. Don’t make me feel guilty.” And just like that, the conversation would be over before it ever really began.

The house felt colder. The staff—bless them—tried their best, but they weren’t him. They didn’t fill the empty space in your bed or stroke your hair when the quiet got too loud. They didn’t hum soft lullabies when the world felt too big, too lonely.

By the fourth week, you were mad.

Mad that he left. Mad that he didn’t sound sorry. Mad that no matter how bratty you were, how much you stomped your foot or refused to eat dinner, he didn’t see it. He wasn’t here to fix it, wasn’t here to scoop you up and tell you he understood. You could cry all you wanted, but it wouldn’t reach him through the wires of a telephone.

But today, he was coming home.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted to run into his arms or make him suffer the way you had.

The day passed in slow motion.

You should be happy. You should be running to the front door, counting the minutes until you saw him again. But all you could think about was every cold phone call, every rushed goodbye, every moment you spent staring at the ceiling, waiting for something—anything—from him.

So you didn’t bounce out of bed. You didn’t even rush to get dressed. You stayed curled up under the blankets until one of the housekeepers came in, gently coaxing you up with soft words and a warm smile. You let her dress you, comb your hair, but you didn’t say much. You just let it happen, your mind somewhere else.

Downstairs, the staff was busy. The house had been cleaned top to bottom, fresh flowers in the vases, food being prepped in the kitchen. The Memphis Mafia moved through the halls, making sure everything was perfect for Elvis’ return. Someone made a joke about how you must be counting down the seconds until he walked through the door, and you just forced a tight-lipped smile, gripping the hem of your dress between your fingers.

You weren’t counting. Not this time.

By noon, you could hardly sit still, but not in the way they expected. There was no excited bouncing, no impatient peeking out the window. Instead, there was a slow burn in your chest, something bubbling under the surface. You pushed your food around your plate at lunch, barely answering when someone asked if you were okay. You ignored the fond looks from the housekeepers, the way they seemed to expect you to light up at any moment.

But how could you?

He was gone for weeks. Left you here, alone, with nothing but half-hearted phone calls and clipped goodnights. And now, he thought he could just walk back through the door like nothing happened? Like you hadn’t spent the past month missing him so much it made your chest ache?

No.

You weren’t going to run to him. You weren’t going to let him think it was okay.

So you stayed stubbornly curled up on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the front door but refusing to move toward it. The sun dipped lower in the sky. The hours stretched. The tension coiled in your belly, tighter and tighter.

---

You heard the door open.

He was here.

The sound of voices downstairs made your stomach twist even tighter. You gripped your stuffed bunny, pressing it against your chest as you listened to the laughter, the deep rumble of Elvis’ voice mixing with the Memphis Mafia’s greetings. He was happy to see them. Chatting. Taking his time. Not rushing upstairs to see you.

Your bottom lip trembled.

You knew this was going to happen. He left you alone for a whole month, barely called, acted all cold on the phone, and now he was taking his sweet time saying hi to everybody else before coming to see you? Like you weren’t the one who missed him the most? Like you weren’t up here, waiting and waiting and waiting—

A sob bubbled up in your throat, hot and angry. You kicked your legs against the bed, gripping your bunny tighter.

"Stupid Ewvis!" you huffed, voice thick and wobbly. "Don’t even cawe ‘bout me no mowe!"

You threw your bunny across the room, watching it flop onto the floor with a huff. Then you kicked your feet against the mattress again, just to make noise, just to make somethig happen.

Downstairs, the voices kept going.

Ten minutes passed.

Fifteen.

He was still down there.

Tears pricked your eyes as frustration boiled over. You scrambled off the bed, snatched up the closest stuffed animal—a big ol’ teddy bear Elvis gave you last Christmas—and hurled it at the door.

THUMP.

The sound was loud, but not loud enough.

You grabbed another toy, a soft little puppy, and threw it next. Then another. And another. Each one hit the door with a dull thud, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. You wanted him to hear you, to know you were mad, to fix it.

Then, finally—

Footsteps. Heavy boots on the stairs.

You froze, breath hitching, hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The doorknob turned.

Elvis stepped inside, still in his travel clothes, dark sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair. He looked tired, but when he saw the mess of toys scattered across the floor, his eyebrows shot up. His lips parted, like he was about t’say something but then his gaze landed on you.

Curled up in the corner, face red, hands trembling.

And that’s when it hit him.

You weren’t just mad.

You were still little.

His expression softened instantly. "Aw, hell, baby…"

You sniffled, curling in on yourself. "Don’t wanna tawk t’you."

He sighed, stepping inside, closing the door behind him. "C’mon now, sweetheart, ain’t gotta be like this. Daddy’s home."

You glared at him, bottom lip jutting out. "Don’t cawe! Didn’t even come see me! Tawked t’evewybody ewse f’so wong!"

Elvis exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I know, baby, I know. Was jus’ tryna—"

"Don’t cawe!" you interrupted, voice cracking. "You weft me! You was mean on da phone! Now you back ‘n you don’t cawe!"

His jaw tensed, guilt flickering across his face. He took another step toward you, slow and careful, like he was approaching a skittish little thing. "Sugar, y’know that ain’t true. Missed ya somethin’ fierce."

You huffed, turning your face away, curling tighter into yourself. "Don’t bewieve you."

Elvis let out a breath, then crouched down beside you, close but not too close. His voice dropped to that soft, low drawl he used when he was trying t’calm you down. "Baby, look at me."

You refused.

Elvis was patient. He always was with you. But right now, that only made you madder.

You didn’t want him to be soft and sweet, not after what he did. You wanted him to hurt the way you did, to feel as bad as you felt all those lonely nights when he didn’t call, when he sounded cold and distant.

Your little hands balled into fists, shaking with frustration. "No! Don’ wanna tawk t’you! Don’ wanna see you!"

Elvis sighed, staying crouched beside you, reaching out again. "C’mon, sugar, I know y’mad, but—"

"No!" you shrieked, smacking his hand away before grabbing the nearest stuffed animal—a big ol’ floppy-eared puppy—and hurling it right at him.

Elvis barely flinched. The toy bounced off his shoulder and hit the floor. "Ain’t gonna help nothin’, baby."

That only made you madder.

You grabbed another stuffed animal—your big teddy bear—and threw it even harder. "You weft me!"

THUMP.

"Didn’t caww me!"

THUMP.

"Was so mean t’me!"

THUMP.

"Bet you was wiff otha giwws!"

That made him pause. His brows pulled together, lips parting slightly like he couldn’t believe what you just said. "What?"

You were breathing hard now, chest rising and falling fast, eyes blurry with angry tears. "You heawd me!" you spat, voice shaking. "Bet you was wiff pwetty wadies ‘n you didn’t caww ‘cause you didn’t cawe!"

Elvis’ jaw tightened. He exhaled slow, like he was trying to keep his patience. "Ain’t never done that, baby, and y’know it."

You sniffled hard, shoulders rising to your ears. "Do I?"

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus, darlin’…"

But you weren’t done.

"Bet you was huggin’ ‘em, t-touchin’ ‘em, givin’ ‘em kisses—"

"Now stop it," Elvis cut in, voice low, firm. "Ain’t never been like that, sugar, not ever."

You huffed, tears spilling over as you reached for another stuffed animal. "Wiar!"

You threw it at him. Then another. And another.

One hit his arm. One hit his knee. One bounced off his boot and landed in the middle of the floor.

Elvis sighed. Long and heavy.

Then, without another word, he stood up. Straightened his jacket. Adjusted the sunglasses still perched on his head.

And walked toward the door.

You froze. "W-Where you goin’?!"

Elvis didn’t turn around. "Ain’t gon’ sit here ‘n let ya scream at me, sugar," he said, voice calm but tired. "Y’need t’calm down, ‘n I ain’t helpin’ none by sittin’ here lettin’ ya throw things at me."

Your chest tightened. Panic bubbled up, mixing with the anger. "Nuh-uh! No weavin’!"

Elvis opened the door.

"Daddy!" you wailed, voice cracking.

That made him stop. Just for a second. His shoulders rose, like he was taking a deep breath, but he didn’t turn around.

Then, just as slow, he stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

And just like that—

He was gone.

The room was quiet now. Too quiet.

You sat there, knees pulled up to your chest, surrounded by the mess you’d made. Stuffed animals scattered across the floor, the covers on your bed twisted and thrown aside, little sniffles still hiccuping out of your chest.

Elvis was gone.

For a while, you were still mad. You sat there, arms crossed, glaring at the door like you expected him to come crawling back, begging for your forgiveness. He should come back. He should feel bad. He should be the one apologizing, not just leaving you like that.

But he didn’t come back.

Minutes ticked by.

Five.

Ten.

And then, slowly, the stubborn little fire in your belly started to cool.

You rubbed your face with your sleeve, sniffling again, and thought about what you’d said. Bet you was wiff otha giwws. Your own words rang in your head, sounding smaller now, weaker. Elvis had looked hurt when you said that. Not angry. Not mad. Just… tired.

And maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t been fair.

You peeked at the door, like maybe he was standing right outside, waiting for you to call for him. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just silence.

You flopped back onto the bed, gripping the edge of your blanket, heart twisting in your chest.

Elvis did love you. He always made sure you were safe, made sure you had everything you needed. He built you this room, filled it with your favorite things, just so you’d never feel alone when he was away. And yeah, he’d been mean on the phone sometimes, but maybe he hadn’t meant to be. Maybe he was just tired, worn out from all the traveling, the singing, the meetin’ fans—

Oh.

Your breath hitched.

That’s what he’d been doing.

He wasn’t ignorin’ you. He wasn’t bein’ mean on purpose. He was just doin’ what he loves.

Singing for his fans. Performing. Being Elvis.

And what had you done when he got home?

Thrown a tantrum. Yelled at him. Threw things at him.

Your stomach twisted into a guilty little knot.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your puffy eyes. You had to say sorry. But words were hard, and you were still too shy, too stubborn to just go find him and say it out loud. No, you needed somethin’ else.

An apology letter.

You scrambled off the bed, digging through the little desk in the corner of the room. Crayons, paper, scissors—there! You grabbed a sheet of pink paper and started cutting, tongue poking out in concentration as you shaped it into a big, wobbly heart. It wasn’t perfect, but neither were you.

Then, gripping a chunky red crayon, you started writing.

“Deaw Daddy,

I sowwy.

Didn’t mean to be so mean. Didn’t mean to frow my toys at you. I miss you so so much ‘n I wuv you so much ‘n I know you wuv me too.

I know you gotta sing and see yo’ fans ‘n do what makes you happy. I jus’ missed you so bad I didn’t know what to do. But I shouldn’ta been a bad giww.

You awe my bestest best fwiend and da onwy pewson I evew wanna be wiff fowevew ‘n evew. I pinky pwomise I’ww twy t’be bettew next time. Pwomise!

Pwease fowgive me?

I wuv you so so so much.

Yo’ baby y/n”

You finished the letter with a big, wobbly heart at the bottom, then grabbed a sparkly sticker from your desk and stuck it right in the middle for extra cuteness. You sniffled, holding the letter to your chest for a moment, trying to build up the courage to go find him.

But you couldn’t just go empty-handed. You needed somethin’ else. Somethin’ that would make him really know you were sorry.

Your eyes flicked around the room before landing on your stuffed bunny—the one you never let anyone else touch, the one you slept with every single night. It was soft and well-loved, its ears a little floppy, but it was your favorite.

Slowly, you picked it up.

It hurt a little, thinking about giving it away, even just for a little while. But if anyone deserved it, it was Elvis.

With a deep breath, you tucked the letter under the bunny’s arm, clutching them both close as you padded toward the door.

Time to find Daddy.

---

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

You peeked down the hallway, then slowly crept toward the staircase, clutching your bunny tighter. You weren’t sure where Elvis had gone, but you had a feeling he was downstairs. Probably sitting in his chair, all tired and grumpy, maybe talking to the guys or drinking a Coke.

Your tummy fluttered with nerves as you made your way down. The Memphis Mafia was still around, lounging in the living room, talking and laughing, but Elvis wasn’t with them. You felt tiny standing there, hesitating at the bottom of the stairs, bunny squeezed against your chest.

Jerry spotted you first, his expression softening. "Hey there," he said gently. "Feelin’ a little better?"

You nodded shyly, but you didn’t stop. You just kept walking, poking your head into different rooms until—

There.

Elvis was in the den, sitting on the couch with his head back, one arm draped over his face like he had the worst headache in the world. He hadn’t even changed clothes yet, his boots still on, his shirt rumpled from travel. He looked tired.

Your heart squeezed.

For a second, you almost turned around. Almost ran back upstairs.

But no. You had to do this.

Slowly, hesitantly, you shuffled into the room, feet barely making a sound against the carpet. Elvis didn’t move. Didn’t look at you.

You took a deep breath, then stepped right up to the couch and held out the bunny and the letter with both hands.

A tiny, timid whisper left your lips.

"Fow you…"

Elvis didn’t move right away. For a long moment, he just sat there, eyes still covered by his arm, like he didn’t even know you were standing there. But then—

His arm slowly slid off his face, his eyes blinking up at you, surprised but soft, like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You stood there, holding the bunny and the letter like it was all you had left in the world. Your fingers were trembling. You tried to keep your gaze steady, but you could feel your heart racing in your chest.

Elvis stared at the bunny for a second, and then his eyes flicked up to meet yours. His voice was low and gentle when he spoke.

"What’s all this, sugar?"

You bit your lip, your eyes going down to the floor for a second. You didn’t know how to say it—how to tell him you were sorry, how to make up for everything that had gone wrong.

But you had to.

"I… I sowwy, Daddy," you murmured, voice shaky. "I didn’t mean to be so mean. I just… I missed you so much, I got mad, and… I know you had to be away, but… I wuv you so much. So much, Daddy. I… I jus’ wanna be with you."

Elvis' expression softened, and he sat up slowly. His big hands reached out to take the bunny from you, fingers brushing gently against your own. He looked at it for a moment—your favorite stuffed animal—and then back at you.

"Sugar, you ain't gotta apologize. I know y’missed me."

He pulled you toward him gently, your body soft and small in his arms. You could feel the warmth of him, that familiar sense of safety, and for a moment, all the tension you’d been holding onto melted away.

He held you for a second, and you buried your face in his chest, feeling a few tears escape. Elvis didn't rush you. He just let you cry.

"I’m so sowwy, Daddy…"

"Shhh, darlin', it’s alright," he said softly, stroking your hair. "You don’t gotta apologize. I should’ve been better, shoulda checked in more. But, sugar, you know I love you, right? I love you more than anything, more than the world. I’d never leave you on purpose. Just had to do what I do, y’know? Sing, see my fans, that’s my job. But you’re my world, baby."

You sniffled, your tiny hands clutching onto the sleeve of his shirt as you nodded. "I know, Daddy. I know you wuv me... I jus’ got so sad 'n mad. I... I wanted to be wiff you, but I was being a big baby."

Elvis chuckled softly, brushing his thumb over your cheek, wiping away your tears. "You ain’t a baby, sugar. You’re just... my little girl, and sometimes, little girls get upset. I understand, okay?"

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with wide, soft eyes. "You fowgive me?"

"Course I do," he said, his voice full of warmth. "Ain’t nothing to forgive. I love you. Always will. You’re my girl, ain’t no doubt about it."

You smiled a little, the weight in your chest starting to lift. You’d made up. You’d said what you needed to say.

"Can we pway now?" you asked quietly, shifting from side to side. "I just wanna stay wiff you, Daddy..."

Elvis smiled, that familiar twinkle in his eye. "Course we can, sugar. We got all the time in the world."

He helped you climb up onto his lap, the bunny resting between the two of you. You snuggled into him, feeling his arms around you, secure and warm. You could hear the sound of his heartbeat, and everything felt right again.

"I love you, baby," he whispered.

"I wuv you too, Daddy," you replied, your voice small and soft.

And just like that, everything felt better.

_________________________________________________________________________

Hey everyone! This is my first time posting any of my writing, so I just wanted to say this is my first time posting any of my writting and I’d love to hear any feedback or advice you might have! I’m still learning and trying to improve, so please feel free to point out anything that could make it better ! Thank you! :)

[sillysturns]

⋆˚｡⋆୨✧୧˚Sharpest Tool˚୨✧୧⋆｡˚⋆

The first time it happened, I told myself it was nothing. Just a moment—his hands gripping my waist, his lips ghosting over mine, laughter muffled into my skin. Casual. That’s what I told myself it was supposed to be.

Chris wasn’t one for deep conversations. He lived in the moment, his mind always moving to the next thing, the next joke, the next distraction. And I let myself get swept up in it. Nights tangled in his sheets, listening to his heartbeat like it meant something, meeting his brothers like that meant something, too. I memorized the way his voice softened when he was tired, the songs he skipped when they hit too close to home. I thought I knew him. I thought he wanted me to.

But then something—anything—would pull his attention away, and just like that, I’d be gone from his mind. A notification. A bird flying past the window. The thought of getting food at 3 AM. It didn’t matter what it was. The shift was instant, and I felt it every single time.

I tried not to care. I told myself it didn’t hurt, that I wasn’t waiting for something that was never coming. But when he would disappear for days—when his presence in my life flickered like a bad connection—I’d find myself staring at my phone, waiting for him to remember I existed.

And he always did. Eventually.

Tuesday. 2:04 PM.

A text: "Hey."

As if that was enough. As if we hadn’t gone weeks without speaking. As if I wasn’t sitting in the wreckage of what we used to be, trying to piece together what went wrong.

I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to make him feel the weight of his own absence the way I felt it. But I knew how this worked. He’d send a few more messages, just enough to keep me from slipping away completely, and I’d fold like I always did. Because no matter how much I hated this game, I didn’t know how to quit playing it.

We were going right, and then he took a left.

Now I’m stuck here, questioning everything.

Did it mean something to him? Did I?

Or was I just another passing thought, another distraction for when the silence got too loud?

If that was casual, then I’m an idiot.

Chris and I had always been best friends. The kind of best friends where we could sit in comfortable silence, where our lives blurred together so much that it was hard to tell where his ended and mine began. It had always been easy with him—until it wasn’t.

It started small. Plans that used to be sacred—late-night drives, gas station snack runs, sitting in his room just talking—suddenly became maybe another times. His texts went from instant replies to hours, then days.

And then there was that night.

Some party neither of us really wanted to be at, but we went because that’s what we did. We showed up together, stayed together, left together. At least, that’s how it used to be.

I was in the middle of a conversation with his best friend when I felt a hand wrap around my wrist. Chris. His fingers were warm, but his grip was tense. He pulled me away from the crowd, down the dimly lit hallway. The music faded into a dull thud against the walls.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

His voice was different—lower, hesitant, almost like he was scared. Before I could ask what was wrong, his lips were on mine.

I didn’t think. I didn’t have time to.

I just kissed him back.

And for a second, it felt right. Like maybe this was where we had always been headed, like maybe he had known it before I did.

Then, just as quickly as it started, he pulled away.

“I—” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

My stomach twisted. “Chris—”

“I gotta go.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The next day, everything was different.

I kept waiting for him to bring it up, to tell me something—that it was a mistake, that it wasn’t, that we could talk about it—but all I got was silence.

And the worst part? It wasn’t just the kiss. It was everything after.

The way he would act like nothing happened, but then some nights, I’d get a text. A soft hey that didn’t say much but meant everything. Just enough to pull me back in.

And then, the next time I saw him in person, he’d barely meet my eyes.

Then came the whispers—his ex. The girl who broke his heart before I even knew him.

“She’s different now,” he said one day, like that explained everything.

I wanted to scream, What about me?

But I didn’t.

Instead, I watched him drift.

I watched him choose to stay in my life just enough to keep me there, but not enough to actually be in it.

I watched him "find God" at his ex’s house, but never once ask for forgiveness for what he did to me.

I watched him make sure his phone was always face down when we were together.

And I felt it—that moment where, overnight, I went from being his best friend to being the person he resented the most.

I kept telling myself I’d ask him. That I’d force him to talk. That I’d make him explain why he kissed me like I was the only person who had ever mattered, only to spend the next few months pretending I didn’t exist.

But we never talked about it.

We never talked about how he made me open up, how he made me trust him with everything, only to leave me standing there, wondering if I had imagined it all.

We never talked about how he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention—like he knew he was breaking me, and he hated himself for it.

We never talked about how every second of silence only made it worse.

Because silence keeps people in your head.

Silence keeps them at the top of your mind, no matter how much you want them gone.

Silence is its own kind of cruelty.

And Chris?

Chris was fluent in it.

If that was casual, then I’m a fucking idiot.

authors note: oml i LOVE sharpest tool

divider credits to my queen: @bernardsbendystraws

love ya, from maya!!! [determined to write more]

[tarantulasagna]

It was an odd case, this one, thought Jack Spanner, Private eye, as he crept down the corridor toward the laboratory. The details had been vague; witnesses reporting strange lights and sounds in the night, electrical appliances in the village below the castle switching on and off at random, televisions and radios picking up strange signals. By day, nothing. The tentative search parties from the village had found nothing in the parts of the building they could access, and had given up in the face of endless locked doors. After 3 weeks, they had called in the professionals. When they weren’t available, they called in Jack. And when he had read the file, he had called in an old favour. Those same doors now posed little obstacle to Jack and his team. He watched in admiration as Special Agent Melusine, France’s greatest contribution to international law enforcement, opened the latest in a series of doors with her signature panache and elegance.

After a moment, the roar of the  chainsaw faded, and she shook the sawdust from her mane of golden hair.

“Do you want to do the next one?” she asked, dangling the tool from one hand, and brushing herself down with the other.

“Well, if you insist.” Jack said, loping forward to take the chainsaw and the lead as they pressed deeper into the castle.

The large tiger skin rug in front of the hearth in the room behind them yawned, stretched, flexed her claws, and Elsie the Siberian tiger sauntered after her companions, hoping that this investigation turned out tastier than the last one.

Deep in one of the castle’s many cellars, Count Nicodemus Atwater was annoyed. Partly on account of the intruders currently cutting the way through the rather nice antique doors of the castle he had found conveniently abandoned 3 weeks ago. Partly on account of the fact that the interdimensional transporter he had used to get here, and which was his only route out of here without causing all sorts of further problems, still wasn’t working. And now there was an added time pressure of whoever was on their way to, presumably, detain him, ask a lot of questions he couldn’t really answer about technology that they really wouldn’t understand. He barely understood most of the time, and he’d built it. But mostly, all things considered, because this was not at all how he had imagined things going for his reunion with Princess Isabella of Portua for the first time since they had met at the academy. Now she hovered by his elbow, looking over the tangle of phlogiston pipes, aetheric conduits, and the complex array of mirrors and lenses that set in the centre of the room.

“Alright. What haven’t we tried yet?” she asked.

They both turned to the section of wall they had been taking notes on, and the lists of all the variables they had tuned up and down in different combinations, all so far without success.

“Too many things,” replied Nicodemus, with a slight shake of his head, “No time to brute force it now… need something drastic…”

“Restart from first principles?”

“Not sure what they are any more… everything we’ve tried, not so much as a reading on the dials. It’s like there is no aether here…”

“So you keep saying.”

“I know, I know… It is a fairly significant variable, y’know”.

Isabella rolled her head around, stretching her neck and quite literally changing her perspective.

“We’re still agreed there must be something equivalent here?”

“There’s light, heat, motion and so on, so there must be something.”

“What if we try running it off that?”

“Got to work out what it is first” Nicdomeus said, gesturing despondently at their failed experiments so far.

“So what are we missing?”

“Light. Matter interaction. Heat. All happens, but by a different mechanism. If we can work out what it is…”

He trailed off. They had been through the same cycle several times, swapping who asked which questions in the hope of inspiring some new thought. 

Nicodemus tipped his chair back and stared at the ceiling. Too many mysteries. How did light work in this universe? Where was the aether? Why were there no lamps or candles in this castle? And what were those strange glass bubbles on the ceiling? Some hint of connection began to tickle the edges of Nicodemus’ brain. He swung forward and stood up, scanning around the room. 

Isabella perked up. 

“I know that look. What is it? Looking for something?” 

“yes… But I'm not sure exactly what…”

Nicodemus explained his theory, and they began their search. 

Upstairs, Elsie stopped and turned, facing down a staircase, ears twitching. Melusine was the first to notice. 

“Jack, I think Elsie hears something.”

“What's that?” replied the private eye, stepping back from the half sawn-through door, his own ears ringing like windchimes in a hailstorm from the chainsaw. 

Melusine pointed down the stairs, where Elsie's black and orange striped tail was now disappearing round the corner. 

“Heard something, has she? Well, lead on!” shouted Jack, still deafened.

“You should have warn the ear defenders,” said Melusine, heading down the stairs after Elsie.

“What was that?”

Back in the cellar, Nicodemus and Isabella had found what they were looking for; a small switch on the wall, which had been hidden by an inconsiderately placed back-to-front bookshelf.

Nicodemus stared at it, as though by concentration he could see through the casing and into the mechanisms behind.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Isabella

Nicodemus waggled his head and one hand to indicate uncertainty.

“If it was dangerous, they wouldn’t have put it there? Whoever built this place.” she added.

“That’s true… Alright. Let’s try this.”

Nicodemus reached out to the switch… and there was light.

 There had been a light under the door at the end of the hall, briefly. It had switched off moments after Jack, Melusine and Elsie had reached the bottom of the stairs. They approached quietly; the sounds of movement and muffled voices were now audible on the other side. Melusine tried the handle carefully, quietly; unlocked. A moment of silent communication, then- action!

Melusine slammed the door open, Elsie bounded through the gap with a roar, Jack covering her with a ducksfoot pistol and hitting the lights. Two of three lights illuminated, showing the third, in the centre of the room had been removed, wires fitted to the socket, which now lead to an array of bizarre equipment. It looked like a glassblower, plumber, and electrician had engaged in a particularly creative and acrobatic orgy of creation, and possibly other things, leaving a mass of brass pipes, copper wire, deep green glass, and mirrors pointed at an ominously empty space in the centre.

They had a brief moment to register the shocked expressions on the faces of two young people, a man and a woman in something resembling victorian costume adjusting an array of lenses. Then the lights blew.

Nicodemus and Isabella had been working fast, connecting the dimensional bore to this strange energy source, having turned it off again. They were just aligning the last set of lenses when three strange figure burst through the door; a man in a long brown coat and a broad brimmed hat with a dent in it, a tall blond woman in a black outfit covered with pouches and pockets, and between them a tiger. Then the man hit the switch. They didn’t even have time to shout a warning before power surged through the equipment, sparking and crackling. The other two bulbs exploded in a shower of glass, there was a sound like several pounds of blancmange being blown through a large sieve, then sucked up a tube, and dust and darkness descended over the room.

Jack flicked on his lighter, casting a dim light over the room.

“Alright. Anyone…”

The question died in his throat as he stared at the giant rubber duck that now loomed over him in the centre of the room.

“Uh… right. How… What?”

Melusine sat up from behind a bench.

“What is …” She stopped as she saw the duck as well. She paused, pulled a torch from one of her pockets, and shone it up at the thing. Dim firelight had made it quite sinister; bright torchlight from below simply plunged the face of the duck into the shadow of the beak.

“Ah. D’accord”

“Well, I’m prepared to call that a partial success,” said a refined voice somewhere on the other side of the duck.

“We blew up the lights and… and summoned a duck, Nic.”

“That’s closer to working than nothing happening at all”

That comment was followed by the deep sigh of someone who has been subjected to relentless optimism for far longer than is healthy for a conventionally calibrated mind.

1# A giant rubber DUCKY has come to challenge your characters!

The ground shakes. The ground rumbles underneath your characters. The fog clears revealing... A GIANT RUBBER DUCKY!

Okay, so I've been posting a bunch of character prompts, mostly focused on a singular character.

But the challenge of this prompt is to see what would happen, if you threw a bunch of your characters into an unknown situation. This will help you straighten out your character dynamics. So if your characters sound clunky when put together. I hope these prompts I'll help you with that.

To make this extra challenging, try writing a small one-shot of your characters interacting. You don't have to, but it might challenge you more.

I will be posting these every week (hopefully) on Monday. These prompts will range from funny to potential trauma.

Have fun!

[kirby-the-gorb]

[alfhildr-the-word-weaver]

I got thinking too much about Marwa from What We Do in the Shadows again and how she was canonically making observations of Jupiter and Saturn in the 1200s. Then I thought about how Elena took Damon to go watch a meteor shower, and I decided that Marwa and Elena should get away from all the vampire drama B.S. in their lives and go nerd out about astronomy together, and this moodboard sort of happened. I also thought about how Elena becomes a doctor and went ah, they are both women in STEM! So I ran with that as a theme too.

But yeah, Marwa needs a friend who will actually support her interests and engage with her intellectually (no shade to Nadja and the Guide, I'm glad they had a fun weekend watching Mamma Mia together which was literally the only time we got to actually see Marwa happy onscreen, but they have never demonstrated much interest in science that I can recall and I want Marwa to have an astronomy buddy), and I think Elena would be fascinated by her and her perspectives on astronomy from centuries ago, and they could learn about modern astronomical advances together. If I find the time and energy I might even write fic about it, but for now, here is a moodboard so that we can all bask in the vibes of my beautiful crossover vision together.

Image sources: x x x / x (the first frame of x gif + a screenshot from x) x / x + x x x

[snapbackslide]

bit in my feelings this week

[justmossyaps]

i don’t want to jinx it but i think the flareup might actually be over :D

[hatsbuckets]

Imagine Ghost accidentally conditioning the 141...

Ghost is busy. Always. Too much paperwork, too many reports, too many logistics to handle before training. It’s 1400 before he realizes he’s skipped lunch. Again.

Not a big deal. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.

But he is hungry.

His eyes land on the bright pink bag of Valentine’s Day mini Snickers that’s been sitting, untouched, on his desk for a week. They were part of a bulk shipment to the base; some gift or something.

Not exactly lunch. But it’ll do.

He grabs the bag and heads for the training field. He’s two minutes late, not that it matters much because Soap and Gaz already have the unit ready.

"Where’s Price?" he asks, tearing open the bag as he walks up.

"Got pulled away. You’ve got this one, Sir," Gaz replies, raising a brow as Ghost lifts his mask just enough to pop a Snickers into his mouth.

Ghost doesn’t react, just grunts.

Today’s drill is a simple infiltration exercise. Hell, it's something Ghost or Price hardly have to be here for. Their presence would be more of a formality. Gaz leads the attackers. Soap leads the defenders. The teams get ten minutes to plan, to prep.

And then Ghost sounds the time up, and the groups move.

Ghost watches, leaning against a crate, chewing another Snickers, barely paying attention to one of the new guys—until the kid steps right into a trap. Ghost sees it before he does.

Blue powder erupts into his face.

Soap’s defenders descend, but the kid doesn’t go down easily. Blind, but still fighting back, holding his own until his team pulls him out.

Soap's team wins. Barely.

When it’s over, the teams regroup. Ghost is still eating Snickers.

He turns to the recruit, still dusted blue.

"What 'appened?"

"Didn’t see the wire." The kid shifts uncomfortably.

Ghost turns to the unit. "Who set it?"

One of the defenders raises a hand. Ghost considers him for a moment before reaching into the bag.

He tosses a mini-Snickers at the soldier.

The guy catches it. Looks at it. Looks at Ghost. Eats it.

Ghost turns back to the newbie. "Held your own. Tha' matters. Surprises happen. Don’t let ‘em get you again."

And that’s it. Training’s dismissed. Ghost pockets the rest of the Snickers and moves on.

...

The next day, Price is still gone. Ghost doesn’t skip lunch this time, but he still brings the Snickers bag.

They run the same drill.

Same recruit. Same route. But this time, he checks everything. Quick. Efficient. Finds the wire. Disarms it.

No blue powder today.

Gaz’s team wins.

Ghost eyes the recruit and flicks a Snickers at him. The kid catches it mid-air.

...

By the end of the week, Price is still gone. Ghost keeps the pink bag of Snickers on him during training. Like it's just another part of his kit.

One or two mini snickers get handed out every session. And nobody really notices at first. But the team starts moving differently.

They work harder. Smarter. More ruthless. More efficient. No one wants to be the guy who doesn’t get a Snickers.

Even the veterans sharpen their tactics. Gaz and Soap notice. But no one says a damn thing. If Ghost is going to give them snickers, then shut the gel up and let him give them snickers.

...

They're sent on a mission. High stakes.

They don't lose a single man. Not a single injury.

At the end of it, back on their transport home, Ghost pulls the pink danm bag from some unassuming pocket and hands out the snickers.

The men take them without question. They earned it.

But Ghost is running low. The bag nearly empty.

...

At the next training, Ghost doesn't hand out a single snickers. Not on purpose, but the bag is empty, so there's nothing left to do.

But the others notice. Gaz squints. Soap looks like a confused dog. Head tilt and all. The newbies glance at each other, shifting.

...

Two days later, Ghost swings his door open at 0600 sharp—and pauses.

Sitting just outside his door, neat as you please, is a bag of mini Snickers. Not the Valentine’s ones anymore. Just regular.

Ghost blinks. Hums. Pleasantly surprised, he picks up the bag, inspecting it briefly before stuffing it into his tac vest like it’s just another piece of gear.

He doesn’t think much of it. It’s a good snack.

At training, he does as he always does. Watches. Observes. Evaluates.

And then, without thinking, he tosses a Snickers at a recruit who clears a building faster than expected.

He snaps to attention as he catches it, eyes shining. Ghost does not question it.

The pattern continues.

And when he starts running low, Ghost finds a fresh bag of Snickers waiting for him.

Somebody—somewhere—has decided that the Snickers will not run out.

...

At training, at drills, in the field, there is a silent expectation. A new, unspoken rule. Do something exceptional? Get a Snickers.

The machine of the 141—the deadliest operators in the world—now snaps to attention at the crinkle of plastic.

They move with a ruthless kind of precision, bodies coiled, eyes sharp—waiting, anticipating.

Even Gaz and Soap are part of it now—though everyone refuses to acknowledge it outright.

But the moment Ghost hands one of his men a Snickers, he takes it.

Silently. Gratefully. Like a goddamn reward.

Ghost does not acknowledge this. Not out loud. But he keeps handing them out.

And they keep earning them.

They'd quite literally kill for a Snickers. (imagine what they'd do for an expensive piece of chocolate)

...

And then Price comes back three weeks later. He walks into the training area and pauses.

Something is off.

The unit is too sharp. Too focused. The newbies stand stock still in their group, as if waiting for something.

Gaz and Soap exchange a look. Soap refuses to meet Price’s eyes.

But he doesn't acknowledge it, until he begins unwrapping a plastic sleeve holding a new pen. The plastic is thick and loud. And half of their fucking head snaps his way. The hungry eyes of three dozen of soldiers latching on him.

Ghost, standing at the edge of the group, tears open a fresh bag of Snickers.

And now the entire fucking unit reacts. Subtle shifts in stance. Focused attention. Expectant silence.

Price squints. Frowns.

Ghost flicks a Snickers at a recruit. He earned it today.

The recruit catches it like it’s a holy offering and eats it immediately.

Price’s frown deepens. Slowly, carefully, he turns to Ghost. “The fuck did I miss?”

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 4 | masterlist

-

There’s nothing else to do but pretend it didn’t happen. 

In the morning, you’re surprised to wake up and find him in the bed next to you, still covered in old sweat and dried cum. You suppose even in your sleep you’d unconsciously expected him to avoid the incident altogether—wake up extra early to shower while leaving you alone in the bed, giving you a modicum of privacy to digest the situation and its repercussions on your own.

He does no such thing.

“Morning, sweetheart,” John rumbles, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Feeling alright?”

Dangling precariously over the edge of oblivion. Some kind of abyss. The kind that says you might not like what’s down here, girlie, but still you sit by the edge and kick your feet. 

“Yeah,” you croak, and Lord, your voice is hoarse. Scratchy and rough, like it’s been dragged over sandpaper. 

“Good.” He lets his hand rest on the curve of your cheek for a second before pulling it away. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? I’ll shower after.”

The bed groans under his weight when he sits up, throwing his legs over the side before rising to his feet. You quickly avert your eyes at the sight of his naked backside, hairy there as well. A bear all over. Even his yawn reminds you of one. And the way that he stretches his arms overhead and every bone in his upper body cricks and cracks, the sounds of age manifold. 

You scrub yourself with shaky hands in the shower, gnawing at your bottom lip when you spread your puffy folds to find his cum still slightly tacky inside of you. Very bad. Scooping as much out as you can with your fingers, watching it run down the drain. Very bad indeed. 

John has breakfast on the table when you come downstairs and it seems, somehow, uncouth to just tell him you want to go home. So instead you force yourself to sit and eat, glad that he at least agrees that it isn’t the time for conversation. 

At the door, he sees you off with a hug, watching you from the door until you reverse out of his driveway and drive off, waving as you leave. 

“This is really bad,” you whisper to yourself on the drive home. “Really, really bad.”

Despite the morning after, the night you spent together is never explicitly spoken about. It’s not a ‘thing’ you discuss by any means. No sit down conversation, no awkward allusions to it, no talking around and around the events until the exchange becomes unbearable. It simply blips out of existence as soon as you change into your old clothes and John walks you to the door, seeing you out. 

You still show up the next day, as usual. Nothing’s changed except everything, but it feels taboo to even mention that things feel different. 

The world hasn’t radically changed since you accidentally slept with John, but it certainly feels that way sometimes. In the few delicate hours after leaving his house, you were sure he’d call at any moment to tell you that your services would no longer be required—that he’d send your last check in the mail before parting ways. So sure of that, in fact, that you’d put your phone on silent for hours before mustering up the courage to check your missed calls later that evening.

Only a few texts from friends. No missed calls from your employer. 

He doesn’t fire you. He certainly doesn’t treat you any differently the next time you come to babysit. You still get paid every week—though, admittedly, the money makes you feel a little weird now after sleeping with him, but it’s not like you can just turn your nose up at making rent—and everything else in your life stays exactly the same. If you weren’t now acutely aware of the feeling of your boss coming inside you, you might even think you dreamt it up. 

Still, despite John never bringing it up or even alluding to sleeping with you, there’s still a sense that he—

The soft, affectionate thanks, hun that he gives you when you bring him a glass of water on the rare day he comes home early to work out in the garage makes you shiver. 

His need to touch increases tenfold, matched only by his proprietariness. He must feel like after what you did together, it’s nothing for him to squeeze your thighs when he tells you that you did a good job with the baby or hug you extra tight when you’re about to leave. 

If you’re extra shy around him, he doesn’t remark on it. 

You’re levelheaded enough to know that he shouldn’t be so touchy with his younger female employee—his babysitter no less—especially after what happened, but it’s not as though he treats you like sleeping with you is a given. When a week goes by and nothing happens, you almost relax. Almost. Enough to let your guard down. 

But—

You can’t stop thinking about it though. It runs through your head every hour of every day, made worse by the fact that you see him six days a week, Sundays excluded. Sundays being your one day off, which you no longer look forward to but rather dread because Sundays mean no baby, no park, and no John Price.

So, you follow his lead and pretend like it didn’t happen. 

You think it’s past you; a terrible mistake that’ll never happen again until it happens again. 

Eight o’clock at night and the blue light from the television has begun to strain your eyes. Baby sleeping upstairs—you put him down a few hours earlier without much of a peep; had to check on him a few times, but otherwise the baby monitor sitting on the end table hasn’t so much as crackled, leaving you no choice but to doze off on the couch. 

When the door opens, it startles you awake. 

“Mr. Price?” you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and clearing your throat.

John’s there when you twist around to peek over the back of the couch, filling out the door frame. Dishevelled after a long day’s work, his beard even more grown out than when he left earlier in the morning. A bit rougher around the edges, the day leaving its mark in the slight dark circles under his eyes and the set of his jaw, which only relaxes when he lays eyes on you. 

“Just me, sweetheart.”

“Sorry, I…the baby’s been asleep for awhile, so I just thought I’d—”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I know you’ve got it under control.”

“Let me just get my stuff and I’ll be out of your hair—”

He cuts you off with a wave, toeing his boots off at the same time. “No, no, no—you stay there and finish your movie. I’m gonna grab a drink and join you.”

There’s not much more you can say to that. Instead, you watch him take his bag upstairs to put away in the bedroom before you hear the sink turn on. Running water. 

You carefully avoid looking at him when John comes back downstairs, the creaking steps signalling his descent. He heads to the kitchen without stopping by the living room first. The light switches on with a click. The fridge door opens and bottles clinking together when he roots around for something to drink. 

And then you hear him make his way back to the living room. 

The unspoken pact to not bring up what happened the last time you spent any alone time together imbues you with a false sense of security. Part of you expects him to take the single recliner next to the couch, if only to put some distance between the two of you. 

Except when he comes back into the living room, he plops right down in the middle of the couch like always, close enough to you that you’re forced to scoot away, pressed up against the arm of the sofa. You shiver when he cracks open his beer and takes a swig, resting his arm on the back of the couch with the can held in a loose grip. 

“What’re we watching?” he asks, blatantly adjusting himself to get more comfortable on the couch. Even soft, the outline of his cock is visible through his trousers. 

You stare over at him nervously, unblinking. 

“Sweetheart?” John prompts when you don’t answer. 

“Oh, um…” You clear your throat again. “It’s just a Hallmark movie.”

“Cute. Well, we can keep it on. No sense changing it now.”

It’s tense for a little while. You keep your hands folded in your lap like a good girl and your eyes on the television. So you can’t stop inhaling the heady scent of tobacco and vanilla. So you can’t stop blinking your eyes, each blink heavier than the last until they spend more time shut than open. So you yawn and burrow deeper into the cushions, your head tipping back and nearly jarring you awake when you lean too far and topple over the side. 

When you lean the other way and start to doze off on his shoulder, he pulls you onto his lap. You squirm, initially resistant, but he shushes you before you can put up a fuss. 

“Just don’t want you to drool on my shirt,” he teases in a low murmur, smoothing a hand down your side and then it’s lights out for you. 

You wake to a blunt intrusion at your entrance. Half-awake and squirming, you vaguely feel him rub the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, teasing himself. The second you squirm just a little too much, he uses that little bit of movement to push the tip in. It pops in without much resistance; then the slow, methodical press inward, your walls squeezing around the thick length thrusting up into you. 

“Wha—” you whimper, keening when a big hand glides up your chest to squeeze a tit, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“S’alright, baby, it’s just me,” John murmurs, his voice right in your ear. 

You come to gradually and then all at once, aware of your back pressed to his clothed chest and your legs spread around his, your ankles hooked around his calves. Skirt rolled up and panties pushed to the side, one of his arms locked around your waist like a seatbelt to hold you in place. 

“John, I’m—we c-can’t do it again—”

“Sorry, honey,” he apologises into your neck, kissing the area he just spoke into. “Had to be inside you again. S’all I’ve been able to think about since you came on my cock the other night. Promise it’ll be easier this time, okay, baby?”

He guides you down his length until he bottoms out, slick lips kissing the base of his dick. The pressure is overwhelming; in your belly, in your throat, in your head. Heart beating a million miles a minute. Walls throbbing around his length, thicker and heavier than you remembered. 

All you can think of now is the last time he had you like this, legs spread for him and pussy dripping wet. Taking his cock all sleepy and sweaty under his giant comforter, whimpering into his neck. 

It’s not as frantic this time, no rush to the finish line. He seems to like just burying his cock in you while he plays with your breasts, pinching and plucking your nipples until they’re pebbled and sore. His hands aren’t particularly soft either, callused from years of hard labour. When you whine and try to push his hands away, he shushes you again, not paying your protests any mind. 

“Fuck, these are pretty,” John praises, staring down at your tits from over your shoulder. “No, baby, jus’ watch your show. M’gonna use your pussy for a bit, okay?”

It’s just that it’s—

When he lets go of your breast to play with your clit instead, you melt, any resistance going up in flames. The heat fans over your cheeks, your eyelids too heavy to lift, vision blurring even when you try to focus. 

He helps you grind your hips down on him, big hands like manacles on your waist. Little undulations of your hips. Short, shallow thrusts that keep you both right on the edge, drenching his lap with your juices. When he gets bored of playing with your clit, he switches back to your breasts, pawing at them and then bending down to suck a nipple into his mouth. 

Any time you get distracted by what he’s doing, he stops, holding you down on his cock and coaxing you to focus on the television in front of you instead. 

When he jiggles your clit, you seize up, heart hammering in your throat. 

“Good girl, c’mon—jus’ like that.” John presses a hot kiss to your temple, arm tightening around your front to keep you close. Sweet talks you through your orgasm, all vaguely paternalistic and patronising in the best and worst way.  

He makes you lean forward so he can bounce you on his dick after, your hands braced on his knees to keep yourself upright. 

“Ah, ah, ah, ah—”

“Almost there, honey, jus’—fuck, perfect, yeah, tighten up like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He comes with a strangled moan, still cognizant enough to keep the volume down even if you can’t. Shuttles you down onto his cock a few more times until you’re filled to the brim with cum. 

In the aftermath, he sits you back against his sweat-matted chest and pushes his cum back into your sore cunt with his fingers when it dribbles out. Ignores your wounded little sounds like they’re just background noise. He even makes you suck his fingers to clean them up, the digits coated in your combined juices. 

“Best fuckin’ girl,” John growls, pressing another kiss to the side of your head. Your fingers twitch feebly in your lap. 

Pretending like it didn’t happen after the second time around doesn’t seem wise, but still you don’t know how to broach the subject. 

Especially since you know it’s going to happen again. 

John doesn’t say it outright, but his actions speak for themselves. An arm looped around your waist casually in line for coffee. Paying for the two of you in any situation, you having your own source of income be damned. 

“It’s my money anyway, sweetheart,” he says when you point that out. “Might as well just pay now.”

And doesn’t that just send you into a tizzy, head spinning and mouth agape. Embarrassingly so. 

Not to mention you still have this strange, sycophantic need to please him, even after everything. The complicated nature of your relationship aside, it still makes your heart flutter to hear him praise you for anything. 

That’s how you end up in his bed on a Saturday afternoon, taking a nap with him after a long day out in the sun. Two hours spent at the botanical gardens, the sun beating down on your head, lathering sunscreen on the baby’s sensitive little arms and legs, and swiping it over his cheeks. John sporting a mild sunburn near the collar of his shirt where he forgot to apply sunscreen and when you have the audacity to giggle, he pulls your baseball hat down over your eyes. 

It’s almost too easy for him to coax you into his bed, even though you’re adamant about keeping it clean. A hand firm on your back up the stairs. Already yawning when you put the baby down for a nap, so why not take one too? Ushering you into the bedroom when you say you can take the couch, but why, he presses, take the couch when you’ve already shared the bed before?

Well, because the last time—

He draws the blinds shut and climbs into bed, pulling you into his chest. 

You wake up to John plastered against your back, bare cock nudging against your cunt while he snores into your neck. You don’t remember him curling up next to you without any clothes on, but he must have taken off his pants in his sleep, now somewhere rumpled at the end of the bed. 

When you try to quietly pull away, his arms just tighten around you more, grumbling in his sleep. The sound makes you freeze, going quiet as a mouse. A few more minutes go by before you feel confident enough to try moving again, carefully trying to slide out from his hold. 

You wiggle a hand out, reaching for the other end of the bed.

The hand resting on your belly dips low, shoved between your legs and feeling you up before you can do more than gasp. The man behind you gives a short exhale, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, rising out of it like a wave now that he feels something wet under his hand.

“Oh, honey…why didn’t you tell me you needed my cock again? You’re leaking right through your panties,” John rasps, dragging your underwear down to mid-thigh. 

A big bear hand clamps over your mouth before you have a chance to protest. There’s nothing you can do to keep his knee from spreading your legs and feeding his cock into your drenched centre with his other hand. As soon as he notches the head against your entrance, it’s a smooth glide in. 

“There we go,” he pants into your neck. “Big stretch—ah, yeah, nice ‘n tight. That’s my pretty girl.”

He keeps your legs spread with a hand on the inside of your thigh. All you can do is moan behind his hand, humid breath blowing back around your face as you pant. So hot for it that you’re almost nauseous. 

You’re a bit too tight for him to fit his cock in you, so he has to work to stretch you out, bullying another inch into you with every thrust. The angle makes it tricky though; means he can’t get more than half of his cock into you. It’s hardly comfortable for you either, your leg already cramping. 

“My leg’s got a cramp,” you whine, unsure of what you want to happen. All you know is that you can’t keep this up. 

He readjusts his grip, but that just makes you hiss, wincing when that makes your leg twinge. Suddenly the world spins, the pillows going from comfortably under your head to right in your face, John manoeuvring you onto your tummy and hiking your hips up a few inches. It lets him get even deeper, the angle letting him slide right to the hilt. 

“Oh god, oh god—John, I can’t—”

“Shh—you’re alright, honey. Much better like this,” he breathes, settling on top of you. It takes him a second to get comfortable, nudging right up against a sensitive spot inside of you the whole time, so deep you can almost feel him in your throat. 

He weighs a ton on top of you, rutting between your thighs like he can’t hold himself back, his self-control snapping like brittle glass. Bristly beard chafing your neck when he buries his head to suck on the tender skin there, smothering you under his weight. Thighs trapping you in place, your memory jumping back to that time at the beach, but now there’s nothing between you. Just a thick cock pounding into you and moulding you around its shape.  

His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, the lewdest sound you’ve ever heard. 

“Gonna make sure it takes this time,” John grunts. “Wanna take care of my baby so bad? I’ll give you a couple to mind.”

That rattles you right to your core; shakes you to the foundations of who you are. You don’t know what to think, what to say—tongue tied and loose lipped all at once. You’ve let him come inside of you so many times that if it hasn’t taken already, surely it will soon. 

It slips out before you can take it back. “D-daddy, please—” 

That makes him lose his mind. Just a bit. 

“Fuck,” he snarls. “Again.”

He wedges his arm under you to curl his hand around your throat, tilting your head out. 

“Daddy—daddy—please, I wanna come—” you pant, repeating the same word until it sounds like nothing, tongue puffy in your mouth. 

His dick slips out at some point and he wrenches himself off you long enough to wrap his hand around himself and slap it against your ass a few times, cum tagging your skin. Your breath catches in your throat, whining when you clench down on nothing. One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s all the way back in, hammering the spot that makes you go cross-eyed and squeak. 

“Make daddy another baby, okay, sweetheart?” It’s not sweet. It’s not doting. It’s growled into your ear like a demand, punctuated by the way his hips snap forward, nearly sending you into the headboard. 

You’re practically an old hat at taking his cum now, squeezing up when you can feel it coming and giving him a nice little treat. He sinks his teeth into the back of your neck when he does, muffling the sound roaring out of him, and it hurts. 

He’s tender with you after though. Lavishes the line of your neck with soft kisses; murmurs sweet nothings into your ear while you cry fat tears onto the pillow. Even twists and turns so you’re no longer on your back but rather splayed across his chest again, urging you up for a deeper kiss with tongue. 

“‘Know you’re tired, sweetie, but this is for your own good,” John murmurs as he wedges a hard thigh between your legs and makes you ride it, grinding your sensitive, throbbing clit down on the muscle. “Can you come, baby? Jus’ like that—that’s good, baby—”

It hurts so good that you don’t even notice when you squirt, the emotions too big for you. It’s like being squeezed too tight, unable to catch your breath or say anything but the same word on a loop. John’s sweet about it though—wipes the sweat from your hairline and upper lip, talking you through it until you slump down on his chest, legs akimbo.   

For a bachelor, you think in a daze, he’d make a good husband.

The days grow colder and the sun sets earlier.

A while ago you thought maybe this babysitting gig would be temporary. That at some point you’d move on—maybe go back to school or apply for a more standard nine-to-five job. That’s how the trajectory of your life was supposed to go, you think. 

But the timing never seems right. Maybe you’ve grown too attached to the baby or maybe the pay is just too good to give up or maybe you’ve just become habituated to someone getting you off at least every other day. Still, it feels a bit weird to get paid for what essentially boils down to fucking a man and taking care of his baby. 

It comes up when you’re sitting out on the porch with him again, this time in his lap in the same adirondack chair, a blanket wrapped around you to keep you warm. John laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking over your finger, burning a line into the skin.

“Doesn’t it make you feel weird to pay me for…” you say, trailing off with a cocked eyebrow. Surely he must catch your drift. 

He chuckles. You wait for the joke.

Your eyes must be big as moons staring up at him. 

“Don’t think of it as a paycheck, sweetheart. That’s your allowance.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and swallow. 

“Okay,” you whisper. Then let him reel you back in for another kiss, his thumb resting over your ring finger and pressing.