#cleaning kitchen crockery

[homecleaningservicesottawa]

Safe and Spotless Kitchen Cleaning Plan for Ottawa Homes

The kitchen is where food is prepared, utensils are cleaned, and cooking appliances are used regularly, which means it gets dirtier faster and needs a unique cleaning approach. Here’s how kitchen cleaning differs from the rest of your home and how you can ensure your kitchen stays clean and safe for a longer period.

[girls-cafe]

[foggieststars]

if you're interested, can i request 15 for landoscar? just so curious to read your take on it and so delighted you're doing this!! 💕💕💕

15. sexual slavery

ok i got a bit carried away with this i will admit. in my defence i'm rereading an old fav fantasy series rn and well...... it all got a bit much.....

tw for like. non consent. dark themes. etc <33

-

The boy - Oscar, Jenson had told him, thrusting the chains into Lando's eager palm - doesn't look much like their usual captives. He's too pale, for a start. Most rebels that get brought in have tanned, weather-beaten skin, from a life spent tending the fields.

His hands are another tell. The skin on them is soft and callus-free, no scars to point to years spent on battlefields. Not a warrior, then. Interesting and disappointing in equal measure. Lando likes breaking soldiers most of all.

He doesn't speak to Lando, during the days that follow. Not entirely unexpected. The creatures the king keeps in his war camps are enough to turn even Lando's stomach, and their slaves spend most of their time carrying out their chores in a dazed, frightened silence. Still, they usually crack after a week at most, begging for their freedom, for Lando to put an end to their misery. He sells those ones off pretty sharpish, once they reach their breaking point.

Oscar's different. Lando gets the sense that he's not been scared into silence, so much as he is opting for silence. Lando can't have that. It betrays a wilfulness of spirit.

Lando's not an idiot. He knows he's only here as a favour from Lord Jenson to his father. He will remain on campaign for as long as Jenson's favour holds. The eagerness with which Jenson had welcomed Lando into his bed notwithstanding, Lando needs to prove his usefulness. He can't do that with errant slaves wandering around the camp, rage in their hearts and defiance in their eyes.

When Oscar drops a tray of crockery helping out in the kitchens one night, Lando seizes his chance. He has him strung up on the whipping post, five lashes for insubordination.

When he's cut down, Oscar's breathing is ragged and hitching, tears rolling silently down his face. When he looks Lando in the eyes, the rage in them is nearly unfathomable. Lando leaves him lying there in the grass, lets the other slaves bring him back to their quarters. They'll patch him up as best they can, with what little they have to offer. He'll be lucky if he doesn't die of infection. One less problem for Lando to deal with.

Later that night, undressing in Jenson's tent, Lando frowns at the flecks of dried blood on his boots. He'll have Oscar clean them, when he can walk again. Scrubbing his own blood off the supple leather might teach him a thing or two about pointless displays of resistance.

Oscar's even quieter after that, ducks his head low when Lando returns from scouting missions, goes about his chores in quiet, throbbing silence. Lando has him assigned to his own tent, so as to keep a closer eye on him. The lashing doesn't seem to have broken him, as Lando hoped it might. If anything, Oscar stands even straighter after it. Though maybe that's just to avoid tugging on the still-healing scar tissue.

Fortunately for Oscar, he's not the only slave Lando's assigned to look after. Following a particularly successful raid on a rebel camp in the north, the slave quarters are full to bursting. Like a fool, Lando lets it distract him. He breaks rebel after rebel on the whipping post, forgets to take note of Oscar's ghostly presence in his chambers.

Until, that is, one night. Jenson had been summoned to the king's tent after dinner, and shows no sign of returning soon. There's talk of rebels gathering under the banner of a boy king in the south, a pretender to his executed father's throne, in a kingdom which no longer exists. Lando won't be needed in Jenson's quarters tonight.

When he steps through the flaps of his tent, Lando catches Oscar in the act of rifling through the correspondence he keeps on his desk. Oscar straightens up coolly, pretending to be merely neatening the piles of letters on Lando’s desk. If Lando had been a mere moment later, he’d have thought nothing of it. But he’d clearly seen those slender hands clutched around a letter, affixed with the seal of the king’s hand. 

So that's what he is. It explains the pale skin, the lack of calluses. Not a warrior. A spy. 

“Find anything interesting in there?” Lando asks, his first words to Oscar. 

Oscar looks at him askance, continuing to neaten up the piles. 

Lando prowls closer, practically tasting fear in the air. “You’d have been better off examining the letters from Lord Sainz. The king’s hand has many eyes, but few that stretch as far south as Max Emelian’s territory. Supposed territory.” 

Oscar speaks, voice cracking with disuse. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

He’s got an odd accent, Lando thinks. From the very southern territories, perhaps?

“That is what you were doing, no?” Lando asks, tilting his head. He’s always been one for playing with his food. “Searching for information. About the pretender to the southern throne.” 

Oscar’s a good spy. His face betrays no emotion, other than the slight flare of his nostrils when Lando says the word pretender. 

“Yes, I think you would have found that much more interesting than whatever is in Lord Alonso’s letter. Though how you planned to smuggle it out, I don’t know. I do intend to find out.” 

Oscar’s mouth thins, likely as a result of the implied threat to his anonymous allies. Lando wonders who he’s working with. Other slaves, most definitely. But all of them, like Oscar, spend their days wrapped in chains. Their quarters are guarded by the king’s beasts. Someone else then, with money and power. A nobleman. 

Lando can see it now. The glory he’ll win, as the one to root out the rats in the camp. 

To do that, he needs information. Information he won’t be able to glean if Oscar does what Lando would do in his place. Find the nearest nobleman to offend, have his head removed from his shoulders. Anything to protect his powerful ally. 

“Or…” Lando offers, shrugging a careless shoulder. The very picture of a spoiled nobleman’s son. “There is another way.” 

Oscar’s eyebrows quirk up, betraying his interest.

Lando breathes out, slow and steady. “Kneel,” he says, and Oscar does. 

Slumping into the seat behind the desk, Lando undoes the ties of his breeches with a deft, practiced hand. He’s not had servants to dress him whilst on campaign, and with how in demand Jenson is, Lando’s had to learn to be pretty quick about getting naked. 

Pulling his cock out, Lando watches Oscar take it in. Quick, desperate little breaths, the only sign of Oscar’s clearly rising panic. 

“You know what to do with this, or do I need to show you?” Lando asks. 

Oscar’s eyes shut tight, and then open. His face empties of emotion as he shuffles closer, wraps his hand around Lando’s cock. It’s an effort not to groan at the stimulation. “I know what to do,” Oscar murmurs. Lando takes him in with assessing eyes. Pink lips, deep brown eyes, that mop of unruly hair. It’s no surprise that someone’s bent him over long before this. 

Oscar leans forward, prepared to take Lando’s cock into his mouth, when he’s stopped by the pricking of a knife at his throat. Lando smiles down at him lazily, turning the knife in a lazy motion. It makes the skin at the base of Oscar’s throat whiten. 

“No teeth,” Lando commands. “Or I’ll slit you throat to anus, and your little friend on the inside, too.” 

Oscar nods, breath warm and trembling as it hits the head of Lando’s cock. Lando pulls back just enough to let Oscar move without cutting himself open, but not so far as to let Oscar relax. It’s a struggle to maintain the position when Oscar swallows his cock to the base in one, smooth movement. 

Oh, yes. Oscar’s definitely done this before. 

Lando hitches his hips up, hits the tight ring at the base of Oscar’s throat, listens to him gag. Credit to him, Oscar takes a steadying breath through his nose, swallows around the intrusion in his throat. The wet heat is incredible. He wonders if Oscar would be so pliant on his hands and knees, too. If the warmth is in any way comparable. 

Oscar hollows his cheeks and swallows, taking Lando deeper, until Lando can see the bulge of his cockhead in Oscar’s throat. It can’t be comfortable, especially not with his collar of iron. He’s talented with his tongue, pulling back to press delicate little kitten licks to the head, pumping with his hand what his tongue can’t reach. 

“Harlot,” Lando hisses, at a particularly damning twist of Oscar’s wrist. Where had he learned to suck cock like this? Did the rebels pluck him from a brothel, decide his talents would be of more use elsewhere? 

Oscar glances up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. He doesn’t look quite so self-possessed anymore. In fact, there’s nothing except pure desperation shining in his eyes. Whoever it is that Oscar’s trying to protect, he clearly cares for them very much. Enough to debase himself like this. 

The chains between Oscar’s feet clank on the ground when he moves. It’s taking embarrassingly little time for him to bring Lando to the brink, that sinful tongue, the slick heat. It’s all too much, too fast. Unlike the other heirs, privileged enough to be chosen for the king’s campaign, Lando doesn’t get to slink off to brothels after the endless meetings are finished for the night. Jenson requires servicing, and he’s not much of one for reciprocal lovemaking. It’s the way of the world. Lando has no doubt that in twenty years, he’ll be doing much the same with his own ward, given to him for training and protection. He doubts he’ll stoop to what Oscar’s doing for him now. 

There are tears leaking down Oscar’s face by now. Lando wonders how much of it has to do with the physical discomfort. The tears are what does it for him, pushing him over the edge. Lando comes with a broken cry, something to be embarrassed about in front of a suitor. Lando doesn’t bother to pretend in front of Oscar. He likes the way Oscar shudders as he swallows the load, the way his eyes screw tightly shut, brows furrowing on his forehead. The little trembles of Oscar’s hands as he cups his own elbows, drawing his arms tight against his body, like he’s trying to protect himself.

“That’ll do for now,” Lando says, tucking himself away with careful, measured movements. 

Oscar, kneeling still, slumps slightly. Shoulders curling in on themselves, he wipes at his mouth with a desperate air. He doesn’t get it all on the first go around, pink tongue darting out to clean the rest of Lando’s come from his lips. 

The fierceness radiating off him, the rage in his eyes - it’s gone. It takes all Lando has not to preen with victory. 

He breaks them all eventually. 

“Have your belongings moved to my tent,” Lando informs him, revelling in the way Oscar’s shoulders stiffen. “It should give me a chance to keep an eye on you.” Keep him so busy bouncing on Lando’s cock he won’t have time to slink away for a secret rendezvous with his man on the inside - until Lando wants him to, that is. 

It’ll be easy. Plant just enough information in official-looking letters that Oscar gets desperate. Until he takes the first opportunity possible to meet with his informant, unaware that Lando will have arranged it all. Lando can catch them in the act, throw the traitor at the king’s feet, and be awarded a kingdom’s ransom for the privilege. And until then, he’ll keep Oscar by his side. 

Perhaps after that, even. 

[fanaticsnail]

hi sis can you write me a sanji fic pleaseeeeeee

One hurt/comfort Sanji fic here for you, Smol-Snail.

Limits

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 2,500+

Synopsis: Baratie has been overbooked, and the tension in the kitchen has been overwhelming. Being a hard-working kitchen hand, you have been covering far too many shifts. Sensing the overwhelm, your coworker attempts to aid you through your emotions.

Themes: Sanji x gn!reader, hurt/comfort, kitchen slang, eating food, minor swearing, fluff, angst, domesticity, hidden feelings, almost kisses, playful banter, nicknames.

Notes: Spoiling my sister usually includes Mihawk or Garp, but I am absolutely loving the change. Thanks for the ask, sis! Hope you like it. Also, gosh it's good to be back in Baratie again.

The crackle of water hitting a pan of hot oil popped and simmered, a string of curses and yells following the large rukkus. Voices overlapping, music blaring, orders expediting, and the clangs of silverware shuddering with ceramics in water continued to mute their tones in the air surrounding the lively kitchen of Baratie.

It had been a mean shift tonight. The restaurant was overbooked, over packed, and overwhelmed. Guests on the waiting list were made to wait longer than they had anticipated, adding to tempers flaring and temperaments turning foul on all sides. The front of house were begging with the back of house, the back of house pleading with the front of house. Chef Zeff had even jumped on the line, cooking alongside the lot of you to fight against the rush. The thump of his peg leg hitting the linoleum swelled within the serenade of the lively kitchen, the chorus finally rising without any indication of an interlude.

“Carne, 'hot behind', damn it!” Zeff growled angrily while standing to full stature. Carne was holding a tray of simmering desserts at chest height behind him while shifting from one surface to the other. “Communicate, kitchen. Ya’ hear?”

“Oui chef!” The kitchen all repeated the phrase like a prayer on their tongues to their hierarchical clergyman.

“Ca Marche-!”

“Sharps-!”

“Plate up-!”

“Push-!”

“To the pass-!”

“Through-!”

Sanji stalked through the rows up until the pass, pacing two and fro while jumping in to aid all those that needed support. Garnishing mains, whipping cream for desserts, assorting steel bowls of oils and accompaniments to coincide with breads and greens: Sanji did it all. Each time he stepped in to aid in the dance of the kitchen, his eyes fell to your frame to mentally check in.

Eyes down, shoulders hunched, rubber gloves thrust up to your elbows, you ensured the kitchen remained functional with the fluctuation of crockery, cutlery and dishes for truly impeccable service. The kitchen-hand, or 'Dish Pig', was the backbone to a functional restaurant, the mental wellbeing of the house truly on the shoulders of that individual.

How could a chef create masterpieces without a canvas? How could guests in the dining hall consume their delectable arrangements without the means to raise each bite to their lips? The kitchen-hand ensured all was possible, and the chefs barely paid you any heed while you slaved away to grant them relief in their supplies.

You attempted to hone in on your craft, using your fingernails beneath the rubber gloves to chip at caramelized and caked scorches on iron pots like a scourer. Breaths heavy and labored, you shifted everything from your focus asside from one thing and one thing only:

Keep the kitchen clean.

Bubbles and suds consumed your senses, your hair sticking to your forehead in heavy clumps of sweat and soap. Your nostrils flared with the burn of eucalyptus, lemon and menthol. Working a fortnight of splits and doubles to cover for your colleagues had finally taken its toll on you, and stressors in your personal life added to the tension in your bones. The loss on your own mentality began to slip into a panic as another wave of silverware made their way to your arm side.

The mention of, “‘Ere ye’ go, dish pig. Clean up,” barely phased you, regardless to the usual playful temperament you displayed. You didn't even crack the smile you usually had on your face, your permanent exhaustion falling in the emotionless and dead-stare you displayed down at the dish rack.

The kitchen has began to pack down. Each element was extinguished, and stock was taken alongside a final tally. The chefs had removed their aprons, cravats and hats and began making their way towards the bar for their knockoffs. Your own drink would have to wait, the pile never reducing no matter how hard you had worked.

For each plate you cleared and cleaned, four more would somehow find their way to your hands. Each pot would have a lid to match, each pan would have an array of spatula, tongs, and forks to pair with. The chefs used the tools of their artistry with reckless abandon, and it was now you who was paying the price for their carelessness.

“A'ight, beers? That what we're drinkin'?” Patty clapped his hands and rubbed them enthusiastically together. Carne barked out a long string of laughter, allowing himself to succumb to the relief that came from a grueling shift while he clapped his hand over Patty’s bicep.

“I'm keen on one of them steins we just got in,” he admitted, squeezing lightly before looking to Zeff, “Is that on the menu for knock offs, chef?”

“Only is if you save two for me, you prick,” Zeff stated affectionately, “Give us a pale or an amber, I'll be in my office takin’ a damn breath. What about you, little eggplant? What are you drinkin’ tonight?”

Sanji hadn't spoken a word since he hung up his apron. He had been keeping an eye on you throughout your shift, feeling the tension waft in your aura the longer you silently chipped away at your monotonous task.

“I'm gonna have a cigarette,” he nodded to the head chef without moving his eyes away from you. “Then I think I'll sample that new amaretto rum you got in.” Sanji moved to Zeff’s side, casually glancing back at you while lowering his tone to the head chef, “But first, I'm gonna stay here a while. Leave inventory to me, and I'll take care of it, old man.”

Zeff noticed the drop in Sanji’s usual cadence and finally took notice to the quiver in your shoulders. With a curt nod, Zeff turned to both Patty and Carne and spoke to them with a simple scowl that meant: ‘Get out of the kitchen, now’. The two chefs quickly looked between Zeff and Sanji, then to the source of the noise continuing to fall from the underappreciated corner of the kitchen. With a nod of their own, they silently excused themselves from the kitchen with Zeff trailing behind them.

Where Sanji would've placed an unlit cigarette between his teeth and stalked out behind them, he would never do that without you. Both of you were similar in ages, and the rapport and camaraderie had always been a highlight to his kitchen shifts. The two of you were more than coworkers, more than simple friends, and you both lived and breathed Baratie in your own ways. You both loved that place, thrived on the chaotic energy working the line, and adored spending time in the dark before the next shift would begin.

The only difference between you is Sanji had been working his usual shifts, and you had been overworked far beyond your natural capacity lately. You were running low on mental energy, and you were taking it out on the dishes you were cleaning.

Wiping, scrubbing, clawing, patting, drying, prying, stacking, and placing away in their delegated areas: you had not spoken a word for the whole shift. Nothing more than a soft, shaky breath expelling from an otherwise vacant expression, nobody would know if anything was occurring within the battle of your mind.

But Sanji did.

Unhooking his apron and rolling up the sleeves of his uniform jacket, he placed it over his neck and slowly moved over to work silently in an unoccupied station. Several containers of various raw ingredients were hastily removed from their spots. Pots, water, flours, sugars, utensils and plates were all set up by his skilled hands: making something of your youth that he knew would bring you comfort.

Rolling glutinous rice flour into small balls with regular flour and water, he stuffed them full of purple adzuki mix, hazelnut white chocolate, and yuzu-honey dew custard. Placing the small balls in a steamer, he set a mental timer to check on them after a few minutes. Not his usual method to make dango, but he wanted to experiment for you.

He knew better than to disturb you when you were like this, and he allowed you to work out whatever was brewing in your mind on the dishes you were cleaning. He looked to the bowls and dishes he had just made in crafting you something delectable and grimaced.

‘All of those dishes just to make a simple dessert,’ he mentally scolded himself, ‘And that's just one piece of the kitchen. You're taking care of everyone’s dishes here, not just the kitchen’s.’ He gently lifted the lid of the bamboo steamer to gauge the consistency of the circular treats, nodding to himself once he viewed the squishy exterior.

Plating up the dish by patting them dry and rolling them in rice flour, he softly approached you with the bowl of rainbow-colored treats.

You were in your own head, your thoughts swirling in a tight coil threatening to snap. This shift had been enough to break a seasoned kitchen hand, and you had endured it all with a silent professionalism. Just when you were about to begin the next wave of remaining dishes, you turned and met your eyes with a plate of rainbow and sunshine.

“Hands, chef. You need to eat something,” Sanji softly spoke, his usual smirk and cocky attitude fleeing his face. The replacement of his usual demeanor was something you hadn't experienced with him. His eyes were rounded, his lips softly pouring, his head was lowered and seeking out your gaze with his own, and his empathy was worn with each subtlety.

All in one fluid motion, your head hung low and your glove-covered hands shrouded your eyes from his gaze. At the same motion, Sanji placed the bowl down beside you and hastily drew you into an encumbering embrace. It had finally been too much for you, and this was the first breakdown you had ever had regarding a shift. Heavy sobs were muffled by your rubber-covered palms while Sanji cradled you in his arms.

“Hold onto me, love,” Sanji softly whispered into your ear. You immediately unburied your face within your palms and nuzzled into the blonde man’s neck, arms wrapping beneath his shoulders and clinging to him like a rope offered from a cliff’s edge. “There you go. Good job. Just hold on, okay?”

“S-Sanji?” you attempted to whimper out, only being met with a soft shush and a tighter hold on your form. He rose one arm up to remove your dark chef’s cap from your head and carded his hands over your scalp in a soft brush.

“You've been pushing too many doubles, and saying ‘yes’ a whole lot lately,” he gently soothed you, “And while I love this place as much as you and the old man, I know my limits.” He gently lifted his head to gaze down to where your head was nestled in his collar, “You just hit yours, didn't you?”

“First time since I started,” you whispered into his shirt, “I didn't think I had one ‘til now, Ji.” Your admission alongside his arms holding you firmly dried up your tears after the heavy release.

“Course you do. We all do,” his soft baritone gently coaxed you. You slowly raised your eyes to meet his. His smile was like sunshine after a storm, warmth following a heavy winter, hope where hopelessness was found mere minutes prior, and a sanctuary found after a season of war.

When he looked at you, you felt like the most important person in the world. Time stood still in that moment, eyes darting between one another's and gently focussing briefly on the other’s lips. The close proximity you found yourself in was not unfamiliar to you, but this emotion swelling was far greater than you had anticipated. Sanji made to lean towards you, halting mid-way and second guessing himself from giving you the kiss he truly wanted. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours in a gentle seal of friendship.

Noses flush with one another’s, you both closed your eyes and dwelled in the silence for a moment. Nothing else was heard: no yells in the kitchen, no music from the dining room, no yells from your coworkers, and no demands from the patrons in the hall. All that was heard was the small thump of your heartbeat in your ears, and your shared breaths gently soothing one another in unison.

“I made you dango,” Sanji uttered softly, making no move to part from you.

“Thank you, Ji,” you expressed your gratitude just as softly.

“And while you eat, I'll finish up on the dishes,” he scrunched his nose playfully, moving away from your head and slowly releasing you from his embrace, “Then we can go and have a knock off. I'll have one of the bar staff take your shift tomorrow- And before you interrupt-!”

Sanji knew you all too well, halting your interjection before you had an opportunity to speak it out with a harsh expression.

“-I know it's a 'double split'. That's a four person job, and I know exactly the four people to do it,” he finally withdrew his arms from your shoulders and soothed your upper arms with a firm caress. “Now, hand over those gloves. I made a right mess cooking you your sweets, and I'm going to see to it that it's spotless while you eat.”

You slowly removed your arms from his body, halting them briefly on his hips while you bowed your head in gratitude.

“Oui, chef,” you huffed out in a bid to add humor to the scenario. Releasing him from your grasp, you began to remove your rubber gloves and hang them over the steel railing beside the sink.

Sanji slid his hands from your shoulders, his right hand moving to gently tap your chin up with his index finger. Following his motions, you met your eyes with his once more, offering him a small smile after the exhaustion of emotional release.

“‘Oui Chef’?” he gently teased you, his eyes playfully narrowing in his jest, “Hush, you. Now go eat your dango and tell me what you like about it. We got sweet red bean, white chocolate hazelnut, and citrus-melon mouse in the centers.”

Your eyes bloomed with a wave of gratitude, Sanji’s understanding washing from his aura and consuming you within his single glance. The only thing to break your joint hypnosis with the scent of the sweetness atop the bench, you bobbed your head a final time to your coworker and dearest friend.

You moved to sit by the sink on a wooden stool, plonking down and resting your worn feet with the plate sat in your lap. Head slumping on the steel bench, you close your eyes and raise one of the squishy spheres to your lips.

Placing the entire blob into your mouth, the center burst on impact of the clamp of your teeth. The flavors erupted over your palate, your emotions once again being forced to the surface at his thoughtfulness. Each tartness was compensated by the sweetness it needed, the sours holding a balance of soft umami to prolong the dance over your tongue.

Watching from the corner of his eye while elbows deep in the sink, Sanji smiled at the encounter, truly pleased that he could offer you that sense of comfort after a grueling few weeks. Each bite you took of his mastery had his heart swell. Knowing he could do this for you, take a piece of that burden away from you and give you some joy to focus on: that was all he ever craved in return from you.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

[kcsplace]

Eddie, head over heels for Steve and all at sea about how to deal with that, asks Steve for advice on how to date.

Steve, equally besotted and equally stupid, agrees despite his Robin's qualms about the whole thing.  He knows its moronic to do it to himself, to prepare Eddie to date someone else but if it means getting to spend more time with his friend?

He’ll take the hit.

He’s used to it after all.

Its starts with clothes.  Steve takes Eddie shopping but has to steer him away from the polo shirts and khakis he’s inexplicably gravitating towards because "if you can't be yourself, Eds, there's no point.  the right person will love your ripped jeans".  Though he does emphasize that *clean* clothes are a must, because yesterday’s mustard stains? Not so romantic.  

They move on to tips on small talk.  Sharing interests, like music, is great but try to tone down the forty minute monologues that are odes to Dio and how he's the greatest metal vocalist of all time.  They're a smidge much for a first date, even though Steve finds it weirdly charming.

And a little arousing but that’s between Steve and God. 

The conversation about hair is shut down immediately when Eddie suggests cutting his hair.  If Steve had his way, scissors would be banned within a five mile radius of Eddie and his stupidly soft hair.

Steve, in a self-sabotaging mission to break his own heart, even offers to help Eddie cook for his date.  This results in the pair being pressed close together in the trailer's tiny kitchen, steamy and sweaty, Eddie placing his hands on Steve's hips to move him this way and that to get at crockery, cutlery and the one spatula that he's sure Uncle Wayne has in there somewhere

Two hours, one mental breakdown for Steve and two smoke-breaks for Eddie during which he ordered away his erection through sheer force of will , dinner is ready, the rickety little table is set and Steve is loitering near the door.  He really doesn't need to see who managed to catch Eddie's eye, doesn't need to compare himself to them in every respect because it's not him, and he absolutely needs to drive to Robin's right now to cry about it.  Or at very least get audaciously and heroically shitfaced.

Which is when Eddie, red-faced, sweating more than he did when standing over a pot of boiling water, and fiddling nervously with the tab of his clean vest, asks him to take a seat, dinner is served.

[mytimesandrocking]

Owen Reverse Confession

Who knew when it came around to. . . this.

It wasn’t intentional, Owen knew that much. It was little things, each a drop of rain or a rolling piece of sand that slowly wore away at what little guard he had around his heart. Owen wasn’t trying to keep anyone out, not when he had dreams of his own, but it was a little frightening how easily you slipped in and through the cracks and crevices of his heart, settling there like gold in chipped crockery.

Who knew when your visits became the best part of his day. Dropping in for relief from the sun, for the tail ends of stories or to meet someone for commissions, the reason didn’t matter, especially when you never failed to cut out a slice of your valuable time just to sit and chat with him. Your stories rivaled his own, and your laugh could heal the desert.

Your first rain in Sandrock, stood drenched and grinning ear to ear, was one of his favorite memories. He told you he wanted to tell stories of the rain, but now he wanted to write them about you, splashing in puddles with hair clinging to your cheeks, bright and beautiful and alive.

Owen had heard fairytales, told them too, and you were cut right from the cloth. But maybe he was the damsel you came to rescue, even if he was the bigger one. It certainly felt like you saved him, with how wonderful Sandrock had become since your arrival (and Mi-an’s too, of course, but he was being sentimental).

Who knew when the plan got cooked up. Grace had mentioned how much you seemed to love his sandfish with secret sauce. You always ordered it when you sat down for a meal, and the way your face relaxed at that first bite. . . Owen wondered if learning to paint was hard, or maybe he could commission a camera. Nothing was better than you enjoying his cooking; it was the highest praise he could receive.

So he figured, why not work with that? Crucian carps were rare but not unattainable, especially for you. All his commissions for fish, you did the same day, always presenting them so proudly. If he asked for two, and for you to deliver them on the day the Blue Moon was closed, you wouldn’t suspect anything.

That meant Owen had plenty of time to prep too. He readied ingredients, cleared the kitchen, fitted it with candles and chairs at the island. And in you came, pleased as punch with your catch.

“I’m going to cook these now.” Owen told you, gesturing to the cluttered counter. “Wanna stay for dinner? I’m making your favorite.”

Oh, how your eyes had narrowed. “Oh? Are you buttering me up for something?” Still, you slid easily into the stool opposite of him. Owen grinned, not helping how suspicious he looked. “Did Grace destroy another oven? Want me to clean it? Or make you a new one?”

“No!” Owen protested, but any scolding tone was marred by his laughter. “No, she didn’t. She’s doing a good job! Way better than when she started.”

You just hummed an agreement, arm on the island and head propped on your hand, watching him ready.

And suddenly Owen got nervous. This was it. Time for the show to start. You were everything he wanted and more, so he had to impress you. Show you how good of a cook he was. How good of a partner he’d be. How worth he was, a good business owner, a good cook, a good man. The perfect one for you.

This had to be perfect.

Owen turned towards the stove, hands shaking a bit as he flipped on the nearest burner. The sauce was easy enough to put together, and luckily Owen was broad enough to hide the secret recipe from you. You complained, of course, but didn't get up.

“The only way you’re getting my recipe is if you become family.” Owen teased, face hot from the stove.

“I’ll buy a ring the next time the Mysterious Man comes to town.” You responded easily.

Owen had to turn back to his meal so you didn’t see his goofy grin. He was veering into dangerous territory, thinking of you in a wedding, where you’d marry him. And then you’d move in and maybe even have kids-

Bad! Owen shook his head. Those were thoughts to have later, in private. For now, he was searing the fish, and he had the perfect move to show you.

“And now!” Owen announced, showing you the fish in his pan. You preemptively began to applaud. “Behold!”

Owen flipped the fish into the air. Both sailed up, perfectly seared on one side. But on their downward arc, they parted ways. Owen lunged to catch both in his pan, back slamming into the counter. The cupboards flew open as the earth shook with Owen’s contact with the floor.

“Owen!” You yelped. The thunderous clanging of falling pots and pans drowned you out.

Oh. . . That hurt. A lot.

Owen groaned. A larger copper pot covered his head, casting him into darkness, and for it he was thankful. That was. . . not impressive at all. Not even a little bit. That was sad, actually. Not something an experienced chef would ever do.

And you saw all of it.

So this was a bust. Owen mourns any chance of impressing you, of swooping in with a heart knot after you swoon over his cooking skills. Owen would have to retreat, restrategize, and hopefully lick his own wounds in privacy. He didn't want to avoid you, but after all this, he doubt he could face you again without cringing into a ball of shame.

You had other plans, however, pushing up the pot on his head. The worry in your eyes cut him like knives. “Owen? Are you okay?”

“Heh!” He forced a sheepish smile, face so hot. “Well, uh. . . a little embarrassed, but I’m alright.”

Your lips pursed into a sympathetic pout. Owen had to drag his eyes up from them when you leaned closer, eyeing the bruises that no doubt are blooming across his head.

“Does anything hurt?” You asked.

Owen flapped his hands around. “Oh! You know, just some bruises. I think I smacked my hand on the way down.”

You captured his hand in your own, studying his fingers. Yours bent his, careful and calculating, making sure each worked as they should. He winced when you got to his thumb, and at the confirmation of pain, you swooped in.

A kiss. You kissed his aching thumb, slow and firm, before pulling back with sparkling eyes and a small smile. “Does. . . anything else hurt?”

Owen blinked. What else hurt? He gestured vaguely to his forehead, where a goose egg was forming. “Er, um, my head. . .”

Your hands came up, calloused and warm, cupping his cheeks. Your fingers stroked his beard as your lips ghosted his injury. It took a hesitant moment, but you sunk into the kiss, healing all the pain away.

“Anywhere else?” You whispered, barely pulling away from his face.

Owen immediately jabbed his finger to his lips, chest tight. “Um! Um, my lip’s busted-!”

Owen snatched your face in his hands as you cut him off. It was exhilarating, an explosion of feelings and sparks that lit fires all around. Everything was too warm, too close, too far, too short. By the time you pulled back, thumb stroking his very much not busted lips, Owen thought he could die, and die happy.

“Hm,” you hummed, “looks like I didn’t get it all.”

Owen laughed into your kiss. Was it perfect? No. But it was you. And he liked you way more than perfect.

[hamsterclaw]

Five Fuck Friday

You and Namjoon pack up the apartment you used to live in. Part of the Love series.

Pairing: Namjoon x f! reader

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Sex, swearing

Word count: 1.5k

Your ex-husband Namjoon shuffles up to you, eyes barely open, hair rumpled, hood up. 

‘Here,’ you say, handing him the coffee you’d picked up on the way. 

He accepts with a mumbled ‘thanks.’ 

You know better than to try to engage him in any form of interaction before he’s been caffeinated, even though it’s not that early on a Friday morning. 

You fall into step beside each other as you head up to the apartment you previously shared when you were married. He adjusts his longer stride to match yours, hits the lift button. 

You sip coffee whilst you wait. 

The lift takes longer than it should, the mechanics of it always mystified you when you lived in this building. To be fair, at least it seems to be working, it used to be broken down half the time. 

You fumble with the keys as you reach your old front door. There’s a knack to it, an eccentricity of the lock that you’d mastered whilst you lived here. You’ve forgotten it. 

You’re frowning at it, trying to remember, when Namjoon mutters a ‘here’. 

His warm hand closes over yours, and with a flick of his wrist, the key turns in the lock and the door opens.

There’s an air of abandonment about the place now, it’s clean but empty, unlived in since you moved out. 

If you let yourself feel it, the sadness would be unbearable. 

You wonder if Namjoon’s awake enough to feel it too. 

You glance at him, and he’s brighter now, more awake.

‘We need to be done before this evening,’ Namjoon says. ‘I have plans tonight.’

Your ex-husband is incomparable in bed and someone you’d want in your corner in a fight, but sometimes, he has the emotional depth of a puddle.

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

‘Wouldn’t want cleaning out our emotional baggage to impinge on your Friday night,’ you say, unable to curb your sarcasm.

Namjoon blinks at you. ‘It’s five fuck Friday,’ he tells you.

‘What?’

It’s Namjoon’s turn to roll his eyes, you don’t even think he tried not to.

‘Five. Fuck. Friday.’

‘That’s not a thing.’

Namjoon just shrugs, starts stacking boxes in the living room.

‘What even is five fuck Friday,’ you mutter to yourself.

Namjoon’s got his back to you as he picks books up off the shelf, arranges them in neat stacks in a box.

He doesn’t answer.

‘Is it five fucks with the same person?’ you wonder as you pick up a box and head into the kitchen.

You think about it as you pack up the kitchen junk drawer.

Namjoon pops his head round the kitchen doorway.

‘Is it fucking five different people?’ you ask.

Namjoon just gives you a look as he takes the packing tape and black marker off the kitchen counter and disappears into the living room again.

You wrap glasses in paper, arrange them carefully in the box in rows.

‘Is it the variation? Fucking five different ways?’ you say, as you step past him to stack your filled box in the hallway.

Namjoon’s worked up a sweat, he’s shucked his hoodie and his thin white t-shirt’s sticking to his back as he arranges boxes neatly, one against the other.

‘Wait!’ you exclaim as he tosses a box on top of your glassware.

The resulting crunch of broken glass makes you flinch.

Namjoon, a veteran of broken crockery, is unmoved.

‘Sorry,’ he says, indifferent.

‘I think your aunt gave us those.’

Namjoon raises a brow, takes a swig of water.

‘Yeah?’

‘Never mind.’

You’re glad Namjoon’s being so businesslike and practical about packing up your apartment, at least you’re not tempted to dissolve in an emotional heap over the life you once had.

You’re trying to reach up to the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard when Namjoon says, ‘I can do that.’

He doesn’t even move you out of the way, instead steps up close to your back, arms over your head as he grabs the last glass.

For a moment you’re completely enclosed by his body, his chest pressed to your back, hips against you. He presses his face into your hair and breathes in, so quick you almost miss it.

You turn into his chest.

‘Joon-ah,’ you say.

He leans down, plants a kiss on your lips, then hands you the glass.

You reach for the front of his t-shirt, but he’s already stepped away.

‘Want me to pick up lunch from the deli?’ he asks, as he leaves the kitchen.

‘Sure,’ you say.

It’s only when the front door closes behind him that you can take a breath.

***

‘Is it a metaphor for what Friday’s like in comparison to the rest of the week?’ you ask.

Namjoon reaches out, thumbs mustard off the side of your mouth, licks it off his thumb.

He follows it up with a big bite of the sandwich he got from the deli, ignores your question.

You swipe his drink away as he reaches for it.

‘Oh my god, tell me what five fuck Friday is!’ you exclaim, exasperated.

Namjoon takes your drink instead, drains it empty with an obnoxious slurp. 

He tosses it in the trash bag, gets up from his seat.

‘I’m gonna start on the spare room, ok?’

You glower at his retreating back.

***

The sun’s starting to set when Namjoon reappears. 

He hasn’t said much to you all day, just focusing on packing. You guess he meant business when he said he had plans.

‘We can finish this tomorrow, can’t we? Most of it’s done.’

You look up guiltily from the album of old photos you’d been looking through.

‘Yeah, sure.’

If he notices what you’ve been doing, he doesn’t say.

‘I need to go take a shower before I go out,’ he says. ‘Do you need a ride home?’ 

‘Nah, I’ll finish off here and then go.’

He’s already leaving.

‘Hey, Joon,’ you call after him.

He turns. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’ll text you - if I finish up tonight we won’t have to come back tomorrow.’

Namjoon shrugs. ‘It’s up to you.’

He doesn’t look like he cares one way or the other. 

***

It’s past midnight by the time you finish. You hadn’t intended to stay so late but you couldn’t bear the idea of another day with Namjoon being distant and indifferent when you’re an emotional wreck.

You take one last look around, partly to check you’ve packed everything, mostly because you want to remember.

The kitchen counter Namjoon and you christened the afternoon you moved in. 

The crack in the kitchen window you made when you threw a fork after Namjoon forgot your first wedding anniversary.

The shower panel you once watched Namjoon masturbate behind. He’d put on a show for you, hadn’t let you touch him. It’s still in your memory as one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen.

The dent in the plaster hidden behind a picture where Namjoon had slammed his fist and accused you of cheating on him.

The turbulence of your relationship etched into the walls of the two bedroom you’d once shared.

The store cupboard where Namjoon and you had once hidden for twenty minutes at a dinner you’d been hosting for your families.

The conspiratorial smile on Namjoon’s face. The warmth of his mouth, and the weight of his body as he’d fucked you standing up, against the wall.

You’d come once, would have come again if Namjoon’s mother hadn’t come looking for you.

You swipe at your face, realising you’ve been crying.

Shit. You’re exhausted. 

There are no sheets on the bed, not anymore, so you pull on Namjoon’s hoodie instead, curl up and cry yourself to sleep.

You’ve always found his scent comforting.

***

You wake, disoriented, in the dark.

Namjoon’s spooning you, arm over your shoulders, face buried in the back of your neck.

He says your name, pulls you against him so you can feel how hard he is.

You help him pull your jeans down, pull his hoodie up, and then you’re bare skin against bare skin.

You can hear him spit in his hand, the slap of his palm against his cock as he touches himself.

Getting himself as hard as he can for you.

By the time he pushes into you, you’re ready.

He slides into you, coming back to you like he’s always belonged with you.

You can’t see his face. 

‘Baby,’ he says. 

There’s an edge to his voice, like he’s holding back.

His hand’s splayed over your abdomen, holding you taut to him.

You put your hand over his, knit your fingers through his, and he holds you tight, like he’s drowning, as you fuck.

He comes before you do, spilling inside you but still hard enough to make you come, gasping, face in the mattress as he strokes your clit.

Namjoon stays snug inside you, holding you so tightly it’s hard to breathe.

You’re scared to look at him, afraid of what you’ll see.

‘Five fuck Friday is made up,’ he tells you, mouth against your skin.

‘I thought so,’ you say, too fucked out to muster any more words.

There’s a long pause, you think maybe he’s fallen asleep. 

Then he says, ‘I don’t know how to be without you.’

The sadness in his voice punches a hole in your chest.

You turn over, face to his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as you hold him.

You comfort him the only way you know how.

He’s so dear to you, even after all this time.

After a while, his brow unfurrows, the lines in his face smooth out.

He sleeps in your arms.

When you wake in the morning, he’s gone.

©hamsterclaw 2023

[jomiddlemarch]

And loved me for what might or might not be –

“Let me make you a cup of tea,” Rupert said. It sounded entirely implausible, Rupert standing in what must be his drawing room, in clothes so perfectly tailored to his body they looked as if they’d never been ironed or even laundered, making such an ordinary offer. Though to be fair, he’d enunciated every syllable in his posh accent, nothing like the way Da talked about making a cuppa for Mam, a cigarette dangling from his lip.

If it hadn’t been for the spaniels sleeping in front of the marble fireplace and the terrier whining for him to pet it, she’d never have believed it possible.

“Do you even know how to make a proper cup of tea?” she said.

“I ought to be offended by that, angel, but I have a fair idea of the impression I make,” he replied, his lips curving in a smile. “I’m not as helpless as you might imagine in a kitchen.”

“You underestimate my imagination,” Taggie said tartly, partly to surprise him and partly to distract herself from the vision his words had conjured, Rupert shagging a woman senseless on a well-scrubbed refectory table, Rupert coming up behind a woman washing dishes and bending her over to take her, Rupert’s hand, wet with soapsuds, cupping a woman’s breast through her apron bib. A woman, but really, it was always herself, Taggie being ravished, lavished with his attention, her name on his lips that’s right, Taggie darling, let me have a taste, so good, angel. He called her angel because he didn’t know better just how filthy her dreams were. Hade become since she’d met him.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said.

“I suppose you might try,” she said. “If it’s horrible, I’ll make a fresh pot.”

“We’ll hope it won’t come to that,” he said. “It’s through the hall and down a flight of stairs—”

“You’re going to make me a cuppa in the kitchen?” she said.

“You’d rather I brought it to you here on a tray, with the teapot in a knitted cozy, and a plate of ginger biscuits?” he said. She might have thought he was mocking her, except for the undeniable earnest uncertainty in his tone. It was a rare feeling, being the object of his affection and not his lust, and young as she was, she knew it, the way she knew he’d make the tea too weak, too eager to pour it out. He’d use a Sevres tea-set as casually as she’d handle the random crockery that came with the Priory.

“I’d be happier in the kitchen. And if there’s any shortbread, I like that better than ginger biscuits. Unless you have custard creams,” she said.

“You’ve got a sweet tooth,” he said.

“My mother doesn’t like to keep a lot of sweets in the house. She fusses about her figure,” Taggie said.

“I don’t know if there’s anything but the ginger biscuits. Those are my favorite and I don’t often have people round to tea,” he said, walking from the room, taking her hand in his very lightly, so that she might have pulled away without any real effort, a tentative gesture that was more erotic than if he’d palmed her ass. 

“Lizzie would come, wouldn’t she?” 

Rupert shrugged, which wasn’t much of an answer, but Taggie didn’t especially want to talk about Lizzie, how old a friend she was. She didn’t want to remind either of them how much older Rupert was, how young she must seem, naïve and inexperienced before you took into account how little she’d read and why.

They’d got to the kitchen, a brighter, sunnier space than the one at the Priory, altogether more orderly, as he must have staff in to cook and clean up, but the terrier settled down at once in a basket near the oak table’s end and she wondered just how much time Rupert spent here. He waved a hand for her to sit down, so she chose the chair closest to the Aga, the one it would be easiest to leave to help with the kettle.

Except it didn’t seem he actually needed any help. Taggie sat and watched him move around the kitchen, graceful even in the smallest ways, picking up a milk jug, setting a cup in its saucer, taking the lid off a canister that held loose tea. He had finely made hands, the whole of him elegantly put together, a recollection of him naked in the garden popping up unbidden, making her blush. He noticed, but he didn’t say anything. 

Was she the only person who knew how tender Rupert Campbell-Black could be?

If she was, did she want that to change?

“Milk, one sugar,” he said, putting down a steaming gilt-edged teacup in front of her. “I think you like honey better but I couldn’t find any. I’ll tell Cook to buy some.”

“You know how I like my tea,” she said, thinking it would be a question before she heard herself speak.

“I can pay attention when it’s warranted,” he said. 

“When it’s warranted?” she repeated, taking a sip of the tea. It was the perfect temperature, almost too hot to drink, and she could hardly remember the last time she’d had a cup of tea made so exactly to her taste, not a little too strong from being the end of the pot, a little too cool for waiting until everyone else had been served.

“When I care. You’re more like your father than I’d thought,” he said, frowning a little. It only made him more handsome. “You ask questions like a journalist.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she asked.

He laughed, a warm chuckle that she imagined only Lizzie had heard before. Maybe Cook, who bought him ginger biscuits and not custard creams.

“You’re adorable, Taggie O’Hara,” he said.

“That’s not the same as saying you adore me,” she pointed out, drinking more tea. When she put the cup back in the saucer, he took hold of her right hand, stroking his thumb across her palm.

“I don’t adore you, angel. That requires a pedestal for you to stand on and I’d much rather have you squash up next to me on the sofa,” he said.

“That sounds very domestic,” Taggie said. He’d like to have the dogs about, he hadn’t said it but he’d conjured them up with the slightly sagging sofa, the fire merry behind its screen, a half-drunk glass of Scotch on a marquetry table, the ice melting slowly into the golden liquor.

“It wouldn’t stay that way,” he said. He must have made a thousand passes at a thousand women or maybe a million, but it didn’t feel like one with his brown eyes watching her so attentively, appetite balanced by affection, the touch of his hand cherishing, not possessing.

“Good,” she replied. “D’you know what I’d like?”

Another woman, well-read, cultured, in a matching set of lace underwear, would have meant it as coquetry. That was beyond Taggie and she’d have to hope he wouldn’t be disappointed.

“What’s that, angel?” 

“Scones. Cook must keep the ingredients at hand. They don’t take long to make,” she said. She didn’t say they were her specialty, but perhaps he’d be able to tell.

“Would you teach me how?” Rupert asked.

“Yes, but why?” she said.

“So I might make the next batch for you,” he said.

[givemea-dam-break]

hellooo, i really love your fics they’re incredibly well written! could you maybe do #36 from the angst prompt list with lockwood?

a/n: absolutely! i’m so glad you’re enjoying them :) i took a little inspiration from the iconic lockwood patching lucy up scene because oh my god do i love it

warnings: minor injury detail, language prompt: "what's all this blood?" gn reader

Shit.

Panicking, you tug your jumper over your head, throwing it somewhere on the floor, and search for a clean T-shirt. It's not likely you'll be wearing that jumper ever again, judging from the massive tear in the side and the blood staining it.

You throw open your wardrobe doors hastily, and you want to tear your hair out. All your clean clothes are downstairs. You'd meant to pick them up on your way in, but you'd ended up being too distracted trying to sneak past Lockwood unnoticed.

Looking back down at your jumper, you groan. It's going to hurt putting it back on, and you'll definitely be seen.

The gash on your side stings, and, glancing down at it, you can see the blood making its way down to the waistband of your leggings. Shit, shit, shit.

To top it off, there's a knock at the door.

"You left your washing downstairs." It's Lockwood. Fantastic. "Figured you'd want some clean clothes to change into. I didn't even hear you come in. What's all the swearing about?"

You scramble to grab your jumper, holding it in front of you as the door cracks open, standing like a deer in headlights. Lockwood's looking down at the ground, frowning.

"What's all this blood? Are you -" He looks up, freezing in place. The pile of clothes in his hands topples to the floor as he quickly averts his eyes. His cheeks and ears flush bright red. "Oh, my god. I'm so sorry."

"Throw me a T-shirt!"

Keeping his gaze solely on the floor, he fishes through the mass of clothes on the ground and throws a shirt, which you pull over your head as quickly as humanely possible. Your face feels as if you've stood in front of a bonfire.

"Uh - I - Are you okay? The blood -"

"I'm dressed," you tell him, not able to look at him. "I'm, uh, I'm fine."

"Well, there's a jumper soaked in blood on the floor, and there's some on the floor over here, so you're obviously not..."

He looks back at you, albeit cautiously, scanning you with dark, worried eyes. Seemingly, he notices the uncomfortable way you're standing, trying to hide the wound on your side with the top and your attempt at a natural stance. His eyes dart back down to the jumper.

"You're hurt. Why didn't you tell me you're hurt?"

"I'm fine," you insist, but your face scrunches up as pain flashes in your side. "Everything's good."

Before you can say anything else, he darts out of your room. You can hear his rushed footsteps on the stairs, and the clattering of crockery in the kitchen much further below, before his feet sound on the stairs again, even more rushed.

He appears in the doorway again holding a first aid kit in one hand and a mug of water with a cloth dipped within in the other. Part of his shirt is wet. "Sit down. I'm going to patch you up."

"Lockwood, I'm fine -"

"Sit."

There's no point arguing with him. His mind is already set and, really, you would've had to tend to the wound anyways. You had just hoped that Lucy would've been back from her case in time to do it. That would be much less awkward.

You sit on your bed, hissing at the feeling of the gash rubbing against itself. Lockwood sinks down beside you, placing the mug on the bedside table and fishing through the first aid kit for the supplies he needs, aka, an awfully large plaster, a tube of some sort of cream, and a small sachet of alcohol wipes.

"Can I...?" He eyes you carefully, gesturing to the hem of your T-shirt.

With a wince of pain, you lean slightly to the side and roll up the shirt, holding it out of the way.

Lockwood's eyes look like they're about to bulge out of their sockets. "What on earth happened?" he asks, grabbing the cloth and squeezing excess water out.

"Turned out to be a pretty nasty ghost," you say, tensing in preparation for the cold cloth. "Threw me through the patio door - sliding glass, mind you. Particularly sharp piece got stuck."

With gentle hands, he begins cleaning the blood off your skin. His brows are furrowed in concentration, so he doesn't notice the goosebumps left on your skin from the briefest touch of his fingers. You can't help but smile at the look on his face despite the pain.

"This is going to hurt," he warns, ripping open the sachet and pulling out the alcohol wipe.

As he wipes over the gash, disinfecting it, you swear, rather loudly, and grasp his shirt sleeve tightly without meaning to. He glances up at you, concerned, but you nod, gesturing for him to continue. As much as it hurts, you'd rather it didn't get infected.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, disposing of the wipe. He grabs the large plaster, smothering it with an absurd amount of cream.

The cream is cold on your skin, and you flinch at the contact. It feels like needles are sticking into the wound, and it hurts to move at all.

"I didn't want to worry you," you say, clenching your teeth. "I was hoping Lucy would be back to do it, you know, to save us any embarrassment."

He's silent at that. His fingers linger on the skin on your side, soft and light in comparison to the raging pain coursing your skin just a few millimetres above. You're still clutching his sleeve, but your grip has loosened slightly.

His eyes meet yours, and it's like the world has melted away so there's nothing left but him. A small smile tugs on his lips - a private one, not the kind he usually dons, but one meant just for you. It feels incredibly intimate, and you become acutely aware of his touch, of the feeling of his pulse in his arm.

"I only ever want to help you," he says. His voice is gentle, quiet, and something about it sends a shiver down your spine. "I don't like seeing you hurt."

You suppress a smile. "Well, you almost didn't see me hurt."

He gives you a look at that, but it's more joking than anything. His eyes still haven't left yours. "You know you can trust me, right?"

"I do trust you," you murmur. When did you get so close? "More than anything, actually. It's quite concerning."

His smile grows, and you swear his gaze momentarily falls to your lips before returning. "I'm not letting you go on another case on your own, now. Seems like you can't keep yourself safe without me."

"Oh, come off it. I'm fine on my own."

"Like hell you are."

Slowly, his hand moves away from your side, gently pulling your T-shirt back down.

"I should probably get back to -"

"Yeah, probably."

He doesn't move. No, he stays rooted to your bed, only moving so that his free hand brushes over yours, still lightly resting on his arm. Sparks fly at his touch. His eyes slip down to your lips again.

"If you want to kiss me," you say quietly, "I'd get on with it. I want to go sleep."

It's not often Anthony Lockwood gets caught off guard, but you've done just that. His eyes widen ever so slightly, and his jaw hangs slack with shock, before morphing into that cocky grin of his.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you lean into it, smiling. It feels like forever before he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. They taste a little like Digestives, and the fact almost makes you laugh, but you're too wrapped up in the feeling of him. His hand on your face, the other resting on your leg, the skin under his shirt as your hand slowly travels up his arm. His pulse is almost as fast as yours.

You had not expected your night to end with you kissing your boss, the guy you've been pining after for months, but you're not exactly complaining.

"Maybe I should get injured more often," you whisper against his lips.

He laughs, and your heart skips a beat. "I'll kiss you more if you don't."

"Deal."

[kyeree]

I'm drawing the rooms in the Stormborn. Here's my headcanons/don't forget to add this to the drawing list.

(Still editing and adding to the list)

- The boobs all have their own rooms on the ship but Moonshines room is the One Big Bed room. Its not One Big Bed though, it's a double at most. Moonshine and Hardwon sleep side by side while Bev top and tails. Balnor will push his chair by the bed and maybe put his feet up on it.

- Moonshines room is closest to the kitchen. Technically isn't even a room, it was used for storage or as a pantry, but she made herself at home there to be close to the kitchen.

- The ship has spores all over but Moonie has shrooms on the walls used as coat hooks and luminous mushrooms and nannerflies giving the room a nice soft glow to her windowless room. Deadeyes hat is hung on the wall and Handy Andy has a little nook on the shelf. Jaina's thank you card is used as a book mark in the few books she has to learn to read or books gifted from Peepaw.

- There are many broken floorboards and holes in the Stormborn Pawpaw and Handy Andy uses as shortcuts. Pawpaw likely has his own little den in the walls or roof where no one can get to (Moonshine understands it's his space, she won't even wildshape there)

-The kitchen is cluttered but never dirty. There's always something slow cooking on the stove, a table and bench to sit at and a wine rack filled with crick water. The crockery is all mismatched, dented and broken. There are many foods and spices jarred, Beverley is usually the one to throw out any foods that have expired in case Moonshine uses them.

- Definitely a small stack of handwritten cookbooks from Martha Toegold. A jar of the collected Werther's stolen from Nana Kindleaf.

- Hardwon doesn't stay in the captains quarters, that was his father's room. He occasionally visits when he's feeling sentimental or to add his own 'trophy' to sit amongst his father's. Or to place a picture of his family by the ones his father had. A sextant sits on the desk, Bev is teaching him how to navigate with it

- Beverley got the biggest room at the back of the ship with a huge pane window. It's extremely organised and clean, with the exception of some of the shrooms Moonshine has spread throughout the ship.

- Hardwon's actual room is close to the helm. It's a chaotic mess but only a little dirty. He has cupboards and drawers half closed stuffed with things from his adventures. Most of his art is hidden around the ship anyone can walk into his stump at the crick, it's too risky. Hand axes used to hang pin things to the wall, drawings, his father's hat, Jessica Simpson posters. A few items he's whittled, night vision goggles, beard oil.

- Hardwon learned a lot of housekeeping from the dwarphanage. He's usually the one keeping the ship clean in his own way. Hanging laundry from the halyard, throwing the trash overboard, letting pawpaw lick the plates before scrubbing them.

- He has a large bed but also a hammock for when Erlin stays (because mama said so). Big ol' bookshelf. Uses jars of whatever he's collecting as bookends: rocks, bugs, teeth. A desk/vanity table with very fancy and well organised stationary, a small pot of gold paint for his feet and letters from Erlin and his mama. A trunk of props used for goofs and pranks and the singing Tuna Balnor gifted him.

- A telescope by the window. Erlin's journal by his bed and their shared journal on his desk. A book of dragon anatomy and graphic scrolls.

- Balnor never spent enough time on the Stormborn to make a room his own and when he got his memories back it felt strange to make somewhere else a home. He's content with keeping his stuff in the bag and sleeping in his chair beside the Boobs

[rockitmans]

Sleep Tips for the Chronically Nocturnal

Summary: Kurt can't sleep and Blaine takes that as a personal challenge

Rated: E

Words: 6.3k

Notes: Written for @special-bc-ur-part-of-it for @klainesecretsanta2023. Iz thank you so much for being a beloved mutual this past year and for all your wonderful stories you have gifted us. I hope you enjoy this gift for you!

Tropes/From the Wishlist: roommates, friends to loves, hurt/comfort (light), smut, fluff, humour, pining

~~~~~

“Absolutely not,” is all the warning Blaine gives before he quite literally knocks Kurt's coffee off the kitchen counter. This would be an insane act on a normal day but Kurt is tired enough that he is ready to Kill. He blinks, trying to process as he watches the brown stain inch its way across the lino. He’s not sure what just happened. All his brain can muster is a tired shrug. 

He whirls to glare at his roommate instead, full of the righteous fury of a man that has been running off fumes for two days straight, to whom coffee is as essential as oxygen at this point, and is absolutely not in the headspace to simply make another. “Explain.”

Blaine winces, eyes going big and soft in a way that works on Kurt basically without fail, the cheater. “Shit. I'm so sorry. That was way more dramatic than I imagined… Actually it was exactly as dramatic as I imagined but I obviously didn't think it through all the way.” 

Blaine peers at the mess. The only saving grace is that the coffee was in Kurt’s reusable Starbucks cup. Otherwise there would also be broken crockery in the name of drama. He turns his imploring gaze back to Kurt. “I’ll clean up, I promise. I was just trying to help you.”

Kurt stares at Blaine and then at the spill of coffee across the floor and then back at Blaine. “Explain better.”

Blaine shrugs. “You're not sleeping.”

Read on AO3

[sgiandubh]

On popular demand: my foolproof TCND (um nope, not really, just Flemish) ham, beer and mustard savory cake

Because @sop123456778 asked me today if I had, after all, another recipe to share, and before I'll get home to my real kitchen and my real crockery and my scrumptious Torta Caprese I do bake every single Christmas, here goes another domestic gem. This time, I thought a savory recipe will do nicely. And a seasonal one, much loved and immediately devoured in my home.

Variations are endless with this one and even rotisserie chicken can be nicely recycled this way. I chose the Flemish one, because you know, TCND, huh?

You will need: 3 eggs (at room temperature - always!), 3/4 cup (150 grams) flour, 1 sachet (2 ¼ teaspoons) dry yeast, 1/4 cup (50 ml) EVOO (extra virgin olive oil), 1/2 cup (100 ml) full fat milk, 1/4 cup (50 ml) blonde beer (I'd suggest Bud Light, not Miller), 1 cup (100 grams) grated Scottish Cheddar (the stronger, the better, if you want), 1 cup (150 grams) diced smoked ham/jambon/jamón cocido (not Iberico, Serrano, lomo, etc!). Finally, 1 Tablespoon wholegrain mustard -and on this point, I insist: not Colman's and certainly not the yellow American horror. This, if you can, would be perfect:

Preheat the oven at 350 Fahrenheit (180 Celsius).

In a big bowl, whisk the eggs together with the flour and the yeast. Il will cling to your whisk, but don't despair. Add the EVOO, pouring slowly and mixing non stop, then the milk (same way), then the beer (same). You should get a sort of thin, crepe dough consistency, which is perfect. Throw in the grated cheddar, then the ham, then the mustard, mixing well after each batch. Dust with a pinch of salt.

Pour into a rectangular loaf tin (three drops olive oil and then dusted with a bit of flour or a sling of parchment paper would make sure your cake won't stick). Add more grated cheddar on top and be brave and liberal with it. Cheese is life.

Bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown and the proverbial toothpick in the center comes out completely clean. Transfer immediately on a wire, let cool completely, cut and eat and be merry.

It should look like this, more or less:

[peakyswritings]

Dear Santa, this Christmas I want to choose something different. Tina and Nina for 🎁 A mini moodboard + short blurb. I mean, Italian Mafia, Spinetta etc… It can be cool.

A/N: alright I definitely got carried away with this, it’s way longer than a blurb, but I couldn’t help myself cause this was so fun and interesting. I really hope I got Tina right. Also, I’m so sorry Shark, I LOVE Tina with all my heart, but I need to be honest: Nina wouldn’t. Nothing personal. Anyway, thank you so much for sending this. I hope you like it🤍

Tina belongs to @call-sign-shark

Nina is my OC

Enjoy your gift

-🎅🏻

Tina

Nina grimaced as the disconcertingly big cut of beef tenderloin stared back at her from the kitchen table, the metallic smell of raw meat filling her nostrils. A thank you gift from Cacciatore, for welcoming his family into their home. She just wished her mother hadn’t left the unpleasant task of cutting it to her.

That night, the Ferrante, Cacciatore and Spinietta families would celebrate their knew agreements, finally reached after a long period of negotiations. A fairly good way to end the year, if it weren’t for the fact that now the house was full of men ready to draw their guns at the slightest hint of disrespect. Because the line between war and peace was always too thin, the balance too precarious, and it would take but a small push in the wrong direction to start a chain reaction that could not be stopped.

“Nina, I know you don’t like these people, but please take that scowl off your face,” her mother hurried into the kitchen, pulling her away from her musings.

Nina dropped the knife, letting out a frustrated sigh. “What I don’t like,” she said through gritted teeth. “Is that this had to take place in our home. And on the day before Christmas Eve, of all days.”

The older woman stacked a bunch of clean plates, only half pretending not to listen to her rant. “Cut the meat,” she said dryly, gesturing toward the chopping board.

“And we’re here slaving around while they talk and drink and act like they didn’t want to blow each other’s heads off up until five minutes ago.”

Her mother just sent her a dirty look, her silence an answer in itself. Or a warning. Without another word, she grabbed the crockery and walked out the room.

“What, you disagree?” Nina called after her, slightly raising her voice.

The sound of her mother’s footsteps came to a stop, then it got closer as she reappeared on the threshold. “Behave,” she pointed a finger at her, before disappearing again.

“Just as I thought,” Nina mumbled to herself, picking up the knife.

Her gaze shifted from the utensil to the meat, her nose scrunching automatically. As much as she enjoyed cooking, she wasn’t too fond of the dirty work. She would mind far less sticking that knife into Stefano’s throat. She could hear his voice three rooms away, together with that fake, boisterous laugh that made her skin itch.

“You’re using the wrong knife,” a chirpy voice came from behind her, causing her to jump.

Nina froze on the spot. That voice. She’d recognise it anywhere. The air seemed to shift, becoming colder, thicker. As it always did when she was around.

Half hidden by the shadows, Tina Cacciatore was leaning against the doorframe, staring at her with her mismatched eyes. A playful grin played on her lips, revealing a pair of sharp canine teeth.

There was something twisted in that gaze. Nina had caught it the first time she had laid her eyes on her, and she grew more sure of it each moment she spent in her presence. It was one of those feelings she just couldn’t shake off. It set in her stomach, twisting it, churning it to the point where she almost struggled to keep its content in. Amplified by that nauseating feeling, the smell of the raw meat seemed to become even more pungent.

Tina stepped forward, the light catching on her bright yellow pupil. “That’s a boning knife. See how short the blade is? It’s to remove meat from bone. There’s no bone in that cut.”

She took a few more steps, until she was close enough for Nina to be enveloped in a cloud of her floral perfume, mixed with a coppery hint that oddly resembled the smell of the meat in front of her. “All soft, tender muscle,” she hummed, and something in her tone sent a shiver down Nina’s spine.

She let her words hang in the air, dancing between the two of them to the rhythm of her taunting lilt. Nina’s whole body tensed, fingers unconsciously clenching around the knife’s handle. But Tina didn’t notice - or if she did, she pretended otherwise. Her grin broke into a wide smile, and in a matter of seconds her doll features shone with cheerfulness. “But don’t worry, I’ll help you!” she exclaimed.

Nina’s wary gaze followed her as she approached the kitchen counter, her dark hair bouncing with each stride. “Let’s see,” she murmured, her unsettling stare scanning through the utensils on display. “Ah, there it is!” she beamed, grabbing a carving knife. “This is the one you want to use.”

With the smile still plastered on her face, she walked over to the table again and brought the knife to the tenderloin. “The narrow blade allows you to easily tear through the meat with just the right amount of pressure. See?” she explained, carefully sinking the knife into the meat.

“Mhm,” Nina murmured, watching as Tina cut a perfect slice. That was when a small detail caught her eyes. The girl’s knuckles were covered in scabs, some almost healed, some newer.

A butcher’s hands, someone would say. But that upsetting feeling was still there, whispering in Nina’s ear, telling her that there was way more than what met the eye. Something was wrong with her, deeply wrong.

“C’mon, you try,” Tina interrupted the flow of her thoughts, handing her the knife. She was smiling, but the strange gleam in her eyes told Nina she couldn’t say no.

There it was, that twisted light. Three meetings had been enough for her to know. Her innocent demeanour was a disguise, her charming smile a deception, her friendly manners a mask. Small pieces of a cover crafted to hide the ugliness.

But how ugly could she truly be?

[pjisskullourful]

𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕕 𝔼𝕟𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙

𝕘𝕒𝕪 𝕖𝕟𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 [based during the throuples early days] [the complete series]

 🌈Damiano × Ethan × reader

NSFW   🔥 literally dirrrty adultsonly nastiness, the word jizz is included

° Damiano David/Ethan Torchio/female reader insert  

° “Wait, we’ve gotta warm up and stretch first.” Ethan said. - You blinked at him. “Stretch, but it’s literally waltzing. There’s no lunging or strenuous repetitive movements. I think that you’re still taking this too seriously.” | an informal dance class gets derailed

wordcount:::    6,151

° inspired by a spicy audio ° [ITA]: avida - greedy

“Are you nervous for tomorrow?”

You looked back to where Ethan was standing at the kitchen sink, his hands submerged in the sudsy water. The two of you were in the process of cleaning up after dinner - it was only fair that this responsibility was taken up by you: Damiano cooked and the two of you cleaned. A domestic harmony had been easy to strike between the three of you, even though your relationship was less than a year old, things just naturally fell into place when you were together. At your apartment, cleaning up was as simple as putting dirty crockery in the dishwasher. Extra steps had to be taken when staying overnight in Ethan’s less modern home. But you didn’t complain, any time spent on chores felt less mundane, less taxing when you had either of your boyfriend’s for company.

You were surprised by the look on Ethan’s face, somehow more serious than usual. “What do I have to be nervous about?”

You hadn’t been thinking about your plans for the following morning at all - the commitment of meeting up with your sister's fiancé, Mara, had been pushed to the backburner for the moment. Instead you had been mentally preparing yourself for what his reaction would be when the three of you got back to the season of RuPaul’s Drag Race that you were in the middle of binge-watching. He had never seen season nine, he had no idea that the bubble was about to burst for Valentina, a queen he was quite enamoured with.

“Have you ever taught anyone to dance before, like in a proper way, not just goofing around and showing random moves to Vic?” He asked.

You shrugged, coming to stand alongside him, without making any moves to grab more plates for drying. “I’ve had a little bit of experience. I haven’t exactly run my own class, or anything. But the studio where I learnt, where I took classes for years- when I was out of high school, I would sometimes assist. With the classes of just too many kids for one teacher, we would call it work experience, and they’d give me a glowing reference to attach to my résumé. So I know that it’s not totally out of my depth.

“Besides, all that she wants is to be able to lead Nadia in a waltz. It’s not like Mara is expecting me to turn her into Patrick Swayze with lifts or fierce choreography or anything more than a six-count.” You said. “Waltz is a graceful classic, but it’s also very basic.

“Maybe not as easy as I was on the night we met, but relatively simple.” You said, smiling when you caught his eye.

“Simple enough that you could teach me?”

You melted a little, moving in closer and slipping an arm around his waist. “You want me to teach… but you don’t dance.”

“Maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to have a romantic moment where we’re all close and touching. Maybe…”

You couldn’t help yourself, nuzzling into his neck. “Shut up, you’re so cute.”

“What’s this?” Damiano asked, announcing his entrance into the room, now that he was finally done with his shower. “Ethan? Being so cute?”

“It’s more likely than you think…” You agreed.

“Well, we were just talking about how confident she’s feeling about her little class with Mara tomorrow and I wondered if her teaching skills would translate into being able to teach me how to waltz.”

Damiano’s whole face had lit up instantly and he excitedly rushed over to where the two of you were standing. “Can we, oh, can we, please?” He grabbed onto your arm with both hands. “We can be your test-students.”

You looked from one boyfriend to the other, seeing how they were both wearing such genuine smiles. It would have been impossible to not melt, all of your defences weakened by how they were watching you, eyes alight with keen anticipation. They were so eager to hear whatever you had to say, their attention still thrilling to have placed solely upon you.

“Alright. Go get that coffee table out of the middle of the living room, we can practise in there.” You said, earning an excited squeeze from Damiano’s hands and a kiss on the cheek from Ethan.

“What time does class start?” He asked as Damiano left the room just as quickly as he had arrived.

The task of washing the dishes was wrapped up in less than ten minutes, with you and Ethan going in to join Damiano in the living room. Quiet music was playing from the phone in his hands, as he seemingly tried to pick a fitting song.

“Should we get changed, like, into something more appropriate for a dance class?” He asked.

“Yes.” You said, your serious tone of voice making Ethan pause from the process of getting his long hair under control with a bun. “Stripper heels- go put them on.”

Damiano’s eyebrows raised as he looked at you. “Right, because it’s not a waltz if you’re not wearing stripper heels, eh?”

“Exactly.” You said before shaking your head. “Don’t take this too seriously- what you’re wearing is fine and we don’t need music at first. I’ll just count you in for now, and then we’ll add music when you’ve picked the flow of it up.” He silenced his phone and placed it aside. “So, who wants to go first?”

“Wait, we’ve gotta warm up and stretch first.” Ethan said.

You blinked at him. “Stretch, but it’s literally waltzing. There’s no lunging or strenuous repetitive movements. I think that you’re still taking this too seriously.”

“I just don’t want you to pull a muscle or anything…” He said, approaching to the point where you were within his reach. “Just a stretch, or two. At the very least, we should do something to loosen your hips.”

You didn’t resist his touch as his hands went to your hips, even though you were watching him with a sceptical gaze. “Loosen my hips for waltzing? Have you ever actually seen somebody waltz?”

“I think you should listen to him, avida. I mean, look at him, if anyone knows how to warm up properly before a workout- it’s this guy.” Damiano said.

“Let me help you.”

You looked from the mischievous smile on Damiano’s face to the glimmer in Ethan’s eyes. “You’re not gonna let this go, are ya?”

“No. Just a couple of stretches, and then I promise I will let you totally take over and teach how you want.” Ethan said.

“Alright.”

“Well, get on the floor.”

The authority in his tone saw you bending down without question. He clarified for you to lie down on your back, and as you did so, you became aware of how keenly they were both watching you.

Then he got down on the floor with you, sitting by your feet. “Okay, so put the soles of your feet together, bend your knees and push them far apart.” Your legs stretched out, but bent, it was unnatural, but ultimately your legs held firm, instead of shaking. “Yep, that’s perfect. Does that feel okay?”

“Mm-hmm, it’s fine.” You nodded as your eyes locked with his.

“I’m gonna put my hands here, okay?” He asked, his hands going to both of your knees. “And hold you in place, loosening those hips up real nice.”

“You know, for someone that swears he does not dance, I’m finding it quite curious that you would know these kinds of stretches, specifically to prep for dancing.” You said.

He nodded in Damiano’s direction. “Somebody had to help that one when he was learning to pole dance. You can’t even imagine the bitching and moaning that was coming from him.”

You looked over to where Damiano was sitting on the ground, off to the side of Ethan. He shrugged. “I think my complaints were justified. It was consistently the worst, most painful leg workout, like every day was leg day, but my personal trainer was the Devil. But it was worth it in the end, it got you interested, sweet thing.”

“Is it okay if I push a little?” Ethan asked.

“Yep, that’s fine.” You said. “So the two of you were doing stretches like this on a daily basis? Yep, I’m sure that was always purely about fitness…”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you trying to imply here, honey?” Damiano asked, moving over closer. “Are you suggesting that things must have gotten sexual ‘cause Ethan was being treated to a very intimate view? Much like the absolutely delicious view that I’m enjoying right now.”

You had noticed Ethan’s eyes moving briefly down to your cunt a few times during the process. But, as was his typical style - Damiano cut to the point, not spending any time on subtlety. He reached an arm out, his fingers caressing at the top of your thigh, close enough to your crotch that you were soon feeling a heat rising in your cheeks.

You couldn’t hold the giggle back for long, feeling ticklish and sensitive in this area.

Ethan acted as if he was still focused on the task at hand. “I think that’s opening your hips up nicely.”

He gently pushed your knees some more, getting them almost to the floor. The pull on your muscles reminded you of dancing, but everything else occupying your thoughts wanted to drag your mind in a very different direction. Damiano took his hand off of your thigh, but that didn’t mean you instantly stopped blushing.

“Okay.” Ethan said as he released your knees, but you kept them at a distance. He relocated his hands down to your ankles. “How about this one?”

You trusted him, your legs moving as he guided. He stretched your legs until your knees were no longer bent. Then he was easing your ankles in opposite directions, creating a large gap between your thighs. His hands went to your calves, supporting you here as he got you close to doing the splits.

“Does that hurt?” He asked after seeing a different look come onto your face.

“No, it’s just totally unnecessary.” You said, almost laughing again.

“I think it’s necessary.” Damiano said. “In fact, I don’t think you do this position enough.”

You responded to this by presenting one of your middle fingers to him.

The tension in so many of your leg muscles was starting to get to you. “Alright, I think I’m stretched enough. I’m sufficiently loosened up and definitely prepared to fuckin’ waltz.”

“Waltz?” Damiano repeated with an appropriate amount of surprise in his voice.

Ethan let go of your legs. You relaxed them, taking them to a more natural position. But before you could get entirely comfortable, he was distracting you by putting his hands to the waistband of your pants. He began to pull, bringing them down.

“Ethan?” You asked, half-laughing.

He glanced up at you, but didn’t stop what he was doing, uncovering your thighs and knees. You didn’t do anything to disrupt this process, even though it was coming up quicker than you had anticipated.

“Ethan?” You repeated when his attention went to your panties. You were wondering if he intended to do it right here on the floor - the way that Damiano was looking, you thought he would be in favour of this.

Ethan got the pants and underwear off of your body, tossing the clothing aside without any consideration for where they landed. He returned his hands to your legs, caressing the bare skin. You could feel an eager heat pooling in your cunt as each of your boyfriends looked you over with hungry eyes.

Ethan was the first to act on this, lowering himself down until his face was resting between your thighs. You sharply inhaled when his eyes left your face, going to your pussy. He greeted this area with tender kisses, his lips lingering against your labia majora. You watched the top of his head as your heart got to fluttering.

He experienced the warm skin with his lips, gradually moving further down. At your entrance, he pushed his tongue forward, earning an excited whine from you. He didn’t push inside, instead just getting a taste of your cunt before dragging his tongue up. Between your labia, his tongue swiped all the way up, until he got to your clit.

You grabbed for where Damiano’s hand was holding onto your leg and you squeezed his fingers, prompting him to move a little closer. He watched you, seeing the involuntary reactions that unfolded as Ethan started to lavish attention upon your clitoris. Sensitivities were springing to life all through you from the pleasure of his tongue resting on your hood.

Using the tip of his tongue, he started to draw circles around your clit. You could feel more blood pumping into this very concentrated area and you let your head rock back, resting against the carpet.

His tongue worked consistently in these swirls, bumping and manipulating your clit. You tilted your pelvis and squeezed Damiano’s hand a little firmer in response to this build-up. Your legs were filled with a new kind of tension, lifting from the floor to get closer to Ethan. Your thighs moved closer to his head, ready to lock him into place as your desires grew more powerful.

You were moaning as you arched your back. His hands moved up to your ass, firmly gripping as he sought to lift you up a little, getting more of your pussy in his face. You welcomed the increased pressure this brought, your free hand going to his head, moving across the smoothed-back hair.

Damiano leaned down, coming closer to you as he licked his lips. You brushed your nose against his before kissing him. The intensity was there at once, telling you that he had been enjoying what he had been seeing. His hands travelled up the side of your body as he leaned more of his body into you.

All the while, you were feeling yourself getting closer as Ethan kept his tongue at your clit. When he sucked the hood between his lips, you moaned and the sound was muffled by Damiano’s mouth. At this increased pleasure, your jaw grew slack and he took advantage of this, his tongue invading your mouth.

They drew the desires out of you, goosebumps raising up all over your body. With the hood of your clit in his mouth, Ethan rubbed his tongue all over it. These sensations spread so much deeper than the surface and soon you were seeing (and feeling) fireworks behind your eyes. More needy whines were captured by Damiano’s mouth on yours.

Ethan’s mouth released from your clit, slightly dialling back the intensity. But you weren’t ready to relax as he kept his hands firmly grasping your butt. You could still feel the heat coursing through your veins as Damiano’s tongue massaged the roof of your mouth.

Ethan laid the flat of his tongue against your hood, letting the tight bundle of nerves pulse as you anticipated his next move. At the same time, Damiano placed his hand over your breast. His fingers explored over what could be felt with no bra beneath your thin T-shirt. Your nipple was perked up and ready for his attention.

Between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the stiff peak, delighting you with a new spike of arousal. While he held onto the nipple, Ethan began to stroke his tongue up-and-down on your clit. He was nudging you closer to that edge with his consistent lapping.

He set into a determined rhythm, working that pressure exactly as you needed it. Your thighs pressed to either side of his head, squeezing as you began to move your hips. You attempted to match his rhythm, pumping your hips in time to the strokes of his tongue.

You wrapped an arm around Damiano, clinging to him as all of this intensity started to get to you. And it was making you ravenous - you couldn’t kiss him hard enough, you couldn’t ride Ethan’s tongue quick enough.

“Oh my God.” It came out in a choked sob when you tore your mouth off of Damiano.

He moved his lips to your throat, giving you a greater sense that you were floating. You kept your hips in motion, too full of desperate energy to possibly be still right now. As Ethan continued to bob his head with your movements, you wondered if his fingers were going to make indents in your ass cheeks, fiercely attached to you.

You were chasing the climax, wanting to reach the moment when all of these lovely sensations were married together. Your eyes were squeezed shut as your system was rushed by so much stimulation.

“Baby, oh baby, yes…” You moaned as your hips wildly bucked into Ethan’s face.

With your muscles tensed, you reached that point of perfection and promptly fell apart in Damiano’s arms. Your thighs gave one last squeeze around Ethan’s head before releasing, twitching as they relaxed down.

He eased off slightly, giving your clitoris quick kisses as you began coming to terms with the peak you had just reached. You flinched and struggled for breath. His hands let go of your butt and you were aware of more time between his contact on your clitoral hood.

“Do you want me to apologise for hijacking your dance class?” He asked as he began to lean away, out of the space between your thighs.

You laughed, still feeling dazzled by your climax. “I don’t care.” You looked down at him, reaching for his cheek. “I want you to fuck me.”

“What did I just do?” He asked, appearing a little confused.

“No, that was phenomenal, but I want you to go get a condom so you can fuck me properly.”

This statement didn’t prompt any follow-up questions. He got up on his feet and swiftly left the room, leaving you alone with Damiano. You turned to him, your lips meeting in a tender kiss.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He said, peppering your mouth with fast kisses. “Seeing you like that, hearing all of your sexy sounds- it got me so hard.”

You grinned and secured another kiss from him. “Show me.”

He manoeuvred his hips, adjusting so that you could look down his body and see his crotch. You saw the fabric of his sweatpants stretched by his stiff dick. It was an appetising sight, it made you want to do more than kiss.

“Show me properly.” You said.

He didn’t hesitate, grabbing the waistband of both his pants and underwear to pull them down enough for his cock to come out. This was a definite improvement as your neediness started to grow again.

“Show me closer.” You said.

You saw a smile on his face as he started to move, taking on a far superior position. On his knees, he walked up to your shoulder. You watched his dick getting closer to your face and you licked your lips. You were thrilled when he didn’t need any further instruction, somehow knowing exactly what you wanted and moving to straddle your face.

You wrapped a hand around his stiff length, steadying him as you lifted your head. You placed a kiss to his tip, your eyes locked with his. You savoured the look in his eyes, feeling this was something you had earned - there was only one other person that could get that look.

“Fuck…” He quietly moaned as you let your lips part, bringing the crown of his cock in.

His hand went to the top of your head, affectionately rubbing you here as you sucked on this first inch of his dick a little. You brought your tongue forward, watching his reaction as you massaged the end of his dick with it.

Then you relaxed your jaw and fully extended your tongue out, over your bottom lip. He smiled and rocked his hips back, positioning the shaft on your awaiting tongue. He rolled his hips forward again, pushing the head up your tongue before gently moving back. He wet the underside of his length like this, moving at the pace he desired. You heard his deep exhales as you were tasting more of him.

“Well I’m glad you guys didn’t get bored without me.” Ethan commented to announce his return to the living room.

Damiano didn’t quit working himself on your tongue, just glancing over his shoulder at your boyfriend. “Blame avida, it was all her idea.”

“Of course it was.” Ethan said. Even though your view of him was entirely blocked, you could hear that he was getting closer to where you lay. “She’s too greedy for her own good.” You felt the warmth from his body as he sat down by your legs again. “Having just one hole filled simply isn’t enough, is it?”

“Uh-uh.” You replied, keeping your tongue as still as possible for Damiano.

Overdramatically, Ethan sighed out your name. “What are we going to do with you?”

“I figured that right now we would fuck her.” Damiano said.

You were feeling Ethan’s hands on your legs before you heard him speak again. “Makes sense.”

Damiano caressed your forehead as he looked down at you. “You can tap out anytime you need to.” Instead of disrupting his current activity by trying to talk, you communicated your understanding by showing him a thumbs up. “Good girl.”

Ethan was easing your thighs apart, holding your legs up with his hands under your knees. He moved himself into this available space and soon you were feeling skin-on-skin as he lined himself up. He leaned his body weight into you.

You felt your labia majora pushing apart as he slid his cock into this warm area. For the moment he was avoiding your hole, in favour of exploring what was on the surface. He moved slowly, stroking himself against your pussy. This served to bring your attention back to this area and he soon had you realising just how sensitive your pussy was. When his tip rubbed against your clit, your eyes fluttered shut and you keenly arched your back. You closed your lips around Damiano, ready to sink deeper into all of this.

Ethan drew himself back over your swollen pussy, repositioning until you were feeling pressure at your entrance. You heard how quickly his breath was coming in as he gently began to bury into your pussy. He didn’t rush, giving you time to adjust as he slowly sought a greater depth.

Inside of your mouth, Damiano was throbbing. You rubbed your tongue all over his shaft as he shifted his weight on top of you, no longer sweetly stroking your head.

Keeping your lips set in place, you began to bob your head on his cock, working the shaft up-and-down. Your lips were slicked for him as you explored your current range of movement. At present, he possessed enough restraint to hold his hips still, allowing you to set the pace. You knew it wouldn’t take long for him to get to a place of overwhelming you with his lust, but for now you were building.

Braced on his knees, Ethan invested in some motion as well. He began to jerk into you and your walls excitedly fluttered with his movements. You were feeling that keen heat spreading through your body again as you worked your thigh muscles, trying to fall into his rhythm.

As you were meeting his rocks, you tried to match your timing on Damiano to this. It was all falling into place, that synergy the three of you could share without words.

Ethan held your thighs apart, keeping your legs in a firm grip as he steadily increased his pacing. Each of his thrusts were tender, never taking you to a place where it felt like more than you could take. Instead he was gently working you up as you felt his dick twitching between your sensitive walls.

Hollowing your cheeks around Damiano earned you his loudest noise yet, an excited whimper. He put his hand back to your head, gripping some of your hair between his fingers.

“Do you wanna know what thought I just-... oh, I can’t get this idea out of my head.” He said and you opened your eyes to look up at him again. “Thinking about it is driving me wild, baby.” You blinked at him, wondering how you could encourage him with just a look. “I’m gonna tell it to you and then I’m gonna pull out for just a sec’ so you can tell me what you think, okay?

“Okay. I wanna give you a fuckin’ pearl necklace, and then watch him eat that off of you.” He stopped his movements. “Don’t you think that would be so, so sexy?” He pulled his hips back, emptying your mouth.

You took a deep breath as you thought this proposal over. “Yeah. I do think-... it’s just that-... well, I’ve never done- had that done to me before, so…”

“That’s okay.” He said, yet to catch his breath. “But do you want to just try it with me? And maybe you’ll really like it. If not, we literally never have to do it again, ever. All you have to do is take your top off and lay there, I’ll make sure it all gets cleaned off of you, okay?”

“Okay.” You said, well and truly curious for this new experience. “But shouldn’t you see what he thinks of it too?”

“Oh, right.” He said and glanced over his shoulder at Ethan. “Are you down for cleaning up something I leave on our girlfriend?”

“Sure, I think a pearl necklace would really suit her.” He said.

“Yes. Good boy.” Damiano said, he was beaming as he moved off of you. “And good girl.”

You put your hands to the bottom of your shirt as you began to sit up. In an instant, he was grabbing you, both hands on your face as he pulled you in for a kiss. You felt his energy rush at you, absolutely intoxicating. You pulled your shirt off, genuinely eager to be rid of this last item of clothing. He gave you some more kisses before you had the chance to lay back down.

“Are you comfortable like that?” He asked before mounting you again. “Do you need me to get you a pillow?”

“No, I’m good, I’m happy.” You said.

“Happy to suck cock.” He said as he resumed his position above your face.

“Happy sucking this one.”

He stroked your cheek, smiling as you opened your mouth for him. His tip slid down your tongue until you could wrap your lips around him. He continued to watch as you started working your tongue against him, massaging all over his shaft.

“Look at that look on your face, you really are happy sucking cock, aren’t you?” He asked. “That face is just so cute, can I fuck it? Can I fuck your face, avida?” You raised your hand to show him your thumb sticking straight up. “I can? Oh good…”

He straightened his spine and shifted his body weight, getting his knees in the right positions. You were ready when he started to pump his hips, you moved your head with him as you kept your lips in place.

Ethan easily slid back into your wet cunt, filling the space between your thighs again. He came in closer and you rocked your hips into him.

It was Damiano who set the tempo, thrusting into the warmth of your mouth again-and-again. Ethan began to follow this and you shut your eyes, sinking into the flow because you knew it could take you higher.

Then Ethan was getting faster, seeking something quicker as he held your legs up. His heavy breathing underscored the near-constant whimpering coming from Damiano. You couldn’t help making some sounds of your own in response to the pressure that came with Ethan moving in deeper, your moans thoroughly garbled by Damiano’s cock.

Before he could hit that perfect spot inside of you, Ethan pulled out. It felt like it was happening too soon.

But swiftly he was providing you with a substitute - pushing his cock in to rest alongside your clitoris again. Your labia majora hugged to him and you could feel how much he was throbbing, which was reciprocated by your needy pussy. His fingers remained clamped onto your legs.

While he was taking this breather, you concentrated your energy on Damiano. He was getting close to gagging you with every buck of his hips, but he seemingly always knew when to stop. You ignored the drool leaking from the corners of your mouth, this could be dealt with later - mess didn’t particularly worry you at present.

With your mouth still so full, you were whining when Ethan sank back into you. At once he strived to find his pacing. He was moving with less restraint, his hips energetically snapping into your butt.

When he found your sweet spot, it made your world quake. And the intensity was immediately ratcheted up by him placing his thumb over your clitoral hood. The pleasure rushed you so fast that you were left stunned.

You could feel him swelling inside of you. Your heart launched into your throat as the prospect of coming together dawned on you, your lust interweaving. You knew how close he was, at the edge with you.

There was nothing smooth about his final thrusts - his hips unrhythmically jerking and stuttering as the climax began to steal his strength. But it was enough to get him the whole way in, nestled against your sweet spot where the all-mighty clenching of your walls was enough to spell his end. He fell apart before you.

But you were so close that your release was captured seconds later, to the sounds of his breathy whimpers. You forgot about keeping your mouth tight around Damiano as you got so thoroughly lost in your own ecstasy. The orgasm blocked out everything else momentarily and all that you were aware of was the feeling that your body was glowing.

You had stars still dancing before your eyes as the world trickled back into your consciousness. You realised that Ethan remained inside of you, but he had ceased his thrusting and his grip on your legs had relaxed. The next thing you recognised was how Damiano had pulled back a little, currently his tip rested on your lips. This gave you a chance to catch your breath as his fingers ran through your hair.

“Are you okay?” He asked as your eyes focused on him. “You look a little spaced out. We can stop for a sec’ if you need-”

You had lifted your head from the floor so that you could suck an inch or so of his wet dick into your mouth. “I was promised a necklace.” You could feel your second wind coming into you, the orgasm enlivening you as you craved to give him a similar bliss.

He smiled down at you. “And you deserve it.” He eased his hips forward again. “Yes you fuckin’ do.”

“You can tap out if you need to.” Ethan said, his hand softly stroking your hip as Damiano gradually filled your mouth again.

You secured your lips around him as he began to reclaim his pacing. He locked into what he wanted, his eyes shutting as his pumps came in faster. You bobbed your head with him, wanting to give him the perfect friction that he needed.

“Yes, baby.” He gasped as you sucked your cheeks in around him.

The threat of being gagged didn’t come back. He withdrew about halfway, concentrating the stimulations towards his head. As he pumped with this portion, you took to swirling your tongue around the swollen tip. His ongoing movements were keeping you from accomplishing anything consistent, but your lapping was enough. You could feel how he was starting to leak.

His breath was coming in heavily when he pulled out, a hand wrapping around his shaft. His voice was whiny and quiet as he spoke. "Oh yes, yes, yes, I'm coming." He hastily stroked, the head of his dick pointing beneath your chin. "Are you ready for it?"

"Yeah." You said, squirming a little in your anticipation. Your eyes darted from his face to his cock, you wanted to see the look on his face, but you also wanted to see the cum shooting out. You were eager for it all. "I want it, I really want it, Daddy."

His hand kept going on his cock. "I'm gonna give it to you, I'm gonna- guh-gonna… fuck, fuck!"

The hot, thick jizz was hitting your clavicle before his jerking concluded. He watched what he was doing, happily moaning as more of your skin was coated. The majority landed towards the centre of your chest, with some shared off to the right and only a droplet or two on the left side.

He released his cock and began to move off of you. You could see his chest was rapidly rising-and-falling as he looked down at you with a shine in his eyes. His dry hand stroked the side of your face as he leaned down, kissing you.

“It couldn’t possibly look any more beautiful.” He whispered. “Thank you, babe.”

“Maybe one day I can return the favour.” You said.

He perked up at that. “Fuck yes, can we?”

Ethan repositioned on top of you, coming in closer to survey Damiano’s handiwork. “You didn’t want to give her earrings too?”

Damiano laid down on the carpet, rolled over to keep watching the two of you. “Oops. Maybe next time I’ll remember that.”

“Earrings?” You repeated, looking from one boyfriend to the other. “Pearl earrings? No way. You are making that up.”

“He’s really not.” Damiano said.

Ethan was bowing his head down to your chest. “That’s a discussion for a different night, my darlings.”

He laid down a kiss that lingered, with his lips parting. Feeling his tongue slowly stroking across your skin prompted a moan from you before you could stop yourself. You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, your eyelids fluttering shut as you sank into this slower pace of sensuality. It was the perfect chaser to the primal flurry the three of you had gotten lost in. This was a chance for you to catch your breath, even as your heart continued to flutter.

“Do you like how that tastes?” Damiano asked.

Ethan kept his lips very close to your skin as he answered. “You know I do, Daddy.”

He continued to slowly drag his lips and tongue across your skin. When you opened your eyes, you saw the wide grin on Damiano’s face and you had a feeling that his fantasy was playing out just as he had desired.

Ethan moaned as he wrapped an arm around you. “Babe, you’re still so tight.”

“Yeah, that probably has something to do with the huge dong inside me.” You said, making Damiano laugh.

“Oh, please do not say dong.” Ethan said. “My point is- I’m really sensitive and you’re really tight, you should probably be careful.”

“Right.”

“Or I could take it out.”

You shook your head as you trailed your fingertips down his back. “No, don’t- don’t pull out yet.” He met your eye and you knew that he understood what you weren’t able to say.

“Do you two have any idea how sexy you are?” Damiano asked. “I’m gonna think about this so much, like so much. I’ll probably never be able to see a regular pearl necklace without getting a tingle ever again.”

“I’m glad we didn’t let you down.” You said.

“You never do.” He said, coming in to kiss you. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You said.

“And you…” He stroked a hand down the nape of Ethan’s neck. “God, I love you too.”

Ethan lifted his head slightly. “I love you and I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Damiano stayed watching, enthralled by every lick and kiss. After doing what seemed like history’s most thorough cleaning job, Ethan pulled back. It was decided that you should have a shower.

He told you before he started to pull out. As he did so, he gave you some tender kisses, bringing you a sense of closure.

He decided that you shouldn’t have to walk to the bathroom. You were smiling as he lifted you off of the ground, carrying you out of the room.

His shower wouldn’t accommodate more than one body, so this would be a solo activity. He helped you get the temperature right.

“That’s just like how it went when you would help him stretch before the pole, isn’t it?” You asked.

He looked at you with a smile. “Pretty much.”

»»————-　♡　————-««  

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[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

listen, i had an electric hob at the time and i have adhd. i dont have the patience to cook it on the hob and i forgot the grill was an option.

pls reblog

[posttexasstressdisorder]

When in doubt, BAKE! Pt. 685: Saturday Night Bread

It's been one fuck of a week again, and my world has been changed drastically, and today I said fuck it I'm gonna bake bread.

This batch is about 60-40 Whole Wheat-White, a "Whole wheat Light"...it usually makes excellent sammy bread. It has some heft, but it's not so heavy as pure whole wheat.

Not sure if I've posted about THE BOOK yet, but this is THE BOOK if you really REALLY want to get good at baking bread:

"The Laurel's Kitchen BREAD BOOK", written in 1984 as a followup to the classic Laurel's Kitchen, by Laurel Roberston, Carole Flinders et.al. Carole and Laurel were both excellent writers, and the book is a pleasure to read. It's got the typical hippie wood cuts (they were in Berkeley, after all) and is my home bread-baker's bible. They wouldn't approve tonight's loaves, which are padded with white flour. lulz. I give myself lots of fail room when I haven't baked in awhile.

The original Laurel's Kitchen was the very first vegetarian cookbook I ever read, it was 1981, I'd just moved to Houston to work in the record stores...learned a lot from that book, but one trick they used can no longer be used, and they stressed that in the Bread Book: No baking in 48 oz juice cans (which they had championed in the first book). Now they line the cans with poisonous coatings, can't use them. Which is fine with me...I like my bread square/rectangular, when I'm makin' sammies.

Started this batch with 3 cups whole wheat, 2 1/2 cups white, and a tablespoon of salt, dry in the mixer bowl. Mix on low for about a minute to mix thoroughly. Replace the paddle with the dough hook.

In a 4-cup Pyrex measure, put 2 1/2 cups luke-warm water, and in a 1 cup measure, put 1/2 cup lukewarm water.

Into that one cup, put a tablespoon of brown sugar. Put another tablespoon of brown sugar in the large measure. Sprinkle one tablepoon of dry yeast into the small measure and stir.

With the mixer on the first speed, with the dough hook, slowly pour the yeast mix into the dry ingredients in the bowl. Follow with the rest of the water/sugar.

Now start adding small amounts of white flour until it begins to "pick up" and starts cleaning the bowl. In between these additions of flour, add, about a tablespoon at a time, 2 tablespoons of softened salted butter. The dough should pick up and become quite soft after a few more minutes.

After mixing on the first speed for about five minutes with the dough hook, turn it out onto a floured countertop and finish kneading by hand.

It'd been so long since I had my hands on some warm, live dough...and it made me smile, it's such an amazing feeling to work with it in its various stages.

Once it's become a good, solid dough from hand kneading for about five minutes, form it into large ball, and put in a large crockery bowl that's been buttered. Turn the ball to coat, place a linen towel atop and place in a draft-free, warm zone. That cabinet in the spot above the fridge is perfect. After about an hour and a half, it should be lookin' good, and a finger-poke in the middle won't "fill in".

Mash it down, making sure you get ALL the trapped air bubbles out. Form it into a ball again, and put it back in the bowl, and let it rise a SECOND TIME for about 40-45 minutes tops. It should take roughly half the time of the first rise.

Mash it down the second time, and flatten in to a big rectangle, and divide it in half. Let it rest for about five minutes.

Now form into loaves and put in the long bread loaf pans, pre-greased with shortening.

Put them back above the fridge, covered, for about 20 minutes, until they are just arching above the tops of the pans.

Put them into the 400 degree oven and let them bake for 15 minutes. AFTER 15 MINUTES, TURN THE TEMPERATURE DOWN TO 350, WITHOUT OPENING THE OVEN DOOR.

Let bake for another 30-40 minutes.

Loaves are done when they have a hollow sound when tapped, much like a watermelon when ripe.

Turn out of pans immediately and cool on racks until completely cool. Brush the tops with melted butter, if you like.

This is a good everyday bread for sammies and toast. Using butter, and using the higher temp for the initial "spring" time helps give this a solidly crunchy crust, and the blend of flours gives it a very nice texture and crumb. Yields two large loaves.

Baker gets first slice slathered in softened butter.

Y'all enjoy! I'm off to stand under the hot water for a good long while.