With How Much Price Is Always There For Simon It's Only Right Simon Gives Back In Some Sort Of Way And

It's out for anyone interested ♥️ The Fic

AAA good to see it's exciting!! I hope y'all like it!

Hi gang 🧍

So...yeah 💕 @gilverrwrites posts and their anons yapping about Guy Gardner Being sweaty and fucking in full Nelson, I took it upon myself to write for him. I am also posting this so I am forced to finish this.

Tackling writers block one bit of peer pressure at a time / HJ

….’Give your son a little brother’

…and if I give twin girls? My family has a propensity for twins and *girls*. My mom came from a family of 7 girls, 1 boy. 4 of those girls being twins. (The realization as an adult woman struck fear into my heart- 1 baby is scary enough but 2??? 2 girls with the potential for attitude? Good lord.)

Double the baby? Price would be thrilled. He doesn't need a son and he's secretly a total girl dad. He just doesn't know it but he's so use to be surrounded by men he never anticipated a daughter - let alone two. But this just proves why you're the perfect little wife. Giving him twice as much as he asked for in two beautiful children he can love and spoil.

Fic link🔗

While I agree that white people should show their support, and have an obligation to speak up, it's not always that easy. I've shared my support and been told I was "virtue signaling". I've stayed silent and given space to people of color instead and been told I'm complicit because I didn't speak up.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

There is no margin for error when I as a white person want to show my support. I feel like I need to research for a PhD anytime I want to say something because I might accidentally be supporting the "wrong" opinion or the "wrong" person or supporting someone who once said something that is now considered incorrect. Or I might just be ignorant about the details but the only way for me to triple check that is to either talk to someone I trust (and then get told that people of color shouldn't have to educate me) or do research every time I want to state an opinion or show support.

It is frankly a lot easier to stay silent and pretend I didn't see any of the posts.

And yes, I'm sending this on anon because, again, the margin of error is none existent and I don't want hateful message.

Hi anon, thanks for voicing your opinion in a way that feels safe for you. I hope you take my reply in the manner in which it is intended, which is to further the conversation and shed some light on some roadblocks that many folks like yourself are coming across.

If being told you're 'virtue signaling' is the worst thing that happens to you, and still choose to turn a blind eye, that's an example of privilege in and of itself.

You don't need a pHD to boost attention on BIPOC writers within the fandom. In this case it's as easy as reblogging @almostempty incredibly articulate post about the subject, you can ensure if you do make Reader Insert stories that they are inclusive, you can reblog BIPOC writers/artists, you can be sure to message writers that include hateful imagery symbols in their stories and inform them why it's not okay.

The more we support the marginalized members in our community, the stronger our community becomes. If not everyone has a seat at the table why the fuck would anyone stay?

And yeah, you will have to do research if you want to state facts. Not just in this context but in the world. That's how we learn as a society. That's how we evolve.

And no, it is not our BIPOC folks who should be burdened with having to do that emotional labor. If we want to speak on this stuff, we need to be informed.

And you might fuck up. You might say the wrong thing and catch yourself. To err is human. I've done it. I'm sure lots of people have. I'm probably fucking up something as I type. But I will continue to learn and I will continue to be an ally. Because to not even try is extremely problematic.

When good people would rather take the easy way out, to stay comfortable because they have the privilege of that choice, it communicates that you don't care.

"It's a lot easier to stay silent" is a very dangerous perspective. Not just within this space but the world at large, so I lovingly challenge you to try and reframe moving forward.

At the end of the day you have to look yourself in the mirror, think back on your behavior and decide if you like what you see.

Anon, I so appreciate your transparency in sending me this and I hope that this reply sheds some light on why I think it's so important to be a vocal ally, even if it's something as simple as a reblog.

Love, Emma

Seeing alot of people get devastated by the last of us season 2 and I'm kinda just over here as someone who decided to just simply not watch season 2. Gotta say...love my side of the fence coz I really don't wanna be sad rn. No thanks. I got depression, I don't need more sadness

I already know spoilers and tbh I just simply have no interest in what I know of the story. That's not really why I liked season 1 and got into the story and from the games, yeah I came here for humans healing and the cycle of life even after the world dies. Not murder spree McGee

Sorry for all the people who watched it or are watching it and getting in their feels. I will be staring at you from this side and throwing tissues your way. If you decide to jump over my side of the fence and join me I'm avoiding it all, we can watch something nice and eat food together. Maybe even sleepover

Sugar sweet

Pairing: John price x assistant! Reader

Warning: unspecified age gap, 'bratty' reader, brief description of past, implied emotional neglect, mild/tame bits of angst, reader is kinda pathetic but we salute her, AFAB/female! Reader, suggestive content at the end, Mild NSFW at end, brief sexual fantasies (oral - male receiving) , John is pining in his own way

Tag: msil

Apologies. I've never written for Price so please bare with me if he's ooc. This is my firt time posting writing on here 🙏 but I got a spark of courage from some encouragement!I absolutely love this idea and couldn't help but be inspired. Full credit to Dante for the prompt. I just got writing fuel from it.

Was it so wrong to want some praise for your hard work? To want to hear “good job” for once in your life? You did a good job, and you know that. Your salary reflects it, along with a few appreciative pats from others. You often hear murmurs from colleagues who say, “You just work too hard; take a break,” along with their well-meaning concerns. But you liked being busy—helping those who sacrificed so much for everyone else, often with little reward, just paperwork, bruises, and bleeding wounds. Your hands were rough from the grit on your gun grinding against your palms and fingertips.

You were just being grateful. Helpful.

And a helpful little bird you were—always fluttering around Price’s office. This time, you brought him a fresh cup of coffee and a bagel: egg, sausage, and spinach. You left it at his desk to the side so his arm wouldn’t knock it over. Taking a silent breath, you stood there, lingering, hands clasped behind you, as your eyes flitted over the man currently hunched over his desk and the food you had brought.

Another beat passed. Nothing.

He let out a small grunt as he shifted in his seat, giving a small sniff as he continued to drag his eyes along each word, scratching a few out with a thick black Sharpie. His thick brows were pinched tight, creasing his forehead—a look you were all too familiar with when it came to Price. It always made him look older, though the air he gave off already did that just fine, making the wrinkles forming around his eyes and on his forehead more prominent. He squinted at the words as if each one were an offense.

“I thought you’d like something to eat; I haven’t seen you have anything for a few hours, so—” you gestured to the bagel, a smile curled on your lips. The tinted lip balm gave them a pleasant shine and a healthy hue, and a faint taste of strawberries lingered on your tongue from when you had licked your lips, nerves tight in your core before entering his office.

And once again—nothing.

He only vaguely acknowledged it, barely glancing before he reached for the coffee and took a sip. A small gruff sound escaped him as the warmth pooled down his throat.

You faltered, but your smile remained brave in the face of his stoic behavior. “Well, I’ll leave you be,” you said, the words coming out cheery in your desperate attempt to not sound as awkward as you felt.

You shuffled toward the door after a few more seconds of waiting. Maybe, just maybe-

“Love?”

Instantly, you whipped around, chest puffing out as your heels squeaked against the floor. “Yes, sir?”

“Blue suits you.”

Your face twisted as you paused, about to ask what he meant. Looking down at yourself, you saw a crisp white blouse snugly tucked into a black pencil skirt—one that was smaller than you had anticipated. You had noticed it seemed to draw his attention more often than not, so the purchase didn’t seem to be all for nothing. There was only a single hint of blue on you, except for your—

Blood rushed to your cheeks as you let out a sharp gasp. Immediately, you twisted around to see that the skirt had ridden up, revealing the edge of your baby blue panties stretched across your backside. The lace trim was exposed for all to see. Hastily, you pushed down the fabric of your skirt, adjusting it to sit better on your hips. Smoothing it down was when you saw it: his eyes finally lifted from the paper, a steaming mug pressed to his lips. A pleased crinkle appeared in his eye as he took in everything.

You had never left his office faster. Your face was too warm—much too warm. Before you knew it, you were stumbling into the bathroom, splashing water onto your face to cool down. Lifting your head to stare at your reflection, you cursed. Your mascara had smudged, streaking down your cheeks as if you had cried. The light, natural shade of your eyeshadow was now splotchy and smeared around your eyes. You pressed your lips together in a tight purse, scolding yourself for your forgetfulness.

Yanking rough tissues from the dispenser, you dabbed at your face, trying to salvage what makeup remained.

Standing amid the dim lighting of the bathroom, you couldn’t help but stare. What were you doing? A woman your age prancing around in short skirts and makeup? Sure, you had always been inclined to doll yourself up, but it had usually been a treat—something to anticipate after a rough week. Now, it felt like a routine, ensuring you had a pretty glow and your best features enhanced. When did you become so desperate for such minimal attention?

Perhaps it was when your father always hummed in stiff, dry tones whenever you spoke. Or when your mother would glance up from her phone, scrolling while you tried to show her something you were proud of, only for her to finally respond to something you had said five sentences ago.

Maybe it was when you did your best at everything—school work, getting a job as soon as possible, and even landing an office position mere months after finishing your education. Always made sure the house is clean and never ask your parents for help, despite feeling sickly and overwhelmed. Always doing your very best to remain as pleasant as possible and chase any spontaneous kiss to your head and word of approval from either of them. But the majority of the time, it was nothing. After all, you were expected to do well. So independent and mature at such a young age. How well they must have raised you to be so self-sufficient. They would praise so highly to their friends. Expected to have a good job and a happy air to you.

After all, you were so lucky. They were people having it worse than you. Why would you ever feel so low you wanted to quit everything and grovel in your bed?

Or it could have started when friends would always have an excuse to decline your plans or something last minute came up. Dates always having you carry the conversation after having to endure hours of dry texting and inconsistent messages.

A nagging need to just hear one satisfied hum. To feel a ruffle to your hair or a firm pat on your shoulder. The sweet euphoria of hearing a pleased “Good girl”. You craved it like how a chef always twitched to snag a cigarette between their lips. An itch you could never scratch no matter how many times you self-affirmed with loving post-stick notes on your bedroom mirror and muttered endless approval to yourself for the most simple of things.

You huffed as you shook your head. Why bother with such a man like Price? The only time he seemed to even bat an eye in your direction was when you flashed your legs or your shirt hugged your breasts too tight. You were mere meat and he was a hungry dog. A frown grew on your lips as you patted your cheeks. Glaring at your reflection as you fixed yourself up and pushed out of the bathroom.

It started with your wardrobe; wearing trousers that looked smart enough for your job but gave your shape no compliments. Its rigid seams even making your hips look boxier and your legs shorter as you trade your polished heels for simple flats. Your blouses no longer hugged the curve of your chest. And if you wanted the relief skirts gave then it was unshapely skirts – pleated or plain and sleek – that ended half way down to your calf.

And then it was the coffee. It tasted the same? Then why bother with saving an extra palmful of cash for the fancy brand. You served it in John’s signature mug with the same beaming smile and didn’t waste your time to linger. To wait for any response. Bustling down the halls with files tucked to your chest. With the extra cash now staying in your pockets you treated yourself to paying for a nice cake or an overpriced coffee of your own that gave you that needed rush for the busy day.

Head held high as you gave up your pursuit. You were always such a independent girl.

And Price? Well, as soon as he tasted the bland blend of coffee he frowned. Lips smacking as the familiar graininess of the bases blend hit his tongue. His head lifting but you were already gone. Huffing like a bull every time he drank from it. In the end, it went cold half drunk and staining the white mug.

And your clothes; what happened to his pretty bird? Sure, your beauty wasn’t easy to conceal and the lack of powder to your face didn’t change the natural charm of your features. But he had to hide his scowl of disapproval as he saw you were in another long skirt. It was flowy and dull. Those pretty legs hidden from his view. His hand digging against the scratch of his facial hair as he glared at the skirt. Half tempted to make a house call and strip every offending cloth out of your wardrobe. His jaw twitching as it clenched tight.

That smile. That sickly sweet smile you always flashed his way. He wondered if you’d smile like that to him after he’s lodged his cock from your bruised throat, cum and spit smearing on those perfect lips. Glossier than any lip balm or lip gloss you insisted to wear. A breathy ‘thank you, sir’ spilling out with tears making those insistent eyes of yours sparkle. He almost thought he went crazy when he couldn’t feel your expectant gaze boring into his skull.

He was much too old to be entertaining a sweet thing like you. Always making sure his boots were polished, his office tidied when he was gone for too many weeks, adding sticky notes to files and color coding each one to make sure they were in perfect order. Treating him to good coffee and pleasant meals. It took everything in him to keep himself glued to his paperwork when you came in and was so kind. So needy. You didn’t need a grump like him. A man with too many burdens on his sunken shoulders and blood staining more than his hands.

He tried to dismiss your quirks by giving it no attention. Mutters of disapproval whenever you spent money on him. But it just made you more keen. Trying again and again to get him to say something. To look at you but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. But now he was finally getting what he wanted? He couldn’t help but swallow each bitter grain of his efforts.

His day was long. His team giving him their usual shit but it was giving him a bigger headache than ever. Any bark of demand towards him had his hand clenching in a tight fist behind his back. Most of his paperwork had fallen to you and this time, it was his turn to come into your little space, knocking on the door with a coffee much too sugary for any of his teeth to withstand.

There you were, cramped in your chair with a flood of paperwork looming high to your shoulder. He cleared his throat and you snapped your head up, perking in surprise at his appearance. Wide doe eyes blinking at him as didn’t stop at your desk. No, he pressed a big calloused hand to the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the peek of skin between your hair and your shirt collar. Pressing the coffee down as he looked down to see how much you’ve done. His breath warm against your ear making your whole body turn to stone.

“atta girl. That’s it, love.” John murmured as he gave the back of your neck a small squeeze and stood back up. Leaving you gawking at the door as he left just like that. The warmth of his hand lingering on your skin. A blood that was meant to go to your cheeks oozed down, pouring between your legs as your sex throbbed at the simple praise.

It didn't take long, no, It only took the next day for you to be back in those little pencil skirts and a new blouse that embraced your figure nicely. Heels on your feet signaling your arrival as you leave a fresh mug of coffee on his desk and a small pile of files. All colored and checked, sticky notes paper clipped to each.

One file slipped from the stack making you bend down and scramble it back into your hands giving John a beautiful eyeful of those baby blue panties hugging your ass and a small chub of your sex teasing him as it peered between your thighs. A pleased growl, deep from his chest rumbling out as he took the file from your hand.

“good girl.”

something about mean old bastard price and his sweet new assistant who just wants his approval so bad but can never seem to get a positive response from him

your sweet gestures, like using your own money to buy him fancy coffee instead of the generic brand on base are only met with an unappreciative grunt followed with, “fuckin’ waste of money. tastes exactly the same.”

barely looks up at you when you drop folders on his desk, only nudges his empty cup towards you. a silent way of commanding you to make yourself useful

until one day when you catch him shameless checking out your ass in the new skirt you bought, his usual grunting response actually seems to be out of approval for once. doesn’t even acknowledge your eyes watching him as he rakes his own down your legs before adjusting himself in his trousers and going back to his paperwork

Daisy's are frequently associated with purity, childbirth, new beginnings, and cheerfulness. Daisy petals symbolize innocence and are commonly associated with childhood memories of collecting wildflower bouquets.

Pairing: Marcus Perez (oc) x AFAB! reader

(general) Warning: age gap (he's 50, reader is in mid/late twenties), virgin reader, inexperienced reader, daddy issues™, marcus is a dilf, daddy kink, angst, lots of food/baking, size difference, reader is not overly described but is implied to be skinny & small breasted, able bodied reader, hair length is not defined but will be mentioned, reader is feminine and AFAB but gender is undefined, Marcus drinks and smokes, eventual smut, slow burn-ish, series fic

Authors note: as always do not trust old men who wanna get in your pants! Keep sex safe and always consensual. This is purely fictional and just an expression of sexual fantasy. This chapter is just the beginning so it'll just be establishing the setting and what's going on.

I hope y'all enjoy! Idk when I'll be posting updates as this kinda me trying to grit through writer's block so I'm sorry if chapters are not consistent! Kinda just shouting into the void with this if I'm being honest 🙈 comments, reblogs and likes will always be appreciated!

Moodboard |Part 1 |

For years, Marcus lived in an empty nest, a single man trapped in an unchanging routine. Marcus quits his small-town life and heads to the city, but it's certainly no glamorous ride. Movies painted an enticing picture of freedom—packing up one's life and leaving behind the shackles of monotony, as if shaking off cobwebs layered over dusty memories. Yet, for Marcus, the reality felt more like swallowing cotton balls, each memory sheathed in layers of bubble wrap and tape, heavy boxes straining his weary back as he huffed and grunted. His work buddies rallied around him, lending their arms to help load the cramped pickup truck, but the weight of the moment lingered in his chest.

Though everyone urged him to seize this fresh start, he couldn't abandon that itch to remain in his cycle. He was set in his ways, hesitant to dip his boot-clad feet into new waters, yearning for a life with a touch of difference without completely overhauling the comfort of his past. A constant contradiction of wanting more but unable to muster the greed to take it with unyielding hands. After much contemplation, he settled into a modest apartment above a bakery, cheesily named "Whisk Me Away." Nestled not too far from the city's sprawling park, a purposeful spot he sought out. Marcneededing to venture beyond the habit of staying indoors—something he had lately become all too familiar with. Tucking himself in his solitude, waiting at the phone or rotting his mind with uninteresting TV. Exhausted from work and devoid of friends outside his occasional drink, he dreaded the thought of spending yet another night in the stench of stale beer and listening to another pointless argument or the screams of grown adults outraged by the favorite team losing.

Despite the insistence of his friends that this was his chance to step into retirement, he found it laughable. He never planned to retire. He couldn't. What would he do with himself? After a week of steady toil with boxes, however, he marched into a part-time handyman role for the bakery’s owner. They struck up a friendship, the connection based on the similarities of two middle-aged men sharing dry laughter and nostril-stuffed grunts about sports games that Marcus had little interest in. Or a comment here and there about the youth of today.

Yet, amidst the bustling streets and the chaos of the city, what truly captured his attention wasn’t the sprawling skyline or the rigorous life around him; it was something sweeter, far more delicate. As if biting into a tender sponge of a cupcake. Icing much too sweet for his aged pallet but the rush reminded him of his youth. How he ached to drag his tongue along the creamy sugar that coated this pretty treat. Curling his tongue until he lapped every last bit and got to the true flavor beneath. Untainted and heavenly.

A temptation that should have never crossed his mind at his age. He often scoffed at the very idea of a fling with someone so much younger, dismissing the notion with fierce disapproval. His friends had joked about having a young, pretty thing latched to their hip, and Marcus had rolled his eyes. Perhaps given a pal or two a smack around the head. He considered himself wiser than that—better than that. Or so he thought.

The change within him began quietly. Invading defenses the day he settled into his new life. The difference between him and his little truck and city-slinging people. It lacked the polish of the sleek vehicles roaming the city. The contrast between his humble truck and the flashing, modern cars of the city just screamed ‘fresh meat’ to the scowling, slimmer city living was looking for a bakery with a big fancy bay window - or Italia, Nate as his buddy said. Whatever the fuck that meant wasn'tsn't like he had to Google what it was, s and it wasn't like he was drifting along the busy road, phone propped up on the dashboard, threatening to fall over if he didn't grumble and keep it still, peering between the image and the buildings around him.

He parked awkwardly, the truck’s tire nudging the curb more than he would have liked, but he'd been edging back, and forth, forth trying to spot any space to park, and this was the only one that seemed to work. Cars blaring their raging horns at him. Taking a moment, he stared at the building, suddenly aware of the labor that lay ahead: unloading his entire life into a narrow s; this time, there was no team of buddies at his side.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he pressed his forehead against his palm, feeling the weight of fatigue and apprehension tug at him as if the city itself conspired against him. He glanced at his watch—still an hour until the moving crew arrived—and silently cursed. Always early to everything. That's how his parents raised him to be. But now and again it bit him in the ass just like now. His truck couldn’t possibly contain everything he owned, but he had clung onto those precious few keepsakes he couldn't bear to part with. The sheer price of it all ate into what spare funds he had on the side, meaning he'd be behind a while on groceries and emergency money. The tho ht hung in his mind like a fleeting shadow, provoking a frustrated click of his tongue.

Finally mustering the resolve to abandon the vehicle, Marcus trudged around to the back of his truck, retrieving a few boxes one by one, only to falter when he searched for an alternative entrance—be it a back or side door—anything but the front. But there was none in sight, and he didn't trust leaving his truck unattended in a new place. He's heard all the stories of what kind of hooligans we're skulking around in cities like these. With a resigned grunt, he slammed the truck door shut, trudged towards the bakery, and pushed open the front door, the chime announcing his arrival. Another curse leaving him.

He saw photos of the bakery and its interior but entering the space was a whole experience on its own. Greeted by a large square dining space with tables rowed at the walls most having four wooden chairs snuggly tucked in. All the chairs have a cushion on the seat with ruffles framing them. The tables were light wood and circular with a doily cover draped over it. Two menus in small stands on either side of each one. In the middle were small glass vases filled with daisies and baby's breath, pale yellow ribbons tied into bows at the neck of each vase. The floor creaked, covered In wooden panels. However, it was fake as it didn't have the same squeak he's used to hearing. At the windows there were white lace curtains and shutter blinds rolled and tucked out of view to let the sunlight pour in and soak the building in its natural warmth.

The rays of light bounced against the hanging ceiling lights; each one glass with various flowers engraved on a petal-like base. A turned-off bulb perched in the middle. At the edge of the dining space was a curved counter with a cash register, and a glass display case filled with various baked goods such as pastries, bread, and cakes, though it seemed to be half empty still. Behind the counter, there are shelves stocked with more baked items and different types of porcelain plates with flowers printed on them. A door sealed shut between the many cupboards and shelves.

To his relief, the bakery was empty—until a man appeared from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a faded, threadbare rag, surprise flickering across his face, soon giving way to a light-hearted chuckle. With a playful shake of his head, he approached Marcus.

“Let me help you with that! I didn’t expect to see anyone for a while,” he said, his voice laden with an unexpected warmth.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, skepticism lacing his voice as he shifted his grip on the precariously balanced boxes. “You’re the owner, right?” He knew he shouldn't be so stereotypical, but the man before him didn't seem like the type to enjoy a much…dainty interior.

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m Randal,” he replied as he took a step closer. “And you must be the new neighbor. If you had texted ahead, I could have given you better directions.”

That just made Marcus grunt. Shrugging one of his shoulders. Randal effortlessly plucked one of the heavy boxes from Marcus's arms, letting out a small grunt as he did, a look of approval crossing his features as he assessed Marcus's strong arms. A flicker of respect for a man able to keep his strength up.

“There’s an alley behind the building. If you don’t mind, I can drive around back and help you out. It’ll save you from getting honked at all day,” Randal suggested, his eyes twinkling with knowing. He's been listening to the chorus of honks since the other man's arrival.

With another sigh, Marcus hesitated but nodded. He tightened his grip on the boxes. “That would be helpful. My keys are right here,” he replied, albeit with a lingering twinge of wariness. Yet, considering Randal’s age there was a certain level of reliability. He was put in some faith another man his age would be true to his word, especially considering he'd be living above his business. With a slight pop of his hip, he revealed the keys dangling from his belt loop, which Randal deftly took after putting the box he had taken onto a nearby table.

“Oi! Honey, mind being helpful? The neighbor’s here!” Randal hollered out suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he peered expectantly at the back door, as if willing it to swing open.

A moment of stillness hung in the air, broken only by a muffled voice drifting through the closed door. At last, it swung open with a loud creak, held wide by a stout stopper. You stepped into view, cradling a tray overflowing with an array of delectable treats, the faint scent of fresh-baked pastries wafting through the air. A displeased huff escaped your lips as you expertly slid the tray into the display case at the cashier, a light dusting of flour still lingering on your fingertips.

As you looked up, your eyes finally met those of your new neighbor. A radiant smile broke across your soft features as you hurried around the desk, eager to assist him with the heavy box he was struggling with.

“Grab the one on the table,” your father commanded from behind you, his voice firm, almost dismissive he retreated further into the back.

Your arms fell, swerving around to grab the box, and let out a noise of surprise at the heavyweight. Another huff escaped you. Of course. You looked back at Marcus, and the smile returned to your features. “Let's get these up.” adjusting the box in your grasp as you began to walk to the corner of the bakery where a staircase was tucked away. You already began trudging up as the matching wooden steps became less cared for and rustic compared to the dreamy softness of the bakery.

Marcus followed behind you, his heavy footsteps echoing through the bakery as he lugged the boxes. He couldn't help but notice the way your hips swayed as you climbed the stairs. He didn't mean to stare at your ass but it was right in front of him. Nicely rounded and snug in pale blue jeans. Or at least, that was his excuse until he pried his eyes away to watch his step. Though with the two boxes clutched to his chest, it wasn't the easiest task.

"I really wish they had an elevator." You joked, hoping to clear the stiff silence between you two.

"Yeah, I bet. It would definitely make this a lot easier," he replied, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. He shifted the box in his arms, feeling its weight pressing against his chest. After a few steps, he spoke again, glancing back toward the dim light of the building that faded into the shadows of the staircase walls.

"So, your pops owns this place?"

"Yeah," you said, your voice trailing off slightly as you nodded. "He handles the numbers and works the cash register, but the bakery is meant to be mine. It just helps to have him manage the stuff I'm not so good at." You shrugged your shoulder as you forced yourself up a few more steps with a large stretch of your leg. The box was already making your arms ache, but that could also be due to hours of mixing and the grocery crates you had hauled in that morning.

"Ah, right. Makes sense with all the—" He cut himself off and cleared his throat. "He just doesn’t seem the type," Marcus muttered hastily as he tried to maintain the good manners that had been drilled into him since he learned to talk.

Following your lead, he hurried up a bit, knowing he still had plenty more boxes to carry. These stairs were going to be well acquainted.

He couldn't help but feel a twist at the bottom of his belly. He worked as a maintenance technician before coming here. I always get calls and texts for even the smallest of issues, like a slow coffee machine. Not exactly a business his Eliana was ever interested in. God knows she wasn't even interested in staying in town once college hit.

“good that you two can do something like that together.” he tried to put a smile in his voice but each word was like a bitter tar coating his tongue.

"yeah!" You agreed but there was a strain to your voice. Finally reaching the top, there was a narrow hallway with two doors on either side and another staircase leading to the people just above. You put the box down outside his door, which was on the right. You patted around your pockets and let out a surprised noise as you felt the bulk of keys in your front one.

"Dad gave me the keys to hold onto, wasn't sure if I still had them." You breathed out, pulling them out and unlocked the front door to his apartment. A singular small window illuminated the hall.

"Thanks, kid," he muttered, stepping into the apartment. The space was small, but it was clean and well-maintained. Though he could tell it was recently gutted of most of what furniture was in it from the streaks on the floor here and there. The walls were a soft beige, and the floors were covered in a worn but comfortable-looking carpet. A small kitchenette was tucked into the corner, and a narrow hallway led to what he assumed was the bedroom and bathroom.

He set the boxes down on the floor, stretching his arms above his head. His muscles ached from the exertion, but he welcomed the pain. It was a reminder that he was still alive, still capable of hard work. He didn't like to laze about for too long. Just the drive to the city made him itch to just do something. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth down the unruly strands that had come loose during the move. His heart was racing in his chest, and he couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe it was just the exertion from carrying the heavy boxes up the stairs, or maybe it was something else entirely. The daunting loom of this was it. He was really starting fresh.

You handed him the keys, a bit surprised by the rough scrape of his palm against your fingers. The hands of heavy labor were worn and built with a protective shield. You quickly retreated your hand back to your side, mouth opening to say something but then a call from downstairs echoed through.

"Hon! You up there still? C'mon! Am I doing all this lifting myself?" Your dad yelled with the sound of something heavy being smacked into.

"Shit- you get yourself sorted, we'll help you with the boxes." You were already making your way out of the apartment, switching between turning to him and the staircase. Another call from your dad made you spin back around and trot down the stairs with thunderous steps. "Yeah I'm coming-!"

Marcus watched as you hurried down the stairs, your footsteps fading away as you disappeared from view. He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his face. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at your abrupt departure. Your presence would have been a nice distraction to the acid threatening to burn at his throat. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. But he just shook his head. He was being ridiculous. Empty nest syndrome or whatever they called it, that's all. Just wanting to cling to anything familiar. Anything that reminded him of who he once was.

He marched down the stairs not long after you. "My boxes, your handling, can't have you doing all the work." He called back and heard a chuckle from your father. A mutter of ‘I like this one' just caught in his ear as he marched down the steps.

And that was his day; at some point, he had to take over completely as the bakery opened u,p, and both of you had to turn your attention back to your business. The moving guys arrived 30 minutes late and well, they made up for it by their speedy rush and getting his furniture set up. And then, he was alone one more. He turned back to the boxes, unpacking them methodically. He had a system, one that he had perfected over the years. First, he would unpack the essentials - toiletries, a change of clothes, his coffee maker. Then he would move on to the more sentimental items - photos, mementos, his wife's old perfume bottle. Lastly, he would tackle the miscellaneous items - books, tools, knick-knacks. It was a process that he found comforting and familiar. It grounded him and reminded him of who he was and where he came from.

Everything was new, unfamiliar. Even the smell of the apartment was different - instead of the comforting scent of his over-burnt wood and spice candles, there was a faint whiff of vanilla and cinnamon, a remnant of the bakery below. It was disorienting, unsettling. He felt like a stranger in his own skin.

He paused, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. His heart was pounding, his palms sweaty. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He had done this for a reason, he reminded himself. He needed a change, a fresh start. He couldn't keep living in the past, couldn't keep clinging to memories that only brought him pain. He had to move on. He couldn't take staring at those empty seats at the dining room table.

He looked at the inner pocket of his jacket and sighed. Unable to bring himself to have the energy to attempt to scold himself. The nasty habit he was unable to kick. Lighting up the cigarette with practiced ease and placing the stick between his lips. Inhaling slowly as he slumped against the wall. What a fucking day.

Scrumptious. Drinking this like fine wine

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

Pairing: Marcus Perez (oc) x AFAB! reader

(general) Warning: age gap (he's 50, reader is in mid/late twenties), virgin reader, inexperienced reader, daddy issues™, marcus is a dilf, daddy kink, angst, lots of food/baking, size difference, reader is not overly described but is implied to be skinny & small breasted, able bodied reader, hair length is not defined but will be mentioned, reader is feminine and AFAB but gender is undefined, Marcus drinks and smokes, eventual smut, slow burn-ish, series fic

Plot: Marcus seeks out a fresh start living the city life, renting an apartment above a small business bakery. That's where he met you. His sweet temptation.

Note: update schedule currently unknown.

Sunshine and whiskey:

Part 1 | ??? | ??? | ???

dev gets hip surgery

realized i never actually made a post about this other than silly little afterthought ones. but here it goes- i'm officially having surgery on my hip the first half of june!

it's a pretty major surgery and the main objective is to remove a soft cell sarcoma they identified on an MRI

even with my insurance, it's going to be a large sum due up front in order to get the surgery and i am humbly, hesitantly, cautiously asking for help with this official post. initially, y'all have really come through and it's been such an amazing thing to see and be on the receiving end of. i'm so grateful for shares and support and donations received thus far, y'all have no idea how much it means to me that we are still capable of banding together to support each other despite recent drama

i'm still working as much as i can, but i am feeling the effects of everything and dealing with these issues for over a year now is catching up with me. 2 months of working and then filing for the necessary gov't aid will be all i'll have for the entirety of my 4-6 month recovery period- there are more details in the post below

-> gofund me link

-> ko-fi link

thank you, thank you, thank you to every single one of you. so much love and hope the days are good to you

x.o dev

Regency? Royal? Fancy au? Idk, time periods are unimportant. Big bear men are what's important here

Mentions of mild feederism + breeding kink. Perhaps implied dubious consent? Implied age gap too

i developed brainworms at work

Duke who has been hardened with war. Lost good men in a noble fight for his king. Gifted a title grander than his status as a commoner born for his fight. For his leadership. A payment for the blood staining his calloused palms and bruised knuckles.

Perhaps he's widowed. Maybe he's got daddy issues. His possiblity for flavour is endless

Gifted a bride too. 'What an honor it would be!' they cried, insisting to marry off their unsociable child. The youngest. Getting to an age where they are deemed undesirable and whispers rise as still no ring sits on their finger.

Was it an honor when he now has a bride who squeaks when their eyes meet? Swallowing hard like cornered prey but then, oh then he finds it. The fight. The way your words spit out, high pitched and pinned in your throat. Words of protest. Refusal to do something. Accusing him of purposefully trying to frighten you.

When he moves too forward, acting as a commoner not as a Duke, to his new bride. Scandalized when he undresses so dully Infront of you as you bathe. He asked no permission to enter. It was his home after all.

A bunny with sharp teeth. A precious doe with sharpened horns. How precious. He'd find a way to file down those pointy edges of yours to get to the soft tender flesh beneath.

He wanted to provide. To give. He was a husband and man, after all. He grew restless without battle and no amount of labour around his own manor soothed that ache to be useful. How could he honour such a darling thing like his little bride without anything to claim, to conquer? To show how good of a life he can give.

I think what really gets him is when a maid comes to his office. Requesting a fund to get his bride new clothes - he, of course, asks why and he has to bite back a groan as the maid explains his little bride has gained weight. Explained it's obvious. Your clothes sit too flush to your belly now. Things must be adjusted or completely changed.

He chubs immediately under his desk. Almost delirious as he imagined the extra pudge now on your form. How good he's looked after you - so good that you've gained weight? He can only imagine just how plump you'd get once he successfully breeds his bride.