It’s My Business When Men Are Forcing Their Girlfriends Into Anal Sex. It’s My Business When Women

The torment on soap's face continues with more squish

He's starting to accept it

*said with barely contained lust* god that guys a fucking freak

i need john price to put me in a chokehold and prone bone me. sorry

Reblog this if you slept with my ex-wife Susan.

Trying to prove a point to my divorce lawyer.

From my bestie in Thailand. The second sign went up hours later

tea party gone tactical

aka: simon riley, code name: daddy

there’s glitter in the creases of his knuckles. plastic rings on every finger, tea stains on his jeans, and a tiara— pink, crooked— sitting proud atop his buzzed hair. simon riley, six-foot-something slab of elite military steel, has just been declared princess cupcake the third, ruler of the sugar kingdom. and he has orders to attend high tea at precisely four o’clock sharp.

he obliges. obviously.

the living room has been transformed into chaos of the most devastating kind—childhood imagination. there’s a tablecloth made from an old baby blanket, plastic saucers balanced on top of hardcover books, plushies seated like dignitaries from rival kingdoms. one has an eyepatch. another wears his sock. a stuffed unicorn has a crayon drawn scar and a tactical vest made of paper.

across from him, on her little purple beanbag throne, his daughter beams. two missing teeth. a feather boa dragging on the floor. she pours lukewarm apple juice into tiny cups, careful, careful, tongue poking out in concentration. simon watches like it’s a mission briefing. she finishes with a flourish.

“sir cupcake, would you like sugar?” she says, all posh and prim and nearly squeaking with excitement.

he nods solemnly. “two lumps. gotta keep my energy up.”

she plunks invisible sugar into his cup with a spoon the size of her hand. simon pretends to sip. “delicious,” he says, setting the cup down with exaggerated grace. “might be the best cuppa i’ve ever had, actually.”

“better than mummy’s?” she asks, eyes wide, clearly testing boundaries.

he leans in, whispers behind one big, calloused hand, “don’t tell 'er, but yeah. loads better.” she giggles—full, bubbly, from-the-gut giggles—and his heart pulls like a parachute cord mid-fall. she moves on to the cupcakes—half crumbled fairy cakes from the corner bakery you brought home last night, now decorated with more sprinkles than frosting. she smashes one into a napkin, offering it like a truce treaty.

“thank you, commander sprinkle,” he says, accepting the mashed sugar bomb and taking a heroic bite.

“you’re welcome,” she says, eyes shining. “you’re the bravest daddy in the kingdom!”

something warm knots in his chest. not the cupcake— he could take five more of those—but the way she looks at him, like he built the sky with his hands and tucks the stars in at night.

simon clears his throat, glances down at his ring-bedazzled fingers, the glitter on his arms, the juice in his lap. “…i'd go to war for you, y’know.”

she nods solemnly, not entirely sure what that means—but knowing it’s important.

then she picks up her pink plastic walkie-talkie and presses the button. “monster in the hallway. repeat, monster in the hallway! might be mummy coming to check if we ruined the carpet..”

simon stands, dramatically brushing invisible crumbs off his lap. he adjusts his tiara. lifts his plush unicorn with military precision. “on it, commander.”

and then, he charges out of the room, bare feet thudding against the floor, in search of the ‘monster’—glitter trailing behind him like smoke from a flare.

john price likes to be dependable for his partner that has trouble with social interactions and people mistake them for dummies.

it's like the whole relationship is a role play for others. he'll have you all pretty and dolled up, a real trophy wife in the eyes of others. glued to his side and silent during most social gatherings he has to attend, nodding politely in small greetings and never letting anyone linger around for too long.

people wonder if you have a brain of your own. sometimes it seems like john even tells you what to say and they question just how much you depend on him on your day to day.

what they don't know is that, every day after you've made breakfast, he sits down on a chair across from you at the kitchen table and ask a billion questions about what he should do about that paperwork and how can he fix that one thing or how he could possible be a better friend for that one person as you eat.

you're his little walking dictionary who talks his ear off whenever you have the chance, so he takes advantage of it by bringing all types of topics for you to discuss.

and the best part? only john knows that part of you, at least in a deeper and meaningful level.

When’s it gonna be my tuuuurn