#a enamel coffee mug

[backroad-life]

Credit: Lexi Anderson

[printablegifting]

✨ Sip positivity wherever you go! ✨

Our 12oz stainless steel enamel camping mug is perfect for adventures big or small, with a quote to keep negativity at bay: "Allergic to Negative Energy".

Lead and BPA-free, it's the ultimate companion for coffee, tea, or cocoa lovers.

Bring good vibes along for every journey—whether in the wilderness or at home.

🌲☕ Grab yours today and spread the love!

🛒 Shop now on Etsy and start sipping happiness!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Printable Gifting (@printablegifting)

[bobochen-3344-blog]

Ceramic Bird Lid Organizer Canister Jar Storage For Jewlery Cotton Balls Swabs Makeup Sponges Bath Salt Hair Ties

[niguramu]

tsubame-RATTAN / ブラック（マグ、コーヒードリッパー） 持ち手にラタンを巻いた、ツバメ印のマグとドリッパー。新潟県燕市にて製造。 ----- #tsubame #燕市 #ツバメ #coffee #coffeewear #コーヒーウェア #マグ #マグカップ #コーヒードリッパー #ドリッパー #Mugcup #Mug #cup #Coffee dripper #Dripper #ラタン #RATTAN #琺瑯 #horo #Enamel #ブラック #black #GLOCALSTANDARDPRODUCTS #GSP #グローカルスタンダードプロダクツ --- 初期ブラック、次にラタンホワイト、そしてラタンブラック。 鳥の燕といえば黒色の印象ですが腹は白いので、仰向け昼寝の後に起き上がり戻ってきた https://www.niguramu.jp/products/100tbrb-mug/ https://www.niguramu.jp/products/100tbrb-dripper/ https://www.instagram.com/p/CqPRE__Pb1s/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[lostintransist]

You 🫵 gimme sum Nikto 🤲 and i’ll love you forevah 🫶

Since Andre’s been tortured and lead to believe that he’s nothing, a literal nobody, what if reader’s nickname for him or term of endearment is to call him their everything?

“Stay safe, my everything.”

“Come back soon, my everything”

“Ya lyublyu tebya moye vse” (I love you my everything)

“Love I am nothing, ничто.”

You couldn’t keep having this same argument with him, it tore at you. Like sores on your feet with miles to walk this ache in you grew to make him understand that he couldn’t be nothing.

Andre, as he decided to call himself, had no memories further back than pain. It had taken a year and a half before he could sleep in a bed with you. The first night you had been woken by his shivering and muttering, face twisted in agony. Every movement from his body jerked as if fighting off some invisible attacker.

When you made the mistake of touching his shoulder you blinked and found yourself pinned under him. Moonlight winked off his front teeth as he snarled down at you. The always-exposed teeth of his missing lip absorbed the moonlight as if the whiteness of the light could return the color to the enamel.

Panic fluttered in your breast. The man you love is still trapped in nightmares. Cooing up at him you lay soft, gentle words into his ears. He comes back to himself in pieces. The forearm at your throat lessens in pressure, the rigid lines of his torso and legs relax, finally, his eyes, shadowed blue, blink down at you.

Disgust and panic war the scars on his face to be the dominant expression. He flees the bed then. You hear him pause only long enough to grab his boots before the front door is crashing closed behind him.

Knowing better than to chase him, for he took to flight like a hare at the bugle of an elk, you allow yourself five minutes to weep. When you have expunged enough sorrow to stand, you shuffle to the kitchen. Readying two cups with tea leaves you add water to yours and settle in to wait. Every thirty minutes or so you lift yourself off the couch to flick the kettle back on until steam and bubbles mark the water as boiling. That done you drift back to the cushions leaving only the above stove light on to illuminate your flat.

You are practicing your Russian when he creeps back through the front door. Well, you are actually yelling at the green lying bird because Andre taught you this word already and that is not how he said it or you practiced it.

“The bird is wrong.”

“I know the bird is wrong but I have to say it the ‘right’ way to get past this part.” You don’t look up at him as you pronounce the word incorrectly into your phone’s speaker.

Once the app accepts your answer you glance up at him. Cheeks flushed with exertion and cold his eyes shine bluer for the tears pricking his lashes.

Flapping a hand at him you stand, “Sit, sit. I will grab your tea.”

He opens his mouth to argue but the glare you pin him with quells any words on his tongue. The couch creaks behind you as you flick the kettle on once more. The recently heated water bubbles speedily and you return to Andre in no more than a minute, mug in one hand and a small plate for his tea bag in the other. Setting both in front of him on the coffee table you take the opposite side of the couch. One leg tucked under the other you face his profile.

“Are you ready to talk about it or would you like to drink your tea and go back to bed?” You keep your tone casual as if the two options you presented are the only logical ones.

“I cannot stay. I am a danger to you.” The skin of his knuckles creak lightly when he curls them into fists on his thigh. “Love I am nothing, ничто.”

“Your nightmares might be a danger but you? My heart? You are not a danger to me.”

You had called him your heart since the first time you admitted to him that you loved him and wept for him when he was gone.

Mullishly, Andre stares at his lap instead of you. Shifting to the middle cushion you lift his tea bag from the hot water, familiar scents enter the conversation.

“Why do you stab the brain stem, my heart?”

Andre looks at you, confused as to why you are asking in the middle of this conversation.

“To stop all life,” he replies succinctly.

“Could you say,” you scoot a bit closer, fingers resting on his thigh close to his fisted fingers. “That it is to stop the heart?”

His eyebrows cannot come any closer to touching, this question makes them try anyway. He nods once.

“So the heart is more important than the brain?” You look up at him with such innocent eyes.

Weighing his head side to side he considered the question. After an infinitely long time, he nods again.

The hand on his thigh cups his fist now, the other landing on his neck, and the gentle pressure of your thumb keeping his eyes on you. “The heart is everything. Without it there is no life, there is nothing. You, Andre, are my heart, my everything.”

His eyes and pupils both blow wide as your words sink into his comprehension. Gaze flicking over your face tears begin to stream down his cheeks. With your thumb, you direct them away from his teeth. He had told you once that the taste of his tears triggers memories.

“You cannot be nothing if you are everything to me,” you whisper the words as you look back and forth from eye to eye, gauging how your message is received.

A reverence settles over him. He stares at you as if your love has replaced pain as the god of his soul. You wonder if this is how Aphrodite felt when she had godhood bestowed upon her: overwhelmed, humbled, scared shitless, empowered.

Broad hands soft on your waist pulled you close before forcing you flat on the couch. He followed you, shifting until he lay on one side between you and the back head resting on your chest.

In the light from the kitchen casting shadows across your bodies, he tells you of his lived nightmares. Neither of you comments on the growing damp circle of your nightgown or the wet spots that will mark the couch from your eyes. That night he lets you in, becoming more than nothing.

The tea is chilly when you both wake in the morning. Andre drinks it all, eyes on you as he coughs through the dregs.

“Ya lyublyu tebya moye vse,” the caress of his words tell you the meaning of the unfamiliar sounds.

A/N: Well hot damn I feel like I did a good job with this one... Yep this is getting added to my masterlist.

Masterlist

[luveline]

IM BEGGING ON MY KNEES PLEASEEEE 🔥🔥🔥 NOTICE MEEEE

Really quiet and shy reader who’s new to the team and Spencer JUST got out of prison like a month ago and he comes back and sees the cutest girl he’s ever seen so young and new to the team and can’t help but tease her

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEEE🧎🏾‍♀️🧎🏾‍♀️🧎🏾‍♀️🙇🏽‍♀️🙇🏽‍♀️

Unit Chief Emily Prentiss scares the fuck out of you, but you're still not as intimidated by her as you are by Dr. Reid. 

Dr. Reid, and not Special Supervisory Agent Reid —there's a big difference— shouldn't be a scary guy. He doesn't have any tattoos or piercings, his haircut is tame, and you watch him pour enough sugar into his coffee to weaken the enamel of your teeth just looking at it. But while all or this is true, Dr. Reid just came back from a weeks long stint in one of the most tense prisons in the world. Emily assured you in her way that everything bad you may have heard about Dr. Reid would be false, and that anything positive is true. 

He looks different to how you'd pictured him. Emily's promise aside, Garcia painted him as some sweater-wearing Teddy bear of a boy who likes chess and Doctor Who. 

This is a man. Full grown, full suit, dark-eyes. You're not sure what to feel as he spots you. When Anderson gave you the desk across from Spencer's you'd thought you were lucky, getting treated as part of the team from the very beginning, but now you're not so sure. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes on you as he puts down his coffee atop a stack of medical journals. His things were left untouched while he was gone, even though he was technically separated from the bureau. He's well respected. “I've been excited to meet you. I'm Spencer.” 

“Dr. Reid,” you say immediately, standing up from your chair to meet him besides your desks. 

“Spencer,” he says again. “I don't shake.” 

“Oh, no, of course not,” you say, hiding your hands behind your back. “I know you were here long before me, but I can safely say how nice it is to have you back.” You smile. “They were all so worried about you.” 

“You kept them in line while I was gone?” 

“No, I was useless. I've never felt this stupid in my life.” 

“That's just how it feels for the first year.” He isn't smiling, isn't frowning, a hint of amusement in his eyes and hands steady as he tucks them into his pants pockets. “It's not the others, is it?” 

“No, there's just a lot to learn.” 

“It shouldn't be hard for you, though, right?” He gestures to you like this means something. 

“I don't…” 

“You're what, twenty four?” Spencer picks up his mug and takes a drink. “If you're smart enough to be here now, you'll be fine.” 

“You think so?” 

“Don't tell me you're scared, Y/N.” His lashes flare ever so slightly in feigned surprise. After a second of your obvious flustering, he laughs. “No, you don't scare easily. I can tell.” 

Absolutely nothing like you told me he'd be, Penelope. I thought we were friends. 

“So what was your last case like? The Bentley driver?” he asks, nodding toward your desk. “How's your peer reviews going? They used to drive me insane.” 

You startle and rush to sit in your desk chair, opening the case file from the last case to gather his approval. He flicks through pages, almost non-committal, though he gives a hum of approval when he reads your UnSub summary, and when he sees a comment you'd made that you'd believed to be particularly astute, he laughs. “Yeah,” he says, “you'll be fine.” The smell of him floats your way, cologne or aftershave that makes you feel dizzy. He looks down at you. “Something wrong?” 

“Nothing, uh–” You bite your tongue rather than answer and trip over another useless sentence. 

He touches the top of your shoulder lightly. “It will get easier,” he promises. 

He means work, of course, but for a split second you wonder if he means being near him. If he's like this often, you doubt that that's true. 

[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✦

captain john price x f!reader (raven) | smut, 18+ | 4.2k

summary: when a seemingly bulletproof mission goes awry, captain price makes the vital mistake of pursuing the target alone and contributes to the chaos that almost claims the life of one of his men. When he returns, he lacks the humility to accept your reprimand lying down.

cw: mwiii spoiler free. war and violence, mentions of wounded, ooc price maybe a little? angst, enemies to enemies that fuck, reader is pathetically attracted to price because same, literally a voice kink fic disguised as a deep throating fic, very light degradation, bratty behaviour from reader, heavy face fucking, hair pulling, praise, gagging, very little aftercare.

price mlist | main mlist | taglist

It all goes tits up.

Shouts of distress arise across the coms in the CIA conference room, blaring through the headphones glued to the watchers’ heads. Ghost’s gruff voice calls out a casualty, leading General Shepard to launch out of his seat and crash his fist against the tabletop. Mugs of coffee tip over from the force of the impact, liquid bleeding into top secret documents- they aren’t his primary concern.

“Lieutenant, this is Gold Eagle. Is there an issue, Ghost?” Shepard’s voice snarls down the coms.

“Sir, it’s Soap- he’s been hit.”

Hanging your head between your shoulders, you barely register the orders that Shepard screams into the microphone of his headset, his spittle peppering the laptop screen where he oversees the mission descending into chaos. Your ears are ringing, your heart thumping wildly against your sternum. Further panic ensues, Gaz shouting a brief, hurried explanation of the mission breakdown. “… snipers in the mountain, sir. Had to dispatch them- I can’t see Captain Pri—”

“Bravo 2-6, this is Raven. Confirm Captain Price’s location,” you insist, swallowing the alarm that threatens to haemorrhage from your lips.

“Negative, Ma’am. Lost him while dispatching the snipers.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, feeling your blood boil at The Captain’s recklessness. “Fuck!”

Your fingers blur over your keyboard, focusing your attention on John Price’s coms. Again, Shepard barks orders at Ghost, but you can’t hear him over your own heavy breathing and pressing tone as you address Price in a fury.

“Captain Price, this is Raven; confirm your location immediately!”

Silence at first. Coffee drips from the edge of the tabletop by your feet, pooling into the navy-blue carpet. It stains like blood, a dark smear. You can imagine it in Price’s camo uniform, spreading thick and fast from a bullet wound- a direct hit to the chest.

“We’re gonna lose Hassan.”

“Captain Price,” you yell down the microphone, simultaneously relieved to hear his voice and enraged at his increasingly frequent decision to go AWOL, “We will most definitely lose Hassan if I must bury every member of 141! Return to Team Bravo immediately!”

You’re almost certain you can hear Price’s teeth grind together, the enamel straining under the weight of his fury and threatening to crack down to the root. “Are you tellin’ me we let him go?”

“Captain Price, I am telling you that we were given faulty intel. I am telling you that we are sustaining heavy losses and that Sergeant MacTavish is critically wounded, and I am calling for EVAC!” Your knuckles are bleached where your fists hover over the keyboard, nails digging into your palms so hard you’re sure the indents they leave burrow straight to the bone as you await confirmation of Price’s retreat. “Task Force 141 is a priceless tool against Al-Qatala. I cannot afford to lose every member for the sake of a man we will ultimately have to chance to apprehend again!”

Your eyes float to General Shepard. He’s furious, his irises swallowed by the hollow blackness of his pupils as he jerks his head in confirmation of permission to evacuate 141. It shouldn’t have come to this.

“Do you copy, Captain Price?” You yell down the microphone, finally losing your cool with the maddening Englishman that continued to defy your authority.

“… Yes, ma’am.”

**

The ticking minutes-hand of the analogue clock that hangs above your desk sweeps away half of the day before you have confirmation of 141’s safe return to American soil. A further two hours of urgent, life-saving surgery have you chewing your nails to the quick. By the time word reaches you of Soap’s stable condition, your nailbeds are bloody and raw.

“Intel confirms a convergence of Las Almas fighters on the Mexican-Guatemalan border. We believe they intend to smuggle Hassan out of Mexico and into Venezuela, where they would almost certainly grant him sanctuary. Air surveillance suggests that armed guards patrol the border twenty-four seven, concentrated significantly around a central point where we suggest they will attempt to help Hassan over it. Ghost and Soap will lead a special operations unit to kill all Las Almas fighters on sight. Captain Price and Gaz will handle Hassan and the fighters guarding him with the help of the Mexican Special Forces. Captain Price, you have execute authority, but we want Hassan alive for interrogation.”

Enraged by the complete breakdown of the mission, your mind replays your mission briefing repeatedly, scanning the tiniest of details in vain hope of understanding how such a concise and faultless plan had almost killed a vital member of your task force. You couldn’t have made it more transparent, having covered every possible eventuality. Even the risk of faulty intel had been accounted for, enough backup issued should teams Alpha and Bravo find themselves outnumbered, yet…

“Captain Price and Gaz will handle Hassan and the fighters guarding him.”

High-ranking officials sidestep you as you turn the corner to your offices, just barely escaping your warpath as you zero in on your target. The heels of your polished shoes crack against the lino flooring of the hallway like gunfire, the sound ricocheting off the walls and alerting those in your way to your fury.

Perhaps it would explain the wide-eyed shock already present in both Shepard and Captain Price aimed at the door of the General’s office when you throw it open with rage.

“John!”

“I fucked up--“he attempts to assure you of his guilty conscience, gesturing vaguely to his commanding officer, who no doubt had already laid into him over his poor decision-making. It does little to dispel the bubbling temper that churned in your stomach and coated your tongue with a sour taste.

“You’re damn right, you fucked up,” you scoff loudly, watching Price cross his thick, bulky arms across his chest as he surrenders to your verbal onslaught. “Your decision to ignore my plan and, arguably, go AWOL nearly cost Johnny his life! I’d issued a faultless mission briefing and paired you with Gaz against Hassan! With Gaz!”

General Shepard watched you chew up Price from his seat at his desk, lacing his fingers across the surface littered with pictures that looked as though they’d been ripped from the bodycam and air surveillance footage of the failed mission. Photographic evidence of Price’s incompetency—or rather, his blind faith in himself that he could singlehandedly take on a small army of Las Almas fighters and legendary terrorist fighter Major Hassan Zyani.

A bitter spark flashes across Captain Price’s cerulean eyes, his inflammatory retaliation worming its way between his gritted teeth and rumbling in his chest.

“It’s easy for you to criticise my split-second decisions when you sit behind a desk every mission, barkin’ orders with coffee in your hand.”

It’s a miracle that you restrain yourself, momentarily considering issuing a reminder of your military prowess in the form of hand-to-hand combat. If it weren’t for the haggard strain of John’s voice from his bellowed EVAC orders in a desperate attempt to save Soap’s life, you’d have connected your balled-up fists to his face. Instead, you spit in retaliation.

“Need I remind you that before I used to call the shots, I used to shoot people?”

Price lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head at your comment and opening his mouth to argue. You don’t let him, smothering the threat of his stupid rebuttal of ‘with what, a water pistol?’.

“Your decision to pursue Hassan nearly killed Johnny,” you repeat the undeniable fact, punctuating it with a violent jab of your finger towards him, “Do you realise how close I was to calling into Scotland? How close I was to organising the coffin to bring him home in? How dare you undermine me- disrespect the resume that put me in that seat and the people I killed to get there, Captain.”

If it weren’t for you, Price’d be standing in the pews of a church in Glasgow, draped in black and drenched in red.

Clearing his throat suddenly from his seat, General Shepard just barely splits the brutal tension bludgeoning your skull in the form of a migraine that only seemed to arise in the presence of Captain John Price. It thumps against your temple when Shepard makes a show of standing from his seat and pointing to the door.

“I can leave you both here to sort out your differences. The last thing you will both do is undermine my authority by screaming like petulant children in the corridor in front of my colleagues. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” you both manage to address him, eyes still pinned to each other like a missile’s locking system. Shepard grunts, and you note the twitch of a muscle in Price’s lower eyelid, his anger threatening to claw its way out of his face before he erupted with it.

The door to Shepard’s office swings open, heavy footsteps passing the threshold. In a sick, comedic chain of events, he doesn’t bother to pull it closed again. Instead, it creaks as the hinge closes achingly slowly.

You feel sick when you stare at Price. Not because you fear the words he could aim towards you in a critical hit—instead, you felt nausea at the concept of hearing the gravelly tone of his voice alone, the stabling force of your commanding officer absent.

It’s a dirty little secret that you’d never allowed yourself to speak. Even four Proseccos deep into a rare Christmas gathering of 141, you’d swallowed the word bile down that threatened to use your inebriation to rid yourself of the guilt. Price had admonished your choice of alcohol that night, commenting on how you could have chosen something better- like whiskey. The rumble of his voice in his sarcastic assessment had pooled in your stomach like the liquid amber he had suggested.

How could you possibly admit that the tone of his voice, so gritty and deep, swelled in your clit when you went to bed at night. That you replayed the ridiculous, pathetic one-liners he’d utter over the coms to you. The one time you’d issued a warning of an incoming threat, and Price had offered thanks in the only form he knew to give you: “Tha’s a girl”. You’d made a late-night Amazon order for new bedsheets and a mattress protector that same evening.

Click.

The door shuts, and the sound makes you jump as though John had slammed his fist on a big, red nuclear button.

“Are you done?”

The swallow that drags down your throat at the husked whisper he’d started with is far more audible in the now silent room. The spiteful gaze you had levelled at Price melts away, transfixing on him instead with something akin to dumb-struck, doe-eyed idiocy.

“P-Pardon?” You stumble over the two-syllable word that had confidently come to mind. Working in a building that relied so much on manners, there was absolutely no excuse for butchering a word you used upwards of fifty times a day.

Price’s eyebrow arches pointedly at you, the flickering ember in his irises that had previously resembled an inextinguishable fury instead glows with an amused curiosity at your very sudden surrender.

“Are you done making me look like a rookie in front of General Shepard?” He clarifies, stalking forward. He crosses the space between you both with long, cocky strides that make your heart pump double time when he finally settles in front of you. “Are. You. Done?”

“Hah-!” You laugh. You mean for it to mock his ridiculous notion, but instead, it’s all choked, nervous and airy because that damn voice knocks the oxygen from your lungs like he’d rendered a sucker punch to your gut. Price’s eyes pin you to your spot on the floor, root your feet to the coffee-stained carpet.

It’s utterly infuriating how he tilts his head in a smug observation of your panicked expression. You can see the exact moment he notes the tremble of your inhaled breath and the heat of your arousal rolling off your body. Fuck-

“John-“

There it is. Comprehension. The glistening sweat at your temple, the wide-eyed nervousness in your expression, and the breathy whisper of his name all surged forward and lit the bulb of realisation in his mind. You can practically see the golden glow of it in his pupils, a switch tck’ing when he murmurs an ‘oh’.

His lips split into a toothy, wily grin, “Oh, look at you, Station Chief.”

You bristle with panic with the way he makes a point to emphasise your rank, your lips parting in shock when he reaches up to grasp your chin in his hand.

“Who are you to question my decisions? You don’t even know if you want my cock in your mouth or your cunt.”

The sheer filth he utters makes your head reel as though he’d fed you some of his mind-numbing whiskey. You’re confident you’re gawping at him when he smirks at your reaction, his calloused thumbpad brushing across the bridge of your jaw. It reminds you of the way he caresses the trigger of a sniper rifle before he fires it and how you’d spent so many nights imagining that touch when you circled your clit-

“How ’bout we start with your mouth?” He urges you with a smokiness that rivals the puffs of his cigar. You loathed him for his smoking habits when the acrid scent clung to your hair but worshipped him for it when you buried your nose into your pillows when you came with a silent cry of his name.

You see his smirk widen suddenly, and it takes you far too long to realise that you’d let out a devastating whine at his lurid suggestion. John’s fingers and thumb settle on the pillowy flesh of your cheeks on either side of your mouth, pushing against them until your lips are pursed. It’s undignified, far beneath your station, but then-

“Gunna wanna open that mouth nice an’ wide for me, Dove.”

You sink to the floor of your commanding officer’s office floor before your rational mind even has a chance to talk you out of the offence- or acknowledge the choice of pet name that cheekily undermined your call sign. Your perfectly tailored office trousers crease beneath the weight of your knees… But suffering through cleaning and ironing them again was worth the rumble of a groan that fell from John’s lips as he watched you kneel for him.

“Fuck,” Price hums in appreciation, those gorgeous sky-blue irises swallowed by the midnight black of his pupils once more, “Spend all your time issuin’ orders, but you just needed someone else to take control, didn’ you, Love?”

For a moment, you hesitate. It’s improper, the way your knees ache with the hard floor beneath them. A tiny, quiet voice urges you to stand and rush out of the room before you damage your reputation any further, but the clink of John’s standard-issue belt buckle has your jaw falling slack before the idea can truly take root.

“Look at you,” he stresses again as he pulls the length of the belt from its loops with a slow thwppp sound, “So greedy for my cock. Anyone would think you’d been desperate for it all this time.”

John drags down his zipper, watching you look at him through your lashes. You don’t dismiss his hypothesis, instead choosing to stick your tongue out for him in an obscene act of fervour. The haggard groan that lurches from John’s lungs settles deep inside your cunt.

“You filthy girl,” he gasps, hurrying his hand into his trousers. He doesn’t even strip the pants from his hips, instead fishing his cock from his boxers and settling his balls against their waistband. “You have, haven’t you? How often did you touch yourself beneath the table while I spoke to you over the comms? Hmm?”

You’re so far gone now, so drunk on the idea of the agitating, ridiculous, utterly infuriating Captain finally fucking you that you might have answered that question-- if you’d heard it. Instead, his voice, which previously captured every fibre of your attention, drowned into the background of the thumping pulse in your ears. His cock sits just in front of your face, and it’s like you can’t breathe.

Ruddy and red at the tip, his cock already drools precum down the curve of its shaft. Veins throb beneath the thin, velvety skin, their ridges glistening beneath the wet tracks that his leaking seed leaves. It settles at the base, where his heavy balls rest against his boxer’s elastic waistband.

His question dies in the thick tension in the air, and you lean forward on your knees to press your drooling tongue right at the base of John’s cock where his precum pools. Your unexpected starting position causes John to spit out a curse, his fingers flying out to grip the strands of hair at the crown of your skull. “S-Shit-“

Saltiness coats your tongue where you lap up his cum, flattening your tongue against the underside of his shaft to trace his pronounced frenulum. Dragging your tastebuds upwards, you collect the tracks the droplets had left behind until the tip of your tongue rests on the underside of his fat cockhead. It’s disgusting, the relieved whine that escapes your open throat, but the vibration tips Captain John Price over the edge.

“Fuck! Eyes on me, Dove. Wanna see your eyes- that’s it.” John’s face contorts, brows creasing, and the edges of his lips turned down beneath the coarse hair of his beard as you look up at him, kissing the head of his velvety dick and slipping it into your mouth.

“Take orders so well. So obedient,” he purrs, the rumbling sound edging into a moan when you ease more of him into your mouth. He’s trying to play off the power dynamic, you note. Getting off on the fact that you’re his superior, but that he held the authority like this. A playful resentment teases the edge of your mind, urging you to remind him of his place.

You drag the edges of your teeth over his shaft. Not hard enough to hurt- just enough for a singing hiss to echo in the quiet room when you pull back from his cock.

It’s a mistake.

John grasps your hair at the back of your head, winding the strands around your fingers and suddenly rocks his hips forward. The length of his cock slides deep down your throat, and you splutter as your nose crushes into his pubic bone. “Couldn’t fuckin’ help yourself, could you?”

His gravelly reprimand swirls a ghost-like touch around your clit, and you gag around the length that intrudes against your throat walls. Price tuts softly, feeling your nails dig into his flesh beneath the camo canvas still covering his muscular thighs. It’s only when tears cling to your lashes that he draws your head back with a pull of your hair.

Gasping down a heavy breath, you splutter when John groans loudly. His cock twitches, drooling more precum as you gasp for breath, and he drags his eyes across your face. “Good fuckin’ girl. Takin’ me like that- didn’t it feel good?”

God, you’re nodding pathetically, tongue already lolling from your lips in a silent plea for more. The heaviness of his cock against your tongue and the vibrations of his lurid tone are enough for you to cum on their own, and you want more of them. John groans, a chuckle settling somewhere between the sound as he grasps the nape of your neck.

“Jus’ like that, you dirty girl,” he urges you, his free hand tapping at his balls in a wordless order. This time, you obey, tonguing over his finger before taking one of his balls into your mouth. You can hear the shaky exhale that rattles in his lungs when you suck.

“So fuckin’ good for me. I’ll fuck you against that desk one day, you hear?” You see him point in the corner of your vision, his index finger aiming at General Shepard’s desk. Realisation slams into you and rocks your clit with arousal- Shepard could walk in at any second and see his right-hand man stuffing Captain Price’s cock down her throat in the ultimate show of disrespect. John doesn’t seem worried about it. In fact, it’s as though he gets off on the idea, his eyes darting to the door as he details his plans for you.

“Think you’d look real nice on it. Far better than ‘is tacky nameplate. We’d make a mess together, get our cum all over it so he can smell jus’ how wrecked I left you-“

Moaning around the length of his cock, your clit throbbing desperately with his words, the vibrations cause John’s hips to lurch forward again. The head of his dick prods the back of your throat, but John’s tight grip doesn’t allow you to pull back. He’s buried to the hilt, twitching against your palate.

“Fuckin’ droolin’ for it, Love. It’s dripping down your chin—Fuck, you look so pretty like this,” He’s slurring his words as he watches you bob your head up and down on his length, swallowing around him and just barely holding back your gag reflex. It’s quick, messy, and loud, the wet sounds ricocheting off the office’s walls.

“D’you think he’s got cameras in here?” John muses, his voice thick with his incoming orgasm. The sound of it, the arousal coating his tongue has you whining desperately, “Why don’t you touch yourself, hmm? Give ’im a show.”

You sob around his girth like he’d just offered you a miracle. Fumbling, you don’t even bother wasting time trying to shove your hand down your trousers. Your fingers find the vague outline of your cunt through the crotch, roughly circling your clit through the layers of material.

It’s all you need. Your eyes roll back into your skull at just how close you are to cumming, your thighs trembling beneath your weight. You soaked through your panties and into the crotch of your trousers.

“Fuckin’ slutty girl,” John gasps, and you feel his cock jump at the sight of you already teetering on the edge, “’s my voice getting’ you off? Fuck, you’re fuckin’ perfect-“

Stop. Stop; you need him to stop. Your orgasm is ebbing at the edges of your abdomen, threatening to swallow you whole and drawing up tight, but John won’t shut the fuck up.

“C’mon, Love. Deeper. Deeper, that’s it. I’ll fuckin’ lick your pretty pussy if yo-“

His promises drown out with the surge of bliss that roars in your ears. Price times it perfectly, rocking his cock further down your throat so that you gag around his length. The lack of oxygen causes your nerve endings to sing when it cracks down your spine, bursting through your abdomen and spidering across your limbs like white-hot plasma.

Everything is loose with ecstasy, and it allows Price to issue one, two, three more brutal thrusts of his hips before he’s choking out a haggard warning that he’s going to cum.

“F-Fuck-“He chokes out, holding the nape of your neck before burying himself as deep as he possibly can without choking you, hot ropes of cum spurting down your throat. Even in your post-orgasm haze, mind numb, you swallow him down greedily. Big, heavy gulps, even licking your lips when he removes his dick from your throat to milk out the last drops of his cum onto them.

“Tha’s my girl, good, don’t let a drop go to waste.”

Price’s hand pushes back the mess of your hair from your face, careful to remove the strands that had clung to your tear-soaked eyelashes. You hold your breath, heart stilling its rapid beat as he brushes his thumb across your cheekbone to swipe up the tear tracks that had leaked from your eyes during his assault on your throat. It’s a single moment of tenderness, barely there, before he withdraws his touch to stuff himself back into his pants.

“Can you stand?” Price asks, his voice even hoarser than when you’d first walked into the room, like the moans you’d elicited from him were like sandpaper in his already raw throat. He holds out a palm- but you’re not cock-dumb enough to believe it’s a makeshift olive branch.

“Yes,” you whisper, matching his brutalised tone with your own as you bat away the helping hand he offers you. Price can’t help but scoff at your dismissal. Turns out even a dick down your throat wasn’t enough to change your uptight attitude. He watches you stand on shaky feet, trying to smooth out your creased knees before Shepard could wonder how exactly you’d made such a mess of yourself.

Besides your heaving breaths, still desperately pulling oxygen in your lungs to soothe the burn, the room is silent. Price finishes righting himself, smoothing his fingers through his cropped hair.

“Don’t forget what I said,” he murmurs, eyes sliding over to the desk. His promise to fuck you on it only barely re-enters your mind following a pointed look. Satiated somewhat by the blistering orgasm that had ripped through you, your rage struggles to roar to life like it had when you’d entered this room. Now it smelt like sex, and your anger only simmers in the base of your stomach.

“That is not happening again,” you promise him firmly.

“Mhmm,” he hums, following Shepard’s footsteps towards the door, “We’ll see about that, Dove.” 

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth

[celestialprincesse]

Mustang 🌵🏜️

The morning after dinner with Simon, you sit patiently on your porch swing, a chipped mug of coffee clutched in one hand, a pen knife balanced between the fingers of the other. Fortunately, the mornings aren't yet sweltering enough to wake covered in sweat and kick off the thin sheet from your bed. The sun still rises languorously over the horizon, and you wake with it.

Simon Riley is surprisingly pleasant, and you begrudgingly admit to yourself that Marlene had been right, perhaps you do need to get out more, meet new people, get over it. Perhaps you like him because he's like you. He's quiet, peaceful on the surface, undoubtedly roiling underneath. It's impossible to miss when you know the feeling so well. Tyres crunching on gravel snap you from your reverie, the black truck, some shiny new ford pulling in your driveway, cab doors swinging open to let its driver out.

"Nice." An appreciative eyebrow is raised in the direction of the truck, amusement barely hidden at its cleanliness. You struggle to imagine him spending meticulous hours cleaning the vehicle - when you do picture Simon Riley shirtless and suntanned, working meticulously to rid the truck of dust and dirt, you internally chastise yourself before walking down the rickety porch steps to greet him. "You left your pot." His gruff accent feels so odd to you still, so out of place whilst still being so somehow pleasant, sending shivers down your spine. "Shit. So I did." The enamel of your Dutch Oven is cool against your hands, chilled from the AC in his car. Still not used to the warmth, you suppose.

"You want a drink?" You hum as you wordlessly make your way back up the porch steps, Ness nipping at your heels as you usher Simon and the collie into your cozy kitchen, quick to shut the screen door behind you. "I got sweet tea, coffee, lemonade." "You got earl grey?" "Do I look like the type to have earl grey?" "Black coffee then, please."

Ness seems to like him. Good judge of character, you think. You hope. Maybe she likes him because of how similar he is to you, and you can't help but appreciate the newcomer as he pets the bicoloured ears of your pet. Your place is exactly how he pictured it'd be, cozy in a lived in sort of way, knickknacks scattered across the countertops and shelves and the occasional picture of what he can only assume is you as a kid strewn haphazardly. The coffee maker whirs quietly to life as you busy yourself with retrieving a plate of biscuits from the fridge, chucked in there to avoid the occasional fly that managed to get through the screen in the rushed moments where you failed to close it all the way.

"Biscuit?" "Just coffee is fine." "Your loss." You quip back, putting the plate back in its rightful place, by which time the coffee has brewed and you pour Simon a chipped mug full. "So, the fastback." Simon manages a little awkwardly, dwarfing your mug between his palms. "Ah, the elephant in my garage." The crappy joke makes you actually cringe, eyelid twitching as you angle your head back to the door, making your way to the garage, in which you pull the cover from the red painted mustang with an awkwardly executed flourish.

Upon assessing the car, Simon grunts out a quiet "Shit", turning to you with an almost concerned look. "You pay for this?" It seems weirdly as though he's mad, like anyone who charged you for this useless hunk of metal and rubber had committed some kind of sin, like they'd kicked a puppy or shunned god away. "No. No, guy said if I could fix it up it was mine." "Good. Cause it's worth fucking naught."

Simon spends the morning tinkering with the car. Pushes it out of the garage with pure brute strength so that he can look at it properly, says he'll fix your garage light whilst he's at it. When he appears at the kitchen door like a lost dog, cautious to shut the screen door, he can't help but appreciate the way you turn to face him, leaning the swell of your hip against the countertop. "The biscuit offer still open?" "You're fixing my shitty car and you already looked at my garage light. At this point I owe you more than just biscuits." You chuff.

The veteran can't help himself but to ogle your ass as you bend in front of your fridge to retrieve the biscuit plate, along with a jug of sweet tea and two chilled glasses.

"Prepared." "Ah, figured you'd get thirsty at some point."

There's something pleasant about the quiet of it all. Reminds him why he moved out here in the first place. The quiet nicker of horses and the sight of a beautiful woman making him lunch after spending hours out in the unforgiving heat. It makes him feel weirdly grateful, something he hasn't felt in a while. He's at your side as you rustle up some other food, something more substantial for a man of his size who's just spent four hours in the steadily boiling heat. He likes the way you don't flinch when a tentative arm slips around your waist to grab the glasses you'd set out on the counter, moving them to the table before returning to press his shoulder against yours.

"Need me to do anythin' else?" "Just stand there and be hot." Slips out before you can stop yourself, and your hand flies to cover your mouth, all whilst he stands, massive arms crossed against his chest with a smug. "Yes, Ma'am."

ᯓ★

Today felt like such a good day to write these two I promise I didn't forget about them!! I love them!! They're my emotionally wounded babies!!!

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader x Alpha!Sam

WC: 1650

Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter.

Warnings: A/B/O, dystopian au, canon elements, non/con, dub/con, incest, subjugation, pandemic, mentions of nudity, physical/mental abuse, mention of collaring/leashed, sexual/slavery, rut/heat, physical altercation, death/murder conviction, show level violence, parental dominance, trafficking, branding, panic attacks, bondage, forced mating, dated derogatory terms

*Additional warnings will be added

Square filled: @spnmixedbingo -Hiding an Injury @anyfandomgoesbingo -Childhood Best Friends

A/N I: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.

A/N III: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.

Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)

Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

Series Masterlist

PART X

Bobby fiddled around with the unfinished box when, bingo, it popped open, revealing a bunch of rolled papers inside. He crossed to the garage and fired up a printer, making copies of the documents then returned everything to its original position because John would notice if anything were misplaced. Heading back to his room, Bobby noticed light still coming from underneath the boy's door and lightly rapped it before opening it.

The elder brother was spooning his mate from behind, which made sense since Bobby knew from personal experience that lying on bruised ribs dulled the pain. However, it was difficult for the man to process why his brother was sleeping snugly against her front, his fingers twined with Dean's, resting on her hip.

****

Bobby is jerked out of his troubled sleep by a truck engine rumbling to life. Moving the window, he sees the taillights as John's GMC crunches over the gravel driveway toward the gate. Cursing obscenities in multiple languages, he rushes downstairs and pivots toward the front door when a voice calls out, "Denver Pyle aware you stole his underwear?"

Doubling back, he finds Dean sitting at the kitchen table with a smirk, drinking coffee. "Don't think you're too big to be taken to the woodshed, boy." Bobby chastised with as much dignity as he could muster in his red flannel long johns, walking to the stove to pour himself a cup from the old blue enamel pot. Ignoring the other man's continued smirk sat down across from him. "Good to see your eyes back to normal. Ready to tell me what that was about last night?"

That sobered Dean up.

He inquired how much Bobby knew about everything, and the Beta was honest about what he'd been told and felt that familiar pang of resentment toward John, watching Dean retreat into himself, knowing self-recrimination was nothing new for him.

"Seeing it's too early to get breakfast from Micky D's, I'm guessing John's found somewhere else to be." The young Alpha shrugged, saying it is what it is, and fiddled with his mug. "Anyway, I gotta keep my nose clean so Sammy doesn't end up in CYF custody. And seeing how you're my warden, that's the parole officer we're supposed to meet today." Dean slid a piece of paper over with his parole officer's info. "Is there anything else I should know before seeing them?" Dean shook his head negatively. Bobby braced himself, knowing the next thing coming out of his mouth would raise the Alpha's hackles.

"Couldn't help noticing number girl shivering in those hand-me-downs last night, and Sam needs some warmer clothes for school; going to get damn cold before too much longer." Deans features shifted, "Bobby, it's my responsibility to provide. I'll get what they need after I find a job."

"Looks like John forgot a few details. Part of the agreement is you'll work for me, too. But if that's how you want to do things, I've got no problem docking your paycheck in reimbursement." After rinsing his mug, the older hunter crossed his arms, leaning against the counter, and decided to bring up what he saw last night.

"Considering we have an Omega in the house, I want to get a few things straight,. You boys have always been close, and don’t care if you still share a room, but don't take me for stupid." A flash of oh crap crosses Dean's features. "And I want to be clear: she's your property. It'll be your decision how to handle situations when they arise. Where Sam is concerned, there'd better not be any fighting over her 'cause I'm not getting in the middle of you two. And give me a heads up before you go into a rut 'cause that's another thing I'm not going to deal with either."

After getting a yes sir, Bobby heads back upstairs to get dressed when he runs into Sam, who asks why he is dressed like Uncle Jessie makes the Beta grumble; this is gonna be a long six months.

Bobby once again wonders where god got their twisted sense of humor.

The building Dean's parole officer directed them to look like a country feed store from the outside. Inside, that was a different story.

Bobby had learned a few things about people's kinks over the years, but this place shocked the seasoned hunter when a bubbly voice that didn't match the decor called out, "Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I help you with today?"

Bobby watches Dean lean against the glass counter, showcasing a variety of erotic toys, turns on the charm he's mastered at a young age, turning the female Beta into goo while explaining he needs the necessities for his recently acquired Omega.

The shop assistant leaned towards him, putting her ample bosom on display. "We carry all the approved items from the O divisions. But if you're interested in something more adventurous, we have a certified craftsman who does custom designs." Bobby slaps the list they'd compiled on the counter, "We just need this stuff."

The assistant does a quick read and, within minutes, has almost everything sitting on the counter. "Most of our customers prefer to custom order outfits for their O. Let me show you what we have in store; see if any strikes your fancy."

Exaggeratedly swaying her hips, she heads toward the clothes section, where Bobby picks up a shirt and says, "This stuff makes the lingerie I gave my wife look conservative." Dean nodded toward him and inquired. "Do you have anything not so revealing for an O about his height?" The assistant looked confused. "Are you kidding?" Dean shook his head, and her attitude changed. "If this is some prank, you can leave, or I'm calling the cops."

Bobby intervenes, and Dean can hear the testy assistant's insolent remark and Bobby's very Bobby response as he walks out of the store. Unlocking the Impala, Dean opens the rear door and helps the Omega out. As they enter the store, the manager is now arguing with Bobby. "O's are not that big; it's a biological impossibility!" Bobby replies, "Oh yeah," and peers around them, "Tell that to her!"

Dean sat a bowl of spaghetti covered in meat sauce and salad he'd made to appease Sam in the middle of the table, then went to pull the cheesy garlic bread from the broiler. "Damn, that smells good," Bobby said coming from the library with Sam in tow, and sat in their usual spots at the kitchen table.

Reaching for a piece of bread, Bobby asked, "Isn't your girl hungry?" Sam's eyes cut to his brother, waiting to see how he'd answer, and watched Bobby's narrow at Dean's casual response, knowing he was concealing something.

"She won't touch the stuff Dad bought, so Dean's been sneaking her food, but the only thing she'll take is broth." Sam yelped and kicked his brother back. "This true, boy?" Dean affirmed that he had, and Bobby wiped his mouth. "Show me the stuff John got."

Retrieving a bag resembling dry dog food Bobby opened it frowning, "This isn't fit to feed a hog, let alone a person! Why'd he get this crap?"

"It's on the list of approved nourishment."

Bobby sighed, "As long as you're in my house, we all will eat like other families."

Completing more paperwork made Dean gnaw on the end of the pen because the bureaucracy involved in owning an Omega annoyed the Alpha after spending most of his life trying to stay off the government radar. A cough drew his attention, and he saw the Omega shivering where she knelt on the tiled floor.

"Fuck this," Dean growled, tossing the clipboard aside, got up, and getting her up off the floor, removed his jacket and wrapped it around her before helping her sit in the chair next to his.

Returning the clipboard, Dean drew the receptionist's ire and let them know he doesn't give a shit about their rules before sitting down, glaring. He continued until they were called and slowly made their way to an examination room at the far end of the clinic, where the doctor Bobby knew was already waiting.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Stevenson. Could you please have her remove the coat and sit on the table? I've looked over the other clinic's paperwork. Are there any other issues you're concerned about?" Dean tells them about her not eating and the constant pain she seems to be in, even with the substantial pain reliever being given. "Let me do another examination, see if something got missed."

The doctor asks the O to indicate pain on a scale of one to ten, starting at her feet and working up her body. They are pleased that most reactions are under five until they touch her neck, and she throws herself off the table. "Believe we found the source," the doctor comments. They ask Dean to remove the collar, and he admits not knowing how it made them frown.

Dean helps the trembling O back up as the doctor pulls out a penlight and shines it over the collar, finding hidden stitching and their expression changes.

"What's wrong?"

"I haven't seen one of these since my residency. I'll find something to cut the leather while you hold her." Dean drew the O flush against him and gently guided her face into his neck, releasing calming pheromones to relax her.

Dr. Stevenson slid surgical scissors under the ties, quickly sniping, explaining the original high collars were redesigned for autoerotic asphyxiation. Their voice fades out as Dean feels like he's having needles pulling out from under the skin of his neck when she drops. "I was expecting that. Let's get the O back on the table."

The doctor continues talking as they slowly remove it, "And this is why they're outlawed," stepping back allows Dean to see deep purple bruises with black depressions stripping the unconscious O's neck.

Part XI

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx  @lyarr24  @flamencodiva   @lassie-bird  @nancymcl   @spnbaby-67 @leigh70 @b3autyfuld1sast3r

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2  @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm @strawblueberrys�� @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @kazsrm67

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

[strayflowersstarsandlove]

Okonomyaki (leeminho)

The ache on your lower back and in between your legs really doesn't stop you from climbing on top of the chair and reach for the highest shelve in your cupboard so you can retrieve your two favourite mugs. Because that glorious first sip of coffee after a rather rough night deserves to be from the silliest Pikachu mug or else it is wasted. You grab the bright yellow Pokémon shaped mug and another pink one with a little silver enamel owl depicted on the side, and then turn on both the electric kettle and your coffee machine so you can make yourself coffee and tea for Minho.

Minho. Just thinking of him sends shivers down your whole body, the vivid pictures of your intense night still burning in the back of your head, your muscle memory still making your arms and your legs twitch a little. God. He was a fucking God. He literally looked like some Greek statue of a divinity, he ravaged you in the best way possible. You could not stop thinking about him and and the way his arms muscles flexed and throbbed and the strain and effort on his face giving way to the utter bliss as soon as he relieved himself and the wild look in his eyes and the sounds he made and the way his veins popped to the surface of his skin on his arms and hands as he gripped you and - the loud whistle of the kettle signaling the water's boiling over abruptly makes you snap out of your daydreaming. You chuckle to yourself as you shake your head, only now realizing you were gripping the edge of your kitchen counter for no apparent reason, and proceed to pour the hot water in the pink mug with the little tea bag hanging from it.

After filling up your cup with coffee you sit on the counter top and gently stir the warm, delicious liquid mixing in with the little splash of milk you had preheventively poured in as well, and as soon as you put down the metallic spoon on the marbled surface of your counter you hear light footsteps coming down the hall and soon enough Minho enters the kitchen, still damp hair from the morning shower, a soft smile and tired eyes as he acknowledges you, his stare quickly taking in you just sitting there in just a pair of boy shorts and one of his plushy cardigans he must've left behind sometime ago, "good morning, I made you some tea", you greet him lazily, pointing at the pink steaming cup near the sink, "Oh, tea but no food? You're a princess aren't you? Not just a pillow princess, a real, proper one", he says smirking, picking up the cup with one hand and placing the other on your exposed thigh, then leaning in to kiss you as you giggle and nuzzle against his face, tasting the minty toothpaste on his tongue, breathing in the aftershave and shampoo scent lingering on him, "I'll make us some quick breakfast, are Japanese scallion pancakes okay?", he asks politely and you nod enthusiastically, your mouth already watering in anticipation.

You're not sure if your boyfriend is more skilled in bed or in the kitchen, he moves so swiftly and with so much confidence it seriously makes you question just where and when he learned to be so fucking good in both fields. Alright maybe you were feeling just a little too needy for him, like you just could not get enough of him. He got you wrapped around his finger like that and you secretely loved it. You stare in awe, quietly sipping on your now cold coffee as Minho whips up the eggs and flour in a bowl, his trained arms making fast progress on the batter, his veins bulging out as he cuts up the scallion, his strong hands pressing down the blunt, smooth edge of the knife as he chops up his ingredients and expertly flings them in the frying pan. There's just something about his prominent muscles and his black tshirt moving against his torso as he sautees the pancakes, flipping them up and down with just a twist of his wrist, the focused look on his face as he checks the fire and oil crackling around the food: "those look incredible, you look incredible, you know that?".

You chew on the inside of your lip, eyeing your breakfast being elegantly plated right in front of you as Minho smirks, he cleans up the edges of your plate with a paper napkin and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively," mmh thank you sweet cheeks", he stands in between your legs dangling from the counter and then cuts up a piece of pancake and feeds you, placing his arms at your sides so you're basically trapped in between him and the counter, he stares at you expectantly, his lips slightly parted and his eyes intent on your face, "mas-iss-eo? Is it delicious?". An explosion of flavour and earthy richness settles in your mouth and you nod frantically, your eyes almost rolling to the back of your head as to emphasize just how good it tastes, "I'm hiring you as my private chef, these are just as incredible as they looked", you finally say after swallowing down the last piece of food. Minho clicks his tongue on his palate and cuts up another piece of pancake, stabbing it with the fork and bringing it up to your lips, "are you not gonna eat breakfast with me? ", you ask confusedly and he smriks again, directly placing the food in your mouth and then proceeding to kiss your jugular right as you swallow, "oh I am gonna eat. I'm just having a little appetizer first",he whispers along your collarbone which he kisses ever so slowly.

You wish you had the time to react but before you can even realise it Minho is pulling down your cardigan in one swift, super fast move, leaving your bare skin exposed and in the direct line of his eyes which become big and black and hungry by the second, his hands squeeze your breasts in a firm but not painful grip as an exhilarated sound escapes his lips, "you have the best boobs in town I fucking swear", he groans, his mouth then quickly finding your nipples which he sucks on avidly. You gasp. Thankfully you had already swallowed your food or else you would have probably spit out at least two pieces of scallion as the air leaves your lungs and you instinctively reach froward for him. Your run your fingers through the silky soft tufts of his dark brown hair that he had been growing out a little longer and you absolutely love it, particularly so when he buries his whole face in your chest and it tickles your ribcage.

You tingle. You start to tingle all over as he works his mouth and his tongue on you, his hands now pressing down your thighs to keep you as still as possible even when you pant and squirm and try to press yourself against him, "Min-", you breathe out, feeling your cheeks burning up and your lower insides throb, "you can eat, I don't mind", he mumbles, still not really detaching his mouth from you , his hands blindly reaching for the fork and platter that clink against the counter, and you find yourself chuckling, your eyes closing in delight as you savor this random outburst of lust and love and hunger and think you could easily get used to this.

[moss-wizard]

😇

Oh btw @moss-wizard why aren’t you posting slutty pictures of your aeropress coffee maker/coffee I wanna see it

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

I'd love to know more about the Bucky x autistic reader fic <3

This is such a pet project of mine to the point that I'm definitely overthinking it now and I just need to get it finished and posted.

I started it to help me work through my feelings while I waited for my assesment, and it's been so long I've had my diagnosis! It's very much based on my own experiences of being autistic and never feeling that I'm reaching the goals that everyone around me has set on my behalf. (But this has a soft fluffy ending).

It's called Let The Rain Fall and it follows Bucky learning about a talented agent who is still on desk duty, never really been in the field and doesn't go on missions. Determined to help her reach what he deems is her full capacity he befriends her and encourages her out from behind her desk.

She is our autistic reader, she much prefers being in charge of mission reports from the comfort of her office but, when disaster strikes, she steps in and is forced to reveal the full extent of her talents.

As Bucky gets to know her he starts to understand her more and more and they get closer and closer.

Little snippet under the cut, all SFW!

Bucky wasn’t sure he’d ever had such a nice time waiting in the jet. He was often resigned to babysitting the Avengers’ jet, car, boat, whenever there was actual teaching to be done. He didn’t mind so much, it gave him the space to read his books, listen to some music or catch up on all the history he’d either missed or inadvertently been a part of. 

But today you were there too, and your presence brought him a sense of calm that had truly surprised him. 

“Make yourself at home.” He insisted, gesturing to the spare seat. 

“Thanks.” You sat carefully.

“I mean it, make yourself comfortable, we’ll be here for a while. You want a drink?” Cautiously you tucked your legs up, crossing them on the seat. Your boots were clean, immaculate even, worn only through the compound and into the hanger this morning, but you were careful to keep them as far off the seat as you could anyway. 

Bucky poured coffee from a large flask tucked into the side of his seat and topped it off with a generous helping of milk. 

“That’s just how I like it.”

He smiled, wide and pleased, “I asked around, wanted to make sure you enjoy your first mission.” 

“Not really a mission if I don’t do anything,” you blew steam from the top of your enamel cup and took a sip, cupping your hands around the warm metal. 

“Well, it’s all I’m doing and I’m an ‘Avenger’.” Bucky laughed, reaching his arm out to clink your mugs together. “Cheers to the easiest job on the roster.” 

You fell into an easy silence, Bucky read his book for a while until you couldn’t hold it in anymore and told him you’d read it a few weeks before. Before you knew it two hours had melted away and you were curled up comfortably in Steve’s seat, giving Bucky a run down of your favourite books so far that year. He watched you, the wide grin softening into an indulgent smile while you blossomed before his eyes. 

He knew some of the other agents had been whispering about you, while you boarded the jet, that you were odd, childish, over the top and impossible to be around. But he enjoyed the exuberant way you described each plot, the glimmer of excitement in your eyes when he agreed with you and the blunt dry way you told deadpan jokes before breaking into peals of laughter. 

Silently he prayed that you’d come with him again, just to spend time with him even if you didn’t want to be in the field.  

[antariies]

wip wednesday tuesday

i've been cooking this fic on the back burner for a while. it's called "how to make coffee", a collection of in-between canon moments with the commander and dragon's watch (and friends of dragon's watch!) written in the style of recipe cards and spanning personal story all the way to eod ∠( ᐛ 」∠)__ needless to say, a VERY food-focused fic.

ty nero @i-mybrunettelady for the tag! ummm tagging @hawkepockets, @dalennaugw, @prismaticaurene, and @kerra-and-company

transcript under the cut:

HOW TO MAKE COFFEE

You will need:

Two enamel mugs

Coffee

Unfinished paperwork

An early morning in Orr

Start by taking a sunbeam directly to the face as Trahearne pushes into the tent.

Sit up in your desk chair, rub your eyes, and groan half-jokingly with a voice still rough from sleep, “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘flashbang’ first?”

Hear him deadpan, “Ah. My apologies, Commander. Flashbang.”

Snort at that, then yawn so wide your eyes squeeze shut and you miss the way he smiles, pleased with himself for making you laugh.

Smell the coffee in his hands before you see it, inhaling the smooth, earthy aroma deep into your lungs.

Watch as Trahearne sets down one of the steaming mugs in front of you and ask, stupidly, “Is this for me?”

“Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I did not want to wake you just yet, so I prepared it the way I prefer. If it is not to your taste, I can make adjustments, or I can make a different one, or—”

Bring the mug to your lips before he can finish and take a small sip.

Damn.

Drain about half of it in one go, not even caring if it burns your tongue a little.

Once you’re satisfied, set the mug down on your desk as the coffee pools in your stomach and warms you from the inside out.

Listen to Trahearne ask, beaming, “Well? Is it, ah, potable?”

Suspect that he already knows the answer, but indulge him anyway.

[packet-of-staples]

My favourite interaction at work is when people compliment my enamel pins.

I have a rainbow, a coffee mug (because Im a barista) and the Lancer cool bike pin from fangamer, and I love whenever someone goes “Wow I love your pins!” To go “Thanks! Check this out!” And I spin the little wheels on the Lancer pin and say “His wheels spin!!!” And the customer goes “Wow!! Thats so cool!!”

It becomes the highlight of my day :]

[neopronouns]

flag id: six flags with 9 stripes, with the second and eighth being smaller than the others, the first and ninth smaller than those, and the fifth the smallest.

the top left flag's stripes are dark red-brown, faded red-brown, faded light red-brown, dull light brown, copper brown, golden yellow, orange, red-orange, and medium dark red-brown. the top right flag's stripes are dull light orange, pale orange, beige, cream, red-grey, very light pink, pale pink, tan, and pinkish-grey.

the middle left flag's stripes are red-orange, light red-orange, very light red-orange, pale orange, faded red-orange, cream, very light orange, light orange, and faded orange. the middle right flag's stripes are soft red, light red-orange, very light orange, cream, light orange, very light sandy brown, light sandy brown, faded orange, and caramel brown.

the bottom left flag's stripes are orange, light yellow-orange, very light yellow, cream, faded golden yellow, peach, light orange, light sandy brown, and faded orange. the bottom right flag's stripes are light sandy brown, pale yellow-orange, very light yellow, off-white, pale golden yellow, silver-white, dull light beige, light tan, and tan. end id.

banner id: a 1600x200 teal banner with the words ‘please read my dni before interacting. those on my / dni may still use my terms, so do not recoin them.’ in large white text in the center. the text takes up two lines, split at the slash. end id.

ambercolauric | pearlcolauric coralcolauric | apricotcolauric peachcolauric | creamcolauric

ambercolauric: a colorgender related to the color amber, autumn days, freckles, torches, cabins, fossils, unbrushed hair, and enamel pins

pearlcolauric: a colorgender related to the color pearl, abalone, perfume bottles, chandeliers, tulle, ball jointed dolls, satin, and paint palettes

coralcolauric: a colorgender related to the color coral, inspirational quotes, macarons, buttons, jellyfish, morganite stones, reefs, and glasses of rosé

apricotcolauric: a colorgender related to the color apricot, paintbrushes, sand dunes, tights, holding hands, peace signs, and picnic baskets

peachcolauric: a colorgender related to the color peach, shores, headbands, warm hugs, mugs, fruit baskets, blankets, and sleeping cats

creamcolauric: a colorgender related to the color cream, dandelions, marble, bottled coffee, hair ties, banana cream, bedsheets, and sketches

[pt: ambercolauric: a colorgender related to the color amber, autumn days, freckles, torches, cabins, fossils, unbrushed hair, and enamel pins

pearlcolauric: a colorgender related to the color pearl, abalone, perfume bottles, chandeliers, tulle, ball jointed dolls, satin, and paint palettes

coralcolauric: a colorgender related to the color coral, inspirational quotes, macarons, buttons, jellyfish, morganite stones, reefs, and glasses of rosé

apricotcolauric: a colorgender related to the color apricot, paintbrushes, sand dunes, tights, holding hands, peace signs, and picnic baskets

peachcolauric: a colorgender related to the color peach, shores, headbands, warm hugs, mugs, fruit baskets, blankets, and sleeping cats

creamcolauric: a colorgender related to the color cream, dandelions, marble, bottled coffee, hair ties, banana cream, bedsheets, and sketches. end pt]

ninth and final set of colorgenders based on the results of this 'what color is your aura?' uquiz for anon!

these are in the colorgender flag format with the aura color from the uquiz as the center stripe and colors inspired by the listed things as the rest of the stripes. the terms are the aura color, 'col' from 'color, 'aur' from 'aura', + 'ic'!

tags: @radiomogai, @colorgendered | dni link

[disease-danger-darkness-silence]

Amazon Affiliate Listicle, but with my ADHD and propensity for swearing

So I'mma do a listicle of Amazon affiliate links just like every other place is doing for Prime Days.

I'm just gonna tell you ahead of time that I'm doing it for money and the sense of incredulity I feel about... Amazon as a whole.

🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃

A Backbone, probably the most ridiculous gaming accessory I've ever seen. Yes, I'd like to use my phone as a controller for $35 more than a normal PS5 controller costs and have almost no other functionality!

I am ALL ABOUT BIDET ATTACHMENTS, okay, but this brand is so fucking overpriced. I'm not paying $77 to launch high-powdered water up my chocolate starfish, and I'm definitely not paying the normal $110. I WILL say that I've used this brand and it was good, but... Dudes. It's a stream of water to make wiping your ass easier. How much is that actually worth? This is a much better price for the exact same functions.

When I saw this set of movies, I didn't see that it was James Bond. Daniel Craig is wearing like a sweater, but I also didn't realize it was Daniel Craig. All I saw was CRAIG. This is, for some reason, absolutely fucking hilarious to me.

Instant Pot for $65, need I say more?

Okay I'm not even joking, this is just a pretty fucking decent price ($84) for a 1.5 TB microSD card.

If you have a 3D resin printer, today is the day to stock up: AnyCubic has some really good resin deals going on! I personally love the plant-based resin, but I've heard amazing things about their water-washable stuff. I wanna try the ultra-tough resin, though. (Note: this is UV resin so you don't have to actually use it in a 3D printer. You can use it in a mold too.)

Let's spend $50 to make a single cup of coffee at a time when I can make better coffee using a disposable tea bag. 🙄 The hatred I have for single-use coffee makers knows no bounds.

What you do is take about two regular spoons full of coffee grounds (another half a spoon if you like it harsh, half a spoon less if you like it light), put them in the tea bag. Put any other spices and flavorings you like in the bag too. Close it, and tie it closed really well (I wrap the strings around the top of the bag and tie them again when I've tied it.) steep for 5 minutes in a mug full of hot water (doesn't matter how it got hot), and then add milk or creamer depending on your preference. It will have less of an acidic bite and a better flavor profile.

I'm super into the idea of bleaching my tooth enamel until it rots away and my teeth are super white but extremely sensitive! Give it to me, Crest! Yeah Daddy!

If you DO want the tooth-brightening shit, you'll probably want to invest in a few tubes of Sensodyne. Trust me.

Oh, you eat Tide pods? Cool, cool, if you Wan a be like 2021 about it. I'm a dishwasher pod kid. Snack time.

OK no sarcasm, this shit will clean your washing machine so fuckin good. My daughter gave me some and suddenly none of us smell like Satan's asshole anymore. Fucking amazing.

Okay look, if you wanna get special pimple patches, go ahead, they're on sale today and they DO work, but they're just hydrocolloidal bandages. I get the regular ones bc I can cut them to shape.

Okay fullstop, I love the power mops Swiffer makes and this is a GREAT deal. Anyone wanna buy me a new mop? 😂

Oh shit, they have Naked mini-palettes for 40% off. That's $21 omg why am I a poor with expensive makeup taste??? WHY? (They also have the Stila liquid eyeliner on sale somewhere.)

Yes, sir? I'd like the biggest, widest computer monitor to ever exist. I'm a gamer, you see. A thousand dollars today, you say? What a deal! I'm a gamer! (Look, I have a gaming computer and a pretty big monitor but there's a fkn limit, Samsung. There's a line and you've crossed it.)

I almost didn't click on the "pet products" tab because I miss Ziva SO MUCH. But I do love pampering my pets. In that vein, WHO WANTS TO BUY A SHOCK COLLAR?

If you've ever needed 900 poop-scooping mini garbage bags... Today is your day. Time to shine.

Aw fuck, I found a pretty damn good deal on a cat tree.

If you don't have a 3D printer, you have to buy Settlers of Catan like a peon and it's on sale today.

I'm actually disappointed in myself how much I want this.

TICKET TO RIDE FOR UNDER $40.

If you wanna train your pet to talk these things are on sale.

For the low, low price of $98, you too can let your child kill themselves by improperly using a Zipline kit.

EXPLODING KITTENS FOR $10 AND I MEAN THE GAME NOT ACTUAL KITTENS BUT I GUESS HE HAS A SHOW NAMED THAT TOO?

As a general rule Raven and I don't buy Nerf products because they're owned by Hasbro and we're boycotting them because of the whole Pinkertons thing. Plus, in the world of foam dart guns they're actually doing the worst when it comes to innovation and performance. But! We will get them on clearance or secondhand. I consider Prime Day to be clearance, so have this multipack for a kid's party that I wish I'd had for Raven's birthday party last month.

Also, this translucent blaster.

I love this style of shorts (although I got the viral tiktok ones) but omg this one has POCKETS.

Today I discovered that there is a brand called THE GYM PEOPLE and they make really boring clothes.

Hey plus-sized ladies! Want yet another ugly beige bra? Look no further!

I have one of these mandolin slicers. Highly recommend.

Get your kids used to corporate surveillance with an Amazon Echo made just for them!

THESE ARE THE ONLY PENS I USE.

Amazon putting these under "off to college" is absolutely fucking hilarious to me.

I'm actually really bummed I don't have the money to get this Samsung Galaxy Tab.

Amazon knows what's up when it comes to kids: a five-pack of identical pants. I think it's for uniforms but like. Let's be real, kids just go through clothes like that.

Every time I see a Skullcandy product, I remember when I was at a Skullcandy booth at the Warped Tour and I asked the booth babe how they compared to Sennheiser or even Audio-Technica. She looked at me, and in a snooty voice, said, "I've never even heard of Sennheiser before."