#are they like apples but sweeter?

[dragonmouth]

Crowley’s first failed attempt at tempting Aziraphale in the Garden of Eden….

A very lovely follower on Twitter gave me the idea and reminded me that sugar apples exist. I wish I could try a sugar apple. They look so tasty.

[arielluva]

granny smith apples are peak, red delicious suck, and pink lady apples are like if red deliciouses were good

[scarefox]

There is this healthy snack "recipe" which is basically just cinnamon on apple slices (no sugar). Bit like tricking yourself to eat an apple.

It smells damn nice and you might even think of apple pie. But it tastes like disappointment.

[thesiblingsoftheblackandwhite]

.... how good are those apples that wilbur considers them a privilege? because if they're that good, i wanna try them. im a sucker for good food. also finding apples that genuinely taste good is surprisingly hard??? its apples???

~ 🕊️

They’re nothing amazing. He just…

Wiggog grimaces.

Really likes apples.

[helianskies]

I feel so bad hearing you’re allergic to apples, have you ever had a rhubarb crumble? They’re equally as nice

i'm about to blow your mind but i strongly dislike rhubarb :'

we made a crumble recently with rhubarb from the neighbour's garden and after trying the rhubarb as it cooked, well, i was glad we had berries i could use for my own separate crumble because damn, why you gotta taste like that :')

[todayisafridaynight]

ADMITTEDLY it’s a very “teenagers first alcohol” kind of vibe so I prommy it’s not popular with any demographic that’s older than 25 gdgdgd

I’m only just recently leaving my baby tastebuds please bare with me (and give me drink recs so I can leave candy hell)

(Also sidenote but I genuinely didn’t expect so much uproar over GRAPE FLAVOURING because I’ve never heard anyone hate it so much so once again I’m convinced this is an American problem and not a problem with my beloved grape flavour 🙏)

passport you are GROWN im fucking crying looking at all of this. this is the equivalent of whiteclaw.

[good-night-space-kid]

Online recipe comments never fail to amuse me. “I made this with tart apples. I don’t like when the apples are tart. Bad recipe.” “I made this but I switched out half of the ingredients and it was bad.” “I halved the sugar to make it healthier and it sucked. Terrible recipe.” Like y’all see how it was your fault that it didn’t turn out, right? Like, that was not the recipes fault that was you

[akkivee]

omg time to celebrate pumpkin season!!!! do u think BAT would like pumpkin spice drinks

i think kuukou would!!!!! jyushi’s alright with it, it’s not his favourite fall flavour, but i highly doubt hitoya would like pumpkin spice anywhere near his coffee lmao

[thewingedwolf]

what i have realized about cooking once i lived own my own is that it’s difficult to think up and cook meals every single day and it’s infinitely harder to do that for a group of people, and that was something i just did NOT realize when my grandma did all the meal planning. on the other hand. i have also realized that woman did NOT season SHIT omg i had some sweet cheese pierogis and i was looking on reddit to see what vegetables to pair with that, like if i’m doing Mostly Veggie Dinner with some pierogis and i saw someone suggested spinach, and i have never liked just eating spinach, i only have it for my smoothies bc u can’t taste it esp when it’s frozen. but i roasted them with some cumin & cinnamon & nutmeg until some of them were a lil crispy and ate them on top of the pierogis. it was so fuckijg good. do you know what my grandma put on spinach? sea salt.

[cat-orchestra]

I've never liked apples but last year I saw some really big pink apples that caught my attention and I tried to buy one just to try it, I couldn't buy it, "they're a new product, that's probably why they're not in the system" I told myself, next time I went shopping I tried to buy the same type of apple again, I also couldn't buy it.... I tried purchasing these apples several times since November last year and failed until yesterday, it took 3 months _(:'3 」∠)_

[arielluva]

tried a pink lady apple and i like it!! not too shocking considering im a granny smith enjoyer but its good ^_^

[monstersholygrail]

A Second Wave

Shark Hybrid bf x fem!reader—soft sex, multiple orgasms, marking, two cocks, fingering, double penetration, praise, creampie, aftercare, and cum play

Imagine a Shark Hybrid bf having decided to take you as his mate. You're his first ever human mate. Sure, he's been with other merpeople in the past, just passing flings he couldn't really care about. It was you who caught his attention from the very first moment you two locked eyes. And it was you who drew him in with your sweet laughs and your sweeter smell.

But he had no idea what it was like to have a human mate. He didn't know what you were used to or what you'd think about the very clear differences between him and human men. So as not to overwhelm you, when the time came for you to finally lay with him and bare your beautiful plump frame to his grateful eyes, he only revealed one of his dicks.

He watches you carefully, looking over your reaction closely. If you seemed confused then perhaps human men had two cocks as well and he'd release his second one. But no, you didn't look confused, only wildly excited with a faint glimmer of concern for if his hefty size would fit into your tight cunt.

A part of him is of course thrilled that you're laying beneath him practically drooling over his massive length, but another part of him is scared about how you'll react when he reveals his second cock to you that he's been told is even thicker than the first. Especially as it seems only one dick is normal for human males.

When he finally sinks into your warmth it's everything he's been imagining. Even with only one of his cocks inside of you it's the best sex he's ever had. The intimacy of the moment unmatched as his clawed hands trace over your curves.

You just feel so good and warm, he wants to give you all of him. He grabs handfuls of you, his hands sinking into your softness as he helps slam you down harder on his cock.

While he continues to lose himself your sweet cunt, he can't completely ignore that small nagging voice in the back of his head. A whispering voice telling him that he could give you even more, make your pleasure greater. All he had to do was let out his other cock. But his fear quickly silenced it and he just starts pounding into even harder, eager to make you feel good.

He knows he can't keep it a secret though. It wouldn't be fair to you or him. So a few days after that special night you two spent together, he sits you down, telling you he has something important to talk about. Not realizing that for humans that sentence can create a lot of anxiety.

You being the wonderful mate that you are asks him what's wrong. Being as before you he's never had a human mate, he has no idea how to put this. So he figures the best way is to just get it over with and blurt it out.

The silence stretches awkwardly after he does, neither of you knowing what to say.

"What?" You ask in your shock. He swallows down his nerves.

"I have another cock. One l've been hiding encase it was too much for you."

Again, the silence stretches. Shark Hybrid bf fears the worst, internally terrified that he's about to lose you. That you'll be scared or upset. That now that you know you may not want him.

"Can I see it?" Is what you finally say, shocking him. He whips his head around to look at you, jaw dropped.

His cocks twitch in his tail at your words and his Addams apple bobs but he nods in agreement, a spark of hopeful arousal shooting through him. It enough to have one of his cocks pop through the slit of his tail. A brief hesitation has him holding back for only a second before he looks into your eyes and sees only acceptance.

A long sigh of pleasure leaves him as he finally releases his second cock from his slit. His eyes never leave you as your own trail down his body and they widen once they reach his lengths. The second one indeed being thicker than the first. Both equally impressive in their length. Your bf waits with bated breath for you to say something- anything.

"H-how would they fit?" You whisper in awe, your hand tentatively reaching out to touch one.

Shark Hybrid bf groans, his head falling back as his cocks twitch at your slight touch. The second one was always more sensitive than the first. He takes a moment to catch his breath.

"There's many ways we could mate. But I could, uh, mmph, stretch you. Fit them both inside your pretty little hole. F-feel how wide you can stretch f'me."

You both moan at the image his words paint in your heads and before you know it you're slowing riding his first cock, his hips swiveling and mixing up your insides as he stretches you on his girth. You're a dripping mess, your arousal dribbling down his dick and making a mess of your joined hips. The anticipation fueling you just as much as his hard cock inside you is.

Shark Hybrid bf can feel how perfectly you're wrapped around him and he has to gather his strength to hold back his release. When your cunt flutters around him, clearly begging for more, his hand slips between your bodies, and his fingers gently push in, brushing against your walls and his cock at the same time causing you both to gasp.

He works on stretching you even wider, not willing to risk you getting hurt over this. Making sure everything is properly lubricated, leaving the two of you absolutely soaked. It was wet and filthy but so fucking hot. Each finger he adds in, pumping them in tandem with his length as your body relaxing further and further.

By the time you're finally ready for his second cock you're a fucked out mess, your head all spacey as you sag against your bfs chest. But the second you feel his second tip press against your entrance it's like you get a second wind, your mind and body coming to life.

Long pleasurable mewls echo off the walls as your bf slides his second cock deep inside you with the first. Your pussy almost unbearably full of him. For a moment you fear you'll burst in half, his sizes threatening to break you into two.

Almost as if sensing your worries your bf settles down inside of you, letting you adjust and calm down to. His hands caress your sides, massaging your fat with an unparalleled reverence.

He whispers soft words of praise in your hear, telling you how good you feel, how well you're taking him, and how you're the best mate he could've ever hoped for. And with his hands now free he doesn't hesitate to bring a couple of fingers up to rub soft circles into your clit, causing you to more easily relax against the intrusion.

You make the first move when you're ready, surprising your bf yet again as you start to ride his dicks. A low growl you've never heard from him before tears through his throat and his claws tighten on your waist. And before you know it you're bouncing on cocks at a frenzied pace, each glide pushes along your throbbing walls, making you crazy for him.

As much as he tries Shark Hybrid bf can't find it in himself to slow down. The stimulation of your perfect sopping pussy and the way his dicks rub together inside you send him spiraling, a feral need taking over him. He fucks into you with abandon, barreling you both into an unimaginable release.

And when you finally cum you swear for a moment you black out, the pleasure far too intense for your poor human body to handle. But your bf keeps fucking you through it, making you cum even harder till it's gushing out of you in a steady stream. The intensity of it all sends you clamping down on both his cocks and with a few more thrusts your bf cums right along with you.

You don't know what to expect when he finally does cum inside you but you didn't realize that double the cocks meant double the cum. His release doesn't seem to end as he shoots endless streams of cum deep inside you, stuffing you till you're overflowing with his release and your belly distends more and more.

When he carefully slips his lengths out of you, his cum spills out of you like a current. A satisfied grin rests on your bf's lips as he watches and his hand leaves your swollen sensitive clit to caress your stomach. After a moment he pushes on it gently and his grin grows wider as more and more spills out onto the ground beneath you, making an even bigger mess.

He swears to himself then and there that there is nothing better than having a pretty human mate like you.

[strangerexee]

ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Set in 1932 Reader x Bo Chow (Smut | NSFW | 18+ | Kissing | Light Choking —barely | F!Receiving) ᴡᴄ : 4ᴋ ᴘᴛ.2

The bell over the door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, stepping in from the heat and dust of the street — 𝓑𝓸 𝓒𝓱𝓸𝔀 & 𝓒𝓸 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀 ɢʀᴏᴄᴇʀʏ & ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴛ Your shoes were worn thin. Your dress was simple cotton, sticking to the back of your knees.

And you were tired — bone-tired — from chasing one dead-end job after another across this godforsaken town.

You needed work. Or a miracle. Or both.

The store smelled like tobacco and dry wood, with a hint of something sweeter — maybe the candy in the jar by the counter, or the bright bruised apples piled up in baskets.

Shelves lined the walls, packed with everything from flour sacks to pistol rounds. It was the kind of place where a man could buy a loaf of bread, a hammer, and a coffin without walking more than twenty feet.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, wiping sweat from your forehead, trying not to look as desperate as you felt. It was quiet inside, but not empty.

There, behind the counter, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, stood a man.

And Lord Almighty. You almost forgot how to breathe.

He was fine — broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist — and the worn suspenders crossing his chest did nothing to hide it. Dark hair, a little mussed like he'd run his fingers through it a hundred times that morning already. Sharp jaw. Sleeves pushed up. And a cigarette dangling careless between his lips.

He watched you over the top of the ledger he was scribbling in, one eyebrow tilting up slow, like he wasn't quite sure if you were real or a heat mirage rolling in off the road.

"You lost, darlin'?" His voice was rough, low. Not unfriendly. But not soft, either.

You swallowed. Your cheeks burned hotter than the sun outside.

"No, sir," you managed, clearing your throat. "I'm lookin' for work."

He tilted his head a little. The cigarette bobbed between his fingers as he tapped ash into a tin. There was a long, heavy pause, stretching thin between you like taffy pulled too far.

He leaned forward, arms braced on the counter, and you caught the faint scar along the side of his throat — a rough, pale line disappearing beneath his shirt. He smelled like leather and smoke and maybe something wilder, something you couldn’t name.

"Ain't much work left 'round here," he said finally. "Dust's got more jobs than we do."

Your heart sank. You started to thank him anyway — ready to turn, ready to leave with your pride shriveled up tight inside you —

But then he said, almost too casual:

"You know how to tally numbers? Take stock? Keep folks from stealin' when I ain't lookin'?"

You blinked up at him. Nodded fast.

"Yes sir. I can read, write, count. And I can run a register." (You prayed you didn’t sound as breathless as you felt.)

Bo Chow smiled then — real slow, real lazy. Like maybe he hadn't smiled all day until now. Maybe longer.

And damn if it didn’t feel like that smile was just for you.

"Might have somethin' for you after all," he said, nodding toward the back room. "Mornings, couple hours. Pay ain't much, but it's clean work. And you get first pick if any more fruit comes in."

You tried to smile back, tried not to look like a fool.

"I'd be grateful," you said. "Truly."

"Name's Bo Chow," he said, holding out a calloused hand across the counter. "Most folks just call me Bo."

You put your hand in his, and he squeezed it firm — just enough to make your stomach flip once, twice. His skin was warm. Rough in the right way.

Your name felt small and clumsy on your tongue when you said it. He repeated it once under his breath — tasting it — like he was putting it away somewhere safe.

You heard boots scuffing behind you — a couple old-timers coming in, hats low over their faces — and Bo dropped your hand slow, like he hated letting go.

"Be here six sharp tomorrow," he said, voice dropping a little lower. "Don't make me come hunt you down."

And Lord, the way he said it — like it was a promise, like it was a threat, like maybe he wouldn't mind hunting you down at all —

You walked out of that store with your heart rattling around in your ribs, a stupid grin tugging at your mouth. The dust hit your boots. The sun hit your eyes. But you hardly felt it.

All you could think about was him. About Bo Chow, the cigarette smoke curling around his smile. About how, maybe you'd finally found something worth staying for.

The next morning, you showed up just before six — hair pinned back, boots polished best you could manage, apron folded under your arm.

The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just a pale silver smear over the flat line of the fields.

The streets were empty except for a stray dog.

You hesitated at the door, heart hammering. What if he changed his mind? What if he realized you weren’t worth the trouble?

But the second you pushed inside, the warm smell of tobacco and cedar wrapped around you like an old blanket — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled again over those damn forearms, shirt tucked messy into dark trousers, suspenders hanging low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered to fix them yet. He was counting cash, cigarette stuck lazy between his teeth, the smoke curling up in slow silver ribbons.

He glanced up when he heard the door — and you swear, you swear, for a half second he smiled. A real one. That soft kind, just at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

"You're early," he said, voice rough with sleep. "Good."

You nodded, setting your things down behind the counter.

Your hands shook a little, but you kept busy — dusting, sweeping, checking the register like he told you. He didn’t hover. Just gave quiet instructions here and there, moving around the store slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

And it was the little things — God, it was the little things — that drove you crazy.

You noticed it first when he leaned down to pull a crate from under the counter — how his shirt stretched tight over his back, fabric whispering against muscle. How a lock of dark hair fell over his brow and he huffed it out of the way without even noticing.

You caught yourself staring. Snapped your head down fast, pretending to reorganize the fruits and vegetables.

Then it was the way he stood — shoulders wide, hips cocked lazy — arms crossed over his chest as he watched you figure out how to load the till.

There was something about the way he moved — no wasted steps, no fidgeting — like he didn’t have to try to own the space around him. He just did.

And Lord, when he laughed —

Low, unexpected — a real rough chuckle that rumbled from his chest when you nearly dropped the glass candy jar and caught it at the last second — God, you felt it down to your toes.

"Careful, sunshine," he drawled. "Ain't but one of you, and glass is expensive."

You ducked your head, face burning. But you couldn’t help smiling.

Around mid-morning, after he nailed up a new shelf in the back, Bo wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. You offered him the water you packed — nervous, feeling silly. He took it with a little nod, mouth brushing the rim where yours had been without hesitation.

And when he handed it back — his fingers brushed yours. Calloused. Warm.

You felt it like a jolt of lightning, sharp and sweet under your skin.

"You doin' alright?" he asked, voice low. "Ain't scarin' you off yet?"

You shook your head fast.

"No, sir."

That slow smile again — like he was proud of you, somehow. It made your chest ache.

The rest of the day passed in slow, golden hours. He showed you how to track inventory, how to read the order forms, how to spot the difference between good grain sacks and ones chewed through by mice.

And every little thing — the way he squinted against the sun when he stepped outside, the way he twirled the pencil between his fingers when he thought, the way he touched the brim of his hat polite to the older ladies who passed by — every little thing made you fall harder.

You were a fool. You knew it. But God help you, you couldn’t stop.

Near closing time, when the shadows stretched long across the floorboards, Bo lit the oil lamps and turned the sign to CLOSED.

The town settled into quiet outside, the cicadas starting up their low hum.

You packed up your things, heart heavy. You didn’t want to leave.

He leaned back against the counter, cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo, watching you with that unreadable look. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching.

And before you left — just as you reached the door — he said:

"You did good today."

You turned, surprised.

He flicked ash into a tin, voice casual, almost too casual:

"Could use someone steady around here. Someone like you." "If you want it — job’s yours."

You tried to speak — tried to say yes, of course, yes, thank you, yes — but all that came out was a breathless little whisper.

"I'd like that."

Bo nodded slow, eyes never leaving yours.

"Good," he said. "Real good."

You just huffed and left the store.

You showed up early again the next morning. Couldn’t help yourself. You barely slept — just laid in your bed all night staring at the ceiling, heart banging around your ribs like a fist.

You kept seeing him — that rough smile, that lazy slouch against the counter, the way his hands moved — big and calloused and sure — like he could tear the whole damn world down if he wanted, but he didn’t. He was gentle with you.

You dressed careful — simple skirt, neat tucked-in blouse, hair tied back. Nothing fancy. But you caught yourself smoothing it down a dozen times on the walk to the store.

You weren’t scared of work. You weren’t scared of Bo, either. Not really.

What scared you — if you were honest — was how badly you wanted him to look at you again the way he had yesterday. Like he saw you.

The bell over the door jingled when you pushed inside — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Good Lord.

You almost had to grab the doorframe to keep from sliding down it.

Today he had the vest on — rich brown canvas, snug over his shoulders and chest — shirt rolled at the sleeves again, forearms out, tan skin dusted with faint scars like old stories he never bothered to tell. Trousers fit firm around his slutty waist, boots scuffed from work.

He looked up from stocking the shelves — and when he saw you, a flash of something warm crossed his face. Almost hidden. Almost.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he said, voice low and gravelly. "Thought you might show."

You swallowed hard, managed a nod.

He stood up slow, dusting his hands off on a rag. That damn vest hugged him in all the right places. Made your stomach flip and knot in ways that felt dangerous.

You got to work without being told, moving behind the counter, checking the inventory list. Trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t about to explode out your chest.

It didn’t help that Bo kept brushing close — not on purpose, not really — but every time you turned around he was there.

At one point, you bent to grab a crate from under the counter — and when you stood up, you bumped right into him.

Hard, solid chest — vest scratchy and warm against your back — his hand catching your waist automatically to steady you.

Big palm. Firm grip. Fingers splaying wide before he yanked them back like he touched a hot stove.

You both froze.

For one wild second, the whole store was silent — just the sound of the clock ticking on the wall — his breath brushing the back of your neck.

Then he cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Easy, now," he said rough, almost scolding. "Ain't tryna bust that pretty nose, are ya?"

You flushed so hot you thought you might catch fire. Mumbled something — you didn’t even know what — and ducked your head fast.

Later, you were coming out of the storage closet — arms full of ledgers — right as Bo was striding in.

Instead of waiting — instead of shrinking back — you moved right past him. Real smooth. Real bold.

Except — the space was too damn narrow.

Your hip brushed his thigh — your shoulder scraped his chest — and your ass — oh, Lord — your ass skimmed right up against his front when you slid by.

You felt him go still — felt his hand twitch at his side like he had to physically stop himself from grabbing you. You didn’t dare look up.

You just kept moving, pretending you didn’t notice, pretending your whole body wasn’t screaming at you.

Behind you — you swore you heard him swear low under his breath. Real soft. Real dangerous.

You bit your lip so hard it hurt just to keep from smiling.

By noon, the air inside the store was thick and heavy with heat. Bo shed the vest finally, slinging it over a hook near the door. You caught a glimpse of the way his shirt clung to him — the long line of his back, the strong slope of his shoulders.

You caught yourself staring again — caught yourself wanting — and forced yourself to look away.

But Bo must’ve noticed, because a minute later he drifted close — reached past you for something on the shelf — his hand landing light on your waist to move you out the way.

He didn’t even think about it. Just did it. Like you were his already.

Your breath hitched so fast you nearly dropped the jar in your hands.

"‘Scuse me, sunshine’," he said, real soft in your ear. "You’re in the way."

You stood there dumb, blinking, as he brushed past — close enough to smell the salt and sun and cigarette smoke on him.

It wasn’t until later — after closing — when you were wiping down the counters and Bo was locking the door — that he spoke again.

"You work good," he said, voice low and thick. "Real good. Smarter than most the men that come through here."

You turned, heart hammering.

Bo was leaning back against the door — arms crossed — watching you. Face unreadable. Eyes dark.

You opened your mouth — to thank him, maybe — but he cut you off.

"How old are you, anyway?"

You stiffened.

You knew what he was asking. Knew why he was asking it.

You met his eyes steady, chin tilting up just a little.

"Turned eighteen last month," you said. "I'm grown, sir."

For a second — just a breath — something flickered across his face. Something hungry and dangerous and real.

Then it was gone, shuttered behind that calm mask he wore like a second skin.

He nodded once. Slow. Like he was making peace with something ugly inside himself.

"Alright, sunshine," he said rough. "Long as you know what you’re doin’."

You smiled — small and sweet and secret — because you did. You really, really did.

And Lord help you — you weren't planning on stopping.

The day dragged in slow — hot and heavy, same as always — but you didn’t mind.

Not when you got to watch him.

Bo moved like he wasn’t even trying. Stacking crates, counting stock, slouching against counters — and all you could do was sneak glances every chance you got.

The way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows — showing off strong forearms, tan and scarred, veins running beneath the skin like little rivers. The way the muscles flexed under the fabric when he lifted something heavy.

His hands — God, his hands.

Big and rough, palms calloused from years of work. Knuckles scarred like he’d been in more fights than he’d ever admit.

You imagined what they’d feel like — skimming your skin, wrapping around your throat, curling in your hair.

It got harder and harder to focus on anything else.

You were wiping down the counter again — pretending to clean when you were really just looking at him — when you realized:

No customers.

None.

Just you and Bo. Alone. Heat swirling between you like smoke.

Your heart kicked up — wild, reckless.

And before you could talk yourself out of it — before you could remember to be scared or shy or good —

You moved.

Not too fast — a normal shaky pace.

You crossed the space between you in a few quick steps — grabbed his hand — and tugged him toward the back.

He let you.

No questions. No hesitation. Just a soft grunt, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he followed.

"What’s this, sunshine?" His voice was rough, curious, amused. "You stealin' me?"

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him through the narrow back door — into the storeroom, dim and warm and empty — and shoved him back against the wall.

You stood there, breathing hard. Heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it.

Bo looked down at you — those dark eyes burning — and for a second you thought maybe he’d laugh, maybe he’d brush you off, maybe he’d tell you to run along like the little girl you weren’t anymore.

But he didn’t.

He tipped his chin down — lips brushing yours — and said low:

"You sure, sunshine?"

You nodded. Didn’t trust your voice.

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. Hard. Hungry. Hands grabbing your hips, dragging you against him.

Your head spun. The world tilted.

His mouth was hot and rough, teeth scraping your lower lip just enough to make you whimper — and God, the sound you made must’ve lit him on fire because he growled low in his chest and kissed you harder.

You clutched at him — hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer — and he let you, let you crawl all over him, like he was starving for it.

Like he’d die if you stopped.

At one point, you stumbled — tried to pull back to catch your breath — but he chased you, mouth claiming yours again, hands framing your face so careful, so tender even with how rough the kiss was.

You were dizzy with it — with him — with the feel of his body pressed against yours, all hard heat and steady muscle.

And then —

You did it.

Hands shaking, you grabbed his wrist — guided it up — placed his big, rough hand around your throat.

Gently. Like a question.

Like a please.

Bo froze.

For one hot, crackling second — everything in the room stopped moving.

His thumb brushed the side of your throat — slow, thoughtful. Not squeezing, just holding — just letting you feel the strength there, the weight of him.

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye — something dangerous and filthy gleaming behind his gaze.

And he grinned — slow, wicked — all teeth and bad intentions.

"You into that shit, sunshine?" His voice was dark velvet, wrapping around you, making you shiver.

You nodded — breathless — grinding your hips against him like you couldn’t help it. (You couldn’t.)

His fingers flexed slightly, tightening just a fraction — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was bigger, stronger, in charge.

You whimpered — so soft, so needy — and he laughed, low and rough, like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

"Goddamn," he muttered, voice rough and reverent. "You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me."

Then he kissed you again — deeper, dirtier — hand still cradling your throat, the other roaming down your spine to pull you flush against him.

You melted into him — opened for him — let him take whatever he wanted.

Bo’s hand stayed loose around your throat a moment longer — thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, his breath ragged against your mouth — before he finally let go.

Not because he wanted to stop touching you — no. Because he wanted more.

He gave you a rough, breathless little grin — one you could feel in your knees — then reached down and grabbed you by the waist like you weighed nothing.

Lifted you right up.

Set you down on the nearest wooden stool — still warm from the heat of the barn outside, a little unsteady, but solid enough.

Your hands grabbed the edge of the stool instinctively — steadying yourself — eyes wide, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear.

Bo leaned back a half-step — just enough to drink you in.

The way your dress rode up, baring the soft skin of your thighs. The way you sat there all breathless, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and desperate for him.

He dragged a hand down his face — as if trying to keep himself together — and then just said low, almost to himself:

"Christ, you're pretty."

You didn’t even realize you were doing it — but your eyes kept dropping.

To his hands. Those big, rough, dangerous hands — scarred and calloused and strong.

You could feel the strength of them from here. Could imagine them wrapped around your hips, your waist, your throat — holding you down, holding you up, whatever he damn well pleased.

Your mouth went dry.

And Bo noticed.

His mouth curled into a wicked, knowing smirk.

"Yeah?" he rasped, voice dropping. "You like the look of my hands, sunshine?"

You swallowed hard — nodded.

You didn't even try to hide it.

And that was all he needed.

Bo stepped between your knees — crowding you close, body heat washing over you like a furnace — and ducked his head down.

Started kissing along your jaw — slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower and lower.

You gasped when he found the spot just under your ear — sucked there hard enough to leave a mark — and he grinned against your skin when you tilted your head for him, helpless and wanting.

"Good girl," he muttered into your neck. "Gimme that pretty throat."

You could’ve melted right then and there.

His hands were everywhere — roaming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, dragging along the soft curves of your waist like he was memorizing you.

You arched into him — not even trying to play coy anymore.

You wanted him.

All of him.

And Bo — he was starving for you.

Before you could blink, he dropped to his knees.

Big, broad body sinking down in front of you — pressing your knees wider apart with those strong hands, pulling your panties down — looking up at you with something almost feral in his eyes.

"Gotta taste you, baby," he rasped, voice half-broken with need. "Been fuckin' dying for it."

You whimpered — hand flying to his hair instinctively — fisting in the thick dark strands as he shoved your dress up higher, higher, exposing you.

No hesitation.

Bo dove in like a man half out of his mind.

The first press of his mouth against you made you cry out — sharp and sweet — hips bucking up without you meaning to.

Bo groaned — like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted — and grabbed your thighs, holding you down, forcing you to stay right there for him.

His mouth was ravenous — lips and tongue working you open, devouring you like you were his last meal.

Messy. Loud. Absolutely, devastatingly good.

You tried to pull away once — overwhelmed, shaking, breath hitching in your throat — but he groaned and pulled you back down harder.

"Nah, baby." "You take it." "You let me eat this pretty little pussy just like this." "You fuckin’ taste how bad I want you."

You sobbed his name — it was pathetic, really. Hips grinding helplessly against his mouth — and Bo just groaned again, deeper, like he could come from this alone.

The wet slide of his tongue. The scrape of his teeth just barely grazing. The way he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there until you were shaking.

He licked you like he owned you. Like he wasn’t gonna let you walk outta this storeroom until you knew exactly who you belonged to.

And when you finally came — loud and desperate, thighs clamping around his head — Bo just kept going.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t let up.

Made you ride it out — every shudder, every whimper, every sweet little broken cry.

When you finally slumped forward, boneless and ruined, hands still fisting in his hair —

Bo looked up at you — mouth slick with you, eyes dark and wild — and said, low and rough:

"Ain’t done with you yet, sunshine." "Not even close."

And you believed him.

You wanted him.

God help you — you wanted everything Bo Chow was about to give you.

A/N: LAWDDDD — I love me some Bo Chow...

[ilovolderman]

Girlfriend For The Weekend

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You offer to be Bucky Barnes’ girlfriend for a weekend wedding—and he says yes.

Word Count: 996

Warnings: fluff, fake dating, mutual pining, some tension (maybe?) and soft moments, no explicit content

A/N: just some fake dating plot that came to my mind while listening to Garden of Eden by Lady Gaga (i'm so obsessed with it btw) so if you feeling like playing it while reading i think it fits just right. hope you like it :)

You didn’t mean for it to happen.

Or maybe you did. Maybe some reckless part of you—the one that always showed up when Bucky Barnes looked at you a second too long—was hoping something would shift that night. Hoping the playful back-and-forth would crack into something messier, warmer, sweeter.

But even you weren’t expecting this.

The mission had wrapped, the rest of the team scattered, and somehow you’d ended up in Bucky’s room at the safehouse, both of you still wearing your tactical gear, dirt and adrenaline clinging to your skin. It started with a drink, then another, then music low in the background and your knees touching his on the edge of the bed.

Bucky was complaining about having to show up at Sarah’s wedding. Actually, you were only half-listening to him. There was something about the way he was looking at you that made it harder to focus on what he was saying.

“I mean, I like Sarah and the kids… But there’s this thing about weddings… Just couples everywhere. And you know Sam, he will force me to go. Just to stand there. Weirdly alone and single.”

You wanted to blame the alcohol in your system, but the way he was looking at you was much more intoxicating. So before you could even realize it, it was too late—the words were already coming out of your mouth. Half a joke, half a dare.

“I could be your girlfriend. For the weekend.”

When he agreed, you thought he was taking it as a joke. But when he sent you a text the next day asking what time he could pick you up, you swear your heart almost skipped a beat.

And there you were, standing in a fancy dress that night—even wearing high heels. The minute you heard the knock on your door, you knew it was him.

You had to try a little too hard not to fall in your heels when you saw him. I mean, you saw each other almost every day, but nothing could’ve prepared you for Bucky Barnes in a fucking suit, standing in front of you.

You had to blink twice to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.

Because wow.

He looked good. Not just handsome—he was always that—but this was something else entirely. Sharp suit, dark blue shirt with the top button undone, his hair slicked back just enough to look like he didn’t care. And the smirk he gave you? Yeah, that didn’t help.

“You clean up nice, doll,” he said, eyes flicking down over your dress before quickly coming back to meet yours. Respectful. But not too respectful.

You rolled your eyes to cover the way your stomach flipped. “You don’t look so bad yourself. I almost didn’t recognize you without the tactical gear and dirt.”

He offered his arm like a goddamn gentleman. “Shall we?”

And you went. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest every time his hand brushed yours. Like the way he leaned in to whisper jokes during the reception wasn’t making your knees weak. Like the world hadn’t tilted just a little on its axis the moment you said those words: I could be your girlfriend.

It should’ve been easy. A game. Something to laugh about later. But every time he touched the small of your back, or looked at you across the room with that glint in his eye, something in you shifted. Something unspoken but loud, loud enough to drown out the music and the chatter and every voice in your head telling you not to fall.

And then the slow song started.

You were sipping something sparkly—champagne or maybe just expensive apple juice in disguise—when Bucky appeared at your side, hand extended and a smirk playing on his lips like he already knew you’d say yes.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Can’t have my fake girlfriend sitting alone during a slow song. People will talk.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning annoyance. “And what will people say?”

“That I’m a bad boyfriend,” he said, a little too smoothly. “We can’t have that, can we?”

You let him lead you onto the dance floor, your hand slipping into his like it had done it a hundred times before. The space between you disappeared slowly, naturally—your hands on his shoulders, his on your waist. That warm pressure again. Grounding. Dangerous.

“You’re really committing to the bit,” you murmured, trying not to stare at his mouth when he smiled.

He leaned in, voice low and teasing against your ear. “What can I say? I’m a method actor.”

You huffed a laugh, even as your pulse spiked. “Remind me to never let you fake date me again. You’re setting unrealistic standards.”

“Is that so?” he asked, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious. “What part’s unrealistic? The dancing? The suit? Or the fact that I haven’t taken my eyes off you all night?”

Your breath caught, just for a second. He noticed. Of course he did.

“I thought you were supposed to be acting,” you said quietly, but the words came out softer than you meant them to.

“I am,” he said. Then his gaze dropped to your lips, lingered, and rose again. “Unless I’m not.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because your brain was short-circuiting under the weight of his stare and the press of his fingers at your waist and the way your body already knew how to sway with his like you were built to fit there.

The song ended. You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Someone bumped into you from behind, laughing, pulling you both back into reality. But even as you stepped apart, the spell didn’t break—it just hung there between you, buzzing like static in the air.

“Careful,” you said, swallowing hard as you tried to find your voice again. “You’re gonna make me think this isn’t fake.”

He smiled, soft and unreadable. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

[ddejavvu]

Mean!Logan who fucks you dumb to the point all you know is how good he feels instead of Scott Summers 🤭🤭🤭

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

send me mean!logan requests!

contents/warnings: smut, minors dni. mean!logan, dumbification, dacryphilia, don't like, don't read.

"What's his name?" Logan asks thoughtfully, lips pursed as he waits for your response. You're quite unable to give him one at the moment- at least a coherent one, while his hips piston forward and back, driving his thick cock into you.

"Go on, tell me." Logan prods, bumping his nose into your temple. He's going at an impressive pace, grunting with each hefty thrust, "Do you even remember it?"

A cry escapes your lips as Logan pushes you over the edge, unceremoniously, mercilessly, and you claw at his biceps as you're thrust into your climax. Your brain shorts out with white hot pleasure, something like pain but sweeter searing in your belly as you unconsciously curl your hips up to meet Logan's cock easier. There's no point- he can't possibly go deeper - but your body moves instinctively. He feels so good that you need more.

"Cyclops ring a bell?" He asks, but your ears ring too loud for his voice to get through. Either that or your brain muffles it like wet cement is drowning your thoughts, and the only name etched into the thick sludge is Logan, Logan, Logan.

"Dickhead, maybe? Laser-brain, Goggles, One-Eye..." Logan lists his most frequently used nicknames for the mutant he'd caught cornering you in the kitchen, but all you can do is muffle your moans into the sweat-soaked fabric of Logan's wifebeater.

"Who did this to you?" He feigns concern, like he's interrogating you after a beatdown, his nose now trailing over the apple of your cheek as his lips ghost your own.

"I-aah! Logan," You whimper, now oversensitive to penetration.

"Yeah? Who?"

"Logan," You breathe, eyes bleary with tears as you breathe him in- the sight of his face, hard-set and firm. His smell- sweat and musk and sex all rolled into one. His touch, the constant pressure between your legs as he keeps his dick buried in your cunt, no longer moving his hips. His eyes- they're staring at you, drinking in the repeated moans of his name that come pouring from your mouth like blood from a wound.

"Smart girl." He says, and you're so out of your mind that you don't read the cruel sarcasm in it- the way he's teasing you as Scott's name has fled your near-vacant brain.

"Who else? Got another man in there?" Logan taps the side of your head, where your spinning brain works overtime, "No? What about in here?"

He places a hand on your pelvis, pressing down gently so that you feel the imprint of his dick inside of you clearer, harsher, more intense.

"Anyone else in here?" He asks, keeping steady pressure on your cunt until you squirm in penance, begging for mercy from his teasing.

"That's right. Keep it that way." He snarls, letting up on your pelvis and using the hand to cup your cheek, relishing in the way you thoughtlessly lean into it, so trusting, so devoted, "Mine's the only name you need to be sayin', sweetheart. Say his again and I'll make you wash your mouth out with my fuckin' dick 'till it's all you can taste for a week."

[fuckingrecipes]

how does one go about choosing what kind of onion they want to use? i'm at that stage of cooking where i feel comfortable freehanding stuff but i don't have a decision process for white/yellow/red onion beyond what's already in my fridge, lol.

Yellow Onion: Good all-around, general use onion. Good for Caramelizing, and just about any onion need.

Sweet Onions (Vidalia): A particularly mild version of a yellow onion, grown around Vidalia, Georgia. Crunchy and sweet! Walla Walla is another brand of sweet onion, grown in Washington, USA. Can be eaten like an apple tbh. REALLY GOOD for people who are sensitive to the strong flavor of onion.

White Onion: A little sweeter and milder than the yellow onion, but not as sweet as a sweet onion. Good for dicing and serving raw if you don't have red onion. Yellow and White onions are pretty much interchangeable.

Red Onion: Great Raw! Have a bit of spice to them, and make a very interesting savory flavor when cooked. (Red onion skins can be made into a dye!)

Green Onions/Scallions: Immature onions with white bottoms and green tops. Usually diced/sliced and used raw as a garnish or a mild raw onion flavor. Can be used to replace raw onion in bulk for a milder alternative.

Chives: Tinier, punchier alternative to green onions/scallions. While in the same Allium family as the rest of these, they never get bigger than their little grassy figure. Teeeeny tiny! Great for adorable garnishes and just a hint of onion in a salad. Not good for cooking with, they get bitter fast.

Shallots: Garlicky! Kinda a halfway point between 'onion' and 'garlic'. They stay small when fully matured, and have quite a bite when used raw. Cooked, they become mellow and have a less-intense garlic-onion flavor. Often used in sauces where you want a little onion and garlic flavor, but subtly. They're REALLY good roasted.

Leek: Basically like a giant green onion, except they're always like that. Can be used in place of Onion in nearly any recipe that doesn't require caramelization. Fun slice shape! Gentle onion flavor without a lot of bite. Best when cooked, not raw imo.

Kurrat (Egyptian Leek): Like a stronger, punchier version of the leek. Excellent roasted, sauteed, used in soups - very strong flavor and KEEPS its flavor, so its usually used in smaller quantities than other alliums.