#ilovemecore

22 with a big ass and an even bigger sweet tooth

[ceilidho]

a beginner's guide to starting a family

Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby. Or: the fertility clinic au Part 3 masterlist

You feel like mangled prey the next morning. Nipples sucked raw, crotch a tacky mess of cum and sweat, flakes of it dried between your thighs, throat hoarse from screaming his name. Every inch of you aches when you try to move, the energy sucked out of you like marrow from a bone. 

You feel like something torn from every angle, limbs just barely attached to your body. You vaguely recall him waking you up in the middle of the night by rolling you onto your stomach, a big arm hitching your hips up and positioning you just right before thrusting into you without any warning, no time to process waking up, the room around you still pitch black. 

When sleep comes though, it comes hard, knocking you out until around mid-morning the next day.

Even then, when the sunlight splinters through your eyelids and rouses you back to life, it takes a considerable effort to even twitch your little finger, threaded through by a deep exhaustion. The bags under your eyes must be a wonder. 

Your throat feels like sandpaper when you stick out your tongue to wet your lips, grimacing at the taste of your own morning breath. When you try to lift yourself up, your arm buckles, sending you toppling back down. Second time’s the charm though. There’s a deep ache in your hips and joints that you only feel when you roll out of bed. It’ll likely linger into the rest of the day. 

“Where are you off to?” a heavy voice grumbles from the other side of the bed. 

“A shower. Then coffee,” you croak, tucking your feet into a pair of slippers before waddling over to the door where you keep a housecoat hanging.

“Put the kettle on f’r me, darling,” John grunts, before turning over and burying his head back into the pillows.  

The coffee maker boils and bubbles while you take a quick shower. It’s not what you need, but it’ll do until you’re alone, when you can take an hour long shower and luxuriate under the hot water with no thought to anyone waiting somewhere else in your house. 

You sigh and shut the water off.

The breakfast table feels like a scene from a dream. 

On the plate in front of you sits a satsuma orange, quartered, and toast with a thick layer of butter nearly spilling over the crust. Another plate sits on the placemat next to yours, piled high with toast, beans, sausage, and two fried eggs, a stark contrast from your plate. 

At the sink, the man you let spend the better part of the night rutting between your thighs washes a pan. You stare at the meaty, undulating slabs of his back muscles until you’re nearly hypnotized, only snapping out of it when he shuts the water off, laying the pan down to dry in the dish rack. 

“That’s all you’re having?” John asks, gesturing at your plate with his fork.

“For now,” you respond. “I might have something later if I’m still hungry.”

“Of course you’ll be hungry, you’ve hardly got anything on your plate. Here—have one of my eggs.”

He holds his plate over yours and uses his fork to push one of his fried eggs onto your plate. It flops unceremoniously onto your toast. 

You decide against snapping at him because it’s too early and you’re far too tired. You slice open the yolk with the side of your fork instead, staring at the yellow spill over the sides of your toast.

There is a moment over breakfast where you begin to wonder whether John will leave at all. He eats his breakfast and drinks his tea with no real sense of urgency, no indication that he believes that he’s overstayed his welcome. You don’t want to come out and say it, but you can feel yourself getting antsy, your leg jittering under the table. 

Then finally: “Well, this has been lovely, darling, but I’ve got to get going.”

Euphoria swells in your chest at the announcement, but you force it down, schooling your expression into something understanding. “You sure you don’t want more tea?”

The wry look he gives you lets you know that he can see right through your feigned dismay. “No, darling, I think that was enough for now.”

Shrewd man. Far too shrewd for the likes of you.

You send him off with a kiss on the lips and a look so heated that it nearly singes. And then he’s gone, the door locked behind him and his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether. 

And then, and only then, can you finally exhale. 

It’s one of the first weekends in a while where you feel no compulsion to go out or do practically anything. All you want to do is laze about. You make a batch of iced tea and plop yourself in front of the TV, feet tucked under your thighs and phone open in your hand, both screens on at the same time. 

It feels so good to do laundry after making a mess of everything. You strip the sheets and throw them into the washing machine the second John’s out the door, your clothes from the night before not far behind. Later, you cobble together lunch from whatever you have in the fridge, and when supper comes around, you order takeaway, barely cracking open the front door wide enough to snatch the bag off the stoop before retreating back inside. 

He’s still there though. Every time you get a twinge in your hips or an ache in your belly. Every time you glance towards your bedroom on your way to the kitchen and you see the sheets, all clean and neat now, though you can easily recall what they looked like just a few days ago—a tangled, filthy mess of cum, spit, and sweat. 

Unlike your sheets, the stink of John’s presence isn’t easily washed away. 

By the time Monday rolls around, you feel normal again. Like you’ve caught your breath after a long sprint. No bout of Sunday scaries this time, not after the weekend you had, but still you come into work with your head on a bit of a swivel, feeling a bit like an emperor in invisible clothes. Waiting, against all odds and rational sense, for someone to read the signs of your weekend on you. 

No one does, of course. No one says a word because no one notices a thing. You might have expected that if you weren’t so on edge, but paranoia has a way of twisting the mind. By the time lunch comes around though, and no one has said more than a pleasant word to you, you start to let go of the anxiety. Better late than never. 

The latter point doesn’t apply to your period. 

Tuesday is better. You pass a flower shop on your way to work and stop to smell the roses for a change, the heavy weight on your shoulders barely a feather in the light of a new day. It’s that time of summer where every colour is at its most saturated, the pinks and greens and golds and oranges so intense and vivid that their colours seem to almost pour out of them. 

And then it’s Wednesday.

Wednesday is a croissant, the buttery flakes scattered all over the wax paper that you use as a plate, and an iced coffee. It’s a series of boring meetings at work that barely move the needle. It’s a long, circuitous drive home that ends at least once in a dead end because of all the construction going on downtown. It is, in every sense of the word, a profoundly boring day.

The first thing you do when you get home is collapse on the couch for a solid half hour, shoes just barely kicked off at the door. Supper can wait until later. Your stomach grumbles when you think about it, but you just don’t have the energy to cook, all of it eaten up by the stress of the drive home.

This is how the rest of your life is going to look. With a baby, for sure, but still, just you. Just you to come home from work and cook and clean and do it all. And even though it’s what you’ve been working towards, you’re a little morose thinking about it.

There’s a knock on your door. You lift yourself up to sit, frowning at the door. The bell follows soon after. 

You know it’s John before you even check. Call it a sixth sense or intuition, but when the bell rings, your breath catches and your stomach clenches, and you know it’s him on the other side. 

He comes bearing gifts at least. A stack of takeaway containers in a brown paper bag. Even just the smell has you salivating. You can almost imagine that you let him in, that you took a step back and waved him inside, interest and appetite piqued by the smell of greasy food. 

You didn’t though, a sneaky little voice reminds you. You let the door open just enough to poke your head out and he was there on the other side, taking up every inch of space, as if someone had suddenly built a wall right outside your door. And he was gentlemanly about it, smiled down at you and asked you how you were, but his foot was against the door and then wedged between it and the frame, working it open gently with his leg and shoulder, pushing his way inside. Polite all the while, of course, announcing the meal that he’d come with and dropping a sweet kiss on the top of your head, but he did, in fact, push you aside on his way in. 

Your problem is that you can always find a silver lining. Anyone with any common sense would tell you to kick him out tout suite—shove him towards the door, bye bye, so long, thanks for all your help, I’ll let you know if I need you to come back—but you can’t help thinking that, you know, while you have him here, you might as well—

John catches you glancing towards your bedroom door and smiles, amused. “We can get to that later.”

And he does. 

Three times in one week. That’s how many times he comes over. He never leaves without at least folding you over the side of the couch and pumping a load into you, only satisfied when he dips thick fingers into a creamy centre and pulls them out wet, your trembling legs letting him know that the job is done. 

You don’t complain because what is there to complain about? You have a man at your beck and call—though you haven’t yet had to call him—willing to help you make a baby and not asking for anything in return. 

His involvement in your life extends beyond just the bedroom though. You suffer through mid-morning headaches for a week before realizing from the label on the jar that someone must have swapped your instant coffee for the decaf version. John doesn’t deny it when you bring it up. 

Prenatal vitamins are the next thing shoved down your throat, albeit not literally. Fresh, organic fruits and vegetables as well. And grateful as you are for him saving you the trip, you can’t help but wonder if he realizes that you don’t need his help. Eventually, you’re going to have to be self-sufficient. You can’t get used to John bringing you dinner or picking up your meds or getting your groceries because eventually it’s going to end. 

He doesn’t always stay the night. Sometimes he leaves right after the act or in the wee hours of the morning while you’re half-tucked under the sheets, limbs akimbo. His goodbyes are always a long, drawn out affair, even if it means pulling you from a dead sleep. Always a soft, slow kiss sipped from your lips and a little bit of tongue. One last once-over to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes he even fetches a glass of water to set on your bedside table for the next morning. 

A pity you can’t look forward to this for the rest of your life. 

A week and a half later, your period arrives right on schedule.

It isn’t a surprise—you warned John as much over dinner—but it does dampen your mood somewhat when you realize this means that you won’t be seeing John 

The next time John calls, you tell him as much. 

“We should probably reschedule—I’m on my period this week.”

You can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Are you going away as well?”

You frown. “No, I’m not going anywhere. Why?”

“Then why would we reschedule?”

“Oh. Okay.”

Implacable. Unflappable. If you knew more about him, you would’ve expected that from him, but you learn it too late. Instead, you find out about this particular character trait in the shower of all places, your cheek pressed against the wet tile and your hips canted back, John’s cock plunging between your legs, blood dyeing the water around your feet pink and swirling down the drain. 

If you’d known that about him, you might never have let things get to this point. But the dice have already been cast; they’re out of your hands now. All you can do is grip the reins in both hands and hold on for dear life. 

It’s difficult to imagine what your life will be like after this. You’ve spent so long waiting instead of living. Waiting takes up so much space, so much time. It fills the walls of your mind with its presence, a constant, irksome insistence, making the world you’ve been running towards seem leagues away. 

And then there are moments when it seems close enough to touch. 

A month passes like a buzzing fly. Here one second and gone the next. You have an alarm on your phone that goes off while you’re scrolling in bed, waiting for John to come over, and you blink when you see a reminder for the first day of your period. You hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you. 

You pull your shorts and underwear off right there on your bed, checking the gusset for blood and feeling your heartbeat speed up when you find nothing there. You’re late. 

You call and catch him a couple blocks from your place, sounding half-crazy over the phone, but you’re coherent enough for him to double back and grab a box of pregnancy tests. One of the three-pack ones, splurging a little. 

The second you let him in, John herds you into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, flipping the lock at the same time. Your stomach drops out from under you when you hear it click. 

“Here. In this,” he says, handing you a small, plastic cup. 

“Wait, can’t I just pee on the stick?” you ask, reaching for the box that he yanks away from your grasping fingers.

John shakes his head. “This is a better method. Less chance of you missing or not wetting it enough. We’ll put the stick in when you’re done.”

“John—”

“We can stand here all night talking about it, if you’d rather?” The slight furrow of his brows signals that his patience is wearing thin. 

You’ve clearly been giving him too much leeway if he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with putting you through the indignity of peeing in front of him. 

You do it though. Hunched over on the toilet with your pants around your ankles and the cup between your legs, John leaning against the counter and watching you the whole time.You stare down between your spread thighs and into the bowl instead of meeting his eyes, half to ignore him and half to make sure that you don’t miss. 

When you’re done, you hand him the cup. Let him handle it while you wipe yourself off and pull your underwear back up. 

The wait is excruciating. Three minutes of pins and needles, front teeth chipping away at the nail of your thumb. You wish that John would distract you somehow, but his eyes remain fixed on the pregnancy test, unwavering. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when the alarm on his phone buzzes, practically leaping over him to grab the pregnancy test. 

Your heart sinks when only one line stretches across the display. You turn the test this way and that, trying to make out even the faintest indication of a second line, but it’s clear what that one line means.  

Taking it from your hands, John sets the test down on the counter and wraps his arms around you, cupping his hand around the back of your head as he pulls you into his chest.

“It’s alright, love,” he says in a low, soothing voice. “We’ll keep trying.”

His comfort is an unexpected balm. A firm pressure over a wound aching to open back up. 

It’s the first time he sleeps in your bed without making a move on you. You almost have half a mind to bring it up, but you bite your tongue just in time. Why spoil the mood when his arm makes as comfortable a pillow as any one of yours? You like the way his breath tickles the tip of your nose. The way he doesn’t snore but breathes so heavily that he might as well. 

You’re glad that it’s him. This would’ve been harder on your own, with no one around to make the heavy moments lighter. 

Sure, you would have had your friends to lean on. But you would’ve had them on weekends and at mocktail hours, not in the quiet of your bathroom, staring at a negative pregnancy test in only your underwear. 

You’re glad you have John.

Not everyone shares your opinion.

A lawyer friend (not a friend by virtue of being a lawyer, but simply happenstance) goes ashen when you finally break and tell someone about your arrangement with John.

“Did you hit your head or something? Are you out of your mind?”

You wince, sheepish, aware that you deserve the dressing down. “I know.”

“No, you clearly don’t know or you would have come to me about this before having unprotected sex with a stranger in order to get knocked up. Did he even get tested before sleeping with you?”

“Obviously. I’m not that stupid.”

“You actually are that stupid. Did you have him sign anything forfeiting parental rights?”

Your lips form in a perfect circle and she groans, scrubbing a hand down her face. 

A day later, she has something for you to give John to sign. It’s long and technical, but you understand the gist of what a voluntary forfeiture of parental rights entails. 

It should’ve crossed your mind to seek out legal advice before all of this, but you hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. You’d sort of hoped it would be quick, that he’d spend one singular night with you, and two to four weeks later, you’d be pregnant. You hadn’t expected it to take this long; you certainly hadn’t foreseen John's active and prolonged involvement in the process. 

Clearly, you haven’t been thinking straight these past few weeks.

The next time John comes over, you hand it to him, expecting to have his signature by the end of the night. Not anticipating any resistance, and why would you? Your arrangement with him is predicated on this being a temporary affair. 

His face gives nothing away as he works through the document. He might as well be reading a circular. 

“Very official,” he remarks. You almost feel bad about springing this on him after everything that he’s done for you. He’s been nothing but helpful and dependable since this started. 

You feel so bad that you actually apologize. “Sorry. One of my friends is just really paranoid. It’s just a formality.”

John doesn’t respond, flipping over to the next page, eyes still scanning the text.

“You don’t have to sign it right now,” you insist, guilt clawing at your stomach. 

“Nonsense,” he says, dismissing your worry. “I know this is important to you. You have to take care of yourself and our baby. That’s what matters most.”

Your stomach flips. Our baby. It doesn’t alleviate the guilt you feel about ambushing him with a legal document when there are groceries on the counter still waiting to be unpacked, another one of his thankless gifts. It just notches the arrow, the bow pulled back to a taut full draw. 

“Do you have a pen, love? I didn’t think to bring one with me.” The arrowhead punches right between your ribs. 

“No, just take it home. I don’t need it today. Please,” you stress when he tries to argue, trying to take the papers from him. “John, I’m serious.”

He sighs, reluctantly handing you the contract back. “Alright, love, whatever you say.”

There’s a certain relief in getting that off your chest, even if it means putting it on the back burner for a while. It’s not like you have to deal with this now anyway. You aren’t even pregnant yet. 

That must occur to John as well because he wastes no time divesting you of your clothes, his passion tonight a slow burn, a little ember cooking you from the inside. 

Even he seems to be suffering from it tonight. He touches the head of his cock to your lips and sighs like it’s a shame he can’t come in there. He doesn’t mind wetting it though. Makes it a smoother glide when he gets you down on all fours, the floorboards chafing your elbows and knees with every thrust. 

The next morning, you happen to glance down at the coffee table on your way to the kitchen and notice the contract missing. John must have taken it on his way out. 

You never do see that little document again after that, and you never think to bring it up.

[desk-drawerr]

He eat a nemon

[kryptonians]

Tumblr’s one true talent is making me sick of things I’ve never seen or read or heard.

[553580]

ao3

part 2

obsessive gaz x telepathic reader

cw: telepathy, marijuana use, vague sexual fantasies

heaven is a cafe located two blocks from your flat and one block out of what you've mentally dubbed 'kyle's blast zone'. with each step the screams and explosions playing on a loop in his mind grow fainter and fainter until they're completely gone- buried behind a new mum's worries about her baby's growth percentile and a barista daydreaming about snogging her favorite middle-aged regular that she's mentally dubbed 'mister oat latte'.

it's therapeutic, in a way, to let more mundane thoughts and memories wash over your mind and cleanse your palate of the horrors your neighbor had been unwittingly subjecting you to. it's a much more intimate method of people-watching, and you enjoy sitting in your corner with the book you aren't reading propped in your hand, trying to match what memories and thoughts belong to which customer.

the young professional squinting at his laptop screen is likely the one who's trying and failing at making complicated financial data make sense. the young teenager waiting for her iced coffee is likely the one that's agonizing over a bad test score. you're pretty sure it's either the barista or the pretty goth girl that's still in line trying to mentally plan their next manicure and wondering if their nail tech is up to the challenge of a particularly ornate design. it's a total toss-up which four folks have their minds totally distracted by the big fluffy samoyed that's sat outside the big windows, patiently waiting for it's owner to finish her animated conversation with her friend about how her work acquaintance is likely embezzling from the company.

your coffee is delicious, the cafe' is full of wonderfully mundane thoughts and memories, and the weather is gorgeous. a thought floats across your mind- one of your own- and you wonder if you should try making a little money tonight. after all, there's a back room poker game later on this evening- god knows it's an easy way to pad your pockets and kill several hours away from home. it's not a terrible idea, really, but there's a mental exhaustion that comes with actively reading multiple minds at once and strategically bombing on occasion so as not to arouse any suspicions of cheating again.

after all, your pinky never did really heal right after the first time you were questioned. it arches away from the rest of your fingers, not bending fully around your coffee- a crooked reminder to not get cocky or comfortable when you're playing cards with sharks.

the only downside to choosing to play poker all night is that it's a cash-only game- which means you have to go back to your flat, braving the contents of kyle's mind just long enough to grab the stack of cash hidden in your closet and slip away again. with any luck (and a lot of strategy) you can walk away from the table with enough extra money to hole up for a week in a nice hotel. you can soothe your stresses in a big jacuzzi tub and order room service and-

your planning grinds to a halt as you feel outside thoughts gradually growing louder and more vibrant in your mind, and it freezes the breath in your lungs as you slowly realize what's happening.

-then it's just two more bloody days until i can get back and finish what we started. better remember to get mum's birthday flowers ordered when i get back to the flat- a flash of a bouquet, peach colored with little bits of pink and yellow- maybe i'll order takeaway for dinner while i'm at it- a rolodex of local restaurants flips in his mind, landing on your favorite lebanese place- i'll have to ring soap and see if he wants to play fifa tonight, that could be fun-

it's almost shocking how normal kyle's thoughts are when he's out of his flat. you stare out the window, looking for any sign of your neighbor heading your way, your eyes wide and mouth agape in shock. you've never seen him in person, really, but you've seen him looking in the mirror before plenty of times. the sound of his thoughts grow steadily louder, and any hopes you had of him simply passing some other direction die as soon as you spot his blue baseball cap bobbing down the street and heading straight towards you.

-so bloody knackered, probably coffee instead of tea today. cappuccino, maybe- a stylized cup of coffee floats through your mind, image sharpening with every step your neighbor takes- yeah, that sounds nice. i wonder if that redhead still works here. what was her name? nina? marina? fuck, she had a nice arse. wonder what it would take to get her to let me fuck it. probably not much.

you can't help the exasperated sigh that slips out of you. it's not like you're a prude- after all, you've had a lifetime of hearing people's most sexual thoughts about one another since way before you were old enough to know what any of it meant- but by virtue of it being from kyle, someone you're already biased against, it's the most obnoxious thing in the world.

a pretty red headed girl smiles she hands over an americano. it's wintertime, she's wearing a turtleneck and the sky is grey outside the cafe windows. christmas music is playing softly in the background, muted by steamers and the low din of chatter in the cafe. she turns to work on another drink, and kyle's eyes catch on the curve of her ass as she bends to pick up a dropped lid.

in your heart you know you should take your coffee and leave, but you're too curious. for one, it's interesting to you that the murder and mayhem you're used to seeing from him is suddenly gone now that he's out and about and not just puttering around his flat. maybe that's just what happens when he's bored- his mind fills the gap between active thoughts with memories, good and bad, because it can't stand to just rest. the epiphany almost makes you feel bad for the man... until you remember the things you've seen him do while on deployment.

hm. maybe karma is real.

it's not until he's crossing the street that you see his face for the first time, and it feels so strange to see him in real life like this. you've managed to avoid running into him for years, and now here he is, just on the other side of a pane of glass, stepping back onto the sidewalk and then pushing open the door to the cafe. he really is a handsome man- and even prettier in person, if you're honest. he looks like a model as he tucks his cap under his arm, flashing a charming smile to the barista behind the counter that gets her twitterpated and giggly.

it was such a surprise the first time you'd seen him through his own eyes in the bathroom mirror- never in your life had you imagined that a face with such kind eyes would be capable of the brutality you'd seen him dole out. it was a shock to the system and a memorable re-enforcement of a lesson long since learned: never ever trust appearances.

it's hard not to stare, but you do make a valiant effort to finally pretend to read your book as he puts in his order. your eyes lock onto a a slightly smudged looking 'b' on the page, watching through his eyes as he dicks around on his phone, texting his sister about birthday plans for their mum as he waits for his order to finish. it's strange to see yourself in the periphery- out of focus, but still very much there, the red cover of your book standing out slightly against the beige and white decor of the cafe.

"americano for kyle?" a pleasant voice rings out over the din of noise, both in your ear and in your head. kyle's attention snaps back up off his phone as soon as he taps 'send', and you sneak a glance right as he happens to look your way.

the shock of it- making eye contact with yourself through his eyes, of the way his thoughts skid to an abrupt halt at the sight of you- almost makes you flinch. instead you drop your gaze back down to your book, pretending nothing happened, waiting for him to move on, to do another sweep for the redhead before he leaves-

he's watching you sit in the corner, eyes lingering on how your round ass fills the seat you occupy. he sees that you're staring down at a book he vaguely remembers hearing someone talk about, and he knows you're not reading. he's noticed your eyes aren't traveling across the pages,instead stuck still on one spot- shit, fuck, goddammit- oh, now they are. how interesting-

bootfalls come closer and closer as you skim your book, strategically choosing to turn the page despite having retained nothing of what your eyes had glossed over.

-just sit close enough to see, but not close enough to raise attention. fuck, what a pretty thing, he thinks as he sits a few tables over. bet i could really bite down on that arse- there's so fucking much of it. i could just sink my teeth in, dig in my fingers, fuck. been a while since i followed a big girl home, wonder if she's a screamer-

flashes of half-formed plans to seduce you flit across his mind, and you wish the samoyed was still here, that kyle could've been distracted by the big beautiful dog instead of you. lebanese, fifa, and flowers for mum are all wiped clear from his thoughts- he's determined to get you in his bed, to bite and fuck and use you as he likes.

there's absolutely no way you're letting that happen- he might be pretty and he might have a big dick, but you've seen the kind of man he really is. you know the things he's done. you're not about to let a goddamned war criminal between your legs.

i'll just catch her eye again, flash her a smile, and ask about her book. that'll get her to talk to me. it'll be easy after that.

his confidence would be sickening if you didn't acknowledge how right he is. if you couldn't hear his thoughts, that beautiful smile paired with that handsome face would make you putty in his hands, there's no denying it. you've seen the memories of him flirting- the man has game. you wouldn't stand a chance.

you pretend to check your phone for the time, pretend to suddenly realize you're late for something, and pretend to be in a massive hurry to leave. it's not an oscar-worthy performance, but it's enough to make your sudden exit plausible, and that's all you need. kyle chuckles to himself in mild surprise when you don't even glance his way, sipping his americano as he watches you through the window, fantasizing about what it would be like to bounce his hips off your ass as he fucks you from behind.

fuck, where are you going, babes? where are you hauling that big fat arse to? bloody hell, look at the jiggle on that girl. what's i'd give to see her on a trampoline-

kyle makes no move to follow, and it's a relief when you're finally out of his sight. the intensity of his little fantasy fades the further out you get, and by the time you're home it's at a much more manageable level, barely distinguishable over the worries of the old woman next door who isn't sure if she forgot to take her meds or if she took her meds and already forgot.

you pull your phone up to your ear, phone already calling a contact that you have saved simply as a red diamond emoji. the call connects, and you don't even wait for a greeting.

"what's the buy-in?"

"it's off." a familiar voice says, clearly annoyed. big d is, on the best of days, a gruff motherfucker anyways- but there's something else happening here. something more than their everyday levels of irritation.

you blink, hard, staring at the inside of your closet where your little portable safe is tucked away under your winter coats and behind your boots.

"it's off?" you repeat, surprised.

"s'wot i said, innit?" d snaps. "the kraut earned 'imself an hmp 'oliday, and until we know wot's been said, it's off."

ah, shit. if that big dumb austrian's been pulled in by the police, god only knows what will happen next. he's a weird one, to be sure- when he's not playing cards and focusing on putting hands together, his thoughts are usually just... empty. nothing there at all. no stray curiosities or memories or even to-do lists. as far as you can tell, the space between his ears is vast, cavernous, and filled with fuckall.

god only knows what a man like that does and says in police custody.

"ah." the phone disconnects in response, and you sigh as you slide it back into your pocket, closing the closet door. so much for your evening plans, you guess.

you preheat your oven for a small frozen pizza as you mull over your run-in with kyle. it's encouraging that he's only replaying his nightmarish memories when he's stagnating at home- and it makes sense, you suppose. you also start thinking about rancid shit when you start feeling stir-crazy, and a man who routinely jumps out of aircraft and gets shot at probably feels restless the second he's off-base and off-duty. with any luck he found someone else to lust after, some other fat girl to follow home and work off some steam with so you can have a peaceful night with mediocre frozen pizza, a joint, and a few good documentaries.

two slices and a half a joint in, you start to feel kyle's thoughts growing louder again. he must be coming home, you reason, and take another deep toke as you brace yourself, cursing your optimism that he might go somewhere else for the night.

-even if it is french. still, could be good. can't remember the last time i read anything for fun, busy as i've been. ghost's a reader, wonder if he's read this. wonder if he liked it. was it him that was telling me about it? or was that raven? so bloody hungry, i should've gotten more than a coffee for lunch. i wonder if that girl is a regular there. i should go back tomorrow, see if i can find her again. wouldn't mind taking a bite out of her, fuck that arse really did look thick enough to sink my teeth into- a proper bite, no holding back- an image flashes in your head, a woman who looks a lot like you, but isn't you. her skin is too clear, hair too perfect, eyes just a little bigger, tits a little perkier. she's an idealized version of you, still fat and sat in the corner of the cafe, reading your book, glancing shyly over the cover.

ugh.

through kyle's eyes, you watch him approach your building, shopping bag rustling on his arm as he fishes out his keys in the lift, mentally finalizing his dinner order for tonight. fantasy-you giggles and smiles at him in both of your minds, and you take a particularly deep toke and turn up the volume on your documentary, david attenborough's voice nearly loud enough to drown out kyle's fantasies as he narrates the journey of a particularly cute looking penguin. it's somehow just enough to distract you from when he imagines you bent over the edge of his couch as he slides the key into the door, toeing off his shoes and digging out his phone to order dinner.

it's not until later, as the credit roll across your screen as orchestral music swells, that you even notice kyle's thoughts again. it's not a memory-it's too vivid- the image playing clearly in your mind: a man in a straw hat and a pale little girl walking across farmland. the little girl speaks simply of god and angels, and they pass by an abandoned church- hey, wait a second.

focusing a little more, you realize that not only is kyle reading, he's reading the same book you'd had in the coffee shop. he must've gone to a bookstore this afternoon and picked it up before heading home. closing your eyes, it's like getting a private movie of your novel, one entirely imagined by your neighbor. it's incredible how clear and realistic his imagination is, and it's better than any film adaptation could ever be. the remote finds your hand, finger instinctively turning off your television as you opt to lean back, eyes closed, head resting on the back of your couch as you let kyle's imagination illustrate your book. for once in your life, the strength of kyle's mental signal to you is an asset, allowing you to enjoy the book at the same time as him.

it's hard to say how much time passes like that, with you blissed out and dozy as you lie back and let your neighbor's imagination wash over you, but it's brought to an abrupt end as a loud knock at your door stirs you from your reverie.

through the peephole is a teenage boy clearly delivering food, little cardboard boxes adding shape to the plastic bag in his hand.

"delivery from agora." the boy says in a bored voice when you open the door.

"oh, uh, i didn't order anything, i think maybe for my neighbor-"

as if summoned, the door to number 542 opens, and your neighbor pops his head out. as the delivery driver peers at the receipt in his hand, you watch kyle's face run through a range of emotions: surprise, disbelief, confusion, and giddiness.

flashes of you on your knees, bend over his couch and smiling coyly over your shoulder, pinned to his mattress underneath him- ugh, god, it's too much too suddenly and you are way, way too high for this.

"goodnight!" you practically squeak, and as the door closes behind you, and you can practically feel kyle's rush of excitement as he stares at your door, the number burning into his memory as he takes the food from the apologetic driver.

a thought that is not of your own mind rings out loud, clear, and full of awe through your wall:

found you.

[spicyprincezuko]

I wish all Black girls a clear shot at this world. I wish all Black girls a full belly. I wish all Black girls a respite from their many troubles. I wish all Black girls nothing but grace, prosperity, and ease. Black girls I am hoping for your continued safety and success every single day.

[loveridden1999]

when england lose, women bruise

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Property Of 6

Warning: kidnap,isolation, noncon/dubcon….

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Chris Redfield

Note: I couldn’t resist…

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You want to ask where you’re going, but you know better. Already. One day and everything’s changed. Even you. This man you didn’t know twenty-four hours ago is now the only thing you know. You will do what he says, go where he decides.

Chris rubs you dry with a towel, his own slung low around his hips. The bottom of the fabric splits around his thick thigh as he bends to rub every crevice and curve through the towel. He pushes firm between your thighs until you move your feet apart and he dries your cunt intently.

“Nice and clean… for now.” He winks as he wiggles his fingers through the fluffy cotton then continues down your thighs. You shiver. Not just out of fear, but shame. You don’t even think of fighting him. How quickly you just folded into the shape he wanted you.

He finishes and drapes the towel over your shoulders. He pets the sides of your neck and cheeks with his knuckles. He draws his arms away and leans in to kiss your lips. As he does, he loosens the towel at his waist and lets it fall away.

He stands straight and offers it to you. “My turn.”

You stare him in the face, not daring to look lower than his thick neck. The top of his fuzzy chest teases the edge of your vision. You gulp and take the towel as you step closer. You reach to dab away stray rivulets along his throat as he bends his knees to help.

The cotton slips as you gently swipe away the moisture. He catches your towel and brings it around you. He folds the top above your chest, his palms grazing your tits through the fabric as he drags them down and growls. You focus on drying away the moisture rather than his body. 

As you get lower, your hands shake. Even if you’ve seen it all, felt it, you still don’t feel right about it. Your insides clench and you shift on your feet. His stomach is thick, barrel-like, but not soft. The lines are shallow but his torso no less strong.

He turns for you to get his back, lowering himself so you can get his shoulders. You can’t help but notice his bulging muscles all around. You didn’t think men really looked like this.

“You don’t gotta be so gentle. I can handle it.” He grabs your hand and presses it through the towel as you get to his ass, guiding it along the musculature. You squeak. He chuckles. “This is what I know, baby girl. You never had a man to handle you right.”

He turns again and yanks away the towel. He takes your wrist and puts your hand against his rigid dick. He purrs.

“We gotta get dressed before I forget what I had in mind,” he tilts his hips to pump against your limp hand.

“Yes, sir… Chris.” You say.

He exhales and tosses his towel. He cradles your hand and brings it up to kiss your palm. He toys with it as his eyes bore into you. “You’re so delicious but it’s too early for dessert.”

You smile, or try to. He clings to your hand and stands at full height. He’s a mountain in flesh. He turns and drags you from the bathroom. He leads you to the bed and sits you on the end.

He saunters away, naked and shameless, and slides open the closet.

“I don’t got much of an eye for these things. I wear black and black.” He snickers under his breath. “But I was thinking this’d look cute on you.” He faces you and shows you the two piece outfit. A gingham set in lilac and white, a flutter short skirt and off-the shoulder top. “Nice for a picnic.”

He stops in front of you. You’re eye level with his pelvis and… that. He holds out the clothes. You take them reluctantly. You glance up as he watches you. Shoot.

“Um, thank you. They’re cute.” You say.

“Cuter on, I bet.”

You look down at the gingham. What about a bra? Underwear? You’re too afraid to ask. Just like you’ve been scared to do anything but roll over and let him–

Ugh. Why do your insides do that? Why do you get all tight and tingly at the thought.

“Yeah, probably.” You agree.

“And I got ya some stuff in the bathroom. For your hair and all. Not that I think you need anything. You’re a natural beauty. Soft…” He pets your chin and his dick twitches inches from your forehead, nearly touching your nose as you look up at him.

“I don’t want to waste time,” you point your toes to the floor. “So… I’ll get ready.”

He drones and runs his fingertip down your neck. He slowly backs up. “Me too, baby girl. I wanna look good for you.”

🧺

Chris wears a robin’s egg shirt and jeans. You don’t know much about him but it doesn’t feel like him. He’s out of place in the pastel button-up. He holds your hand, in his other, a wicker basket. You don’t know where you are. Somewhere desolate but balmy with the scent of pollen and dew.

He stops you at the peak of a rolling hill. He lets you go and unfolds the blanket nestled on top of the basket. You peer around at the endless green. You could run but to where?

He hums as he opens the basket. He pauses, drawing your attention, and you turn to him.

“It’s pretty around here,” you say, hoping he doesn’t suspect your true thoughts.

“You’re pretty,” he says. He goes back to sifting through the basket. “Sit.” He commands. His voice is even but his tone is enough to make you obey.

You sit on your knees and fold your hands patiently. He unpacks some containers.

“I had some help.” He explains as he uncovers a bowl of berries. “My sister gave me good tips for keeping the berries from getting soggy.” He takes out sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper. “And her recipe for chicken salad. Hope I got it right. Don’t cook much. Field rations come ready to eat cold.”

You nod. Military? That would explain the guns and his posture. The way he orders you around.

He sets out a whole lovely meal with cucumber salad and little angel food cakes for the berries, with a can of whipped cream. He tries to settle on the blanket, too big to be sitting on the ground. 

He bends his legs, jeans straining, and clears his throat. He looks at you. Thoughts line his forehead and swim in his eyes. His jaw clenches. The sunlight illuminates the strands of grey hidden in his hay brown hair. He’s older than you. A lot older, you think.

“I can’t get comfortable, why don’t you come here and help me out?” He waves you over.

You stare for a moment before you understand. You lift yourself up on your knees and carefully move around the picnic dishes. Before you can sit beside him, he scoops you into his lap, sitting you sideways, right against his chest.

“Better,” he growls as his hand skims down your thigh, the skirt flipping up dangerously as you squeeze your legs together. He leans in, his lips closer to yours. “Forget the picnic, I could eat you up.”

Your lashes flick and you squirm. A deep tone rumbles up from his chest. He squeezes your thigh, fingertips digging in, then lets you go. He tuts and leans over you. He grabs a fork and scoops up some salad. He brings it in front of your mouth.

“But I gotta take care of you before you take care of me,” he pokes the tines against your lips. “Come on, let’s get something in you before I get in you.”

[renthony]

It's wild to watch the phrase "tumblr sexyman" morph into "man that tumblr thinks is sexy," because when I first saw the phrase come into use, I always saw it used in reference to the phenomenon of "when presented with a wide array of fictional characters, tumblr will always pick the skinny white man to obsess over, and if the fan-favorite character has no canonical human appearance, the fandom will inevitably create a popular fanon of the character as as a skinny white man."

When I hear "tumblr sexyman," I think of Cecil Night Vale being constantly depicted as a skinny white man instead of literally anything else. I think of the background character white men who get elevated over protagonists that are women, people of color, or otherwise not the white man power fantasy.

"Tumblr sexyman" is, like. An insult. I DON'T want any of my blorbos to win a "tumblr sexyman" poll. "Tumblr sexyman" is the exact opposite of what I want my own OCs to be. If any of my characters ever get called "tumblr sexyman," I will have to immediately re-evaluate myself and the art I'm making.

[renthony]

Things I think of when I hear "tumblr sexyman":

Cecil Night Vale, as previously mentioned.

Oncelercest, because if there aren't two skinny white men to ship, tumblr fandom will start shipping the skinny white man with himself.

Bill Cipher inexplicably being fanon'd as a white twink despite being a fucking triangle.

Everyone fawning over Marvel Loki while shoving every woman and Black person in the MCU aside.

The way nearly every single character in Hazbin Hotel has the same "tall and skinny" body type, along with all the criticisms Black audience members have made about the issues with Alastor's design.

The way tumblr got obsessed with the white man villain in Sinners.

[yeyinde]

Doug Ford said it "a miracle nobody died" lmao like people will praise everything and everyone else before admitting that we did what we always do and took care of our own. It wasn't a miracle. It was indigenous communities helping each other. It's the people who aren't slashing budgets and telling us it's time to stop holding our hands out despite giving us nothing and passing a bill to give us even less who are opening their doors and letting us in.

Before taking off for the Assembly of Nations, officials told Chief Paavola that there was nothing to worry about, and there was no immediate danger, insisting the smoke residents were seeing came from a smoldering fire farther away.

If it wasn't for someone else alerting the community of the danger, they never would have known. No one called. No one came. The people of Collins had 40 minutes to escape before the fire would have consumed them. This isn't a miracle. It's an utter failing of the people in charge do the bare fucking minimum of their job requirements and keep people safe and informed. We have satellite imaging of the wildfires. We have over 8 different sites currently monitoring the fires. And they were told to stay put.

This isn't a miracle. It was Lyndon Paavola, Monty Frank, Scott Frank, Mitchell Huezo, Wayne Wastaken, Mikey and Ryan Wesley, Kyle MacLaurin, and Dean Goodwin making sure their community got out. It was them risking their lives to go back and get more people because the boats they had were too small. It was Chance Paavola, a 13-year-old boy, risking his own life to save his neighbours.

They were so close to the fire that they could feel the heat from the flames. They watched their community burn, and had to flee to the water because there was no other escape. It took 3 hours for Collins to burn.

If they listened to the officials and the people in power, an entire community of indigenous people would have burned to death. If they didn't have boats, they would have burned to death.

This isn't a miracle. It's an injustice. The government did nothing. They were content to let everyone die and now want to go on press tours down playing how miserably and catastrophically they failed another indigenous community on every single level.

[sukunastears]

sukuna making you squirt for the first time

sukuna had you in a mean mating press , he was forcing himself deeper in you. “fuck girl— your cunt is hugging me tight.’

“ryo move i have to pee.’ you squealed , feeling that weird sensation in your stomach. you tried to push at sukuna’s lower stomach but his third hand grabbed yours and pinned it to the side. ‘sukuna please.’ you begged , you didn’t want to pee all over him.

sukuna shook his head , speeding up his thrust. “fuck that. take my cock you slut.’ your mind went blank and your vision was blurry. the feeling you knew all too well was approaching and sukuna was chasing it.

‘kuna please. i need to pee.’ you cried. that pressure inching closer and closer. but sukuna didn’t stop , his fourth hand reached over to rub your swollen clit. sending shock waves throughout your already overwhelmed body.

you couldn’t hold it anymore with the amazing pleasure sukuna was giving you ; your body couldn’t hold it in. ‘shit— ryo i’m cumming.’ you moaned out , your free hand scratching at sukuna’s chest.

you legs started shaking rapidly , before your juices sprayed out onto sukuna. your mouth gaped open filling the room with a strings of moans and squeals. ‘shitttt- ahhghggghh kunaaaa fuckkkk—.’

sukuna came as he watched you unravel. your juices spayed all over his chest and cock , making the bed a mess. it was a beautiful sight. his thrust slowed , as he came deep in you.

‘that’s a good girl.’ sukuna praised as he rubbed your clit once more , your body jerking with overstimulation. you pushed his hand away as your body recovered from that crazy sensation.

sukuna pulled you into a sloppy , wet kiss. he moaned in your mouth before slowly pulling away. a string of yours and his salvia dripped onto your chin and chest. sukuna licked it up slowly before spiting it back in your mouth.

‘you need to squirt more often brat.’ sukuna teased. ‘you made a big mess tho.’

‘shut up ryomen.’ you rolled your eyes.

time invest in a waterproof mattress cover. because sukuna wasn’t stopping there.

[mintmatcha]

getting high with your guy best friend and he starts listing reasons you should let him put his cock inside you

[mintmatcha]

halfway through his list of reasons he's toying with himself through his pants, stroking and moving it, showing off the outline. his other hand is over your shoulder, gently brushing fingertips over your tit.

"you know i'm huge, right?" he says. "Pornstar big."

"Shut up."

"i'm serious. im massive. touch it and see."

when you go to reach, he's pushing down his pants to give you a proper handful of the biggest cock you've ever seen-

"holy shit. that'll break me."

"god, i hope so."

[dvg-tvgs]

Otter hybrid who watches a group of wolf hybrids,

She thinks theyre handsome, she also thinks its cute that they stay in packs, she wonders if they cuddle and hold hands to keep eachother close. She wants to join in if they do, she wants to see if theyd be adorable if she soaked them and they got frustrated and wet

She thinks she's quiet when she watched them, they know she's there, they know she's been watching them for a few days now, but its too cute to scare her off. Also otters can be vicious and theyd rather not get scratched by a tiny feral wet thing, so leave her too it!

Lowkey inspired by a @rawme-price mer au

I'm thinking a facility to study hybrids. Otter reader is opposite the wolf pack, getting a perfect view of them from the rock at the top of your little artificial waterfall.

yeah, you're obsessed. it becomes hard to study you because you won't come down from that rock.

you're curious about them. how do they behave as a pack? do they hold hands to not get separated, too?

and the workers notice you staring at them. they coax you down from your rock and introduce you to the wolves.

kyle, the most docile of the wolves. not dominating, like John, or energetic like Johnny. he's peaceful in his own way.

they watch as you circle him. you show off your teeth for Kyle to admire and you show him your prized pebble collection.

you're not ready to be introduced to the pack just yet, but maybe soon. maybe they can combine your "rooms" (enclosures. but they call them rooms to make you feel more human) into something bigger.

as soon as they separate you and kyle, you're back to watching them from your rock. except they're not watching you, tails moving like happy dogs.

[creatingblackcharacters]

And guess who got caught on live TV calling a Black person- the same Black person, even- racist slurs AGAIN. Argentinian fans. 🙃 The same fans whose atrocious behavior made me talk about this to begin with, the same ones who have caused a nuclear meltdown of antiblackness and fragility over. 🙃 Lessons were learned, but clearly not the ones about not being antiblack.

[ilium-ilia]

Charity Fic Commissions Poll

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

Voting ended onJul 20

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.

[yeyinde]

Collins is gone.

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 years—far longer than settlers have been in Canada—and made sure fires like the ones we're all seeing today were prevented through kinisitotēn) 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 racism—like Kashechewan—because 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.

items needed are: food, diapers, medical masks, men’s and women’s joggers (all sizes), children’s clothing (newborn to size 14), children’s shoes, summer clothing, men’s clothing, toiletries (lotion, Vaseline, toothpaste, toothbrushes, shampoo, conditioner, soap, deodorant, etc.), strollers, adult depends-all sizes, dog & cat food

wīya ispīh iyiniw-kiskīyihtamowin pasikōpayiki kāwi askiy ta-iyihyīmakan

[ceilidho]

a beginner's guide to nesting

Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby. Or: the fertility clinic au Part 2 masterlist

You walk around town like it’s written on your forehead that you’re 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. I’m letting some guy knock me up. Or better yet, I’m with stupid, with the arrow pointed up at you. 

Obviously that’s not true. You’ve 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 you’d already filed it away as future gossip material, imagining bringing it up at drinks to the shock and delight of your friends. 

Then night falls, and you grow weak.

You wake up with post-text message clarity the next morning, but there’s 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 then—

“It’s gonna cost four thousand dollars.”

Your coworker lets out a hissed breath, wincing. “That’s not cheap.”

It’s 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.

She’s the first person outside of a few close friends that you’ve told about going to the clinic at all, but she reacts exactly as you thought she would. It’s both affirming and annoying; it’s not so bad hearing from someone else that four thousand dollars is a bit pricey for a single person, but part of you wishes she’d try to convince you to go through with it. You need someone to push you in a direction—in any direction. 

You nod, mouth screwed into a grimace. “And that’s only for a single try. I think she said it would be closer to, like, twelve thousand dollars altogether.” 

“So are you gonna do it? Or are you gonna keep looking around?”

“I have another appointment next week,” you half-answer, getting cagey all of a sudden. 

The truth is, that appointment isn’t the only thing you’ve got on the books. There’s 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. 

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 didn’t tell me anything, I just picked a profile with a good medical record and family history. 

Don’t think about how you live in the same city. Don’t think about the likelihood of running into him around town with the baby in tow. 

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. 

You don’t know what to wear out to dinner with him. It’s 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. 

The only reason you don’t 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. 

(You tell yourself that as if a strange man offering to knock you up within five minutes of meeting weren’t 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. 

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. 

But then, as the time before, he turns his head and locks eyes with you. 

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 don’t need to be inundated by a barrage of text messages and phone calls from your friends trying to talk you out of it. You’ve made up your mind. 

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 might’ve hoped to get on your own. You eye him sideways when he pulls your chair out for you. 

His demeanour is so relaxed that if you didn’t 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. 

“You know, we didn’t have to do this,” you start awkwardly, eyes gliding over the room to look at all the other well-dressed patrons, some presumably out on actual dates. 

“Call me old-fashioned, but I was taught that dinner comes before the rest of the evening.”

“I just mean you didn’t have to. I would’ve been fine just…” getting right down to business, you leave unsaid, hoping that he doesn’t make you spell it out. 

“We’re two civilized adults. I thought we might get to know each other first.”

“Well, what do you want to know about me?”

“This is as much for me as it is for you—don’t you want to know anything about the father of your children?”

You wish he’d keep his voice down. He isn’t 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 wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more about him.

“Alright. How old are you?”

“Forty-six.”

You nod, pleased with yourself for guessing it right. “What do you do for work?”

“Just some work for the government,” he says, brushing the question off. “What else?”

That piques your interest though. “Oh, come on. What are you, M16 or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” John laughs, genuinely amused enough for you to believe him. 

You roll your eyes when he doesn’t elaborate any further though. “Fine, leave me in the dark. Anything else you want to know about me?”

“Where are you in your cycle?” he asks, blunt as a hammer.

A classic spit take moment. It’s a good thing you haven’t ordered a drink yet. 

“I think it’s, uh…it’s coming soon actually. Um. Next week or so.”

He chews on that for a second, mulling over the timing. “That’s fine. We should still be able to make it work.”

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. 

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. 

“No alcohol,” he reminds you before you have a chance to ask. 

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 doesn’t excuse the overstep. You ignore it only because you know there’s no use getting worked up when you’ve already made your mind up. It’s a peccadillo in the grand scheme of things considering what he’s doing for you. 

Conversation flows surprisingly well over dinner, but at the back of your mind, you can’t stop thinking about how at the end of the night, he’s going to take you home and fuck you. It creeps back in whenever you let your guard down for a split second. 

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)

It’s a lot to keep in your head at the same time.

“How long have you been thinking about doing this?” John asks apropos of nothing, the earlier thread of your conversation evaporating on the spot.  

“I mean, I’ve wanted to have kids for a long time, but actually planning to have them…maybe a couple months?”

“Why now? Why not wait a little longer? Wait for someone to start a family with?”

You’re not sure why he’d ask you that, why it would matter. It’s none of his business, quite frankly. You almost want to tell him that, let yourself get righteous, get angry, but you find you can’t fully commit to the anger. It wouldn’t change anything. You aren’t being forced to answer him. 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m not much of a family man myself. ‘Least not when I was younger, when it counted. Never had the time nor the inclination. Work took me all over—it just wouldn’t have been fair if I had a wife or kids waiting around for me. But since it didn’t seem like having a family was in the cards for me, I thought it would be a waste of good genetics.”

“Oh.” It’s arrogant, but it’s as good an answer as any. 

He waits a beat then lifts an eyebrow when you don’t reciprocate. “So? Why didn’t you wait?”

“I did try, but there wasn’t much out there, and I wanted a baby more than I wanted to be with someone, so…” 

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. 

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. 

The bill is also there, discretely tucked under John’s napkin, and that makes your stomach flip, realizing that only a coffee now sits between you and the end of this night. 

Then, at a certain point, when all that’s 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 it’s time for you both to go. 

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. 

At your car, you sway back and forth on your heels. “You can, uh…follow behind me, if that works.”

“Why don’t you give me your address and I’ll meet you there?”

You bite your lip, pretending to deliberate, then acquiesce. 

Let him think he’s pulling one on you. You’re bringing him home instead of the other way around because you don’t want to have any memory of a man’s bed when you think about your pregnancy journey. If it’s 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. 

His participation will be a short blip in your life. A minor footnote. You’ll 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 baby’s 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 ‘short’ might not have been the most accurate interpretation of what’s about to happen. 

(Honey, you’ve got a storm coming)

“This off first,” 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. 

“Getting right to it, huh?” you joke nervously. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 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. 

“Yes,” you whisper. Neither of you mention the tremble in your voice and how unsure you sound. 

It doesn’t 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 it’s bad—it’s 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 you’re on the verge of coming—but it’s a lot, a lot that you have to wrap your head around, your bra pinched off shortly after that and underwear next.  

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.  

You don’t even notice that John has walked you backwards into the bedroom until he pushes you down onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you. “One second, love—need to get all of this off myself.”

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. 

That’s how you know that despite all his lofty words, this isn’t some favour he’s doing you. He wants this just as badly—wants it with a vigour that you don’t even know if you’ll be able to handle, aware that you are just flesh and blood. There’s a prickle at the back of your mind, a whisper reminding you that nobody knows that he’s here, that he’s a hot-blooded man about to slake his lust with your body. 

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. 

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 don’t have to ask why. 

Nestled between your thighs, John looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Let’s get you all softened up to start, alright, love?” 

The first touch of his lips to your sex sends a lightning bolt up your spine, and then it’s 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. 

It’s good, but it’s 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. “That’s okay, John, I just wanna—oh fuck, can you please just put it in?”

“No, baby, it’s good if you come first,” he murmurs. “Helps it take.”

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. 

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. 

It doesn’t 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.

They’re wet when he pulls them out, and he dries them off by rubbing them on your belly. 

The shadow of his body draws over yours as he climbs on top of you. It’s as physical as it is visual though, John’s 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. 

And then he’s 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. You’d protest if you could, but you can’t, his mouth slanted over yours and demanding. 

“C’mere,” 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 it’s there suddenly, breaching you. 

You have to grab him, loop your arms around his shoulders and squeeze to ground yourself. It’s a lot to take in. He’s a lot to take in. 

“I know, love, I know,” John murmurs soothingly. “Deep breaths, okay?”

You listen to him, letting a shaky breath out. It helps you relax. Barely, but enough to ease the strain a bit. 

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, his breath fanning out against your ear. “A little more, love, alright? You gonna be brave for me?”

“Oh—just get on with it,” you gasp when he eases in another inch, and John laughs in your ear. 

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, you’ve 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. 

The kiss is too much. Too intimate. You wish you would’ve 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. He’s a good kisser at least, practiced from a lifetime of it. No awkward schoolboy tonguing. 

Too good. You wonder distantly how many other women he’s slept with (probably more than you have any business knowing). If he’s 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. 

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. There’s 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. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” 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. He’s 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. “No, none of that. Eyes on me.”

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. 

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 he’s about to come, his eyebrows digging in and his jaw going tight, the vein in his forehead prominent. 

“Christ, you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?” he snarls. “All this fucking cum.” 

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. 

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. 

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. 

John’s 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. It’s 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. 

When he slumps off to one side, you can finally breathe again, the air rushing into your lungs. There’s 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. 

“No, don’t get up, love. We’re just gonna lie here for a bit,” he instructs, pushing your shoulder back down. “Better chance of my boys getting the job done if we keep it all in you.”

Of course he just wants to make sure that it takes. That way, you don’t have to do this again. “Oh yeah. I, uh, I didn’t think about that.”

He doesn’t 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. 

It’s 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. 

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. 

“How long do we have to do this for?” you ask, voice all high and tight in your throat. 

John hums, unconcerned. “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

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. 

He doesn’t warn you before idly circling your clit with thumb. You jerk, nearly biting through your lip. “John!”

“Relax, honey, I’m just making you come again.”

“I know that, John—ah, ah, ah—”

A leg hooks over yours, his thigh heavy enough to keep you pinned without even much strength behind it. His fingers don’t 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 you—

You haven’t 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. “Gorgeous. That ought to do it for now.”

Your heart skips a beat and you stare up at him, exhausted, the sweat on the back of your neck now cold. 

For now.

[tojisteddy]

Unless you are writing a poly 141 fic or the fic is specifically about Gaz—

STOP FILLING GAZ’S TAGS WITH YOUR BS.

I could write a fvcking essay about how using the singular black characters tag to promote your fic about Simon or anyone else in the 141 (anyone who’s not fvcking gaz) is a MACRO aggression. Y’all already don’t gaf about him so have some fvcking decency for the ppl who DO want to read his fics.