#FLUNKtober

[wordsbyarwen]

Happy Flunktober day 10?

Today’s prompt is from @flufftober: love language.

A little quality time for Yennaia. ~800 words of fluff, fluff, and more fluff

“You do take your sweet time, don’t you?”

Yennefer lifts her eyes to the mirror and flashes a grin. “You know I can’t help myself.”

Tissaia has a point though, so she leans over the woman’s shoulder to set the brush down on the vanity. She runs her fingers through the length of Tissaia’s hair, finding no snags, and breathes satisfaction. She doesn’t get to do this often; she can’t resist savouring it. And Tissaia knows, of course—watches her in their shared reflection, expression softening at Yennefer’s undisguised contentment. Yennefer meets her eye again, and this time the smile that tugs at the edge of her lips is almost, almost shy.

When she returns to the task at hand, it is with an unrivalled single-mindedness. 

The back of a comb parts Tissaia’s hair neatly into sections. Yennefer smoothes the hair against her scalp, sets to plaiting the thick chestnut waves with no more efficiency than the brushing. She likes the feel of Tissaia’s hair in her hands—the sleek weight of it, the way Tissaia relaxes into her touch despite any complaints she may have about Yennefer’s lackadaisical speed. The knowledge that she is the only one who sees this side of Tissaia. 

It’s relaxing, too, this methodical weaving of strand over strand—Tissaia’s slow, even breaths and the stillness in the room.

It is a gift they give to each other, despite Tissaia’s original hesitation to let someone else do her hair, and in spite of any complaints she might make about the length of time it takes Yennefer to finish. Because as much as Yennefer enjoys doing Tissaia’s hair, Tissaia too enjoys the touch, though she’ll never admit it in as many words. She has always reserved physical contact for occasions that warrant it; for Tissaia, touch has meaning and weight. There’s a heady indulgence to times like this, to the trust and the abundance of tactile sensations.

Yennefer finishes the first plait, starts on the next. Weaves just as slowly, just as methodically, smoothing the sections of hair all the way down to the ends so as not to allow any tangling between the strands.

Tissaia often watches her; today, her eyes flutter shut and she sighs softly, contentment settling across her own features as Yennefer works.

When the plaits are done, Yennefer twists them together with a now-practised finesse, looping one over the other to form Tissaia’s signature chignon. She places the pins carefully; as much as Yennefer likes seeing Tissaia a little less put-together, it won’t do to have her hair falling down before the day is through. 

Yennefer steps back to admire her handiwork. Satisfied that the chignon is secure and that the pins and the ends of her braids are tucked out of sight, she hums softly and steps forward again, placing her hands on Tissaia’s shoulders. Tissaia’s eyes are open now, and she arches a brow when she meets Yennefer’s eyes, a gleam in her own that makes Yennefer flash another grin. She bends, presses a kiss into the space below Tissaia’s jaw.

“I did a wonderful job,” Yennefer murmurs, lips tickling Tissaia’s skin when she speaks.

Tissaia makes a quiet tutting noise, tilting her head towards Yennefer to force her to pull away. “I’m sure you did,” she says as Yennefer withdraws with a pout. No matter how many times Yennefer does her hair for her, she’ll always assess it; it’s in her nature. She does so now, reaching back with both hands to circle the chignon, feeling for flaws with deft fingers.

She makes a thoughtful noise, then stands, turning to face Yennefer with her lips curled into the smallest smile of approval. Framing Yennefer’s face with her hands, she tilts her chin upward, and Yennefer lowers her face to meet her in the middle. The kiss Tissaia presses against her brow is expected, but the display of tenderness solely for her still makes Yennefer’s heart thunder after all this time.

“You did a wonderful job,” Tissaia echoes in affirmation, lips twitching into a brighter smile. “Thank you.”

Yennefer raises her eyebrows playfully, scooping Tissaia’s hands away from her cheeks and dipping her head to brush a kiss against the woman’s knuckles. “My pleasure.”

Tissaia’s sigh of exasperation is full of fondness when she snatches her hand away from Yennefer’s with an imperious squaring of her shoulders. “Tch. Ridiculous girl.”

Yennefer’s responding snort is undignified at best. “Just remember,” she says, turning sideways and ushering Tissaia past with a little shove, “that you chose this. Now go; be Archmistress of Magic. I promise I’ll be much quicker about disassembling this when you return.”

Tissaia rolls her eyes, shaking her head minutely, but the smile on her lips is telling. “I’ve no doubt.”

#The Witcher #Netflix The Witcher #Yennaia #Yennefer of Vengerberg #Tissaia de Vries #flufftober2022 #fanfic #day 10 #FLUNKtober #r:g #500

[unhinged-summer-fun]

Daddy!Whiskey masterlist

rivers til i reach you - Explicit; Agent Whiskey x F!Reader

It’s the last night before Jack comes home. He’s gotten you a little something to pass the time by.

i've got you babe - Mature; Agent Whiskey x F!Reader

When nightfall at the Christmas village sends your self-doubt spiraling and takes your feet from under you, Jack can only catch so much.

hiccup - Mature; Agent Whiskey x F!Reader

Your punishments are supposed to be doled out by Jack. You make a mistake trying to do it yourself.

like an open book - Mature; Agent Whiskey x F!Reader

He’ll be there for you, again and again.

#daddy!whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #danktober 2022 #masterlist #flunktober 2021 #f!reader

[doomtwinkie]

The Fairy Wand, part three (read at AO3)

The ginormous cock had made her chase him.

Seeing the glowing wand being pointed at him had apparently spooked Crane greatly. He'd crowed loudly a few times, and then took off running throughout her house as fast as his two chicken legs could carry him - which ended up being a lot faster than Abbie ever expected. There was a flurry of feathers trailing behind him, and he crowed and squealed with every twist and turn he made.

He'd also dropped a few smelly surprises on her clean rug, likely out of sheer terror, that she nearly stepped in more than once. "You are SO cleaning this up when you're human again, Crane!" she growled at him.

Finally, she managed to corner him, and blasted him with the fairy wand, shouting "I WISH YOU WERE HUMAN AGAIN!" The wand glowed blue once more, and a beam of sparkly blue light erupted out of it. Crane the rooster squawked loudly as he was hit with a loud POP!

He inched out of the corner, quickly doubling, and then quadrupling his size. Wings grew into arms, and fingers sprouted from them. His tiny chicken legs grew longer. Feathers began to explode out of him one by one, until all that was left behind was a tall, lanky, and completely naked man lying drooling on the floor.

Abbie cackled, partially at the fact she'd been successful and partially at the fact that Crane was laying there in the nude. He had freckles on his rear, and there were still a few feathers sticking there. She tried hard to have willpower, to not capture his be-speckled posterior for posterity; however, she quickly failed. Taking out her phone, she snapped a few photos for good measure. Jenny'll have a field day with these, she thought, giggling.

The clicking sound from her phone startled Crane, and his eyes shot open, staring back at her in utter shock and horror as Abbie stashed the phone back in her pocket. Quickly realizing that he was, in fact, completely butt naked, all of his cheeks began to blush furiously. Without moving, he eyed her, starting to quake with fear and very clear embarrassment.

"Welcome back," said Abbie, laughing. "Am... Am I... n...naked..." Crane stammered. "Oh yeah." "Not... um, not even smallclothes?" "Not a stitch, Crane."

Abbie smiled at him, clearly enjoying herself.

"My clothes... I need my..." He said, his fingers slowly crawling towards his coat. "Maybe put on some clean ones? I'm sure those smell a little like a barnyard animal at this point." "Ah. Right." "Just, you know, hop up and run for the bathroom. I'll close my eyes," Abbie said, smirking, "I won't peek." "Will you destroy that vile wand in the meantime?"

Abbie paused for a moment, looking at the wand with longing. The thing was a bit evil; however, it also had the power to give her anything she wished for as well, now that she had figured out its secret.

"Sure," she finally said, even though she wasn't sure if she meant it, "you go change - maybe get a shower, too - and I'll go toss this in the neighbor's wood chipper. Don't worry about it." "Good plan," he said. "Alright, I'm closing my eyes. Go for it," Abbie said, shutting her eyes (but then reopening one as soon as he turned his back.)

Crane hopped up and flew through the house, bits of anatomy jiggling in the wind as he went.

And Abbie grinned from ear to ear...

#doomtwinkie's art #fanfiction #ichabbie #ichabbie halloween #abbie mills #Ichabod Crane #flunktober #doomtwinkie fic: the fairy wand

[wordsbyarwen]

This October, I am picking and choosing between prompts from Flufftober, Whumptober, and Kinktober lists, because i’m that bitch. This month shall henceforth be lovingly referred to as Flunktober.

For day 2, I present to you the alternate prompt from the Whumptober list: touch starved. (Also satisfies the touch-starved prompt on my BTHB card). Yeehaw?

(I did write a day 1 prompt, but it’ll be posted on day 25, because... reasons?)

They must decide that Tissaia is worth more to them alive than dead.

It’s a clever enough play, she supposes, keeping the most powerful living human mage at the Lodge’s disposal in the event that their values might one day align.

They will not. It seems Tissaia alone knows this.

They keep her locked away in dimeritium shackles for a time, but the wise among them know that Tissaia de Vries, Archmistress of Magic, may soon escape such bonds. She is one of a few powerful enough to resist the effects of dimeritium on the chaos around them, and although she spends the better part of three days overcome by bouts of nausea and vertigo, writhing upon the mattress when she’s meant to be sleeping, she adjusts to the cuffs - to the metal and its foul brand of magic - as the days wear on. Soon, she might be able to overcome her human guards. Later, to hold her own against the lesser mages. Sooner than even Philippa thinks, perhaps, if the rage burning in her chest continues to blossom within her.

But no, they have made quick work of setting wards in place around one of the guest rooms, and these are wards that even she cannot break. She is free of the shackles, free to roam the modest - very modest - accommodations, but she has been afforded the comfort of a bed and writing desk, at least. And clean clothes. There are no luxuries, but it is as good as a gilded cage.

Those who deliver her food and clothes and firewood are servants, nothing more. Often, they are kind or frightened enough to share what day it is, to verify for Tissaia that her mind is still keen enough to count the days.

In the beginning, Philippa visits a few times. To berate her for failing to see reason. To ingratiate herself into Tissaia’s good graces. To gloat over the Archmistress’ capture. Any number of reasons, all of which are thinly veiled and vary by the day.

Now she sees only the servants and guards. Occasionally, one smuggles in a book for her. Even some of the guards have taken pity, but she doubts they would hesitate to draw a sword on her if need arose. But she is a quiet prisoner. Calm, collected. She offers them no reason for distrust.

One savaed passes, and then another, and she is alone.

Her memory may be sharp, but the animal parts of her, the pieces of her mind which are still human, have begun to fall to despair.

Human beings were not meant for isolation. Perhaps she is yet more human than she thought. One night, she weeps. Another, she opens the window and lets the biting chill of the snugly-fitted iron grate sink into her forearms for the sake of any new sensation at all.

Another savaed. And another.

She is pacing the floor as she often does, lest her body fade away completely in this space which affords so little room for movement, when the door opens one evening. A meal. Wood for the fire. If she is lucky, there will be freshly-washed linens and another book. For all that she dedicates a not-insignificant portion of each day to washing herself, she has not had a proper bath, nor proper care for her hair, since she was locked away; in spite of her efforts at cleanliness, she feels filthy.

Yes, fresh bedding would be the greatest gift - 

“Tissaia?”

Tissaia blinks, pausing to stare out the closed window, the dimming light casting shadows across the room.

She’s finally gone mad.

The door has closed, and for a long moment, there is no movement. And then, finally, a quiet sigh.

“I should have visited sooner. I’m sorry.”

Tissaia turns slowly toward the door, and - no, no, she has not gone mad. She’s there, laden with a tray holding too much food - simple fare, but enough to share.

The times have changed her.

“Rita.”

“There are other things for you, outside. Firewood, and - you really have no reflectors?”

“One.” She nods at the tiny table beside the bed, at the candle with the curved sheet of brass attached to its base. “I have little need for light, even when the nights are long.” At Rita’s expression, Tissaia thins her lips. “If you have guilt to feel, let it be for aligning with them, not for leaving me.”

“For the school,” Rita cries, taking two paces forward, then sighing her frustration and spinning to place the tray upon the little desk that doubles as a table. “For the safety of the students! Our students. Our girls. Times have changed, Tissaia; the Continent is in shambles, and - ”

“You do not need to tell me of the things I knew would come to pass in the event the Brotherhood fell, Rita. Who engineered that fall, I wonder?”

Rita’s hand lands on her arm, her grip firm, the contact a sudden rush of warmth as Tissaia’s heart races. Rita, who she has not seen since before the Coup - has not touched since that last night at The Silver Heron.

She has touched no one since that night; been touched only by those who took her captive when, weakened by the excessive use of her magic during the fighting, she had been overcome. By those who had shackled and unshackled her.

And so, after seasons of solitude, in the midst of the despair that began weeks and weeks ago to gnaw at the edges of her mind, she begins to cry.

She fights it at first, drawing herself upright as she glances down at Rita’s hand. Her throat feels thick; there is something wrong with her body, something much too primal, much too human. Sensing the blame in her, Rita loosens her grip, but when she begins to pull away Tissaia twists her wrist suddenly, bending her elbow to clasp Rita’s forearm in desperation.

It’s then that she begins to cry in earnest, pressing her lips into a thin line and squeezing her eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop them. But no, there is no stopping the rush of chemicals this unexpected contact has triggered. There is no fighting it.

So she yields to it. Why resist the inevitable? What pride does she have left? Is there any pride to be had in the presence of this erstwhile lover?

“Hold me.”

She barely recognises her own voice, hardly realises that it is she who has spoken, until Rita closes the distance between them and embraces her fiercely, working herself free of Tissaia’s hold to envelop her in both arms. And Tissaia surrenders herself to it, folding her arms around Rita’s ribs and pulling their bodies flush, until there is no breath of air between them.

Because as little intimacy as she has allowed herself these past centuries, she is still human. Because who knows when she will feel the touch of a human hand, whether for good or ill, again? Because Rita is soft, and warm, and right. Always was; always will be.

Because this physical contact after so long without shines a light on the distress of being without it. Awakens irrefutable sorrow and undeniable relief.

“Your poor hair,” Rita whispers into her ear, fingertips light on the back of Tissaia’s head, tracing around the chignon Tissaia continues to wear during most days for the sake of whatever decorum she has left and, for however short a time, to have something to do with her hands each day. But Tissaia doesn’t care about her hair, not now. She cares about the presence of another body next to her own, squeezes Rita all that much tighter. Taking this as a hint, Rita curls her arm more securely around Tissaia again. Still, her lips remain beside Tissaia’s ear, breath soft in her hair. “I’ll bring you some oils. I’ll tend to it.”

The latter part is an empty promise. They both know that if she spends too much time with Tissaia, it will arouse suspicion. To take a meal or two with her is one thing, but much more…

Still, it is a welcome fancy.

#Tissaia de Vries #Margarita Laux-Antille #Rissaia #The Witcher #Netflix The Witcher #fanfic #whumptober2022 #badthingshappenbingo #touch starved #r:t #500 #FLUNKtober

[wordsbyarwen]

Happy Flunktober day 5!

Today’s prompt is from @flufftober: “Oh no, you’re a morning person!”

A tag for the cafe owner!Yen/organic farmer!Tissaia au, found right over here: a tender green is showing

Tissaia’s bed is quite possibly the most comfortable Yen has ever had the pleasure of lying in. Which is a very good thing, because she’s been spending more and more time in it recently. Never on a Saturday night though.

Since opening the cafe, Sunday is Yennefer’s favourite day of the week. It’s a day of shorter hours - a later opening, an earlier closing. Most of the prep can be done the night before, and what can’t, she has staff to do. Hell, she’s started taking the day off from time to time, even.

And so, when she is awakened by movement this Sunday morning, knowing in her very bones it’s far too early to justify being awake, she groans a complaint and burrows blindly into the blankets.

“Hello to you too.”

The loveliness of Tissaia’s voice versus Yennefer’s incredible desire to yank the blankets over her head and lie in bed all day: fight.

She grumbles her displeasure, blinking her eyes open. Tissaia is standing over the bed, fully dressed with a coffee mug in her hand, wakeful and ready for the day.

On a Sunday?

“Oh, gods. You’re a morning person, aren’t you?”

Tissaia frowns pointedly at her. “Yennefer, you own a cafe. Or have you forgotten there’s a business side to this relationship?”

Groaning, Yen rolls onto her side slightly. “Yes, but - ”

“Yes, you’ve forgotten that I grow the veg and you cook it?” Tissaia asks, mirth playing in her voice, and oh but it’s far too early for jokes. Jokes! Yennefer needs at least a full cup of coffee before she can engage with this.

“I’ll cook your - ”

She’s cut off when the pad of Tissaia’s thumb presses gently against her lips, fingers cupping her chin. She opens her eyes again, and sees Tissaia’s unimpressed expression.

Well, it wasn’t a very good come-back anyway.

When the woman speaks, however, the tenderness in her voice belies the sternness written across her face. 

“Seeds won’t plant themselves, my dear.”

“Okay, but they could,” Yen mumbles, Tissaia’s thumb easing off of her lips to stroke along the corner of her mouth. “Just once.” So sue her for sounding like a petulant child.

Tissaia bends to kiss Yen’s cheek. Her lips are soft, the touch certain. “Sleep if you wish,” she murmurs, flashing a smile so quick Yennefer wonders if she imagined it. “I’ll see you later.”

Which is really just about all Yennefer can ask for in this life.

“Mm. Love you.”

And there’s nothing quite like this. Like saying those words, so casually. Like meaning them utterly when she does. Nothing quite like hearing them repeated back in Tissaia’s voice, sweetly and without pretence. Like the curl of Tissaia’s smile when she presses a swift kiss to Yennefer’s lips.

“I love you too.”

#The Witcher #Netflix The Witcher #Yennaia #Tissaia de Vries #Yennefer of Vengerberg #flufftober2022 #fanfic #day 5 #FLUNKtober #r: g #snippets

[wordsbyarwen]

I’ve had a Yennaia ballroom dancing AU kicking around in my head since FEBRUARY, so what better excuse to put it out in the world than @aninkwellofnectar‘s 7 Deadly Sins-based Kinktober prompt list?

For day 3 this “flunktober,” I chose the prompt dancing. Not actually kinky, and barely qualifies for the M rating, but you know.

The woman’s—Tissaia’s—narrow eyes are the same colour as her dress, the quirk of her lips as she smiles a greeting is nothing if not feline, and her cheekbones—this woman’s cheekbones could sink ships. SOS, send help, Yennefer’s drowning; she’s forgotten how to swim.

OR:

In which Tissaia de Vries teaches ballroom dance, and Yennefer Vengerberg is but a simple gay.

Rated: M Characters: Yennefer, Tissaia, Triss Relationships: Yennaia Other Tags: modern AU, ballroom dancing, a slow burn across a brief 6.6k words Word Count: 6600

#The Witcher #Netflix The Witcher #Yennaia #Tissaia de Vries #Yennefer of Vengerberg #fanfic #FLUNKtober #kinktober2022 #r:m #literally i yelled about all of these ideas to #ehay #in february and have been bemoaning them ever since #i pounded this out in 2 days and did not have it beta'd please scream at me if there's anything weird you notice that i didn't #literally my phone finally decided that i say fuck enough to auto-correct something innocent (tucking) into something not (fucking) for one #of the last things i published #only caught it in the ao3 reread before hitting publish #me AND my beta missed it #so listen... listen... anything could be buried in this very rough fic #anyway enjoy

[wordsbyarwen]

For Day 8 of our ever so lovingly named Flunktober, we have the whumptober prompt “stomach pains.”

Yennefer gives herself the better part of two weeks away from social media...

#Tissaia de Vries #Yennefer of Vengerberg #The Witcher #Netflix The Witcher #whumptober2022 #day 8 #stomach pains #FLUNKtober

[wordsbyarwen]

For flunktober day 19, we have a prompt from @aninkwellofnectar‘s Seven Deadly Sins Kinktober list: clothes on.

A little modern Rita/Yen (established) for all our rarepair needs, complete with some semi-public desk sex.

Rated: M Pairing: Margarita Laux-Antille/Yennefer of Vengerberg Other Tags: modern au, semi-public sex, desk sex, clothes on, explicit sexual content Word Count: 1645

#The Witcher #Netflix The Witcher #Margarita Laux-Antille #Yennefer of Vengerberg #Yenrita #FLUNKtober #fanfic #Kinktober2022 #500 #R:M #absolutely not set in the florist au what on EARTH would make you ask that jeez

[unhinged-summer-fun]

Puppy!Marcus Pike 'verse masterlist

i hope to go to his heaven - Explicit; Marcus Pike x GN!Reader

Marcus needs a day off, but won’t ask for what he needs when he needs it. You’re patient. You could wait.

worth the being found - Explicit; Marcus Pike x GN!Reader

When you’d met him, Marcus hadn’t known what he wanted. Now, he lets you know.

masquerade - Mature; Marcus Pike x GN!Reader

A night out with friends becomes… interesting, when Marcus surprises you.

the intersection of all my pieces - Mature; Marcus Pike x GN!Reaader

Marcus reflects. Why does he like what he likes?

Crossovers with Mesh Network:

it's nice to have a friend - Explicit; Marcus Pike x F!Reader (Mesh Network) & Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (referenced in third person)

Marcus has a playdate with a new friend.

after(care)party - Mature; Marcus Pike x Din Djarin (Mesh Network) x F!Reader (Mesh Network) & Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (referenced in third person)

Coming October 27!

#marcus pike #puppy!marcus pike #masterlist #danktober 2022 #flunktober 2021

[unhinged-summer-fun]

DANKTOBER 2022 ANNOUNCEMENT

TAGLIST INFORMATION FOUND AT BOTTOM OF POST, YES JUST LIKE THE FOOD BLOG YOUR AUNT RUNS.

Hello there I'm Bailey and I'm insane. Two years ago I joined some friends and did my first month-long creative prompt event. We split the 31 prompts up into equal parts and all completed Kinktober 2020 together as a group. Immediately after that I did NaNoWriMo for the first time and got even more insane. In 2021, I decided it wasn't good enough to just be doing one prompt, so I chose to combine three different October prompt events: Kinktober, Flufftober, and Whumptober. The result was Flunktober 2021 which had fics I wrote for as many of the days as I could, each using three or more prompts from those lists. I did that and did NaNoWriMo again immediately following this craziness, further cementing my deranged soul in unhinged hell.

This year, I've combined Kinktober and Inktober with an event of my own creation: Daytober, a creative prompt event inspired by silly national holidays that occur in the month of October. This unholy matrimony is called Danktober, and I cannot wait to start writing the prompts in front of me. In addition to writing, I also want to try my hand at drawing for each prompt, so I can include them in the project header when I eventually post each work. I have no mistaken belief in my abilities drawing wise, but I am in possession of a Concerta prescription and this is my only free outlet at the moment. Therefore, I've become your problem.

Or I will be, starting October 1st.

These are the prompts and pairings I have right now. Some days have returning characters from other works in my masterlist, and some are gearing up for a full-length fic all on their own. Anything marked TBD in the pairing section means I haven't come up with an unhinged enough idea for it, and I'm more than happy to take suggestions! If you're going to suggest a pairing/scenario, please include which day you're suggesting for.

On the subject of tag notificaitons: There's 31 prompts, which means 31 works, in 31 days. Because of this, I can understand if you don't want to be tagged every 24 hours in fics ranging from 500-1500 words apiece. For this reason, I'm going to have Danktober Roundups, so once a week (should you opt in) you'll get a notification for all the fics posted that week. There's a new option to be tagged in Danktober Roundups on my taglist, which is always found in my bio or on my main masterlist, pinned at the top of my blog. If you are already on my taglist for certain characters or otherwise, there's a chance you will be tagged in every week's Roundup regardless of if you opt-in to this event. If you wanna get off of the taglist, say it in a new taglist entry with ur username and request in the notes at the back.

Thanks, and happy Preptember!

#unhingery #danktober 2022 #event announcement #fic announcement #series announcement #lmfao

[unhinged-summer-fun]

Danktober Week 2 Roundup

Day 08: scene 02. [joel miller x f!reader] waxplay / match / national motorcycle ride day

Day 09: foreplay (long time) [marcus moreno x f!reader] praise kink / nest / international beer and pizza day

Day 10: in sickness and health [frankie morales x f!reader] pregnancy / crabby / world mental health day

Day 11: hiccup [agent whiskey x f!reader] sensory deprivation / bluff / national face your fears day

Day 12: scene 03. [joel miller x f!reader] humiliation / forget / national farmers day

Day 13: masquerade [marcus pike x gn!reader] public + scent / kind / world sight day

Day 14: waiting for the sun [din djarin x f!reader] role reversal / empty / national i love you day

[link to week 1 roundup]

[full danktober list here]

End of week recap under the cut!

Nearly halfway through the month already?! Compared to last year's Flunktober, I found myself more inspired and comfortable with starting (and stopping!) these prompts as I pleased. Some of them don't quite come across that way in the context of the work (seven thousand words of Marcus Moreno later) but after 35k later (SHEESH) I am basking in that light of inspiration like never before. I have no pressure or expectation of myself to make every fic a series, or every series complete.

It makes me wonder if the fervor I experienced is in any way going to carry on through November and beyond.

How in the fucking christ did I post 25k in just one week yall. HOW. Literally the posted word count for both weeks is 34.9k right now. The sum of all 31 days right now is over 65k and is only looking like it's gonna grow even more.

What went well? The week as a whole went exceptionally smooth, as I'd had all seven of these in first-draft before October 1st was even close to getting here. I've started getting a pattern down to posting the morning of. I uploaded the fics into the queue and waited for the time to come for them to be posted, and with that ready to go I was able to backtrack and re-distribute links across my masterlist. The first week was definitely way more difficult, but I found my stride!

What didn't go well? Farmer Joel Day 08 didn't do nearly as well as I thought it would. Compared to the snip I posted on Day 02, this one just shat the bed in terms of attention/sharing. While I don't do this kinda stuff for numerical validation, I do get fairly discouraged when all I see are a few likes and no feedback. There were a few points this week where I wondered glumly if anyone would fucking care if I stopped posting for the challenge.

What surprised you? Honestly, how affected I would be by the downtick in engagement. I credit that a lot with my therapy homework though, honestly - I've been ruminating on a negative core belief of mine from my childhood that I don't need or deserve praise or positive attention. I need to do some work to distance my codependency on notes/feedback, because it had me questioning whether I even continued.

What didn't surprise you? The same goddamn thing happened three separate times where I went to edit down a work and ended up lengthening it by several score greater than I started. On one hand, it proves that setting something down for a while and picking it back up is a great way to reintroduce yourself to your creativity without the pressure of finishing something.

Which work did you like writing the most? Farmer Joel on Day 08. It was the first thing I ever wrote for Joel, and while it's atmospheric as all hell, I truly love the cohesion of the story - even if it lacks a ton of context divulged later on!

What are you excited for about next week? Primal Play with Joel Miller and the fun crossover of two of my AUs: Mesh Network and Puppy Marcus. The reader in that coming Puppy Marcus next week will be an F!Reader instead of the typical GN!Reader that's with Marcus, but the Reader in this instance is the one in Mesh Network.

Thanks for reading! if you want to be notified when these roundups come up, go to the danktober masterlist and read the taglist information at the bottom. <3 besitos

#danktober 2022 #masterlist #roundup

[unhinged-summer-fun]

Danktober 2022 Week 1 Roundup

Day 01: my chernabog romance [chernabog x f!reader] breathplay / gargoyle / national coffee day

Day 02: scene 01. [joel miller x f!reader] daddy / scurry / national farm animals appreciation day

Day 03: delayed, whoopssss

Day 04: dream ballet [TBAD polycule] spanking / scallop / national taco day

Day 05: burning flames or paradise [pero tovar x f!reader] heartbeat / flame / national do something nice day

Day 06: to love and to cherish [frankie morales x f!reader] lingerie + stripping / bouquet / national plus-size appreciation day

Day 07: the one with the jellyfish [pero tovar x f!reader] chastity / trip / national body language day

[full danktober list here]

Postmortem rambling beneath the cut~

Woo! One week under my belt. I got six fics of seven that I wanted to post (as far as weeks go this month, there is a singular instance of Lennonesque week-to-day ratio fuckery toward the end when there's suddenly 10 days "in" a single week, lol). I made a last minute decision to cut my losses on Day 03 and deal with it when the spell slots become available. I think this first week was the most difficult to write for, but I'm still not entirely sure why, considering it's almost 10k.

I started writing for Danktober in the first week of September, when I finally got the Inktober prompts squared away. I found that organizing the ideas into groups helped me for a bit, when I was faced with 31 unstarted tasks. I had a few series-adjacent works planned (set in triptych, mesh network, puppy marcus, tentacle marcus, and farmer Joel to an extent), a few self-contained series (don't call me wifey and chernaboyfriend to be precise), and the rest were a mix of one-shots ranging from monsterfucking outside the realm of the PPCU (chernaboyfriend) to monsterfucking within the PPCU (tentacle marcus, max phillips) to just plain old mostly in-canon stories.

A few things here and there were ideas that managed to accept the process of getting smashed into the context of certain days' prompts, such as the wingfic coming in week 4, the khonshu sleep hypnosis fic in week 3, the reverse AU next week, and the idea for the omegaverse fic next week has been marinating for a while, but I rescued it from the brackish pondwater it had been sitting in. Other than that, I really like how this all came out. The editing process was fun, and I'm writing this all in Scrivener so I can get ample practice before NaNoWriMo (most likely gonna write Farmer Joel for that one, btw). I still have no idea how to compile things, so I've found a fairly-easy workaround to help me out lmao.

What went well? The process of posting was very smooth, I think due to my (probably) overkill planning and organizing. I'm never doing a challenge like this again without at least a month's prep. I think flunktober was only written max 2 weeks in advance, which is why I missed 7-10 days total out of 31.

What didn't go well? Obviously missing a day sucked, but I chalk that up to more of an unclear inspiration for the prompts (bat, boyfriend, stuck in the wall) than sheer laziness or even creative block.

What surprised you? The response to farmer Joel, honestly. I had no idea y'all would be so intrigued!! The feedback was fuckin incredible, and really really alleviated my anxieties surrounding the AU.

What didn't surprise you? Initially I planned to make little doodles inspired by the fics, but considering I'm still not actually finished with 100% of the prompts, it was an easy thing to drop. Maybe 2023 will be the year of Art Bailey. I haven't had a vested interest in making art since I was in high school, but who knows?

Which work did you like writing most? Difficult to say. I think finally putting words down for Chernabog was the most difficult to do, but also the most gratifying!! I loved building out their relationship and just daydreaming about alternative forms of communication with a nonverbal sentient species. Lackadaisical absurd humor is my bread butter meat potatoes and comfort zone, so getting to be real nonchalant about the fact he literally ate reader's actual fucking heart and sometimes temporarily kills her for fun tickled me. I think the obstacle of that initial hurdle is actually what stalled Day 3 - it's another Chernaboyfriend but quite a bit sexier.

What are you excited for about next week? LOTS of things but I'll just name two. The first bit of Farmer Joel I ever wrote is coming out tomorrow for Day 8 and it's sooooo atmospheric and mysterious. I'm in the middle of editing it right now and giving myself chills just rereading some parts of it. There's a few more farmer Joels getting posted on the 12th and 15th, with the rest of the works in that AU being in-universe outside of the main story, and they're non-spoilery for the most part unless you have a knack for deciphering foreshadowing and literary devices. The other work I'm excited to share is Alpha!Marcus Moreno, an idea that's been rattling around my mind like the dice in one of those lil pop-o-matic domes from the Trouble board game. Katee's commentary in the comments of that google doc gassed me up like a goddamn humvee.

Thanks for reading, yall! If you want to be on (or removed from) the taglist for next week, please read the blurb at the bottom of the Danktober 2022 masterlist for more information. Besitos!

#danktober 2022 #masterlist #roundup

[unhinged-summer-fun]

FLUNKTOBER 2021 MASTERLIST.

Because I can’t do things by halves, I’ve decided to mash up flufftober, whumptober, and kinktober this year on days I choose to write fills for. I’m not gonna tag anyone for these, sorry, but you can bookmark this post and come back in November for the complete list. Strikethru text indicates I didn’t get to that prompt.

Day 1: Boba Fett x GN!Reader x Sarlacc (Winning the other a teddy, bound, and masks)

Day 2: Dave York x F!Reader (choking/gagging, sneaking out together, asphyxiation, public sex, orgasm denial)

Day 3: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (lazy Sundays, licking, pet play, anxiety)

Day 4: Dave York x F!Reader (Sparklers & Fireworks, taken hostage, gags)

Day 5: Comandante Veracruz x F!Reader (watching the sunrise, broken nose, swallowing, gun play)

Day 6: Pero Tovar x F!Reader (Fireman’s carry, touch-starved, hunger, masturbation, nipple play)

Day 7: Marcus Moreno x F!Reader (meddling friends, numbness, blindness, accidental stimulation, massage)

Day 8: Din Djarin x F!Reader (cooking lessons, exotic illness, pegging)

Day 9: Dave York x Reader (text messages, tears, cock worship)

Day 10: Max Phillips x F!Reader (pillow fight, impact play, aphrodisiacs, hospital)

Day 11: Agent Whiskey x Reader (Love Notes, overstimulation, fucking machines, dehydration)

Day 12: Frankie Morales x Reader (Sleepy kiss, begging, biting)

Day 13: Boba Fett x Din Djarin (pillow talk, This Is Gonna Leave A Mark, anal, sex toys)

Day 14: Boba Fett x GN!Reader x Sarlacc (sequel to Day 1, slow dancing, under pressure, orgy)

Day 15: Ezra x Reader (delirium, fever dreams, silly traditions, ass worship, spanking)

Day 16: Zach Wellison x Reader (falling asleep together, recovery, role reversal)

Day 17: Pero Tovar x William (Great Wall) (“Please don’t move!”, dread, knife play, restrained/bondage)

Day 18: Frankie Morales x Reader (uniforms, costumes, doctor’s visit)

Day 19: Max Phillips x Reader (bitten, bleeding, flowers, food play)

Day 20: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (sequel to Day 3!) (lost & found, secret crush, roleplay, object insertion)

Day 21: Din Djarin x Fennec Shand (bleeding through bandages, blood-matted hair, knuckle kiss, size difference, seduction)

Day 22: Din Djarin x Boba Fett x F!Reader (they made me do it, cursed/demon/obsession, flirting at work, cunnilingus, spit-roasting)

Day 23: Maxwell Lord x Reader (you break it, you buy it, hold me in your arms, lingerie, forced (consensual) orgasm, angry sex)

Day 24: Zach Wellison x Reader (flashback, caught in the rain, praise kink)

Day 25: Max Phillips x F!Reader (cuddling & snuggling, escape/flight/hiding, bite fetish, being recorded during sex, body swap)

Day 26: Elder God!Boba Fett x F!Reader (art of second place) (fallen, new hobby together, sleepy sex, mirror sex)

Day 27: Agent Whiskey x Reader (“I’m cold” “here, have my jacket”, passing out, collapse, clothes swap, daddy kink)

Day 28: Zach Wellison x Reader (nightmare, panic, soothing baths, empathic bonds)

Day 29: Javier Peña x Reader (too weak to move, overworked, up against the wall kiss, creampie, face-sitting)

Day 30: Boba Fett x Din Djarin x Fennec Shand (threesome, suspension, ghosts, fall asleep in my lap)

Day 31: Oberyn Martell x Reader (holiday traditions, disaster zone, stockings)

Back to main masterlist.

#flunktober #masterlist #unhingery

[doomtwinkie]

The Fairy Wand, part one (read at AO3)

"I have made a grievous error, Leftenant," Crane told her, his voice shaky and hollow.

Abbie said nothing. Instead, she stared at him, her hands over mouth, halfway between an "awwww!" and laughing her ass off. After all, it wasn't every day that one saw their partner's head explode in a flash of light and sparks, only to be replaced by that of a giant, bright orange jack-o-lantern.

"Didn't I tell you not to mess around with that fairy wand we found, Crane?" She asked him, doing everything she could to stifle her laughter, "fairies are tricksters, after all."

Crane sighed. There was a faint pumpkin spice odor when he did.

"My curiosity got the better of me, I'm afraid." "Uh-huh." "I have wondered for a while if we, being witnesses, possessed any magical powers. And then, suddenly, we had a magic wand..." "Ah." "The wand reacted the moment I touched it! All I did was caress the handle and the thing just... exploded in my hand!"

Abbie snorted.

"Have that problem a lot, Crane?"

Crane groaned. More pumpkin spice odor wafted through the air as he did. There was a moment of wet creaking and popping, and once it was over, one of his carved eyebrows had raised itself at her.

"I found a spell - a counter-curse, I believe," he said, showing her the ancient spellbook he carried in his other hand, "I would be delighted if you'd assist me, Leftenant."

It was Abbie's turn to sigh - thankfully, without the scent of pumpkin spice.

"Fine," she said, "on one condition, though." "Which is?"

Abbie smiled, pulling out her phone. With a few thumb movements, she opened the camera, and then leaned in close to her pumpkin-headed partner. She wrapped her arm around what remained of his neck.

"Oh god, not a 'selfie,'" he said, moaning in more pumpkin spice. "Say 'Halloween,' Crane!" she said, laughing...

#doomtwinkie's art #fanfiction #ichabbie #Ichabod Crane #abbie mills #flunktober #doomtwinkie fic: the fairy wand

[unhinged-summer-fun]

unhinged-summer-fun masterlist

TAGLIST FORM HERE

I’m no longer doing taglists, babes

MY AO3.

ABOUT ME.

Drabble requests are OPEN!

DIN DJARIN. / MAX PHILLIPS.

THE THIEF. / DAVE YORK.

MARCUS PIKE. / MARCUS MORENO.

JAVIER PEÑA. / AGENT WHISKEY. 

EZRA. / FRANKIE MORALES.

PERO TOVAR. / OTHER CHARACTERS.

BOBA FETT. / OTHER CHARACTERS.

FLUNKTOBER 2021.

DANKTOBER 2022.

30 FOR 300 CELEBRATION.

#masterlist #unhingery

[unhinged-summer-fun]

rivers til i reach you

Flunktober Day 11: love notes, dehydration, overstimulation, fucking machines

Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (22+ only)

Summary: It’s the last night before Jack comes home. He’s gotten you a little something to pass the time by.

Warnings/Notes: DADDY KIIIIIINK YAYYYYY, D/s relationships. Lovers to friends to lovers. References to anxiety, depression, mental illness.

Word Count: 4110 (jesus h christ why am i like this)

full flunktober list here.

You woke with a parched taste in your mouth. It was so dry, and so strong, that for a minute, all you could do was cough. You’d fallen asleep in the sun the day before, earning a kiss of persistent warmth across the bridge of your nose and your cheeks. You whined softly, not wanting to deal with it. When you rolled over, however, you found another one of them.

The sticking power of the little blue note had somewhat died in the night, or sometime between when he’d put it there for you and now. It was upside-down, but still leaning on the empty water glass normally kept at the bedside table. You reached over and took the blue note in hand, cradling it gently like you could touch a piece of him even though he’d been gone for almost a week.

Good morning babygirl! Drink your water!

He never signed them, because why would he? There was no one else that would have left you notes like this. All the same, his handwriting was signature enough, and just enough of a motivation to roll you out of bed and into the bathroom, where you drank a full glass and a half of water before setting it down, again on another little blue note. You’d asked him, once, where he got them all. He coordinated his notes to the day plans he left you. Saturdays were blue days, though every day without him seemed blue no matter what.

Babygirl’s Morning To-do’s: Take a shower, wash your hair! Dry your hair, put on lotion! Take medicines, brush teeth! Get dressed in today’s clothes!

Of course, when he’d left, your towels had all been clean, your medicines sorted out, and each day’s clothes picked out in advance, ready for you to simply go through the motions. You appreciated it more than you could ever say. You were so forgetful and unmotivated, especially whenever he was gone. The dark edges of your mind seemed to grow stronger and deeper, latching onto insecurities and apathy and leaving you exhausted from doing just about anything.

But having his encouragement, every little exclamation point of his punctuating his excitement and unflappable energy into your own life, it made things easier. You knew he had a plan laid out for you every day he was gone, and rising to meet it each morning was worth vanquishing that darker part of your mood.

You wandered into the shared closet with your toothbrush still going, curious to see what he’d picked out for you. Your impulse control was almost as ill-regulated as your motivation, and it took a lot of determination not to spoil each of his surprises the moment he left the room. You could see those little blue notes out of the corner of your eye all week, mixed in with pink Wednesdays, purple Fridays, and green Mondays. There was no rhyme or reason to his color system, but it was consistent, and you needed consistent.

So you finally opened the little blue cubby in the closet, and pulled out the bundle of clothes, stopping to continue brushing your teeth while you were at it. You laid it all out piece by piece on the low velvet bench in the closet, and frowned, looking back in the cubby.

He hadn’t left you underwear.

Instead, there was a little blue note that read:

xo

“That cheeky man,” you said softly, smiling around the words.

Your relationship had started as a more sterile one. A fated night at the same BDSM club and a drawwwled well aren’t you the prettiest thing? and you would have done anything he said. You had shared a few scenes, and he had gotten to know you, and you him. He visited those clubs because he could really hold down anybody long-distance, due to his work. Not wanting to let him go, you frantically had told him you didn’t mind.

He’d been dubious, at first. But you were on-time to every one of your check-ins, and the first time you stayed over with him, he’d rewarded you all night long. The praise kink was thoroughly established between you, and things somewhat fell into place after that. When things darkened for you, as they always did, he seemed to know before you.

You haven’t been the same recently. What’s been on your mind, pretty thing?

You’d ungracefully burst into tears and cried in his arms in shame, your past and your fears bubbling up as one. He wiped away each tear, and instead of awkward discomfort, he only looked at you with gentle care and affection. When you’d calmed a little more, you were open with him about your depression, your anxiety, and other mental health issues you’d been having.

You sought out the BDSM scene because of that structure, the order, rules and rewards and punishment galore. Living on your own, there was little consequence to forgetting, but little forgets turned into big misses, and you hated the shame that came with it. He had listened to you, asking some questions here and there, clarifying, summarizing. You felt more listened to by him than you did by your counselor.

He suggested a trial run of a TPE weekend. You’d never tried a weekend under someone else’s complete control before. You hadn’t trusted anyone, and, when you asked, he hadn’t done it yet either. You had autonomy when you were by yourself, but there were instructions to be followed, tasks to be completed, and he would reward you for the things you remembered, knowing you would punish yourself more for the ones you didn’t.

Then the notes started. Whenever he was gone for extended periods, and didn’t have any phone access to talk to you, he would leave happy little reminders all around the house, like an easter egg hunt. The inside of the cabinets were stickered up with praise for remembering to eat. Your shower toiletries had little blue tally marks denoting the level of products. It was a reward for you to see the effect of your following a routine. The lower lines on your shampoo bottles, skincare, and body wash all reminded you that you were still a working person, a human being doing things.

And every night he could, he’d send you a text, and you would send a picture of the big checklist of tasks that day, a sort of wrap-up to make sure you didn’t forget anything. Even when he didn’t send a text, you would send along a picture anyway, knowing he loved to see them, needed to see them, as much as you loved and needed them.

Ever since that first TPE weekend, and the three or four after that, he’d been Daddy, and you’d been his babygirl, his princess, his little star, his pretty thing. Every silly name he came up with got to you, wormed into your heart. You don’t know where the first kiss came from, but it was a long, long time coming. Sometime in mid-October, you’d opened up your hearts to each other, thrown away the locks, and given one another the keys.

The outfit he put you in was a comfy pink skirt, long white socks, a lacy white bra, and a pretty blue blouse that tied together at the waist. You felt like a glamorous little princess, tempting exactly nobody from the safety of your shared apartment, but feeling sexy all the same. It took a moment to get used to the feeling of no panties, when he wasn’t there to ogle you.

The back of the xo note reminded you to go get breakfast.

In the kitchen, you sought out the blue box in the pantry, and put together a fancy little parfait. “Thank you, Daddy,” you said before digging in. Up first on your task list was to look in the fridge again. You frowned. You were just in there, and—oh, there’s the blue note, folded on a package of ground beef.

Daddy’s Chili recipe (Daniels family secret - shh!)

You grinned and hunted through the pantry for the rest of the ingredients on the list. It seemed a little like any regular old chili recipe, but you knew that secret ingredient was love. And you were feeling that love, because chili only meant one thing:

Daddy was coming home.

You sang to the radio as you worked, browning and draining the meat, letting it come to a bubble, then a simmer, and leaving the cover on. Before you walked out to look for the rest of your day, the persistent reminder on the whiteboard had you turning back around.

Did you check every part of the recipe?

Incidentally, you’d forgotten to actually start the timer.

He knew you so well. 

Whenever he couldn’t leave you leftovers enough to last while he was gone, he had you making bigger meals, big enough to have leftovers for, since your motivation for cooking was so low without him around.

You could practically hear his good girl, I’m so proud, and feel his lips, the scratch of his mustache, against your head. The thought had filled your heart with a tight, sharp ache the first few times he’d left you alone in his huge apartment, missing him something fierce, but now, you were used to the feeling of missing him and knew he missed you just as hard.

His timing was always something magical.

Just as you had set the timer, there was a knock at the door. You tugged down your skirt a little, prancing up and looking through the peephole. It was the deliveryman. Had you forgotten you ordered something? It was possible.

You opened the door and greeted him, signing off for a big brown package with no identifiable marks. You tugged it inside. It was heavy, but you couldn’t hear what it could possibly be. It was addressed to you, so you got a knife from the kitchen and opened it up, met with styrofoam and a neat little blue envelope.

Daddy.

He didn’t need to write your name on the outside, because why would he, when you were the only one who cared about them? You opened it with care, knowing he wouldn’t have packed this card at the top if he didn’t want you reading it first. There were several short pages, with little numbers circled in the corner. You read number 1 first.

Hello babygirl! I’m so excited to see you again soon. I got you a little present to pass the time while I’m gone. There’s instructions on how to set it up inside the box, I want you to read them through two times before you start trying to assemble it. When you get to step 18—

You gawked. There were more than 18 steps?

—you can read note number 2. Love you! xo

You shook your head and set the pile of notes down on the coffee table, careful not to knock over the tiny pile. You gave yourself a bit of room, figuring the living room was as good a place as any to set up your new present.

When you finished wrestling with the box and the styrofoam, you got yourself another glass of water, before settling in with more determination. The pieces of the styrofoam shell fell away, and you squinted.

It was some kind of engine, or machine. You liked putting together puzzles and cheap furniture, but when it came to any kind of engineering, you were a bit lost. “Uh…?”

Oh right. The instructions.

You found the little pamphlet, and your face went red.

Daddy had bought you a fucking machine, and you weren’t swearing for the fun of it. Though hopefully, you would be, soon. You devoured the instructions, like he said, and on the second pass, as things started to make more sense to you, you unwrapped and set down the individual components of the machine, arranging them on the dark blue carpet neatly, so you didn’t lose any parts or forget any parts of the installation.

You focused on the building of it, instead of the growing wetness between your thighs. It had been so damn long since he’d been home, and you missed having him there, wrecking every part of you with every part of him. Hopefully this new toy would help that urge.

At part 18, after you’d frustratedly tightened the bolts on the rotational arm, you washed your hands and got another glass of water before you came back to Daddy’s notes. Number 2.

Great job, babygirl!

You grinned, almost hearing his drawl in the vast, empty apartment.

You’re almost finished. I left some of your toys laying out in my fun drawer that can work with this machine. Go get one, and the pink bullet vibe I got you on our first date. When you come back, you can read part 3.

You ran to the closet, practically aching to play with your new toy. The one that had come with the machine hadn’t seemed too fun, so you were pleased to see your favorite toys in his drawer, as promised. You selected the one you had made of his cock, an almost-perfect cast of it that had you salivating just to touch it again. You skipped back to the machine and went to your knees, wanting to attach it and play with it now now now, but part 3 awaited.

I want you to put your toys to the side. Finish building the machine, and go through the instructions one more time to make sure you didn’t miss anything. If something’s broken or missing, call me.

You’d never worked so fast or efficiently in your life. The machine was put together in no time. Well, no time for you. The outside of the instructions boasted a 15-minute assembly time, but it had taken you almost an hour. After reviewing it, and your toy was affixed to the end, you chewed your lip. Surely the next note was to let you be free and play with your toy?

You were wrong.

Go check on the chili, and the chores list. Don’t want you worrying about anything when I come home.

You gave a huge sigh, dramatically slumping against the couch and gazing wistfully at the machine. You knew he was right, but you were more than justified in pouting over it. You gave yourself two minutes before you got up, and went through the chores list. It was (thankfully) not too much, just some tidying up around the kitchen so you could check on the chili, making the bed, and getting the bar cart set out so Daddy could have his welcome-home bourbon as he liked. You even put a fresh orange on the cart.

That satisfaction that normally came scrambling around at the edge of bedtime, happened right at two in the afternoon. You checked off the last bit of your chores, nothing but the evening routine and dinner to attend to. You had your schedule wide open to play with your new toy.

You sat down to read the next note.

Thank you for doing your chores, babygirl.— 

You knew you would have cringed with guilt if you hadn’t done your chores, so you were glad you could accept that praise with a light heart.

—I think you deserve a reward, but first you have to get ready. Take your little vibe, start it on low, keep your clothes on for me, and when you cum, you can kick up the intensity one time. Do that again until you’re at the highest intensity, then give me a call. xo

Your legs were already bouncing in anticipation.

The first orgasm came from almost pure excitement, and you were shivering happily on the couch for almost a full minute before you remembered your instructions. One orgasm per intensity level.

The vibe had seven levels.

“Oh, fuck me, you—” you moaned and clicked the vibe once, the pitch going up along with your interest. The second you caught your breath, you pressed it to your clit again, in little circles. It was still pretty low, low enough to have you whining for more. This orgasm was stolen, greedy and needy. The near-feral noises had you flushing, wanton and whorish. You knew he loved those noises, so you bit down on your lip to keep any more from leaving you.

You hit your plateau midway to your fourth orgasm, on the fifth of seven orgasms. Just three more. Three more… You sobbed in frustration, the slick between your thighs growing sticky and messy. You let your cramping wrist have a break, bleary eyes looking over the note again and again, drinking in his words like they would merge, come to life and become him.

Only, when you imagined him here, and you weren’t following his instructions, he got that little furrow in his brow and his lips near-hid beneath his mustache, hiding his frown from you as to not scare you. And that look of chiding disappointment was almost worse than having to hear the sigh normally following it.

You grabbed the vibe again.

Only three more. Three more and you could call him, three more and you could hear his voice again. You cried out, arching your back and leaning into it, letting your body float on the waves of pleasure rippling through you, until you reached that fuzzy-happy place Daddy loved getting you to.

Those final three had you shivering and shaking with exhaustion, sharp sparks of pleasure-pain flooding your senses with an assault of feeling. You left the vibe to the side, breathing hard as you came down from that last one. Even the texture on the couch felt too much for you, so you slid down to the cool hardwood, just a few feet from where the machine lay waiting on the carpet.

It took everything in you not to just lay down and take a nap right there, but you crawled to your phone, where two texts waited for you.

Daddy: I love you babygirl. Get yourself a glass of water, when you can stand.

Daddy: After the water, check the chili and call me.

You did those things for him, taking your time but not dallying in any one spot. You’d been so severely dehydrated when he’d met you, his main concern was your health, and getting you to drink the proper amount of water per day did wonders for it. Even if you’d forgotten to eat or sleep in those early days together, you remembered to drink enough water, because of how happy it made him.

He also had some kind of mild obsession with seeing you squirt, which was only possible if you were well-hydrated. You didn’t quite mind that, because the moan he gave every time he saw it happen was addicting in itself.

The chili was doing fine, bubbling away happily and smelling even more delicious by the hour. You went back into the living room, eyeing the machine, before you called him.

You waited less than four seconds for him to pick up the call.

“Well hello there, gorgeous.”

“Daddy,” you breathed, tears coming to your eyes. Even over the phone, hearing his voice after so long an ordeal was a welcome relief. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he sighed, happiness evident in his tone. “I’m well on my way home now, last bit’a pavement between me and you. You do all your chores, read those notes I left you?”

“Yes, of course,” you said, smiling so wide it almost hurt. “I’m excited to try my new toy.”

Something dark laced into his chuckle. “Well, I don’t wanna keep my good girl waiting. Why don’t you get down on your knees for it, touch yourself for me. You can put me on speaker.”

You did just that, scrambling down onto the carpet and clicking the speaker option, leaving your phone beneath you as you reached down to touch yourself. You hissed when you brushed your fingers lightly over your clit, overstimulation was a bitch and a half, but he loved seeing you so strung out for him. “So wet for you, Daddy.”

“All that for me? Can hear it through the phone. Why don’t you open up that little pussy for me. Bet she’s hungry.”

He was right, as always. You were able to push two fingers into yourself on the first go, your pussy relaxed and near-swollen with equal-parts satisfaction and desire for fullness.

“Go ‘head and get your toy lined up. Make sure the remote’s nearby, no further than a foot away, y’hear?”

“Yes Daddy!” You pulled the remote closer after making sure the machine was plugged in, and you poured some lube over the toy, the likeness of himself. Your breath hitched when you pressed the toy against you, notched in at the head where he flared out beautifully thick. “I’m ready, Daddy.”

“Turn it on for me. Nice and slow. Wanna hear you get used to it.” You shivered and flicked the machine on. He liked you starting on low and building up speed. He knew your mind went a mile a minute, and this forced you to slow down and take your pleasure, enjoy every facet of it that you could. You moaned when the toy pushed in, unforgiving and sure, and shivered when it pulled back out again. “Which toy’d you pick, babygirl?” His voice sounded rough.

“T-The one that we made,” you said, breath hitching as the machine completed another slow in-out cycle. “Missed you.”

“Aw, Daddy missed you too, babygirl. You’ll get the real thing soon. You just enjoy yourself for me. You’ve been so good for me, the best. You know what the best girls get?”

“They get to cum on Daddy’s cock.”

“That’s right,” he chuckled. “Go ‘head and turn it up a little, sugar.”

He coaxed you through it, the initial anxiety and unfamiliarity of being fucked by a machine replaced by a beautiful little fantasy made of his voice, and the near-perfect dildo fucking you so deep you saw stars.

“Babygirl?”

Shit, you’d zoned out.

“Y-yes, Daddy.”

“I’m about to lose signal for a second, I’m gonna hang up, and—”

“No!” you whined, begged for him. He was so close, he couldn’t, he couldn’t leave you—

“You gonna backtalk me now after you’ve been so good, sweet thing?” You shivered at the steel backbone that lined his words.

“No, Daddy.”

“Thank you, babydoll. Now I’m gonna hang up, and I want you to record yourself gettin’ fucked real deep now. And you send that to me soon’s you cum. You get that?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s my girl. I’ll call you soon as I can. I love you.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

The call disconnected, and you whimpered at the loss, bowing your back a little before gasping at the new angle it offered you. Fumbling, you tapped open the camera on your phone, holding it out and leaning it on the box as you hit record.

As you leaned into the feeling of being fucked, that perfect depth and speed, you felt your eyes crossing. You wouldn’t last long like this. Maybe you wait another two orgasms for—? No, Daddy said as soon as you cum. And you were Daddy’s good girl. So you fell into the pleasure, breathtaking and exhilarating. Your thighs and breasts shook in the little outfit. He’d done this on purpose. He loved so many things about fucking you, but he loved seeing you debauched while still wearing what he picked out for you.

Heat coiled around your spine, like the heat that preceded a cramp in your back muscles, but sharper, hotter. You moaned, long and loud, and looked up into the tiny camera lens. “F-fuck, Daddy,” you whined, digging your fingers into the carpet. You bit your lip and reached over to turn up the speed of the thrusts, but not the depth. Instantly, you cried out, not so much as hurtling toward your eighth orgasm of the day as freefalling toward it. You wailed out a wordless cry, base and primal, as your orgasm crested like a great wave that would drown you in it.

You didn’t hear the door open.

You didn’t hear goddamn anything, blood rushing in your ears and your loud whines warring for attention as the machine never slowed, never tired.

Something above you tutted.

With great determination, you looked up at the new person in your living room, and thought you were hallucinating.

“Told you I’d be home soon, babygirl. You ready for the real thing?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

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