Price normally comes home late, spending a night at the base before returning to you. It’s his favourite part of the routine – landing, settling into the godforsaken cot of his room, and sending you that text.
>> Daddy’s coming home.
He gives you time to prepare. You know exactly what’s expected of you; clean the house down, restock the fridge properly, finish his laundry and tidy yourself up. His clever little housekeeper, so well-trained. Normally you’d greet him on your knees, head down and palms up in servitude, until he pulls you off the floor and to whichever surface he wants to bend you over first.
But this time, Price doesn’t warn you.
The door doesn’t even creak as he cracks it open, pushing through the entryway into the dim loungeroom. It might be an unexpected visit, but John is pleased by what he sees regardless – the house is neat, the air fresh and still tinted with a scent of cleaner, accompanied by just a few piles of mess from the hobbies you keep yourself entertained with laying around. You’ve avoided most of the spanks John’s been itching to spread across those cheeks.
He saves time and avoids waking you up by shucking off just his boots, listening for your quiet snores between the dull thuds of soles meeting the ground. You don’t stir as the he climbs into the bed, taking care not to jostle you as the mattress dips under his weight. Artificial scent wafts from your still damp hair, filling his nose and spreading through his chest, and his mouth waters with the temptation to dive between your legs. But there’s plenty of time for that – first, he needs to give his cock what it’s missed so badly, and he’s sure you’ve missed it too.
John's thankful you’ve always been a heavy sleeper as he tugs down his pants just enough to pull his cock out, frotting up against the panties outlining your ass. There’s a pause in his sloppy grinding as you let out a sleepy groan, squirming back into him further as you seek out his comfort, and he decides he can’t wait a moment to give you what you need. Your panties are so easily pulled to the side, and when his head notches against and sinks into the sticky warmth he’s been dreaming of for the last six weeks, he finally feels whole again.
You wake with a start, instinctively squirming from his strong grip, and it makes his head fucking rush with just how tight your pussy clamps down around him in panic. There’s a struggle for a few seconds as the remnants of rest blind you in a sleepy panic, but John’s hushed reassurances against the crook of your neck have you relaxing back into his arms. He ignores your mumbled questions with shushes, fucking squeaks and whimpers between each syllable you fight to get out until it’s nothing but needy moans and gasps falling from your lips.
It takes so little to bring you to the edge, and he revels in the hiccupped confessions of how much you missed your Daddy as he forces that familiar fullness inside you, head tilted back with a hand around your throat to let Price kiss you whenever he wants. His spare hand traces a practiced path, skimming further and further down until his hand is nestled between your legs, rubbing and pinching the sensitive nub until his ministrations have you leaking slick with each purposeful thrust of his hips.
He keeps you like that until morning, stuffing back in each load until you’re overflowing, thighs saturated in a sticky white that he licks clean when he finally pulls out. But of course, it doesn’t end there – don’t be so silly, sweetheart. Daddy’s getting a shower and some food for the both of you, and then it’s right back to exactly where you belong.
just found your trans thomas one shot OH MY GOD THANK YOU SO MUCH AIMS FUSUAJKSNDJDJDJ THANK YOUKHKUHY THA K YOUKKUOUITITI5H
Brrooooo there is not enough trans Thomas in this world, I searched ao3 and it was a barren wasteland so now I have to populate it with as many as I can force out of my brain
I love making trans characters, it's more fun
Porb gonna start some t4t newtmas tonight and continue the two other WIPs I have going on as well rather than sleeping or studying
The most pathetic subgenre of isekai is where the MC is transported with his class to another world, and then they turn out to be losers who abandon him.
woah. i like fr forgor about this.
Anyway fascinating use of "pathetic". Not "bad" or "cheap" or "reprehensible".
Pathetic. And like you're right.
they wanna be arifurreta soooooo bad.
But it just comes down too why should i gaf??? Ok so loserboy's loser classmates are piece a shit dick heads that make kdrama bullies look saintly. SOO??? He dips in like half an episode to do all the normal midling isekai shit anyway.
So few isekai use the whole class gimmick well.
Like Gringar and Ash has them all as amnesiacs. So like why is it even an isekai?? Wtf is the point??
only like 4 classmates in Arifurreta matter. But the whole class being there IS intergeral to the plot so ill give it that.
And these are ones that do it better.
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The only one i can think of off the top of my head to like genuinely do it good is "I'm A spider so what". Thats like actually about a whole class getting reincarnated. And it explores a bunch of potentials of it. And even makes the TEACHER super fascinating.
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If anything stories that dont specifically restricj themselves to "a class" tend to do much better with it.
Like original Digimon's rather large caste of kids.
HARROOOO GABBBBBBB 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉 another fellow quadruple a battery out in the wild happy to see it. how are you today????? 😁😁😁😁😁
My friends have been trying to make up for the birthday parties they weren't able to throw me, since we met online, starting from when I moved here.
At first? It was sweet. I had two 15th birthday cakes from them.
Then I got... two Sweet Sixteens? And a lunch for all the three days before that.
Now Simon and Zee. Oh man. They go around places for The. Entire Week. of my birthday, saying it's my birthday, to get me free stuff. Either no employee has caught on, or they're just not paid enough to care. It's obviously the latter — but the former is a scary thought.
I enjoy it but this is gonna get us banned from TGI Fridays sooner or later.
My WIP Wednesday Thursday Friday choice iiiiiiis... body swap!!
Eddie Munson wakes up panting and shaking, still tasting acrid air and sour blood in his mouth. He bolts upright, sending his head reeling, and braces himself against the soft ground.
Soft? That’s not right. When he braves opening his eyes, he’s not in the Upside Down. It’s too bright, golden sun slotting through slanted blinds in an early morning glow, and underneath him instead of concrete and vines there’s… A bed?
The softest mattress he’s ever felt, actually. And soft sheets, navy blue cotton soaked in his own sweat and where the fuck am I? He checks around the room frantically. Plaid wallpaper. Sports trophies sat on a little brown desk. An ajar door leading to what looks like an en suite bathroom. Seriously, where the fuck am I?
Hey if you're comfortable with it, do you think you write about how 141 would react to finding out you're ticklish? Preferably nsfw. Maybe they just tease you with it or maybe they have a session with you after a while and enjoy how it drives you crazy. It could be poly141 or just a drabble with each members reaction.
I love your writing sm
I'm sorry this took a while anon, thank you so much for your request!! This is the first time I've written about tickling, so I hope it came out alright. I loved researching this lmfao it's so cute
Pairing(s): 141 x reader (separately, not poly or sharing this time sorry! :p)
Warnings: Bondage and restraint, tickling, tickling during sex
Wordcount: 1.2k
Summary: How each of the boys enjoy tickling you :p
AO3 Link: Right here! <3
Full drabbles under cut <3
Price loves your laugh; just the sound can get him hard. Maybe you should’ve seen it coming from the first date. It was the first thing he complimented you on in the small bakery – heart eyes over the brim of his coffee cup that had your cheeks red, already breathless at the story between a cheeky sounding sergeant and someone’s poor dog. He stores every terrible joke exchanged amongst his boys, bringing them home just to fill your ears with them, to get anything from that exasperated little giggle to a shocked cackle at some of Ghost’s darker ones – the first time he hears you belly laugh, he writes the beginning of his wedding vows.
For him, there’s a privilege in being allowed to bring you to such a vulnerable state, dazed and breathless, whether it’s scrabbling against the material of his shirt as you’re bent over in hysterics, hiding behind your hands, gasping for air at the comedy he’s been nagging you to watch, or between his thighs against the mattress, straining with hiccupped shrieks and pleads at his weight as he tortures your overstimulated skin. The only thing he uses is his fingers, and he’s stubborn about it, possessive of the tactile connection between his fingertips against your skin. The furthest he goes is a plug in your pussy, with a command to try and keep it there at the threat of a good spanking (though you both know you’re going to fail).
He challenges himself to make you come with just tickling – he neglects your needy pussy, wet and fluttering with arousal, until the delicate dragging of his nails down the plush insides of your thigh has you spasming around nothing.
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Gaz, poor Gaz. Gaz, with blood under his nails he just can’t scrub, who sees someone’s face with every punch he throws at the bag. He’s heard the way his peers talk all throughout his service – spank their ass, slap their face, tight grip to the throat, till they ache.
There was only one part that ever stuck with him – till they ache.
The only time he raises a hand against you is to watch you squeal in anticipation before it flies down to your stomach, skittering up and down the soft skin as you twist and writhe against the sheets. It’s everything he needs – he can make you cry, beg, scream, with the whisp of a few touches, the softest of caresses. Tracing the marks that scatter your skin, only love bites and the imprints of restraint. On some nights, Gaz loves tying you up and tickling you, watching you squirm and contort against his ropes in an attempt to escape. The knots dip into your flesh, keeping your arms straight and pointed to the metal hook that meets the rope stemming from your wrists, legs spread wide with the thick bar anchoring your feet flat to the ground. His fingers dance over every inch of skin bare to him, honing to the areas you try to pull away from, watching you sway this and that way in peals of laughter as he switches between sides on your ribs.
Unlike Price, he doesn’t care for games – he’ll give you what you want. A toy, his fingers, his cock. Slow and steady, letting the rope drop a little to bend you at the waist, rocking back and forward into him, clenching down those slick and warm walls in sync with each ragged laugh. He doesn’t mind wielding a tickle wand, dragging the feathers up and down your thighs, your armpits, behind your knees. It’s not over until your eyes are puffy, cheeks tear stained as you sag under your own weight, kept suspended by the rope as your knees shake.
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Soap becomes aware of your ticklish nature very quickly, being such a tactile partner. He’s always touching you – whether it’s an arm around your waist, foot rubbing against your calf, pinkies linked together – and it isn’t long before he unintentionally makes you squeal, accidentally brushing up against one of your most sensitive areas. The noise makes him jump, worried he’s hurt you, but when he sees the red of your cheeks and the shy smile on your face? Oh, it’s over for you.
“Y’ticklish, bonnie?”
He’s all a-grin every time, hands raising menacingly with wiggling fingers.
For a while it stays non-sexual, but poor Johnny can’t help himself. The tickle fights start to linger way past what’s appropriate, making home in his mind – how you get so panicked and squirmy, trying to get away from his fingers, your breathless laugh and gasps as his name whines so desperately from your lips. Your squeals rings through his ears during overdue paperwork in his late nights, so clear that he swears your lips brush across the tips of his ears, and Price avoids looking at him too closely as he turns in the files before leaving.
Sly, smart Johnny starts off slow. When the mood is playful during sex, he purposely rubs his hair and beard up against your neck, your back, feeling you pulse erratically around him with each giggle. He introduces it in increments, a foot in the door as you warm to the idea. Things really get going when he confesses, head buried in the crook of your neck as he groans how the way you flutter around his cock with each giggle brings him so close, and you can't help but laugh at that too. Poor Johnny comes harder than he ever has, and you can't help but want to indulge the glassy, lovestruck expression on his handsome face.
Unlike Gaz, he’d never restrain you - Johnny loves fighting you to stay still, caging you in or dragging you back by the ankle into his reach.
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For Ghost, he loves the chase and anticipation beforehand, and his favourite way of being a pest – catch him brushing against just the right spot to make you jump and squeal as his arms slip around you, or his chin nuzzles into your neck.
But it starts with a morning of productivity, taken with your own domestic chores in a quiet co-existence. He’s finished a spot-tidy, bringing some discarded rubbish and checking on you in the kitchen. You’re unsuspecting, caught up in your respective daily activities, fixated on the job in front of you – and something hits him. The way you bob along happily to the music in your head, scrubbing at the dishes with a sway in your hips, caught up in your own world. Your happiness is magnetic, beckoning him and basking him in the same warm rush of dopamine. A light bubbles up through his body, something that forces its way from the depths of his chest more often when you’re around, and his feet are moving towards the kitchen before he thinks twice.
“Hey love?”
You hum questioningly, putting elbow grease into a particularly stuck blemish from the morning’s dishes.
“Got somethin’ for you.”
You finally turn around, soapy hands in the air as droplets cascade from them. Simon gives you a second to stare quizzically, watching your expression morph into a pleading grin as his hands creep up from his sides, fingers curling over into a leering grab.
“No! I’m washing dishes, please!”
His grin widens, fingers wiggling threateningly. “Then dry your hands.”
Your hands fall to your shirt, squeezing the material as you ready yourself to bolt. He squares up, arms outstretched, but he doesn’t close them as you swoop by close enough, out the kitchen in a mad dash. Though the chase is superficial, it doesn’t stop the thrill that jolts him with each impending step, following you through to the loungeroom. The sofa keeps him at bay, circling each other in a practiced synchronisation around the furniture as you feint left and right, keeping him guessing which way you’ll take off.
You bluff right to distract him from your plan to run the other way, but Simon lunges left anyway. He’s faster than you can think, reading the tensing of your muscles, and unable to rectify your charade as you scramble, his arms clamp around you in a swooping grab.
And as you gasp and giggle underneath him, something stirs to life.
