#cupboard curtain

[curlyrps]

Transitional Kitchen - Dining Inspiration for a large transitional l-shaped medium tone wood floor and brown floor eat-in kitchen remodel with a farmhouse sink, shaker cabinets, white cabinets, marble countertops, beige backsplash, glass tile backsplash, stainless steel appliances and an island

[vintagehomecollection]

Windows are a real focal point in a room and fabrics are not the only form of dressing to consider. Frame the outline of a window with a decorative collection.

Traditional Country Style, 1991

[freshfrenchangel]

An echo from the past reverberates through my mind.

New post on my Flickr(credits).

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

The Whumper knows exactly where Whumpee is hiding, but they pretend they have no idea.

The thrill of the chase is half the fun, to catch Whumpee scrambling from one place to another out of the corner of their eye, to see the traces left behind in the form of open vents and bloody smears that create the perfect path to them. Whumper always makes sure to linger just in front of where they've tucked themself away, calling out to them, checking every nook and cranny except the one they know contains Whumpee.

And as soon as they leave, as soon as Whumpee dashes out of the compromised room for a new hiding spot, the hunt is on again to be as prolonged as Whumper desires.

[sanhatipal]

Hey hey please look at this little kit I put together,it took me 2 days!

I actually got it for Christmas last year but didn't get time to build it until now. It was so much fun! And a test of patience, because you basically have to build 80% from scratch :"D

It lights up too! I was scared of doing the wiring but it was pretty easy!

I didn't do what they instructed for the flowers in the windowsill,but used materials from my own stash.

The back is a little unsightly,but maybe I can make a chimney to hide the wiring?

[knightdykes]

oh my god... I get it. I'm legitimately a real adult.

[dummerjan]

having a bit of a very unexpected emotional crisis

[msmbeventplanning]

Professional Cleaning Services: Top Benefits that Home Owners in Pretoria Can Reap

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Customized Cleaning Schedule:

you will not have to sacrifice your comfort levels when you hire a professional cleaning service. A reliable Cleaning Service Provider in Pretoria will provide you with tailor-made home cleaning solutions. They will perform the cleaning as per requirement and convenience. Always try to hire a reputable cleaning service provider. It will help you get the perfect cleaning schedule that fits best to your time and convenience. This effort will help you enjoy convenient and hassle-free deep home cleaning solutions.

Excellent Job by the Experts:

Experienced Home Cleaning professionals are useful for every homeowner. They can handle and execute every cleaning requirement. You can rely on such cleaning professionals to get the cleaning job done right. They use the latest products, advanced cleaning technologies, and environmentally friendly cleaning supplies. They deliver an exceptional service that will exceed your expectations. With a reliable cleaning service provider, you don’t have to worry about buying cleaning products or tools.

Save Time and Energy:

Professional home cleaners have the right knowledge and expertise to execute the cleaning job as per the requirements and specifications. Compared to the Do-It-Yourself home cleaning project. You will get enough valuable time & energy that you can apply to other productive works. You can spend time with your family or friends without worrying about a cleaning job.

Exceptional Cleaning Results:

With professional home cleaners, you will get the best cleaning results. The professional cleaners are known for delivering consistent results. Hiring a professional home cleaning service, enables you to get a sparkling clean, spotless, hygienic, and sanitized living environment. Do you want your home space to be fresh and inviting? It will be wise to count on the highly reliable and professional Cleaning Services in Pretoria. They help the residents stay healthy, foster relaxation and ensure a stress-free living environment.

Maintaining the cleanliness of your home is essential to ensure overall wellness and well-being. To get reliable home Cleaning Services in Pretoria, you can rely on MS MB Event Planning! They provide affordable and trustworthy cleaning services that are suitable for your home cleaning needs. They aim to provide the highest quality service at the most reasonable price. To book an appointment today, call MS MB Event Planning today at 012 880 8452!

[henricamille]

Guess what...

[abelincolnsschlong]

I <3 my maximalist kitchen ☺️☺️☺️

[jamminvroomvroom]

no more mister shy guy.

OP x fem!reader

in which you can’t work out why he just won’t sleep with you

i am neither normal, nor am i hinged! i hope you guys get the vision, i literally wrote this last night possessed by some feral urge bc i just love oscar sm and i’ve been needing to write for him sooo baaad. enjoy! pls lemme know what you think <3

songs to set the vibes: delicate by taylor swift, good looking by suki waterhouse, my kind of woman by max demarco, feeling myself by wolf alice

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, pwp but also there is some plot? overstimulation, crying in a hot way, choking, unprotected sex (L bozo don’t do that!) the most minor moment of angst, fluff

2.8k words

you watch him make coffee, daydreaming, balancing your heavy head on your hand. you study him while your free hand taps against the kitchen counter, nails drumming a random beat. sunlight streams through a gap in the curtains, framing him golden. you don’t think he knows how pretty he is.

oscar is oblivious to the way your mind is ticking behind him, twisting the cap on the carton of oat-milk. you hear the plastic fall onto the counter and your tongue wets your lower lip as he reaches up into the cupboard, his back flexing beneath his shirt as he finds your favourite mug. you realise then how swollen your lip is, snapped out of the trance he had you in, the one that had you biting your lip so hard, completely mindlessly.

he’s bulked up over the winter break, filled out a lot over the course of his rookie season. he’s no longer the scrawny, anxious guy you’d met at your fathers work event a year ago, he’s broader, thicker in your hands, utterly delicious. as much as you like the way he looks, you like his mind a whole lot more. if only you knew what was going on inside it.

oscar is an enigma, quiet, hilariously dry, the kindest man you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. you’ve been together since the start of the winter break, november, after awkward run ins and plenty of pining since the start of his first season. you’d travel to races with your dad, a mclaren sponsor, and run into the australian, stare at each other and pretend no one noticed. after months of teasing from lando, oscar finally got the kick up the arse that he needed and you’d said yes to dinner before he’d even finished asking the question.

it’s february now, a week til he needs to be in bahrain. the last three months had been serene, spent with a man made of sunshine, and you’re sad to see him go, as if you won’t be in the emirates a mere four days after him. you fear the way you’ll ache for him, having been inseparable since the dinner that started it all.

but then again, it can’t be worse than the way you ache for him now.

“sweetheart?” oscar is waving his hand in front of your face when you realise he’s been calling your name for a good 15 seconds, and you have, in fact, been staring. hm? you jump, staring at him bewildered. he looks amused. “you okay?” he coos, sliding the coffee across the island towards you.

“yeah, sorry, i, um, i just- why won’t you have sex with me?” you blurt, slapping your hand over your mouth as soon as you realise what you’ve just said.

oscar just blinks, mouth forming a little o, the permanent blush he seems to have increasing tenfold. you instantly feel guilty for ambushing him, but you were at the end of your tether. three months of nothing, nada, zilch. every move you made was refuted, ignored as if he was oblivious. you were ravenous for him, he’s so gorgeous! and you didn’t want to pressure him, but you were starting to feel like there was something wrong with you.

you’d wake up in bed with him wrapped around you, grinding against your ass in his sleep, and you’d revel in it, the rare times that he actually seemed to want you like that. you loved him regardless, of course you did, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t need to be… dealt with. urgently.

“i- um- what?” oscar splutters, and the bottom of his mug blinks against the granite.

“is there something wrong with me? am i not pretty enough?” you whisper, shy. “do you just not… like- do you not want to do that?” you ramble.

panic fills his face, and he’s rushing around the island, by your side in an instant. he takes your hands into his, finding your eyes. they’ve grown watery, a mixture of guilt and desperation swirling in them which makes him feel ill.

“baby, no, god no.” he rushes the words out, desperate to convince you that it wasn’t you. “you’re the most beautiful person in the entire world, prettiest girl i ever saw.” he promises. “i’m just… it’s scary.”

“oh, osc.” your face falls, and you want to throw yourself off of the balcony. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to pressure you. if it makes you feel better, i’m scared too. but i love you so much, i just want to feel even closer to you.”

“you didn’t make me feel pressured, i’m just sorry i made you feel unwanted. trust me, i want you like that. drives me insane. but i’ve never had sex before with someone that i love. not the way i love you, anyway. scared that i won’t be good enough for you.” he murmurs.

you’re hung up on the part where you drive him crazy, the part where he loves you like that, and then you remember how vulnerable he’s being, baring his entire soul to you, and you rip yourself from the fantasy.

your hands smooth over his shoulders, until you’re softly fisting a clump of hair at the nape of his neck.

“i love you. insanely. we’ll go slow.” you state. he moulds further against you, and you quickly realise it’s for leverage, because the next thing you know, you’re in his arms. he has his hands hooked under your thighs and he’s kissing you so, so deeply that you’re dizzy. you don’t realise that you’re halfway to his bedroom until he pulls away.

“i don’t wanna go slow anymore.”

oscar places you on your feet at the end of his bed, the large, plush king-sized mattress that is currently calling both of your names. your blouse gets unbuttoned first, his hands shaking in a way that makes you melt, and his lips trail over every inch of bare skin that he uncovers. when it finally falls to the floor, his pupils are blown wide, his hands palming intricate black lace. your jeans are stripped away mercilessly, his hands shaking less now, and you take it as a sign to crawl backwards onto the bed.

he stands there, watching you, apprehensive again. you can see how hard he is, how desperately strained his cock is through the light grey of his sweatpants, and so you switch tactics. your hand grazes your tummy, skimming up your abdomen until you reach a bra strap. you toy with the elastic, holding the kind of eye contact that makes him twitch, tugging it until it hangs loosely off of your shoulder.

“i need you, osc. i trust you.” you utter, soft and enticing. one finger runs under the cup of your bra, flicking over your nipple. he can just about see the hardened bud through the lace of your bra. it’s not enough, though, and every ounce of self control depletes when you whine, “want you inside of me so badly.”

the elastic band snaps and he’s on top of you, rutting between your legs like a man starved. you drag his shirt up and over his shoulder blades, moaning as you feel each and every muscle under your fingertips.

“just wanna make you feel good.” oscar rasps, rolling his hips even harder into your core.

“take these off.” you beg, pulling at the waistband of his joggers. he somehow musters the strength to pry himself off of you, just long enough to discard the uncomfortable material of his sweats, but as soon as he looks down, his plans change.

painted over the crotch of them is a shiny pool of your slick, and when his eyes flit hungrily to your core, he sees where you’ve soaked through your panties. you’re panting when you see the stain, and you just want to get him inside of you, but his priorities have changed. oscar collapses between your legs, head buried, tongue exploring.

he groans, carnal and needy, into the fabric of your underwear, laving his tongue over the lace. your eyes widen as he dives in, licking over the wet patch until he grows frustrated. you hear the tearing of the fabric, feel his big hands pawing at your thighs to spread them as wide as they’ll go. his tongue slides right inside of you and he whines. he fucking whines. the vibration nearly makes you scream. you can’t believe this is your oscar, the same oscar that had quivered with nerves a mere five minutes ago.

“oh my god.” you chant, rolling your hips against his face. you must be all over him by now, what with the way he’s sucking and slurping, obscene sounds of wetness sounding around the room. you’d be blushing a deep red if you weren’t so turned on, shaking against his bedspread which will probably need changing once he’s done with you.

you thought that maybe he was inexperienced and that was the source of his fear, but if he was, you never would have known. he was a natural in between your legs, nipping at your clit to get you even louder for him.

you cum faster than ever, and he’s mumbling something incoherent into your pussy when you do. you’re riding the high, midway through the bliss, when a thick finger slips its way inside of you. oscar realises that he can easily slide another in, and he does. he doesn’t thrust them in and out, he grinds them against your walls, and your mouth falls open as a silent scream forces it’s way out.

you cum a second time, in record time yet again, and he still doesn’t let up. he’s hitting that spot relentlessly with his fingers, keeping your clit between his swollen lips, and you’re begging him. for what, you’re not sure, but you’re whimpering his name like you’re going to die. and what a good way to go this would be.

his eyes meet yours, and he looks unhinged. that’s when you feel it. that all consuming, belly twisting rush.

“oscar!” you try to warn him, but it’s too late, and he knows it. he makes you squirt, because of course he does. the shy guy who was scared that he wouldn’t be able to please you makes you squirt.

he pulls his mouth off of you but keeps his fingers buried deep, eyes fixed on watching the way your pussy convulses.

“holy shit.” you cry. you’re staring down at him like you’ve gone insane. he’s smiling innocently.

“was that good?” he almost sounds shy and you want to kick him.

“are you… are you serious?” you rasp. oscar just shrugs. “get up here.” you reach for him and complies, slotting himself between your legs once more.

oscar resumes the rolls of his hips, and the friction of the grey fabric against your core makes your eyes roll back.

“please, oscar, fuck me.” you whine, his head falling into the crook of your neck. he bites down, leaving behind the sting of his teeth and a faint purple splotch.

“fucking love you.” he slurs, his accent thickening in a way that makes him sound that extra bit fucked out already.

“i love you.” you murmur, forcing his sweats down his legs. his boxers are wet, just like your panties were, and you can’t help but stare. oh, it’s big.

his boxers are peeled down and you can feel yourself throbbing. his cock hangs heavy, red and dripping, painfully hard. you reach for it, looking at him to make sure it’s okay to touch, and he’s rapidly nodding his head. your small hand struggles but you make it work, and his head tips back, exposing his thick neck that you want to suck purple. your hand works over him a few times, and a visible shiver running through his body makes you stop.

“you ready for me?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“please.” you gasp, locking your legs around his waist. “however you want me, ‘m yours.” you breathe.

oscar’s eyes roll back in his head, your words sending his brain blank, and then he’s pushing home, slow and deep.

“fucking hell.” he groans, guttural. you’re so tight, warm, soaking wet. he feels like the biggest idiot in the world for waiting so long for this.

“oh.” you gasp, your eyebrows knitting together. he’s so deep. “so full.” you pant.

“can you take it, sweetheart?” oscar’s lips bump your jaw. “want you to take it.” you nod profusely, desperate to hear him run his mouth even further. your eyes clench shut when you feel him move, just the tiniest bit, readjusting.

“move.” you plead. he’s staring down at you, watching every single micro movement of your face.

oscar pulls out the smallest bit and thrusts back in, nice and slow. the drag drives you feral, the weight of him on top of you makes you weak. you want to stay like this until the end of days.

“good?” he hisses, trying to keep composed. he’s finally inside of you, claiming you as his in the most intimate way of all. he tries not to think about how many times he could have had you begging under him in the last three months.

“so good, so good.” you repeat, pushing your hips up to try and meet his.

“so pretty like this for me. always so, so pretty.” he rambles. he realises that he never quite made it as far as getting your bra off, and he needs to see all of you. the cups are tugged haphazardly down, and oscar stares at your breasts like he’s never seen tits before. you hear him hum, low and greedy, and then you feel the wet drag of his tongue across your nipple.

the animalistic whine that he rips from you makes him thrust harder, upping his pace a bit. he can hear how much wetter you get when he picks up his pace, and he changes up his rhythm, pushing all the way in and dragging out again at lightning speed. your jaw goes slack and your eyes are damp.

“baby, what’s wrong?” oscar slows to a stop, and you want to scream.

“no, no, no, keep going.” you choke out, your throat constricting with a sob. “it’s so good. feel so good.” you sound drunk, all for him, and he loses his mind completely.

he taps into that athletic stamina, fucking into you with a newfound vigour that you didn’t think was humanly possible, and you feel things that you didn’t even know you could feasibly feel. you see stars behind your eyes, his face, and nothing else but bright white. calloused fingers find your clit, and you wonder fleetingly if he’s trying to kill you when he rubs messy shapes into the much too overstimulated bud. his teeth graze your nipple, and everything seems to come together perfectly.

thick tears run hot down your cheeks, only to be licked away by eager tongue. your belly tightens, aflame for him; he’s wound your body up perfectly and you’ve never in your life teetered so dangerously over the edge.

“can feel you, baby. want you to cum, okay? ‘n then i’m gonna fill you up.” oscar grunts. you clamp down on him even tighter, thanking god for oscar’s filthy fucking mouth and birth control, and then everything snaps.

you think you scream, you know that you’re sobbing, and your throat is raw when the wave hits. oscar keeps going, intensifying your pleasure, and when he finally let’s go, it’s the most beautiful fucking thing you’ve ever seen. it’s surreal, the way his neck flexes, eyes clenched tight, brown locks flopping over his sweat damped forehead. and the sounds he makes, god. he’s muttering into your ear, lewd and shameless, and a fifth orgasm nearly takes you under.

“gonna need you everyday like this, tight fucking pussy, all mine. can’t live without this now. fucking perfect.” he’s rambling, burrowing deep into you one last time. you feel his warmth spilling into you, feel his hot breath fanning your face. he licks into your awaiting mouth.

“fuck.” you giggle, breathless.

“good?” he raises an eyebrow, grinning bashfully.

“more than worth the wait.” you whisper, mustering the strength to lift your head just enough so that you can peck his lips. “you better not hold out on me ever again though.” oscar laughs at that and you feel the rumble in your flushed chest.

“you promise?” there’s the shy guy again.

“osc, honey, that was the best. ever. ever. need you to be mr sex god more often.”

“only if you behave for me.” he smirks down at you.

“there he is.” you sigh happily.

when he snakes his way back between your legs, lapping up the mess he’s made, and then some, you wonder just what you’ve unleashed.

-

whoops? lol

-

taglist

@thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne @spideylovin @charli123456789

(run outta space on my taglist lol, lemme know if u wanna be added or removed)

[pseudowho]

"Why are we going to a scare trail, when you scream if a pan falls out of the cupboard?"

Kento grumbled, cosy in his cream turtleneck and teal overcoat. You preened, pressing the lids onto your travel mugs, and leaning up to nuzzle the shell of his ear.

"Because it's fun, you grumpy old goat. Come on. I need protection."

"You need sectioning, perhaps," Kento scoffed, opening the car door for you, "or the public needs protection from you." Kento shifted into gear, reversing with his arm behind your seat. You stroked a hand over his thigh.

"Well, you can be my supervisor then...sir."

Kento coughed, stalling the car at the turn, and grasping your hand with a warning glare.

"Don't. You know what that does to me."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Clearly, the gates of hell had been opened into the other end of the Funfair. The screams were not ones of delight.

But, at the entrance, autumn leafcrunch and early chill, swirled with wood fires and yakitori and street food, spicing the crowds with orange and gold. You tucked your arm into Kento's, as if an old married couple, and squelched through the mud to your destination.

Kento grimaced up at the entrance, opening his mouth to speak, before you interrupted.

"I heard they used pig's blood. Not fake blood."

"That is grotesquely unsanitary--"

"--come on, let's queue up--"

"--I should report them to the Health and Safety executives--"

"Shhh, sh sh sh, come on now...there. Lovely."

Bouncing on your tiptoes in the queue, Kento shot you a wary sideways glance, speaking slowly, testing every word.

"I...am perfectly serious, though. You don't usually tolerate frights like this very well. Despite your profession. Always something I found...odd."

You sighed, shrugging. "Just...an overactive imagination, I think. There's something thrilling about being scared but safe. A luxury that work doesn't give us."

Kento was quiet, looking pensively into the Horror Maze, while you allowed a zombie bride to scan your entry passes. "Yes...that makes sense."

Kento was absolutely right, as you headed in. Within minutes, you were rendered useless, in a maze of bloodstained walls and cells-- some crude, tasteless attempt at an insane asylum.

And Kento remained...utterly unshaken. Not a hair out of place. Not even a flinch. Just his usual flat boredom, and irritated rumbles.

'Patients', 'doctors', 'nurses' and 'orderlies' in various states of grisly disrepair, chased you through corridors, backed you into cells, and rattled bars at you until you clung to Kento like a baby monkey.

Neither of you noticed how one of the doctors you passed turned to look at your retreating backs, tufts of fuzzy peach hair peeking out from under his surgical cap and goggles.

"Does nothing scare you?!" You demanded of Kento, squealing like a little girl as a 'doctor' tried to strap you to his table. Lifting you to safety by your waist, and tutting at the perturbed 'doctor', who sagged, put-out, Kento replied, solemn.

"Perhaps my fears are a little more abstract." You almost laughed as an approaching 'nurse' cringed away at Kento's devastatingly withering look.

It was only when you were both chased through a corridor by a horde of screaming visitors and 'patients', that you and Kento became separated. Your adrenaline felt less fun with Kento's absence, and you backed against a black curtain, your heart pumping rapidly souring blood to your limbs.

"Kento!" You called, your voice pitched and rising, "Kent--ooooooh!"

You were yanked back through the black curtain, your sobs muffled beneath a thick brown glove, and your assailant was quick to reassure you. He lifted his goggles and lowered his mask to grin at you, sweet and sunny.

"Hey! Mrs.Nanamin! It's just me."

You melted with relief, sniffling, "Oh my god-- Yuuji-- what are you doing here--"

"Ahhh, just tryna earn some extra cash. I saw where Nanamin went, want to go catch u--"

"No! Wait...Yuuji. Help me scare him."

Yuuji faltered, blinking. "What? Scare Nanamin?" Yuuji pondered, pinching his chin in thought. Eventually, he shook his head, smirking. "Nah. Nothing scares him."

You puffed your cheeks out, shaking your head. Peeking out from behind the curtain and surveying the carnage the actors wreaked upon the screaming visitors, you shook your head.

"Nope. I insist. Let's scare my husband. We'll find something-- anything."

And so, at your insistence, you and Yuuji staggered through a montage of terrific failures.

You locked Kento in a dark room, and he only hummed in minor irritation as a hissing, ragged contortionist spidered out of an impossibly tight chest. He kicked the door open, and held it open for the bewildered contortionist to leave first; "After you."

Yuuji manipulated Kento down a corridor with naught but increasingly unsettling nursery rhymes and crayon monstrosities on the walls. Kento found the radio, switched it off, and gave the crayon-marked wallpaper a despairing side-eye. He tried to scratch some crayon off, grimacing in dismay.

You encouraged a 'nurse' to spill a bag of 'blood' over Kento; he performed exquisite manoeuvres to save his coat, before sternly berating her-- "I'd rather not explain that to the dry cleaners, thank you."

Eventually, leaning back on a rickety wooden railing on a platform above the exit, you and Yuuji admitted defeat. Yuuji rubbed your shoulder in sweet conciliation.

"I told you," Yuuji sighed, as if you didn't already know, "Nanamin just isn't scared of anything."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I just--"

The crack of the rail breaking behind you and Yuuji pierced the night, and you plummeted to the ground below, the air punching out of your lungs. Coughing, groaning, and dazed, you barely registered Kento calling your name, and calling your name, and CALLING YOUR NAME--

"--shit--" Kento swore, pale, and checking your head, and your eyes, and your body, and your eyes, and cupping your cheeks and surveying you for hurt or damage or injury, "--shit, are you hurt? Say something-- say something--"

You coughed, flapping a hand, saved by your Cursed Energy. "Fine, Kento, I'm fine--"

"-- jesus christ...you scared me."

You blinked up at him, feeling like the worst wife in the world. "I...scared you?"

Kento wasn't listening, still feeling your body all over in pale concentration. Yuuji sat up beside you, watching from beneath his goggles, cap and mask. He opened his mouth to speak, and Kento did not look up, but raised a single stern finger to point at him.

"Not a word, Itadori-kun. You scared me too."

[vintagehomecollection]

In contrast to a fast-paced day this room suggests a time of leisurely hours spend amid girlish clutter. The antique corner cupboard is painted white, and the Austrian blinds edged with deep frills in white cotton contrast with the formality of stripes.

Laura Ashley Style, 1987

[abyssruler]

arguments and odd positions

lyney x gn!reader

you knew lyney was a magician, but opening your fridge only to see him inside instead of your recently bought groceries is taking it a little too far. or — you refuse to talk to lyney after an argument, which leads to lyney putting himself in various odd positions in order to get you to speak to him.

comedy-ish, just lyney being weird and lynette being his accomplice

Lyney’s not one to let you stew in your anger after an argument. He’s persistent in getting you to speak with him to try and resolve the issue, which leads to a few… ridiculous and frankly odd situations he puts himself in just so he can talk to you.

An hour after you rushed off after a heated argument, you open your door only to find a little note stamped on it with the words I’m sorry :( written in a loopy handwriting. A bit creepy that he sneaked into your bedroom without your notice, but while the note makes you soften a bit, you’re still angry with him.

Which then leads to more… drastic measures. The likes of which Lyney has to force Lynette to help him with.

Two hours after your argument, you’re opening your fridge, only to lurch away and bite back a scream of surprise when you see Lyney standing inside your fridge.

“I’m sorry—” he starts, but you’re quick to close the door on him.

It escalates after that.

Everywhere you go, Lyney is right there.

In the middle of watering the plants in your backyard, you shift a few leaves from a bush and come face to face with none other than Lyney. He smiles sheepishly at you, a few twigs stuck in his hair. You don’t know how he managed to hide himself in that bush, but instead of acknowledging him, you spray him with water and leave.

You’re in the middle of cooking when you open your cupboard and see Lyney crouched inside the small space (how did he even fit in there?) He gives you a little wave which you ignore as you close the cupboard on him.

It goes on like that for a while. You turning around and seeing Lyney in bizarre positions that make you question how he even managed to end up in the first place.

You check in on your aquarium to feed your fish, only to see Lyney inside the aquarium. You open a book to read, but Lyney’s face is printed on every page. You try reading the newspaper, but the headlines are filled with nothing but Lyney’s name and why you should forgive him. You play a song, but Lyney’s voice echoes instead of the opera singer’s. You open your closet to change clothes, and Lyney is inside the cramped space wearing your clothes.

He’s everywhere.

You shift the curtains open, and Lyney. Is. Right. There.

You swear the windows had been firmly shut, and there hadn’t even been the slightest outline to tell that a person was hiding behind the curtains.

“Darling, please—”

You swish the curtains close on him and stomp your way to the bedroom. You make sure to lock the door, double checking the windows to prevent any chances of Lyney sneaking in.

When you’re sure that not even the hydro archon can break into your room, you sink down on your bed, exhaustion settling in as you turn your head over this bizarre day.

Lyney was persistent, yes, but never to this degree. He showered you with all sorts of compliments and bent over backwards so you can always have your way. In hindsight, the fact that you’ve never once argued before should have been a hint that Lyney has always been careful to make sure you’re happy—too careful, at that. It makes sense, you think, that he’s so desperate to make peace with you now that you’ve had your first argument.

Still, despite how odd his actions were, it was a little touching to see how far he’d go just to apologize to you. Maybe tomorrow you’ll finally acknowledge his existence.

You shift, turning to the other side of your bed—

And Lyney is right there, laying on his side and watching you with a smile on his lips.

You feel your anger and resolve crumble in the face of that smile. And really, it’s been a long day. Staying angry isn’t going to do anyone any good.

He opens his mouth, but you interrupt him with an exasperated sigh, shuffling forward and snuggling your head in the crook of his neck.

“I forgive you,” you murmur.

You feel him circle his arms around you, letting out a happy little sigh of contentment as he buried his face on top of your head, pressing a kiss that sends a spark right down your spine. He’s dressed in a soft shirt and cotton shorts made for sleeping, clearly having expected to sleep here beside you. Sneaky. You’ll get him back for the near heart attacks today, but for now, you’ll settle for basking in the warmth he radiates, letting his heartbeat lull you to sleep.

And you think that’s the end of it, that the two of you will drift off to sleep in each others’ embrace, but then—

“Lynette, tell Freminet to cancel the fireworks show! Plan Y version two is no longer needed!”

[sinofwriting]

4 plus 1 - Max Verstappen (I ❤️ MILFS verse)

Words: 1,499 Summary: Four times Logan celebrated mothers day and the first time he celebrated fathers day (part of the I ❤️ MILFS verse)

Masterlist | Support Me! | I ❤️ MILFS verse

One

The first time Logan celebrated Mother’s Day, he was five. His grandpa had stolen him away from his momma, which had made him pout, but then he had crouched down in front of him and quietly asked if he wanted to buy his momma a present for Mother’s Day.

His grandpa, whenever he told the story, always liked to joke that he was surprised that Logan’s head hadn’t fallen off with how hard he had nodded yes.

He had gotten taken to the store where Logan picked out a card that apparently said world’s best mom on it, which had made his grandpa grumble that he was way too young for his daughter to be a mom before letting him pick out a big bouquet of flowers.

Scrambling out of the car and into the house, Logan struggled to hold the flowers that were nearly bigger than him and the card, just barely able to see the way his momma’s jaw had dropped seeing him and the ways tears came to her eyes when he cheerfully wished her a happy momma’s day.

Two

In 2014, Logan got to celebrate mother’s days twice for the first time. His momma not even knowing or realizing that England celebrated it on a completely different day, her bemused expression at him giving her candy and a card staying in his mind.

She had still hugged him tight, pressing kisses all over his face and telling him she was the best son, which had made him squirm, telling her that she was the best momma, the two going back and forth until Logan gave up because she had started to tickle him and his stomach ached from laughing.

Three

Logan stares at the display in front of him, trying not to feel awkward with the eyes boring into him.

“Dude, these are like fifteen grand.” Oscar hisses under his breath.

“Yeah and none of them are the one.” He hisses back, giving the employee a polite smile. “Do you have anything else?”

Their eyes narrow a little, but they nod, an emotionless smile on their face. “Of course, Sir. Our next display.”

Following them over to the next display, his eyes immediately land on a necklace and he instantly points at it. “That one. I’ll take that one, please.”

“Are you sure?”

He frowns, “Yes. I’m sure.”

He turns to Oscar as they start to open the case. “Momma is gonna love that one.”

“Do you have the money for that?”

“Of course.”

Oscar’s eyebrows raise. “Are you sure? Because if those were twenty thousand, I can’t imagine how much these will be.”

Logan nods, shrugging. “Yeah. I’ve got money.”

The clearing of a throat makes Logan turn back around, the necklace is sitting on the counter in its opened box.

“This necklace is forty thousand pounds.”

Logan hears Oscar taking in a sharp breath of air, but Logan is already reaching for his wallet. “I’ll take it. And no gift wrap please.”

They blink at him before nodding. “Of course.”

Oscar hits his arm when they disappear with the necklace behind a curtain.

“Are you kidding me? Forty thousand pounds for a necklace? Pan is going to kill you! Mother’s Day gift or not!”

Logan scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m eighteen now and it’s my money. Momma can’t kill me for buying her this. Besides, I haven’t given her a gift under a thousand dollars since I was like six. And she’ll love that necklace.”

Oscar looks at him in disbelief, shaking his head. “Okay, it is way too easy to forget that Harry is a billionaire and by proxy you are.”

“Something tells me you don’t want to know how much your birthday present was.”

“What does that mean?”

Logan smiles at Oscar, shrugging.

“Logan, what does that mean?”

Four

“Can I help with anything?”

Logan jumps at the sound of Max’s voice, nearly banging his head into the opened cupboard door if not for Max, quickly yanking him back.

“Shit.” He curses, turning Logan around and running a hand over his forehead and head, checking for bumps. “You okay?”

“I’m okay. You just scared me.” He chuckles. “Help with what?”

Max eyes him for a moment. “Mother’s Day. I know that it’s in between Miami and Imola for you guys, and I didn’t know if you wanted help with anything.”

“Oh.”

Logan looks at the older man, he doesn’t need any help with Mother’s Day. Already has his momma’s gift sitting in his closet, but Max is asking if he can help. Max cares about their relationship, so he finds himself nodding.

“Actually yeah.”

Max’s whole face lights up. “What can I do?”

Logan quickly says goodbye to his momma’s Christmas gift, but he guesses that what was supposed to be her Mother’s Day can just be her Christmas gift. “There’s this watch she likes, but there’s maybe ten available in the world right now.” He starts to tell Max.

Plus One

Logan has never had a father. And as much as he loves his grandpa, he wasn’t really a father figure for him. The closest he got was maybe Oscar’s dad, but even then he never really saw him enough for that. Max though… Max feels like his dad.

He cares about him, and not just because he’s dating his mom. He talks to Logan, checks in on him, before the first session of every day, Max always ducks into the Williams garage to hug him. He brings him water every time he does media, even when he isn’t scheduled for media for a few hours.

It hasn’t yet been a year, but Logan already can tell he’s fighting a losing battle of not just calling Max his dad. And he knows that Max hasn’t let himself think of himself like that. He’s heard him call him his kid a hundred times, but never once has he called himself Logan’s parent or dad. Always respecting the relationship between his mom and him and the boundaries that Logan has set.

But Logan wants Max to call himself Logan’s dad. Wants to call Max dad to his face and not just to Oscar when he’s too tired to filter or to the media to make the journalists go a little crazy.

So he finds himself laying on the couch, head in his momma’s lap as she runs her fingers through his hair.

“Can we talk?”

“Always.”

His lips quirk up a bit at the quick response. “It’s about Max.”

Her fingers still for just a second before resuming. “What about Max?”

Her voice is measured, smooth, and it gives Logan the courage to say the next words. “I want to call Max dad.” His voice goes quiet. “I want him to be my dad.”

“Oh, baby.” And her voice breaks around the words.

He sits up to look at her. “Are you mad?”

“No.” She smiles, reaching forward to cup his face. “No, baby. Not at all. I’m happy. I’m so happy.”

“So, it’s okay?”

She laughs, her free hand brushing away her tears. “Logan, you can call anyone you want dad, that’s not my choice, that’s yours.”

“Do you think he’ll be okay with it? I want to do it on Father’s Day. Give him a card too.”

“I think Max will be over the moon.”

A week later, Logan shuffles into the living room, a breakfast tray in his hands, where Max is sitting, watching the recap for Le Mans so far.

“Hi.” He greets.

Max smiles at him, “You didn’t need to bring me breakfast.”

He shakes his head, stopping Max from getting up. “I wanted to. It’s a special day.”

“I mean, Le Mans isn’t this kind of special.”

Logan huffs out a laugh, handing over the tray to Max, who places it on the coffee table before sitting on the couch next to him.

“Get enough sleep?”

Logan nods, running a hand through his hair, the other clutching at the card he has for Max. “Wasn’t too bad. I actually have something else for you, because y’know special day.”

Max’s eyebrows raise and Logan can feel nerves fill him. “I still have no idea what you are talking about.”

He shrugs and after a moment he passes over the card, carefully watching Max’s face.

Max looks delighted at getting handed the card, but Logan can see the moment he realizes what kind of card it is. His eyes going wide, his whole body stilling. The room would be quiet if not for the Le Mans highlights playing.

The older man carefully opens it up after a long moment, his breath catching as he reads the written words from Logan.

“Logan,” he starts, and his voice is thick.

“Happy Father’s Day, dad.” Logan speaks before he can say anything else.

“Come here.” He finishes, opening his arms, and Logan dives into them. “I love you so much, kid. So fucking much. I’m gonna be the best dad for you.”

“You already are.”

[syoddeye]

kinktober - day 03 - public sex

ghost x f!reader | 2.4k words cw: noncon/rape, violent threats, spit, degradation, improvised gag, unnegotiated and vague allusion breeding kink, abduction a/n: if anyone is better acquainted with the vw camper vans, no you’re not (please don’t call me on details, ty) summary: two birds, one stone. banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

A knock at the door mid-saxophone solo wrenches you out of the 1980s.

It’s Lost Boys night at the drive-in, one of your favorite films at one of your favorite places. To be interrupted, your knee-jerk reaction is what does this asshole want—

Except, said asshole looms over your door, clearing your car by almost a foot, treating you to a view of a broad torso in a hi-vis vest. Ducking down, your frown gives way to confusion. It’s the security guy who waved you into this very ‘spot’ not ten minutes ago. You had to beg him to let you turn into the drive-in, frantically explaining that work kept you late, causing you to arrive just as the movie started.

“Lot’s full.”

“That can’t be right, I-I have a ticket! Please?”

(If you’d dipped a little low to give him a good view of your cleavage, that was neither here nor there.)

He’d given you a long look, sighed, and then guided your puttering van into a relatively flat space by the dumpsters beyond the final row of cars. When you stuck your head out to thank him, he muttered something about tardiness. 

It appears he still has a bone to pick with you.

You crank the window down, one eye still on the screen.

“Yeah?”

“Just wonderin’, that a ‘75 Volkswagen camper?”

“It’s an ‘82 T3 Westfalia,” You rattle off. “You a collector? ‘Cause The Bluebird’s not for sale. She was my dad’s, so...”

“I’m not. Is it the model with the foldin' table?”

Oh, so he’s just another nosy enthusiast. Good thing you have the rundown memorized from years of strangers walking up to play twenty questions.

“Yeah,” you say with a little sigh, eyes still on the movie. “Everything’s original except for the seat fabric.”

“Mind if I pop in for a look? My dad 'ad one too, before 'e passed.”

Great. Now you have something in common. You unlock the doors and furiously gesture for him to take a peek. 

“Yeah, yeah, climb in. Just keep it quiet, I love this movie.”

“Quiet’s the goal, sweet'eart.”

Cripes.

You listen to him inspect the cupboards and examine the curtains your dad installed years ago. True to his word, the security guard’s silent. When the door shuts, you automatically turn to ask if it is anything like his dad’s model, but nobody’s outside the van. It’s like he vanished into—

Something cold touches your cheek.

“You scream, and I’ll ruin daddy’s ’ard work.”

Your eyes strain in their sockets to glimpse the tip of something black poking into your flesh, and your imagination fills in the rest. Your mouth dries, killing the screaming trapped at the base of your throat. You nod mechanically.

“Good girl. Now, give me the keys then keep your ‘ands where I can see ‘em.”

Sucking in a panicked breath, you slowly reach for the keys and blindly hand them over your shoulder. They disappear with a faint jingle.

“P-Please. You can have her. I’ll–I’ll get out, sit on the ground quietly, and you can drive off. I won’t fight o-or make a scene–“

“You won’t do either of those things, Blue,” he chuckles before stroking your temple with the tip of his gun. “Now. Turn the radio up so you can listen to your movie, then climb back here, carefully.”

You hesitate. Does he mean…?

“Between the seats. C’mon.”

Oh god.

“I’m not a patient man.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You wheeze. You turn up the radio until it drowns out your thundering heartbeat and clumsily scramble into the back. You nearly trip, eyes widening to see that in his explorations, he’s converted the back seat into the sleeping configuration. He’s made the bed. 

He stands hunched in the narrow gap between the bed and the driver’s seat. Crammed into a space meant for a man seemingly half his size. The bed isn’t the only thing he’s changed, you notice. Gone is the medical mask. In its place is a crude, painted balaclava. It makes him look all the more terrifying as if he needs the boost to his image.

He gestures at your chest as you hover awkwardly behind the passenger seat, hands raised, trying not to fall onto the bed in the cramped space.

“Clothes off. Won’t say it twice this time, so get a move on. Sit if ya need to, but not a fuckin’ word.”

Tears spring to your eyes. Your cheeks burn as you comply, a sob catching in your throat when you glimpse him unbuckling his belt. This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening. The fact it is happening at the drive-in, in the van, is a double whammy. The stranger’s going to obliterate two of your safe spots in one go.

He growls when you stand there in your bra and panties, hands clasping awkwardly at your front. 

“You stupid? Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Your bra tumbles down your shaking arms, and you kick it next to your clothes. As for your panties—he snatches them out of your hands before you can toss them. He brings them to his face, mashing them into the fabric covering his nose, and jerks his head in a silent but clear order.

He practically purrs when you climb onto the cheap, lumpy makeshift mattress. The upholstery is clean, you see to its maintenance, but it scratches at your palms and knees as you crawl.

“Look at that arse. Give it a wiggle, Blue.”

With the gun and his casual threat of ruining the interior with your interior, you pathetically comply. He belly laughs, louder than the revving of the motorcycles on screen. You try to ignore it, focusing on the interior handle of the van’s rear latch that’s a shuffle away. But as soon as you reach for it, a hand the width of a shovel wraps around your ankle and yanks.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” He growls, easily overpowering your squirming, sobbing self. 

The fight you put up, if you could call it that, feeds the growing shame in your gut. It ends as quick as it began, with your panties jammed behind your teeth and wrists pinned. He hovers, breathing rough through his mask. He releases your hands with a cautionary squeeze.

“Try that again, and you’ll be joinin' your dad tonight. Simple enough?”

You nod so fast you crick your neck, tonguing fabric. 

With a patronizing pat to your cheek, he sits on his knees, head ducked and back curved, touching the roof. “That’s more like it.” His eyes linger on yours, assessing, then drop to your body, a soft, perverse laugh rattling out. Hedged with a smoker’s cough. 

It’s as surreal as the movie. Like you’ve been sucked beyond the silver screen. One minute, simply watching, the next, part of the nightmare.

Ghost, he tells you between sharp nips and bites to your tits, is what you’ll call him when you plead, beg, and whine. And that’s what you do, trading breaths for muffled whimpers as he paws at your belly, hips—whatever he can reach, which is everything. He leaves indentations of his teeth all the way down your body, stinging and raw.

“Nice cunt you’ve got ‘ere,” Ghost grins as if complimenting the upholstery or fixtures. He rolls and tucks his mask, revealing a pale chin and thin lips. You catch a couple of old, gnarly scars in the light filtering through the windshield. A knitted cleft. Helpful detail to identify him later, your hysterical mind notes. His lips twitch as he pries your legs open. “She’s fuckin’ soaked. Playin’ rough do it for you?”

Blunt thumbs rub circles into the soft skin at the crux of your inner thighs, teasing and pulling you open. He spits a large glob directly onto your hole. Either you’re not as soaked as he said, or worse, you think, he’s planting yet another little flag on your body. He plays with you for a moment, unskillfully toying with your clit, and stroking himself, spreading the drool from his leaking cock. He slaps the heft of it once, twice—then without further preamble, begins to shove his way in.

You can’t stop your hands from flying up to claw at his arms, your mouth falling further open in a silent scream, cotton tickling the back of your throat. The stretch is immense, and you feel like a bug the way your legs instinctively try to close, bracketing his broad form and pressing into his sides, from how you feel squashed as he bottoms out with a throaty groan.

Ghost rocks his hips to take whatever room’s left and chuckles at your wide eyes, glassed over with unshed tears. You stare up at the dark pits above, glinting with satisfaction. 

“Go ahead and cry. Been wonderin’ what you’d look like since you got all blubbery at the entry.” He picks up the pace and successfully knocks your tears loose as he fucks you hard into the mattress. The whole van must be rocking on its suspension, giving you a little hope a fellow movie-goer or an employee will investigate and scare him off. But there’s no way he doesn’t notice the sway of the van. He must not care.

“Please,” Ghost mocks. “Please, I ‘ave a ticket! It’s my stupid job and my stupid manager,” he laughs meanly, smacking into you to punctuate his speech. “These stupid ‘ours and stupid customers.” You wince at hearing your near-hysteric ranting and begging parroted back at you. “Ever think about what all those got in common? Ever think it’s you who might be stupid, Blue?”

He slips a hand back to your clit, thumbing it in tight circles broken by occasional flicks, coaxing a reluctant yet responsive heat like a skittish animal. His mask lifts more with a big smirk and a mean laugh as you choke around the gag, sobbing. 

“After all, you did let a strange man into your car.”

Your fingers dig into his arms but do nothing. He drops his weight, snakes his arm under your head, and ruts. His rubbing hurts. He uses way too much pressure than you normally like and pinches, muttering filthy orders into your ear. He kisses your drooling mouth and licks your cheeks. 

“C’mon, give me it, come on my cock. Want you nice and tight f’me, need you to keep it all inside.”

The inevitably of him finishing inside you chases another wail from your mouth. He finally slots his own over it, burrowing his tongue inside to dig around. You can barely breathe as he fucks you through whatever it is he’s doing. Your eyes spin and bounce off the fogged windows. Surely, any minute now, someone will interrupt, someone will save you. They’ll throw away their trash and hear your muted shrieking. 

And, as if summoned by thought alone, the beam of a flashlight bounces off the rear windows. Ghost pauses his mouth before his hips, slowing to a leisurely roll. He lifts his upper half to stare out the window as the light passes over the glass again. You watch, heartbeat borderline painful, and squeak when he raises his hand. His face snaps to you.

“Not a word.” He warns.

Ghost wipes the mist from the glass and his lip curls. 

“Just a kid.” A hand migrates over your mouth and presses, apparently not trusting you even with your underwear half-lodged behind your teeth. His other hand reaches and unlatches the window. You tense so hard in panic that he hisses and squeezes your cheeks with a second pointed look. He cranks the window open enough that surely his masked face is visible outside.

“Didn’t your mum teach you it’s not polite to stare?”

A pitchy, crackling voice of what sounds like a teenager responds. Fuck. You can hear him pretty clearly, even over the radio. He must be only a foot away. 

“I-I-I….W-Whatever it is you’re doing, sir, you can’t–”

“I’m enjoyin’ the show. At least I’m tryin’, but ‘ere’s some whelp stickin’ his nose in my business.” His voice is cruel, mocking. “I suggest you go back to your booth and forget about me. I can leave an impression if you’d like, but you like solid foods, yeah?” 

There’s a choked, scared sound that cuts through the film audio. It makes Ghost huff and drive deeper into your cunt, making you bite through cotton as his cockhead glances sharply into your cervix.

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.” By the sound of his retreating footsteps, the kid’s power-walking away.

Ghost shuts and locks the window, muttering, and returns his attention to you. He gives you a toothy grin, flashing a silver cap on a rear molar. 

“Now, where was I?” 

A heartbeat passes before he’s back to fucking you mercilessly, tongue jamming into your mouth yet again.

He ignores the rake of your nails when you shove your hands up his shirt to find skin to ruin, and merely grunts as he lifts his head. Your underwear slides out of your mouth in his teeth, damp and wrinkled. He spits them out beside your head, then returns, wetting your dry tongue with his own.

Ghost swallows your shrill cry as you come and endures your kicking legs while flames as hot as hellfire sear you to the bone beneath him. The train whistle and screams pumping through the van’s speakers smother the rest of your bawling. You dangle above the abyss, spent.

It doesn’t take long for his orgasm to follow. Panting into your mouth, blown pupils fixed to yours, mouth screwed up in a sneer. He barely makes a sound as he loses his rhythm and floods your cunt. 

He withdraws after a brief eternity and kisses you. Exhausted, overwhelmed, and aching, you slip unconscious. Lost.

When you stir, you find yourself cuffed to the wall of the van, wearing only a hi-vis vest. It chafes your nipples as the van bounces along. Blinking, you groggily moan in pain and try to compute what it is you’re seeing through the lace curtains. Green. Patches of gray and white. Mountains. But the closest range is…

Your eyes whip up front, where Ghost fiddles with the dial. He pauses, registering your movement in the corner of his eye, and meets your gaze in the rearview. 

“Made a collector out of me, Bluebird.”