i block minors, ageless blogs, and users of AI in creative spaces. i do not give you permission to copy/paste my writing anywhere, INCLUDING REBLOGGING TO TUMBLR COMMUNITIES.
i use @bee-has-written for writing updates. i post longer works onto my AO3.
this is the playlist making anon! she and I are gonna go for a hot girl walk on saturday & get coffee after. im super grateful, tbh, I've just moved to this new city and I have no friends here. fingers crossed that she and I get along!
Namaygoosisagagun First Nation/Collins has burned to the ground. The entire community is nothing but ashes after being quickly consumed by wildfires. They did not have any support from emergency services, and no one offered aid. The community saved themselves by escaping into boats because no one came.
Mishkeegogamang and Cat Lake have lost power. Families are ending up in shelters with nothing. Armstrong, Lac La Croix, Whitesand, Gull Bay, Lac des Mille Lacs are currently in the fires path and all members are being evacuated.
All this loss, all this devastation, and it was entirely preventable.
After steadily underfunding wildland firefighting and purposefully excluding Indigenous wildland firefighters and Indigenous wildfire organizations from wildfire operations, firefighter training, decisionmaking, and resource exchanges, in 2025, Doug Ford slashed the forest firefighting budget.
It's hard to ignore his decision to cut funding and leave us out of adequate fire training (even though we've lived with forest fires for thousands of yearsāfar longer than settlers have been in Canadaāand made sure fires like the ones we're all seeing today were prevented through kinisitotÄn) when, despite making up less than 5% of the population, we account for 42% percent of all wildfire evacuations in Canada.
And when we are successfully evacuated, we face discrimination and racismālike Kashechewanābecause it's always been easier to blame us than it is to blame the true culprit: denialism, corportate greed, and colonization.
The people of Collins and every other impacted community deserve better.
Right now, the AFN is currently accepting donations to help Collins First Nation. If you're able to, please consider donating.
ONWA (Ontario Native Women's Association) is another great place to donate to. They have outreach vans going to motels and inns and offering food, water, resources, and cultural support to those impacted by the wildfires.
Other places to consider donating to are Mikinakoos Emergency Fund, Red Cross, True North Aid, Indigenous Climate Action. You can also send donations directly to Whitesand First Nation via e-transfer ([email protected]) and they request that you add your full name in the e-transfer comment section to receive a tax receipt.
*Before sending money, verify that the appeal appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel.
If you can't offer financial support, please consider donating items of need. Moontime Connections is currently accepting drop-off donations. If you live in the Thunder Bay area, Namaygoosisagagun Health Office is also taking in donations! They can also bemailed to Superior Inn Hotel & Conference Centre at 555 West Arthur Street, Thunder Bay, ON, P7E 5P8.
For those of you who don't know, Canada is on fire, and Indigenous communities are being disproportionately affected by the overwhelming damage.
A few writers and I are working on setting up charity commissions where people would show proof of donations to charities such as:
Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity
Ontario Native Women's Association
Mikinakoos Emergency Fund
Red Cross
True North Aid
Indigenous Climate Action
Any others with an appeal that appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel
Before we set up the commissions, we are putting out this poll to see interested numbers so that we are able to effectively decide how many commission slots we will offer and how long the commissions will be.
At the moment, we are thinking of commissions being 1,000 words maximum for 10$ minimum donated (or your local currency equivalent) but that is subject to change depending on interest. Most of us write for COD, but more information about characters/fandoms will be available when we make the official post.
Would you be interested in a Charity Commission?
Yes
No
Remaining time: 1 day 16 hours
Even if you're not interested in a commission, I highly encourage you to donate if you are able to! Lev's post is a very valuable resource and source of information if you'd like to do further research.
Please reblog this post, not only for sample size but to get word out about the fires and the charities.
You're pretty sure the couple next door is keeping someone locked in their basement, but that's Johnny and Simon's business, not yours.
Part 14: A secret about conviction
šø Ghoap/Reader | Neighbor AU | Masterlist | AO3 šø
cw: dubcon, manipulation, coercion, implied kidnapping and imprisonment, implied noncon, drugging?
You have a phone call to make.
Itās been a full twenty-four hours since Detective Bennett left that voicemail, but you havenāt figured out what to do with the opportunity presented before you. He may only be reaching out because he wants more information regarding Allen-Alvin and the recent missing personās case, but itās a door cracked open and you havenāt decided whether to dart through it or not.
One year ago, a woman named Roxanne Miller went missing. Without any close friends or family, it took two weeks for someone to finally notice her disappearance and report it to the police. There were no tearful pleas on the news for her return or adamant demands to keep her case active in hopes sheād be found one day. It was a quiet vanishing. Once the case went cold, it would be easy to assume that it would stay cold. Cold, dead, buried in the ground, forgotten by everyone except Johnny, Simon, Detective Bennett, and you.
Youāre at the advantage over everyone right now. You know thereās new interest in her case, and you know where that interest needs to be directed towards for the culprits to be brought to justice. That advantage wonāt last forever, though, because Detective Bennettās not likely to give up trying to reach you, so if you continue to ignore him, he may just show up at your doorstep, searching for answers. If he lets it slip that heās looking into Roxanneās disappearance, then the watchful sentry above your front door will report back to your neighbors and your secret weapon will be ripped away.
So again, you have a phone call to make and a meeting to schedule and a plan to formulate for what youāre actually going to do at said meeting. Your first instinct is to walk in and out of the police station without speaking a word about Johnny or Simon or Roxanne, clinging to the safest option where you donāt risk incurring the wrath of your neighbors or implicating yourself in crimes of complicity. And maybe, just maybe, it would prove something to your neighbors. Show them that youāre worth having around with a gesture that demonstrates your loyalty and proper temperament.
But thatās what youāve been doing all along, isnāt it? Not talking to the police, silence with a smile, all your secret keepingāpassive, gutless inaction has only gotten you so far. Itās not enough anymore, not when thereās an empty, ravenous basement waiting to consume its next victim and not when your own gluttonous desires include more than just survival and freedom.
So if staying quietās not going to cut it, what option does that leave you? Sinking a metaphorical knife in your neighborsā broad backs, striking first before they get bored of you? Ratting them out to save yourself because if you canāt have them, the police can? Some secret third option that youāve yet to discover? Leaves you with a headache, thatās what.
To remedy your throbbing temples, you lie on the sofa in your living room, staring at the whirling ceiling fan above you. Scratchy, pilling fabric rubs against your skin as you shift your position. Itās not the soft, worn-in leather of your neighborsā couch, cool to the touch against the back of your thighs.
And when you turn your head to the side, thereās no one sitting across from you, staring you down like youāre the most amusing thing in the world. Johnny and Simon are instead out in their front yard again this morning, having resumed the removal of their dead shrub. Even from inside, you can still hear the rhythmic sound of shovels striking into dirt. Schick. Schick. Schick. You wonder if this was ever the last thing one of their pets heard before crossing over the rainbow bridge.
Bringing your phone up to eye level, you consider calling Detective Bennett now while your neighbors are busy. You put in his number, but your finger hovers over the call button. A nagging at the back of your skull warns that if you want to keep the conversation private, youād best not make the call inside your home where unseen eyes and ears could be lurking in the walls.
Itās a new day, so another coffee run wouldnāt seem suspicious, right? Maybe this could be your new routine, and then Johnny and Simon wonāt think anything of it when you one day leave the house and take a secret detour to the police station. And you could randomly alternate between the coffee shops at Somerset and Terrace so if your neighbors show up at one location, you could claim to have been at the other.
So focused on strategy and subterfuge, you fail to notice that the distant gravedigging ASMR has stopped. It only comes to your attention when the sound is replaced by a loud knocking on your front door. Scrambling off of the couch, you fly to the entryway because thatās likely either your neighbors or the police, and you donāt want to keep either waiting.
When you open the door, youāre actually relieved itās Johnny and Simon instead of the alternative, though you do catastrophize a scenario where your neighbors were able to sense your scheming through dark powers and mind reading. Thereās no deviance that you can detect in their countenance, though, or no more than the usual amount, at any rate.
āHi there, neighbor,ā Johnny greets, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. āWeāre goinā out to get a new shrub.ā
You blink owlishly, unsure of why they felt the need to announce this to you.
āWe means you too,ā Simon dictates. Confused blinking persists.
āOh. Okay,ā you respond. āUm. Why me too, though?ā
Johnny tilts his head. āWho else would we bring along?ā
You canāt argue with that logic. You canāt argue at all, really.
āIāll get my shoes.ā
...
...
...
Your neighborsā nursery of choice is on the other side of town. The car ride over is fraught with anxiety between Simonās questionable driving maneuvers and the chance that this was all a ruse to take you to their favorite camping grounds instead. But you arrive at the garden center physically unharmed. The first thing you notice when stepping out of the car is how strong the sun is today. You commit to memory the feeling of unfiltered warmth on your skin, lest you one day never get to experience it again, all while trailing behind your neighbors as Simon pushes a cart around and Johnny walks beside him.
Thereās an array of shovels for sale under a covered area in the middle of the nursery. They hang off of a rack all lined in a row, ordered by length and grouped by the shape of the head. One of them catches your eye by the brand name engraved on the handle. You recognize it from the shovels your neighbors were using yesterday and pause to take a closer look.
āGot somethinā to bury?ā Simon queries, stopping when you do and leaning on the handle of the cart.
āNo, but...ā You reach out and poke the shovel until it clanks against the one behind it. ā...this is the same as yours, right?ā
āThatās the one,ā Johnny confirms. He walks up behind you, engulfing you as he reaches around and pulls the shovel off the hook, his head nestled against yours. āWeāll get one for ye. Our treat.ā
It takes a moment to react because you werenāt fully listening, too distracted by the proximity of his mouth to your neck, the closest heās been since they both kissed you. (Now five days ago when they last showed you any kind of affection, any shred of warmth or intimacy. You had hoped yesterday that theyād kiss you goodbye, would have settled even for a tap on the ass on the way out, but you left their home with nothing, nothing at all.) Your brain does eventually kick in and think to decline a matching shovel, though.
āOh, you donāt have to do that. You already got me that knife last time, and I havenāt even used that, so...ā you fruitlessly reason.
āWe never taught you how to handle that knife properly,ā Simon states, taking the shovel from Johnny and putting it in the cart.
Your face wrinkles in confusion. āItās not just...ā You pantomime a few concise thrusting motions with an imaginary knife. āStab-stab?ā
āItās mostly that,ā Johnny laughs before sauntering over to you again. āBut you gotta know where to stab.ā While standing in front of you, he wraps a hand around your wrist and moves your fist towards his chest.
āAnd when to stab.ā
A firm yank suddenly drags you forward until you stumble into him, your pretend knife driving straight into his heart. The rest of you presses against him as well.
āAnd who to stab,ā Simon adds, voice stern and steady like heās issuing a directive. Johnny winks while you stare at him, wide-eyed and stock-still.
āAye, thatās the most important part,ā he notes.
Itās unsettlingly intimate. You swear you can feel his heartbeat against your fist. You remain paralyzed until Johnny slips his other arm around your waist, giving a quick squeeze before spinning you around and nudging you towards his partner.
āGo on, hen. Give it a try on Simon.ā
With small, reluctant steps, you shuffle over to Simon, whose smirk hasnāt faltered since you first wielded your simulated knife. Your neighborās size has always intimidated you, but he seems twice as large right now while up close, about to fake-stab him. You raise your clenched fist, eyes scanning his chest, searching for approximately where his heart would be, but hesitate to land a blow, too worried about missing, about disappointing.
āNot gonna get anythinā done by staring,ā Simon instructs. Your eyes snap up to meet his, and as if on command, you follow through without thinking, stabbing him with your not-knife in the chest. Itās a stronger jab than you meant, but it makes no noticeable impact to the thick wall of mass and muscle that is Simon. His smirk grows sharper, twists into a smile. āThatās it. Good.ā
The praise drips down onto you. Buzzes in your veins, gives you a rush of adrenaline. You hold your hand there for a moment too long, reveling in the high until you have the sense to be mortified by your reaction.
āO-okay. Got it...ā you stammer, hastily breaking contact and stepping back. āWhere, when, who. Iāll remember that.ā Johnny and Simon exchange a look of what you deduce is pride. But with the lesson over, they resume their plant shopping. You take to following behind them again, hand still clenched tightly around an invisible hilt.
You wonder if you could actually do it. Thereās something so final about crossing that line, drawing a blade and striking. Once your weapon makes contact, thereās no turning back. You canāt undo a slice to the flesh, canāt force blood to return to the source. But when backed into a corner with your neighbors flanking you from the left and the cops positioned on the right and the basement door against your back, who knows what youāre capable of?
You have time to contemplate all that while Johnny and Simon inspect dozens of shrubs, searching for the best of the lot. Discerning eyes and high standards keep them from grabbing just any old shrub. This oneās drooping already from not enough water, this one doesnāt have enough new growth coming in. But after much debate, they finally select a nice, lush boxwood and pop it into their cart. And now that theyāve got what they came for, you hope theyāll take you straight home and not out to the woods to christen your new shovel.
But before you can take even two steps towards the exit, you hear a tapping thatās getting louder. Then a shout.
āSomeone grab her, please!ā
A small, fluffy white dog zooms between the rows of plants and shoots by you like a rocket, free and on the move, leash flailing wildly behind her. The dogās too quick for you to react, but not quicker than Simon, who snatches her right off the ground once she passes by him. The pooch fidgets and squirms in his arms but canāt escape. A young woman jogs towards you all, flustered and out of breath and presumably the dogās owner.
āThank you so much. I didnāt have a good grip on her leash and something startled her, so she just took off,ā she explains sheepishly, taking the dog from Simon.
āLucky for you, weāve got a knack for catching runaways,ā Johnny replies, reaching out and ruffling the top of the dogās head. He smiles, alluring and brilliant, and you can see the change in the womanās posture, can clock when she realizes just how handsome your neighbors are as she tucks her hair behind her ear and returns the smile sweetly.
Ignored and awkwardly standing to the side, all you can do is watch. Is this how it starts? A chance meeting with a stranger, Johnny being his charming self, making casual small talk while Simon plays the strong, silent type, both of them evaluating their new acquaintance's appearance and disposition. And then if the appraisal goes well, some time later at a calculated, premeditated moment, this person has a last taste of freedom and vanishes.
You donāt want this woman to meet such a fate. You tell yourself that itās altruism and a sense of decency that compels this wish, but you know thatās not the whole truth. Your neighborsā affection is scarce. Finite. You donāt want to share.
Youāre not the only one whoās upset that attention has been diverted away from them, though. The womanās dog has also had enough, letting out two sharp barks and wiggling around in her arms.
āOh no, donāt you start that,ā her owner scolds, shifting her hold on the little furball. āYouāve caused enough trouble for one day, Roxie.ā
The name sets you on edge. The hairs on the back of your neck rise as soon as you hear it.
āRoxie, huh?ā Johnny comments with an amused chuckle. Baneful sentiment creeps across his face. āWe had a Roxie once.ā
āShe was always tryinā to escape too,ā Simon adds. The same ill-boding fondness haunts his countenance.
If there were any lingering doubts that your neighbors had something to do with Roxanne Millerās disappearance, this drives a nail in the coffin of that uncertainty. And really you were already convinced of the matter, but itās different to hear it straight from their mouths. A wave of nausea overtakes you. Sweat beads on your forehead under the heat of the sun that suddenly feels unbearable. You begin to shuffle off to the side, seeking out the cover of a nearby awning, but Simon seizes you by the arm.
āWhere you runninā off to, neighbor?ā
Youāre lightly jostled by his grasp which doesnāt help your stomach at all, and you suppress a grimace with a clumsily stitched together smile.
āI was going to go stand in the shade,ā you explain. āItās a little hot.ā
Johnny moves in front of you, blocking the oppressing sun, and grabs hold of your face with an unexpected gentleness. āYer not lookinā too good, hen. Weāll check out and take you home.ā
The woman with the dog, now realizing that you werenāt just some random person lurking nearby, offers one last thank you to your neighbors and makes herself scarce. You hope for her sake and your own that you never see her again.
When youāre back at the car, Simon mixes an electrolyte packet into their water bottle and makes you drink from it. A bit of water dribbles out the corner of your mouth as you gulp it down, and Johnny wipes it off with his thumb, licking his finger pad afterward. You want to soak up the attention fully, but you canāt help but bitterly wonder if they would dote on their new acquaintance or any of their other pets like this. When Roxie was in their care, did they rub lotion on her neck where the collar chafed her skin? Did they make sure she had a balanced diet that accounted for her new life without sun? Were their hands once loving and tender, even if the same hands eventually choked the life out of her?
On the drive home, you rest your head against the car window, staring aimlessly at the world outside passing you by. Simon drives with marginally more caution, perhaps his way of accommodating you, and Johnny carries the conversation for the three of you since youāre not feeling very chatty at the moment. Thereās a lull, though, and when that happens, you venture to pose a question.
āDo you ever miss them?ā you ask, voice small and wavering. āRoxie and the others.ā Saying her name out loud burns your tongue like a curse, skirting the line between the usual charade and an actual discussion about the people they kidnap and murder and bury in lonely graves.
If it bothers your neighbors the same way, they donāt show it. Johnny turns to face you from the passengerās seat, lips curving into an earnest but knowing smile.
āāCourse we do. Each and every one of them,ā he claims.
A pause. Silence other than the hum of the car engine.
āWould you miss me?ā
It hurts when it slips out of you, sounding wounded and desperate. Instincts urge you to take it back and hide it away, but you donāt.
Simon meets your gaze through the rearview mirror. āYou planninā on going somewhere?ā
Thereās a warning and a threat in the marrow of his words. It answers and doesnāt answer your question, but as unsatisfying as that is, youāre too worn down to press the matter further. You glance between him and Johnny.
āNo. I donāt know why I asked that. Sorry.ā
Itās not even your real question. What you really want to know is would they miss you more? Are you special and different from the rest or are you just another Roxie, fifth in a line that continues long after youāre gone?
You fretfully brush your thumb back and forth over the carās leather trim. Youāre reminded of your neighborsā couch at first, but then you think of your knifeās leather sheath. Your fingers slowly curl around the hilt of an imaginary weapon once again. A scar could be something to remember you by, a permanent, irreversible etching on their skin. With so many already littering their bodies, how mad could they be if you added one more?
But is it really a pound of flesh you seek? Maybe all you want is to have carved out even a sliver of their hearts, to hoard a piece for yourself that you get to keep and carry with you to the next life. So when someone speaks your name in the future, Johnny and Simon wonāt just miss youātheyāll mourn you.
Where, when, who. The who is the most important part. Who are you willing to hurt to obtain your true, secret desires that you keep locked up deep within you?
In answering that question, the seed of an awful idea sprouts. An idea that is more likely to backfire spectacularly or do nothing at all or mean nothing at all to your neighbors. But it would be significant to you, it would be the change youāve been searching for, even if itās the last thing you do in this life. The walls are closing in, and there are familiar pipes running along them. You canāt delay the inevitable any longer. Itās time to draw first blood with your own two hands.
In the backseat of your neighborsā car, you determine the who. At the coffee shop on Somerset, you call Detective Bennett and arrange the when and the where.
Lately, youāve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 2
masterlist
You walk around town like itās written on your forehead that youāre about to let some strange man get you pregnant.
It might as well be a scarlet letter pinned to your breast. A sign taped to the back of your shirt. Kick me. Iām letting some guy knock me up. Or better yet, Iām with stupid, with the arrow pointed up at you.Ā
Obviously thatās not true. Youāve done a good job at keeping this under wraps for the most part, not even your closest friends hearing about the man that propositioned you in the fertility clinic waiting room. You might've had half a mind to call one of them about it on the drive home, but by then youād already filed it away as future gossip material, imagining bringing it up at drinks to the shock and delight of your friends.Ā
Then night falls, and you grow weak.
You wake up with post-text message clarity the next morning, but thereās little you can do to backtrack now. You gave the man your name and number. You spoke to him on the phone about it, albeit briefly. Sure you could call John again and tell him that you thought it over a little more and decided against it, but thenā
āItās gonna cost four thousand dollars.ā
Your coworker lets out a hissed breath, wincing. āThatās not cheap.ā
Itās a pea-soupy summer morning, all hot and humid with the sky tinted a yellowish colour from forest fires up in the country, the hazy light seeping in through the windows in the office kitchen. Not a cloud in sight. You wouldn't call it a particularly pleasant morning, with the weather as overcast as your mood, but it could always be worse.
Sheās the first person outside of a few close friends that youāve told about going to the clinic at all, but she reacts exactly as you thought she would. Itās both affirming and annoying; itās not so bad hearing from someone else that four thousand dollars is a bit pricey for a single person, but part of you wishes sheād try to convince you to go through with it. You need someone to push you in a directionāin any direction.Ā
You nod, mouth screwed into a grimace. āAnd thatās only for a single try. I think she said it would be closer to, like, twelve thousand dollars altogether.āĀ
āSo are you gonna do it? Or are you gonna keep looking around?ā
āI have another appointment next week,ā you half-answer, getting cagey all of a sudden.Ā
The truth is, that appointment isnāt the only thing youāve got on the books. Thereās another dot in your calendar for a few days before, one that seems to glow ominously when you stare at the date as it slowly approaches, lumbering forward one ground-shaking step at a time.Ā
You wonder how long you can go without telling anyone. Theoretically, you could keep up this ruse for the rest of your life, pretend you always went through with the treatment. Lie through your teeth when your friends ask you if you know anything about the donor. No, they didnāt tell me anything, I just picked a profile with a good medical record and family history.Ā
Donāt think about how you live in the same city. Donāt think about the likelihood of running into him around town with the baby in tow.Ā
You shake your head. Those are concerns that you can foist off onto a future version of you. All the current you needs to worry about is making this all a reality.Ā
You donāt know what to wear out to dinner with him. Itās both a date and not, more of a prelude to the later events of the night. Part of you wonders if you should just text him your address and tell him to skip the preamble and come on over.Ā
The only reason you donāt is because a little voice at the back of your mind insists that you at least do your due diligence and screen him a little more over dinner. You can always back out at the last minute if a few too many red flags pop up.Ā
(You tell yourself that as if a strange man offering to knock you up within five minutes of meeting werenāt a big enough red flag on its own.)
John meets you at the restaurant looking every bit as handsome as the day you met him, once again nearly taking your breath away. A little more buttoned up this time though, actually quite dashing in a proper dress shirt and suit jacket, even his shoes polished.Ā
You have a second to think about calling it off. A second to consider turning tail and getting as far away as possible. Maybe, with enough time, you could scrape together the money for IUI. You could wait a year, or take out a loan with your bank, or pray for a decent enough raise to manage it on your own.Ā
But then, as the time before, he turns his head and locks eyes with you.Ā
It would probably be a good idea to take a picture of him, maybe even a picture of his ID, and send it over to one or two of your friends, on the off chance that he turns out to be a dangerous man, but you donāt need to be inundated by a barrage of text messages and phone calls from your friends trying to talk you out of it. Youāve made up your mind.Ā
Walnut and burgundy furnishings decorate the large room, and the amber glow of candlelight and antique wall sconces saturates the restaurant in a dark, sensual bloom. A server guides John and you to a table right in the middle of the room, a better table than you mightāve hoped to get on your own. You eye him sideways when he pulls your chair out for you.Ā
His demeanour is so relaxed that if you didnāt already know the purpose of this dinner, you could be forgiven for assuming that you were out on a real date. John certainly acts the part.Ā
āYou know, we didnāt have to do this,ā you start awkwardly, eyes gliding over the room to look at all the other well-dressed patrons, some presumably out on actual dates.Ā
āCall me old-fashioned, but I was taught that dinner comes before the rest of the evening.ā
āI just mean you didnāt have to. I wouldāve been fine justā¦ā getting right down to business, you leave unsaid, hoping that he doesnāt make you spell it out.Ā
āWeāre two civilized adults. I thought we might get to know each other first.ā
āWell, what do you want to know about me?ā
āThis is as much for me as it is for youādonāt you want to know anything about the father of your children?ā
You wish heād keep his voice down. He isnāt wrong though; it would be a good idea for you to take his candidature more seriously, actually ask him questions about himself and his parentage. He already emailed you a recent STI panel and bloodwork results, both done through the fertility clinic back when he was still keen on donating, but it wouldnāt hurt to learn a little more about him.
āAlright. How old are you?ā
āForty-six.ā
You nod, pleased with yourself for guessing it right. āWhat do you do for work?ā
āJust some work for the government,ā he says, brushing the question off. āWhat else?ā
That piques your interest though. āOh, come on. What are you, M16 or something?ā
āNo, nothing like that,ā John laughs, genuinely amused enough for you to believe him.Ā
You roll your eyes when he doesnāt elaborate any further though. āFine, leave me in the dark. Anything else you want to know about me?ā
āWhere are you in your cycle?ā he asks, blunt as a hammer.
A classic spit take moment. Itās a good thing you havenāt ordered a drink yet.Ā
āI think itās, uhā¦itās coming soon actually. Um. Next week or so.ā
He chews on that for a second, mulling over the timing. āThatās fine. We should still be able to make it work.ā
There he goes again, making comments that leave you fish-mouthed and stunned, jaw slack with disbelief. Never able to conjure up a good enough retort.Ā
When the server comes by to take your drink orders, both of you still deliberating over your food, John orders a beer for himself and a mocktail for you, not even bothering to consult you about it.Ā
āNo alcohol,ā he reminds you before you have a chance to ask.Ā
To be fair, the spicy blackberry-basil concoction that the server comes back with a few minutes later is a refreshing burst of fruit and fresh herbs, but that doesnāt excuse the overstep. You ignore it only because you know thereās no use getting worked up when youāve already made your mind up. Itās a peccadillo in the grand scheme of things considering what heās doing for you.Ā
Conversation flows surprisingly well over dinner, but at the back of your mind, you canāt stop thinking about how at the end of the night, heās going to take you home and fuck you. It creeps back in whenever you let your guard down for a split second.Ā
So, do you have any hobbies? (In three hours, this man is going to strip you naked and have sex with you)
Do you have any siblings? Any twins running in the family? (In two hours, this man is going to climb on top of you and fuck you until he puts a baby in you)
Itās a lot to keep in your head at the same time.
āHow long have you been thinking about doing this?ā John asks apropos of nothing, the earlier thread of your conversation evaporating on the spot.Ā Ā
āI mean, Iāve wanted to have kids for a long time, but actually planning to have themā¦maybe a couple months?ā
āWhy now? Why not wait a little longer? Wait for someone to start a family with?ā
Youāre not sure why heād ask you that, why it would matter. Itās none of his business, quite frankly. You almost want to tell him that, let yourself get righteous, get angry, but you find you canāt fully commit to the anger. It wouldnāt change anything. You arenāt being forced to answer him.Ā
āI could ask you the same thing.ā
āIām not much of a family man myself. āLeast not when I was younger, when it counted. Never had the time nor the inclination. Work took me all overāit just wouldnāt have been fair if I had a wife or kids waiting around for me. But since it didnāt seem like having a family was in the cards for me, I thought it would be a waste of good genetics.ā
āOh.ā Itās arrogant, but itās as good an answer as any.Ā
He waits a beat then lifts an eyebrow when you donāt reciprocate. āSo? Why didnāt you wait?ā
āI did try, but there wasnāt much out there, and I wanted a baby more than I wanted to be with someone, soā¦āĀ
Leave him to fill in the blanks. He met you at the culmination of that longing after all, even changed the course of it, disrupted your plans to place himself at the centre of them.
At the centre for a time, you remind yourself. Not forever.Ā
After that, he keeps the conversation light, only delving into superficial topics to help pass the time. You excuse yourself after finishing your meal to go to the bathroom, and come back to two coffees laid out on the table with sugar and cream in pretty porcelain cups laid out between them. John must have ordered for you again in your absence. Good thing you like coffee.Ā
The bill is also there, discretely tucked under Johnās napkin, and that makes your stomach flip, realizing that only a coffee now sits between you and the end of this night.Ā
Then, at a certain point, when all thatās left in your cup is the dregs, sugar spoon bone dry on your plate, John gives you a look from across the table that says itās time for you both to go.Ā
Well, here we go, you think a little hysterically as you push back your chair to stand, nearly jumping out of your skin when his hand comes down on your back.Ā
At your car, you sway back and forth on your heels. āYou can, uhā¦follow behind me, if that works.ā
āWhy donāt you give me your address and Iāll meet you there?ā
You bite your lip, pretending to deliberate, then acquiesce.Ā
Let him think heās pulling one on you. Youāre bringing him home instead of the other way around because you donāt want to have any memory of a manās bed when you think about your pregnancy journey. If itās going to be you alone, then it should be about you alone. Your decision to go out and pick a man to father your baby.Ā
His participation will be a short blip in your life. A minor footnote. Youāll remember it in bursts throughout the rest of your life: staring at a carton of cream in the dairy aisle of the local grocery store; garden spade buried hilt-deep in a plot of soil, blue bigleaf hydrangea in a pot beside you, sweat dripping down the bow of your lips; your babyās face, for the rest of your natural life.
In your foyer, his hands glide around your hips, pulling you into his chest, and you realize abruptly that āshortā might not have been the most accurate interpretation of whatās about to happen.Ā
(Honey, youāve got a storm coming)
āThis off first,ā John rasps, pulling the bottom of your shirt up and over your head, blinding you for a split second before he yanks it over your arms.Ā
āGetting right to it, huh?ā you joke nervously.Ā
āThis is what you wanted, isnāt it?ā he asks, staring down at you assessingly, as if staring into your soul. That cuts the humour from the moment. Vacuums it from the room, leaving behind only the crackling, blistering heat of his gaze and his intentions.Ā
āYes,ā you whisper. Neither of you mention the tremble in your voice and how unsure you sound.Ā
It doesnāt stop him from undressing you though. Bra pulled down under your breasts, pushing your tits up into his face like an invitation, one he accepts without question, pulling your nipples into his mouth one by one, hands on your hips to hold you in place when you try to squirm away. Not that itās badāitās amazingly good after all, toe-curlingly good to have a man run his tongue over your areolas and suck each sensitive nipple to a stiff peak, until youāre on the verge of comingābut itās a lot, a lot that you have to wrap your head around, your bra pinched off shortly after that and underwear next.Ā Ā
Your touch is hesitant at first, fingers barely gliding down his arms and fisting in the fabric of his shirt to jerk it up, but he makes it easy for you to get lost in it, your nerves fizzling out in the heat and fervor.Ā Ā
You donāt even notice that John has walked you backwards into the bedroom until he pushes you down onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you. āOne second, loveāneed to get all of this off myself.ā
You watch transfixed as the suit jacket comes off first, shrugged off and discarded. He undoes only a few buttons before wrenching it over his head, eyes on you the whole time, his stare never breaking. Scalding hot.Ā
Thatās how you know that despite all his lofty words, this isnāt some favour heās doing you. He wants this just as badlyāwants it with a vigour that you donāt even know if youāll be able to handle, aware that you are just flesh and blood. Thereās a prickle at the back of your mind, a whisper reminding you that nobody knows that heās here, that heās a hot-blooded man about to slake his lust with your body.Ā
Then he slides the elastic waistband of his boxers down his thighs and your mind goes blank when you see the flushed, heavy shaft droop between his legs.Ā
The two of you work together to shove a pillow under your hips, John fetching it from the top of the bed and you lifting your hips to give him easier access. You donāt have to ask why.Ā
Nestled between your thighs, John looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes and says, āLetās get you all softened up to start, alright, love?āĀ
The first touch of his lips to your sex sends a lightning bolt up your spine, and then itās practically an open mouth kiss. Tongue running up the seam of your lips, pushing into the clenched hole at the centre, the bristles of his beard scraping up the insides of your thighs and the thin skin of your labia.Ā
Itās good, but itās taking too long and your heart is a rabbiting mess and you can barely think or see straight, so you tangle your fingers in his hair and try to push his head away. āThatās okay, John, I just wannaāoh fuck, can you please just put it in?ā
āNo, baby, itās good if you come first,ā he murmurs. āHelps it take.ā
That floods your system with a frenetic, crazed exhilaration. Baby fever bubbling and boiling, frothing spilling over the top like a pot left on the stovetop for too long.Ā
You gasp when he tucks a couple fingers into your hole to stretch you out, a perfunctory, almost clinical motion. Just enough to loosen you up for him, unmindful of the way you squirm and whine, rolling your hips to get him to go faster. He does not.Ā
It doesnāt take much effort on his part after that to get you to come, too worked up and wound up, core squeezing his fingers like a vice until he gives your clit a suck and you squeal, oh, too much, breath ripping through your chest.
Theyāre wet when he pulls them out, and he dries them off by rubbing them on your belly.Ā
The shadow of his body draws over yours as he climbs on top of you. Itās as physical as it is visual though, Johnās hands always on some part of your body, dragging up your legs and over your arms, fingers spreading over your belly before he runs a hand up between your breasts and over your throat, lingering there just long enough to close around your throat and hold for a second, then skating up to cup your jaw.Ā
And then heās all big body on top of you, coaxing your legs around his hips, one hand squishing your cheeks when he bends down to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, the tongue pushing into your mouth musky with the flavour of your cum. Youād protest if you could, but you canāt, his mouth slanted over yours and demanding.Ā
āCāmere,ā he mumbles against your lips when he draws you in for another kiss, sawing his cock up and down between your folds, coating his length with your juices, until itās there suddenly, breaching you.Ā
You have to grab him, loop your arms around his shoulders and squeeze to ground yourself. Itās a lot to take in. Heās a lot to take in.Ā
āI know, love, I know,ā John murmurs soothingly. āDeep breaths, okay?ā
You listen to him, letting a shaky breath out. It helps you relax. Barely, but enough to ease the strain a bit.Ā
He nuzzles his nose into your temple, his breath fanning out against your ear. āA little more, love, alright? You gonna be brave for me?ā
āOhājust get on with it,ā you gasp when he eases in another inch, and John laughs in your ear.Ā
It feels genuinely romantic like this. Your arms wrapped around his neck and his hips slowly rocking into you, whispering sweet nothings like, there we go, youāve got it, that feel good, love? When he fits his hand around the back of your neck and lifts your head up for a kiss, you swear you see stars.Ā
The kiss is too much. Too intimate. You wish you wouldāve set that boundary ahead of time. It feels pointless now, trapped under the heavy weight of his body and impaled on his member, sucked into it, lips slotting and melting over each other, his tongue running over yours. Heās a good kisser at least, practiced from a lifetime of it. No awkward schoolboy tonguing.Ā
Too good. You wonder distantly how many other women heās slept with (probably more than you have any business knowing). If heās ever gotten anyone else pregnant. Your nails dig into his back instinctively at the thought and he gasps a wet and guttural sound, hips bucking harder.Ā
He gets rough enough to loosen a bolt of fear in your chest. All of a sudden, it becomes bright and clear in your mind. Thereās a grunting, sweating man over you, all two hundred plus pounds of him laid out on top of you, with no protection between you. Raw cock plunging into your pussy. You can barely get a full breath in.Ā
āFuck, Iām close,ā John grunts, and your eyes flick down instinctively, trying to see past the dense mass of hair on his chest towards the length of his cock sliding into you. Heās pressed too close though. When he catches you looking away from him, he clamps his hand around your face again, forcing your gaze back up. āNo, none of that. Eyes on me.ā
You think you must gasp. Some horrified sound must escape you because you can feel the aftereffect of it, the big hollow where it used to be.Ā
His other arm wedges under your back to pull you closer to him, thighs spreading to brace his weight against the mattress before driving into you harder, deeper, the big, concentrated energy of him inescapable.
You can sense it the second before heās about to come, his eyebrows digging in and his jaw going tight, the vein in his forehead prominent.Ā
āChrist, youāre gonna take it, arenāt you?ā he snarls. āAll this fucking cum.āĀ
On the next stroke in, you dig an ankle into the muscle of his ass and squeeze your inner muscles around his length, grinning hazily to yourself when that makes him shout.Ā
And then, oh, he surges in and you feel it, hear it, sense it all around you, his fingers from the hand wedged under your back digging hard into the side of your breast. Hips forcefully pumping into you and pushing his cum in deep, your own orgasm lost somewhere in there, a small, forgettable part of it all.Ā
Eventually, he stops moving over you, letting his cock slip out of you on the next stroke out. You hiss when he does, clenching up involuntarily. With nothing plugging it inside though, his cum leaks out, dripping down the crack of your ass and onto the pillow under your hips.Ā
Johnās hot breath fans over your face as he pants, slowly winding down as well, the red flush in his cheeks still stark, though gradually fading. Itās only in the cooldown that you realize how claustrophobic it is being trapped under him, the sheer weight and heat of his body flush with yours becoming more and more uncomfortable, almost unbearably so.Ā
When he slumps off to one side, you can finally breathe again, the air rushing into your lungs. Thereās sweat in your skin and tears in the corners of your eyes, everything tacky and humid, the frantic beat of your heart only beginning to slow down. The stiffness in your shoulders only dawns on you after a few minutes like that, and you push yourself up onto your elbows just to try to work some of it out.Ā
āNo, donāt get up, love. Weāre just gonna lie here for a bit,ā he instructs, pushing your shoulder back down. āBetter chance of my boys getting the job done if we keep it all in you.ā
Of course he just wants to make sure that it takes. That way, you donāt have to do this again. āOh yeah. I, uh, I didnāt think about that.ā
He doesnāt just mean lie there, of course, though your body would like nothing more than to sink into the plush embrace of sleep. Instead he means keeping your hips propped up on the pillow now saturated with cum, and curling you into his side, separating your thighs again to palm your cunt, sliding his fingers through the wet.Ā
Itās a goopy, sticky mess that John plunges his fingers into, pushing it back up inside of you and shushing you when you whimper, a little gaped from his cock but sore to the touch.Ā
For much longer than you anticipated, he lies there on his side beside you and keeps two fingers pushed up inside you, blocking any cum from leaking out.Ā
āHow long do we have to do this for?ā you ask, voice all high and tight in your throat.Ā
John hums, unconcerned. āTen, fifteen minutes.ā
True to his word, he keeps you there for the full fifteen minutes. Only the sound of your breathing fills the room, quiet otherwise aside from the enormously large weight of his presence, too familiar now with the private corners of your world.Ā
He doesnāt warn you before idly circling your clit with thumb. You jerk, nearly biting through your lip. āJohn!ā
āRelax, honey, Iām just making you come again.ā
āI know that, Johnāah, ah, ahāā
A leg hooks over yours, his thigh heavy enough to keep you pinned without even much strength behind it. His fingers donāt so much as twitch inside of you, buried to the fattest knuckle while his thumb circles the tight bud of your clit over and over again until youā
You havenāt finished the thought by the time he draws his fingers out, pearlescent strings of cum webbed between them. He hums approvingly when he sees that, pulling your thighs further apart to admire his work. āGorgeous. That ought to do it for now.ā
Your heart skips a beat and you stare up at him, exhausted, the sweat on the back of your neck now cold.Ā
Quite possibly the funniest memory of the taskforce happened on Ghostās 32nd Birthday.
Ghost was adamant not to celebrate it, eager to spend the night in the baseās gym, beating the punching bag to a pulp. His friends, however, had a much different plan.
One thing led to another, they were three bottles deep at the strip club, and Soap had insisted on spending an absurd amount of money to buy Simon a private dance with the clubās most popular stripper.
Enter you, towering in 6 inch heels, bare skin painted with body glitter and spilt liquor, all but naked except for the tiny g-string hugging your covetable hips.
Simon had barely downed a single beer all night, too outraged at his friends to get into the birthday spirit.
Heād been nearly at his witsā end with Soapās antics, but the second youād strutted in, bare tits exposed and covered in hot pink glitter, his words had died on his tongue.
The boys had hooted and hollered as you hauled a silent (and completely stiff) Simon Riley from his chair and yanked him across the club by his shirt collar.
Their laughing had drowned in the music. Unbeknownst to him, theyād huddled around the crack in the door, choking on their laughter as you cranked up the music.
Youād rubbed your ass against his hips. Pulled his hands off the arm rests to grope at your tits. Toyed with the edge of that tiny pair of panties until he could see the neat little patch of hair hidden just underneath the scant fabric.
All the while, Simon had been ramrod straight in his chair. Unspeaking. Unmoving. Unblinking. Completely and utterly expressionless.
To the 141, it was downright hilarious, watching a pretty thing like you vigorously shake your ass up and down the human equivalent of a brick wall.
To Simonā¦well, itās a much different story.
His nails were dug into the chair so deep the leather threatened to break. His heart was beating 500 times a minute. Beneath the mask, he was soaked in sweat, trying valiantly not to huff down the scent of your sweet perfume.
He knew you could feel how hard he was. Knew you could feel the way he twitched at your every touch, too. And yetā¦you just didnāt care.
He could hear all three of them laughing too hard to breathe behind the scant cover of the door. But when you pulled his hands off of the chair and gave him a wicked smile, before slowly guiding his limp fist into the slick gusset of your pantiesā¦
He couldnāt stop himself from cumming in his jeans right then and there. Wide-eyed and breathless, heād choked down a groan by clearing his throat. Agitated, heād glanced at your face while the chemical bliss exploded behind his eyes.
Heād expected you to be enraged, to go storming out the door, yelling for security.
But when he looked up at you, he was blinded by the sheer hunger in your eyeāby the way you couldnāt stop grinding yourself up against him even then, long after the music had stopped.
Needless to say, the 141 barely remember a single flicker of that night beyond the hilarious image of their stock-still, skull-faced beanstalk with a lap full of overeager stripper.
Simon, on the other handā¦he remembers it all.
Especially, he remembers the lipstick-stained napkin youād tucked into the pocket of his cum stained jeans.
That, and the ten digits youād scrawled thereon before biting your goodbyes into the crook of his reddened neck.
Johnny's never had Dairy Queen. You're going to fix that.
[soap x reader; nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, sticky situations, car sex, oral, squirting, short drabble
'blizzard' prompt from @beebymoonlight + one-word prompt masterlist]
"They didn't do the thing!" You whine as the two of you leave the store.
"Do wha'?"
"They didn't flip it! That's the whole point!"
Summer sun hits your face the moment Johnny pushes the door open, heat thick enough to choke on. In your hand, a blue cup of Mocha Mudpie beckonsāunflipped, uninitiated.
Johnny gives you a weird look as you head towards the car, his own cup of Peanut Butter Cookie Dough slowly sweating beads of water.
"Why would they dae that?"
The car, even when parked in the shady corner of the small lot, is stuffy when you hop in. Should've left it running.
"'Cause they're supposed to! And if it falls out, then it's free."
You flip it.
It stays.
"See? They could've totally flipped itāfuck!"
You should have just let it go while you had the chance.
The blizzard is all over you nowāsomehow splattering over your chest, the front of your tank top, and all over your lap. You tighten your legs to keep the cold creaminess from dripping deeper into your thighs.
"Napkinsāfuck, Johnny, napkins!"
Flailing your free hand, you motion at Johnny for help. He doesn't answer. You look up.
He's stiff. Eyes trained, locked in on the trail of ice cream dripping down your chest. They flicker down, landing on the melting mess pooling between your thighs. A look emerging on his face.
(You've seen it a few times, the same one that takes over whenever there's wires for him to cut.)
Your voice finds itself with an embarrassing tremble.
"Johnny?"
He snaps out of the haze, a jolt thatās barely there.
"Fuck, bonnieāsorry, dinnae mean to stare, s'just," His eyes glaze over again the moment they land back on your sticky body. "Here, let me jusā"
ādo you remember how you ended up in the back seat?
No.
Or how Johnny ended up between your legs?
Also no.
It's okay, though, at least that's what he keeps telling you while nose-deep in your sticky cunt.
"S'alright, bonnie, mmph," his lashes tickle your thighs. "Gotta clean ye up s'moreā"
It's what he said thirty minutes ago, when he first started lapping at the coffee flavored ice cream on your chest and sucking your sugary nipples. Twenty, when he threw your legs up, shoved your thighs open, and attached his hot mouth onto your clit.
Ten, when he slid thick fingers inside your pussy and fucked it hard until creamy slick covered his hands and your body shook with how hard you came.
Gotta make sure ta clean yer cunt, bonnie.
Filthy, filthy sounds keep echoing through the car. The squeak of leather peeling from your sweaty skin, the crinkling of his pants as he grinds against the seat. The moans you're trying so hard to hold back, each slurp Johnny makes as his tongue dips into your pulsing hole and drags up your clit.
(You really shouldn't be doing this in broad daylight.
You really, really shouldn't, reallyā)
"Cunt's sweeter than the fuckin' dessert, fuck, bonā"
You're feeling too much.
It's hotātoo hot. Hair clinging to your neck and face. Wet leather sticking to you in weird places. Your body feels like it's on the verge of going numb.
Oh, but it's so, so good.
"Fuck, Johnny, haah," you paw at his shirt, head lolling. His fingers are hitting that spot again; it's driving you insane. "G-gonna cum againāmmh!"
His tongue flutters over your clit, tracing flat circles as your body overflows with blinding pleasure once more. Your thighs shudder, closing in on his headāit doesn't deter him though, no. If anything, Johnny fucks you even harder. Stretches you even further as his fingers rub and curl inside of you.
"Cream on me, bon, c'monā"
"Oh, fuāaah!"
It hits you hardāyour body convulsing as your orgasm breaks. Something throbs inside of you, a pressure welling up from deep inside your pussy, wet and hot. Too much, too much!
But there's not much you can do than let it take over you, with how uncontrollably you're trembling, the aftershocks of bliss still going strong.
When you finally come to, it's from the feeling of something wet against your aching cunt.
"Made another mess," Johnny tuts. He's staring up at you, face wet, tongue already lapping up your sweet juices.
