#Writing so I dont get in a rut

[alexwritesit]

The Gentleman in Red

In the whispered echoes of a gala night, I linger on memories of an enigmatic gentleman in red, our exchange a dance of flirtation, his invitation a siren's call, weaving a tale of allure and uncharted desires.

“Good evening,” I offered, my smile a well-practiced facade, the glass of champagne catching the soft glow of the room. My words, laced with a feigned interest, floated towards the cluster of guests. “Are you enjoying the event?” The query, a mere formality, barely concealed my profound ennui.

As if rehearsed, their responses chimed in unison, “Of course, it’s marvelous! Have you sampled the cake? The exquisite cuisine? The wine?” Their voices, a cacophony of eagerness, seemed to dance around me, each syllable dripping with the unspoken desire to weave connections.

The music, a solitary redeeming feature, filled the air with a vivacity that contrasted sharply with the undercurrent of superficiality. The chandeliers, dimmed to a soft, golden hue, cast a gentle light over the scene, their glow reflected in the lively bubbles of my champagne. I brought the glass to my lips, the effervescence teasing my tongue before giving way to the familiar, underwhelming taste.

In this grand charade, every smile, every gesture was a calculated move in a game of unspoken alliances and veiled intentions, set against the backdrop of an evening that promised much yet delivered little more than gilded emptiness.

Each time an invitation landed in my hands, adorned with the words “To our distinguished…”, my eyes couldn’t help but roll in silent cynicism. Despite the reluctance that gnawed at me, I found myself accepting these invitations, knowing full well the predictability that awaited. The events, regardless of their veneer of exclusivity, were always populated by the same faces – familiar smiles, tired camaraderie, each interaction a thinly veiled attempt to curry favor. The gatherings were a tableau of old men accompanied either by their wives or conspicuously younger companions. The monotony of it all was stifling.

Lifting the champagne to my lips once more, I welcomed the brief respite its effervescence provided from the stagnant air of pretense. Yet, even this small pleasure was marred by the lackluster flavor of the drink – a disappointment that mirrored the event itself.

The dance floor, now opened, presented a scene that might have been captivating to a newcomer. Elegant dresses and sharply tailored suits graced the figures of those who moved across it, their attire speaking of a fashion that was just a step ahead of the current trends. The younger attendees, mostly ‘plus-ones’, gravitated towards the dance floor with an enthusiasm that contrasted sharply with the more seasoned attendees. These younger guests frolicked to the orchestra’s tunes, their movements light and carefree.

In stark contrast, the older couples seemed almost anchored to their tables, confined within their select social circles. They engaged little, their interactions limited and guarded. The divide was palpable ��� the vibrancy of youth on the dance floor, the entrenched solemnity of the older guests at their tables – each group ensconced in their own worlds, separated by unspoken yet deeply ingrained social norms.

The waiter, a silent sentinel amidst the sea of revelry, approached me with a tray of champagne glasses. Each glass sparkled with the promise of effervescence, a fleeting allure. His gaze, though fixed on me, seemed to pierce through to some distant point, devoid of genuine interest. It was a reminder that, like me, he was merely playing a role in this grand charade – he to serve, I to partake, both of us bound by the unspoken rules of this gilded masquerade.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, almost mechanically, exchanging my empty glass for a full one. My eyes lingered on the waiter as he weaved his way through the tables with an effortless grace. His form was a study in physical perfection, each movement fluid and poised, reminiscent of a river carving its path with serene certainty. There was a certain elegance in his simplicity, a stark contrast to the ostentatious display that surrounded us.

Was there a tinge of envy in my observation? Perhaps. In his motion, there was an authenticity that this room, with all its finery and forced gaiety, sorely lacked.

I raised the glass to my lips once more, the initial fizz of the champagne giving way all too quickly to the familiar taste of disappointment – a fitting metaphor for the evening. The bubbles, like so many things in this setting, promised much but delivered little, mirroring the hollow exchanges and superficial smiles that filled the room.

“Where’s your plus one?”

The voice that cut through the din of the crowd held a resonance that tugged at the edges of memory. It was a sound both distant and intimately familiar, like an echo from another time. I turned, my gaze settling on the source: there she stood, a glass of champagne in hand. The liquid inside was a paradox in itself, half full or half empty depending on one’s perspective, much like the expressions that played across her features – a mixture of distaste and amusement.

“I don’t have one,” I responded, my words succinct, free of the usual pretenses.

Her reaction was theatrical, an exaggerated gasp that held no true surprise, only a flair for the dramatic. “Oh, I’ll enjoy this night then,” she declared, a playful chuckle escaping her lips as she brought the glass to her lips. The taste of the champagne, bland as it was, didn’t seem to diminish her spirit.

“Yeah, yeah. Savour the moment,” I replied, a hint of dry humor in my tone. Her presence, an unexpected deviation in the night’s monotonous proceedings, brought a certain liveliness, a spark of genuine interaction amidst the sea of feigned pleasantries. In a setting where authenticity was as scarce as a nuanced flavor in our champagne, her candor was a refreshing, if slightly jarring, interlude.

“How come you came?” she inquired, a hint of curiosity lacing her tone. “Thought last time you said you wouldn’t accept the next invite.”

“I am too much of a nice person to deny an invitation,” I retorted, my response laced with a touch of irony. Catching her raised eyebrow, I conceded, “Fine, I was bored.”

“Ah,” she chuckled, the sound rich with understanding. “I’m here on official business.”

“Aren’t we all?” I quipped, a playful edge to my words.

“Darling, I meant another kind of official business,” she clarified, her voice tinged with a mysterious undertone.

“Oh!” I feigned surprise, playing along with the intrigue. “Who’s the guy?”

Her gesture directed my attention to a youngish man holding court at the center table. His appearance was noteworthy in its completeness – a full head of hair, a perfect set of teeth – and his charm was evident even from a distance. His smile, radiant and seemingly reserved for those he held in high esteem, briefly found her in the crowd. He waved, a gesture of cordial invitation that seemed to light up his entire demeanor.

“That is my call, Darling,” she announced, a playful seriousness in your tone. Turning to face me, she added with a wink, “Don’t be a bore, however. Find yourself a nice looking waiter,” and then, like a whisper in the wind, she was gone, melting into the sea of people before I could muster a reply.

Left to my own devices, I leaned back against the wall, my gaze once again sweeping over the room. The orchestra played on, a backdrop to the rhythmic dance of people and conversations. The tables, a landscape of culinary delights and sparkling drinks, were tended to by waiters in crisp white and black, moving with an elegance that was almost balletic. They navigated the room with an effortless grace, their presence adding a subtle yet undeniable charm to the evening.

Her parting words echoed in my mind, a teasing challenge amidst the tedium. Perhaps there was merit in the suggestion – a diversion, however fleeting, from the predictable narrative of the night. The waiters, undeniably attractive in their uniformity, offered a visual respite from the dreariness of the event. And so, with a newfound sense of curiosity, I began to entertain the possibility of engaging in this little game, a private amusement in an otherwise dull affair.

The gala’s opulence and grandeur, once alluring, had begun to wear thin, casting a sheen of tedium over the evening. Despite a fleeting, tantalizing thought of spending the night in the company of one of the handsome waiters—a notion both scandalous and thrilling—I shook the idea from my mind. Clutching my champagne glass, I made my way towards the exit, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the event. The constant hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses had become overwhelming, a cacophony that seemed to amplify the gala’s inherent rigidity.

As I passed the bar, the bartenders acknowledged me with a simple nod, a silent greeting that felt refreshingly straightforward compared to the evening’s pretenses. Pushing open the doors, I stepped out into the back streets of the venue, finding solace in the night’s embrace.

The air outside was a sharp contrast to the stuffy interior I had left behind. It was fresh and crisp, carrying the unmistakable hint of winter on its breath. The chill was a welcome relief, a natural reprieve that seemed to cleanse the palate of the evening’s excesses. The back street, surprisingly tidy for such a space, was dotted with only a few dumpsters tucked away in a far corner, a thoughtful consideration by the venue’s management.

I found a quiet spot amidst several chairs and small tables arranged near the doors. Setting my champagne glass on the table, I sank into the chair, allowing myself to be enveloped by the serene stillness of the night. Here, away from the gala’s forced gaiety and superficial chatter, I could finally breathe, the cool air filling my lungs with a sense of liberation. The quiet of the back street was a stark contrast to the orchestrated liveliness inside, offering a moment of introspection and calm amidst an evening of orchestrated excess.

Fumbling through my pockets, I sought out the pack of cigarettes I reserved for nights like this – those rare moments when the weight of the world seemed to demand a smoky reprieve. I wasn’t a habitual smoker, but some battles, as fate would have it, seemed more bearable with a cigarette in hand. Unearthing the packet, I found a lone cigarette lying within, its solitary presence a reminder to replenish my stock.

Placing the cigarette between my lips, I began the hunt for a lighter. My fingers patted down each pocket – front, back, inner, outer – in a growing crescendo of frustration. But my search was in vain; not a single lighter or even a match graced my attire.

“God- Fuck!” I exclaimed, the irritation spilling out into the quiet back street.

At that moment, an unfamiliar voice cut through the air, “Lack a flame?” The doors clicked shut, and my gaze shifted towards the sound. There, emerging from the shadows, was a figure like no other.

He was clad in a striking red suit, its fabric reminiscent of the velvety petals of roses, a vibrant contrast against the muted backdrop of the night. Gold gleamed around his neck, a necklace studded with diamonds catching the faint light, while pearls adorned his wrists. The buttons of his suit were intricately embroidered with silver, adding to his lavish appearance.

His presence was commanding, almost otherworldly. It was as if I had encountered the devil himself – not a figure of fear, but of temptation, an alluring vision in red and gold. The elegance and extravagance of his attire, coupled with the timing of his appearance, lent an air of surrealism to the moment. Here, in the quiet solitude of the back street, stood a man who seemed to embody both the allure and the danger of a forbidden fruit, a mysterious stranger offering a flame in more ways than one.

Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of this enigmatic stranger, my words faltered, “I, uh, yes.” For a moment, I stood there with my mouth agape, the forgotten cigarette still perched between my lips. Realizing the potential disaster, I quickly closed my mouth, securing the cigarette – which suddenly seemed as precious as gold – from tumbling to the damp, unclean ground.

The man’s movements were a spectacle of grace and poise, utterly captivating. His hands, meticulously groomed and elegant, delved into the pocket of his resplendent red suit, emerging with a lighter. The lighter, too, was red, a perfect complement to his attire. He extended it towards me, his gesture fluid and deliberate.

In that moment, I found myself momentarily paralyzed, spellbound by the sheer presence of the man before me. My usual, mundane task of lighting a cigarette seemed to elude me, as if his aura had momentarily disrupted my basic motor functions. It was the sudden gust of wind that snapped me back to reality, a natural intervention that saved me from the brink of embarrassment.

Gratefully, I reached out, taking the lighter from his hand. The flicker of the flame brought a sense of normalcy back, a reminder of the simple action I was about to perform. I lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply, the smoke providing a much-needed anchor to the surreal situation unfolding in this quiet back street. The presence of this stranger, with his striking attire and captivating aura, had transformed an ordinary moment into something akin to a scene from a vivid, almost otherworldly narrative.

The man took a seat opposite me, his movements fluid and assured. As I indulged in the rare pleasure of the cigarette, my eyes briefly met his. They were a deep, rich brown, reminiscent of the finest African blackwood – dark, intricate, seemingly carved to hold depths of secrets and untold desires.

“What brings you outside?” I asked, curiosity lacing my tone.

“I couldn’t stand the people inside. Thought the rats would be better company,” he replied, his voice smooth, imbued with a honeyed timbre. His response elicited a chuckle from me, a spontaneous reaction to his unexpected candor. I leaned back into my chair, releasing a plume of smoke into the cool night air.

For a brief moment, the surreal quality of the situation gave rise to a question in my mind: Is this a dream? “I guess we’re alike. Do you smoke?” I inquired, trying to maintain a semblance of conversation.

“No, don’t worry,” he assured me.

“Ah, good then, you shouldn’t,” I advised, almost instinctively.

His eyebrow arched, a gesture that seemed to accentuate the enigmatic aura surrounding him. His lips, compelling in their expressiveness, curved into a soft, knowing smile. “Shouldn’t you heed your own advice?” he asked, his voice as warm and inviting as a gentle fire.

I let out a light, self-aware chuckle. “Maybe, but I guess it’s too late for me.” My words were tinged with a hint of resignation, acknowledging the small vices that we clutch onto, even when we know better.

The silence that settled between us was one of those rare, comfortable voids, filled with the ambient sounds of the night. The faint scurrying of rats in the distance, mingling with the muffled strains of music seeping through the windows and cracks of the gala, lent an otherworldly feel to the moment. It was surreal, at least from my perspective. But what about him? What did he think, feel?

Stealing a glance his way, I found myself captivated again. His eyes held the depth of the cosmos, stars and nebulas yet to be explored, secrets begging to be unveiled. There was an undeniable allure about him, a magnetic pull that stirred a desire within me to claim his attention, if only for the duration of the night. In his presence, the notion of him being a devil, albeit one not of sinister nature, seemed almost plausible.

“Is something on my face?” His voice broke through my thoughts, his gaze meeting mine.

“Oh,” I found myself momentarily at a loss for words, scrambling for a coherent response. “No, I just spaced out, I’m sorry.” My reply was an awkward attempt to brush off my apparent staring, a feeble effort to mask the intrigue and attraction that had momentarily rendered me speechless.

My curiosity piqued, I ventured to ask, “What brings you to the gala?” The words eased out of me, breaking through my initial stiffness. Yet, a chill momentarily grazed my spine, a physical reaction to the accelerating beat of my heart each time his gaze met mine.

He paused, considering his response, then let out a chuckle. “I was invited,” he said with an air of playful obviousness. His demeanor shifted slightly as he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and his head in his palm, a casual pose that somehow accentuated his enigmatic charm. “Every year I’m invited, yet this is the first time I came.”

“Oh, you as well?” I replied, finding a common thread in our experiences.

“Yup. They’re all a bore,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of dramatization, yet underlined with a sincerity that resonated with my own feelings about these events.

“I always come, unsure why,” I confessed, taking a sip of the now lukewarm champagne in an attempt to steady my nerves. “It’s always the same faces, the same stories, and there I am, sitting in the corner, nursing bland champagne.”

He looked at me, his expression a mix of amusement and a shared sense of mockery. His eyes flickered briefly to the glass in my hand, then back to me as I took another drag of the cigarette. “Oh, poor you,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm yet sweet as honey. “I guess it was a better choice that I came this time.”

“Oh?” I queried, a hint of flirtation edging into my tone. Was he flirting with me? Should I play along? As I met his gaze, a fire ignited within me, my thoughts veering towards realms far removed from the decorum of the gala. And somehow, I sensed he was aware of this unspoken tension.

“It seems the music is dying down,” he remarked, subtly changing the subject. Yet his gaze held mine a second longer than necessary, a fleeting lapse in his otherwise composed demeanor. In that moment, I found myself yearning to close the distance between us, to taste the mystery that he embodied.

“It is…” I responded, my voice trailing off. “The main event should start soon.”

His offer hung in the air, a tangible invitation, as he slowly stood and extended his hand towards me, holding the door open in a gesture that was both courteous and inviting. The simplicity of the act contrasted with the complexity of emotions it stirred within me.

“I-…” My initial hesitation was a brief skirmish between caution and desire, a momentary pause in the unfolding narrative of the night. “Sure,” I found myself saying, the word escaping as a mix of acquiescence and anticipation. I carefully discarded the cigarette, extinguishing it beneath my foot, a symbolic end to one indulgence as I prepared to embrace another.

Taking his hand, I felt a jolt of excitement, an electric connection that seemed to transcend the ordinary. His appearance, devilishly charming and enigmatic, had captivated me from the moment he appeared. And now, as I accepted his invitation, a part of me acknowledged a deeper truth: He may look like a devil, but God knows I want him.

[kortac-sweetheart]

originally thought of Nikto but then thought 👁 Bell (both?? imagine them together. imagine it. oh my god)

I'm a creature of habit, I have the same breakfast almost every morning, have my peculiarities about what goes with what and what's eaten or drank first for what flavor etc etc, always have my little coffees I make at home, etc etc and I can just imagine a lot of the cod guys but especially Bell (or Nikto <3) who has had his identity stripped of him, who has been tortured into being whatever his next handler needs him to be, who has had to completely forget who he is as a person and that he's worth acknowledging as a person not just for what he does, watching, and just kind of admiring how specific things can be, how routine it is out of pure want and leisure rather than stifling sweat and stink and grit and blood

just Bell enjoying seeing how alive and intimate and personal daily life can be, and slowly figuring out what he likes too, his preferred coffee creamer, or maybe tea, or hot chocolate, or plain old milk, just something that's his because he chooses it to be, because he wants it. he's not really doing anything spectacular with it or for it, it's just a little personality for him to enjoy- Simp anon

UWAHHHHHH BEELLLLLLLLLLL

yes i’m also a man of routine too, i always take walks around the same time and i also always get the same sweet treat when i want one.

god, bell who’s almost like a curious child again, constantly asking questions about your routines, why do you like that? why do you do that? learning more and more about you and your routine and in turn learning more about himself as well.

it happens very quickly that he assimilates parts of your day and likes into his as well. he joins you for your walk no matter what, initially he wants to see what you like so much about it but he eventually grows to love it. your single pair of over ear headphones turning into sharing earbuds with him.

(why do you like that song? that band? what’s your favorite? he needs to know, it’s important to him.)

your hand always finds his way into his, swinging along carefree as you walk together. he never questions why you hold hands, or why he’s the one that walks closer to the road— it’s a natural, intrinsic feeling in his gut that he doesn’t have to question at all.

and although it’s a small break in routine, he doesn’t mind at all. learning about what you think about that shop’s pastry and what he thinks of it too. he memorizes whatever review or commentary you have, no matter how small or offhanded it was.

(he personally adores those milk chocolate dipped strawberries you like too. that cake however, a little too sweet for him. and for you too.)

i think you both learn together. he keeps a running log in his mind and you, on paper of what each other likes. it’s love and adoration clear as day, written and held in the palm of your hand. and he thinks his heart flutters.

(is it because you’re making an effort to learn and love him? or was it just due to fate? or maybe a bit of both? the more he thinks about it the warmer he feels— is that normal?)

you always encourage him to form his own opinions on things. always want to hear what he thinks and has to say, especially if it differs from yours. he thought it was odd at first. isn’t he supposed to like what you did?

but you brought it up to him.

“bell, if we liked all the same things, and were the same person—wouldn’t that get a little boring? my own lived experiences shape the person i am today, and that also applies to you too, sweetheart.”

(he likes it when you call him that.)

yeah. if you were like him, then there wouldn’t be anything to learn. and he quite likes learning all he can about you, likes, dislikes, habits, your past, and he shouldn’t deny you of the opportunity to learn about him either— lest he makes you sad.

bell is a well versed scholar in the study of you. he blends seamlessly into the fabric of your life as if he was always meant to be there, by your side.

his cup of milk tea sits besides your cup of coffee in the morning. your sweaters hung neatly besides his in your closet. your favorite flowers in the vase on the table one week, then a bouquet of his in it the next. his hand firmly in yours when you go on your afternoon walks. your favorite dinner prepared by the two of you, piping hot on the center of the table as you eat side by side. his favorite pastry in the same container as yours. and him tightly hugging you in bed at night.

the more bell learns about you, the more he learns about himself, and he never wants to stop learning—ever.

[helianskies]

dialogue prompts 10 [ ⚖️ ]

“you're terrible at this.”

“have you eaten yet today?”

“i need a break.”

“you can't lie to me. i know you too well.”

“we can't keep doing this.”

“buy me a drink first at least!”

“you're not subtle. at all.”

“don’t say a word.”

“have we met before?”

“will you stay, just for a bit?”

“someone's a bit grumpy today!”

“this was fun.”

“we can't, they'll hear us!”

“flowers? for me?”

“you make me smile.”

“i’m not ready.”

“so… got any plans this evening?”

“i never took you for a romantic.”

“it’s way too early for this.”

“you’re my little secret.”

“i think i’m in love!”

“why are you being nice to me?”

“consider us even.”

“i don’t want to leave.”

“i want to make you happy.”

drop me a ship/characters and a prompt, and i'll see what i can do! please be mindful that responses may take some time and that i won't accept every request (if you know me well, you'll know what i do and don't write). still, do feel free to use this list for yourself! you can find my current ficlet collection on ao3 in the meantime!

[mirrortouchedsea]

thinking about doing another character study piece. any suggestions/requests.

[funky-lil-ghost]

gem if she were on red life :) for week 1 of @shepscapades hermitcraft character design event ^-^

ID: A pencil drawing of Gem from Hermitcraft. The figure has been painted digitally, while loose pencil lines vaguely suggest the ground beneath her. Behind her is a vivid red circle, stretching across almost the whole width of the beige paper. Her left leg bends so that her thigh nearly touches her chest, knee not quite reaching a ninety-degree angle as part of her weight rests on her foot. Her skirt, a mess of lines and dark yellow-green, drapes across her left thigh and down to her right foot which stands firmly on the ground. Above her left leg, her left arm almost mimics the angle of her knee. A patch of mushrooms sprouts from it, and the tips of her fingers are dark and pointed, claw-like. Her right arm hangs loosely in front of her, hand wrapped, or perhaps grown, around the golden hilt of a cracked and bloody sword. Its tip rests near the bottom right corner of the page. To the right of her hip, a light brown (almost orange) satchel hangs with its front facing outward to the left edge of the page. The satchel’s strap disappears under her right shoulder. A mess of lines covers the back of her dirty, gray, bloodstained shirt, the top of which is visible as she bends forward. At the center of the looming red circle in the background, her bright red eyes stare menacingly. There is no pupil; her eyes are completely red. Sharp teeth line the thin smile that stretches across her face. Red lines, similar to veins, sit jagged from the inner corner of her right eye and down at an angle to her jawline. The other eye is mostly obscured by vivid orange strands of hair which fall all the way down to her draping skirt, color turning dark red in the shadows. Atop her head, between pointed, dark-tipped ears, tiny light green vines twist in her hair. Antlers sprout above her ears, forming a halo-like circle above her head and stretching outwards. They’re covered in red stains, and three of the tips are dripping with blood. A few small vines hang from them and lead back to her body, where her eyes still stare toward us. // END ID

[charmac]

PLEASEE POST A NEW CHAPTER OF THE SUGAR DADDY FIC I AM ON MY HANDS AND KNEES 😭😭😭😭😭

Updating All These Nights tonight and then Sugar is next to be updated, promise promise.

[ivycorp]

Things I wish you would write? Honestly, there are lots, but...

Megoplita in which Elita is very intentionally letting the boys sort out their drama before she goes anywhere near it (and having fun in the meantime; yes they're pretty, but so is Arcee, frex);

Slightly inspired by You turn me round... - a sequence of moments where M/J get interrupted by one or both of their factions doing something that has to be fixed;

More of your absolutely gorgeous good intentions turned twisted themes - less clear about what those might be, but you write everyone doing their best and having it fall apart all the same...

Answering this after just letting a pwp out feels a bit surreal...

The first two ideas sound very good, I'm also adding them to the list!

The last one, though... might be a bit trickier. I do like writing those a lot, but weaving the plot together is very brain intense for me - and I am so, so tired these days...

That said, I think there is a high chance I'll get at least one out next year - if my job doesn't drain me before then, that is

[todayisafridaynight]

streaming comic-makin sessions would be a nightmare cause i know damn well id just be digitally pacing between twitter and youtube before actually doin shit. it'd be like trying to host a writing stream where everyone would look at a blank canvas for half an hour as i try to figure out what the fuck im gonna do

[iacominus]

still thinking about yumi and the nightmare painter, it was the discussions about being an artist that really got me

[cregansdingdong]

imagine cregan and y/n breaking the bed one night just because of his sheer strength and muscle whilst pounding her, ik the conversation with the winterfell wood crafter would be awks as hell afterwards whilst asking for it to be repaired 😇😇

IM HAVING A PROPHETIC VISION, ANON.

At this point, Cregan and his boo thang are just going to have to become familiar with the man. There is no other option, because your choices are either to have this embarrassing conversation a multitude of times with multiple woodcrafters or just one. Because if y'all think this is a one-time thing, you are terribly mistaken.

Cregan is a very passionate person in bed, regardless if he's on top or not. He wants to make sure the two of you are satiated—that does mean the bed will snap like a twig under a boot i dont make the rules i just work here. Personally, I find the actual deliverance of the bedframe to be the most mortifying. Firstly, that big ass broken bed has to be dismantled and removed, if it's not fixable, which takes manpower, and then the new one brought into the Great Keep and put together. Otherwise, the woodcrafter is going to have to make a house call and show up with his tools and planks, walking toward your marital chambers which is embarrassing too :)

ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. (thoughts ver.)

NSFW stuff under the cut. 18+ only. I'm not responsible for the content you choose to consume. ty.

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That familiar groan under his weight should've been the first warning sign, but Cregan was too distracted to notice. He was lapping at her pretty cunt, tongue delving as deep as he could go and as thorough as he could be without the motions being too unsteady. Alright maybe he did notice initially, but the thought was very quickly shoved to the back of his mind—especially when his pretty wife was trying to rock herself onto his nose, letting out the most quiet of whimpers muffled by their sheets. His ears were focused on her and her only.

With her pearl rubbing against his bridge and his cock feeling so strained in his trousers, no one could really blame him for forgetting about the delicate state of the bed in an instant. Last time they’d gotten particularly frantic in their lovemaking, there had been a low snap somewhere beneath the mattress, a taunt that he was probably too hefty to be moving so much. But winter was coming, a man’s gotta eat…in more ways than one.

By the time he’d recalled they should begin to take it easy on the bed, he was already balls deep behind her, hands gripping the flesh of her ass like a lifeline. He was suffocating in the best way, cock nestled inside, fogging his brain with nothing but instinct. And then she started begging. By then, well, he decided they needed a new bed anyway—six moons wasn’t too bad. Lasted longer than the previous replacement. Three harsh, unrelenting spanks bloom red on her backside as she squeezes around him, sending his blood pumping to the beat of an imaginary war drum. It would be a miracle from the Gods if she wasn’t pregnant by mid-summer. Cregan just couldn’t help himself.

Rutting against her like a man starved, the right side of the bed almost completely collapses, caving in and nearly throwing him off balance. His wife gasped, pleasure momentarily halted as she looked back at him. “Again? Seriously? I told you to write to him last time, did you?” The answer was no, no he did not. “It might have…slipped…my mind.” He murmured, trying to ignore the throbbing in his full balls. They had a silent conversation of glares and a sheepish grin. Then she concedes. “...We might as well finish then. I doubt it can get any worse.”

It could, actually. And it did. He came hard some twenty minutes later, pounding their hips together with a steady desperation. The dip of the broken side was a little annoying, but manageable. Without the support, the right beams of the canopy end up falling right down. No one was harmed, of course. It was only drapes. Cregan found it almost comical but his wife did not. It was going to be a long letter.

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[ghoulishhx]

ohhh number 4 from the prompt list you reblogged screams frank castle!! I would love it if you could write it, please!

4.) slow sex while one or both are injured (bonus points if it’s after a battle or after they’ve patched up each other’s wounds)

arghh this is so cute, i can imagine it so vividly with him. he's perfect for this prompt, thank you for suggesting it !!

18+ MDNI !!

My Masterlist!

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Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: MDNI, SMUTT, thigh riding, oral (m recieving), unprotected p in v sex (dont do this irl please and thanks), cockwarming, VERY fluffy, mutual pining, praise (phrases such as good girl and whatnot), choking, injured frankie

TW: discussions of cuts and stitches

Wordcount: 2.2k

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✦ seven stitches

“Hold still baby, I’m almost done with this stitch.”

You’re standing hovering over your boyfriend’s left thigh, giving you a better angle of the deep gash on his shoulder. You’re used to this routine with him, he comes over almost every night injured and bruised, you tend to his cuts and grazes, he stays for dinner and for dessert he has you coming undone on his cock, wakes up in the morning and rinse and repeat. You love your routine, he’s started keeping his weekends open from ‘work’ to spend more time with you.

Tonight is different however, he’s more hurt than usual. He struggled walking through your door, you had to wrap his arm around your neck to lug him into your small apartment, dragging him to the bathroom to tend to a whopping seven injuries, a new record, as opposed to the regular three or four.

All are littered across his toned chest and large arms, leaving you with a gorgeous view of Frank man spreading on a chair in your bathroom wearing nothing but his jeans. The sight causes a hitch in your breath, a wetness instantly blooming in your sleep shorts. 

“Ah shit.. Doll ya almost done?” he winces in pain as you push the needle and thread through his skin for almost the final time, his hands flying to your hips holding you firm in place, feeling your heat on his thigh causes his cock to twitch. 

“Almost Frankie, you’re being so brave for me.” you coo, taking a moment to turn your head and lean down to give him a quick peck on his cheek, giving him a perfect view of the valley between your chest. He can’t help the way his eyes instantly lock onto your breasts, the way your chest goes up and down with each breath, the feeling of your pebbled nipple on his arm. It’s almost comical how hard he is just from this passing moment, he blames the adrenaline from the events of the day before coming home to you.

“My eyes are up here, Frankie.” you giggle as you stand up straight again, getting back to work. Blush creeps up his neck as you resume your position. You look down meeting his eyes, giving him a little wink and smirk. If he wasn’t unbearably erect before, he is now. Shifting his position again, he bumps his thigh between yours, meeting your clothed core, the sensation sending a jolt up your spine and you have to bite your lip from whining out. You’re just as desperate as he is. Noticing his affect, he offers you the same wink and smirk as you did seconds before. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you go as red as a tomato, as you go back to work.

After a few minutes, you finish putting him back together, covering all the stitches in gauze, kissing all seven after they are firmly protected. 

“All better now baby, don’t go moving around too much for a few days, ‘kay? You need anything, you ask me, got it?” you state, still in the same position, looking down at him.

“Yes ma’am.” He says, grabbing your hips and pushing you down onto his thigh, straddling it. You cannot control the whine you feel at the sudden movement, the friction of his tensed thighs rutting against your dripping centre so perfectly. “I do need somethin’, now that I think about it.” His jaw ticks as his eyes stare deep into you, you know this look.

“Shit Frankie, I don’t wanna hurt you anymore than you already are.. Fuck.” Mid sentence he starts maneuvering your hips to rub against his jeans, a wet patch on the dark denim already made apparent.

“Shh darlin’, I can handle it.. We’ll just go slow okay? Need you sweetheart, need you so bad.” he glances down at the stain and smirks “Looks like ya need it just as bad huh doll?” his lips attack your neck, as you start grinding down with him as he helps, guiding you.

You throw your head back as you let the pleasure take over, reaching up to the straps of your cami top, pushing them down your shoulder as you let your tits bounce out, nipples hardening even more than they already were as the cool air of the bathroom hits them. He takes one of his hands from your hip and greets your left breast, kneading the flesh and twisting your nipple between his fingers. You wrap your arms around his neck, being careful as to not disturb any of your handiwork. You run your hands through his hair, pulling him into you to steady yourself. The rough texture is causing delicious friction where you need it most, reaching down to pull your shorts aside so you can feel him even more, he leans down to take your right breast into his mouth all while guiding your hips with his right hand, his left kneading into your ass.

After a few minutes of fucking yourself on his thigh, his hands moving all over you slowly as to not disturb the stitches, you feel yourself getting close.

“That’s it doll, you look so pretty makin’ yerself feel good on my thigh, cum for me angel let me have it. Let it allll out.”

You listen obediently, feeling your clit throb deliciously, whining his name and a string of curses under your breath as you ruin his denims.

“That’s a good girl, atta-fucking-girl baby, shit I needa feel that sweet pussy on my cock now ok?”

“A-are you sure you’re up for it baby? I don’t wanna hurt you..” Interrupting you, he pulls your face down to his into a bruising kiss.

“Never been more sure of anythin’ in my life doll, I don’ care if I lost both of my fucking legs there’s nothin’ I’d rather do than be inside ya.”

You lift yourself off of his leg, embarrassed by the wet patch, his reaction opposite as he whistles at the mark, roughly palming himself through the material.

You take his hand in yours as you guide him off the chair, he stumbles a little, muttering to himself an abundance of curse words, as you help him into your bedroom. He sits on the edge of your bed as you kneel down to help take his confines off, unbuckling his belt for him as he places both of his hands on your cheek, kissing your forehead. You reach down and take your small tank and pull it over your head and slip your shorts down your body and toss them to the other side of the room.

After wrestling with the fabric, you slip the denim down his legs, and then his boxers, leaving you with his thick, throbbing member only mere inches from your face. You’re both naked now as the days you were born. You get comfy on your knees and take it in your hand, he can't help throwing his head back, knowing what's coming.

You place your thick lips around the head of his cock, licking up his pre-cum. You begin bobbing your head, humming at the heaviness of his member in your mouth. His arms move to put his hands in your hair.

“Shit baby just like that, you’re fuckin’ perfect.”

Lifting your head up and down in a slow, passionate way, you swirl your tongue around his sex, enjoying the symphony of groans coming from his mouth. He helps with the pace, maneuvering your head softly on his cock. You continue for a few minutes as he taps your chin to get your attention.

“C’mere doll, need you now.”

He lies back on the bed slowly, on his side where the fewest of the injuries sat. You join him, carefully situating yourself in front of him, placing your back to his chest. Apprehensive of your position, you look to his face to try and sense if you’re causing him any discomfort. You look into his eyes and you see nothing but lust and adoration. You know he’s feeling fine.

He reaches down to his throbbing cock, taking the base of it and pushing the tip through your slick folds, collecting juices as lubrication. You whine as he passes your clit, kissing and sucking in the crook of your neck. He pushes down to meet your entrance.

“Tight squeeze now baby shh.. You can take it.”

Pushing inside of you agonisingly slow, your hand reaches behind your head to his, pushing your fingers through his short hair, pulling him into you, deeply exhaling as you feel the full eight inches inside of you, the head kissing your cervix.

Frank fucks you slowly, knowing his body couldn’t handle anymore than this. The long, deep and passionate thrusts have you moaning his name as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear. The pleasure for him is elevated by his pain in his injuries, oddly enough, but he always knew he had a masochistic side to him. 

Sex with him like this you’ve always held close to your heart, the passion as he pours his love into with each individual thrust, time stands still and there is nothing in the world but you and him, making love in such an intimate way.

His free hand is situated on your waist and the other is under the crook of your neck, on your breast. He moves the hand from your waist to your throat, gently squeezing and your eyes roll to the back of your head. His teeth and lips delicately grazing the back of your neck, his breaths erupting goosebumps on your skin while his cock fills you to the brim with every push of it. It’s not long before you’re coming undone with him inside of you as deep as he is, pushing your spongy spot so sensationally. 

“That’s it baby, you feel so fucking good stuffed with my cock like this. I love ya honey, lemme feel you gush around me.”

His words push you over the edge into a shaking orgasm, trying your best to stifle your movements to not hurt him. The quickness of your orgasm approaching is ironic considering the slow pace of which you’re being fucked. He continues this way, fucking you so tenderly, pulling himself almost fully and then pushing himself back into you fully, feeling your dripping cream on his balls. 

You both stay like this for a while, slowly fucking for, what feels like, a few hours, losing count of the amount of orgasms you have both shared. He would finish, draining his cock with an abundance of cum each time, cockwarm inside of you for a few minutes until he’s rock hard again ready for the next round. Boty of you are so addicted to the feeling, the sensation of being as close as humanly possible that it's almost impossible to stop. Neither of you realise how much time has passed or how long you’ve been here like this, until you see the sun rising past your curtains. The sight paints the room with beautiful shades of oranges and reds, illuminating your bodies in such tantalising ways.

You giggle to yourself at the realisation of how long you two were going for, and you look back at him and he’s smiling too. That perfect, cocky smile. It had felt like 2 hours tops you were there, interlocked, but time always flies when you’re with him (as corny as it sounds). He places little kisses along the side of your head, his arms pulling you even closer, suffocating you with his grip.

“You always take such good care of me, sweet girl. I dunno what I did to deserve ya.” he whispers into your hair. He pulls his semi-hard cock out of you, and goes to get up but you stop him.

“Just a little longer, please? Just wanna lie like this for a while more.”

He chuckles, getting back into position, 

“Of course doll, not like we’ve been here for hours or nothin’..”

His sarcasm makes you laugh as you look over your shoulder, checking the condition of his injured body. Somehow all of his bandages are still intact, not really having moved all night. You sigh in relief as you cosy into him, starting to feel your eyelids grow heavier as you fall into a deep sleep, waking up for a second about 10 minutes later to the sensation of a warm washcloth between your legs.

“Just cleaning you up doll, won’t be two minutes.” he whispers, cleaning your mixed juices from you before tossing the towel into your wash basket as he resumes the spooning, pulling you into his chest.

“I was supposed to be taking care of you Frankie, not the other way round.” you mumble, sighing and yawning.

He chuckles, kissing you on your cheek,

“Shh darlin’, go back to sleep. You took such good care of me already ya hear me? Wanted ya to be comfortable.”

You hum at his words and within seconds you’re sound asleep again.

“I love ya sweetheart, so much.” he softly utters into your ear as he joins you in deep sleep.

a/n: im not gonna lie yall, i couldnt think of a name for this for the life of me so please don't be surprised if it changes lol. i hope u enjoyed!!

my inbox is open!

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Have you done headcanons about how the pines brothers(Stan and Ford) eat pussy before? :0

꒰ Stan & Ford making a meal outta you hcs ꒱

a/n: i regret nothing. i literally spent like 5 days writing this lmao + listen, if we have Stan & Ford bj headcanons, it's only fair we get Stan & Ford eating pussy hcs too, right?? anyways this is absolutely porn. i fought cringe and i won!! now i’m free to be as cringe as i want!!!

warning: nsfw!!

STANFORD

ᝰ.ᐟ he was SO awkward the first time. fidgety. fumbling. “am i doing it right? oh dear, i— tell me, please.” while your legs were literally shaking because he accidentally hit the right spot with his nerd mouth

ᝰ.ᐟ you have to guide him. gentle hand on his hair. soft praise. “right there, baby, just like that, don’t stop. yes, god, that’s perfect!” and he WHINES into your cunt like he’s found a portal to the fifth dimension idkk

ᝰ.ᐟ so eventually Ford learns and memorizes what each of your gasps mean. over time he builds a mental database of what little sighs = need more pressure, what whimpers = overstimulation, what shudders = keep going, keep going, don’t stop

ᝰ.ᐟ he is addicted. i mean Ford becomes obsessed with the idea of making you shake on his mouth

ᝰ.ᐟ i always hc that Ford is very sensual lover so he intertwines his fingers with yours during sex in general. and eating his sweetheart out is no exception. even when he's too busy to undress you properly or when he’s kneeling and can barely reach, Ford grasps your hand in his, squeezes it and holds you. he loves when you squeeze his hand when you cum

ᝰ.ᐟ he gets so overwhelmed by your taste, rutting his hips into the air like he’s suffering because he loves it too much

ᝰ.ᐟ also loves overstimulating you. like, gets you off once and then doesn't stop. pins your hips down with one arm and keeps eating you until you’re clawing at his hair, sobbing, begging for mercy

ᝰ.ᐟ kisses your clit after he's done with you<3 soft, delicate kisses like thank you thank you thank you, bc he’s grateful you let him worship you!!

ᝰ.ᐟ dont get me wrong, he’ll kiss your mouth after too. sloppy and gentle, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. he blushes about it afterward but loves it

ᝰ.ᐟ ABSOLUTELY eats you during research breaks. like he's been holed up in the basement for twelve hours, comes upstairs glassy-eyed and exhausted, yanks you onto a table and gorges himself on your pussy like it’s his only nourishment

ᝰ.ᐟ im sure he would love to eat you standing up, that's like. . . the first thought that comes to my mind. wants you standing, gripping onto a bookshelf, table or wall, and he's just kneeling below you, big hands on your hips keeping you still, burying his face in you shamelessly. bonus point if you interrupt him like that during one of his science projects. if you'll just show up at the door, wearing only his sweater and nothing underneath. he'll get the hint immediately

ᝰ.ᐟ Ford was so shy about his extra fingers at first. hesitating when you begged him to use them. “they’re— im sorry, they’re different, i might hurt you.” but you insisted. and he trusted you enough to try, so once he saw you crying and grabbing the sheets because he could reach places inside you that no one else ever could?? he became a menace. you actually gave him more confidence about his extra fingers

ᝰ.ᐟ so now he absolutely loves to scissor you open so perfectly you feel like you're breaking apart. he thrusts them deep slowly, curling them up until your stomach tightens and you cry his name

ᝰ.ᐟ PLUS loves dragging one extra finger across your clit while still eating you just to see you spasm harder

ᝰ.ᐟ he accidentally made you squirt once and then spent two hours taking notes on how he did it, yeah, Ford tell us ur secret

ᝰ.ᐟ prefers to do two things at once. licking you and fingering you deep and perfectly at the same time, curling his fingers up against your soft walls while he sucks the clit into his mouth hard. he learned this move studying you obsessively.

ᝰ.ᐟ hehehe loves when you trap his head there. he wants to get smothered.

ᝰ.ᐟ whines softly against your pussy when he’s close to cumming untouched from how sweet you taste!!! nerd.

ᝰ.ᐟ he gets dizzy when you call him good boy while he’s down there. at first he blushes and fumbles, but the first time you whimper “good boy, Ford, just like that, baby” he shudders so violently and groans in response

ᝰ.ᐟ since he's very sensual and tender lover, he also kisses down your whole body before getting there. slow and torturous. he starts with your neck, then your chest, pausing to mouth at your nipples, worshipping, then goes to your stomach, then kisses the inside of your hips before he even thinks about touching your clit. Ford talks between kisses, too. like murmuring little praises against your skin. “so beautiful. so soft”

ᝰ.ᐟ when he accidentally makes you squirt, Ford gets so obsessed with it he feels like a total pervert. the first time he’s using his fingers inside you and licking at the same time like a man possessed, and suddenly you’re gasping and flooding his mouth, and poor Ford just stares up at you stunned with his whole face dripping like “fascinating! i- was that?? made you-?” he looks SO proud. im sure he wants to print out a certificate and hang it on the wall

ᝰ.ᐟ he's lowkey addicted to the way your thighs tremble. you’ll feel his big hands gripping you harder whenever you start squirming, because he loves making you feel so weak you can't even stay upright

ᝰ.ᐟ sometimes he pulls your legs over his shoulders and just ruts his hips into the bed while eating you. he’s moaning into your cunt, getting himself off from the sheer act of tasting you. and. . . you don't even realize it at first, until you feel the mattress shaking under you and realize this man is grinding wildly into nothing like a desperate dog

ᝰ.ᐟ he uses his fucking smart tongue so good. . . mapping you out and teasing every inch. focusing carefully on your clit for long, overwhelming stretches until you’re shaking and he’s just murmuring, “you can take more, darling, just a little more for me, yes?”

ᝰ.ᐟ Ford loves to observe so he sometimes tugs your knees open wider without saying a word. especially when you’re shy. he loves gently but firmly spreading you, baring you completely, staring for some agonising seconds with those hungry eyes before ducking back in with a desperate groan

ᝰ.ᐟ Ford gets breathless when he eats you out. poor boy working so hard to please you that he’s short of air and it makes his mouth sloppier, wetter, hotter.

ᝰ.ᐟ he gets so into it he forgets time exists. you have to physically pull him off sometimes. lips puffy, eyes glazed, hair a mess. and he looks up, raising his eyebrows “did i do something wrong?”

ᝰ.ᐟ he leaves marks WITHOUT realising. for example, suction bruises on your inner thighs

ᝰ.ᐟ will write about it later in his personal journal. entry titled ‘reactions observed from beloved subject during intimate oral exploration’

ᝰ.ᐟ he loves when you guide his head, push it deeper. tell him he’s good. tell him he’s yours. call him your genius, your good boy. he eats it up, literally and figuratively

ᝰ.ᐟ he's pretty strong, so once he gets into his pussy drunk state, he pulls your thighs wide apart and pushes them to your chest. gets his shoulders under them so you can’t move. so he can eat you with his whole face

ᝰ.ᐟ Ford wants you above him. sitting on his face. so he can grip your thighs and keep you there. grind on his mouth and smother him. he’ll edge himself while he does it. sometimes doesn’t even let himself cum because you always just cum first

ᝰ.ᐟ he wants to make you cry from pleasure. not just cum. cry. shuddering, sobbing, overstimmed, shaking all over, with your legs twitching and your fingers buried in his silver hair. that’s his goal. every time.

ᝰ.ᐟ and when he’s done, he pants against your cunt and asks “did i do well? will you let me again? please?”

STANLEY

ᝰ.ᐟ ohh that man dives in like a fucking dog who found a steak in the trash

ᝰ.ᐟ Stan believes eating pussy is a man's duty and pride. he thinks it’s the hottest thing in the world. he doesn't even expect anything back half the time, he just wants to see you all needy and desperate for him

ᝰ.ᐟ in fact, is obsessed with it. he will eat you out on the COUCH. in the BACKSEAT. in the SHOWER. standing in the KITCHEN because “lemme get my mouth on that sweet thing, c’mon. been thinking about you all damn day.”

ᝰ.ᐟ he doesn’t care about being sloppy. i mean, he WANTS to be messy. soak his face, give him that mess. he’ll rub his nose against your clit and grin when you moan. he likes to talk with his mouth full

ᝰ.ᐟ he’s so good at it. like scary good. like make-you-cry good. because. . . Stan actually gives a shit. he listens, watches your face, keeps his tongue right where you twitch and he’ll tease you like “right there, huh? that’s the spot? i could do this all night, baby”

ᝰ.ᐟ “some folks just go for the clit. amateurs.” he knows how to tease, so when he's in the right mood, he starts slow. lips kissing up your thighs. tongue barely grazing you. he won’t even touch your pussy at first. he’ll hover there, warm breath on your folds, smirking. “you want it, huh? say it. beg me.”

ᝰ.ᐟ gets so fucking cocky when you squirm. you try to close your legs and he just pins them wide with his elbows and keeps licking, “nuh-uh, baby. don’t run from it now. lemme take care of you.”

ᝰ.ᐟ such a fucking tease tbh. he wants you spread out and begging. makes soft licks, hot breath, little kisses so close but not quite until you're whimpering “please Stan, please touch me.” then he grins so wide and dives in

ᝰ.ᐟ he talks while eating. "fuck baby, you’re so sweet—mmph— keep makin’ them sounds, huh? you like ridin’ my tongue, don’t ya? greedy little thing.” god, Stan never shuts up. just keeps mouthing at your clit between sentences

ᝰ.ᐟ “that’s it, baby. drip all over my fuckin' face. yeah, you miss me, huh? missed this mouth, didn’t ya?”

ᝰ.ᐟ slaps your thighs mid-act. that usually means “stay still, sweetheart, lemme do my job.” in his language

ᝰ.ᐟ he’ll pull you down onto his mouth, slap your cheeks, moan into your folds like he’s drowning and he loves it!!

ᝰ.ᐟ Stan grinds into the mattress sometimes while he’s doing it. gets so turned on that he humps the sheets like a teenage boy

ᝰ.ᐟ kisses your thighs after. “damn, you’re delicious. gimme five minutes, ill do it again.” he means it, you know it

ᝰ.ᐟ uh. . . imagine him dragging your panties down with his teeth, grinning at you the whole time

ᝰ.ᐟ and then shoving your thighs apart roughly before he eats you. loves to pick you up, set you down on the bed, and manhandle your legs open without giving you time to be shy. “lemme see that pretty little thing, doll, c’mon.”

ᝰ.ᐟ absolutely shoves your panties in his pocket after eating you out <3

ᝰ.ᐟ buries his face so deep you think you might suffocate him, but. . . he literally doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. he will drown in you happily!!

ᝰ.ᐟ loves eating you while you’re still wearing half your clothes. theres just smth hot about it, like he couldn’t wait long enough to get you fully naked. shirt bunched up, panties shoved to the side, pants around one ankle, etc

ᝰ.ᐟ oh boy, he sucks on your sensitive clit in little pulsing motions and that makes your toes curl and your hips buck. and he LAUGHS when you try to wiggle away, like “nah-uh, baby, stay right there”

ᝰ.ᐟ gets so drunk on your taste. . . genuinely slurring afterwards, dazed and happy, wiping his chin with the back of his hand “fuuuck baby, you taste better than anythin’ in this world”

ᝰ.ᐟ licks you slow and teasing when you’re being bratty. like if you mouth off at him he’ll go extra slow, keeping you on edge for hours just to punish you, refusing to let you cum until you’re sobbing and begging

ᝰ.ᐟ will literally fuck you with his mouth, Stanley makes a fucking mess every time and your whole lower half is drenched

ᝰ.ᐟ he grunts into your pussy when you pull his hair. gosh just imagine hearing that “mmfhh, goddamn, yeahh” sound. id cry

ᝰ.ᐟ sometimes cums untouched while eating you. especially if you praise him because man's got a heavy praise kink “good boy, such a good boy for me, Stan, just like that” he whimpers against you and next thing you know he’s cumming in his pants

ᝰ.ᐟ if he’s eating you bent over, he’s slapping your ass every other second. “c’mon, baby, stay still— slap— fuck, you taste so good—slap—don’t run from me now, sweetheart” while laughing under his breath when you squeal

ᝰ.ᐟ eats you even when he’s drunk. like, you’re trying to get him to come to bed and he’s got his face between your thighs, half-dozing off, still licking you lazily while mumbling against you, “mm. . . just a little taste, baby, lemme finish my dessert first”

ᝰ.ᐟ absolutely loves to do it during a movie night. just casually slides down his armchair, spreads your legs over his shoulders, eats you under the blanket while the TV flickers <33 romantic isnt it? Stan craves physical closeness so he wants your thighs around his ears, your heels digging into his back, your fingers twisted in his hair

ᝰ.ᐟ hear me out okay?. . . uh, mullet!Stan + tongue-piercing?? he definitely thinks about getting a tongue piercing at some point just to “drive you crazy, doll”

ᝰ.ᐟ anyways, honestly if you’re loud he will double down on how hard he sucks and licks just to keep it going

ᝰ.ᐟ and if you're into it: slaps your clit before starting. just a little teasing smack<3

ᝰ.ᐟ sometimes i look at this man and think. . . he loves to eat it from the back. Stan likes to pull your hips up, spread you wide, growl into your folds. he makes your thighs shake and your knees buckle as you’re gasping and trying not to collapse under him

ᝰ.ᐟ in most cases, he jerks himself off while he eats you out

ᝰ.ᐟ im sure he's a face sitting guy. i mean they both are, but Stan's not that shy to ask you to do it. literally begs you to ride his face. grabs your hips and drags you down onto him, smirking up at you, “c’mon, baby, sit on me, lemme taste you proper.” and dont even try to whine about your weight or that you're shy or whatever. Stan doesn't really care and he's pretty strong enough to hold you.

ᝰ.ᐟ it's not just “he lets you ride his face” NAH, STAN ENCOURAGES IT. and bounces his hips up while you grind down onto his mouth, groaning into you because you’re the best meal he’s ever had!!!

ᝰ.ᐟ and he keeps slapping your ass every time you try to pull away. because, “nope, you’re staying right here, princess”

ᝰ.ᐟ tell you what, he’ll literally order you to “fuck his face”. “c'mon sweetheart, ride it. don't be shy now.” while grinding you down onto his tongue until you can’t even think straight

ᝰ.ᐟ he’s tongue-fucking you stupid

ᝰ.ᐟ and i think he loves cleaning you up with his tongue after you squirt, if you did

ᝰ.ᐟ sucks your clit like he’s trying to drink you dry 😭 idkk, i don't make the rules. he's got no mercy and he's ruthless. he’ll tongue you hard and messy, then back off and spit right onto your clit to make it even wetter, then suck again

ᝰ.ᐟ prefers to stay between your legs after you cum. Stan doesn’t pull away immediately. he licks you through the aftershocks, chuckling when you twitch and whimper from overstimulation

ᝰ.ᐟ uhh. . . sometimes he eats you out just because he’s horny. i mean, not even to get sex out of it. just because he needs to taste you or hear you moan. he just wants to make you feel good

ᝰ.ᐟ listen listen!! Stan 100% leaves handprints on your ass. after eating you out bent over the desk, the mirror, the back of his car. whatever. you look later and there’s full red handprints where he gripped you to spread you open

ᝰ.ᐟ of course, he fingers you while eating but he's more rough (or better word, desperate and passionate) about it. shoving thick fingers deep, twisting them while he tongues your clit, making you arch and wail for him

ᝰ.ᐟ Stan will bite the inside of your thighs during it, that's what im 100% sure of. like soft little sharp nips to leave marks. then grins proudly at them later like “my pretty thing all marked up for me.”

ᝰ.ᐟ he’ll put one arm across your belly to hold you down. needs to feel you squirm under him. he loves when you say “Stan, too much—please” and he just goes “nah, baby, not done yet.”

ᝰ.ᐟ afterwards, he lights a cigarette, and says “you’re gonna marry me, right?”

[sturnsstars]

a little longer - gdragon

authors note: first time writing for gd, i hope its okay. ngl this thought randomly popped into my head yesterday so i have to write it… also i feel like jiyong is super whimpery in bed when he’s being topped?

tags: smut no plot, men whimpering, blowjob, head pushing, slight throat fucking, cum eating

I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MEDIA YOU CONSUME.

your cheeks were starting to get sore from sucking them in, your lower jaw having a sting to it. you kept your hands steady on ji-yongs thighs that were spread to let you sit in between them, fingertips gently pressing into the skin that had ink under the layers, making slight indents into the plush muscle.

“jagiya- oh god…” ji-yong whispered through an exhale, his chest jerking up every so often whenever he inhaled with a stutter, unable to help himself from the subtle twitches and squirms his body made.

your mouth left a quarter of room to fit your hand around the base of his cock, occasionally tightening your hand around him, just to hear him squeal out a noise that could be considered pathetic.

“slow down- slow…” ji-yong was practically begging you, but you couldnt help it. he just looked so good in that recent photoshoot, you needed to show him how it made you feel. the way his tattoos were peaking out through the mesh shirt, the leather pants, his hair messy. all of it.

while he was begging you to slow down, his hips were rutting upward into your mouth and casing the feeling, making you squeeze your eyes shut tighter when you felt his hot and aching tip kissing the back of your throat, focusing on your breathing while ji-yong was focusing on trying not to come too early from the way your tongue felt on the underside of his dick.

you just barely calmed your actions, loosening your grip around his girthy base, easing the suction in your cheeks, a small and shaky sigh of relief leaving ji-yong. ji-yongs hand gently rested on the back of your head that was raising and lowering in a medium and rhythmic pace, his thumb caressing it for a second before his body tensed up slightly.

“dont stop… m’so- oh…” you casually glanced up at ji-yong when he informed you that he was close to coming, his head leaned back against the almost comically large and expensive bed frame he had, his adam’s apple raising every time he managed to squeeze out a mewl of some sort; high pitched, low pitched, breathy.

you took in a deep breath through your nose, almost like you were preparing yourself for his release, the ticklish feeling of his cum shooting down the warm and gummy walls of your throat, when he pushed down on the back of your head, your lips bumping into your fingers that were still enclosing his cock. what you got in return, was his tip stretching the space, making you choke and hum in shock, the feeling of it making ji-yong teeter on the edge of his orgasm.

“oh fuck- hm-mm… m’sorry aegiya-ah.. a-a little longer…” ji-yong’s head fell forward, his face scrunched up, just as much as his body tensed, keeping your head down on his cock as you sucked, his abdomen flexing as you felt the almost unnoticeable twitch of his dick, your throat feeling sticky as his cum shot into your mouth, a long string of pants and whines and moans in your ears, sounds you would never get tired of.

when ji-yongs body finally relaxed and he was stuck on a panting spree, you slowly lifted your head, making sure to keep your lips around him until you reached the end of his tip, pulling off with a loud and wet ‘pop’ that broke the heavy and thick atmosphere in the bedroom.

you took a deep swallow, his cum coating your throat as it went down, your hand gently releasing its grip on his cock to gently stroke it up and down, your fingertips coated with the saliva-cum mixture that veiled over him. you sat upright on your knees, your eyes stuck on his face; how relieved he looked. little did he know, you were sliding your panties to the side to get ready to ride him until your legs gave out.

[sawmaw]

yay humpday!

🫀 floyd leech x (fem) reader

🫀 sub floyd, dry humping, exhibitionism(? idk), does this count as body worship?? i never know what im doing ok

🫀 note: yeah another stitch event one shut up shut upppppp dont look at me ok. the event rerun had me thinking “wait….. the clothes not being able to come off….. it’s……… actually fire…?” so i wrote this in an hour at four in the morning and you can tell. promise i’ll write something else soon. probably. shut up!!!!!!

Soft panting and beads clanking together filled the air in the bungalow, the room pitch black save for the yellow glow from Floyd’s eye as he desperately rut against your ass through your shorts.

His arm was wrapped around your neck to pin you back to his chest, his mindless pace never slowing despite the pain in his knees from the wooden floors.

“I want it off, I want ’em off…” he murmured, his free hand uselessly trying again to pull your shorts down to no avail—this stupid island made it impossible to take the shorts off. It wasn’t fair; everyone else was able to take off their shirts at most, but it wouldn’t even let yours budge. It wasn’t fair! How could it put you in that outfit, your tits practically spilling out from your top, your shorts just a bit too cheeky, thighs bare for him to look at all day and then not let him take any of it off?

He whined, pulling back to watch his cock straining in his shorts as he humped you.

“Shush.” you whispered, looking back at him over your shoulder. “If anyone wakes up, I’ll kill you.”

You’re only letting him do this in a room full of sleeping people because he was so annoying about it the past three days. He’d ask, he’d beg, he’d grope you any chance he’d get, he’d pull you aside and try to eat you out through your shorts, he’d have you sit on his face, he’d had an almost constant hard-on the entire time you’ve been on the island, constantly tugging at his waistband just to see if maybe this time it’ll work… You almost felt sorry for him.

“I’m tryna, Shrimpy…” His grip on your hips tightened and his pace grew rougher, precum leaking through the fabric. “I want inside…”

He always wanted inside. Always wanted to feel you wrapped around his cock, to feel your walls twitch and squeeze, to remind him how perfectly he fit, like he was made for you and only you.

But he couldn’t, and it was frustrating as much as it was achingly painful.

His touch wandered up your hips, over your sides, up your midriff so he could squeeze and knead at your plush tits through your top. Everything about them was perfect to him. They’re so soft, so comfortable, so pretty, he loved the beautiful imperfections, he loved when you’d reward him with a titjob when he’s been particularly good, he loved suckling on them while you’d slowly grind on his dick.

Floyd let out a shaky moan, letting his body drape over your arched back. “Shrimpy’s so pretty…” he mumbled. “Pretty face, pretty tits, pretty ass, pretty thighs…”

He shifted on his knees and brought a hand down between your thighs, fingers rubbing your cunt in time with his thrusts. He was pleasantly surprised with the soft gasp it elicited from you, the seam in your shorts hit against your clit just right.

He immediately perked up.

“Ahah, I gotcha makin’ a noise?” he drawled. He leaned back, gripping your waist with the other hand so he could pound himself against your flesh, soft plaps of skin-on-skin (and fabric-on-fabric) audible.

You bit at your lip to keep your noises at bay, head resting in your arms on the floor. “Floyd, sh-shut up and keep going.” you hissed, hips subconsciously bouncing back with his movements.

He panted heavily, precum freely leaking out through his clothes and onto yours. His middle finger repeatedly pressed the seam into your clit, pace picking up. “I’m doing g-good, right? I’m being a good boy, Shrimpy?”

You only nodded in response, thighs clamping together around his hand as you felt the coil in your core tighten. Your breath was heavy, yet nowhere near as loud as his—you still had some mindfulness for everyone around them.

He never would, though.

“I really like you…” he giggled, eyes fluttering the closer he got. “Sh-Shrimpy—“

“Not isn’t the t-time to run your mouth.”

“Can’t, I can’t, you feel so good—“ He gasped, his pace growing sloppy and uncoordinated, his finger pressing harder. “I c-can’t help it, I can’t help—Gonna cum—“

The hand on your waist absentmindedly moved up to press on your back, pinning your upper body to the floor. “Are you—Are you gonna cum with me, Shrimpy?” he whined, his cock staining and pulsing beneath the fabric.

“Be q-quiet—“ You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the blood rushing throughout your body with each press of his finger on your clit.

“Please—Please cum with me, Shrimpy, I’ve b-been trying so hard to be good, I need it, please—“ His babbling was cut short with a gasp, his hips giving a few harsh pounds against you as he came, white shooting from beneath the fabric and oozing into the back of your shorts.

Your own orgasm crashed over you at the same time, body tensing fully and eyes rolling up with your teeth biting down hard on your lip to keep yourself silent.

Left panting, Floyd collapsed forward onto you. It really wasn’t enough, it wasn’t what he wanted, what he needed, but it would have to do for the moment. He nuzzled into the back of your neck, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of his cum-soaked fabric against his skin. “Shrimpy…”

“Shut it. You were way too loud.” you grumbled, too unbothered to squirm beneath his heavy body crushing you. You didn’t even want to think about how you were supposed to go about the stains on your clothes.

“We’re fiiine, nobody woke up.”

The moment those words left Floyd’s mouth, a subtle rustling was heard nearby in the room and Ace’s head popped up from the sea of half-a-dozen other people, his face red and tired and unamused. “Nope, somebody’s definitely up.”

A silence washed over the three, your and Floyd’s eyes wide. After a few beats, Floyd mumbled, “‘Night, Crabby.”

“Hey, don’t just ‘night’ me—“

“‘Night, Crabby.”

[revelboo]

As a monster (specifically alien) appreciator (understatement of the century), never thought I could go beyond or any deeper into the abyss but lo and behold... I've the hots for a robot that changes into a city 😅

Srsly, I never even considered him and just thought aww last titan rest now pookie you worked hard but noooo... your writings just had to change that..who's next? Primus?! (affectionate) (also that'd be awesome ngl.. if anyone could write an x reader fic with Primus its you srsly. Dont stop at a robot that changes into a city, go for the planet lol)

Istg I started for purely Meg and Op but you're making me look at... literally every bot in the TF franchise HOW DO YOU DO THIS? WHAT IS THIS WITCHCRAFT?

Never stop creating though take lots of rest and hydrate daily, am just one fan but know that we will defend you and love you to the death 🤺 thank you so much for existing (not parasocial) 🛐🛐

🤣 I’m doing my job if you read something for a character you don’t even like or never considered and then go ‘oh, no. They’re fuckable.’

🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Need

ES Starscream

• Gasping as an arm curls around you and you’re pulled back into your mass displaced Seeker, you didn’t even hear him sneak up on you. Heart racing, you try to figure out how he can be so damn silent when he wants to be and you feel him press his face against the back of your neck, venting to stir your hair. “Bad day?” You ask, reaching up an arm and he clears his vents aggressively, pressing his cheek against your palm.

• Bad is an understatement. Normally, he can talk about it, vent to you. But this? Running into Megatron unexpectedly has left him shaken. Because underneath the attitude and bravado, he’s still afraid and he hates it. “I need you,” he growls. Needs a distraction, to take that jittery edge off.

• Know that tone. He ran into Megatron again. “I’m right here,” you whisper, turning in his arms and pulling his head down. Going up on tiptoe to kiss him as his hands impatiently start stripping you. Know he’s going to take out that frustration and anger on you, that he might get a little rough with you. And that he’ll feel guilty afterward even though you never complain. “I’m not going anywhere.” Heart aching for what he’s been through. He’s only shared bits and pieces, but it’s enough to know that he’d suffered at Megatron’s hands.

• Why do you have to wear so many layers of coverings? Stripping you, he spins you and bends you over the human sized berth he’d made for you before he’d started demanding you sleep with him where he can hear you, feel you and know you’re safe. Palm sliding down your spine, he cups you. Spears a servo inside you, stroking impatiently as you grow slick for him. And then freeing his spike to stretch you in a slow, deliberate drive of his hips. “This is mine,” he snarls, hips pumping as his servos curl against your hips.

• Moaning, your fingers fist in your blankets. Hearing his aggressive rumbling growls, feeling the heat of him against your back as his wings flare. And if you’re his, then he’s definitely yours. Broken and awful as he can be, you need him like he needs you. You’re not even sure you can fix him or that you should try, those ragged edges as much a part of him as his spark. Spike driving deep as his hips snap against you, he’s almost too rough. Urgently rutting against you, ruthlessly driving you to that peak and you’re aware that you’re mindlessly begging for it.

• Moving against you, his mouth and denta skim the back of your shoulder. Feels you tighten on him, trembling as you come apart and he bites with a groan, denta gripping your shoulder as he keeps thrusting. Riding it out as long as he can before he’s overloading, filling you as you slump under him and he follows you down mindful of his weight. Feeling your heart racing as he keeps rocking lazily against you just to make you fist his spike before dragging his glossa against the marks his denta left on your soft skin. “Want to talk about it?” You ask, voice shaky and soft and he presses his helm against the back of your shoulder. Not yet. Doesn’t want that mech’s name to taint this, because this is his and no one will take it or you from him.

[moody-alcoholic]

hi moody i know you dont take requests... i have so many ideas but since im not a writer they get forgotten..i just wanna tell you this idea so maybe you can use it somehow in future as a one shot or a mini fic or dont use it at all its all up to you of course

it could be poly 141tf or ghoap or any pair

reader is a member of the 141 ... recently she Found out she is pregnant but knowing the risks that comes with the job and how the boys aren't maybe ready to have kids she's afraid to tell them.. eventually she tries to tell them multiple times but always something comes up like an urgent situation and they tell her we can talk after or something like that..and they go on a mission wich the reader gets kidnapped in...so one day when they visit her room they find a pregnancy ultrasound👀so how would they react and how are they gonna save her knowing they can lose both her and their baby? and knowing they could have prevented this by letting her talk the last time 👀

I'm chewing on the bars of my enclosure rn..

The angst the beautiful, sexy angst. You caught me at the perfect time, I've just been stuck in a 2 week rut and I need to write anything other then my main projects.

So here is a thing, I can't help myself it had to be poly 141 and there is probably going to be a second part....

CW: kidnapping, pregnancy.

___

The house is quiet. 

Price knew something was wrong the second he put the key in the door. Ghost knew as soon as he pulled up into the drive. Johnny and Gaz seemed to be too invested in the footy they started watching half way home to really pay attention. 

When the door to the house is opened and you’re not there to greet them, that's when their attention changes from the premier league. Ghost comes up to stand next to Price who looks at him quickly before taking a tentative step inside calling out for you. 

Gaz’s phone is in his pocket as they all look into the dark house. Maybe you’re asleep, it’s happened before; they’ve come home to a cold dark house and found you asleep in bed with your headphones in. Ghost walks in next, his hand brushes over his holster - it’s empty. 

You don’t like guns in the house, not that they don’t have weapons stashed in strategic places for instances just like this one. 

“Shit.” Price says as he turns the light on in the kitchen. Everyone moves up to see, the place is a mess. Food is left out on the counter, vegetables half chopped. The back door is broken, the bottom half swinging open in the wind. 

“Shite.” Johnny says from the back. Price bends down and picks something up when he stands back up he places it on the kitchen island. It makes Ghost’s stomach sink, there's blood on the knife. Ghost watches as John clenches his jaw before looking up at them all. 

“Search the place.” He says keeping his voice firm and level. No one needs to be told twice, everyone turns back into the entrance hall. Johnny’s already on his knees opening the ‘broken’ chest in the hall. The one they always say they’ll fix one day so you can store the winter clothes in it. 

Johnny reaches in and pulls out a weapon and a mag, handing it to Gaz who turns handing it to Ghost. He loads the pistol pulling the barrel back and walks into the kitchen to hand it to Price who’s shouting orders at someone down the phone. Probably Laswell, he nods at Ghost who leaves it on the kitchen island. 

He looks down at the knife, he hopes that's not your blood, by the state of the kitchen you had just started preparing to cook which means it’s been a few hours, 2 or 3 at least. 

“Ghost!” He spins hearing Johnny call him. They both have weapons in their hands Johnny is holding one out for him. He nods at them but lets Soap take the lead, he is the best of them.

It’s methodical, clean. They move in silence only communicating when they need to. It feels strange doing this in their own house, their home. Ghost holds his breath as each door of the second floor is slowly pushed open and Soap and Gaz step in to clear it.

Everytime he hopes they call out that they’ve found you. He hopes that they’re just overreacting and you’re asleep, safe. When they make it to the last door Ghost’s hope fades. 

Now they know the house is clear they need to look for anything that can help them find out who has you and where you are. Ghost orders them to search a room each, he turns into your room. The place is a mess, books pulled off the shelves, drawers opened and papers thrown around. 

It makes his stomach sink, they were obviously looking for something so he sticks his head into Price’s office. That place is a mess too, they wouldn’t have found anything though, not with the military grade security measures he has in place. 

He goes back into your room holstering his weapon and looking around at the places they missed. They even pulled the clothes out of your wardrobe, he can’t see any blood though, that has to be a good sign at least. 

The only place they seemed to have missed is your bedside table. He bends down to open it, when he does his heart stops. For a split second he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. He lets out an audible gasp before reaching into take out the black and white ultrasound image. 

Maybe it’s your friend? You said there was a pregnant girl at your work. He sees your name on the top of the picture though, it’s dated from today too. He looks back in the drawer seeing two - three positive pregnancy tests. 

He looks back at the scan, he has no idea what way is up or what he’s really looking at. He turns it over in his hand and sees written in pen; 6 weeks. He almost laughs, his head starts to swim. You’re pregnant, you didn’t tell them, he looks back at the black and white scan. Maybe you didn’t know it is dated from today. 

“LT?” Johnny’s voice snaps him out of his head and he turns to look at him. Johnny’s good at knowing what Simon is thinking under the Ghost mask. A worried look falls over his face and he steps into the room. Ghost's not sure what to say. He's just holding the photo as Johnny frowns, taking it out his hand. 

Johnny looks at it for a few seconds. It feels like hours. “Holy shit!” Johnny looks up beaming at Ghost.

“Gaz!” He calls, a second later Gaz appears in the doorway. Johnny rushes over to him, Ghost watches as he slaps Gaz on the shoulder showing him the picture. 

“Holy shit.” Gaz says smiling while looking up at Johnny. They throw their arms around each other, suddenly Ghost realises he hasn’t moved and swallows the lump rising in his throat. When they break from the hug Gaz and Johnny turn to look at him. 

“Crap, we have to tell John.” Johnny says. 

“Never mind John, what about him?” Gaz says nodding towards him. Ghost closes his mouth, he didn’t realise it was open. 

“Fuck, I think he’s in shock.” Johnny says smiling as he walks over. 

“Is that even possible?” Gaz scoffs. Johnny’s hand lands on his shoulder, he squeezes looking directly in his eyes. 

“You’re going to be a dad.” Johnny says smiling. “We’re all going to be dads.” He says looking around the room the picture of the scan still in his hands. 

“Never mind that. We’ve got more important things to worry about Johnny.” Ghost says, trying to keep his voice level. He can’t freak out now. You’re missing, they need to find you. He shakes it off, clearing his throat. 

“Damn right! Got 2 people to save now.” Johnny says, pushing his shoulder winking at him before turning to leave. Gaz moves to the side to let Johnny past him, his eyes stay on Ghost though waiting until he also starts moving out the room to the stairs before following behind him. 

Johnny is waiting at the kitchen door when Ghost and Gaz catch up with him. They all go in together, John has a laptop out now, his eyes focused on the screen before snapping up to them.

“Find anything?” He asks. No one says anything, Ghost takes this as his cue to talk. 

“Her room and your office were ransacked. It didn’t seem like anything was missing, they were clearly looking for something though.” He says his throat feels suddenly dry. John nods standing up straight and putting his hands on his hips. 

“I’m waiting for the satellite images from Laswell. Kyle, do you remember how to get into the Met’s surveillance system?” John asks. Gaz nods but doesn’t move over to him. Now Price knows something is up. Ghost can read him like a fucking book. 

“What?” He asks frowning. 

“There’s something else.” Johnny says, stepping forward and placing the scan on the island. Ghost watches as he realises what the image is, he reaches down to pick it up squinting, before relaxing his eyes again. He flips it to look at the back quickly, his other hand reaches out to grip the island, his knuckles turning white. 

No one is saying anything, Ghost is holding his breath again. It feels like minutes are passing, minutes they don’t have. They need to find you, Ghost almost steps in to interrupt him but Price’s head snaps up to him. 

“Well.” John says but his voice breaks. He looks down at the picture and lets out a chuckle, a smile creeps on his face. It makes Ghost smile too, he should be happy, he wants to be happy. He can’t focus on that now, his eyes fall on the bloody knife again. 

His smile fades and so does John’s a second later. 

“Fuck.” John puts the scan in his pocket, picking up the laptop and walking around the island. The energy changes, his expression goes hard. It looks like all the colour has drained from his face. 

He passes the laptop to Gaz. “How long until you have access to the cameras?” He asks.

“15, 20 minutes.” Kyle says. John nods, walking past them all out to the hall. 

“Let’s go, we’re going to need all the help we can get to find her.” Price says rushing out the front door. Ghost watches as Johnny and Gaz look between each other. 

“Soap you’re driving!” Price shouts back into the house. Johnny clears his throat and jogs after him. 

“Think he’s finally going to do it?” Gaz asks, looking back at Ghost. He knows what Gaz means. John has always talked about the worst case scenario, pulling all his contacts, bending all the rules in case shit went down and he needed to call in all those eventual favours. 

“Yeah. I think he is.” Ghost says, turning the light off in the kitchen. He hears the car engine start. They both walk out to the drive, Ghost can see Price is already on his phone again. 

Probably not Laswell this time. Probably the base commander, General of the royal marines, Chief officer at the Met. Ghost’s lost track of how many people owe them or John favours. He turns and pushes his key in to lock the front door. With his head turned away and the sound of the engine drowning out his thoughts he gives himself a second to think. 

He’s going to be a dad, they’re all going to be dads. They’ve talked about it time and time again but he always thought it would be something that would happen after the army. He pictures you in his head, laid out on the sofa with a round belly while they all coo over you carrying their child. 

It doesn’t matter who’s it is, they’ll probably never find out, or if they do they’ll seal it in an envelope and hide it away. They always knew from the start it would be like that, it made you feel good knowing it would be an equal thing.

The car horn blares, making Ghost stiffen up. “Let’s go Riley!” John shouts. He lets out a breath pulling the key out the door and turning to the car. 

First things first though, they have to get you back. God help whoever has you, with the warpath he knows John is capable of there's going to be no less than a small army after you soon.

___

I kinda missed out the whole part of her trying to tell them. I wanted to keep it from their POV and try and keep it sort. Things never work out as I plan XD