cit1zennxxx

[qlala]

giving myself an idea for a new fic and trying to stealthily open a blank word document but the tiny edna mode that i installed in my brain for exactly this reason immediately wakes up from a dead sleep and begins smacking me over the head with a rolled-up newspaper

[ucitavanje]

Game Room - Family Room

[alfatherminsulation123]

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[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[pucksandpower]

Piece of Cake

Lando Norris x McLaren reserve driver!Reader x platonic!Oscar Piastri

Summary: McLaren hands their drivers a blindfold, a pair of headphones, and a roll of duct tape to bake burn a cake … it goes about as well as can be expected

Based on this request

You stroll into the McLaren motorhome, gym bag slung over your shoulder, earbuds in as you listen to your pre-race pump-up playlist. Being the team’s reserve driver is a dream come true — you get to be around the cutting-edge of Formula 1 and some of the brightest minds in motorsport.

And if chance should have it, you could even sub in for one of the race drivers. The thrill of potential sends a tingle down your spine.

As you round the corner, you nearly walk straight into Lando, who’s got his jaw set in that brooding, focused way he gets right before a race weekend. His eyes light up when he sees you.

“Y/N! There you are,” he says, a dazzling smile emerging. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

You pull out your earbuds. “What’s up? Everything okay for the race?”

He runs a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “Race? Oh, pfft, who cares about that? We’ve got bigger problems to solve today.”

You raise an eyebrow. Lando has a flair for the dramatic.

He goes on, “We’ve been roped into doing this absolutely mental social media challenge video. Something about … baking? I dunno, to be honest, I stopped listening after they said one of us had to do it blindfolded.”

“Blindfolded?” You repeat, already regretting asking.

That’s when Oscar pops his head out from the kitchen area, hastily re-taping his mouth shut with bright orange duct tape. He flashes you a goofy thumbs up.

“So get this,” Lando continues, not missing a beat, “You’re the blindfolded one. I have to wear noise-canceling headphones so I can’t hear anything. And poor Oscar ...” He gestures over his shoulder at the other driver, who gives an exaggerated shrug. “Can’t speak a word, obviously.”

You look between the two of them, dumbfounded. “And we’re meant to … bake? Like, an actual cake or something?”

“Yep!” Lando says brightly. Too brightly. He claps you on the shoulder. “Should be a right laugh, eh? Let’s get started then!”

And just like that, the chaos begins.

After some shuffling about and giggling fits from the boys, you find yourself standing at the kitchen counter, a thick blindfold secured over your eyes.

You strain your other senses, trying to get your bearings. The hum of the overhead lights, the chemical tang of cleaning products, and was that … vanilla? You give an experimental sniff. Definitely vanilla.

A presence appears at your side and you nearly jump out of your skin when a hand grasps your wrist, guiding your fingers to what feels like … a whisk? Lando leans in close, his cologne surrounding you.

“Okay, I can’t hear myself think in these bloody headphones, but I’m going to talk you through the recipe step-by-step,” he murmurs, warm breath tickling your ear. You shiver involuntarily. “Just, y’know … do whatever feels right, I guess?”

With that enormously unhelpful advice, he releases your wrist and you feel him retreat. You’re flying blind — quite literally.

Then there’s a tap on your other arm. You turn, whisk at the ready, as Oscar’s unmistakable muffled laughter reaches your ears. Of course he’s going to be no help, sealed lips and all.

“Alright guys, very funny,” you say, aiming a withering look somewhere in their general direction though you can’t actually see them. “If I’m meant to be baking something edible out of this mess, you’re going to need to give me a bit more guidance.”

At that, Lando ambles back over, grasping your elbow to steer you somewhere — hopefully towards an actual baking ingredient and not, like, the rubbish bin. A few stumbling, giggle-filled steps later and you’re deposited in front of what sounds like … mixing bowls? Containers? You tentatively reach out a hand.

Your fingers brush over cool ceramic and you let out a relieved breath. Okay, progress. You dip the whisk in exploratorily and feel … something powdery. Flour? You raise it to your face to sniff, but Lando stops you just in time.

“Oi, oi, don’t go getting a lungful of whatever that is!” He laughs, somehow sounding even more handsome when he’s cheerfully chiding you. You bite your lip to stifle a grin.

Things begin to take shape after that, with Lando’s surprisingly not-too-horrible instruction and Oscar’s spirited gesticulating. You quickly work out the basics — butter, sugar, flour, eggs. The wet and dry ingredients get sloppily combined in separate bowls.

All fairly standard baking stuff.

Until, that is, Oscar tries miming out the need for baking soda and you obviously can’t see his dramatic gestures. You have no clue. He positions your hands with frantic motions as you measure out a hilarious amount of the mystery powder into your mixture.

Before long, a questionable batter has been produced. Oscar helps wrestle the cake pans away from you before you can completely muddle everything. The boys shuffle around for a bit, presumably prepping the pans and oven and such.

Then it’s time to pour in the batter. You feel Lando’s sturdy hands again, this time wrapping around yours to guide the bowl’s contents out. Immediately, the thick, lumpy globs start splattering over the sides and onto the counter. Oscar’s choked laughter fills the air. Lando curses under his breath, so close you can feel the rumble of his voice on your back.

Somehow, you all get the pans mostly filled without completely obliterating the kitchen. Oscar takes them to pop in the oven while Lando stays by your side. And that’s when you feel it — his free hand straying to rest on your hip. Reflexively, you lean back against his solid frame. The heat between your bodies builds deliciously.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you standing there in peaceful suspension, chests rising and falling in tandem. Then Lando leans his head down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’ve got a bit of … uh, whatever that yellow stuff was in the bowl … just there,” he murmurs, voice low and impossibly alluring.

You inhale shakily. “Yeah? Why don’t you get it for me then?”

There’s the barest hesitation before his lips are on your neck, tongue darting out to lick away the wayward batter. You sag back against him, surrendering to the electrifying sensation. A tiny moan escapes your lips.

God, you want this man.

Just then, the smoke alarm goes off with an ear-splitting shriek, shattering the spell. Lando leaps back like he’s been burned.

“Bollocks! I mean, uh … can’t hear anything, totally oblivious over here!” He makes a show of adjusting his headphones primly.

You snatch off the blindfold finally, blinking against the sudden light. Sure enough, thick grey smoke is billowing out of the oven. Oscar is doubled over wheezing, tears of laughter streaming down his face as he yanks the ruined cake out with oven-mitted hands. The charred remains plop lifelessly onto the counter.

Waving the smoke away, you gape at the pitiful offering. “Well, so much for our baking skills.”

Lando peeks over, coughing exaggeratedly. “What’s that? Did someone say they wanted a follow-along tutorial on how to burn down the motorhome?”

You roll your eyes, trying for a scandalized look but can’t quite fight the grin tugging at your lips. Oscar just loses it again at his teammate’s antics, wiping at his streaming eyes as Lando joins in, shoulders shaking with mirth.

Watching them, deliriously happy despite — or maybe because of — the ridiculous disaster around you, affection blooms in your chest as warm and gooey as the cake should’ve been. The fearless racers, top drivers of a top team, international celebrities … and also just two lovable goofballs who make your heart flip in the silliest of ways.

Their laughter is infectious. You find yourself dissolving into giggles right along with them. At last, Lando slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a loose side hug. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins down at you.

“Well, I don’t know about you two, but I could go for some proper dessert after that mess,” he says lightly. “My treat?”

Oscar immediately perks up, giving an enthusiastic double thumbs up and nodding vigorously.

You lean into Lando’s warmth, basking in the comfortable closeness. “You read my mind. Let’s get out of here before we burn something else down.”

With one last look at the charcoal brick that was once a cake, Oscar shakes his head ruefully. He strolls over and throws his arms around the two of you, squeezing tightly. For a moment, the three of you just stand there in a tangle of limbs and easy camaraderie, bodies shaking with residual laughter.

Pulling back at last, Oscar flashes you both a mischievous look as he points to his taped mouth, then mimes ripping it off. His silent way of asking if he can finally remove the duct tape obstacle.

“Oh, go on then, you’ve suffered enough,” Lando chuckles, waving a permissive hand.

Quick as a flash, Oscar yanks off the tape with a dramatic flourish, letting out a loud “FREEDOM!” He immediately grimaces, rubbing his jaw. “Oof, that stung a bit.”

“You’ll live, drama queen,” you tease, giving his arm a light shove.

He bumps you back with his hip, grinning impishly. “Well, it was all worth it to witness the two of you in absolute shambles from start to finish.”

Shouldering past you both, Oscar heads for the exit, shooting a roguish wink over his shoulder. “Now are we going to get some edible cake or what? I don’t know about you two, but I worked up an appetite with all the not talking I just did.”

Laughing again, you and Lando trail after him into the sunny paddock, bickering half-heartedly about who torched the baking attempt more thoroughly. A warm breeze riffles through the trees, carrying the scent of race fuel and possibility.

Another typical, wonderfully chaotic day at McLaren. You certainly wouldn’t have it any other way.

[theclassyhuman]

Kitchen Great Room in Boston

[peachesofteal]

18+ noncon, Simon drugs you/her, somnophilia

Girl who takes herself to her favorite coffee shop on the corner to post up with her laptop and a latte.

They serve them in those big ceramic mugs she likes. The white ones that seem so wide you could take a bath in them. Filled to the brim with an unbroken layer of foam on top, she always appreciates when the barista takes the extra time to draw her a quick little design. Makes her feel seen, special, almost.

She always sits a corner, headphones in, typing away on whatever it is she’s working that week, barely away of the comings and goings around her.

She doesn’t notice anyone, and no one notices her.

It’s perfect, really.

Until one morning when she attracts the wrong kind of attention.

It starts with the cup being just a tad too full, balancing on its saucer, ceramic trembling in her fingers. The shop is busy, and someone at the long table in the middle fails to look over his shoulder, sliding backwards in his chair to stand. Hot espresso and milk splashes down her chest, her shirt, and she gasps, sizzling pain shocking the breath from her body.

“Oh shit,” the man starts, turning to face her, hands out and frantic. It’s quiet now, eyes in the room fixed on her, watching, waiting, expecting a civilized reaction. They want her to say ‘oh that’s alright, it was an accident’ or ‘no harm no foul, it happens’ something like that, effectively releasing the burden of shame hanging over the perpetrator.

But, alas. She’s not the one.

“Oh shit?” She rolls her eyes. “You just made me spill my fucking coffee all over myself, and your response is oh shit?” If it was quiet in the coffee shop before, it’s pin drop worthy now.

She expects the man to back down. To cower, start stuttering a profuse apology. That, or the other option, the one where they get defensive, enraged, emotions running wild at the idea of being challenged.

The man does neither of these things. He crosses his arms and cocks his head, sizing her up like he forgot to eat dinner last night and she’s his next meal. The hair on the back of her neck stands up. “Are you going to let me finish, little spitfire?” Jesus Christ. She shoots him the nastiest glare she can conjure, then turns on her heels.

Fuck that guy.

Simon likes himself a little spitfire. A little piece of c4 in his hand, his finger on the trigger. Likes a girl with fight in her, one that scratches, that yells.

His cock aches thinking about how she’d howl under him, face screwed up with rage, salty, sweaty slick pooling between her legs. He’d jam his thigh right in that spot, and order her to rub her pussy against the grain of his jeans until she was cumming on them. He wants to hear her gag on his finger as he scratches her tonsils with it, pressing down on her tongue, forcing her teeth wide, testing.

So, of course, he does the thing he knows he’s not supposed to do. He’s got some time, some leave, plenty of time to hunt his prey and set a snare, a rope around her ankle, stringing her up like a pretty precious offering.

She’s got a nice home. It’s small, one story, windows open with the breeze. The curtains wave with the wind, exposing slivers of her living room, kitchen, bedroom. She putters around the house for a while before the lights go dark, noise of the street enough to drown out the sound of his knife surgically cutting an opening in a screen.

Once the window is open, it’s over. There’s no match, no matter how explosive she is, there’s no him vs her. It’s just him, with her underneath, throat clogged by his cock.

Probably not tonight. Tonight, he’s going to peel her free from the top sheet and jab a needle into her ass to push diprivan, enough to keep her loose and sweet, trapped in sleep long after he leaves. She’ll be more than groggy when she wakes again, chalking it all up to some sort of dream.

She takes it so easy too. Doesn’t fuss. Barely stirs when he rubs a hand over the fat of her hips, squeezes the flesh for his needle. She gasps in her sleep, brow furrowed, listlessly drifting away.

The first thing he does is roll her to her back. She sleeps naked, a pleasant surprise, muscles soft as he pushes her knees to her chest, exposing her cunt to his hungry eyes. He’s only supposed to look, to inspect, but he can’t help pulling a glob of spit from his cheeks to the tip of his tongue, letting it drip down in a long drop, oozing onto her clit.

“Pretty pet.” He murmurs, gloved finger stroking through her folds, fingertip barely pushing against her hole, sliding down to feel the tight furl between her cheeks. “Perfect little holes f’me, eh? Tight little things you’ve got.” Maybe she’s never been fucked before. Too much acid in her blood to bend or break for anyone. He buzzes with the idea that no one has ever had a cock, or anything, inside her, and spits again, this time a bigger wad, bubbles and all, thick and viscous. “Let’s check little spitfire.” He presses inside her, working his finger in easy strokes, feeling her walls, the heated clutch of her cunt. There’s resistance there, a flimsy, thin barrier separating him and the rest of her, his chuckle dangerous in the dark. It’s tempting to take it right now, but he’d rather watch her face when it happens so he can see the moment she realizes, when he ruins her, when he rips through her purity and makes her his own.

He unzips his pants, fisting his cock, precum already beaded at the tip and dripping, coating his palm as he pumps. She moans, like she knows somehow. It’s a high pitched, breathy thing, one that rattles his bones. He answers with a thumb on her clit, pressing, circling, still stroking himself, indulging in her shudders, the jerking of her legs as she she climbs to her climax.

He wants it at the same time. Wants to paint her pussy with his cum when she explode into hers, wants to do it together. As he gets close, he works both himself and her furiously, waiting for that moment when her muscles will go rigid and her pussy will flutter.

When it hits, he follows, white spend shooting up over her belly to her breasts, almost too much to be believed. It’s a mess, really, and he doesn’t want to leave her like this. Too obvious.

He takes his time licking her clean, filling his mouth with his own cum, holding it against his teeth, under and over his tongue. He breathes through his nose until he’s satisfied he got it all, and then sticks a thumb between her teeth, prying her jaw wide-

so he can spit it, drool it, into her unsuspecting mouth, letting it drip to the back of her throat, white sticky load of spit and cum coating her tonsils, her teeth, her tongue.

See you tomorrow.

[luetta]

capturing angels is easy. snipe them from the skies, break their halos, and watch the divine light fade from their eyes as you turn them into fleshlights.

capturing a seraph is harder.

they live in the upper atmosphere, far beyond reach. luckily nothing grabs their attention better than desecrating nature. you’ll have one hovering above you the moment you start pouring oil into the river.

but they’re invisible, they don’t actually do anything. they just watch with seething rage. but you can tell where they are, if you look carefully at the ripples in the sky. and they can be speargunned like any other piece of meat, they’re not intangible.

but they’re fast. once they get hit they’ll try to fly away, faster than you can blink. but it’s against their code to break something holy. that’s why i soaked the speargun rope in the blood of that drunk priest. it simply can’t snap the rope.

it’ll try attack you now, lifting it’s veil of invisibility and showing you it’s form. it’s beautiful, it’s blinding. that’s why we wear these industrial goggles to block most of its rays.

after the initial blast of light, you can see it’s true form. a 3m tall body of white porcelain, with undulating red spirals flowing from her talons. 3 halos, 2 pairs of wings, 6 uncaring eyes. it tries to attack us, shred us to pieces. but with a few more unbreakable spears, she’s essentially pinned in place.

it lets out a screech, attracting other seraphs. they come, but they just watch from afar. the leaves of all the trees nearby shrivel up. putting 2 pikes into her main wings, she can’t move. turning her head to look at us like an owl, she starts to speak.

“SURRENDIPITY. AMALGAMATION. DESECRATION. VOLITION. QUINTESSENCE.”

it’s best to just ignore them during this part. and instead just focus on the halos. that’s the target.

striking it with tools - sparks flying off - it’s amazing how much these floating discs feel like they’re anchored in place. they simply don’t react. but that’s a boon in our favour, not theirs. it means, eventually, they’ll shatter. if they warped it’d be exponentially harder to destroy.

eventually, the first one breaks with the help of a winch attached to the truck.

the seraph starts to struggle against her binds now, strange new feelings of danger making it panic.

“LIGHT FLOW BEAUTY RESIST ERODE TRANQUILITY. WATER AIR SPLIT GROW RECEDE. MAPLE LIMESTONE WIND TIDE BLOOD.”

the second halo breaks.

“SMOKE FIRE WAR WAR WAR. SHARK DARKNESS DEATH. MISERY. BLOODSHED. FEAR. TERROR. ACID BLINDNESS DECAY.”

the last halo cracks, it’s about to give out. the seraph is straining against the spears, shaking, desperate emotion in her eyes.

“LOVE WISDOM HAPPINESS. JOY PROSPERITY ENDLESS. RAINDROPS. YOURS. OWNERSHIP SUBJUGATION FREEDOM. LOVE EMPATHY ENVY PLEASURE RESPITE. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE. HOSPITALITY. INTIMACY. MERCY.”

the halo shatters to a million pieces. the area is no longer illuminated by some unseen source. the ripples in the sky disappear, the watchers retreat, uninterested now. the scared creature is speechless, her eyes wide and unbelieving. dirt now sticks to her body, instead of just sliding off. flesh instead of ceramic. we take the spears out, but bind her with ropes much harsher now. she’s still has strength, but it’s no longer unfathomable like it was.

now she’s just another fallen angel, about to learn the one thing divinity lacks, and humanity excels in. physicality. we have a lot of breaking in to do before she’s ready to join the other angels downtown. or perhaps i’ll find a private, permanent buyer. something like this would probably fetch enough to let us get out of this shithole finally.

as we throw her into its new room, a cold, stone room, with hooks in the walls to attach chains to, she speaks again.

“hurt. sadness. freedom fear anxiety. lost indecision hubris. mercy pain silence. separation beauty uncountability. exploration … limitations. unknown darkness fear. ”

“don’t worry darling. we’ll have you singing again in no time.”

[missmeinyourbones]

CLEAN ME UP 

c/w: established relationship, hurt/comfort, light mentions of blood and injury, atsumu lowkey gets his ass beat </3 but he is so sweet

Atsumu sits crisscrossed on the floor of your bathroom with a tender black eye and a busted lip—and though this should be a rare thing, you need all five fingers to count the number of times you’ve seen this film before.

The first two were ages ago, high school days when he and Osamu couldn’t stop themselves from throwing a punch or two over nothing at all. Their egos too big and brains too small, twice you'd gotten roped into their post-brawl aftercare. Another time it was a fight off the court, when a rival captain made a snide remark about his foul accent. The fourth, a drunken, immature mistake.

Tonight’s wounds are different. Because when Atsumu nonchalantly shows up black and blue at your door, he doesn’t tell you what happened. There’s no story attached to the bruises he bares, no lengthy explanations or excuses. And Atsumu is a lot of things, but speechless is never one of them. 

He looks childish, you think, the way his broad body folds itself into a tiny pretzel and hardly takes up a corner of your tiled floor. He’s oddly quiet, too. Sure, you heard his witty comments down the hallway about how you should see the other guy, but something’s still off. His eyes aren't lit with their usual flame of youth, pride. 

Only a few words are exchanged through the process of cleaning him up. Between wet washcloths and tiny sniffles, Atsumu fumes, You haven't asked enough questions yet, and it’s beginning to freak him out. He doesn't know whether or not he should be grateful or unsettled with your silence.

A frozen bag of vegetables presses against his left eyelid when you finally ask, "What the hell did you do this time?"

Atsumu smiles at the mere sound of your voice, an instant warmth against the burning ice on his body. "Why's it always my fault?"

You remove the bag from his brow to shoot him a look, that look. He knows better than to argue with that look. Arguing with that look gets him nothing but trouble and an achy back from a night on the couch. So, he diverts. 

"Nothing,” he sulks. “He started it, and—"

"—And you finished it, right?" 

Your words are meant to be sarcastic, at his dispense of how stupid he behaved, but Atsumu doesn't take them as such. Instead, at your interruption, he shoots you an earnest smile filled with satisfaction and dried blood stretched across his chapped lips.  

"See? So smart, baby." 

His hand rises to pet your chin but you lean back quick enough to dodge his caress. His eyes fall to the bag of vegetables that now sits by your lap. 

“Atsumu,” you try again, foreboding. 

He rolls his head back in a huff against the bench of the bathtub, and the ceramic feels warm against his neck compared to the still stinging chill on his eye. 

“What was I supposed to do? They were bein’ assholes.”

His whole team had gone out drinking tonight for a celebratory round or five, followed by a few days off. And as charming as Atsumu is, he does have his foes. People in the volleyball world he’s not the biggest fan of, for reasons he doesn’t seem to discuss with you. He likes to leave it at his good intuition, something you know he lacks.  

With the context clues provided, you can think of two or three people he’s implying. 

His reasoning is flawed, to say the least, but the way he says it has your heart breaking in the slightest. He avoids eye contact, as if he's embarrassed, dancing around the subject and wishing the ground to swallow him whole. 

His shyness has you trying a softer approach. 

“Everyone is an asshole,” you whisper, lightly returning pressure to his eye with the makeshift ice, “if punching assholes was reasonable, I’d do it all the time.”

Atsumu smiles a bit at that, but you catch how he winces slightly at the movement. 

“Yer so funny, baby,” he tries to trail off. “Funniest person I—”

“Miya,” comes his second warning, and by the look in your eye, he’s not brave enough to try for a third.

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but when yer a Miya, I’m playing that card on you, too. Y’know that, right?” 

You nod, and whether it's to his proposal or to encourage his words, you don't know. But it works, because Atsumu takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling again. 

“This time was different, okay?”

His tone is eerily soft. One only you get the privilege of hearing, and not because it's out of love, but because it's out of hate. Something’s shaken him so bad, he’s almost been rendered speechless. 

“How was it different?”

“They were talking about you,” he shakily exhales. “Sayin’ stupid shit that isn’t true.”

Your heart softens as you do your best to keep a strong facade, but maybe Atsumu does have good intuition, as his hand squeezes yours through the quick moment of silence. 

“If it’s not true, then it shouldn't have mattered, right?” you try.

“No,” he’s quick to work himself up again, eyes finding yours. “Like hell was I gonna let ‘em keep talking about you like that, ‘specially when I’m right fuckin’ there.” 

Your fingers lightly skim his jaw, nowhere sensitive but he jumps all the same. You apply pressure to tilt his head, forcing him to find your gaze. He does.

“Do you want to tell me what they said?”

Atsumu gaze softens, and after a moment of thinking, he shakes his head. 

“No,” he decides, “I don’t.” 

His eyes fall to your lips and back up to your eyes. ���Do you want to know?”

You smile at his sincerity. Atsumu, who you know to be just as sweet as he is boisterous, would tell you if you asked. He’d do anything you ask. But, you decide against it. 

“No. No, I don’t.” 

Atsumu exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding as he lets his head nuzzle against your palm. Contrary to the ice, it's warm and soft on his skin. He thinks it could heal wounds faster than any bag of broccoli ever could. 

“I trust you,” he hears you coo into his hairline, kisses now dancing along his forehead and jaw, “even if you do have the emotional intelligence of a middle school boy, sometimes.”

Astumu hmphs at your words, simultaneously agreeing and brushing you off. He doesn't care enough to bicker, right now. He doesn’t need to tell you about how the man from the bar was talking about you. About how easy you’d be to persuade into bed. About how you're just with Atsumu for his flashy perks and award winning smile. 

He doesn't need to because he knows they're wrong. Because they don't see these moments, when Atsumu sits on the ledge of your empty bathtub. With popped blood vessels and tender welts, those men don't melt beneath your careful fingertips or soothing pecks. 

He doesn't have to say anything, because you trust him. You trust Atsumu, and it's the one thing in this world he knows to be true. 

He lifts his head up from your hold to find your lips. 

“I jus’ love you,” he insists, lightly pressing himself to you with such caution, “so much.” 

And if there’s one thing in this world you know to be true, it's that Miya Atsumu loves you.   

[sammybeann]

Okay but 16 year old Sammy and 20 year old Dean both on an anonymous gay dating site. 

None of them know the other is into men, and none of them know that they ended up matching with one another. 

They don't post their faces and go by screen names only, but quickly hit it off, texting back and forth for hours a day, bonding over their shitty lives. 

It doesn't take long for their chats to turn naughty, Dean describing the nasty things he'd like to do to Sam's pretty pink hole, Sam responding with enthusiasm before describing in full detail the things he'd do to Dean's cock with his mouth, and it would more often than not end up with them jerking off to their conversations, their vivid imaginations running wild with the image of sweaty bodies, tongues and hair pulling and choking and bliss. 

With those chats inevitably came explicit pictures always from the waist down. Sam bending over, spreading each one of his cheeks to reveal his pretty pink hole already fingered open and gaping for his nameless suitor to marvel at, Dean returning a photo of his thick cock against his belly, thick ropes of come splattered along his torso. 

It wasn't until a few months into their anonymous relationship that Sam had sent Dean a photo of his hard cock, long fingers wrapped around the base that Dean made the connection. 

The watch around the man's wrist looked an awful lot like the one Sam wore, and what was worse was the background of the photo was the exact same as the bathroom of the shitty motel room they were staying at, the one Sam was currently in, the ugly yellow ceramic tub visible just behind Sam's erection. 

Dean immediately deleted the app so fucking fast after the realization hit him, the color draining from his face when Sam exited the bathroom, staring down at his phone with a frown not understanding what he did wrong, why his online lover suddenly disappeared. 

Dean never went on the app again, and he sure as hell didn't tell Sam, who continued to check the app every day in hopes his partner would return.

[sacrificialspice]

POV: You are Sukuna’s catgirl!

~Part 2~ Headcanons + Mini Fic

18+, Sukuna x fem Reader

Thank you to all the people enjoying these posts, it isn’t something I’ve done before so it’s great to see. If I ever miss a content warning, please inform me.

Contains: Pet names, Master and pet dynamic, hybrid reader, some fluff, mention of killing, restricted freedom, nudism mention, mild degradation, pussy inspection, male masturbation, cum eating.

Your daily life with Sukuna quickly became a routine. As a pet, you don’t have many responsibilities but to be a companion for your Master. Your job is to provide him with love, basically. Sukuna isn’t an affectionate being, but he thrives off your love and worship. Deep down, you are the reason why he isn’t driven crazy by his almost-immortal life. Uraume has noticed the change in his demeanour since you arrived, and thus they appreciate your presence.

Whenever Sukuna sits on his throne, you are his lap-cat. His lap is very large and comfortable, also warm. His kimono smells so good, and you always drift off to sleep while he strokes your back. Sukuna kills anyone who questions why you are always with him; you get used to this (you have to). If you feel uncomfortable being nude while he addresses other curses or lowly humans, he lets you crawl into his kimono. So, he does have a soft spot and only wants to humiliate you for his amusement alone.

He is the king of pussy inspection! (“Spread those legs for Master, little sex kitten. Good girl… I can see the way your little hole clenches. Do you need cock, kitten? You know the magic words. Master will give you what you need.”)

If you whine to Sukuna that you are hungry, watch out. This is an invitation to him to do some nasty ass shit to you. Literally kinky nasty stuff that an innocent catgirl shouldn’t be doing… (apparently you don’t apply to this). After whining too much and testing Sukuna’s patience, he then grabs you off his lap and places you on the cold floor. (“Down. Get in position.”). You hastily position yourself in the way which he says you look best in; on all fours, arms folded in front of you, your legs strained slightly to lift up your ass. (“Stay like that. Now watch.”). He takes out a small ceramic dish, places it down by your face. He takes his kimono to one side, his hung manhood springing out. He strokes himself to get hard, admiring you being face down ass up. As he concentrates, you realize what is coming. Literally. He leans down, grunting while thick ropes land on the dish, painting it a pearly white. The musky smell of your Master hits your nostrils, making you salivate in anticipation. (“There’s your milk. Lick it up. No fingers.”). You finish by lapping up Master’s milk with a grateful smile.

(I have an idea for another mini fic, so I will find the time to write that soon.)

[nerdypixel]

Items mentioned

Prefacing this with the caviat that I will write some associations in brackets behind the items, as I just can't unsee it.

large false plant in a somewhat disconcerting ceramic pot modelled on a shouting human face (reminds me of the Spiral)

a large Bearskin rug with really sharp teeth (the Hunt maybe?)

a large chandelier of dark glass (the Dark?)

an oversized gramophone with a collection of records of what I believe to be religious plainsong (reminds me of Father Burroughs)

A crudely-carved rocking horse

a grandfather clock that leaked some sort of dark oil

A heavily vandalized set of the Encyclopedia Britannica

an extensive collection of abstract canvas artworks (Daria? Ink5oul or the Spiral)

two large, soiled Crinoline dresses (this could be the Stranger)

a Chaise Longue with cushions filled with some sort of coarse sand

a taxidermied vulture (we have seen taxidermi before)

a rusty antique printing press

a collection of old medical equipment that had seemingly been recently used (the Slaughter?)

some sort of leather kite

an oddly curved brass telescope

a wheelbarrow full of shifting fossils

an armload of swords (Slaughter?)

lengths of rope

A tin bathtub filled with moldy food (the Corruption)

a stack of old dental retainers

a brace of half-butchered pheasants (Flesh like)

jars of what appeared to be pickled hands (Flesh like)

This all feels like a mix between so many different things. We have a list for orientation now.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

1960 Fixer Upper in Hayfork, CA. It's a cute little place, but we have to look past the clutter. According to the ad for the 3bd, 2ba home: "This 2.0 acre property is in the beginning stages of a major cleanup, and soon can be your little private ranch in the middle of Hayfork. Drone photos to follow after some vehicles are removed." It's only $204K, so let's take a look at it.

So, it looks like they started cleaning up the kitchen first. New stove, love the wood burning stove and the old cabinets have charm.

The floor's good, cabinet fronts are missing, and the counters & backsplash are linoleum, but the cabinet frames look sturdy, so maybe they can be used.

What is that black water in the sink?

I wonder if they have the cabinet fronts somewhere. The stove is nice, and needs a hood, not that old fan.

Oh, there are some of the cabinet doors.

This is the cute spiral staircase going up to the 2nd level that the ad describes. I like the column, too.

Oh, my, junk is literally spilling out of that room.

They wrapped the stairs in a nautical rope. The wallpaper is creased, so that has to be fixed.

I would have to gut this bath- it's yucky. Maybe I'd save the wall cabinet- it's so vintage.

That is a real vintage jailhouse door. Cute, I would keep it.

So, I guess this is like a TV room.

Then, there's this in the living room. Interesting.

Is this a bedroom? I think so.

From the real estate ad: "Fully enclosed porch wraps around 2 sides of the home for added storage, pictured here cluttered but again the home clean up is in full-swing."

Right now, it's full and there's only a path from the front door to the entrance. Well, let's look at the outer buildings.

Is that a covered well? Looks like they had a ceramics studio, but look at the stuff piled up to the window. I wonder if there's a kiln in there.

The building on the right looks cute, but this place has been so abused and neglected.

That must be the horse barn, but it looks like a total gut or knockdown.

There're some double doors that would look nice stepping down to a patio and the little terrace above is cute. I don't know what to think.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/86-Center-St-Hayfork-CA-96041/16210782_zpid/

[pansylair]

Um so your work with ceramics actually really inspires me and made me want to give it a try (and yesterday i finished glazing my first really big piece!!)

hey I’m absolutely flattered and so happy to hear I was a catalyst of sorts for you trying out a new art form!!!

I hope learning the ropes and eventually the process and challenge of going big was lots of fun and wishing a good firing if it hasn’t gone through yet! Proud of ya! :) 💛

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hello i love your word lists and i was wondering if i could request one specifically for baking! i need title inspo for a story i'm writing :)

Some Baking Vocabulary

Aeration - the treatment of batter or dough by charging with air to produce increase in volume

Ancient grains - all whole grains are considered ancient because we are able to trace their roots back to the beginning of time

Caramelization - cooking sugar until it’s brown or golden

Chocolate - from the Aztec word xocolatl, meaning "bitter water"; a food derived from the cacao bean fermented, dried, roasted, ground and processed into cocoa powder; a liquor used to make a variety of chocolate products

Citron - the sweetened rind of a fruit

Clarify - to make a substance clear or pure

Courverture chocolate - high quality chocolate used for tempering and glossy coating

Crescent rolls - crescent-shaped bread rolls having a flaky texture

Crushing - formation of dry crust on surface of doughs due to evaporation of water from the surface

Currant - the acidulous berry of a shrub, usually dried and dark in colour

Essences - aromatic compounds used for flavouring confectionery; can be natural or synthetic, or blends of both

Ganache - a rich, smooth mixture of chocolate and cream is used as a filling, frosting, or glaze

Genaese - fatless sponge cake used as base in decorated cakes

Glaze - coat a dessert with a liquid, like melted chocolate, mirror glaze, sugar glaze, etc.

Hearth bread - yeast bread baked in round, oval or free form on hot, flat baking surfaces in an oven

Liqueur - spirits sweetened with sugar and flavoured with essences, fruit juice, or essential oils

Macerate - to soak the fruit in liquid, often sugar or alcohol, to soften it and enhance its flavor

Marble - creating a swirl effect by incorporating two doughs or batters of different colors or flavors together

Mise en Place - a French term meaning “everything in its place,” referring to the preparation and organization of ingredients before baking

Molasses - light to dark brown syrup obtained in making cane sugar

Old dough - yeast dough that is overproofed; dough may have tripled in volume and fallen

Oven spring - the rapid rise of bread dough during the first few minutes of baking due to the expansion of gas bubbles; critical for achieving a good loaf volume and a light, airy crumb

Petit fours - small fancy cakes that can be placed in the mouth in one piece

Plaiting - the weaving of one or more ropes of dough into an ordered design

Ramekin - a small dish made of glass or ceramic that is used for serving baked goods like custards, cakes, souffles, and more

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: Word Lists

So glad to hear this, thank you! Hope this helps with your search. Would love to read your work if it does. Otherwise, you could go through the sources, perhaps I wasn't able to include the right word/phrase for you. Also have more food-related posts here :)

[adorablediscoveries]

Kathrin Marchenko - Embroidery Artist

Kathrin Marchenko, from Lozivskyi, Ukraine, is an embroidery artist who uses ropes, threads, and laces to create incredible works of art. Marchenko creates three-dimensional embroideries on frames and walls depicting animals, portraits, and anatomical parts of the body such as eyes and hands.

The artist does not use preparatory drawings but relies on the inspiration and creativity of the moment. "Embroidery is a meditative process that helps me calm down and gather all my thoughts," stated Marchenko, who uses various materials in her works, including multiple types of threads, fabrics, needles, hoops, beads, ceramic pieces, and other objects inspired by the moment.

The artist also organizes online courses in meditative embroidery using modern embroidery stitches to develop creative skills. "The art of embroidery is not easy, but once you get used to improvising with threads and matching their color shades, you can create anything in just a few steps," the artist states on her official website. The purpose of meditative embroidery is to broaden horizons and see embroidery from a new perspective.

The courses are accessible to both experienced embroidery professionals and beginners who want to develop their creative skills by creating impressive works with low-cost materials.