#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]

[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.

[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

[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."

[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.

[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:

[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.

[paulyenvol6]

Sweet Creature (Chapter 4)

Contains: Smut, fingering, inexperienced reader, fluff, mentions of sex and virginity

Masterlist of this story

Harry opened the pavilion and they entered it. While Eunice looked around in the room, Harry went and got a candlestick as it had gotten darker outside. He lightened it and walked over to the girl.

„Better.“, he said and Eunice could now admire the beautiful, light interior of the cottage. „It’s so pretty.“, she whispered and smiled at the wooden, colourful painted chairs. It wasn’t a very big room, but it had everything that it needed.

A table with chairs, a comfortable looking sofa, a bookshelf and something similar to a little kitchen, with a shelf, a cupboard with crockery and several bins.

„Do you want to sit down? And I might find something to drink as well.“, Harry said and Eunice sat down on one of the beautiful chairs. He came back with two glasses and a jug. „I found some lemonade, if you want.“ „That’s perfect.“, she said shyly and looked at her folded hands in her lap.

Harry poured the liquid in the glasses and gave one to Eunice. „Thank you, Sir.“, she whispered and they toasted. „To this beautiful evening. And to all summer nights.“, he said an Eunice smiled. They drank to it and then Harry put his glass on the table, his hand still grabbing it.

Eunice couldn’t help but stare at his fingers, they were so beautiful and long. His nails were short and clean and there was something so appealing about them. She didn’t know what this was but she was a bit scared by her body’s reaction to this man.

Harry watched her stare at his hand but didn’t say anything. He just smirked a bit until the girl looked up to him and widened her eyes when they made eye contact.

She quickly looked away again and focused her gaze on the book shelf next to them. „Do you like to read?“, Harry asked to help her out of the awkward situation and she nodded.

„Yeah, I do. I like poems.“ „What’s you favourite?“, he asked and watched her profile, as she was still looking at the shelf. „I like ‚Spring Impressions‘ by Wesley Gildon.“ „Ohh that’s a good one.“

Eunice finally turned around and looked at him again and immediately slightly blushed. She just couldn’t help herself. He looked so good like that, with his hair that was a bit messier now and his eyes and how he sat there in his chair so relaxed.

She unintentionally bit her lip, which Harry of course noticed and then cleared her throat. „Are you alright, Milady?“, Harry asked politely.

„Yes. Yes I’m okay.“, she said with an unnatural high voice. „Are you sure?“, he asked again. Eunice looked at him. „Mhmm.“, she made. Harry smirked. „You seem a bit flustered, Milady.“, he whispered with his deep voice and Euncie shifted on her chair.

She felt such a weird ache in her lower belly and pressed her legs together to make it go away. But Harry’s voice only seemed to make it worse.

Her heart was beating so fast and she was so hot and there was this pulsating between her legs, which Eunice didn’t want to think about because it was so scandalous and wrong and – „Do you want me to make the ache go away?“ Eunice looked at him with widened eyes and her throat was so dry again that she couldn’t immediately answer, not that she knew what to say.

„W – what do you mean?“, she quietly asked and her eyes almost drove Harry insane. „Do you want me to make the ache in your tummy go away?“, Harry repeated and slightly smiled. „B – but how, I mean how do you – I don’t understand. How do you intend to….“, she whispered and nervously played with her fingers.

Harry got a little closer. „By touching you, milady.“, he whispered and took her hands to stop her nervous tic. „What?“, she spoke out, too stunned to say something intelligent.

„By touching your body, Lady Eunice.“, he repeated again and Eunice stuttered. „B -but…We can’t, I’m engaged and I’m going to do these things with my husband after I’m married. Not with someone I’m not married to and not with someone I’m not supposed to be with.“, she spoke.

„We don’t have to, milady, it was just a question.“, the man smiled and brought more distance between them, which Eunice immediately disappointed.

She couldn’t help but wish he was close to her. Even closer than he was just a few seconds ago. She wanted to put her hands on his chest and collarbones, she wanted to touch his face and kiss these beautiful lips.

„Besides, he would of course know, when we have our wedding night, because either I’m going to get pregnant, which would be the worst thing in this world or he would feel it when we’re…“, she quickly said and blushed.

„I was not talking about intercourse, Milady.“, Harry said. „I was talking about touching.“ „B – but I don’t understand, Sir, I – “ „There is more you can do sexually than intercourse, Milady. There are things that no one notices after you have done them.“

Eunice’s face was glowing red and she tried to avoid his gaze. „But my mother said that they… the man knows when his wife… his wife has already…“ „Your mother was talking about intercourse, Milady. Once again, there are more things.“  

Eunice looked at him to find out if he was telling the truth but he didn’t smirk or laugh so she wasn’t sure if he might be right. Harry got a bit closer again. „Milady, what do you know about sexually activities?“ „I – I – don’t know. I mean I know how…you know… how the thing works.“

Harry whispered: „Do you want me to show you what there is besides ‚The thing‘?“ Eunice gulped loudly. „I don’t know – I.“ „If you don’t want to, Milady, we can go right back to the feast. I don’t want to pressure you, or anything. You can say no, if you don’t want to do anything.“

Eunice nodded and thought about it. She was so curious about it and everything inside of her body screamed to do it. She craved his touch, being closer to him, finding out what he could do to her body.

Of course her mind told her not to do it. This was one of the worst things she could possibly do. Not only would she be intimate with someone before she got married, but she would cheat on someone she wasn’t even married to yet.

But on the other hand, Sir Harry Styles had guaranteed her that no one would notice it, so did it really fall in the category of things she was not allowed to do before marriage? And she wasn’t married yet, she wasn’t even officially engaged yet, so would it be cheating?

Harry watched her think. He wanted her to say yes so badly of course. He wanted to touch her and make her whimper, make her sigh his name. But he wanted her full consent and her to be absolutely sure about it. And if she would say no, he would never speak about this again.

Eunice turned towards him and said: „Yes.“ „Yes what, Milady?“, Harry asked and raised his eyebrows. „I’d like you to show me.“, the girl whispered and Harry smiled.

„Okay. But you need to promise me one thing: If you change your mind or if you feel uncomfortable or if you don’t like something I do at any point, you have to tell me. If you want me to stop, you need to tell me, okay?“ Eunice nodded. „Yes.“

„Good.“ He came closer to her, took her hands and gently caressed them. „Do you want to sit on the sofa?“, he asked close to her ear and Eunice shivered. She was so aroused and eager to get more, receive more.

She nodded and they moved to sit down on the sofa. Harry got closer to her face again moved her hair back. „Can I kiss you?“, he asked and after Eunice had whispered a „Yes.“, he connected their lips.

Harry’s lips were soft and gentle. She didn’t know how to move her lips but just copied what he did. Meanwhile, Harry’s hand laid on her cheek and the other held her waist. He slightly moved his hand on her waist, which made Eunice shift.

Harry stopped the kiss and asked: „Is this alright?“ She nodded and bit her swollen lip. „Yes, but please… I – I need you. Need you to make the ache go away.“ Her voice had gotten so quiet that Harry almost couldn’t hear her and she had looked to the ground. Harry gently lifted her chin and made her look at him.

„No need to get shy, sweetheart.“, he whispered and Eunice pressed her legs together at the nickname. „I’m going to make it go away, promise.“, he whispered while pressing little kisses to her cheek. He placed his hand on her thigh, which was still covered by her dress, and softly massaged her.

Eunice gaze followed his hand and Harry quietly chuckled. „You like my hands, don’t you?“, he asked and Eunice blushed, but didn’t answer. „You’re going to like them even more in a few minutes.“ „Is it going to hurt?“, she suddenly asked and Harry stopped his movement.

„Of course not, darling. I wouldn’t do anything to you that could hurt you. I’m going to make you feel good.“ Eunice frowned. „But it’s just what my friend told me. She recently got married and visited us in July. One afternoon we talked about her marriage and she told me in secret that it was painful to her. I just don’t want it to be painful.“

„Milady, your friend probably talked about the intercourse with her husband. That is something that can be painful for women when they do it the first time. But I’m not going to do anything that will be painful to you. If it is, it is not how it’s supposed to be and I’ll immediately stop.“

Eunice nodded. „Alright.“ „No need to be scared of anything.“, he whispered and his lips wandered to her lips again while his hand that had layed on her thigh moved to the hem of her dress. He slipped it under the skirt and whispered „Is that okay?“, against her lips.

„Yeah.“, Eunice answered and Harry softly massaged her thighs. This simple movement drove Eunice crazy and she let out a quiet whimper. Harry could still hear it and smirked. He loved how responsive she was to his touch and how she reacted to him. It was such a turn on to watch her.

Then his hand wandered even further up until his fingers traced the area around her slip. He massaged her skin and teased her until he couldn’t wait anymore. Harry ended the kiss and asked her.

„Can I take your slip off?“, he asked and Eunice nodded. As everything was still covered by her dress, he blindly pulled it down her legs, over her feet and put it in his front pockets so it didn’t got dirty. „Sit with your back against the sofa back, darling.“, Harry whispered and Eunice turned and did as he had told her.

„And now just relax.“ The girl closed her eyes but still had her legs pressed together. „You need to slightly spread your legs, Milady. I know that it’s uncomfortable, but I’ll make it better.“ Eunice opened her legs, which actually was quite uncomfortable and Harry caressed her legs up to her hips and then got closer and closer to her core.

He gently stroke her mound and then slid over her clit with his pointer finger. It was such a sudden and new feeling to Eunice, that she jumped at it and let out a shriek. „Shh, it’s alright.“, Harry calmed her and soothed her thigh. „Sir, it’s… That feels…“ „I know, Milady.“ Harry smirked and stroke her clit again.

This time Eunice quietly whimpered and closed her legs around his hand while digging her nails into the sofa. Harry went through her slit with his finger. „Jesus! You’re so wet, darling. All that for me?“, he smirked close to her ear with his mouth.

Eunice couldn’t phrase a sentence and just whined a „Please.“ in response. Harry collected some of her wetness and spread it over her pussy and especially her clit. He know used his thumb to rub her clit and stimulated her little nub like this for some time and enjoyed hearing her little whimpers until he put more pressure on her clit by circling it with his pointer finger. Eunice whined and restlessly shifted on the sofa.

„Shhhh, sweetheart, you need to stay still.“ „But it’s so…. God..“, she whimpered. Harry wrapped one arm around her hip from behind to keep her in place and kissed her near her ear. He would love to actually see her pussy but thought that it was about her now and he didn’t want to overwhelm her.

So he continued to blindly finger her pussy by stimulating her clit. Eunice was a whimpering mess in his arms and by now had moved to lean with her back again his chest. Her head was pressed against his shoulder and Harry was with his right hand under her skirt while his left held her at her tummy to stop her from shifting.

Harry was so hard in his pants and wished he could have her sit between his legs so he could rock against her but once again thought that it might be too much for her and wanted all that to be about her, so she still sat next to him on the left but leaned against his chest. „Harry…“, she moaned and arched to meet his touch.

He smiled at the name and increased the pace of his finger against her clit while resting his chin on her hair. He caressed her waist with his left hand and pressed her closer to him as her movement got more and more uncontrolled. Harry could tell that she was about to reach her orgasm, as she got more tense and arched against him so he moved his finger a little faster and then the girl let out a cry and her whole body began to shake.

„Oh god. Harry!“, Eunice whined and then after a few seconds powerless fell back into his arms. Harry, who had fingered her through her orgasm stopped his movement but still had his hand on her bare thigh. He then pulled her slightly up against his chest and soothed her by caressing her shoulder and pressing kisses against her hair.

Her breathing slowly calmed down and Harry’s hand now left her thigh and pulled it away from under her dress. He smirked and brought his hand to his mouth. Eunice’s eyes followed his hand and she watched with widened eyes how he licked his fingers clean with relish. Harry noticed how she pressed her legs together again.

„You taste very good, Milady.“, he spoke and Eunice blushed. „Are you alright?“, he then asked. „Yeah. Very good. That was… That was so…“, she was still speechless and so just took a deep breath. „I’m glad you enjoyed it. But we should go back to the feast now, your family probably already wonders where you are, Milady.“

Eunice nodded, still completely confused and baffled and got up from the sofa. Harry did the same and then took her slip out of his pocket. Without hesitation he kneeled down in front of her and stretched the panties so she could slip inside with her feet. Eunice blushed again and did it.

Harry slowly pulled them up her legs and got up to his feet while doing it. He adjusted the undergarment at her hips and then removed his hands from her body. „Are you ready to go?“, he whispered and Eunice could once again only nod. All these little things that he did made her so shaky and flustered and the usually very confident and loud girl couldn’t even recognize herself.

[anamazingangie]

The Women Surrounding a Medieval Queen

This goes through the different types of maids that would serve a Queen, as well as the different duties and function of companions or lady's in waiting

This is something i've had in docs as a personal reference forever. I'm putting it here so I can link it on discord, but please note NONE of this information is my own, it has all been collected from a dozen+ wikipedia pages.

Overview of Maid Types:

Maids traditionally have a fixed position in the hierarchy of the large households, and although there is overlap between definitions (dependent on the size of the household) the positions themselves would typically be rigidly adhered to. The usual classifications of maid in a large household are:

Lady's maid: a senior servant who reported directly to the lady of the house, but ranked beneath the housekeeper, and accompanied her lady on travel. She took care of her mistress's clothes and hair, and sometimes served as confidante. .

House-maid or housemaid: a generic term for maids whose function was chiefly "above stairs", and were usually a little older, and better paid. Where a household included multiple housemaids, the roles were often subdivided as below. .

Head house-maid: the senior house maid, reporting to the housekeeper. (Also called "house parlour maid" in an establishment with only one or two upstairs maids). .

Parlour maid: they cleaned and tidied reception rooms and living areas by morning, and often served refreshments at afternoon tea, and sometimes also dinner. They tidied studies and libraries, and (with footmen) answered bells calling for service. .

Chamber maid: they cleaned and maintained the bedrooms, ensured fires were lit in fireplaces, and supplied hot water. .

Laundry maid: they maintained bedding and towels. They also washed, dried, and ironed clothes for the whole household, including the servants. .

Under house parlour maid: the general deputy to the house parlour maid in a small establishment which had only two upstairs maids. .

Nursery maid: also an "upstairs maid", but one who worked in the children's nursery, maintaining fires, cleanliness, and good order. Reported to the nanny rather than the housekeeper. The nursemaid would often stay with one family for years or as long as their services were needed.  .

Kitchen maid: a "below stairs" maid who reported to the cook, and assisted in running the kitchens.

Head kitchen maid: where multiple kitchen maids were employed, the "head kitchen maid" was effectively a deputy to the cook, engaged largely in the plainer and simpler cooking (sometimes cooking the servants' meals). .

Under kitchen maid: where multiple kitchen maids were employed, these were the staff who prepared vegetables, peeled potatoes, and assisted in presentation of finished cooking for serving. .

Scullery maid: the lowest grade of "below stairs" maid, reporting to the cook, the scullery maids were responsible for washing cutlery, crockery, and glassware, and scrubbing kitchen floors, as well as monitoring ovens while kitchen maids ate their own supper. .

Between maid, sometimes known as a "tweeny": roughly equivalent in status to scullery maids, and often paid less, between maids in a large household waited on the senior servants (butler, housekeeper, and cook) and were therefore answerable to all three department heads, often leading to friction in their employment. .

Still room maid: a junior maid employed in the still room; as the work involved the supply of alcohol, cosmetics, medicines, and cooking ingredients across all departments of the house, the still room maids were part of the "between staff", jointly answerable to all three department heads.

A Closer Look

A lady's companion was a woman of genteel birth who lived with a woman of rank or wealth as retainer. Where ladies-in-waiting were usually women from the most privileged backgrounds who took the position for the prestige of associating with royalty, or for the enhanced marriage prospects available to those who spent time at court, a lady's companions usually took up their occupation because they needed to earn a living and have somewhere to live. A companion is not to be confused with lady's maid.

Like a governess, a lady's companion was not regarded as a servant, but neither was she really treated as an equal; however her position in the household of her employer was notably less awkward and solitary than that of a governess. Only women from a class background similar to or only a little below that of their employer would be considered for the position.

The companion's role was to spend her time with her employer, providing company and conversation, to help her to entertain guests and often to accompany her to social events. In return she would be given a room in the family's part of the house, rather than the servants' quarters; all of her meals would be provided, and she would eat with her employer; and she would be paid a small salary, which would be called an "allowance" – never "wages".

She would not be expected to perform any domestic duties which her employer might not carry out herself, in other words little other than giving directions to servants, fancy sewing and pouring tea. Thus the role was not very different from that of an adult relation in respect of the lady of a household, except for the essential subservience resulting from financial dependency. Lady's companions were employed because upper- and middle-class women spent most of their time at home. A lady's companion might be taken on by an unmarried woman living on her own, by a widow, a married woman who lived with her husband and sons but had no daughters and desired female company, or by an unmarried woman who was living with her father or another male relation but had lost her mother, and was too old to have a governess.

In the last case the companion would also act as a chaperone; at the time, it would not have been socially acceptable for a young lady to receive male visitors without either a male relation or an older lady present (a female servant would not have sufficed).

A lady's maid is a female personal attendant who waits on her female employer. The role of a lady's maid is similar to that of a gentleman's valet.

Traditionally, the lady's maid was not as high-ranking as a lady's companion, who was a retainer rather than a servant, but the rewards included room and board, travel and somewhat improved social status. In the servants' hall, a lady's maid took precedence akin to that of her mistress.

In Britain, a lady's maid would be addressed by her surname by her employer, while she was addressed as "Miss" by junior servants or when visiting another servants' hall.

A lady's maid's specific duties included helping her mistress with her appearance, including make-up, hairdressing, clothing, jewellery, and shoes.

A lady's maid would also remove stains from clothing; sew, mend, and alter garments as needed; bring her mistress breakfast in her room; and draw her mistress's bath. However, she would not be expected to dust and clean every small item, as that would be the job of a housemaid.

A maid, housemaid, or maidservant were once part of an elaborate hierarchy in great houses, where the retinue of servants stretched up to the housekeeper and butler, responsible for female and male employees respectively. The word "maid" itself means an unmarried young woman or virgin. Domestic workers, particularly those low in the hierarchy, such as maids and footmen, were expected to remain unmarried while in service

"What the fuck is a lady in waiting, then?"

A lady-in-waiting is a female personal assistant at a court, attending on a royal woman or a high-ranking noblewoman. Historically, in Europe, a lady-in-waiting was often a noblewoman but of lower rank A lady-in-waiting was considered more of a secretary, courtier, or companion to her mistress than a servant.

In some other parts of the world, the lady-in-waiting, often referred to as palace woman, was in practice a servant or a slave rather than a high-ranking woman though they had the same duties. In courts where polygamy was practised, a court lady was formally available to the monarch for sexual services, and she could become his wife, consort, courtesan, or concubine.

The duties of ladies-in-waiting at the Tudor court were to act as companions for the queen, both in public and in private. They had to accompany her wherever she went, to entertain her with music, dance or singing and to dress, bathe and help her use the toilet, since a royal person, by the standards of the day, was not supposed to do anything for herself, but was always to be waited upon in all daily tasks as a sign of their status.

Other functions historically discharged by ladies-in-waiting included proficiency in the etiquette, languages, dances, horse riding, music making, and painting prevalent at court; keeping her mistress abreast of activities and personages at court; care of the rooms and wardrobe of her mistress; secretarial tasks; supervision of servants, budget and purchases; reading correspondence to her mistress and writing on her behalf; and discreetly relaying messages upon command.

Ladies-in-waiting were appointed because of their social status as members of the nobility, on the recommendation of court officials, or other prominent citizens, and because they were expected to be supporters of the royal family due to their own family relationships. When the queen was not a foreigner, her own relations were often appointed as they were presumed to be trustworthy and loyal.

The ladies-in-waiting were headed by the mistress of the robes, followed in rank by the first lady of the bedchamber, who supervised the group of ladies of the bedchamber (typically wives or widows of peers above the rank of earl), in turn followed by the group of women of the bedchamber (usually the daughters of peers) and finally the group of maids of honour.

Ok here is where it gets confusing

First Lady of the Bedchamber is the title of the highest of the ladies of the bedchamber, those holding the official position of personal attendants on a queen or princess. The position is traditionally held by a female member of a noble family.

Lady of the Bedchamber is the title of a lady-in-waiting holding the official position of personal attendant on a British queen regnant or queen consort. 

The Maid of the Bedchamber was an office of high status selected from nobility. She had often been a maid of honour before she was promoted, because of birth or royal favor. Her tasks were essentially the same as the tasks of the maids of honour, though they were of higher status. 

A maid of honour is a junior attendant of a queen in royal households. 

The position was and is junior to the lady-in-waiting. 

Traditionally, a queen regnant had eight maids of honour, while a queen consort had four; Queen Anne Boleyn, however, had over 60.

A maid of honour was a maiden, meaning that she had never been married (and therefore was ostensibly a virgin), and was usually young and a member of the nobility. 

The mistress of the robes was the senior lady in the household who would, by appointment, attend on the Queen (whether queen regnant or a queen consort). Queens dowager retained their own mistresses of the robes. (In the 18th century Princesses of Wales had one too).

Initially responsible for the queen's clothes and jewellery (as the name implies), the post-holder latterly had the responsibility for arranging the rota of attendance of the ladies-in-waiting on the queen, being in attendance herself on more formal occasions, and undertaking duties at state ceremonies.  During the 17th and 18th centuries, this role often overlapped with or was replaced as first lady of the bedchamber. In modern times, the mistress of the robes was almost always a duchess.

A brief overview of a medieval household and the male/king's equivalents.

[elisysd]

Ferrari - James Hype

Masterlist - Previously - Next Chapter

You still make my heart beat fast, Ferrari

Charles had naturally insisted on helping Lyanna unpack her things and assemble her furniture in the new flat. And Lyanna had naively agreed, thinking she would be spending a sweet, loving moment with Charles. Which she bitterly regretted. Charles was a walking disaster. He had already dropped the box containing the crockery, which had spilled out onto the floor, shattered into a thousand pieces.

Lyanna asked him to leave her boxes alone and advised him to start assembling the furniture instead. Charles had boasted that she wouldn't find anyone better than him with a screwdriver and a spanner, and she'd trusted him. Second big mistake. She was busy in the bedroom tidying her clothes and organising the drawers when Charles, all proud, came up to her with a big smile on his face, twirling the screwdriver in his hand. 

“Your bookshelf never looked so good. I even took the time to put the content that was in the bookshelf box on it.”

“Thank you! You’re the best!”

“Told you. Do you need me to assemble something else while I’m at it?”

Lyanna was about to reply when a loud crash was heard in the living room. She and Charles rushed to find the source of the noise and Lyanna was shocked to see her bookshelf and all its contents on the floor. She heard Charles swallow and out of the corner of her eye saw him rubbing the back of his neck.

“You know what? I think you will be more useful if you just sit on the couch and let me do all of that.”

Finally, Lyanna had managed to assemble her furniture without the help of Charles, whom she had left to tidy up the things she owned that were neither made of glass nor important. By the end of the afternoon, most of the work had been completed. Charles had left a few moments earlier to do some grocery shopping and had just returned. The two of them went into the kitchen and cooked together, even though Lyanna was more concerned with making sure Charles didn't hurt himself than with getting on with the cooking.

“Charles, did you boil the water for the pasta?” she asked

“Why?”

“Please, reassure me, you know that to cook pasta you have to boil the water, don't you?”

“Who do you think I am? Of course I do! In fact, I was just about to. I was just making sure the pan was clean. Do you put a lot of water in it?”

“Uhm, Uhm…” she replied doubtfully. “One liter of water is fine for the pasta.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was going to do, I was just making sure…”

“Yeah, sure. You can admit it you know, you’re a mess in the kitchen Charles, there is nothing wrong with that.”

“I’m not a mess! I can cook decently well.”

“You’ve never cooked for me.”

“That’s false! Do you remember that time when I took you out for dinner on the boat? I made you pasta Bolognese.”

“Sure, if you call reheating a pre-prepared dish "cooking yourself" then fine.”

“I didn’t come here for my cooking skills to be bullied, love.” Falsely complained Charles.

“Oh, my poor baby. Did I hurt your ego?” teased him Lyanna.

“Nothing a kiss can’t fix.”

Once the meal was ready, Lyanna served it onto two plates that had miraculously escaped Charles' slaughter. They spent the evening laughing and teasing each other between kisses when Charles received a notification that the interview they had done with Lyanna a few weeks earlier was finally online. Both curious, Lyanna cleared away the plates before settling down on the sofa next to Charles. While they expected to see each other on screen, they were shocked to see that the interview was in fact moments of complicity between them stolen between takes with their voices over the top. However, the Scuderia had taken great care to keep only the moments when Charles was talking about Lyanna and vice versa. They didn't know how or when, but there was even footage of them during the last Grand Prix, just before Charles's crash, including the one where Lyanna witnessed it. They didn't like seeing their relationship exposed in this way against their will. Charles turned to Lyanna and promised that he would sort it out. He didn't know how, but he would.

“Or maybe we could try to be more public about our relationship? I’m not saying that we have to overshare but if we control what we post and how we want to post it, then we own the narrative and Ferrari can’t do what they want about us.”

“We don’t have to, Lya. I know how you feel about letting people in in our relationship.”

“I prefer to control how I let them in rather than let Ferrari decide it.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am Charles. I am.”

But Lyanna barely had time to get used to her new surroundings before she had to leave for Modena. It was on a beautiful but cool morning in the middle of February that she and Charles set off. Charles was on his way to Maranello, where the presentation of the SF-24 would take place in a few days' time. Lyanna would accompany him. But in the meantime, she had work to do. She had recently received the final version of the Ferrari script and since then she had spent a lot of time taking notes and learning her lines.

Charles had seen very little of her, as he too had a lot of work to do and was much in demand by the media. But as soon as he picked her up, he immediately noticed the dark circles under her eyes.

“Lya? You okay? You look like shit, baby.”

“Great. Because I feel like shit as well.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t get my lines straight. I tried everything and it just feels so out of place when I say them. I can’t get the right intention and it’s stressing me out. I’m missing something, I know that, but I don’t know what it is.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine. You are putting too much pressure on you. Relax, okay?”

“Easier said than done.” She mumbled while looking away.

“Do you want to come to the car presentation with me? I can give you a tour of the factory and there are many resources there, like books, press articles and pictures, maybe sit can help you?”

“Do you think people would mind? Because that for sure could really help. Thanks, you’re a life saver.”

“They wouldn’t care as long as you return them which you will.”

The long hours of driving passed in total silence. Lyanna had dozed off shortly after setting off, and given the state she was in, Charles had no wish to wake her. It was almost late afternoon and pitch dark when they arrived at Charles's flat in Maranello. With a delicate touch of his hand he tried to wake the actress, who grunted a little before turning away, letting a small laugh escape from his lips. She sank a little further into the seat and pulled up her jacket, which was slipping off her shoulders.

“Lya, love, we’re here.”

“I’m sleeping… go away.”

“I can’t let you sleep in the car; it would not make me win the boyfriend of the year award, right?”

“I don’t care, you have already won it in my opinion.”

“Come on, love. Wake up.”

Willy-nilly, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Charles got out of the car and took their things. As Lyanna was settling in for the three months of filming, she had packed a lot of stuff, whereas Charles only had his travelling suitcase, which he used when he went racing. As soon as they had entered the flat and unpacked their belongings, Lyanna took out her computer to continue working.

“Lya, maybe take a break? You are stressing yourself out, love. Put that thing away for tonight.”

“I can’t Charles… I still have a lot to do and nowhere near ready. Filming start next week and I’m just not ready at all.”

“Yeah, but it’s making you sick and I don’t like that.”

“It’s just… you understand. I know you do. It’s Ferrari, we can’t mess up. There are going to be expectations, the movie will attract a lot of attention. It’s going to be demanding, I know it will and it’s just so hard. I don’t know if I can handle such pressure.”

“I know you can. Do you know why? Because they did not cast you by chance or pure hazard. They did it because they thought you were the best. They believe in you as much as I believe in you and how amazing you are going to be. I can’t wait to see the movie. Not only because it’s Ferrari but because I’m going to be able to walk out of the theater and tell people that the incredible Lyanna Michel is my girlfriend and I’m so lucky. I’m going to brag about you so much that it’s going to make people sick. But I don’t care because it’s your time to shine. So please, Lya, take all the shine of the spotlight because baby, it is made for you.”

“You’re so damn good with words…”

“That’s one of my many talents, indeed. But does it work?”

“Whenever I think you can’t be more perfect you prove me wrong.”

The following day, Charles spent his last day before starting the season with the presentation of SF-24, helping Lya to rehearse. This was a welcome distraction for the young woman, as it allowed her to approach her work in a different way from what she was used to. Charles made her laugh with his clumsy attempts and dramatic acting. He was so bad that it made him cute. Still, it took the pressure off Lyanna and allowed her to approach her character in a much more relaxed way.

And then came the day of the car presentation. Charles and Lyanna had risen early to travel to Maranello and by the time they arrived, a crowd had gathered outside the factory, shouting Charles's name at the sight of the Pista. The driver took the time to roll down his window to collect gifts, sign autographs and take photos. They were surrounded, and to help Charles, Lyanna in turn lowered her window and gathered the gifts from those who were not on the right side of the car. She could hear the thank-you in Italian, the only words she knew in the language. She soon found herself dizzy with the noise and the crowd and glanced at Charles, who also seemed overwhelmed. But he still took the time to say a few words to each person. After what seemed like an eternity, they were finally able to park inside the factory.

“Is it always like that?” asked Lyanna as they stepped out of the car.

“Pretty much, yeah. Thanks by the way for the help.” said Charles, taking her hand in his.

“I must admit that I was not expecting that. I mean, I saw firsthand on races that you had your fans but here, it’s like another dimension.”

“They are pretty committed and passionate. It’s nice to see.”

“Definitely. And I have to say that hearing you speaking Italian makes me feel things that I wasn’t expecting to feel.” She confessed while nudging him.

“Oh, really? Then I must speak more in Italian…” he teased her making her blush.

“Coming from you, it sounds as sexy as indecent.”

He laughed and winked at her. They were greeted by Fred himself, who gave Charles a hug before doing the same with Lyanna, which surprised her greatly. Charles was then quickly taken aside by Mia and Silvia, who had to brief him on how the presentation was going to work and what was expected of him. He barely had time to place a kiss on the actress's lips and whisper a "see you later" before he disappeared, leaving her alone with Fred.

“I did not know you were coming.” He said to her while guiding her to the break room. “Coffee? Tea? Hot Chocolate?”

“Coffee, thanks. Well I’m in Modena for a new project starting very soon so… and we want to spend as much time as possible together before he leaves.”

“New project in Modena, hum? Tell me, or not because maybe you can’t but, I know a movie about Ferrari is going to be shot in the area. They asked for authorization a few months ago to film here in the factory. Do I guess correctly if I say that you are part of it?”

“You’re not wrong. That’s also why I’m here, for research purposes, let’s say. I thought that it could help me understand everything a bit better. And Charles told me that there were articles and books that I could borrow… if it’s possible, I mean.”

“I can’t see why it would be a problem.”

Fred poured her coffee and sat down opposite to her. There was an awkward silence. Despite his jovial face, Lyanna still found Fred intimidating.

“I know that we don’t know each other that much, even though it feels like it with how much Charles talks about you, but I never got the chance to thank you.”

This took Lyanna aback.

“But why? I mean, I’ve never done anything.”

“That’s where you are wrong. I really saw Charles improvement with the way he raced when you were there. At least before... you know. He changed. He is much calmer and confident since you’re around. I think he finally found the balance between his racing life and his personal one. He is at peace. Finally. And I know the boy since a very long time. I basically consider him as my son.”

“I think… we balance each other. He gave me a lot. Much more than what I gave him, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, make no mistake, Charles might be too proud to admit it but I do think that you gave him a lot to. He has always been very closed off with his feelings. Well, the negative ones, at least. He doesn’t like to talk about certain things, I’m sure you know what I mean. But last time he was here he was talking about Jules, but not like how he used to. He was joking about something that was about Jules. It never happened. Whenever Charles was talking about him it always gave me the feeling that he was he was tasked with a mission that was far too heavy for his shoulders. Sometimes, I wonder if he really allowed himself the time to grief. Grieve Jules and grieve Hervé. That’s what I mean when I say that now he seems in peace. You, somehow, helped him heal. That’s all pure speculation, of course I’m not in his head. But I know him and I don’t think I’m wrong.”

“We both helped each other, I guess. If I make this movie, it’s thanks to Charles. He believed in me and he always knows exactly what I need to hear. I’m lucky. So lucky. And now, I won’t say that I believe in myself as much as he does, but I’m on the right path. So, if I can give him back just maybe ten percent of what he offers me daily, then it makes me happy.”

“It’s way more than ten percent Lyanna. Way more.”

The discussion was interrupted by Fred's phone ringing to tell him that the show was about to start and that he was expected on the stage set up near the runway. He motioned for Lyanna to follow him and she took her place with the engineers and other staff at Maranello. Some of them recognised her as Charles' girlfriend, which to her surprise did not bother Lyanna. Then the show began with the Italian anthem, followed by Charles and Carlos and Fred on stage. A few words to explain their excitement to finally discover the car and to be able to try it out, before thanking all those present today on the site or in front of their screens.

Half an hour later, it was over. The show would resume in a few minutes, just long enough for the pilots to get into their racing suits so they could try out the SF-24. Lyanna took the opportunity to have a chat with the people present. She could feel the passion not only for their work but also, and above all, for the brand. She also learned a lot about the history of Ferrari by asking questions here and there. The Maranello employees were an inexhaustible source of knowledge.

She found Charles much later when she was in a room that a woman had shown her where there were photos, trophies, and lots of objects from Enzo Ferrari's time, as well as biographies.

“Hey, you’re here. I was searching for you.”

“I found Ali Baba’s cave. This place is a goldmine. So, how do you feel?”

“I want to be cautious because we have to wait for the pre-season testing in Bahrain… But it felt great. For the first time in a long time I really feel like we could have a winning car, Lya. A real chance at the championship. Can you imagine?”

He sounded like a child during Christmas.

“But now, we have to improve on everything else. Not fucking up the evolutions, not make bad strategic calls. I don’t wat to get my hopes up.”

“Trust your instincts Charles. Most of the time, they are not wrong.”

And indeed, the tests in Bahrain confirmed Charles' first impressions. The SF-24 was on a par with Max's Red Bull, which meant that the competition would be close. Unless Red Bull was playing a clever game. Lyanna was the first person he called as soon as he got back to the hotel. He'd only been gone a few days, but it already felt like an eternity. He missed her terribly and the idea that they would see very little of each other for the next three months made Charles feel nervous, which he didn't like.

So it was a stressed Charles that Lya found on the phone as she returned from a day of location scouting and lunch with the crew.

“The car is good, Lya. Really good.”

“So why do you sound so sad about it? Should’t you be excited?”

“Because the last time I was excited by the car it all went downhill very quickly.”

“It was another time, Charles. Where Fred was not there. And you know you have Fred in your corner.”

“Yeah... the media are a pain in the ass as well. They couldn’t stop asking me questions and it was way worse when they started to see the performances of the car. It’s just… I always thought that I could handle the pressure. But today… I just want to be alone. I just want to race and not having to deal with the bullshit.”

“Maybe you could talk about that to Silvia?”

She could hear him sigh from the other end of the line.

“She thinks the opposite. Now that we seem to be back at the front, she wants us even more in the media. I wish you could be there. You would make everything more bearable.”

“You know that if I could snap my fingers and teleport to your side, I'd do it in a heartbeat. You know I would.”

“You’ll watch the race, right?”

“I’ll be cheering you on so loud that you’ll hear me from the other side of the world.”

====================

author's note: I almost cried writing Lya and Fred conversation. I love this chapter. And I love Lya and Fred together, it's a duo that I never thought I needed but it just feels so write. As usual, let me know your thoughts and don't forget to comment / use the ask box if you are too shy / like / reblog. It supports the story and let me know that you like it. taglist: @zendayabelova @purplephantomwolf @ru-kru @dakotali @blueflorals @aundercover @ruleroftheuniverse @fangirlika @writerscurse @elijahmikaelsonbitch @leclerc13 @karmabyfernando @stargaryenx @pitlanebabe @boiohboii @reengard If you are tagged but did not receive any notifications, please check your settings because it means that Tumblr didn't let me tag you.

[princessmisery666]

But We Lost It

Summary: Steve can save the world, but can’t save his own. 

Warnings: angst, break-up, unresolved angst, not a happy ending.

W/C: 1.4k

Pairing: Steve Rogers x wife!reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

Notes: @justagirlinafandomworld sent me this request - Hi, hi, hi! So there is this song "But We Lost It" by Pink. Full of angst, it's about a relationship that has become distant over time - and this is where it took me.

A/N: Yvette, my love, thank you for all your support and sorry to start the year on an angsty note but here we are!! 😍🤣

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch // @cockslutpadalecki // all mistakes remain my own.

Graphics: dividers @firefly-graphics

Master Lists: All the Fandoms // Steve Rogers

But We Lost It 💔

The house is quiet when I get home. It’s late - again. I don’t remember the last time I got home at a decent hour. If it weren’t so late, there would be music playing, or you would be humming while you worked. Your job afforded you the luxury of working from home, but you’d have clocked out hours ago. Yet the silence is eerie. It feels like a harbinger of bad news. 

I toe off my boots and drop my keys into the bowl by the door. The sound of metal on crockery reverberates around the unnatural silence. I feel the panic fizz in my gut, and my senses kick into high gear, preparing me for the unexpected.

Where are you? It’s a little after two a.m. on a Wednesday, and you should be sleeping, but there is a hint of your perfume that’s too fresh for you to be in bed. I pause in the hallway, listening. My memory takes over my senses, and in my mind, I see you clear as day, leaning against the kitchen door frame, ready to greet me the way you used to. You’d give me enough time to plant my feet, and then take off, running the length of the corridor, leaping into my arms as if I’d been gone for months and not hours. A scenario you’ve ensured would never exist because you followed me wherever I was needed or running to.

Dawdling, I drag myself toward the kitchen, remembering that you’d gone with me without complaint when I was stationed on the opposite side of the world for a few months. You worked ridiculous hours to accommodate the time difference, but somehow a hot meal and a clean house were always waiting for me. The house is clean but no home-cooked meal aromas greet my senses. Why would you bother now? I'm never home for dinner. I no longer bother to call to say I’ll be late, and some nights I stay at the compound.

There was a time I used to think you took being my wife more seriously than breathing. But both our priorities seem to have changed as of late. 

“Hey,” I say softly when I enter the kitchen and see you sitting at the table.

I can’t describe the warm relief that flows through me when I see you’re okay. But that’s all that I feel -  relief. Before I’d have felt an overwhelming yearning, carrying you from the hallway and taken you right there on the kitchen table. When did I lose that? I can’t count the number of tables we’ve had to replace after our passion broke them.

The low lights over the countertops make the darkness beyond the windows deeper. As I walk to the fridge, I expect to see a face staring back at me from the shadows, an enemy to fight and explain the fear churning in my gut. All I see is myself and the distorted reflection of my wife. Are we enemies now?

How long have you been sitting there - waiting for me?

You don’t reply or acknowledge my presence. If I didn’t know any better, I’d believe you were a beautiful sculpture. That’s still true, at least. You're still as beautiful as the day I met you.

I recall the excitement that made butterflies dance in my stomach the first time you smiled at me. The faint smile you muster this time suffocates them until their dance comes to an abrupt end.

“Do I need to say it?” you ask.

“No,” I sigh, taking a large gulp of my water. 

I knew this was coming. I’d expected it weeks - months - ago. I’ve been too selfish to do it, I didn't want to be the bad guy, so I’ve been waiting. I should be heartbroken, and somewhere deep down, I am. But it’s as if I’m mourning the loss of a feeling, not you, and at the moment, all I feel is a weird sense of calmness. 

Being a fugitive shouldn’t have been fun. T’Challa was kind enough to hide the five of us in Wakanda for a short time, and while it was tough living in such close quarters with Wanda, Natasha and Sam, we had made a calculated effort to make the relationship work. So much so that they’d all started loudly announcing themselves before entering a room so as not to walk in on something they couldn’t unsee. 

Sitting at the edge of a beautiful lake, watching the sun descend below the horizon with Wakandian rum warming me from the inside as your heat seeped into my chest where you rested against me, I felt like the luckiest man alive. 

We were together, safe, belly full of decadent food after spending a day helping tend to the goats and the evening swimming in the lake. It shouldn’t have been as enjoyable as it was, but being with you made it a perfectly weird vacation. 

“Is it wrong that I’m so content right now?” I whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“Maybe a little,” you shrugged, “but I’m right there with you, Captain.”

The sun kissed the horizon and set the sky on fire in a spectacular canvas of orange and pink as I gently guided your head around to look up at me. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I kissed you, sweet and tender. This was all I needed, Bucky was getting the help he needed, and I had you. I didn’t care what happened or where we ended up. As long as I had you, I’d be happy.

As always, you lost your breath before I did and pulled back. The sunset reflected in your eyes, setting them ablaze, and my heart took control of my mouth, “Marry me?”

A week later, you’d become Mrs. Rogers.

I pull myself out of the memory, heart clenching painfully, mourning the happiness we left in Wakanda. When bones break, they grow back stronger. I wish that were true for muscles. The heart being the most important of them all. Yours stretched to breaking point, only it’s never snapped back into place. I’m the one person who could mend it, but I’ve been, or chose to be, oblivious to the agony I’ve been causing you. 

You’ve been struggling for a while now, trying to fight your way to the surface, carrying us both to try and find the breath of fresh air we needed. Funny how I can see that now, the effort you’ve put in and how I’ve shot you down at every turn. Ultimately you're not strong enough, and the dead weight of our relationship is too heavy for you to hold on your own. So you’re letting go.

You stare into my eyes, and my whole body tenses. My fight or flight response screams at me to do something. Be done with it and run or stand and fix things; fight for us. But I don’t know if there’s anything left to fight for.

The walls feel like they’re closing in, and I’m suddenly too hot. The house has felt empty for months. Even when you were there, I’ve been living alone. Like the thoughts in my head, you peer at me blankly. The gaze drags on, and as it stretches, the less I recognize you, like the night I came home to you asleep in our bed and noticed you’d changed your hair, suddenly you were a stranger to me.

“My bags are in the car,” you explain, “my keys are in the dish.” 

“I can stay at the compound,” I object. You shouldn’t have to leave your home too.

You shake your head, averting your gaze to stare at your fidgeting hands. “I don’t want to be here.” 

We’re better off this way, but that hurts. I guess the damage is done; there’s no need for apologies. If we’re gonna separate our lives, we may as well make a clean-cut. At least that way, I have a chance at surviving it.

“We can’t erase our life together,” you say, getting to your feet, “but I need to escape it. I don’t understand why but we don’t work anymore, and I’m tired of hurting.”

You wait for a beat, two, three, but I have no words. Nothing. I can’t comfort you. We’re suffocating, bleeding, and I’m the cause, no longer the cure.

“Goodbye, Steve,” you whisper with a finality that shatters a piece of me. You walk closer, timidly slipping your hand on my cheek, and briefly, the flutter of butterfly wings tingle in my stomach. You kiss my cheek, and as if it were laced with venom, it kills the sensation.

I can fight for the world. I’ve saved the world, but strangely I watch mine walk out of the door without a word.

Master Lists: All the Fandoms // Steve Rogers

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