#Countertop soap dish

[bobochen-3344-blog]

Clawfoot Victorian Bathtub Shaped Ceramic Bar Soap Dish Holder Tray Hotel Shower Decor Rest Sponge https://foreverceramic.com/product/clawfoot-victorian-bathtub-shaped-ceramic-bar-soap-dish-holder-tray-hotel-shower-decor-rest-sponge/

[twisted-tales-told]

That one TikTok was right,

I did not expect, as an adult, to spend so much money on different kinds of Soap

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Why are dishes so fucking hard?! Why does the hard water here make it look like those fucking “grow your own salt crystals” experiments from my childhood?!

For example, this is my bitch of a drying rack and it’s made dishes so much harder! Vinegar is my only salvation

[bagofshinyrocks]

Government name vs Military callsign

Prompt: What scares them worse? Addressing them by their full government name, or addressing them by their military callsign?

Featuring: Task Force 141 (CoD: MW2) - John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (separately) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 0.9k

Warnings: none

John Price

Government name.

Calling him Captain or Skipper just ends with him sauntering to where ever you are and ask (in an obnoxiously self-satisfied voice) what you wanted. Like a cat pretending it can’t hear the urgency in your tone when you say to get off the counter.

“If you want me to ‘shake a leg’, call my name, luvie.”

Now if you holler “Jonathan Price”, he’ll drop something. Either the newspaper in his hands, or his heart into his stomach. He sure as hell moves his ass with a purpose, and he’s peering into the room with an apology on his lips.

“Yes, luv? What’s wrong, poppet?”

“Lift the other end of the couch, would you?”

He does, and you shimmy it further back in the room. “Anything else I can do, love o’ my life?” He’s hovering, and gently coaxing you into his arms. Gauging how mad you were at him. You curled into him and kissed his chin. Then stepped away with a pat to his chest.

“No, sweetheart, just wanted you to shake a leg is all.”

When he remembers your previous conversation, he groans and tells you to fuck off.

Simon Riley

Military callsign.

When you two are alone, and he’s already given you permission to call him Simon, don’t call him Ghost. When you say that word, he assumes one of his mates are at the door or on the phone, and goes from Simon to Ghost. Stalks into the room with narrowed eyes, only to find you in the kitchen. By yourself.

“Ghost, you want a sandwich too? Turkey and cheese.”

“Fuck you callin’ me that for?” 

Once he sees you’re alone, he swoops in and wraps around you like a hoodie. A firm kiss to your ear, then your cheek, then spun you around. Back pressed to the counter top. Settles his face right close to yours.

“We playin’ games now?” You didn’t want to upset him, so you pressed a kiss to his nose. His grumpy look faded a bit.

“Sorry, baby.” Arms wrapped carefully around his shoulders. And your fingers scratch his scalp. Another kiss to his nose. “I’m sorry for playing games with you. Simon Riley.”

Hearing his name on your lips finally cracked, and he gave you a smile. A little scar on the upper lip. You gave it a kiss, and then pressed a kiss to his lips. 

A quick surge forward, and you only just had time to shove aside the things behind you before you found yourself on the countertop.

Kyle Garrick

Government name.

He doesn’t mind being called Gaz, and you’ll use Kyle and Gaz interchangeably. Doesn’t even mind if you use “Kyle” or “honey” in front of his squadmates. Though “Kylie” he does have some displeasure with.

“I’ll have you know, Soap is still calling me Kylie, you asshole.”

Call him ‘Garrick’, and he knows that you are pretending to be mad at him. He slinks over and rubs his face against your cheek. He’s too cute for you to stay mad.

If you shout “Kyle Garrick”, he comes running. He could have sworn that he put his clothes in the hamper. And did the dishes. And taken out the recycling. Damn, what was it that he forgot?

“Kyle Ga-”

“Yes, dear!” Shit, he didn’t mean to ‘yes, dear’ you. “Yes, my dear, I’m right here.”

You pause your laundry folding and summon him with a crook of your finger. Once he’s close enough, you tap your lip with the same finger. “I need a kiss.”

He blinked once. Then twice. “God damn you.” He squishes your face in his hands and gave you a quick, firm kiss. “Don’t stress me out like that. Thought you were mad.”

“Give me another kiss, or I will be.”

He rapid fire kissed your mouth, chin, and cheeks, then gave you a smack on the ass before returning to the living room. 

“In my own fucking home,” he muttered.

John MacTavish

Military callsign.

He’s got some thick skin. And he’s had his name shouted angrily many a time. He would all but skip into the room with a big smile on his face. The only people who shouted that name (and wore out the scare-factor on it) were his family members. Shouting “John MacTavish” meant you loved him. You were also mad at him, but you loved him. That was more important. Even with your scowl and the gross pile of garbage he kept forgetting to take out. You loved him.

Now shouting his callsign reminded him of his superior officers.

“SOAP!”

Shit shit shit. He put down his beer and ran from the garage to the backyard. Leg brace over his sweats, low cut muscle shirt that you also wolf-whistle at when he wears. You were only weeding the garden boxes.

“JOHNNY!”

“I’m here, bonnie,” he hollered, rounding the corner. You were sitting in the dirt, a tidy pile of weeds and dead plant bits next to you.

“C’mere, c’mere.”

He leaned down next to you, hand on your shoulder and good knee on the ground. “Wassit?”

You pointed to the leaf in your hand. “A caterpillar, Johnny. An itsy-bitsy caterpillar.”

He sighed heavily and kissed your shoulder. “Bonnie, I thought something was wrong.”

“Hm?” You spared him a glance. “What are you talking about, bubba?”

“You called me Soap.”

“Did I? Didn’t mean to spook you, loverboy.” You gave him an apologetic kiss on the lips. “Just wanted you to see the caterpillar before he wiggled off.”

Posted: 2023 Dec 10

[stuffminer]

6 Best Soap Bar Holders

I assure you, you’ll definitely love its water drainer design. A super strong holder that is made of stainless steel will never rust and corrosion

For More Visit: https://stuffminer.com/bathroom-soap-holders/ 1.iPEGTOP

2.SANNO

3.Magift

4.Mcyye

5.Nieifi

6.Command

[michelepoehler]

Bathroom in San Francisco

[spencereidluver]

P is for Perfect

february 04, 2009

summary: You and Spencer bake cookies together

word count: 1.1k

warnings: an insane amount of fluff. like maybe call your dentist before reading

“It doesn’t have to be exact, Spence,” you giggle and playfully knock your hip into him. Spencer stood over the counter, a kitchen scale, butter knife, measuring cup, and bag of flour beneath him. He was meticulously measuring the exact amount of flour. You couldn’t help but smile at him, so smart, but so oblivious to the leniency in the world of baking. 

Spencer looks up at you, his lips curing into a shy smile. “I know, but I want them to be perfect.” He finally levels out the flour and dumps it into the metal bowl. “Baking is a science, after all.”

You laughed and shook your head. “It’s more of a chemistry I think. It doesn’t have to be perfect, it’s okay to just have fun.”

His eyes soften as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I am having fun. Especially because I get to make them with you.”

You can’t help but fall into his touch when such sweet words are leaving his lips. His smug smile makes you want to collect yourself though, not wanting to give in to his cockiness. “Alright then, Dr. Reid, these better be the best damn cookies to ever enter my mouth.”

You and Spencer continue to mix the ingredients. His attention to detail and your more relaxed approach meshed perfectly. Always a perfect duo, you and Spencer were. Whether it be your brains on a case, your love for one another, or apparently, your baking skills. 

You poured in the chocolate chips directly from the bag, a clear overshot of the recommended amount. You turned around to toss the empty bag in the garbage, but apparently, you were much faster at this than Spencer thought you’d be.

“Stealing ingredients now, are we?” you ask him, catching him red handed popping a small handful of chocolate chips in his mouth.

Spencer grinned mischievously as he chewed. “Well if you’re going to add three times the amount the recipe calls for surely a few can be spared.” He giggles and grabs another chocolate chip from the bowl. “Here, have one,” he holds it up to your lips.

You open your mouth allowing for him to gently place it on your tongue. You lock eyes, his filled with a sweetness that went beyond the chocolate. You lean in and kiss him, tasting the lingering chocolate on his lips. He hovers over your shoulder as he watches you scoop the dough into small balls on the baking sheet, reaching around your waist to put the pans in the oven. He sets the oven timer before turning to you and pulling you into his arms.

Spencer stood there holding you for several minutes. He buried his head in the crook of your neck and pressed his body firmly against yours. You held him silently, unable to speak even if you wanted to. Your face was pressed to his chest, fingers rubbing his back gently. He was in a t-shirt, which was quite rare for him as usually if he wasn’t in his work attire he was either in his pajamas or cozied up in a sweater. 

He lifts his head from your shoulder, arms still wrapped around you. “I never thought I’d find someone like you,” he whispers. His gaze is so adoring. 

“And I can’t believe I found you,” you say as you place a hand on his cheek. 

He rests his hand atop yours, fingers between your knuckles. “I love you Y/n,” he says, pulling you impossibly closer with the arm still around your waist.

“Spencer, I love you so much,” you respond. You pull him down and nuzzle his nose in an eskimo kiss, which causes him to giggle. “But we should clean up before the cookies are done.”

“Do you think we can get it done in the four minutes and fifty-seven seconds left on the oven timer?” He asks, stepping away from you and running water from the sink over a cloth.

He rings the rag out and tosses it at you, leaving the water running and adding soap to the sink. He begins taking the dishes over as you wipe the countertops.

You notice a small glob of dough on the edge of the stovetop and collect it on your index finger. Turning around to face the sink- and Spencer’s back- you tap his shoulder with your clean hand. He notices the cheeky grin on your face which causes him to smile as well.

“I got something for you,” you say, bringing your finger up to his face and smearing the dough on his nose. 

“Hey, no fair!” he playfully pouts. “My hands are wet, I can’t get it off!”

“Aw, isn’t that unfortunate,” you grin, turning back around to finish cleaning the counters.

beep

You dropped the rag on the counter and slid an oven mitt over your hand. You sat the fresh cookies on the stovetop, stopping the timer and turning off the oven as you did so. 

The smell of fresh cookies filled Spencer’s apartment; if they weren’t clearly piping hot, they’d all be gone right this moment. You approach Spencer who was nearing the last of the dishes and lean your head onto his shoulder.

“Well well well,” you say, “what do we have here, slowpoke?”

“I could’ve been done in time if you wouldn't have distracted me,” Spencer argues.

“You can tell yourself that, pretty boy,” you say and plant a kiss on the underside of his jaw.

You transferred the warm cookies into a container and brought the baking sheet- the final dish- over to Spencer. He quickly scrubs it, then dries his hands. 

He gives a satisfied sigh. “Alright,” he says, placing a hand on your lower back to direct you to the stove with him. “Ready to try them?” 

He picks one up from the container and breaks it in half, handing you the slightly larger piece. He watches as you take a bite from the corner, anticipating your reaction.

“These are really good,” you say, taking another bite. He takes his first, nodding in agreement as the flavor sets in. 

“Dare I say perfect?” He says, a nod to your earlier comment about them not needing to be.

“They are,” you agree. “Probably because of me.” You smile at him.

“Oh whatever,” he says with a sassy tone, rolling his eyes as he takes another cookie from the bowl.

____

next chapter: in progress

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

____

a/n: this part is kind of just a filler lil blurb. im working on some larger story elements, and am writing a part that actually takes place within an episode of the show with y/n written in as a character. assuming that part does well, i’ll probably be doing some more of those because its actually a ton of fun. anyways thank you all for the suggestions and support!!

read this for information regarding my use of the term “eskimo kiss” in this part

____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27

@hopelessheaven @shycreationdreamland @cultish-corner @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls

@hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08

@princessbowbaby @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @smalltownbeautyqueen @spencereidapologist @lunajay33

@softlysunrays @maybe-not-this @wannabewolf @sylv3in @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles

@pillsbury-doughgirl @monfleurr @novaeatsworld @pleasantwitchgarden @vivixir @lolita-hc

@pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @guacam011y @super-nerd22 @khxna

[aliensupastar]

shouldn’t feel like a crime

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Carmy Berzatto/GN!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: You finally try Carmy’s cooking. Follow-up to “not wrong, but not right”

Part I Part III

Warnings: minor angst, comfort, fluff, depiction of an eating disorder, food and eating, healing?

A/N: first off, thank you all so much for the love on the first part! i wrote it as a comfort during a difficult time and it was so nice to see people enjoy it. i didn’t intend on writing more for it, but a few people asked for it and i finally got an idea for a follow-up! as a disclaimer, i wrote most of this before season 2 came out and edited it afterwards, but there are no spoilers. gif by emziess <3

Carmy is a good boss. You know this, you’ve known it for months. His sometimes-abrasive idiolect aside, he runs the restaurant like he cares about every brick that built it, every burner the crew uses to make each dish, every ticket that comes through that god-forsaken machine on the expo station. It makes any screaming match easily forgivable, and any nightmare lunch rush endurable. 

What you didn’t know was that Carmy could also be a good friend. Since your stint in the emergency room he’s made good on his agreement with you, without ever being overwhelming. He’s instead mercifully subtle. There’s a few bottles of lemonade kept in the office’s mini-fridge now, for when you get dizzy. He’s lent you that coat of his a few times, when the night air ends up chillier than you predicted that morning, and you’ve left your own jacket at home. And he never fails to give you a look, during the busiest hours at the restaurant, communicating quickly, and quietly: Are you good? And you know if the answer is no, he’ll let you take a breather without a single complaint, but you always respond with a quick nod and push through the rest of the shift.

In turn, you do your best not to worry him. You take vitamins and get better sleep and try to stop pushing yourself to the brink of passing out. You even eat one of your safe foods in front of him, at family while everyone else enjoyed the samosas Ebrahaim had cooked up that day, and for once it felt good to eat; the constant playful bickering and banter a welcome distraction from the usual stress that follows your meals. 

It’s nice. Maybe you don’t necessarily feel like you’re getting better, just more… stable. Less like you’re in a free-fall and more like you’ve got both feet on solid ground. 

When you go to leave after closing up one night and find that it’s raining, impeding you from making your usual trek to the train station, you turn back and head to the office. And a few months ago, you might’ve been too nervous around Carmy to even ask to stay in the restaurant an extra hour, preferring to brave the cold rain and let your clothes get soaked and heavy rather than hang around. You’re relieved, now, to find Carmy right where you left him when you said goodnight just a minute ago, ready to save you from a miserable trip home. 

“What’s up?” He asks when he spots you. 

“It’s raining.” You tell him, nodding your head in the direction of the back door. “Didn’t bring an umbrella. Do you mind if I stick around for a bit, just ‘till it stops?” 

“Yeah, it’s no problem, I’ll be here finishing up for a while, anyway,” He says, then continues after a brief pause. “Y’know you really gotta stop relying on that iPhone weather app.”

You scoff, shaking your head at his teasing. 

“You know I’m too lazy to start using another one.”

“I’m just sayin’.” He pushes out of his chair and walks past you, into the kitchen, grabbing a sponge and the container of soap water he uses to clean the countertops. 

“You want help?” You offer, already taking off your coat and tossing it onto the office chair. 

“Nah, you already clocked out. Don’t worry about it.” He replies, not even looking up as he begins to scrub, but you pick up a sponge anyway and get to work on the counter behind him. 

You fall into a comfortable silence for a while after that, only broken by the sound of rough sponges scraping away at the grime and the faint patter of rain on the roof of the building, and part of you wishes you had more opportunities for this. More time spent with him, outside of the hustle and bustle of the restaurant, even if it’s spent cleaning. His presence has become something you’d rather not avoid, even if it makes your heart race; the unique scent of him on the coat you’ve borrowed is becoming familiar, comforting. 

“Glad it wasn’t busy today.” Your train of thought is interrupted by his sudden comment, but you quickly nod. 

“Practically a miracle, for a Friday.” You agree, hearing him chuckle behind you. 

“Didn’t need that shit today, anyways, not while I’m on,” He says. He was working the stovetop today, alongside Sydney, making an efficient team as they churned out dishes quicker than the customers could file in. It made your day a little easier, the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen while you savored the downtime granted by the slow day. 

“I’ve never tried your cooking,” You say offhandedly, but your words make him pause and look back at you, eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“Really?” He asks, and you nod. “You’ve worked here for months, though.” 

“I know.” You shrug. 

“How come?” 

That makes you stop scrubbing, turning slightly to look at him. 

“Think you know the answer to that one, chef.” You tease, before continuing to work. He huffs out a laugh, but keeps staring at your back while you scrub. 

“I could make you something.” He finally says, and it makes you truly stop, turning to face him fully. 

“Y’all just cleaned this whole kitchen.” Now it’s his turn to shrug. 

“I don’t mind.” You give him an incredulous look.

“I- If you think I’m gonna help you clean the stove and the plates again, you’re wrong.” Carmy just shakes his head, tossing his sponge back into the container of water and grabbing a few clean pans. 

“C’mon, I can’t have you walking around saying you’ve never tried the food at the restaurant you work at,” He says. “You like spaghetti?”

He’s casual in the way he asks, but you’re still standing by the counter, eyebrows raised in shock. Your mind is starting to race, the way it does every time you’re faced with food, but Carmy’s already pouring olive oil into a saucepan and brandishing his chef knife to chop an onion. 

You approach the stove he’s standing at carefully, like it might just burst into flames, and you can already smell the familiar scent of garlic and olive oil and god, he’s only been at it for a minute and it already smells like heaven in this kitchen. 

“Smell good?” 

“Yeah,” You practically breathe out. “Shit, smells amazing.” 

He smiles at that, a rare thing to see on his face. He’s thoughtful for a moment, before saying:

“This is, uh, Mikey’s recipe, actually.” 

Your eyes widen, a bit taken aback by his mention of his late brother. At least, his mention of Mikey to you. 

You’d learned about what happened to Michael just a few weeks after being hired, after having witnessed the heavy silence that overtook the room when he’d been mentioned, and asking Marcus after work what all that had been about. Since you received your explanation, you’ve tried to mind your own business when the melancholy that came with Michael’s memory returned, giving those who seemed to know him best room to process before getting back to work. 

Carmy’s never talked about Mikey to you directly; no one has. You’re not sure what to say. 

“Mikey, that’s… your brother, right?” You ask hesitantly, even if you already know the answer before Carmy nods. 

“Yeah. He used to run this place, before it was The Bear.” He tells you. 

“Before?” Your confusion and surprise seeps into your tone. “What was it before?”

“Still a restaurant, but, quick service. Italian sandwiches. We weren’t called The Bear, we were-“ He chuckles, caught up in reminiscing. “We were called The Original Beef of Chicagoland.” 

“No shit! This used to be The Beef?” He nods his confirmation and you’re instantly brought back, the memory faded like an old photo that’s been shoved into storage and forgotten. The only thing that wasn’t hard to recall was the sandwich you’d ordered, practically dripping with flavor, the exact kind of comfort food you’d needed that day.

“Been here before?” He asks.

“Yeah, I just- I didn’t recognise it.” You’d sat at a table across from the friend that dragged you to the slightly shabby establishment, silently relishing in the deliciousness of your food before the panic could set in, so enraptured by it you didn’t even care about the booming voice coming from behind a door that presumably led to the kitchen. Not even when the person it belonged to came out to the front and-

“Mikey, was he like, tall? Black hair?” You suddenly ask, gesturing how tall you’d remembered the man being, and now Carmy’s the one that’s confused. 

“Uh, yeah. You- you knew Mikey?” He sounds a little breathless when he asks, but you shake your head. 

“No, but when I came here before, he was still running the place, I guess. And just… loud as shit. Hard to ignore,” You look up and meet Carmy’s eyes. “Hard to forget.” 

You both share a laugh at that, at the memory of his brother that he loved, and that you barely even knew. 

“Yeah, that definitely sounds like him.” The sweet smile stays on his face as he chops and sautées, refusing to let you do more than start boiling the spaghetti for him. All you can do is watch the pasta and watch him as he navigates his brother’s recipe like it’s pure muscle memory. 

As much as you like to steal glances at him during opening prep, you don’t get to see as much of him during service hours. You’re just as busy working front-of-house, keeping people happy and keeping Richie off your ass, as he is while he’s trying to keep up on dishes. You don’t get a ton of chances to see him like this, in his element. He plates the finished spaghetti perfectly, in two bowls, so you know he won’t let you eat alone. 

Still, the anxiety in your stomach rises when you accept the fork Carmy hands you, and you can’t help but pause. He does, too, and you know he easily recognises the cause of your trepidation. 

“What’s up?” He asks, his voice gentle. You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the conflict in your mind, but you can’t stop yourself from saying it. 

“Do you… just, maybe have an idea of-“

“I have no clue how many calories are in this.” He answers your question before you can even ask it, and you can’t help but let out a breath of amusement — at yourself, at him for somehow knowing. 

It’s his gentle smile, one that lacks judgment or pity, that pushes you to finally swirl the spaghetti around your fork and take a bite and-

Oh my god. 

You can’t help the moan that escapes you during that first bite, ignoring Carmy’s chuckle at your slight dramatics. You can see why he’s hot shit in the restaurant world; the dish barely looked fancy or complicated when he’d made it, certainly not as complicated as anything on the menu, but somehow it tastes better than any pasta you’ve ever had. You would say you’re in disbelief, but you don’t pause long enough to think about anything but this, how amazing every flavor bursting on your tongue is.

Carmy finishes his pasta before you do, but he stands next to you till your bowl is empty, before taking it over to the dish pit and beginning to scrub down all the dishware he’d used. And you stand there for a second, staring at his back, unable to process all the emotion filling you as he washes your bowl. The bowl he let you get dirty, because he wanted you to be able to try his food. 

The utter warmth flooding your senses is almost overwhelming.

Then, despite your earlier protests, you pick up the sponge he abandoned earlier and get to scrubbing the stovetop down again. You ignore the few warm tears that escape your waterline in the process. 

You mindlessly follow Carmy around as he walks through each room, shutting off lights and locking the front entrance and office doors. When you inevitably make your way to the back exit, you push open the door only to find that it’s still raining, worse than it was hours ago. You can only sigh and lean your head against the doorway in defeat. 

“Need a ride?” Carmy offers easily. 

You think back to the frame that sits on the countertop out front, holding a slightly crumpled index card: “I love you, dude. Let it rip.” Words you’ve seen nearly every day since your first on the job; you just now realize they’re probably Michael’s.

It feels like too much. The letting you stick around, the pasta, the… everything. 

You nod anyways, accepting Carmy’s offer, letting him lead you to his car, and he lets you lead the way home.

[dev1lm4n]

lesson two: tease

ko-fi | series masterlist (5 out of 7)

pairing: porn star!joel miller x f!reader

summary: tension is on the rise between you and mr. miller. wicked fantasies hadn't posted for an entire month! desperate, you decided to get even more bold with your requests and he had no difficulty in complying.

word count: 4.8k

warnings: explicit (18+), set in 2013, pre-outbreak, age gap (joel in mid 30's and reader in early 20's), inexperienced but not dumb reader, blowjob, f masturbation, check umbrella warning on series masterlist

notes: tension is literally on the rise! the vase is about to crack, but tonight he decides to indulge. fellas if you enjoyed this do COMMENT, REBLOG or buy me a KO-FI ;) love y'all

Broad shoulders.

During the time when you simply saw Mr. Miller as a figure in your lewd fantasies, you knew that it was the roughness of his build that attracted you. There’s a certain market for it; for women and men alike who enjoyed those who're built like burly vikings straight out of a movie. Those who enjoy men with a slight plumpness on their front, those who salivate over their strong and reliable arms, those who strive to caress their calloused fingers and press kisses onto their rigid knuckles. You’ve never confessed this to anyone - mostly terrified for their reserved judgment over the topic - but you fit perfectly in that box. Time after time, you wonder if it’d feel nice, if you could just press your nifty fingers into the coils of his muscles, if he’d let out a groan.. a moan perhaps from the sensation.

Rough fingers.

After spending two minutes staring intensely at his sturdy, slightly hunched build, you finally gathered enough courage to summon yourself into the kitchen. God, he looked so good just washing the dishes. His already calloused fingers didn’t have to worry about the damage those cheap dish soap does, because if anything, it’d just make it better. More ridges means more texture and more texture feels better. Two of his fingers entered the soapy lining of his mug, spreading the cleaning product into every crack and crevice. It looks a little erotic, you decided. Your filthy mind conjured up altered scenarios which implemented the same motion. You’d be on top of the cold countertop, various kitchen gadgets set aside as his fingers delved into your cunt. He’d spread your wetness the same way he did to the mug.

Thick mustache.

He took notice of your presence. He watched you and you allowed him, even if he did so wordlessly. Water continued to spill out of the faucet. It hit the empty bottom of the sink and sprouted upwards in a gauche manner, effectively wetting his gray shirt in blotches and dots. You breathed out what could pass as a dry chuckle and in return, he quirked his lips. A grin. A youthful one that almost made you forget of his crow’s feet and faint lines. His thin upper lip almost disappeared as it was tugged on both sides, but the dark hair on top remained pristine. It was thick, you concluded. Not as thick as Uncle Tommy’s, but thick enough that he’d get marinara sauce on it every pasta night. Thick enough that you wonder what it’d be like to have it graze your sensitive pelvis.

Fuck, he’s hot and you’re unreasonably horny.

“Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he parroted back, only with the help of that damned nickname he’s stamped onto you.

Crunch

You bit into the red apple you found during your little scavenging trip into his refrigerator. The sound broke whatever trance he had placed you under. With those eyes of yours, pupils rounded and lashes batted, it was a dangerous game you’re playing. When had you gotten so shameless towards Mr. Miller? Perhaps it’s when he touched you in an irrevocably pleasurable way, or perhaps it’s when he hadn’t posted a video for an entire month. He missed his posting schedule, two whole weeks post-’Dirty Fridays’, and it’s severely messing with your head. You’ve always been a good viewer. Always being content with what he had put out and would never harass him for more, but it’s been a long month repeating the same 13 minute long video.

You’re bound to get restless.

“Didn’t see you come home yesterday.”

“I was busy.”

Crunch

With other girls? In that trailer studio of yours? The question sat on the tip of your tongue. A breath away from being exposed into the dense air. You turned to lean your lower back onto the edge of the countertop, eyes still trained on his as you hitched yourself atop the smooth surface. Your fingers grazed the squared edges, just to keep you occupied while you dug under the surface of his browns. You wondered what he was so busy with - wondered what’s going on behind the tightly knitted cloak of guise he wore, wondered what he thought of you after his little lesson. He wasn’t a shy one. Mr. Miller stared back into your pupils. His chest raised and lowered with every blink he took.

You swallowed nervously.

“Workin’ doubles,” he cracked. “I ain’t sharin’ the job with anyone other than Tommy.”

“Is that so?”

“You think I’m lyin’?”

Crunch

You couldn’t read him. You’ve never been able to. There’s just a huge boulder sitting behind those irises, one that’s blocking you from understanding him even further. It’s not like it’s your business anyway. You’re content with spending your downtime with Sarah; screaming your hearts out to Taylor Swift’s I Knew You Were Trouble on the radio, painting each others’ nails, and making the ultimate pancake with chicken. You’re content with just watching him through his videos, reimagining those situations with the new knowledge you’ve acquired from him. You’re content with standing at a distance from him. So, it wouldn’t be logical to get all protective over him. What are you? His crazy ex-girlfriend?

“How’s Sarah?”

“Great,” you mumbled, mouth still half full. “Taught her fractions yesterday. Swear she’s getting smarter than me.”

“How’s Simon?”

Crunch

Things with Simon, surprisingly, went on smoothly. After that mediocre dinner, where you proceed to let Mr. Miller finger you afterwards in order to introduce you to the new world of sex, you’ve exchanged a few messages and a few perfectly appropriate photos. It’s been awhile since you actually put any effort into trying to get into a relationship, due to work loads and a special dependance towards a pornstar, but it’s much better than you expected. He’s a nice boy. He would treat you right if you gave him the chance to, but you couldn’t help but think that you’re doing all this out of spite. Doing this to show off how capable you are to Mr. Miller, to busy yourself off those plaguing thoughts of him.

“Simon’s doing okay. Fine. He took me for ice cream after my classes yesterday.”

“Offered you a ride, right?”

“Yup.”

He taught you well.

“You’ve done it with him then?”

Your heart clenched.

“Done what?”

“What I taught you.”

Why is he so candid about the entire ordeal?

It was like being held at gunpoint. You watched his eyes, then found it to be too oppressive so you looked down to meet his wet hands. He had finished washing all the plates and cutleries from the breakfast you and Sarah made, though his thick fingers still gripped onto the edge of the metal sink, wet and dripping. You looked up once again, trying to find a part of him that doesn’t make you all jittery and awkward.

“Yes.”

Your lie must’ve been undetectable since you quickly caught on to how his brows tangled and unraveled, a habit of his you’ve picked up recently, signaling that he’s processing the information and giving it a good thought.

“Was it as good?”

Crunch

You nodded surely with a mouthful of tangy apple. There’s no way you could get away with lying so blatantly the second time so you decide the nod would affirm your position better instead of scramble it. He cocked his head to the side, arrogant as always, with some sort of interest in his eyes. You could just tell something foul was about to come out of those sharp tongue of his, when all of a sudden, a clatter sounded out from beyond the window. Both of you turned your heads in sync, following after where the presumable source was. There he was. Tommy in all of his youthful glory. One of his jean legs drenched and beside him was a metal bucket, laying pitifully with its contents poured out onto the sidewalk. He was cursing. A garbled mess of English, while he soothed his pained arse.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He let out a sigh as he finally tore his gaze away from you to wipe his hands onto a kitchen rag.

“Gotta get goin’,” he whispered hurriedly, fingers running down his messy hair to smooth them down. “You need anything, sweetheart?”

You shook your head no and he took it as a cue to leave the premises. He rushed to pick up his phone from the dining room table, eyes fleeting to find his wallet right after.

“Hey, Mr. Miller.”

He turned his head to meet your eyes.

“You busy tonight?”

Dinner had always been a lonesome affair for you.

Back when you still live in your parents’ cluttered mishmash of a house, you’d always opt out of family dinner. Not because you weren’t particularly fond of your mother’s cooking, her one pot recipes will still remain nostalgic in your head despite time, but more because you’d rather not indulge in petty arguments. They’d always argue. Your mother would flash you that look of hers, silently demanding you to stay on her side when it comes to dealing with your father’s frequent misdemeanors. He’d complain about the tiniest bits of things. If the lettuce was too wilted or if you were wearing too much makeup. He’s an ass, sure, but it’s not like your mother’s planning to abandon him anytime soon. They’re conjoined at this point. Even when it’s massively unhealthy, especially for spectators like you.

In Mr. Miller’s home, oftentimes, you’d put together an edible meal for the entire family. Mr. Miller was a hard worker, according to the accounts that he made, so it’s not rare that you’d have to fry up sausages and whip mashed potatoes together for Sarah. It’s not as if he made it your responsibility. He’d encourage the two of you to order take outs or phone in the pizza place, but that couldn’t be good for Sarah’s growth or his own pocket. And as much as you’d like to deny it, you’re growing way too fond of the Millers.

But it’s been far too long since you crossed path with Mr. Miller. Far too long that you might’ve forgotten what his natural musk after a long day smelt like. Far too long that you might’ve forgotten how heavy his boots were as it dragged across the tiles. Far too long that you surely misses him.

You’re nervous.

Unreasonably so when the promise you’ve made with him was simply for dinner. Nothing less or more. Just dinner. Was the invitation you gave him.. too much? Was it too flirty? Was it silly to think that he might’ve entertained the little show you put out? The desperate stares and chewed lips, you’re undeniably begging for attention. Begging for him to pay attention to you, see what you’re made out of, doesn’t he want to unravel you more? The audacity you have was laughable.

How pathetic, you thought. 

Just like clockwork, Mr. Miller showed up right after your self-deprecating cycle. Right after all that flirty and playful energy got brutally murdered by common sense. Right after they were buried in a graveyard of mistakes and what was left was simply the putrid scent of shame. Your head perked up expectantly. As if the mere sight of him in his work uniform,  a combo of worn-out flannel shirts and dark-washed jeans, would cure you of exhaustion. Mr. Miller came barging into the hallway. His thumb and index finger diligently massaged the tall bridge of his nose, eyes closed and nose flared from breathing too hard. Your eyes finally made its rounds to where his free arm was propped up on his waist. Sleeves rolled to where it was physically impossible to roll them higher.

He didn’t look like he was in the best of moods.

And somehow.. somehow it excites you.

“Hi, how are you?” you spoke stiffly as if you’re one of those supermarket cashiers, posture straightening upon his arrival.

“Not good,” he replied gruffly.

Mr. Miller made his way to you. He appeared to be the same height and stature as he’s always been, but for whatever reason, he looked a lot larger. As if he could bite and tear you into chunks of flesh if he truly desired to. His movements were staggered. Each step seemed to be more and more of a hassle to him. He had this.. frown on his face. You could even call it a scowl. Forehead waved with folds of worries, lips tightened into an irritated pull as he finally settled down across from you. This new side to him made your limbs limp and your heart spasm. A squeeze each time his narrowed eyes met yours.

“Everything.. okay?” you mused out.

“Just a bunch of shit piling up,” he reasoned, looking down to meet the plate you carefully crafted for him. “Nothin’ to worry your pretty little head.”

The plate’s cold, boiled asparagus hardened and packaged chicken dried, but he didn’t even consider complaining. His brown eyes took in the effort you gave, a brief sheen of guilt glazing those pretty eyes of his before he picked up his fork and spoon. You watched him with care. His every move calculated and drilled deep into your head.

“Sarah asleep?”

“Mhm. I bored her to death with trigonometry,” you chuckled lightly. “She’s okay. Just.. she’s been asking for you. Asking me why you’re always home late.”

Joel’s eyes perked up from the plate. He met your eyes, but it almost felt like he’s looking right through you, over your head to where he could contemplate his decisions. You knew this just from looking, but Joel Miller had a fear of not being a good parental figure. Sarah only had one and he’s barely ever home. That sort of thought festered over him and took over any sort of inhibition. Any sort of clear thinking, that he’s doing all these side jobs to help support her further in life, that it was all for her. Mr. Miller beats himself up too much, but it’s not like you had any right to intervene. You watched as he indulged in the asparagus, seeing how it’s grown cold enough to feel like metal rods when bitten into. He chewed on it with a solemn expression, a curl between his brows.

“Sorry for putting you through this, sweetheart,” he hummed. “I could.. should actually hire help.”

You waited a beat.

“You’ve been doing me too much favor. It’s not.. right.”

“Don’t need to.”

“Why?”

“Always happy to help.”

“But-”

“It’ll cost you too much for help. You’d be sleeping at your job if that happens.”

He could easily earn up to thousands if he gave into the temptations and started working for a mainstream adult film company. One that’s easily recognized from its corny storylines and cringy high-pitched over-the-top moans. Mr. Miller would be a hit, you’re sure of that. Mainstream porn only requires two things when it comes to male actors: a pretty reasonably-sized cock and charisma. Both in which he had under his belt. If he weren’t so particular with the actresses he chose, the angles in which he filmed, and the routine in which he performed in, perhaps he wouldn’t have to beat himself up to skin and bones. You leaned your cheeks onto the palm of your hands as you watched him devour his dinner.

“I need a favor.”

His fork paused.

“But you- well, you’ll laugh.”

He looked up. The crinkles beside his eyes seemed a lot more prominent, as if he’s thoroughly entertained by your youthful silliness.

“What is it? Somethin’ for Simon is it?”

He’s spot on and it’s making you shrink.

“What?” he chuckled gruffly. “You gonna ask me to teach ya how to blow a guy? Oh.. or how to hang him up in ribbons?”

You looked away, awkwardly scratching your elbow.

“Fuck. I’m spot on, am I? Didn’t take you for a kinky gal.”

“No! God, no,” you looked at him, horrified. “Not the latter.”

“The former then?”

“The former.”

The former. You couldn’t bear to wait for his delayed answer. It’s shameless for you to be asking a second time, but you couldn’t help yourself. You’re pent-up, desperate, and he’s your porn star crush forfuckssake. You stood up from where you’re seated. Your gaze was averted completely, to the point where it’s tilted at an uncomfortable angle to shuffle away from his attention. It’s better to sleep it off. Then maybe you’d act like all this didn’t happen the next day. Sarah’s going to be around for breakfast, so he’d surely keep his mouth in check and draw his way out of this. Wouldn’t he.. would he-

“Hey, hey slow down.”

You felt a hand stop you. His grip was tight, possibly bruising if you were to retaliate any other way. It was still hard to meet his eyes, especially when you had to make the special effort to tilt your head up in order to meet his searing gaze. You waited instead, letting him hinder you of any movements as you stared intensely into his flannel-cladded chest. What was he going to say? Is he going to call you up for your perverseness? Was he-

“I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“I said I’ll do it.”

His voice clambered in the chambers of your heart. Masculine, thick with an inch of Southern bass, he took hold of your other hand with those thick fingers of his. This was different from your first lesson. He looked much more.. impatient. A bit of a rough edge when it comes to handling you, a pretty little thing that’s too brave and forward for your own good. His scent, fragments of wood and a taste of clean laundry, permeated the thick air around you. You inhaled him. All of him for the first time in a very very long week. He released the steel grip he had around your wrists and traced it over the rough outline of your body. Up, up, up, until he reached the span of your shoulder. Your breath hitched. All you could feel in your heart was a repeating desire for himhimhim.

He pushed you down slowly, guiding you to lower yourself before him. Right until your knees hit the freezing linoleum tiles beneath his feet. What were you doing? Is it the right decision to fall back into the same old mistake?

“Have you ever practiced on anything before?” he chuckled, almost demeaning in a sense. “A banana or a hairbrush perhaps?”

You shook your head no. All you could see was his dirty jeans, stained of dry concrete and paint.

He brought his rough fingers down to graze against your chin, tilting it upwards so that you’d face him. His eyes were dark, hooded, and trying its best to conceal its obvious amusement. Your chest heaved up and down. Nervous of what he’s about to do next.

“Let’s practice first, ‘kay, sweetheart?” he muttered.

Mr. Miller brought his other pair of fingers next to your face, cradling it with such reverence. He swiped your lips. Bottom then top, only to delve inside your mouth to wet it with enough lubricant. He’s initiating it. His little routine. The older man brought two of his fingers, his index and middle, before he inserted it slowly into your wet cavity. Slowly. Achingly slow. He made sure that you’re comfortable with just a knuckle deep before he proceeded to push in further until the tips sat at the very beginning of your tongue. It wasn’t a familiar feeling like rubbing your clit. You struggle not to gag, or to whimper at the sheer lewdness of the scene unfolding.

“Ah, what a smart girl,” he mused. “Lay your tongue flat for me.”

Your clammy palms fell helplessly atop your smooth pajama pants, gripping on the cotton everytime it felt like too much. His thick fingers separated to make the girth much larger, preparing you for what’s to come. It’s almost as if you could taste him. Taste the natural scent Mr. Miller has around him at all times, taste the carnal desire he held for this. You knew he wouldn’t openly admit it, but this time, it truly looked like he’s looking forward to ripping your innocence away. All his feigned affection stretched thin as you obeyed him perfectly. Tongue flat on the base of your mouth, you breathed in through your nose as best as you can.

“That boy wouldn’t like it if you’re sharp with your teeth,” he muttered as he pulled his fingers away. A string of saliva connected the tip of his wet fingers to your slacked jaw. Oh, how vulgar. Your tight entrance twitched and throbbed inside your panties. Arousal started to wet the thin material, painting dark circles that contrast with the bright color. You were heaving, panting from the sudden increase of oxygen. “So no teeth, keep your tongue flat, and breathe through your nose.”

“You got that, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, who?”

“Yes, Mr. Miller.”

“Alright. Would you like me to take my pants off or do you wanna try it yourself?”

You looked up at the tempting prospect. He gave you a little nod, affirming that you indeed had the upper hand to the situation. And just like that your hands were quick to get on the perimeter of his belt. You loosened the leather from its metal confines, slowly pulling it away from the hook before leaving it. The leather hung from where his two front loops were located. Meekly, you looked up once more as your soft fingers felt his buttons up. He hissed through his pursed lips, a good reaction you assume, as you slowly unbuttoned the main button. You were confident enough now to tug away at his zippers. Step one was completed, you’ve successfully opened him up like a Christmas present.

But.. what’s next?

“What do I do next?”

“What do you think you do?”

You reached out for the waistband of his briefs, but you were quickly met with a little slap on the back of your hand. Not a hurtful one. Just a little reminder.

“It’s best if you get him worked up first so he’s fully hard when you’re ready,” he whispered. “Why don’t you press some gentle kisses on it?”

You hummed in agreement, before you did as you’re told. Even with the dim lighting of the dining room, you could see clearly where the outline of his cock is. It’s semi-erected, you deduced. You’ve seen him in all his glory to the point where you could calculate how much more he could grow. Gently, you closed the gap between you and those pair of briefs he’s wearing. Your mouth was hot and warm in contrast to the cold air, so when you finally pressed a kiss on top of his clothed shaft, his cock twitched immediately. You could feel it and see it too in certain lighting. Encouraged, you press even more kisses on each and every spot, slowly building up the desire until you reach the leaking tip. You nuzzled your nose close. It smelled like him, salty with a tinge of masculine musk.

This turned you on so much that you inevitably grinded your bottom towards the cold tile. Nothing was there to satiate your throbbing core, just a short term burst of pleasure.

“Shit, sweetie,” he hissed. “I think you’re ready.”

With haste, you quickly tugged on his waistband. You didn’t expect for his length to pop out that quickly, the startled reaction you had was proof of that. He looked.. pretty. Blushed beige with a ruddy tip that's covered. It’s a little silly that that’s the first thing that came to your mind, but it’s the truth. You’d never guess that you could get this up close. Eye level to the cock you’ve been fantasizing about, where you could practically see each and every one of his veins. You didn’t say one word. Instead, you settled on observing the new interest. Your one finger went up curiously to touch the white substance that’s pooling up top. Sticky, you thought. Out of curiosity, you stuck the lone finger down your throat. Salty was the next thought in line.

“Didn’t expect you to taste it,” he chuckled.

You simmered in the sudden embarrassment.

“What’s next? Should I just put it in my mouth?”

“You could.”

“There’s another way?” you peered up curiously.

“Well,” he hummed. You watched as his finger pried your lips open once more, urging you to stick out your wet tongue. “You could make a show out of it. Look me in the eye and lick me slowly.”

You quirked your eyebrows as if unsure if this will work. You’ve never taken yourself as a ‘sexy’ person. Will this even work? To get rid of those plaguing thoughts, you decided to take a leap of faith. You stuck your tongue out more and slowwwwly dragged it along his salty length. You made sure to keep your eyes on his, watching his every micro reaction to decide which one pleased him more. This is supposed to be about Simon! Why are you.. seeking for his validation? On instinct, you pulled the hooded skin back to reveal his furiously red tip. You laughed nervously before you experimentally sucked on it. The wet warmth instantly had him buck up into you, a strained groan following suit. 

“Oh shit,” he cursed. “You’re doing good.”

Getting confident, you decided to suckle on it a little more. It tasted a lot more intense than what you’ve tasted of him, but it wasn’t bad at all.

“You think you could take more, sweetheart?”

You nodded before letting his length infiltrate your mouth even more. The end touched the back of your throat ambitiously before you had to pull back and set yourself onto his sensitive tip once more. It wasn’t as easy as his co-stars are making it seem. There was a rhythm in which you have to master, a balance of push and pull so that you don’t gag at the intrusion. His soft groans were heavenly. You didn’t get to hear much of it the first time around, but now it’s all you could think of. You can’t take it anymore! You just had to touch yourself.

“Shit, you’re a dirty gal, are ya?” he chuckled. “Had to touch yourself to this?”

You cried out a muffled moan. It was all too familiar. The way in which you slipped your hand into your pants, shuffling between the layers of panties to rub at your clit. You were already drenched with need. Strings of arousal webbed between your fingers as you rubbed figure eights all across the sensitive patch of nerves. You’re losing track of the rhythm and Mr. Miller took notice of that. He was kind enough to lead you. His fingers slotted perfectly behind the crown of your head, guiding you in a pace you could tolerate.

“Perfect mouth for little Simon,” he degraded.

Mr. Miller’s large hands continued to move you at a certain pace. The time slot left for you to gather your breath tightened and it’s almost like you could pass out from the lack of oxygen. But it felt too good. He tasted too nice. You’ve got his cock in your mouth and it’s spurting out tangy liquid goodness onto your tongue, what else can you ask for? 

You continued to grind onto the palm of your hand, desperate enough to not think of how shameless you looked. So slick, your fingers let out a lewd pop everytime it dipped inside of you. Usually you weren’t fond of vaginal penetration by yourself, but the thought of having his cock inside of you left you rabid. This was supposed to be about Simon, is it not?

“You wanna know what a real man tastes like?” he mused out lazily.

You nodded desperately. Mr. Miller held your head tight against his pelvis. Your nose grazed against the coarse dark curls he had as he twitched inside of you. You continued to slick the pads of your fingers against yourself. An entire week of masturbation being combined into one as you felt that familiar pressure build in your stomach. A coil waiting to be snapped.

“Sh- shit.”

Mr. Miller broke first. He hunched slightly as he rode his orgasm out. You could see how his legs trembled and his hips bucked himself even further down your throat. 

There it was. The salty trace you tried earlier came in big spurts down your throat, only when you couldn’t fit more did it start seeping out your mouth. It dribbled down the gaps between his softened cock and your aching mouth, stripes of white just trickling down vulgarly. You moaned into his cock, wetting the flimsy material of your panties. A combination of the scent his cock gave to the familiar rubs to your clit had you seeing stars. You knew for a fact that the linoleum tiles would be soaked with your juices when you come up to your feets. 

This isn’t a problem anymore, it’s a catastrophe.

[luveline]

Lovely Jade maybe you could write something about Roan finding a kitten on the street and hiding it in her backpack

🧡.

thank you so much for your request! eddie and roan —roan's acting suspicious. you and eddie investigate. stepmom!reader, 1.5k.

Roan comes in through the front door with a sweet smile. Living in your cul-de-sac has meant you don't mind too much if she wants to go out to play alone, where before Eddie would insist on sitting on the porch of the trailer, worried someone would come barrelling down the road seventy miles an hour. 

"Hi, princess," you say, leaning down with your arms propped on the counter. You're putting the finishing touches on a drawing using the sunshine. Nothing special, just a sketch for fun. 

"Hey, mommy." 

You preen at the title. Being a stepmom is awesome, especially when she feels comfortable enough to call you mom. "Is it home time for Georgia?" 

"Yeah, she's gone home for dinner." 

"Are you hungry? Daddy's still at Uncle Gareth's, so I'm in charge of food."

You turn around when you get no answer, waving your pencil at an empty kitchen. "Roan?" 

"I'm coming back!" She shouts from the top of the stairs. 

You raise your eyebrows. "Okay!" you shout back. "I get to choose dinner, then? What's that, you want chicken pot pie?" You smile. Eddie loves chicken pot pie, especially when you make it. 

You put your sketchbook and pencil case on the kitchen table and spray down the countertops. The motions of cooking are well worn now; you know how to make every recipe for two and a half people. You wash your hands, grab the canned puff pastry, and get to work. 

Roan appears again as you're spreading a little bit of flour over the counter, running to the sink. She kicks her stepping stool to the counter and climbs up to wash her hands. She looks cagey.

"Anything I should know about?" you ask.

Roan squirts dish detergent into her palm, strawberry scented rivulets running between her little fingers before she's had time to rub it in. You set aside your rolling pin and pick up the soap to put a small dollop of it in her other hand.

"Say?" you ask, stroking her bedraggled hair away from her face. 

"Nothing for you to know about." 

You turn her head to yours, water spitting at your shirts as she washes her hands hurriedly. "Hey." You frown, gaze narrowing on a bloody scratch that's caught the bottom of her right cheek. "Aw, bubby, what happened?" 

"It doesn't hurt," Roan says flippantly. 

"You're gonna have to let me wipe it clean, still. Okay?" 

"Yeah, mommy. Whatever you want." 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip to tamp down an embarrassingly huge smile. "Okay. Good girl on the hand washing, you gonna help me make dinner, huh?" You kiss the top of her head. "I'm so lucky, my girl's so helpful." 

"Can I go get changed first?" she asks. 

"Yeah, bub. Want help?" 

"No!" she shouts hopping down off of stool. She'll probably have to wash her hands again when she returns, but you're too happy to care. She's gorgeous, she's a sweetheart, and she loves you like a mom. 

You turn back to the pastry and roll out the bottom of the pie. You'll refrigerate it while you make the chicken filling and the roux. Which one to make first? You might have done things in the wrong order. 

"Ro, are you almost done?" you shout, blinking back to attention. "Let me look at that scratch, babe!"

Arms around your waist. You thought you heard the door. 

"What scratch?" Eddie asks, dipping his face down to the juncture of your neck, where he plants a warm kiss. 

"On her cheek. I let her go out with Georgia, I hope that's okay. Only in our street." 

"That's okay," he assures you. He hugs you with kind arms, not squeezing like he tends to, completely and utterly loving. You can't hug him while your hands are covered in flour, leaning back instead to soak in all his affection. "What's the scratch from?" 

"Yet to be determined." 

Eddie hums and holds you. You cave in to dirtying him, painting his forearm with white fingerprints as you hug it to your ribs. You let your head flop back, tickled by his exhales where they kiss your neck. 

You and Eddie stand there in quiet bliss. Then, from upstairs, you hear a strange sound.

"Is Roan back in her cat phase?" 

Eddie tilts his head away from you. His hand retreats from your abdomen where it'd been resting, braced on your hips. "Ro…" He groans. "Not again." 

"Eddie?" 

He takes your hand. "She has a cat in her room." 

The meows become clearer the further Eddie leads you up the stairs. You wipe as much of the flour on your hands onto your pyjama pants as you can, but it's a mess. Eddie can't complain —how often does he get car grease on you? 

"Roan Ayla Munson," Eddie says through the closed door. "I better not find anything in there that I'm not supposed to."

You startle at the use of her middle name. You didn't even know Roan had a middle name until a couple of months ago; you always thought Eddie skipped giving her one. Apparently he thought Ayla was the same as Aella, an Amazonian fighter who wielded twin axes. Ayla, in contrast, means a few things. Bringer of light, in Finnish. Circle of light around the moon, in Turkish. Oak tree, in original Hebrew. You love all three definitions, but bringer of light feels most accurate. 

Bringer of cats might be more astute at the moment.

"I don't have anything, daddy!" 

Meow. 

"I think you're lying to me. Last chance, bubby." 

A vehement shushing noise, a meow, and a defeated sigh sound through the door. Weight hits the floor, footsteps creeping closer. You and Eddie wait in apparently very different moods for her to open the door. 

Roan holds a wriggling kitten in her small hands. She's wearing a nightgown over her sweatpants like she'd started changing and forgotten. Her arms are covered in red scratches. The kitten yowls when it sees you and Eddie, likely finding you both to be more intimidating than your poor girl.

"Oh, babe," you fret breathlessly, "Eddie, take the cat." 

"Dad–" Roan starts. 

"Look at your arms," he interrupts with a tandem worry, taking the kitten from her.

You pick Roan up with ease, careful not to touch her pale arms. She tries to explain herself as you carry her down the stairs, "I found her behind Old Man Michael's house, she looked so sad and you said we should be nice to everything we meet, even if we don't like the way they look," she says. 

"I meant about spiders and ants and stuff," Eddie says, holding the angry cat in front of his chest cautiously. "You know, we don't have to kill little creatures if we don't have to. I didn't mean you should kidnap kittens." 

"She looked hungry." 

You put Roan on the clean bit of counter between the stove and the sink and frown at her arms. "Sweetheart," you murmur sympathetically, "don't these hurt?" 

"Well, I…" 

You shoot Eddie a look. He stares the kitten in the eyes rather than meet your own, seemingly distracted. Fine, you'll try parent by yourself, even if you're no expert yet. 

"What?" you ask patiently. 

"I was hiding her in my backpack, but she didn't like it. She thinks it's too small." 

"I bet so." You're thinking, Eddie, what are we gonna do? And, Ouch, these are going to hurt. "Ro, is this how you got the scratch on your cheek? You're lucky he didn't scratch you in the eye." 

"I think he's a girl," Roan says. 

This is less important to you than the scratches, but you amend yourself anyways. "She could've blinded you." 

"I think you're in trouble, Ro. We already talked about this before, didn't we? No stray cats in the house," Eddie says.

"I already told you, dad! Rufus and Steve let themselves in, I didn't used to do that." 

You wash your hands swiftly and grab the first aid kit from under the sink, pulling out the blue disinfectant spray that Roan hates. She winces at the sight of it as you expected, pulling her arms against her tummy. 

"It won't hurt anymore than the scratches did when the kitten did them," you say gently.

Roan shakes her head. 

You put the disinfectant between her knees and lean in. "I'll make daddy make cookies, yeah? You be brave and let me clean your scratches and we'll have warm cookies and ice cream."

Eddie breaks out of his stare off, taken aback. "It's her own fault," he says, though he's smiling. 

"She was trying to do a good thing. And look at her little arms, Eds, hasn't she been punished enough?" you ask. 

The kitten kicks its legs weakly. "What the heck are we gonna do with her?" Eddie asks. 

"We could keep her," Roan says. 

"Don't push your luck, Roro." 

You lift the disinfectant spray. Roan seems apprehensive still, so you look her head on and wink. "I'll try my best," you whisper.

Roan holds out her arms with a grin.

[bobochen-3344-blog]

Ceramic Self Draining Golden Thunder Soap Dish Holder Love Wedding For Hotel Shower Bathroom Kitchen Bath Easy Clean Dry Extend Soap Life https://foreverceramic.com/product/ceramic-self-draining-golden-thunder-soap-dish-holder-love-wedding-for-hotel-shower-bathroom-kitchen-bath-easy-clean-dry-extend-soap-life/

[syrma-sensei]

→ Different World, Different Words.

gif credit.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!reader.

Rating: Explicit.

Warnings: Soldier Boy's pov, Ben's being a fluffy yet dirty bastard, ben's being smitten with you, domestic fluff, dirty talk, fingering, size kink if you squint, swearing a lot of swearing, doesn't necessarily follow the canon plotline.

Word Count: 866.

Summary: Ben's trying to fit in this fucked-up, new world.

“So it means a pussy.”

“For the millionth time, Ben, No!”

He shakes his head, unconvinced, “A man who does the most motherfucking cringey stuff to impress a chick. In my times we were used to call him a pussy.”

Ben puts the dish he just rinsed in the drying rack then takes the plate full of soap she just washed. The topic of modern slang was brought up at the dinner table a few minutes ago, when Ben was trying to literally impress her how adaptive and quick he is.

This time she's the one to shake her head, biting adorably on her lower lip, “Well, yeah but—” She snaps her head to the side to look at him. He's huge compared to her, almost covering the entire sink with his figure. A wide smile on her face, “Wait a minute, did you just say cringey.”

“Yeah, so?” He glances at her from the corner of his green eyes. He could've sworn he saw pride in her eyes. His heart skips.

“Where did you learn that from?” She asks teasingly, proceeding with doing the rest of the dishes.

“Urban dictionary.” She makes a snoring sound, and his eyebrows knit in confusion, “What? That whining cum-guzzler told me about it.”

She wiggles her eyebrows, lips puckering up amusedly, and he feels wildly tempted to crash them with his lips.

“Oh, poor Hughie, must've been fed up with your pussy this and pussy that.” She lets out a giggle, “Can't blame him tho. The things come out of that tongue of yours can be so gross sometimes.”

“Diffrent times, different words.” He says, “Still don't make sense to me.”

Ben then raises an eyebrow, watching her drying her hands with a towel when she's done, he follows her when he is too. He hums playfully, lips curling up into a mischievous grin. “Hmh, last time I checked, you liked the things I do with this tongue of mine.”

A deep crimson colour smudges her cheeks, she looks at him with adorable, upset face. “Well, yeah, it has some perks.”

“Oh, yeah?” With his strong arms, he lifts her effortlessly up to the countertop. Her face meets his, her cheeks are still red despite everything. “How about going to bed...” He pecks her lips, once, twice. “and let me fuck this pretty pussy nice and slow,” In a matter of seconds she's chasing his lips for more, “and show you the wonders my tongue is capable of.” He caves in to her want and gives her a kiss. Long and devouring, his tongue is already in her mouth, exploring and tasting, and swallowing her moans.

“Oh, God.” She breathes against his lips, “Ben I can barely walk thanks to last night's fucking. I don't have your fucking supe stamina.” She keeps on kissing him, nevertheless. Nibbling and sucking on his lower lip in such a teasing way, while her small hands cup his bearded cheeks.

Ben groans deeply, burying his face in her neck. “You don't have to do anything, just take what I give you.” His hand slides in between their frames to find her clothed clit. He smirks, filthy little slut; the thin layer of her panties is practically drenched. “Oh, baby, sure you don't wanna let me fuck you dumb tonight too?”

She lets out a pathetic moan when his fingertip presses to her erected clit. She holds onto his strong biceps for support as he proceeds taunting her, “Hmh, bet you can't wait to squeeze my cock empty in your fucking slutty pussy.”

“Ah, Ben, p-please...!” She whimpers, hips rolling against his fingers for more fraction.

“Shhh, I got you.” With one firm move, Ben rips her panties away.

“Ben!” She chides, “Quit doing that to my clothes!”

He fakes a sympathized hum before he buries two fingers in her cunt. “I'll buy you new ones.” A devious grin adorns his mouth, “Though you don't need any around me.”

With half-lidded eyes, she glares at him. And his heart swoons at the cute, angry face she's giving him. “God, you're the worst.” She huffs and kisses him furiously. A deep chuckle rumbles within his chest, his fingers curl and twist inside of her drawers, her arousal glistening wet on his knuckles.

“Ben, fuck!” Her thighs squeeze shut on his fingers when shivers her orgasm out. “Fuck, Ben, st-stop it's too much!” She begs him as he fucks her through her high.

She rests her forehead on his chest when he pulls out. “You're a dick.” Her voice is muffled by his shirt.

He laughs amusedly, “Though you like it.”

“I like your dick, not you being one.” She gazes up at him, giggling. “You just enjoy fucking me up.”

“Yes, I do.” He says, a brutal grin on his lips, “I love ruining you.”

She roughly pushes him away with her foot on his chest, he raises an eyebrow at her as she jumps onto the floor, still quivering from her orgasm.

She glances at his bewildered face over her shoulder, giving him a wink, “Then stick to your words and ruin me in bed, tiger.”

Ben follows her with a wolfish grin on his face.

🦅 The Boys Masterlist.

🦅 AO3.

[ohworm-writes]

「✰」 ━━ SECRET SANTA

PAIRING John Price x fem!reader (?) x Simon "Ghost" Riley

RATING R - Restricted [Content warnings: 18+ mdni, personalized fic (reader name provided and utilitzed), f!sub!reader, dom!Price, dom!Ghost, polyship, polyamorous relationship dynamics, the icing is supposed to look like cum... I don't know what else to tell you, minimal cursing, nipple play, brief fingering]

SYNOPSIS My submission for @bunnyreaper's organized secret santa event for @bookobsessedram. I do genuinely hope that you enjoy it, Aqua - I was super excited to get you, and it was a challenge to keep my mouth shut throughout the entirety of this event because I was so excited. Hope you enjoy!

WORD COUNT 2.3k

The icing packet feels cool in your hands, both held steady as you carefully squeeze it, applying just enough pressure that a steady stream of white pushes out. The vanilla icing drags carefully along the surface of the shortbread cookie, the line you’re focused on making as straight as it can be, the task more difficult than it looks.

Your teeth gently bite down onto your tongue as it protrudes from your mouth, eyes narrowed into a concentrated glare, focused solely on the task at hand - icing the cookies you had brought out of the oven a little over fifteen minutes ago, give or take. The process takes a considerable amount of patience and focus, both of which you have an abundance of.

The same can’t exactly be said for your boyfriends.

“C’mon, Em, leave the rest for the mornin’.” Simon huffs out, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his head cocked to the side, lifted barely an inch above his shoulder as he watches you from his place behind you leaned against the kitchen countertop beside the sink. His voice is rough, gravely, a twang of lighthearted, faux  annoyance present and he urges you to give it a rest.

He’s dressed in a loose, baggy black t-shirt with joggers to match, blond strands of hair messy and tousled, courtesy of the time he’s spent all day running around buying last-minutes ingredients for you. It doesn’t bother him in the slightest, though - especially not when it means he’ll be able to enjoy the treats alongside you and John once they’re complete. 

Speaking of, the captain in question lets out a low hum, agreeing with Simon’s comment.

“He’s right, love. You’ve been at it all day. You can pick it back up in the mornin’, yeah?”

He encourages, trying a different approach to have you call it quits. He, unlike Simon whose spending his time doing nothing but watching you work, tasks himself with washing the dishes that remain stacked haphazardly in the sink, the front of his form-fitting tee dampened with a mixture of water and soap as he works to scrub and rinse the dishes. 

His eyes flicker to Simon for a moment, lips gliding over the skin of his teeth as his eyes narrow slightly, putting back down the bowl he was rinsing in the sink with one hand, his other reaching over to grab a hand towel and tossing it towards Simon, the fabric making a soft thump as it collides with his chest. Simon catches it before it can fall, giving him a silent look of confusion. 

John’s eyes flicker between Simon’s, the towel, and the clean, wet dishes that stack on the drying rack before turning back to washing the dishes, allowing Simon to come to his own conclusions with a huff with a subtle roll of his eyes - playful in nature, of course - as he starts on with his task of drying the dishes. 

Though, even with both of their urgings and encouragement, you refuse to step away from your work for the hundredth time, both to John and Simon’s detriment. Instead of listening, you continue to work on the little snowman you’ve been focused on making - surprisingly, even with only white, vanilla frosting at your disposal, looks extremely good and well detailed. 

“I’ve only got like… a few more left to do. Makes no sense leaving it to the morning when I can just finish it now. Besides, I wouldn’t want to leave Mark all by himself - I’ve got to finish his friends.”

John lets out a choked laugh, snorting as his shoulders shaking, gently biting down onto his bottom lip as a means to try and stifle his own amusement while Simon takes it upon himself to connect the dots. There’s a pause for few beats between the three of you, filled with nothing but running water and dishware being settled into the drying rack, only to be picked up by Simon.

“Did you name the bloody biscuit Mark, Em?”

A few giggles pass through your own lips, back still to the two men behind you, though shaking all the same as you laugh to yourself. John’s not much different, coughing and clearing his throat in a poor attempt to stop himself from breaking out into his own fit of laughter. Simon rolls his eyes with a huff, an amused smirk spreading out across his lips.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell. Children, the both of ya’.”

His words only spur you on further, detaching yourself from the cookies, bringing on of your hands up to your mouth as you gently bite down onto your fist, giggling. Your other hand, still holding the icing packet, squeezes, applying more pressure than you intended for it to, causing for the white icing to splurt out messily from the top, dripping down the plastic, coating your palm and fingers in the process.

The idiocy of the situation only makes you harder, eyes crinkling with amusement as you let out a snort. Though, as much as you find entertainment in the situation, Simon - whose had a front-row seat in witnessing your antics - is more focused on the way the white, sticky frosting clings to your skin, slowly beginning to melt and becoming thinner in consistency.

His hands slow with their work drying off the dishes, the towel held in one of his hands coming to hang loosely in the air while the other holds tightly onto a ceramic bowl, his eyes narrowed as he watches you. John, sensing Simon’s faltering and loss in focus, turns his attention briefly over to him, pursing his lips softly.

His voice comes out into the space between the two of them, barely louder than a whisper - though, it’s not like there’s any use in whispering, given the way you’re losing your mind in your own amusement is loud enough to drown out any normal-level voiced conversation.

“Si-”

“Look at her hands.”

Simon quickly cuts him off, jutting his chin out slightly, turning his head back as he straightens out his own posture, nostrils flaring as he rolls his shoulders back. With a roll of his eyes, John moves his head, peeking over his shoulder to look behind him, eyes softening as they land on your face first, the joy etched into it, before they trail down to your palms.

“Fuck me.”

He mumbles out, teeth gritted as his own hands match Simon’s as they still. The hot water continues to run in the sink, his hands free as they rest beneath the stream. He swallows thickly, eyes flickering to Simon’s for just a moment - it isn’t hard to catch the hunger that lingers in his gaze - before moving right back to your hands.

You, however, are so completely and utterly oblivious to how the sight of the sticky, white icing, continuing to thin as the cool glaze keeps continued contact with your heated skin, affects both of your boyfriends. The way it smears against the packet and your palms, leaving a string behind from where it sticks between the two points, awfully familiar to a certain other liquid.

So, it’s no wonder you have no clue how it affects either of them when you bring your palm up to your mouth, tongue darting out to press against it and licking a hot, wet stripe upwards, catching quite a lot of it on your tongue. Washing and drying the dishes are a task completely forgotten, both Simon and John’s eyes focused solely on you, even if you don’t realize it yet.

Simon lets out a grunt, John a stifled groan, all while you focus on licking your hand clean.

You’re so focused on licking your fingers completely clean, though, tongue passing over every inch of skin near them that you can reach, that you completely miss the way that some of the frosting has dripped down to your wrist, a stream traveling to and gathering there, before a sizeable glob it falls, splattering messily against your chest.

It falls just below your collarbones, starting to leave a trail down between the valley between your tits. The shirt you have on is fairly low cut, so it’s easy to see the process as it happens, much of your upper chest already exposed to the air. You purse your lips slightly, working to clean off the rest of your hand before moving your hand.

You intentions are fully set on picking it up with your finger, dragging it up a trail and licking it off. However, a rough, worn, warm palm stops you, gently grabbing onto your wrist as a means to halt your actions - though, the tenseness of it’s hold is unmistakable, challenging that forced gentleness it holds.

“I got it.”

You don’t even know when Simon moved away from the counter and towards you, but before you can fully process it, much less protest his actions, he’s already moving you, gently urging you a step or two backwards as he takes your old place, standing in front of you as he looks down, brown eyes, once so warm and light, darkened with lust.

His eyes remain focused solely on you, hand moving from your wrist, up your arm, before settling on the side of your neck, gently tilting it back, though far enough that you can still see him as he bends downwards. His stocky form leans into you, hot breath ghosting over your skin as his own tongue peeks out past his lips, licking up the sweet icing onto his tongue.

As his tongue cleans you up, Price’s footsteps fall just audible enough that you can barely hear them, therefore not surprising you as his hands find purchase on your hips, his lips pressing a tender kiss to the base of your neck, letting a breath out through his nostrils that fans out along your skin.

He gently nips at the skin, chuckling lowly, the sound erupting from deep within his chest as he moves to rest his head atop your shoulder, looking down and watching Simon, just as you are, as he licks the sticky icing clean from your skin, holding you firmly in place so that the blond can have his way with you as he pleases.

“Messy girl…”

Simon mumbles out against your skin, forcing a shiver that crawls up your spine, sinking its claws into your flesh as his licks turn into kisses, which turn into nips, which escalate into something more. His hand moves from the side of your neck to press into your shoulder, urging you to lean backwards into John while his free hand moves down towards the front of your shirt.

You follow the action, back pressing flush against the front of John’s chest, feeling the way he pulls you in further by the hips, the hardness of his cock easily noteable against your back.

One of Simon’s fingers hook around the fabric, twisting it around as he pulls it downwards, stretching it, and moving it to come underneath your bra, framing them - and, in kind, your tits - perfectly. You feel your own eyes flutter, breathing growing heavy and catching in your throat as your knees grow weak, held up solely by John, who simply grins smugly at Simon.

“C’mon, Simon. You can do better than that. Wan’na hear our girl moan, don’t you?”

He encourages, borderline chasting the other man, his grin widening as Simon huffs out a breath of amusement, moving both of his hands down towards the front of your chest and hooking his thumbs around the cups of your bra, jerking them downwards in a rough motion, freeing your breats with one simple action. 

He immediately moves further, bending down in what must be an uncomfortable position as he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, teasing it with his tongue while his fingers move to pinch and twist the other, groaning against you. You can feel your own hips buck upwards as the most pathetic whine passes through your lips.

The desperate hunger in his actions mixed with John’s subtle motions of dominance make your head feel as though it’s tilting on its axis, getting spun ‘round and around until you’re positively dizzy, keening, whining, and moaning out unabashedly and without any semblance of shame.

One of John’s hands, both of which had been doing nothing more than holding you by the hips, move forwards, dipping beneath the waistband of your trousers and panties, middle and index finger spreading out as they meet your soaking cunt, gently spreading your folds apart. He isn’t at all concerned with taking either articles off and, if anything, seems spurred on by the challenge the boundaries offer.

“Soaked already, hmm? We haven’t even done anythin’ yet, Em.”

He taunts you, feeling the way your slick coats his fingers with ease as he inches his way towards your opening, swirling a sole finger around it in a slow, counterclockwise motion. He just barely teases the tip of his finger inwards, chuckling at the way you try to writhe and get more from him, all the while Simon puts all of his attention on your pretty tits.

“In ‘er defense, we’ve done a lot more than nothin’.”

Simon mumbles, barely pulling his mouth away before diving right back in, working to suck a hickey into the soft flesh of your breast right next to your nipple, leaving an assortment of them with the inclusion of nips and bites all along your skin, making a conscious effort to provide equal parts of attention to both of them.

John rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue gently as he pushes a finger inwards, feeling the way your walls welcome the intrusion with greed, swallowing the single finger up whole. He turns his neck just barely to the side, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck, letting his lips rest there, breathing out in heavy breaths that match your own and Simon’s alike.

“Guess she’ll have to build up a defense for herself then, huh, Simon?”

“Guess she will.”

It seems like you will have to leave the rest of the decorating for the morning, now won’t you?

[matchadobo]

KIDD; kidd being sweet

wc: 1653 summary: just wholesome shit warnings: afab reader, none

silently humming to yourself, you scrubbed the dishes with the sponge coated with foamy soap as it enveloped your hands with its froth. it was a normal day around the victoria, most of the crew had stayed in the dining hall to play cards, drink with the others, or just chat with everyone. it was your turn to do the dishes, you almost bribed others to do it but decided to get on with it. you really were looking forward to going to bed early, but that’s too bad.

to everyone’s surprise, including you, the door slammed open. you met your lover’s eyes as he had his usual scowl plastered on his pale ass face. you furrowed your brows, waiting for an explanation. he stood there for a while before giving everybody a glare and a grumble. it was an unspoken order to get the fuck out of the room so he can be alone with you. you sighed to yourself in endearment, shutting your eyes and letting a sigh out from your smiling lips.

soon enough, the hall cleared and he stomped his way towards you as his heels clicked under the woody floors. he met your eyes before making his way behind you and snaking his flesh arm around your waist. “’m tired.” he meekly greeted, a sigh following afterward when you felt him lean half of his weight to you as he placed his chin atop your head.

you chuckled softly, continuing on with your chore. “a little busy here, captain. mind letting me go?” you sardonically remarked despite leaning into his touch. he let you go with a grumble, leaning by the countertops beside you as he crossed his arms. “should’ve let the others do it, you’re the captain’s wife for fuck’s sake.” he clicked his tongue.

“that’s just childish now, isn’t it?” you finally finished as you dried your hands off with the towel hanging on the cabinet handle under the sink. “i’m done now, don’t get too pouty about it.” you teased, poking at his nose as he let out a huff of annoyance despite his flushed cheeks. “besides, i like doing it for the crew. it’s nice seeing them relax for a while.”

“thought being the mom was killer’s job.” he shifted his legs where you can fit between them as he pulled you closer by your hips. he leveled himself with you as the counter supported his weight.

“he doesn’t get enough credit for it, though.” you replied, wrapping your arms around his neck. “did you miss me that much?” you tilted your head, raising a brow.

“you have no idea.” he buried his face on the crook of your neck, reveling in your perfume. “i’d fuck you in here if i wanted to,” he whispered in your ear. despite being married for years, his low voice never fails to raise goosebumps across your skin. “but i don’t really need that right now.”

you jolted lightly in shock, looking down at his red mane of hair. “come with me to the bow.” he placed a kiss on your shoulder before letting you go and walking out of the room.

you heed to his request and followed him, the bright sunset almost blinded you as the breezy dusk of winter welcomed you. the salty scent of the sea wafted across your nose, a refreshing feeling that always puts you at ease.

he sat at the edge of his ship, feet hanging loosely as it submerged in the sea from time to time. you sat beside him, almost falling if it weren’t for his hand on your side. “is there something wrong, love?” you looked up at him, but all he did was lay his head down on your lap.

“don’t overthink it.” he brushed you off, “i just miss you.” he looked at you through his half-lidded eyes.

your face almost exploded from being too flushed, and you looked away with both of your palms hiding your face. “why’re you acting weird?” your sentence was muffled but it was enough to send him laughing.

you peeked behind your fingers at the joyous man before you, the reason behind his laughter was none other than you. “ah, fuckin’ hell. we’ve been married for years and you still can’t wipe that stupid flush in your cheeks when i’m around.” he said in between little laughs. “makes me wonder why i’m the goddamn same.”

you finally put your hands down and combed them through his relaxed crimson locks while the other was drawing shapes on his chest with your fingers. “just remember how you confessed like a mess back then, then you’ll know.” you teased.

he looked away, clicking his tongue again as he tried to hide the blush on his snowy cheeks. “yeah, and your cheeks were red as hell when i did. all you replied was random shit and then you started kissing me, right?”

“shut up.” you pressed your lips together, flicking his forehead. “we were both pretty dumb about each other back then, mostly you though.”

he grumbled as a reply, nuzzling himself closer to you. “i was like that cuz you’re making my goddamn head spin each time you look at me, it’s just fuckin’ different when you do.” he sincerely replied, covering the upper half of his face with his arm as it became immensely red. the golden ring on his finger that he made himself shone against the glistening shine of the setting sun.

“how’d it go again? you’re too fuckin’ pretty it’s pissin’ me off that all i wanted to do is kiss you and fuckin’ touch you and fuckin’ lo-”

before you could finish your sentence he pinned you to the ground. it all happened too fast but now, he was above you with that arrogant fucking grin you fell in love with. how he has complete power over you and how you are willing to heed all his commands. how his eyes shone as he studied how the red in your cheeks never disappeared but got more prominent at his actions.

“yeah? you were sayin’?” he leaned closer.

“-and you fuckin’ love me it makes you so crazy you’re choking on your saliva.” you finished, “the hell does that even mean?” you added while laughing and wiping the tears off your eyes, covering your face once more.

“dumb way of saying i love you, i guess.” he placed a kiss at the corner of your eyes where tears formed earlier.

“you were so cute then, god.” you smiled, holding his face between your hands.

“calling the pirate king cute ain’t cuttin’ it, lovely.” he got off you, sitting back as he gazed . “for the record, you were the one who was stutterin’ and shit, it’s goddamn adorable.”

kidd became more open when you two got married. maybe because of the ring, or maybe because he finally got serious with you. that fateful day where he finally had the balls to face you and tell you how he truly feels even though it’s still a puzzle to him how much you fucked him up. not in a bad way of course, if anything, you fucked him up so much he’d wanna change the world for you, much more his self. he wanted to make you know that he loves you, that he’d do anything for you. he’d want to let you hear his praises and insults, he’d want to let you hear how much you deserve the world, he’d want to say i love you to you and he’d always look forward to how your eyes brim with so much love the same way his does each time he looks at you. it sometimes catches you off guard when he just blurts out things about how he loves you.

“hm? that why you married me?” you sat up, leaning on his shoulder and brushing your fingers by his veiny arms.

“if there’s one brat i’d be more than willing to be stuck with for the rest of my life, it’d be you.”

“ah you’re making it hard for me to stop feeling hot.” you placed both of your hands on either side of your cheeks.

“ain’t my problem i turn you on.” he grinned over his shoulder, arrogantly looking down at you.

“it’s not even that!” you shuffled in your seat trying to regulate the heat in your cheeks. “have i ever told you that i’m very proud of you now that you’ve learned to say how you feel?”

“well, pretty stuff.” he tucked a hair behind your ear, flicking your forehead afterward. “you teach me some pretty things like that all the time, you been rubbin’ too much off of me.”

“i gotta get used to you being sappy, this is catching me off guard way too much.” you leaned back by your arms, looking at the sky.

“you gotta do better than that then.” he snarked, pulling himself up and walking towards your shared quarters. “i’m going to bed, come if you want to snuggle or some shit.”

you chased after him almost tripping over yourself. “what did you eat today, kidd? you’re so generous!”

“other than you, nothin’ out of the ordinary.” he said with a grin, letting you enter the room before him as he held the door wide open and watched you flush from head to toe. “i just enjoy seeing you all hung up on me.” he stared you down, pinning you against the door. “wanna take this to the bed?”

“i miss the sweet kidd, bring him back!”

“too bad he wants a quickie right now.”

and so the night went on loudly, filled with screams and moans of laughter and pleasure. your days were either filled with him being sweet or him being horny, one or the other, or maybe a combination. either way, you’d be in bliss with the love that is him.

wrote this half asleep, i miss him :(

[puddingyun]

salve . ݁₊ ⊹ k.ys

yeo x reader

: 840 words, domestic, fluff, comfort :

The smell of waffles wafted into your room from the kitchen, waking you from a restless sleep. You rolled over onto Yeosang's side of the bed, pressing your face into his pillow and breathing in the scent of his shampoo and skincare products, your heart fluttering happily in your chest. There was nothing you wanted more than to stay there forever, wrapped up in a bubble of warm sheets and the scent of your lovely boy, but you couldn't resist the smell of breakfast or the sound of Yeosang's soft humming any longer. With a grunt, you pulled yourself out of bed and trudged to the kitchen. 

"Morning, baby," you greeted Yeosang through a yawn. He sing-songed back a soft 'morning', giggling when you walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist. You squeezed him close and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, nuzzling your nose against the comfy fabric of his oversized sweater. "You doin' dishes already?"

"Well I wanted them to be done before you woke up," he explained, squirting more lemon scented dish soap onto a bowl. "So you wouldn't feel like you had to do them to pay me back for the waffles."

You rolled your eyes, swaying slowly from side to side with Yeosang. 

"I can't believe you made me waffles," you mumbled. "You're gonna give me cavities, you know that?"

Yeosang just shook his head, cheeks turning pink as he held back a smile. As he set the bowl aside and reached for a dish towel, the sleeve of his ridiculously large sweater slid down his arm and revealed a puffy, red mark that made you frown. 

"What happened there, Yeo?" you asked. 

"Where?" Yeosang asked, quickly moving his arm back so that his sleeve slid down again. You felt him tense in your hold, clearly pretending not to know what you were talking about as he stood stock-still, waiting to see if you would move on. You sighed and pulled your arms away from his waist.

"Come on, Yeo, let me see," you urged him, keeping your voice as gentle and reassuring as possible. Yeosang turned his head to look at you, pouting for a beat before he turned around and lifted his sleeve to reveal what you'd seen earlier. 

"I just burned myself on the waffle iron earlier, it's nothing," he mumbled, looking down at his feet while you held his hand and examined the nasty looking burn. You rubbed your thumb back and forth against his palm in an attempt to soothe both Yeosang and yourself. 

"Let me put some ointment on it," you said, bringing his hand to your lips and kissing his wrist.

"It's fine, baby, really-"

"Come on, you made me waffles," you insisted, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. "Let me take care of you too."

With a shy smile and red cheeks Yeosang finally let up, whispering 'okay then' and laughing when you took off to find your first aid kit. 

With the morning sunshine streaming through the windows you carefully smoothed ointment over the burn on Yeosang's arm, watching his expression to make sure you weren't accidentally hurting him. The whole time he watched you right back, chewing on his lip while he smiled at you. 

"Does it hurt?" you asked, pressing a feather-light kiss to the red, sore mark when you were done. Yeosang tilted his head to the side and shrugged.

"Just stings, mostly," he admitted. After a moment of silence he looked away from you, and through a pout began to speak again, his voice quieter this time. "I didn't want you to see it since... A lot of people already say I'm clumsy and clueless, so I didn't want you to think the same."

You felt your heart flutter in your chest for the second time that morning as you watched Yeosang pretend to be wildly interested in a stain on the countertop. Your beautiful boy, always worrying more than he had to. Easing his sleeve up so that it wouldn't roll down over his burn, you took a step closer to him and kissed his birthmark, watching fondly as the skin beneath it glowed and blushed afterwards.

"I'd never think that about you, silly," you reassured him, stroking a fingertip down his forehead and the tip of his nose. "You're my gorgeous boyfriend who makes me waffles in the morning. Helping you with a burn won't make me think any less of you."

Yeosang smiled, eyes darting around for a while before he made eye contact with you again. He closed the space between you both with a sweet kiss, sweeter than the waffles and syrup waiting for you on the kitchen table, sweeter than the orange-yellow sunlight pouring through the windows, and sweeter than the smell of his shampoo lingering on your bedsheets. 

When you pulled away from each other there was a wide, giddy smile on your lips. Yeosang kissed you once again, quickly this time, and gave your waist a fond squeeze.

"Let's eat."

[eulalized]

washing the dishes with keegan always proves to you how annoying he can get—however you look at it and try to deny it, you like it. “you have to stop doing that.”

taking the washed plate from your offering hands, he says, “stop doing what?” there are a few squeaks as he wipes down the droplets of water on the ceramic with a clean cloth.

“that.” you grasp a plate from the rickety pile of soapy dishes, the bubbles running down the sink and into the drain as you wash off the dish soap. passing it to him, you glance at him from the corner of your eye as he takes it after a beat. “looking at me.”

he lets out a quick, sharp exhale that comes across as a snort, out of wry disbelief or pure ludicrousness—or just something he’d find funny, that usually is the case with keegan. “am i not allowed to look at you?” he says with a smile beneath his mask that you can tell from his eyes is snarky enough that you want to hose it away. you convince yourself not to while grabbing a bowl from the pile of soapy dishes and run it over water.

“no.” your answer sounds incomplete. with how your hands stop moving to swipe the bubbles away—letting the water flow down your hands and the bowl, thinking as you still try to find the right words, you murmur, “i mean…”

“come on,” he says, setting the current plate in his hands down gently atop the counter and reaching for the bowl in yours. “tell me,” he urges you.

you blink, waking up from the train of thought while watching him take the ceramic from your palms. you turn your head to watch him wipe down the washed bowl, the rag warbling softly. he catches a brief glimpse of your face—soon before looking back down to focus on drying the residual droplets of water. “you look at me, and you smile.”

he takes a moment, drying and shining the surface of the already clean bowl. the kitchen remains silent, aside from the hushed running water and the rag squeaking here and there. you blink, looking at him and studying his eyes, the ones focused on the ceramic. keegan looks at you from the top of his eyelashes, his neck craned downwards faintly, and you see they’re genuine. he sets down the dish on the countertop, without missing another second to add a small smile—you like to remember it and memorize the look in his eyes sometimes—he says:

“i like looking at you.”

you watch him for a second, wondering to yourself if he means what he says, you stifle a smile as you turn your head back to the sink. holding a handful of utensils and running it over water, you watch the bubbles calmly flow down the drain. he adds, the mischief clear in his voice, “even when you coerce me to help you put away the dishes.”

this time you don’t fight the smile. “it’s not coercion,” you retort, the smile wanting to grow bigger into a grin or a laugh, or something keegan would soon notice. “i didn’t coerce you, you wanted to help.” you glance at him for a split second before giving the utensils to him. “you’re so lame,” you mutter under your breath, wryly smiling to prevent yourself from bursting into laughter.

“you‘re calling me lame for helping you? wow, immature.”

“whatever…” you turn off the tap water with a smile, peering over your shoulder to watch him finish up on drying the last of the utensils, the last of the dishes.

he eyes you while smiling beneath his mask, impervious to your ‘words of flattery,’ he’d call it. “i’ll still help do the dishes with you, you know. always.” his words are comforting, soothing to hear—keegan always seems to know what to say to get you to smile.