#morph writes

BETA: Patchy.

PATCHY: Hmm?

BETA: I've decided that skykids are scary.

PATCHY: Why?

BETA: They have absolute zero fear! Every year I release my krills and they have no fear, absolutely no fear. Samantha, Skidmore and Nat brought their krills too and those ones are really irritable y'know?

PATCHY: I think Nat stole Reika's krill.

BETA: Yes I know we're supposed to keep that a secret. ANYWAYS, I mean, us the staff, we have protection. Most of us have no light, you have a wrench and their respect-(that's true)-Those kids have nothing!

PATCHY: They have madz flying skills and teamwork. Samantha's crab also sells krill repellent.

BETA: I know! But even then some of them get spotted for FUN. And not only that, see, Patchy, I have constructed a list of why skykids are the scariest ones here. (oh dear)

BETA: Number 1: They have no fear

BETA: Number 2: They feel no pain (Oh that was me I removed fall damage a while ago) Shush

BETA: Number 3: They talk about bones all the time (That is true, that general group called Skyblr often does) THEY DONT EVEN HAVE BONES

BETA: Number 4: They can imitate anything

BETA: Number 5: Many of them go to Eden on a constant basis

BETA: Number 6: They primarily eat crabs! Some of them want to eat krill!

BETA: Number 7: They can literally phase out of existence (at this point is a feature not a bug)

BETA: Number 8: They can find *anything*

PATCHY: I feel like you're overreacting.

He’d shrug it off when you spoke your concerns, when you pointed out how he knew everyone in your life but you didn’t know anything about even one of his friends, that he always spoke about all these plans and never committed to them. Every time he’d change topics, redirect your attention either by speaking about something else, or by making you forget with a deep kiss and a couple of well-placed touches.

Because what it really had been about was convenience. He didn’t have to look for someone new at the pub whenever he felt like bringing someone home, he didn’t have to reopen his dating apps whenever he got that craving to go on a date or have someone to chat and flirt with. Instead he just had to call you, or even easier, send you a quick text.

The efforts of making you forgive him without any real change were always worth it, paying off when he was away in deployments. He knew you’d still be waiting, even when he didn’t try. Not a single text, not a call or a letter, even when he could and all his teammates did. Because you weren’t together like that and he didn’t have to, because he could go to the pub by the base and follow some pretty thing home if you weren’t in a actual relationship, because he could have someone fill your spot while he was gone for months just to fit right beside you once he was back.

Of course all of that is until you get tired of it, of him. Tired of being strung along for so long, of seeing friends find actual partners and form happy relationships while your whatever-he-was had gone radio silent on you for the nth time.

Tired of acting like you don’t know, like you’re stupid enough to not notice what is happening when your elderly neighbour tells you all about the letters and calls that she receives from her grandson in the service —the same ones Johnny kept saying were not allowed—, or when a friend of a friend uploads a picture at the pub on their socials, and he’s in the background making out with someone else —even when he swore up and down he didn’t think of anything but work while stationed—.

So this time, when Johnny sets his bag down and reaches for his phone —hitting up your number after almost four months of not having made any efforts to reach out— the line doesn’t connect. His brows furrow in confusion when he tries again and gets the same result, checking he has proper service before deciding to shoot you a message.

It doesn’t go through either, and he realises then, you’ve blocked him. In fact you’ve blocked everything you could, his number, every single social media profile you knew was to his name, even gone as far as unfollowing any accounts relating to mutual interests that could hint at anything from you.

Just in an instant, you’re completely out, gone from his life. And for a moment he’s convinced he can take in stride, that he can simply justify it like he had done everything else. He had benefited a whole lot while it had lasted, and he knew he could get a new bonnie thing in no time, so it was your loss really.

Except nothing feels right now, he goes to reach for something in the pantry and it’s not there, because it’s not your place and you haven’t gone to the store to get all your favourite snacks. Even right after stepping out of the shower and into fresh sheets, he’d still feel dirty; because it wasn’t your shampoo nor your fabric softener, it wasn’t the smell he had come to associate with something clean.

It takes him way too long to realise he hasn’t lost or misplaced what had become to be his favourite blanket or his favourite mug, why he can’t find the book he had been looking forward to reading during the whole operation and why getting in bed after a long day doesn’t feel warm and comforting any more.

He doesn’t understand why scrolling through dating app profiles and going on random dates doesn’t make him feel giddy or excited, feeling like a chore rather than an exciting thing. How following someone home, or guiding them to his, never quite scratches the itch.

It’s when he runs into you, or well, when he sees you from across the street —a to-go cup in one hand while the other presses your phone to your ear, a smile on your lips while you talk to whoever is on the other side of the line and never notice him—, that he realises that you’re the reason why nothing feels right, why everything feels shallow or like it’s been moved just a couple inches to the side, just far enough to make him trip over again and again.

Or more specifically, he realises that the only reason he had felt that comfort, that reassurance that everything would work out every time, had been because you had been around.

And now that you weren’t there, he couldn’t have them, because they had never been his to begin with, he had never wanted them to be. Just like you.

My masterlist

Dumb of you to think a stern warning would work, too. Because as soon as the chastising words leave you, tone dry and firm, a tent forms on his sweats. His wide, glassy eyes make a deep sigh leave you, the light tilt of his head making him the clear picture of a begging puppy.

“I can’t stand you right now,” your hands rub over your face as the grumble leaves you, still there’s no need for you to see him to know that the groan that leaves him is purely out of pleasure. “You’re messed up,” you accuse when your hands drop back to your lap, holding his pleading gaze for a little longer before begrudgingly pointing to the bed.

That’s what lead to you being like this. Sat on the bed, notes sprawled over your lap as you read and revise through them with one hand, the other loosely wrapped around his cock. It’s a little pathetic, how hard he already is, and how much harder he has gotten since you’ve stopped paying him any mind. That’s what turns him on the most. His head is thrown back against the headboard, eyes tightly closed and hands holding onto the bedsheets for dear life.

Your hand is barely even moving, just lazily dragging up and down the shaft, no attention being paid to the pressure you use, much less to his whipping tip. It’s just a slow yet constant back and forth, one that causes light huffs and sighs to leave you in complaint whenever you have to use your non-dominant hand to flip through your notes.

“B-bonnie…” it’s a whimper, one that makes him sound so much more wrecked that he should be given how little effort it’s taking. You don’t really answer, just give him the side eye, a mean look that substitutes any words needed to make clear how much he’s bothering you. It just makes him moan louder.

You’ve barely made it through a couple pages before his hips start twitching, his breathing quickening and his whimpers only getting louder. He’s spilled so much precum in the few minutes you’ve been in this position that his cock easily glides through your hand now. You can’t help the light chuckle that leaves you, finally turning to look at him. “Seriously? Already?”

There’s something in the mocking tone, in the way you have refused to acknowledge him until this point. The fact that you’ve only looked at him at his weakest. The mix of shame and pure pleasure that your words cause has his hips speeding up, properly fucking into your closed fist now, his eyes closing tightly again. Mostly to avoid letting them roll into the back of his skull.

You click your tongue then, “look at me.”

His eyes snap open, glassy gaze meeting yours, his lips —red and swollen from bitting down on them, from trying to hold back at least a little bit of how much this is wrecking him— mouthing around words that never come out. Instead there’s just shaky gasps and whiny moans.

“There we go,” he could swear his brain almost turns off at the mix of your condescending tone and praising words. “I’ve got a mid term to study for, sweetheart. Gonna cum for me?”

The way you ask, as if it were a chore on your list, something you have to get through to finish your responsibilities for the day, does it. His eyes almost close, but quickly widen to stay open when you give his base a warning squeeze. His jaw goes slack, no shame in the way he moans and groans while his hips piston into your hold. It barely takes him a couple more thrusts before he’s letting out the whiniest moan of your name you’ve ever heard anyone produce.

Strips of white land on your hand and his abs, even managing to slightly soil the bunched up hem of his shirt. He just gives a few more residual bucks, but less than a minute later he’s slumping into the bed, eyes tightly closed as he tries to recover his breath.

His ears are still ringing when he feels you lightly tap on his cheek, teary eyes cracking open to see you hold your hand up. In an instant he’s leaning forward, licking himself off your skin before melting back into the sheets. He pointedly ignores the half-chub that has started to form again due your wordless order. Feeling to wrecked to think about another round, he settles for sluggishly reaching down to tuck himself back into his sweats.

You finally look at him, eyes much softer than they had been until now. He goes right along when you reach over to pull him closer, more than happy to rest his head on your lap and wrap his arms around your waist. “Nap for a bit while i finish this,” your offer has him humming in agreement, body relaxing further as one of your hands begins to play with his hair. “I’m sure you’ll have to recover from those strenuous three minutes.”

The teasing words only earn you a muffled groan against your stomach and a squeeze to your hip. He’s for sure going to remember that an use it against you some other time, but for now he’s happy to snuggle up to you while he processes all the new things he’s learned about himself in those few minutes.

You feel his hands wrap around your wrists, calloused skin gentle yet firm against yours to stop your jostling of his head. "I'm not bald, love." His correction gets followed by a scoff, head tilting to lean into your hands while he gives you a mix of an amused and tired look. "I just had to shave my beard."

He pauses a second, pressing a soft kiss to the palm of your hand, letting your fingers lightly tun over the bandage covering part of his chin. "You would've known why if you had let me finish explaining."

All he gets in return is a light hum, and a mutter of "same difference". It's silent for a moment, his hands moving to instead hold onto your hips while your fingers run over the now-smooth skin of his cheeks. "I can see so much skin… I don't like it."

He scoffs a laugh as he pulls you closer, fully wrapping his arms around your waist now. "Oi, don't be a brat." His head leans forward to lightly knock his forehead against yours, a much softer admonishing that the one the recruits had gotten earlier in the day. "It'll grow back in no time, love."

He feels the way you groan as you lean forward the rest of the way, pressing your chest to his and hiding your face agains the clean-shaven crook of his neck. "But you'll look like an overgrown baby until then, John."

It's a couple seconds, and then your chests rumble against each other in unison, both of you melting further into each other's arms and into the laugher. "Always can rely on my amazing spouse to compliment me, can't I?"

His smile softens and becomes genuine at your soft murmur of "always", and the tension of the day leaves his shoulders when your hands return to his cheeks to guide hi into a loving kiss. "Does it hurt much?" It's barely louder than a whisper, neither of you needing to make any bigger of an effort to get across the concern and care for the other.

He gives a light shake of his head before pulling you back in, gathering you against his chest once more. "Couple'a stitches. Nothing I haven't dealt with before." The reassurance is followed by a soft kiss to your forehead, the uninjured side of his jaw coming to rest against your head. "Getting called bald hurt more, love."

More soft!price

It’s easy to lose count of the amount of times he’s made you come, how many rounds you’ve been able to get out of the other, but when you wake up with that light soreness and his heavy arm loosely wrapped around your waist you can’t help but confirm that every rumour had been true.

It all goes quite naturally, no sense of shame or rush when you both roll out of bed, you shower while he fetches some breakfast, already in a perfectly convenient to-go cup. You’re halfway dressed by the time he gets back, and you both settle in one last -pretty damn good- kiss before you’re heading out of the frat house and he’s hopping in the shower.

Johnny goes back to his usual routine, the same one he’s had since he joined the fraternity, he nurses the light hangover he has and focuses on spending the rest of the day on his classes and with his brothers. He’s done this so many times before, that his day goes on without any hitch, nothing to worry about until whatever comes first, the next party or the deadline.

Except he spots you in one of his elective classes and his eyes linger on your for longer than he’d like to admit, a little too excited to wave at you when you finally meet his gaze, and even more disappointed when you just give a light wave in return before going back to the conversation you were having with your friend.

It makes him feel like everything has come to an screeching halt, because that had never happened before. He has never looked for someone he has already slept with, and he doesn’t understand why his eyes always seem to move around crowded halls and busy coffee shops in search of you. Still, he pushes through, he’ll get over it. He shrugs it off, focuses on the few projects that have a close deadline and forgets about it with the excitement of getting the frat house ready for a new party.

Only issue is that when he sees you mingle through the crowd, he completely forgets about what he was about to say to Kyle, mouth hanging halfway open as the words quickly die down. “Found your new purchase?” his eyes flicker from you to Kyle’s knowing grin.

Much to his disappointment he has to give a shake of his head. “Nah, jus’ last week’s,” he tries to make it sound casual, even adding a light shrug. But he can see the way Kyle’s brows lift in a mix of surprise and amusement as he realises that he’s really witnessing the Johnny Mactavish regret his own rule of never sleeping with a party-hookup more than once.

“You’re screwed mate,” he feels Kyle’s hand clap on his shoulder, both of them watching as you entertain the random guy that leans closer to chat with you.

My masterlist