Spiderpoly Is Finally Here!🥰

Hey. Your brain needs to de-frag. Literally it needs you to sit there and space out.

If you want your memory or executive function to improve, stare out a window at the skyline or sidewalk or trees or birds on the electrical wires for like 20+ minutes per day. (With no other stimulation like a podcast or TV if you can manage but hey baby steps innit). If you're fortunate enough to have safe outside with any bits of nature, go stare closely at a 1 meter square of grass and trip out on the bugs and shapes of grasses and stuff.

Literally this will make you smarter. Our brains HAVE TO HAVE this zone out time to do important stuff behind the scenes. This does not happen during sleep, it's something else.

That weird pressurized feeling you get sometimes might be your brain on no defrag.

Give your brain a Daily Dose Of De-Frag.

UH OH, WE’RE IN TROUBLE 18+

sub prison!butcher x jersey wife reader

(A/N) hellooo fellow butcher’s bitches! This chapter is part of the prison!butcher x jersey wife au @sickforbillybutcher/ @foxiewrites and i came up with. if you haven’t checked out the rest of this au i highly suggest you do, i’ve reblogged all parts under the tag:

#prison!billy butcher so you should be able to find them if you search that on my blog. enjoy reading love u all so much thank you sm for all your support on the last kessler fic 🥹

(cw: slightly sub butcher, violence, mention of severe injury, prison/hospital setting, teasing, handjob, sneaky/risky sexual activities, pregnancy, i think that’s it)

Billy Butcher stood in the dim, cold corner of the prison yard, the relentless hum of the razor wire above adding to the tension. His knuckles tightened as he slipped a few crumpled bills into the waiting hand of a massive, tattooed inmate.

“Make it bloody,” Billy growled, his eyes hard as steel. “Like I got in over me head.”

The brute nodded, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he pocketed the cash. “Got it, Butcher.”

Billy turned, bracing himself for the pain that was about to come. He’d taken worse beatings, no doubt, but this one had a purpose—one that made every bruise and broken bone worth it. The thought of seeing Dollface, even if it meant being shackled to a hospital bed, made his heart pound in a way that surprised him.

He gritted his teeth as the first punch landed squarely on his jaw, the taste of blood filling his mouth instantly. The second and third punches came quick, his ribs cracking under the force. Billy staggered, but stayed upright, spitting blood onto the cold concrete.

He wasn’t thinking about the pain or the grunts of the other inmates watching the spectacle. His mind was on Dollface. On the way she’d looked the last time he saw her, all cheetah print and big hair, with that fiery Jersey attitude he couldn’t get enough of.

The thought of her carrying his child—a bloody nugget, of all things—was a mix of pride and terror that he couldn’t shake. He’d never imagined himself as a father, especially not in a place like this. His own father was a right bastard, and the idea that he could turn out the same kept him awake at night more than the guards’ shouts or the clanging of cell doors.

The final blow sent him to the ground, gasping for breath, his vision blurry. The brute stepped back, admiring his handiwork as the guards rushed in, yelling and pushing the crowd back.

Billy smirked through the pain, coughing up more blood as they cuffed him. “Bloody hell… ’bout time,” he muttered, just loud enough for the nearest guard to hear.

The hospital was a grim, sterile place, but it was better than the cell, he thought as they wheeled him into the small, dimly lit room.

Dollface’s hands shook as she clutched her phone, the guard’s gruff voice still echoing in her ears. “Your husband’s been hurt—he’s in the hospital.” The words sliced through her like a knife. The second she hung up, she was out the door, nearly knocking over a potted plant in her rush. Her heart pounded as she navigated the chaotic streets of Jersey, each red light and slow driver adding to her panic.

By the time she arrived at the hospital, her hands were sweating, and her throat was dry. She shoved past the automatic doors, her designer leather cheetah-print bag swinging wildly at her side as she made a beeline for the front desk.

“Billy Butcher, I’m his wife” she gasped, barely able to catch her breath. “Where the hell is he?”

The nurse looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of a frantic, visibly distressed woman, and quickly typed into her computer. “He’s in room 306. But ma’am, I have to—”

Dollface didn’t wait for the nurse to finish. She bolted down the hall, the sterile smell of antiseptic and the flickering fluorescent lights doing nothing to calm her nerves. She could feel her heart in her throat, pounding so hard she thought it might burst.

Finally, she reached his room. Her hands were trembling as she pushed the door open, her eyes immediately locking onto Billy, lying in the hospital bed, bruised and battered but somehow still managing to smirk at her like he hadn’t just scared her half to death.

“Jesus Christ, Billy,” she breathed, rushing to his side. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she hesitated for a moment before gently touching his bruised face. “What the hell happened to ya?”

Billy grunted, shifting slightly under the weight of the shackles that bound him to the bed. “Ah, you know, love. Got into a bit of a scrap, that’s all.”

“Scrap?” she echoed, her voice cracking as she took in the cuts and bruises marring his skin. “You look like you got run over by a fucking truck—“

He chuckled, wincing slightly as the movement sent a jolt of pain through his ribs. “Don’t worry ’bout me, Trouble. Just shattered me collarbone and fractured me clavicle, should be fine. Takes more than a few punches to put me down.”

Dollface shook her head, her worry deepening as she sat down beside him, her fingers curling around his hand. “FRACTU— are you kidding me?!? I swear to god if you don’t get yourself killed i’ll do it myself—“ She hics out a broken sob, covering her mouth and looking away trying to cool her temper. “T-this isn’t funny, Billy. I was so terrified when they called. Thought I was gonna lose ya.”

He squeezed her hand, his rough fingers brushing against her soft skin. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere, love. Not when I’ve got you and the little one waitin’ for me.”

At that, her eyes welled up with more tears, but she blinked them away, determined not to let him see her cry. She reached up, clutching the gold cross around her neck and kissing it softly before leaning down to press it to his forehead. “You better not. You’re stuck with us now.”

Billy’s gaze softened as he watched her, the fierce determination in her eyes reminding him why he was doing this—why he had put himself through this pain. He needed to see her, to touch her, to remind himself that there was something worth fighting for outside of those cold, grey walls.

For a few moments, they just sat there, her hand in his, the room filled with a quiet understanding between them. He could see the toll this was taking on her, the constant worry, the stress of being pregnant while her husband was locked up in a place like that.

He swallowed hard, the usual bravado slipping as he looked up at her. “I’m sorry, Dollface. For puttin’ ya through all this shite.”

She shook her head again, squeezing his hand even tighter. “Don’t apologize, Billy. Just… just promise me you’ll be careful. I can’t do this without ya.”

He nodded, his eyes locking onto hers. “I promise, love. I’ll be more careful. For you… and for” He takes a deep breath and glances down at her increasingly by the day pudgy, slightly round tummy. His eyes light up and he smirks before looking back up into her eyes.

Dollface’s lips quivered into a small smile, and she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “We’re gonna get through this, Billy. No matter what.”

He returned the kiss, lingering just a moment longer, as if trying to memorize the feel of her, the taste of her, before they had to part again. “Damn right we will.”

She rested her forehead against his, her free hand coming up to gently stroke his cheek. “I love ya, you stubborn bastard.”

“Love ya too, Dollface,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

They stayed like that for a while, her sitting by his side, caressing his hand and occasionally kissing his calloused, bruised, bloodying knuckles. She whispered reassurances to him, telling him about how Nonna couldn’t wait to meet her great-grandchild, how she’d already started knitting baby clothes even though they didn’t know the gender yet.

Billy listened, a small smile playing on his lips as he let her words wash over him, grounding him in a way that nothing else could. It didn’t matter that he was in chains or that the world outside this room was a mess. All that mattered was that she was here, with him, and that soon enough, they’d have a little shite of their own to look after.

And for now, that was enough.

The hospital room was bathed in the soft, eerie glow of the moonlight streaming through the small window, casting long shadows on the floor. It had been hours since the last nurse had come in, and the clock on the wall ticked quietly, marking the passage of time. Dollface had been biding her time, heart pounding as she listened for the telltale sounds of the guard’s footsteps echoing down the hall.

She’d crafted a plan—risky, sure, but worth it. When one of the officers had stepped out earlier in the evening, she’d quickly slipped into the small utility closet in Billy’s room, holding her breath as she crouched in the dark, hidden among the brooms and cleaning supplies. She waited, every creak of the floorboards outside sending her heart racing, but she stayed quiet, biding her time until the hospital settled into the stillness of night.

Now, as she cautiously cracked open the closet door, her eyes locked onto Billy’s figure, still lying in the bed, his chest rising and falling slowly. She moved silently, her heart in her throat, every nerve on edge as she slipped out of the closet and crossed the room. She knew there were at least two guards outside, but she was banking on the fact that they wouldn’t expect anyone to pull something like this.

Billy stirred slightly as she approached, his eyes fluttering open. The moment he saw her, a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. “What’re you up to now, Trouble?” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly.

She held a finger to her lips, silently telling him to be quiet as she reached his side. “Couldn’t leave ya all alone in this shithole, could I?” she whispered back, her voice barely above a breath. She slid her hand under the blanket, finding his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Billy’s eyes darkened with a mixture of amusement and something else, something that made Dollface’s pulse quicken. “Ya know there’s guards right outside, yeah?” he murmured, his voice hushed but tinged with that familiar teasing edge.

She smirked, her fingers brushing up along his arm, over the muscles that tensed beneath her touch. “That ever stopped me before?” she whispered, leaning in closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Thought ya knew me better than that, Billy.”

His breath hitched slightly as her hand trailed up, slipping under the blanket and higher up his thigh. He shifted slightly, the chains clinking softly, his body instinctively responding to her touch despite the circumstances. “Fuuuckin’ gonna be the death of me, Dollface,” he muttered, though the smirk on his lips told her he didn’t mind one bit.

Dollface chuckled softly, her hand continuing its slow, deliberate journey, teasing him just enough to drive him mad without giving him what he wanted. “Maybe,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his neck. “But at least you’ll go out with a smile on your face, yeah?”

Billy’s eyes closed for a moment, his breath coming in shallow as she continued to tease him, her fingers dancing along his skin, sending shivers down his spine. “Always playin’ so damn dangerous—” he warned, though his voice was rougher now, tinged with anticipation.

Dollface pulled back slightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she looked down at him. “You know I like to live dangerously,” she replied, her voice low and seductive. She leaned in, her lips barely brushing against his, teasing him further. “Why do you think I married you?”

He growled softly, his free hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, pulling her in closer. “Damn right ya do” he whispered, his lips hovering just inches from hers.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Dollface could feel the heat of his body through the thin hospital blanket, the anticipation coiling in her stomach like a spring ready to snap.

She licked her lips, her hand slipping further up his thigh, her touch light and teasing, drawing a low groan from Billy’s throat. “You just gonna lie there all night? Or are ya gonna let your wife make you feel good? What other chance do you have?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath against his lips.

Billy’s eyes flashed with dark desire, his grip tightening on her as he pulled her in, his lips capturing hers in a fierce, hungry kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through her entire body. Dollface moaned softly into his mouth, her hand moving higher under the blanket, earning another low, rumbling growl from deep in his chest.

As they kissed, Dollface could feel the heat between them building, her body responding to him in ways that made her feel alive, reckless, and completely out of control. She broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “You sure you can handle this, Butchie? I swear to god- the officers are right outside, you don’t make a fucking sound, you hear me?” She whispers

Billy smirked against her lips, his voice rough with desire as he replied, “Oh, I’m bloody well countin’ on it, love.”

A smirk spreads across her face, she palms him over the papery fabric of the hospital gown before letting her hand under it, only lingering on his upper thick muscular thigh. His breath trembles, it’s been way too fucking long.

Way too fucking long since he’d felt her nimble, skilled, manicured fingers wrapped around his thick cock, working him up and down til he spurted rope after rope of his warm white seed onto his taught stomach, getting all over her hands.

He missed everything about this, about you. His big clumsy hands would never ever measure up to how your hands feel pumping him up and down. So as her hand made it’s way higher and higher up his thigh, she finally wrapped your fingers around him.

She lets out a chuckle as you feel how fucking hard he is. She’d barely just gotten her fist around it and it was already throbbing desperately, you swipe your thumb over the head of his tip wiping up the small little white bead of precum

She bite your lip, giggling “Someone’s already excited, hm?”

Butcher’s throat makes a tiny little high pitched whine, his breath catching at the teasing swipe of her thumb over his tip. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, muffling himself from making any further noise “Fuuuckin’ christ onna stick, luv—“

He whispers. She chuckles, her other hand reaching up to clasp over his mouth.

She squeezes her fist around his cock tighter now, slowly beginning to flick her wrist up and down. Butcher huffs out a breath, head lolling to the side to look at you as he scrunches his eyes closed. your hand works quicker on his hard, wet cock, urging him closer and closer to his release. you watch as Butch opens his mouth slightly, eyebrows furrowing as he lets out a puff of air while trying to conceal his noises. he looked so pretty like that, sweat gathering on his forehead as he continues to let moans pour from his lips.

He never let it go like this before, he was always in control, something about having him get like this for you got you going.

“mmh, that feel good?” you ask, tilting your head as you stay seated next to him by the bed. he licks his lips, eyes hooded as they slowly open before fluttering back closed as you press your thumb harder against his tip. “come on, answer me, handsome.”

he groans, biting his lower lip so hard it starts to become sore, drawing a little bit of blood. he can taste it in his mouth, making him let out a soft whimper that travels through the air. and he hopes you didn’t hear it, but you definitely did judging by the smirk on your face as you work your hand faster, also basically slapping your palm over his mouth trying to get him to shut the fuck up. as much as you wanted to hear him whimper like that for you again, now was not the time or place. he slightly bucks his hips up, gasping when you flick your wrist and add wonderful pressure to his tip that causes him to become weak in your hands.

“i asked you a question,” you use your other hand that wasn’t on his cock to grip his chin, a stern expression on your face.

he gasps, “yes, fuck yes trouble— feels so .. s-so good.” his voice becomes deeper, trailing away from him the more he talks as his words fade into nothing but muffled moans underneath your palm. he looks so fucking pretty like that, too. his hair was becoming matted, sticking to his forehead as sweat covered him all over. he was glistening, beautiful under the soft moonlight showing through the window.

you tilt your head, your hand clasped over his mouth like that, looking at his lips as he licks them, “Missed my hands, Butchie?” he stutters at the nickname, groaning as he presses his heels into the mattress and thrashes beside you. the cocky look in your eyes makes him whine again. “so desperate for me,” you click your tongue at him.

Butcher swears he’s never felt so damn good before. he wasn’t used to you being so demanding and dominate. it was making him lose his mind, unable to stop the bucking of his hips as he uncontrollably starts basically fucking your hand.

you raise an eyebrow, “wanna fuck my hand, hm? come on, baby.” you kiss his neck, trailing your kisses there before leaving a bruise on his collarbone, smiling at your work. “fuck my hand, since ya can’t have my pussy, fuck it like it is my pussy” She bites her lip tightly, god how she wanted to say fuck all this and hop on top of him, ride him until the sun rose. but that was too complicated, too much of a liability.

he gasps, and his hands tug desperately at the sheets below him, “c-close.. fucking bollocks— I’m gonna blow Doll—” his voice becomes a little more high pitched, but it sends a rush down to your abdomen and makes you clench your thighs together. Butcher doesn’t see it, though. too focused on his needed high.

you tighten your grip on his cock, making him spiral and you watch as his knuckles turn white while he humps up into your grip, “gonna cum, baby? come on, you can cum, Butchie. make a mess all over your pretty tummy and my hand.”

“cumming, i’m.. fucking cumming,” he groans, a long drawn out moan of your name leaving his lips, even if it’s barely heard by the tight grip of your hand over his mouth as he releases all over himself, his hips stuttering and slowing down. you grip him tightly, watching as his cum flows over your hand too. you smile to yourself, seeing his head thrown back and his eyes shut closed. you bring your cum covered hand to your lips, running a finger across your plump red painted lips. he hums, opening his eyes as you take your fingers into your mouth and licking them dry. you lick your lips, leaning in for a kiss. he easily accepts you, one of his hands reaching for the back of your neck and deepening the kiss. you can taste his cum, slightly bitter, but you don’t mind. not for as long as it’s him. the kiss was messy, all over the place, but you loved it anyway.

when you pull away, he’s gasping for air and looking at you with hooded eyes, “i fuckin’ love you sweetheart”

you chuckle, “i love you, too, Butch”

remember that you're white before you're anything else and this impacts every single way you interact with the world compared to poc

ghost getting himself a cute, soft girl he doesn't talk about much but is clearly obsessed with and price just thinks it's nice he's finally settled down, approves of the home he's made for himself, definitely approves of the one he's taken for himself.

soap asks kyle if he's seen you and he says, "yep. lovely bird he's got tucked away in her little dollhouse. makes great food, too." soap swears there's a subtle shift in his tone when he says "lovely", a hint of something deeper that flickers in his eyes for just a moment. soap simply sucks on his teeth, letting it slide. (although he knows that kyle's always been one to appreciate the good things in life.)

interest gnaws at him, a persistent itch he can't scratch. price likes you just fine, as does kyle. well what about him? he decides to bite the bullet and goes to simon with a knot between his brows, the corners of his lips tugged downwards. they've shared clothes, bullets, beds. if the other two got to meet you, why can't he?

"ya can come over for dinner on tonight. she'd 'ave my neck if she didn't formally meet ya anyway."

soap then asks, out of genuine curiosity more than anything else, if simon would have kept you in the dark from him hadn't he brought you up himself.

"ya meet 'er when i want ya to, boy, and not a moment before." the tone he takes is unmistakeable. his words are a command, not a suggestion, and soap instantly knows to not push further.

soap nods. "ah'll be there."

"course ya will. she'd be terribly disappointed otherwise."

yeah, he'd hate to have that.

soap sits in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the cozy place. with a full stomach and an unfastened belt, nursing a glass of kentucky. he can't remember the last time he ate that well or that much.

maybe it's the alcohol that loosens his tongue, or the fact that he wishes he also had a sweet little thing to keep at his side just like simon's doing with you now, but the thoughts he's been mulling over all evening since he first saw you tumble out of his mouth.

"while ah can attest to yer taste in sweethearts, can't say much about your alcohol. bourbon, LT?" he says, chest warm.

simon's arm tightens around your hips, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh. he shrugs, completely unbothered by the backhanded compliment. "can't be perfect in everythin', can we, sergeant?"

soap's cheeks burn furiously hot when you come to his defense with a smack of your palm onto simon's chest. "be nice to johnny. he's got a face that make up for some of his other flaws."

the teasing lilt in your voice unashamedly gets his southern blood pumping. he can't help it if certain things stir when someone as pretty as you look at him like that. soap swirls the amber liquid gently in the glass while keeping his limpid eyes on you, not even trying to hide the fact that his gaze hasn't wavered since your cheeky little comment.

you then whisper something in simon's ear, your cupped hand not even half the size of his head and soap has to rearrange himself from the outside when your teeth catch your bottom lip. simon looks up at you then, eyes heavy and half lidded, and a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.

"'m not sure, love. you'll just 'ave to ask 'im yourself. go on."

you open that sweet mouth of yours, but simon cuts you off with a decisive wave of his hand. "no. you know how to ask for things."

your reaction to that is visceral, and you're on your knees faster than his alcohol-muddled brain can comprehend. don't look down 'er shirt, don't look down 'er shirt, don't-

"johnny, will you touch my pussy?"

he splutters at your question, completely taken aback, but it seems you're not done just yet.

"hands to yourself, sergeant. tha' not all."

you pout at simon, one that earns you a look that promises consequence, but do as he says.

"will you touch my pussy, johnny? pretty please?"

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

I cannot believe there's absolutely no way to watch free shows and movies anymore, there are too many paid streaming platforms and pirating websites have viruses and ads preventing you from watching it uninterrupted((.)) id rather follow the rules and purchase media moving forward because it is too inconvenient. Seriously, free and no ads or viruses with 1080p streaming is DEAD.

NSFW, I'm finna say some things because I haven't written in a while and I need a creativity exercise. Didn't do Price or Gaz because... I lazy. Excuse formatting. Again, Lazy.

Simon would probably feel genuinely terrible about it. He'd fuck you nice and slow instead, but not for a while after the visit. First he'd have to eat you all sloppy and soft—let you ride his tongue for hours in apology. Big man with furrowed brows, tongue buried between your thighs as if he lapped at you gently enough, you'd get the picture. That you'd forgive him. And he didn't think he deserved it, either. How could he do that to his little bird? He knew he was a big guy but he didn't think he was genuinely doing any harm... an ugly, sticky part of him is proud, honestly. He doesn't quite know how to feel about that. Bruises in the shape of him where no one could see.... how wonderful.

Johnny's a bit smug. Yes, he'd fucked you rough and deep and quick. That's exactly how you liked—exactly what you'd asked him for. And hearing your gyno say that your cervix was bruised made him proud because.. well, that meant he'd done a good job following your directions. He was a mutt. A good mutt. Your good mutt. And he was happy that he could provide the back arching pleasure that would result in this. But, listen—! It's not like he didn't care. When you complained about the soreness he'd draw you a bath and settle you in, the water warm and smelling of lavender epson salt. He was sorry that the bruises hurt, of course, but as his fingers slip into your cunt while you bathe—just to delicately feel you from inside—you can't help but think he wasn't all that sorry for the bruises existing.

Hey I wanna know right

Since everyone always writes the boys fucking reader character so hard (mostly Johnny and Simon) what do you guys think would happen if they went to the doctor worried she had some sort of UTI and the doctor said they had ahem bruising in their, ahem, insides

What then

Mostly a question for @mina-org and @goatgoesmbe let's be honest

Masterlist

On The Run Series :

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

OTR Drabbles:

Breeding Season

Bed Warmer

Knock First

Clothing Preference

Someone sent an anonymous ask about Soap being all whiny and jealous, complaining to Simon about how lucky he is to have such a pretty, curvy girl and Tumblr swallowed it 😫 (This is gonna be a 2 parter)

Warnings: nsfw, threesome, sub soap and reader, dom ghost, training, voyeurism

But I can imagine Ghost would be so sick and tired of it. Johnny's constantly yapping like the mutt he truly is: "Yer a lucky man, LT. Findin' a pretty bird like that." "Where'd ye get her? Need to find one for myself." "She as soft as she sounds?"

Ghost wants to snap at him for talking about you like that - he shouldn't be talking about you at all. But he knows the poor man is just lonely, aching to have something soft and supple like you. Your smiling face smushed between Ghost's fingers when you come to drop off the lunch he forgot. The jeans that fit snuggly around your ass and thighs, the shirt that hugs the swell of your breasts, stretched thin as it barely contains them... poor Johnny boy can't help but whine at the sight of something so appetizing, so soft and warm right there - he's jealous of his LT. How did someone so hard around the edges pluck something so sweet?

Simon hates to see him so upset, pouting in the corner like a scolded puppy as you stare at your boyfriend with stars in your eyes. Johnny could have a girl, but he gets overeager: fucking them on the first date, leaving them sore and bitten and tearful. He's too rough, and they're quick to excuse themselves, fleeing the next morning and blocking him from all social media.

Johnny needs to learn to be patient and gentle with his toys. He's nice enough to let the sergeant practice with his own pretty girl, and you're more than happy to assist Soap with his green-eyed monster.

After a nice dinner at his LT's house, served by you - along with some bronze, liquid courage - Johnny sits on the recliner, chatting with Ghost, who's relaxed on the sofa. You enter the living room and stand next to Simon, biting your lip excitedly and staring between the two of them. Simon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you to sit on the arm of the sofa.

"Y' think she's pretty?" He asks Johnny, who blinks.

Gorgeous. Comely. Ravishing. "Course I do." He responds plainly, trying not to get worked up over the way you're perched next to his LT so prettily.

"Yea, you do..." Simon mutters, squeezing the flesh at your thigh. "What's it you said? 'She must look nice, spillin' out my hands’?"

Soap is nothing short of mortified. His eyes are wide, staring back at Simon - he doesn't know what to say. He said those things within the secrecy of his conversation with his lieutenant - he didn't expect him to repeat it outside of that bubble, let alone in front of you, the person in question.

"N' what else was it? 'Need t' have a pretty li'l wife with a rack like that to lay my head-"

"Simon!!"

Soap finally glares at his LT, his fingers digging into his own thighs. His heart is pounding in his chest. Is Ghost trying to get you to hate him?

You giggle and stand upright. "It's ok, Johnny." You coo, slowly walking over to him with your hands behind your back. "I like it. It means you like me."

Soap has little time to do anything but grunt when you swing a leg over his thighs and seat yourself in his lap. Your cleavage is right there, just inches from his face, and he can feel the bare skin of your thighs burning through his trousers.

"Help me take this off?" You tug at the skirt of your dress, looking down at him with those innocent, glossy eyes.

He can't breathe. His clothes are too hot and too tight, his cock nearly choking in the confines of his pants. He looks to his lieutenant for help - Ghost just smiles, like he's watching his favorite porn. He might be, depending on how this plays out.

"Go on, Johnny. Slowly."

Johnny wants to be anything but slow, once he realizes his best friend is showing you off like a collectible toy. He looks back up at you, watching the way your plump lip catches between your teeth. He carefully reaches around, grabbing the back of your neckline and tugging the zipper down - slowly, as he was instructed. He can barely focus on the movement with your breasts right there, imagining what they'd taste like between his warm lips. The shoulders of your dress fall away, revealing the lacy bra you're wearing. He looks up at you, drool pooling under his tongue as you slide your hands over his shoulders, one coming around to play with the base of his mohawk.

"You can take it off." You whisper.

He wastes no time, his hands smoothing up your back and unclasping your bra in one motion. He helps you pull it from your shoulders - your breasts, round and full, now pressing against his chest. He wants to touch. He needs to touch.

He shoots a hungry, pleading look to Ghost - he nods back at Soap, which is all the sergeant needs to absolve his filthy behavior. He closes your breast in his palm, eyes hazy as he takes your nipple into his warm mouth. He hardly has to move his head forward because you lean into his mouth, your fingers grasping at his hair and your back arching deliciously. Johnny groans, using one hand to dig his fingers into the thick flesh at your hips, and his other to press his palm against your lower back. He shifts himself down as his tongue swirls around your nipple, groans leaving his throat and reverberating against the bud, quickly hardening from his ministrations. You sound so sweet, high-pitched coos and soft breaths pouring from between your lips as you press your weight against Soap, shoving your breast as far into his mouth as he can take. You kiss the crown of his head, whispering a good boy against his skin.

He practically whines, bucking his hips upwards, relishing in how your body grounds him into the sofa cushions. He releases your breast with a pop and quickly takes the other one into his hand, sealing his lips over it with a hum. He looks up at you through wanting, begging eyes as you toss your head back, squeezing your thighs around his hips. His tongue undulates against your stiffening peak, slobbering around the underside of your breast as he gives you another experimental jerk of his hips. You gasp, rolling your hips back down onto him and staring at him with your lust-blown pupils.

His cock is demanding to be let free. He's going to fuck you hard, he's going to pound you into the chair until you're begging, showing his LT just how much of a good boy he is. He's never felt this blazing forest fire within his veins, setting off nerve after nerve and burning a trail right down to his hard, throbbing member.

He hooks his fingers into the hem of your soaked panties, fully intending to rip them off - but you quickly grab his wrist and yank his hand away. He looks at you, blinking through his trance as a look of confusion settles on his face. "Wha's wrong?"

You giggle his expression - the sound goes straight to his tip with another rush of blood. "These are for Simon." you whisper, slowly pushing yourself off of Soap's lap. He lets his arms fall to his sides with a desperate look, letting you back away, right into Ghost's waiting lap.

"Gonna show ya a thing or two, Johnny." he says, pulling you back to his chest. "Teach ya a few tricks, maybe you'll be able t' keep a woman longer than a day." he pulls a switchblade from his pocket and flicks it open. The blade drags down over your belly - you chew your lip as it electrifies your skin, the tip sliding lower and lower until he's running it over your pussy. The fabric is soaked as he lingers there, the sharp edge barely separated from your cunt by your flimsy, drenched panties.

You stare at Soap, not once breaking eye contact as Ghost slices through the fabric. Soap's mouth is agape in disbelief and lust, enamored by the sight before him. He can't tear his eyes from the view of your sopping, glistening pussy, watching as Simon slides his thick fingers over your folds. He catches his thumb under the hood of your clit and you jolt, shooting a hand down to grab his wrist - but he doesn't stop. You whine and mewl, leaning your head back against his shoulder as he flicks the bud, strumming over it slowly.

He stares Soap in the eyes, watching his reaction. "Alright there, Johnny?"

He's drooling, mouth hung open, hypnotized by the way your muscles clench with each stroke of Simon’s thumb. “… Aye…” he manages to say – his fingers dig into the cushions beneath him as he tries to control the urge to tear across the room and drive his cock into your cunt, fucking you against his lieutenant’s chest the way you deserve: rough and hard. Simon’s been teasing you too long; you need to be ravaged, orgasm after orgasm pulled from you, faster than you can think.

“Let me have a go, yea?” he says boldly, looking at Simon with desperation. “That’s what this is, right? Ye want me to fuck ‘er nice? I’ll do it. I’ll do it, sir – I’ll take good care of her-“

“No you won’t.” Simon interjects before the dog can get too riled up. His fingers are now strumming up and through your folds, and you’re panting and staring at Johnny with needy desire. “’S why you can’t keep anyone. You’re too eager.”

The truth shoots through Soap’s chest like an arrow, and he meets Simon’s gaze. He’s obviously rock-hard in his trousers, he won’t even attempt to hide it. Simon’s got a cocky, knowing smirk on his face, and you… poor you is just wishing Simon would spit out what he wants to say, so the three of you could get on with the show.

“Gonna teach you a few secrets, sergeant.” Simon says, and Soap isn’t sure what to think about having his rank used in this situation. “My girl needs to cum.” He pulls his fingers away from you – you whine in frustration, but are quickly silenced when two, thick digits are stuffed into your mouth. You obediently clean off your own slick with your tongue, looking back down at Johnny with a heavy, lidded stare.

“I’ll make her cum.” Soap says quickly. If this is a matter of whether or not he can make someone cum, he’ll pass that test easily.

“You’ll do it right.” Simon growls. “Need to understand the difference between getting’ your cock wet and pleasuring ‘er. ‘S my girl ‘n I won’t have you roughhousing ‘er. Got it?”

Soap’s throat bobs as he swallows. It was another task, another order from his superior. He clears his mind of any preprogrammed, lustful thoughts, sent straight to his brain from his achingly hard member – this wasn’t about him. It was about following instructions. He was a good soldier, he could do that much.

“Yes sir.”

Simon nods. He shifts hips, pulling his fingers from your lipsand grabbing your hips. You grab his forearms for support as he spreads his muscular thigs, forcing your legs farther apart as they rest on either side of his knees. Slick dribbles down from your pussy and onto Simon’s length, which is about to tear a hole through his pants.

“Then get to it. Sick of hearin’ you yap all day about not bein’ able to keep a girl. Put your mouth to good use – we’re about to fix that.”

This is perfect.

don't stop (thinking about tomorrow)

wc: 2.3k

cw: live!reader who can see wally, fun little meet cute that freaks wally out, tw for two sentence mention of harry potter, set in 2023 but nothing with maddie happens, and as always i am writing with a plus size!reader in mind, but this one is gender neutral!reader as well so far

pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - pt. 4 - pt. 5

a/n at the end!

masterlist

He was never supposed to find out that you can see him. 

You could see all of them - the beatnik with the sour expression plastered on her face, the sweetheart in the jean jacket, even the blonde dude who’s always at the pottery wheel during your second period ceramics class.

You’d spent the last four years perfecting walking right past them, not looking up, not laughing at the jock’s jokes when you’re seated near them in the library.

Your ‘gifts’ are too confusing to explain, and even if you attempted to confide in someone about them, you know it would be too hard to believe.

It freaked your parents out when you were little - your comments about how Grandma talked to you long after her passing, how you waved to people on the street that nobody else could see. They never took you to be tested -  worried too much that you’d get taken away or put in psychiatric holding. 

So if you came home looking tired and drained, or sometimes, a little scared, your parents understood. 

When you started high school, you hadn’t expected there to be so many dead people. It was so weird, seeing people your age walking around stuck in the clothes representative of their times. 

You’d told your mom about the kids as you distinguished them from the living ones -  sadness in her eyes growing when you’d mentioned the lanky one in 80s athletic gear. She’d gotten her own Split River yearbook from the shelf, flipped to the memorial page and pointed at Wally. 

“Is that who you’re talking about?” 

You’d nodded, confirming her suspicions. She’d been in his graduating class, though not in his social circles. He’d been your stereotypical jock when he was alive, for all the pros and cons of it. King of the ragers thrown after games, not always a bully, but often a bystander. Gone too soon, but quickly forgotten in the grand scheme of things. 

For your safety, you’d agreed that you wouldn’t ever speak to any of the ghosts. Your mom had clocked the dreamy glaze in your eyes while looking at Wally’s picture, and while she couldn’t stop you from talking to him, she’d told you what you already knew. It wasn’t smart, and it wouldn’t end well. 

In your mind, letting any of them know that you could see them would be more cruel than just letting them go about their usual business. Even if you made contact, spoke to them - hung out with them - you were leaving after graduation, and they’d be alone again, without any contact with the living world. It seemed unfair; pointless. 

It’s not Wally’s fault he’s so fucking pretty. 

He moves about the school the same way you do - not looking at or paying attention to the people around him - because he has no reason to believe he can be seen. It’s worked out entirely in your favor thus far, because you can stare at Wally Clark for small periods of time without him noticing. On the occasion that he turns his head in your direction, a shift of your eyes to the right or left has him believing you’re just staring off into space. 

He’s so nice to look at. His slightly curled waves of black hair, gold chain gleaming under fluorescent lighting. There’s depth to him, too. When he’s around his friends, he’s energetic - bouncy, cracking jokes and patting people on the back too hard. When he’s alone, though, he seems calmer. More reserved. 

You get bolder with it, the staring, lulled into a sense of safety because you’re just another face in the ever-rotating crowd of high schoolers that pass through Split River. He’d seen forty generations of kids move on at this point, stuck as a fresh 18 year old with dreams and aspirations he’ll never be able to achieve. 

It must suck, having to stay behind and watch as other seniors get a chance to do what he never did. You wish you could comfort him, maybe even help him find a way to move on. It’s harder for the people who die traumatically. 

So much unfinished business and pent up emotions make it difficult to find the peace needed to pass onto the next plane. It’s easy to tell -there’s always a certain aura around the sad ones. Like the air around them is heavier, darker. 

You’re not complaining, though, as fucked as that may sound. Especially not when you’re lounging under a tree near the football field, not so subtly watching as a shirtless Wally picks up replicated footballs and throws them aimlessly in different directions. If you hadn’t been daydreaming about being able to talk to him, you would’ve noticed the ball soaring towards you. 

You look up, just in time for the phantom ball to hit the ground next to you, bouncing to land at your feet. Absent-mindedly - and almost jokingly - you kick it away from you, suddenly aware the ball was solid against your foot. In the time it takes you to realize you just interacted with a phantom football, it's faded away into the ground, and its sender is staring at you wide-eyed. 

There’s a beat of stillness, soundtracked by the cicadas and other teens on the field before you begin to move. 

You scramble to throw your shit into your bag, and speed walk back inside. 

“Holy shit? Wait! Hey, wait!” 

He follows you, because of course he does, and you try your best to ignore the panic and guilt rising in your throat. You just keep walking, hoping that he’ll give up. He doesn’t. 

“Can you slow down please? I know you can see me!” 

Wally catches up to you, jogging a few paces ahead to try to cut you off. You’ve never been this close to him - you have no idea if he’ll pass through you the way you’ve seen the other ghosts pass through living people before or if you'll make contact like you did moments ago with the ball he had thrown. 

It blows your cover even more than kicking the ball away, but when Wally goes to stand in front of you, you attempt to veer out of his path. And then he grabs you. Or, he tries to, anyway. He’s not fully solid, not enough to place a firm hold on you, but enough for you to genuinely feel it. 

His hand does go through you, but there’s resistance to it. It makes you shiver, the ice cold sensation of his palm trying to hold your shoulder but not being able to fully grip it. 

“What the fuck?” He looks down at his hands, then back towards you. 

He’s caught off guard enough for you to truly get away this time. Rest of the school day be damned, you make a break for it and throw yourself into your car. 

The stale air does nothing to help your nerves, your shaking hand turning the ignition to blast AC at yourself. You lean forward, resting your head on the steering wheel and try to breathe through it. This is bad. Like, really fucking bad. 

You don’t know much about him, but you seriously doubt that this is the kind of thing he’d just let go. 

You’re in it now, for better or for worse. 

You can’t tell your mom. It’s selfish, and misguided, and you hadn’t even said anything to him, but it was something. It was yours, and you don’t want to share. It makes the guilt worse, and your drive home is spent in dissociated silence. 

When you get home, your mom is in the kitchen, bouncing around to 80s music and chopping onions. The slam of the front door alerts her to your presence, and she pauses her music, concern etched in her features. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay? You’re home early.” 

You don’t want to lie. 

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just got a headache, that’s all. Thought I should come home and take a nap.” 

-

Spending a few days at home would probably be for the best - it would give you time to come up with some sort of plan on what to say to Wally. You have no idea what the best course of action is. He knows you can see him now. You can’t take that back and make him forget it, and you don’t even know if you’d want to. 

Instead, you barrel into school the next day, head down and earphones blasting music. Your eyes don’t leave the linoleum floor except to put your bag in your locker. The grumble of frustration and annoyance that leaves your body when three Tears for Fears songs play in succession draws the attention of other students in the hallway, but you pay them no mind. 

You don’t even make it to third period before you see him. 

Sitting in the corner of ceramics class, shaky hands denting an already uneven vase, the slam of the classroom door makes you jump - effectively destroying the soft clay cradled in your palms. 

“There you are! Dude, I've been looking all over for you.” He sidles up to you, plops down in the seat directly to your right, the heat of his gaze burning into the side of your face and making your cheeks hot. You sigh, squishing the clay down and shaking your head. 

“That’s fine, you don’t have to talk. I can talk for both of us. I can just talk, and talk, and talk, and-” 

Your hand shoots into the air, a frantic “Can I use the restroom please?” leaving your throat. 

It’s your worst nightmare and a dream come true, being alone with Wally. He walks next to you in the hallway, and when you pass the bathroom he pauses. 

“You’re not going in? I thought you needed to go.” He’s teasing, you know he is, but you still huff at him. 

You keep your pace, calling out behind you, “No, Wally, I don’t need to use the bathroom.” 

You don’t turn around to see it, but you can hear the slightly shocked giggle that leaves him. 

“Oh, c’mon, really?” 

He catches up to you, and when you crane your head to the side to make eye contact, he sucks in a little breath. It’s the first time you’ve actually looked into his eyes. It throws you off kilter a bit, and you feel the need to make up the difference with a quip. 

“What, you’re Moaning Myrtle now? You feel like talking and hanging around in public restrooms?” 

The laugh that leaves him surprises you, Your eyebrows raise, not expecting him to understand the reference. 

“Ms. Williams plays the movies during finals week like every year,” he shrugs, “I’m dead, not blind.” 

You’d taken your things with you - skipping the rest of your class to spend time with him, to answer the questions you know he wants to ask. You go back to the football field, under the same tree you’d been under when you kicked the football away from you. 

He’s waiting for you to speak, to help him understand what’s going on, but the words are caught in your throat, cheeks hot and skin itchy. Your hands fidget, picking dried clay from under your fingernails and flicking it onto the grass nearby. 

You look at him, trying to decide where to start. 

“I’m not really supposed to talk to you.”

“Why not?” He laughs then, shakes his head a little. “It’s because I’m dead, right? Do you have a problem with dead people?”

“No, I-” You start on the defensive, but soften when you see Wally’s smirk. He’s a little shit, you should've known. You roll your eyes, “You’re not supposed to know I can see you for your own sake. What good would it do? Hanging out with me for the next three months until I graduate and you can never see me again? It’s unfair.”

He looks away from you for a second, sly smile wiped off of his face, replaced with a sadness you hadn’t seen from him before. You reach out, trying to make contact, and your hand just meets the air. When he’d tried to grab you yesterday, he was slightly more solid than he is now. You don’t know why. 

“Yeah it is unfair,” He turns to face you again, brown eyes glassy and tear rimmed, “but you can see me, and that’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since I’ve been here.” 

Something in your chest stirs, and you know there’s no universe in which you would’ve been able to stay away from him. You’re worlds apart, or planes apart, but it doesn't seem to matter as much as you used to think it did. 

“I think it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, too.” 

You spend the rest of the school day - without being caught, thankfully - in deep conversation. The shrill ring of the bell signaling the end of the day cuts you off in the middle of a sentence, and you stand from your place on the grass, dusting yourself off and gathering your things. 

The silence between you is comfortable now, as he walks you to your car. He can’t step off the curb - he’d explained the boundaries of the school to you, that he’d be thrown back to the field if tried to leave. You hover together, not wanting to part. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow? We can hang out more, I have study hall during 5th period.” You tuck a stray hair behind your ear, and he follows the movement with his eyes. 

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.” 

You blast your 80s playlist on the way home, while you’re in the shower, while you’re doing homework. 

Wally Clark is gonna be the death of you.  

a/n: hiii i feel like this part was a little lackluster but !!!! i have a whole plan for what i want to do with this fic and i'm really excited about it. it should be four parts, but that's subject to change as i keep writing.

if you liked this and want to read more of my little stories, my masterlist is linked at the top! if you have ideas or just want to chat, my inbox is always open!

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