#deep steam table pans

[bigasstoree]

Deep Steam Table Pans – 4-Pack Stainless Steel Pans for Catering & Buffets

These deep steam table pans are made from durable stainless steel, perfect for catering, buffets, and food storage. With a 13L capacity, they provide ample space for serving and keeping food warm. Easy to clean and designed for commercial use.

[space-cowgirllll]

Tolerate It

pls enjoy this kinda angsty little thing I wrote a couple of months ago when I was really going through it in a relationship and have been too shy to post anywhere until today. I miiiiight have the second part to this halfway done. If this sucks I'm so sorry lmao it’s very lightly proofread and I have not written anything that hasn't had to be turned in for a grade in years.

Part Two

You sit alone at the table wondering how you ended up here. The dinner you'd spent the better part of the evening preparing grows cold as you sip on what has to be your third glass of wine. From your spot you can see Abby standing at the counter, speaking softly into the phone while she reads through the mail that had piled up over the last week. You pick at your food, hoping she'll join you eventually, but when fifteen minutes turns into twenty and then thirty five, you realize you're wasting your time. The laughter from the other room tells you the work part of the call ended long ago. Pushing your chair back, not caring when the loud noise earns you a glare from Abby, you gather your plate and blow out the candles at the center of the table.

Abby moves to sit on the loveseat in the living room after her call. It doesn't take long for her to get lost in the new book she had just brought home. Your eyes shift to the untouched plate of food still waiting for her in the dining room and then to the apple in her hand. The sound of  your throat clearing catches her attention.

"Your plate is still at the table if you want it, babe." You gesture to the lone plate at her usual spot.

There's a pang in your chest at the sight of the floral arrangement you'd chosen for the week. Behind that, strong wind pelts rain at the window. The gloomy weather a perfect representation of the storm brewing inside you.

"I thought I told you I had an early dinner with a couple of colleagues."

"Oh."

It comes out as a whisper. Not bothering to tell her she hadn't called you back after her lunch break. Again. You make a mental note to put the plate away before bed, knowing she'll pack it for tomorrow.

Your arms are elbow deep in soapy water, trying to rush through the last couple of dishes before she retreats to her study. The clanking of pots and pans fills the quiet space. You scrub at a particularly stubborn spot, trying to think of a way to bring it up without sounding too obvious.

"How was work today?"

"Fine." Your wife replies, not elaborating further.

"It's the twenty first, right?" There's some hesitation in the question.

"Yup."

Okay.

She doesn't look up from her book when you shuffle past her a little while later, placing a steaming mug on the coffee table. Her hand caresses the soft skin of your thigh and you perk up when she mumbles a soft thanks, placing a quick kiss on her temple. The sleeping cat on her lap stirs when you give him a gentle scratch behind the ear.

You settle into the sofa across from her and watch her read. She's in the cotton pajamas and fuzzy socks you'd laid out in the closet for her. It makes you feel ridiculously overdressed. Your hands fist the skirt of your dress, feeling foolish. There's a dark spot on the satin material from leaning over the wet counter.

The record player in the far corner of the room catches your attention. You miss the nights where she'd play you one of her favorites and dance with you around the living room before letting you sit on her lap as she read out loud to you. You never thought you would miss those boring medical journals. These days you're lucky if you get more than an hour with her before she locks herself in her study.

It hadn't always been like this. The two of you have been together longer than you've been apart. Visions of eleven year old Abby teaching you how to braid her hair for soccer practice flash in your head. Crawling into her bed in the middle of the night after another nasty fight between your parents. Summer vacations to her family's lake house. Her and her parents at every dance recital and play you'd ever been part of in high school. Realizing at sixteen that your feelings for the girl weren't so platonic. Then moving into the spare bedroom down the hall from her a year later after coming out to your family. Prom dress shopping with her and her mother, sneaking kisses in the tiny fitting rooms. The Anderson's were the family you never had.

Navigating young adulthood with Abby had been fun. You'd rented a tiny apartment in Seattle and paid way too much for it while attending university. It wasn't much, but it was home. You remember the dance parties in the tiny living room. The time the blonde begged you to let her keep the tiny cat she'd found in an alley on the way home one random afternoon. Going on dates and exploring the city. Staying up late and fantasizing about what life would look like in ten years. The look on her face as her thumb rubbed small circles on the exposed skin of your belly after you'd shown her your list of baby names. Getting married just after graduation.

Abby had never been too busy to show you how much she loved you, no matter how busy she got with school. Packing your meals for work, making sure your car had enough gas in it, organizing stay at home date nights whenever your schedules aligned. And you doing the same for her when she was up to her eyebrows in work for school.

The notes were your favorite. They had started appearing randomly after you'd been unexpectedly laid off. You'd been moping around the house for weeks, losing hope after not hearing back from any of the companies you'd applied to. Always in your favorite color, the purple post it notes could be found stuck to the wherever you'd see them first thing in the morning. The silly declarations of love and the affirmations always made you smile.

Those days were long gone. You were slowly going from high school sweethearts to two people who simply co-existed. No matter what you did or how hard you tried, it was getting harder to deny the lack of warmth in her eyes when she looked at you sometimes. Today proved what you had been too afraid to admit to yourself. The only person who had ever felt like home has slowly started becoming a stranger that slipped into your bed later and later each night.

Your eyes start stinging and you bite down on your lower lip. There's no way you're breaking down in front of her, not tonight. The warmth radiating from the fireplace does little to keep away the chill running through your body. Shaky hands bring the mug to your lips, hoping some tea would calm the nausea swirling in your stomach. You're not surprised to find yourself unable to keep drinking after a few tiny sips. Abby's favorite mug grows cold on the coffee table and you're positive she doesn't even remember it's there.

The sound of her phone ringing startles you both. Abby snatches the phone off the counter, a tired sigh leaves her parted lips when she sees who's calling. She jogs up the steps, intently listening to whoever is on the other end of the phone. You pick at the chipping nail polish on your left hand, watching the way your engagement ring glints in the dim light of the fire. Your stomach dips as you slip the stack off your finger, placing them in the small bowl on the coffee table.

"Are you going somewhere?" Your head shoots up to where she's standing in the threshold. The sight of her in a fresh pair of navy blue scrubs doesn't surprise you. Her loose bun traded for a tight braid that hangs over her shoulder.

"No. Why would I be?"

She gestures at your dress. Eyes roaming over your face, finally noticing the makeup you'd carefully applied hours before. You see her lock in on your empty hand, her sculpted brows furrow in confusion. Please say something. You beg, just wanting to understand why this is happening. Was she so busy she couldn't even bother to ask what's wrong? Did she even care anymore?

The constant buzzing of the phone in her tote bag answers your question for you. She shakes her head and turns to the door, stopping to slip her feet into her sneakers. You follow silently behind her, wondering if you should say something.

"Abigail?"

She hums in acknowledgment, not bothering to look up from her phone. Her fingers move at lightning speed across the touchscreen. Your nails dig into the palm of your hand, fighting the urge to snatch her phone and chuck it against the wall.

"What?" She asks again when you don't speak up. The look of annoyance on her face has you taking a step back.

"Nevermind," you turn towards the coat closet, pulling out her winter jacket. "It doesn't matter." You don't have to look back to know she's rolling her eyes.

"I should be back before you leave for work." You busy yourself with the already organized closet, pretending to move things around while she gathers the rest of her things.

"Be careful." You mumble, blinking rapidly to stop the tears from flowing. Not trusting yourself to say much more without your throat closing.

"Always am." She plants a kiss on the back of your head and heads out the door. It's only when you hear the sound of her car pulling away that you let yourself cry. No longer caring about the mascara that is certainly smearing.

Unsteady legs carry to the foot of the stairs where you collapse into a pathetic heap. Tears freely flowing down your cheeks, further staining the material of your dress. Your hands harshly pull at the fabric, wanting nothing more than to rip it off. The pins in your hair clatter loudly on the floor as you harshly pull them out.

Your sobs echo throughout the empty house. Pain radiates through your body, from somewhere in your chest to the tips of your fingers. The nausea has increased tenfold. You inhale sharply, resting your head on your knees. Watery eyes fixed on the front door your wife had just walked out of, this gut wrenching feeling of loneliness overwhelms you.

"Happy anniversary Abby."

[cherbii]

NEIGHBOUR NEIGHBOUR

ft. Toji Fushiguro

synapses -> Toji promised to pay you a visit, and a visit it is indeed!

warnings -> language, drinking, smut! p in v, creampie, prone bone, spanking, choking, rough sex, age gap, parents are in the other room. mdni.

[PART 1] <- Shiu’s version

The morning was heavy before you even opened your eyes, the weight of last night pressing into your body, settling deep into your bones, leaving a heat that refused to fade. Your sheets were tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, your skin too sensitive, too raw, still humming with the ghost of rough hands and burning kisses, of breath against your ear, of a voice that wouldn’t leave your head no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. Shiu.

The thought alone sent a sharp pang through your stomach, a shudder trailing down your spine as flashes of the night before flickered behind your eyelids, unwilling to fade. The balcony, the heat, the way he had pulled you apart piece by piece until there had been nothing left but raw want, something primal and unrestrained.

You shifted, pressing your thighs together, biting back the soft noise that threatened to slip out. It was too much, lingering too long, making you feel restless, unsatisfied, still wanting despite yourself. But it wasn’t just him, wasn’t just the memory of his hands, of his mouth, of the way he had held you steady as he ruined you—it was the fact that someone else had been there. Watching.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a frustrated noise slipping past your lips as you forced yourself upright, the cool air hitting your bare skin, making you shiver. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like you had done anything wrong. So what if Toji had been there? So what if he had seen? It wasn’t his business. It wasn’t like he had any claim over you, wasn’t like you belonged to him, wasn’t like his presence should make you feel anything at all.

But it did.

You exhaled sharply, raking a hand through your hair, pushing the thoughts away as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, testing the soreness in your muscles as you stood. The ache was still there, a slow, dull burn, a reminder. You ignored it, moving on autopilot, stepping into the bathroom, twisting the shower handle until steam curled around you, scalding, almost painful, but not enough to wash away the feeling of last night.

The water ran too hot, too long, but you didn’t care, didn’t stop until your skin was raw, until you felt somewhat grounded again, until the haze of sleep and lingering desire finally started to lift.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, catching your reflection in the mirror, eyes dragging over the faint bruises blooming along your collarbone, the marks on your hips, proof of everything you were trying not to think about.

Your stomach twisted. You needed to get a grip. You forced yourself out of the bathroom, pulling on the first thing you could find—a loose tank top, shorts that clung a little too tight, but you didn’t care.

The house was already alive with the sound of morning, the scent of coffee and eggs drifting through the air as you padded into the kitchen, your mother humming to herself as she worked over the stove, your father seated at the table, half-hidden behind his newspaper, a mug of coffee clutched in one hand.

You slid into your seat, forcing yourself to act like everything was fine, like you weren’t still thinking about rough hands and sharper eyes, like you weren’t hyperaware of every shift in your own body. “You sleep okay?” Your mother asked, voice light, casual, not looking up from the pan.

You hesitated, fingers curling around your glass, knuckles white. “Yeah,” you said, voice steady, too steady. “Fine.”

A pause. “You sure? You look a little flushed.”

You forced a smile, shaking your head. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

She hummed, unconvinced but unwilling to press further, flipping the eggs with a practiced ease. Your father barely glanced up, taking another slow sip of his coffee, muttering something about the paper, uninterested in whatever conversation was happening around him. You let the silence stretch, let the sound of the spatula against the pan, the rustle of newspaper pages, the faint hum of the TV in the next room fill the space, grounding yourself in the mundane, the normal. But it wasn’t enough. 

You still felt off-kilter, still felt like something was crawling under your skin, like something was shifting, like something was coming. You tried to push it away, tried to lose yourself in the rhythm of the day, in the comfort of routine, but your mind kept drifting, looping back to the way you had felt last night, to the way you had been watched, to the weight of a stare you couldn’t shake.

The day dragged, the hours stretching too long, too slow, your body restless, your mind distracted. You tried to focus, tried to keep yourself busy, but it was useless. Every quiet moment, every second of stillness, your thoughts strayed back, circling the same thing over and over again, an obsession you couldn’t shake.

And then, just as the afternoon started to bleed into evening, just as the sky turned the color of embers, just as the air became thick with the scent of dinner being prepared, the front door opened. Heavy footsteps. Familiar. Too familiar.

Your stomach tightened, fingers twitching at your sides as you turned, pulse skipping when you saw him. Toji.

He looked the same as always—broad shoulders, black shirt tight just enough to hint at the hard lines beneath, that lazy, knowing smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips like he knew something you didn’t. Like he had been waiting for this moment. Like he had been waiting for you.

Your throat went dry. You told yourself it didn’t matter, told yourself that you wouldn’t react, that you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, but it was impossible to ignore the way your body responded, the way heat pooled low in your stomach, the way your skin prickled under his gaze. He didn’t say anything at first, just let his eyes drag over you, slow, deliberate, like he was taking his time, like he was cataloging every detail, like he could see straight through you.

Your breath hitched. “Something wrong?” you asked, voice steady, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

Toji huffed a quiet laugh, tilting his head slightly, green eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Ya tell me.” He murmured.

The air shifted. Your pulse quickened. And you knew, without a doubt, that whatever this was, it wasn’t over. Not even close.

You should have known better than to think he’d drop it, that he’d let last night fade into nothing, that he’d walk into this house, sit down for dinner, and pretend like he hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen everything, hadn’t watched you come apart under another man’s hands with something dark and unreadable in his gaze.

But you weren’t stupid. You had felt it then, felt it now, the weight of his stare, the way it lingered too long, too intense, crawling over your skin like a touch that hadn’t happened yet but was already burning its way through you. And the worst part? You didn’t hate it.

Didn’t hate the way his presence made the air thick, made your pulse stutter, made you shift in place, made something coil tight in your stomach, hot and restless. No, what you hated was how much you wanted to see just how far he’d take it.

The thought sent a sharp pulse through you, and you swallowed hard, pushing it down, forcing yourself to move, to turn away, to pretend like you weren’t already fighting to keep yourself steady under his gaze.

Your mother called from the kitchen, greeting Toji the same way she always did, warm and familiar, like he was just another part of the family, like he hadn’t been watching you with that glint in his eye, like he hadn’t been waiting for something to tip the scales.

You forced yourself to breathe, to shake off the feeling, to play your part, but it was impossible not to notice the way his gaze stayed locked onto you as he moved further inside, the slow stretch of his smirk when he finally, finally looked away. It didn’t last long.

You could feel him even when you weren’t looking, even when you were setting the table, even when you were listening to your mother talk about nothing in particular, even when your father finally got up from his seat, clapping Toji on the shoulder in greeting. Normal. Routine. But it wasn’t. Not this time.

You were hyperaware of every shift, every glance, every small interaction that shouldn’t have meant anything but did. The brush of his hand when he reached for a plate, the way he stood just a little too close, the heat of him at your back when he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching, always watching. It was suffocating.

It was intoxicating.

And then your father was talking, voice low and gruff, something about work, something about a job, something that had Toji nodding along, humming in response, uninterested, distracted.

You didn’t blame him. Not when you felt the same, not when all you could think about was the fact that the night hadn’t even started yet and you were already on edge, already strung too tight, already drowning in something you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

The tension simmered through dinner, thick and steady, a quiet game neither of you acknowledged but both played anyway. He never said anything outright, never pushed, never teased in the way you half expected him to, but it was there, in the way his knee bumped against yours beneath the table, in the way his fingers curled around the neck of his beer bottle, slow and deliberate, in the way his tongue flicked out to catch a stray drop, green eyes flickering to yours just in time to catch the way your breath hitched.

You wanted to kill him. You wanted to drag him somewhere dark and quiet and see if he’d still be this cocky when you had him against the wall, when you had him where you wanted him, when he wasn’t the one in control.

The thought sent a sharp pulse through you, heat licking up your spine, and you barely caught yourself before you shifted in your seat, fingers curling around your fork, grip tight, knuckles white. 

You needed to focus. You needed to breathe.

But then your mother was stretching, letting out a quiet sigh as she rubbed at her temples, and she was excusing herself, pressing a kiss to your father’s cheek before she disappeared down the hall, and your father—well, he didn’t last much longer. He never did.

One too many beers, full stomach, comfortable seat, it was only a matter of time before his head tipped back against the couch, breath evening out, soft snores filling the space he left behind. You exhaled slowly.

And then, finally, finally, you turned to Toji. He was already watching you. “What?” You muttered, shifting in your seat, crossing your arms over your chest, ignoring the way your heart had started to pick up, the way your skin felt too hot, too tight.

Toji didn’t answer right away, just studied you, gaze slow and heavy, like he was considering something, like he was debating whether or not he wanted to say whatever was on his mind. And then he smiled, slow and lazy, one brow arching as he leaned forward, forearms resting against the table, close, too close. “Nothing,” he drawled, voice low, rough, filled with something you couldn’t quite name but felt all the same. “Just thinking.”

Your stomach twisted. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what he was thinking about. You knew exactly what had been playing in his head since last night, the same thing that had been playing in yours. You swallowed hard, shifting again, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral, to keep your breathing steady. “Thinking about what?”

His smirk deepened. “About how much fun ya had last night.”

The words hit you like a punch, and you froze, body tensing, breath catching in your throat. He was pushing now, testing, seeing how far he could go, how much he could get away with. Your nails dug into your arms, and you forced yourself to breathe, forced yourself to stay calm, to keep your voice even when you finally responded. “And?”

Toji’s eyes darkened, something sharp flashing behind them, something hungry. “And,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, considering, “I wonder if yer’d have just as much fun with me.”

His voice was low, smooth, and it hit you like a wave of heat that spread through your body. You could feel the tension building between you two, and it was hard to ignore the way your pulse was racing. He leant in just slightly, his face closer than you’d expected, and you could feel the heat coming off of him, his presence overwhelming.

“Ya don’t really think I’m just talking, do ya?” He asked, his voice quieter now, dangerous even in its calm. He let his hand shift a little, his fingers brushing the edge of your chair, getting just a bit too close to your leg for comfort.

You stiffened, but didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “My dad’s right there.” You muttered, hoping to snap him out of whatever mood he was getting into.

He smirked, as if it amused him more than anything. “Ya think I care about yer dad?” He asked, leaning in a little more, his breath warm against your ear. His hand didn’t move, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, the way he was watching you. He was waiting for something.

You weren’t sure what he wanted from you, but you knew you had to make a choice. The silence between you was thick, almost suffocating, and the only sound was the faint hum of your own heartbeat.

“I don’t think yer scared of him,” Toji said quietly, his voice dangerously close now. “But I wonder if yer scared of me.” His fingers brushed your thigh, just enough for you to feel it, sending a shiver down your spine.

You bit your lip, trying to keep your composure, but the way he was looking at you made it almost impossible. “I’m not scared.” You whispered back, your voice barely above a breath.

Toji’s smirk grew, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped. He was waiting for you to move, to make the decision, but all you could do was stare back at him, your heart pounding louder than your thoughts.

Toji just grinned, letting his hand trail between your thighs, before your thighs snapped shut, enabling his hand from sliding closer to your cunt. The man hummed, leaning his head close to the side of yours, nose nudging your ear. “Did ya have fun with Shiu last night?”

“You tell me, you were there.”

“I’d say ya had a decent time, ya sounded like ya had a decent time. I mean, I know I did.”

It was then, that you noticed that your thighs’s hold on his hand had weakened, and his fingers were now rubbing you through your shorts.

“I can feel her, doll. All wet, but for Shiu? Come on, let me show ya how a real man can make ya feel.”

You were feeling heat around your collar, and your ears burned. The wet patch between your legs had started to grow, and become far more noticeable. “My parents…”

“Won’t hear nothin’. Let’s just go to yer room, and I’ll treat ya real nice.” Like your body had a mind of its own, you were on your two feet and following Toji to your room where he shut the door behind you.

Something changed the moment the door shut, and he was standing, muscles bulging and figure imposing, and you suddenly felt small, anyone would next to him. Anyone.

His warm hand slid to your chin and tilted it up, his breath kissing your cheeks. His fingers slid to hold your jaw before his lips were on yours. Hard. Hot. Ravenous.

Whatever trance you were in faded, and you very much consciously kissed him back. I mean, this is all you ever fantasised about, you’d be a fool to stop it.

Your cunt clenched at the kiss alone, Toji’s tongue had delved past your lips and danced with yours in an obscene manner, taking languid strokes in your mouth. Your chest was pushing right up against his, his other hand on the smaller part of your back trailed up to your top, where he began to pry it off your hot skin.

You raised your arms and stepped back, allowing him to take it off before you were rushing to take his off. Salivating at his muscles, that gleamed with sweat. Next were your shorts and Toji had something to say. “No panties? Dirty bitch.” He tutted, grabbing you to connect your lips again.

His comically large hand groped at your ass, squeezing and toying with the flesh like putty. He even went as far as to reach all the way, fingers brushing your cunt as he grabbed your ass.

He ripped his mouth away from yours, lips swollen and shiny from your spit before he grabbed at you and hoisted you over to your bed. Throwing you on before he was quick to climb on and mount you.

This time, his stomach was flush against your back, your fingers holding your pillows while his hands raised your hips so he could grind his clothed cock on your ass.

��Do ya know how long I’ve wanted this? Way longer than that fucking Shiu. Don’t worry yer head, doll. It was only when ya were grown and adult. But, to think ya gave that pussy up for that bastard before me? Ridiculous.”

His hands were on your thighs, spreading your legs and exposing your dripping cunt to him. You almost came at the feeling on his now bare cock pressing at your entrance, you were just as desperate.

Toji shifted his weight, almost flat on you except for his knees that were raising his hips. His chest was pushing on your shoulders and his mouth was by your ear. “Fucking’ fisted my cock so many times. It even started to hurt. That’s what ya do to me. That’s what ya do to a man.”

You had to bury your face in your pillow as he began to push himself in. Toji swore as he bottomed out, filling you in an unearthly way.

“I know I’m a sick fuck, but fuck, doll. I can’t help it.”

You tilted your head, enough to get your words out. “No, no. I had been thinking about you too.”

“Yeah? Tell me, doll.” Toji rolled his hips causing you to whimper. At this angle you were forced to feel everything.

“Touched myself imaging I was riding you, being fucked by you, sucking your cock or you eating me out while I sucked Shiu.” You said, lips pinching shut as Toji rolled his hips again.

“Such a dirty mind ya got. Thank god we got the time to try all those out, huh. Whaddaya say?”

“Sounds goo—ah!” You moaned when Toji decided he was going to fuck you properly this time.

His hips fucked into you, tip already hitting that one spot inside you, his balls slapped your puffy clit. Toji was just a little more vocal than Shiu. Constant, rhythmic grunts and growls escaped his lips, and went straight through your ear and to your abused sex.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Toji, fuck, so good!”

Toji snickered. “So loud, so quick? Shh, or yer parents might hear.”

You almost forgot about them, the thought of them walking in and seeing the bulk of a man fuck their daughter in her childhood room was just straight up scary, and gross, and turning you on even more. Toji huffed a laugh when he felt you clench.

Toji grabbed your hips and raised them, eyes watching your ass recoil against his harsh thrusts. He was basically manoeuvring you, having you grind onto him so his cock could go deeper in you. Once he was satisfied, he dropped your hips and went back to caging you in.

His thrusts were so powerful, it sent you bouncing up on your bed. “Ah! Ah! Toji!” You squealed, legs bending, causing you to arch back, and push your ass further his way, his cock going deeper yet again.

“Don’t be too loud, doll. Just turn yer brain off and focus on this dick.” He chuckled, planting one hand on the bed and the other finding the back of your head, shoving it in the pillows and almost suffocating you.

You focused on the way his cock was sliding in and out of you, the way you could feel the ridge of his tip. The wetness that leaked between your legs.

Your mind spiralled until you couldn’t think of anything coherent. To fucked out to even muster a thought. You choked on the musk of the now sweaty pillow below you as you felt white, hot lightning course through you.

Toji grunted as you came, feeling a wetness spray onto his cock. “That’s a good girl.” He mumbled, fingers flexing on your scalp.

His thrusts became erratic, sloppy, and fell out of rhythm before he came, buried inside. Toji did not care to ask if you were on a pill, hell he’d care. His cum filled your cunt to the brim, seeping into every nook and cranny.

Toji cursed as he pulled out, watching as your cunt squeezed his cum out. He clicked his tongue, removing his hand from your head and bringing his thumb to scoop his cum back into your cunt. “Yer parents wanna be grandparents? Heh.”

You gasped, suddenly now realising. You whipped your head to look at him, albeit your spinning vision and messy hair. “Toji!” You whisper-yelled.

Toji chuckled. “Relax, kid. I’ll get ya a pill or something tomorrow,” his hand zipped in the air, landing a harsh smack to your ass, his eyes watching your skin ripple in awe. “I need to go. Yer parents will wake up soon to complain about some earthquake. Little do they know it’s me fucking their sweet, in—.”

“Okay, Toji. I get it,” you sighed. “Thank you, I think.”

“Anytime. If ya ever need another real dicking down. Just come knockin’.”

Toji did bother to get you a blanket and toss it over you, and even gave you a goodnight kiss to youe temple before he got dressed and sauntered out, leaving you in the hot, stale air of your bedroom.

You chose not to think about his cum that still leaked out from you, instead curling up to fall asleep.

Ok so my busiest 2 weeks of erm ever is over and I can get back to writing. finally

also idk if I’m gonna do a part 3… 🐶

[penvisions]

by the grit of sandpaper {chapter 3}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x Patrol Partner! Reader

Chapter Summary: With the overnight patrol behind you, it's now time for your annual leave from the roster altogether. But Joel doesn't know that and you're hesitant to tell him, feeling like it would be the best for you two to get some distance. But as with all things involving the man, it was hard to keep the distance.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, illusions to past death, illusions to past trauma, blood, hurtful language, town gossip, rumors, negative feelings, pining, heart of gold joel, carpenter joel, woodworking joel, artisan joel, patrol partnership, lots of feelings, slight angst, hurt and comfort, joel miller's hands need their own warning, two (2} instances of joel miller gently touching reader, intentional flirting, unintentional flirting, talk of pregnancy, casual intimacy, urges to kiss joel miller get their own warning, sexual content, masturbation (f and m), yearning, protective joel, tommy is a scheming lil brother and we love him for it, fluff, this is so unbelievably soft, reader is described as smaller than joel (bc c'mon), reader has a commonly used nickname but no assigned name, joel and reader pov

A/N: i'm not really back in wake of some bad comments and confrontational haters, but love y'all ♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

A knock on your door the next morning caught you bundled up and out in the backyard, the sound echoing throughout your empty house. It was small: a simple one with a larger than average kitchen, a living room, one bathroom across the hall from the bedroom, and a laundry / mudroom with a deep utility sink and a few cabinets of storage. It’s where you kept the tools for the garden, where you washed and prepped everything you managed to grow before moving it into the kitchen space. But you were on the modest back porch, a cup of steaming coffee cooling in the early morning air as you looked out at the trees that took up a good chunk of the large area.

Dragging your eyes from the one that looked like it was about at the end of its life, a large crack running down through the trunk, you heeded the knock at the early hour. Knowing it could only be one of four people.

“Was worried I woke you for a moment, you sleep okay?” Maria greeted you as she waddled past you and moved into the kitchen. She spied the other cups worth of contents in the coffee maker and sighed in longing. The scent of it heavy in the air, mixed with cinnamon you were apt to put in with the grounds before brewing. But her sigh turned into a delighted hum as she shifted her attention to the cooling pan atop the stove and moved closer to inspect the baked goods settled on it.

“Probably not much better than you, momma. How you feelin’?” You slid a plate to her as she began to pick pieces off from one of the flaky breakfast hand pies you had made. She placed the one she had begun eating along with another before following you to the large table that ran through the middle of the room. Setting it down and pulling out the chair for her, you helped her to lower into it. With a caressing touch to her swollen belly, permission given from her months ago, you began to set up a kettle for some tea.

“Big.” She stuffed a large bite into her mouth, eyes fluttering at the taste of the filling. Crumbs of the flaky crust sticking to the front of her shirt, jacket having been shrugged off. “Olive, these are fantastic. Is there anything in here I shouldn’t be eating?”

“I wouldn’t have let ya get your hands on it if that were the case. Just bacon and onion jam, eggs, a little bit of milk, and a whole bunch of thyme. Nothing too bad.”

“Nothing too bad, my ass. You should totally make these for the mess hall on your next shift.”

Another knock on the front door stole the words from your mouth and you looked to the woman who all of a sudden had great interest in picking the crumbs from where they had fallen.

“Maria, what is this?”

“Can’t I call on a fellow morning bird without ulterior motives?”

“You could, but you didn’t this time around. I don’t get many visitors so I wonder who you- Oh! Good mor-morning, Joel.” Surprise overtook you as you were suddenly face to face with the man over the threshold of your front door. He was bundled up as well, though his hair was wet, slicked back and shining in the early morning sun peeking over the mountains.

“I just figured we could all chat about the Teton route.” Maria’s voice carried from the kitchen. But it didn’t break the stare you could feel as Joel’s eyes took in the apron you had thrown on earlier.

“Mornin’.” He rumbled, a hand reaching out from within his jacket pocket to swipe at your cheek. His touch burned, but you were frozen in place at such a forward action so early in the day. Lips parting as you tried to pull in a breath but you were sure all you managed to do was huff out what air was already in your lungs. “You got a lil flour or somethin’.”

“O-oh, um, thank you.” His hand lingered, the back of his knuckle dragged down your cheek and then the finger curled around the neckline, tugging slightly. Nerves sparkling as you felt the warmth from his hand so close to your neck, you could only swallow as his eyes finally met yours with a playful grin displaying that damned, endearing dimple normally hidden in his scruff.

“Never seen you so homey before, it’s a good look on you.” His voice was tipped low, just for you and you felt your stomach lurch.  When you didn’t say anything, just continued to stand there caught like a fly in his trap, he chuckled and asked if you were going to let him inside. It was then you realized he had inched closer, crowding you in the doorway, with his hand still around the strap of fabric over your neck.

“Oh! Of cour-course, I’m so sorry. It must be the early hour taking my manners.” But you knew he wouldn’t believe that for a second, he knew you were a morning person. Something you had revealed to him on patrol. Just like he had revealed to you that he took any opportunity to sleep in, apt to hit snooze an embarrassing about of times if the sound even reached him. You had both laughed at the polarizing tendencies, ribbing each other about it throughout the day. It had been a good one, free of the underlying…tension of whatever had shifted when you had pressed your lips to his injuries. Something you would take back if it meant cutting the undercurrent of whatever had befallen your interactions.

“There’s, um, breakfast hand pies and one last serving of coffee,” You spoke as you turned your back on him and went to retrieve your own mug from the porch.

After the shuffle of greetings, of ushering Joel to take a seat at the table. You plated up two of the hand pies and poured the last of the coffee for him, setting it down in front of him with a small smile before fetching the whistling kettle and preparing a cup of tea for Maria who was already a bite into her second pastry.

“Now, the horse you two lost.”

Joel made a surprised sound, mouth biting into one of the pastries on his plate.

“It was my fault.” You rushed out before Joel could even respond around his mouthful. His eyes flicked to you across the table where you had finally taken a seat, watching as you willingly took the blame for the unfortunate event. “I wasn’t quick enough taking down the Infected that were coming at us. Two of them had set their sights on her, with all the noise she was making while another went after Joel on the ground.”

“And there was no use of anything other than the shotgun?”

“That’s correct.”

“Joel, do you agree with her synopsis?”

“Yes. She acted fast, but there was no way Kiana was gonna make it back, she had been freaking out the second they came outta the tree line, most likely would’ve run off.”

“She always was easy to spook, that’s why she was designated as your horse, calmed her down and got her to focus.” It made sense, Joel was a very level headed person, capable of gently focusing someone should their minds or attention wander.

“I wish every incident discussion was this lovely. No arguing, good food, people who don’t want to go around in circles. You two are truly one of the best pairs we have on the roster.” Maria stirred in a bit more honey into her tea, taking a sip as she looked you both over.

A nervous laugh bubbled up from you as you dug into your own pastry, unaware of them sharing a look.

“This is amazing,” Joel offered, reaching for the kitchen towel folded atop the table to clean his hands off. “You should make these your next shift at the mess hall.”

“I just told her that, imagine the buzz they would cause.”

“They’re not all that special.” You muttered, shoulders rising as you felt rather put on the spot.

“This filling, these onions? It had to have taken a lot of concentration to reduce them down so soft but not mushy. Take the credit where it’s due.” Joel hummed his agreement as he reached for his mug.

“You’re off patrol this week and next, to do your annual thing.” Tommy announced as he sat beside you, his tray thudding against the top of the table, laden down with food from this mornings offerings.

“I can still patrol and get what I have to done.” You didn’t look up from the notebook you were writing in, trying to map out the way you were going to turn the harvest of the olive trees in your backyard into. If you were being honest, patrol twice a week wasn’t so bad with the added allure of Joel Miller. But it would be hard to juggle it paired with the time of year. Every autumn you took out your dirtiest, most ratty pair of overalls and got to work picking the fruit from the trees. Taking your time to sort them, wash them, turn them into oil and pickle some of the others. It was just you, hands aching at the end of the day from spending it all at your kitchen table with various tools. But you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The kitchen was your happy place. Even after the end of the world. Or maybe in spite of it.

But this year, you didn’t want to miss out on patrol, normally taking the two weeks off to sort everything out and give all your attention to the gift of fruiting trees. Even if…you felt like it would be good for you to get some space from the man you felt in every other thought. The past two weeks had yielded quiet patrols, just the passing of a thermos between hands. You were sure you had overstepped a line by pressing your lips to his face, lost in the moment of adrenaline and want after those Infected had tried to turn you both.

His eyes were heavy on you when he thought you weren’t looking, but searching for what you didn’t have the faintest clue. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to bring it up and let you down gently. Tell you that he hadn’t appreciated your affections that way. Whatever went on behind that handsome, rugged face you hadn’t a clue.

“We both know that’s a mighty lie,” He stuffed an overfull spoon of grits into his mouth, humming around it as he pointed the utensil at you. “Didn’t you say this would be the last year for one of them?”

Sighing, you set the pencil you had been writing with down. Trading it for the cup of coffee in front of you.

“Unfortunately, the trunk spilt when we had those winds come through in February. I’m surprised it bloomed any fruit to be honest.”

“It’s a fighter, like it’s caretaker.”

“Oh hush, tryna flatter me.”

“Don’t you know it.” He winked, cheeky smile growing wider underneath his mustache as his eyes caught sight of something over your shoulder. You were about to turn to see what had him so delighted when a pair of hands placed a tray right next to you. The burly form of Joel huffed as he settled into the seat beside you.

“Mornin’.” He greeted, placing plate of toast in front of you, his hand momentarily brushing against yours before he dug into his own food. You felt heat bloom up your neck and across your cheeks as Tommy feigned a cough to cover up a snicker. Joel leveled an unimpressed stare at the man, an eyebrow cocked and a warning in his eyes. You pretended not to see it, busy slathering a piece of the gifted toast with some butter left out on the tables for the breakfast service.

“Good mornin’, brother.” Tommy lilted, face lit up with something you were hesitant of. Scheming, the man was scheming, up to absolutely no good. And you had a hunch it involved not only you but the man beside you. Taking a bite of the toast, you noticed the way his face twitched before he started whatever he was up to. “How are you today?”

“Fuck off, Tommy.” The older man didn’t even look up from his plate, knowing from years of experience that his brother was aiming a mischievous look his way. “I gotta list a mile long of stuff to do this week and next, don’t have time for whatever else you’ve taken on.”

“That’s a shame,” He took another heaping bite, chewing it thoughtfully as he looked between you both, taking in the way neither of you were willing to look at the other. “Sorry, Olive. Looks like you’ve gotta fell that tree on your own.”

“That’s okay. I’m a big girl, did it the year before last and I’ll do it again this time around.” You downed the last two gulps of your coffee. Gathering up your notebook, you shoved out of your chair and stood, preparing to walk away. But he scrambled, quick on his feet and determined. Joel glanced at you, a parting nod the only indication from him.

“Well, seeing as you’ll be off patrol the next two weeks, that should give you enough time to take care of it.”

“Tommy!” You whirled around on your heel, eyes wide. You hadn’t wanted Joel find out this way, from his trouble making little brother with you right beside him.

“What’s he talkin’ about?” Joel turned with a loaded fork halfway to his mouth. Forgotten in wake of the sudden news. He looked taken off guard, shock coloring his features as he looked to you for answers.

“Didn’t she tell you, brother?” Tommy set his own fork down, tray nearly empty now. “Olive always takes this time of year off to tend to the trees. Harvest and make that lovely oil you see everywhere around town.”

“That’s yours?” His eyes danced around the mess hall, taking in the incriminating glass jars atop every other table. The light green contents revealing the literal fruits of your labor. The hours you would spend hunched over your own kitchen table working away on ensuring everything was perfect. He looked down to the warm plate of food in front of him, the roasted potato hash and scrambled eggs. “You’re the reason the town has cooking oil?”

“Yes, it is.” Feeling pleasure flutter at his impressed tone, you knew your voice had taken on a breathy quality. If Tommy’s growing grin was any indication, his teeth sparkling as he watched the two of you across from him. Joel had turned completely in his chair to face you, while you had pivoted your body in his direction. Both of you undoubtedly drawn to each other even in the most casual of ways.

“What are you gonna do with the wood? Didn’t you burn it and mix the ashes into the soil last time?”

“Yes, I did.” You gripped the notebook tight, fingers aching from the pressure. “It helped to reduce the acidity of the soil and ward off slugs from targeting the blooms once spring came around.”

“Well, uh, I can come by and lend a hand. If you needed it, but I don’t want to intrude if you’ve got it all under control.” Joel ran a wide palm over the back of his head, fingers brushing through the curls as he offered his help in a round about way. Something you suspected Tommy had anticipated. It took you a second to process his words, remembering the feel of his hair tangled around your own fingers. It had been soft despite a days’ worth of travel and an overnight stint atop a dusty mattress. You wondered how he cared for it, what it looked like slicked back fresh from the shower, water dripping from the ends of it and-

“Oh, that’s okay!” You shuffled on your feet, shaking the rather intrusive thoughts and not wanting to burden the man with another task. “You just said you’ve got a lot to do, don’t want to add to it.”

“I could shuffle a few things around, clear up an afternoon to come help ya out.” He insisted, something smoldering in his dark eyes. His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he regarded you carefully, as if he had noticed the lingering gaze on his movement. He shifted to pull that damned little note pad of his own from his back pocket and flipped it open. Looking over the long list penciled on the page.

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You don’t have to do that, Joel.” You waved your own notebook at him, hoping he realized you kind of wanted the space from him. Kind of needed it, actually. To get the image of his softened face out of your head and the ability to look at him without feeling a jolt of desire strike through your body. Space would probably be good, would allow you to reign everything in and be better equipped to ride alongside him once again. The lines had begun to blur and they needed to be defined.

“It’s no problem, I can-“

“It’s really okay, I can handle it. But uh- th-thanks for the offer.” You scurried away before he could add your name to the list among his other tasks. “More important stuff to tend to than a me-measly tree.”

“I really don’t’-“

“I’ve got it.” You called over your shoulder, leaving the two men to their breakfast.

The second you were walking through the door, Joel rounded on the younger man. The shit-eating smirk was securely in place among his brother’s features across the table. Irking Joel further.

“Shut up.”

“Oh brother, you got it bad.”

“Shut up, Tommy.”

“C’mon, she could really use the help. It’s just her.”

“No one offers to pitch in? The other women with personal gardens all help each other out.”

“It’s the age gap. Olive’s about a decade or so younger than them.”

Joel contemplated his brother’s words, thinking back on the thinly veiled disdain Marsha had voiced to him the last time he had been tending to the woman’s home. He knew you were younger, but he hadn’t anticipated it causing any problems with the rest of the settlements occupants just how it wasn’t the cause of any between you and him. At least, not any real problems. Age was just a number nowadays, if you were alive, you were alive. If you weren’t well, you weren’t. Friendships and connections blooming between people regardless of age and backgrounds in abundance as people clung to what they could in order to survive.

“Does anybody ever…talk about her to you?”

Shifting from annoying little brother to something more serious, Tommy looked over his brother as he chewed the bite he had just taken.

“What do you mean?”

“Marsha seemed to insinuate that Olive is common topic of discussion.”

“Marsha doesn’t like Olive. Never has.” Tommy scowled, stabbing at a chunk of potato rather harshly.

“Does it have to do with the patrol you won’t tell me about?”

“…yeah.” Tommy was suddenly very interested in the rest of his food, ignoring the look he could feel Joel pinning him with from across the table.

“Tommy.”

“Her old patrol partner was someone she showed up with, when we first brought her here. He and Marsha’s daughter got on quickly, were engaged within a year and planning on havin’ a kid or two.”

Joel was silent as he picked at his food. Marsha’s daughter, Millie, didn’t have any kids or a husband that he knew of. The two women sharing a home close to his.

“They blame her for what happened.”

“What did happen?”

“Joel, you’ve gotta ask your girl that. It’s not my place to give details.”

“She’s not my girl.”

“But you want her to be, c’mon, I can see it plain as day.”

“We are not talking about this.”

“I think she likes you back. But it’s hard to tell since she doesn’t get a lot of interaction around town aside from when she’s trading or cookin’.”

“She don’t like me like that. We’re just…friendly.”

It wasn’t friendly the way Joel took advantage of any reason to touch you. From soothing minor injuries, to brushing his fingers over yours as he passed you something, to brushing things you tended to smear along your cheek. Just to hear the hitch of your breath and to witness the way your eyes widened. It wasn’t friendly the way you were the last thing he thought of at night and the first thing he thought of when he woke up. It wasn’t friendly the way his gaze lingered on you while out on patrol or when he caught sight of you around town.

It wasn’t friendly the way he spent hours in his workspace sketching out designs and carving into wood in the hopes that you would enjoy what he was creating.

It wasn’t friendly the way he didn’t engage with you for worry of making you nervous, like he noticed he had begun to do. Stuttering every other word around him and others in a habit he couldn’t figure out was his fault or something you were just prone to do. It wasn’t friendly how he wanted to see if it was just him that caused it, wanted to see how quickly words would fail you completely if he were to focus his attention on you in a more than friendly way…

But his brother didn’t know anything about that.

Never one to miss out on the chance for a slow morning, you allowed yourself to wake up naturally.

The sun was just beginning its descent from the highest point in the sky, peeking in through the drawn blinds of your bedroom.

Your body was warm underneath the covers, sleep making your mind take the sensation and let it influence your dreams.

A large body hovered over you, looming like the mountains around the settlement. Protective, a sight to behold at any time of day, as steady as the day turns to night. But the body was so much closer, pressing your back down into the mattress, making your head spin with the heady feel of it.

Thump, thump, thump.

Heart beating hard as pleasure coursed through your veins, brought to life by the feeling of fingers smoothing over your skin. Trailing down over your belly button and through course hair to find your slick folds. Delving between them, parting them, caressing over your fluttering core and then in, producing an obscene sound as they filled you up. Another set of fingers gentle nudging that little bundle of nerves to light your body up even further, heat encompassing you, suffocating you as they quickened their pace.

Thump, thump, thump.

Your heartbeat was harsh in your ears, roaring loud and with a jolt, you realized it wasn’t your heart. It was the sound of someone knocking on your front door.

Eyes flying open, the phantom sensations of being pinned down, of thick fingers caressing the most intimate parts of your body, of the rasped-out nickname in a voice that wasn’t real were ripped from you. You were alone in your bed, your hands the only ones bringing you pleasure.

“Olive?” The faint call of that deep voice your mind had tried to convince you was whispering sweet nothings in your ear was down the hall and on the other side of your front door.

What was Joel Miller doing calling on you in the middle of the day, effectively splashing a bucket of cold water over you as you realized you had been fantasizing about him as you touched yourself.

Embarrassment and guilt squashed the pleasure that had been consuming you, lingering tingles making it hard to clear the fog of your sleep hazed mind. Throwing on the robe hanging on the back of your bedroom door, you took a deep breath to steady yourself before approaching the door he knocked on again.

He must’ve been preparing to walk off when you swung your door open, his back to you and a hand on rubbing on the back of his neck. He turned back at the sound, eyes taking in the disheveled form you were sure you made in your doorway. It was the afternoon, and here you were in a robe and hardly anything else, being pulled from your bed.

“Oh, hey- you were sleeping.” His eyes quickly averted, a hand waving at you as a blush crept up along the apples of his cheeks. You wondered what had him so flustered, his hands clenching and unclenching just below the sleeves of his jacket.

“I should’ve been up already, it’s okay.” You said quietly, taking in the bulk of him on your small stoop. It was a little disorienting, mind imagining him and now being faced with him so close. “D-did you need-“

“Was coming by to see if you needed any help with taking down that tree Tommy mentioned.”

You fell silent at the way he cut you off, his words low like your own, as if he was frustrated.

“Cause if you did all you had to do was ask.”

“I-I didn’t want to add to your list, that little notepad is always so full of-“

“I offered too and you said no. But you’re not even doing what you took the time off for.”

“Excuse me?” You leaned back from him, worry and your own annoyance flaring. Just because you took one morning to yourself didn’t mean you were shirking your responsibilities. His words hitting too close to the wound that everyone else’s had dug close to your heart.

“You take the time off every year, which you didn’t tell me about. Tommy blurted it out to get some sort of satisfaction out of your miscommunication and you’re not even taking care of the trees.”

“Joel-“

“You know what, just, never mind. I’m heading around back to take care of it for you. Go back to bed.”

And then he was stomping down the steps and rounding the side of your house. The gate creaking open to signal his entrance to your backyard.

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me, Mr. Miller.” You mumbled as you shut the front door and moved back to the bedroom. Dressing in a ratty pair of jeans and a long-stained t-shirt in a rush. Putting up your hair as you walked into the back room to retrieve the axe he would need for the work he took it upon himself to do.

It was hard not to stare, your eyes glued to the man as he expertly wielded the axe and chopped down the damaged olive tree. He had shrugged off his flannel after trimming it of the few branches that stretched from the trunk, leaving him in just the t-shirt he donned underneath. A crisp white that displayed the sweat on the small of his back and between his broad shoulders. A crisp white that displayed the bulge of his biceps as he worked. A crisp white that fell just over his waist and billowed up to catch on the spiral top of his notepad peeking out from his back pocket. A crip white that now displayed his rather toned backside to you free from obstruction…

Shaking your head, you continued to pick the fruit from the others. There were three rows of about ten trees, the one you were worried about in the middle of it all. Your movements made you feel like you were slowly circling around him, honing in on the man taking out whatever frustrations he had on the plant. Until everything was gathered, and you retired back inside as the sun beat down what little warmth it still had this late in the season.

The fruit was already washed in the utility sink, resting in strainers set over ratty towels to dry atop the long table in the middle of the room. A record played in the living room, soft guitar and brass filling the space.

Sighing, you poured yourself a few fingers of whisky and then a few into a second glass as you heard the thud of the axe being set against the wall in the back room and steps heading your way.

“Joel, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how.” You offered one of the glasses to him, taking in the way he swiped at his sweating forehead with the back of his arm.

“I know…I’m-I shouldn’t have come at you like that. I’m sorry too.” His fingers brushed yours as he took the peace offering. But he didn’t drink until you lifted your own glass and clinked it to his. “Just…wanted there to be a reason why you weren’t by my side for a little bit.”

Stepping forward to run a hand down from his shoulder to elbow in a comforting move, you motioned him to follow you.

Through the hours of the afternoon and into the evening, you explained the difference between the colors of the fruit. The flavor profiles of each, of how you always sorted even portions of the harvest out for oil, for pickling, for the raw fruit to be shared with the town. You walked him through the process of turning a small batch into a paste, straining it over and over again to produce the oil. Two pairs of hands slick with it as he helped you after he had asked how you managed to do it.

He had asked of your knowledge, prompting you to admit that it was all learned since arriving here and being assigned to the house with the trees in the backyard. That it hadn’t been something you carried with you beforehand. You asked after his woodworking, how it had turned into crafting small figurines.

And he answered much the same as you. Learned skills to help deal with and adapt to the slower way of life Jackson allowed you both to lead.

“You left one on the table.” His voice was right behind you, having followed you into the backroom. You turned to look at him over your shoulder before going back to placing the jars in your hand into a battered plastic crate. One was for the pickled and general olives, while another was for the oil you would make once the distraction of Joel Miller was gone from your kitchen. The only evidence of such from today’s activities in his hand.

“Oh, that one’s for you.”

“I couldn’t, you need it for trade. Everythin’ helps.”

“I insist, it’ll be good to have in your kitchen.”

“It’s just gonna sit there on the counter beside the stove.”

“Well, take it. Just in case.” You whispered. Noticing how close he had gotten in an attempt to hand the jar to you. He was close enough to smell the way the olive leaves had permeated his clothing. The perfume of the freshly chopped wood stained his skin in a heady way. You felt the counter dig into your hips, having unconsciously backed into it beside the deep sink.

“In case of what, sweetheart?” He lowered his voice to a raspy whisper, tongue peeking between his lips as he took in the way you had a smudge of dirt under your eye in the warm light of your kitchen bleeding into the backroom. His gaze snapped to his hand as you bravely tangled your fingers with his own. Feeling your lips curl into a playful smile, you leaned up and whispered into his ear. 

“The food critic decides to play personal chef.”

Oh, he liked that. If the widening of his pupils was any indication, the way his breath caught in his throat and he swallowed as he pulled back a little to look over your face.

He leaned in to press a cautious kiss to your cheek, knowing there was no bruise or cut to disguise his move as anything other than the blatant want for it. The soft scratch of his mustache lighting you up.

Your breath fanned out across his face, skin prickling along his body at the warmth of it bouncing back to you. A small huff the only noise coming from you. His eyes flicked up to capture yours, and you felt your heart lurch. He was so handsome, his lips looked so plush and pink this close. There was no way he could’ve missed the way you had glanced down at them, how you were thinking of feeling them pressed to your skin in other places, of the way you pulled your own bottom one between your teeth at the thought.

He leaned in, sharing breath with you, his nose brushing against yours before-

The needle of the record player scratching across vinyl startled you both, jolting in response to the harsh noise breaking the bubble of tension surrounding you both. Your hands had flown up to grip his shoulders tight while his arms had wrapped around your back and pulled you to him. Heart thundering for a completely different reason now, you cast your eyes over his shoulder toward to the record player.

With nervous laughter you stepped away from the man and set about lifting it from the still spinning record. His eyes are on you as you replace the record with another, setting it up to play and then turning back around to him. Your heart still thumping in your chest as you watch him hold tight to the jar in his hand and dip his head to you in a departing bow.

He made sure it was well into the evening before enlisting Tommy’s help. The forlorn way you had looked at the pieces of the tree once it was no longer standing proud among the others had stirred an idea in his mind. He was going to take the thickest part of the trunk, because he wasn’t stealing it away. No. He was going to return it to you once he had cut it into slabs and let it dry. He was going to return it to you in the form of a cutting board, crafted from the beloved trees in your care and in honor of the namesake you’d adapted.

But it had to be perfect. He would practice on other planks and cuts of wood until he was able to craft one that would be good enough for you. Setting his mind and heart on the endeavor.

Once he was back home with the trunk set in room set up as his workspace, stepping out of the shower and collapsing into the bed, he let a lazy smile overtake him.

He may be tired, exhausted beyond his limits. But he wouldn’t have traded his afternoon with you for all the restful sleep in the world.

He couldn’t get the feeling of your lips against his skin out of his mind. The gentle pressure of them grazing over his injuries, the gentle pressure against the patch in his beard he had never been fond of until that moment.

“Fuck,” He groaned out, palm tight around his aching cock. He had woken up thinking of your lips on more of his body, trailing over his skin in sucking kisses, tongue laving at every inch. He had been leaking and hard, his hand around himself before he had even come to complete consciousness.

The very real image of you stood in your doorway clad in nothing but your robe, the way the swell of your breasts was visible with the way you must’ve thrown it on to answer his knocking. The way your eyes were cloudy, slowly clearing and your face slightly flushed, as if you had just been- he groaned deep from within his chest. It had looked like you had just been deep in the throes of pleasure, body overwhelmed with it and torn away by his calling on you. Hair mused and breath a little too quick, he wondered what you sounded like. Would you whimper softly or moan out loudly, would you be shy and cover your face with your arms or would you scramble for any purchase as it raced through your body, swelling up to consume you.

He pumped his hand slowly now, reveling in the feeling stirring low in his gut. The strikes of pleasure moving through him as he recalled the way you had felt against him as you both rode back on your horse.

The way your hip had felt in his hands as he had tried to steady himself. His mind taking the thought and running with it, the imagining the way he would grip you from behind. You down on your hands and knees, legs parted to make room for him to fit between them, thrust against you as deep as he could, your keening-

He choked on his own breath as the sheer force of his release hit him, sudden and overwhelming. Spurts of pearlescent cum coating his hand and dripping over his knuckles.

Euphoria filling him up with satisfaction, his body humming with it until the guilt slammed into him.

He just fucked his fist to the thought of you. His patrol partner. His…friend. The woman he couldn’t get out of his mind even if his life depended on it.

Catching his breath, he looked out the window across from his bed. Stars glittering at him through the curtains as if they know all the dirty things that had just run through his mind, sharing in his secrets.

The only small blessing of his complete lack of self-control and oversight is that he doesn’t have to ride alongside you today on patrol.

“I’ve got the first batch of the season,” You announced as you walked through the doors of the small makeshift market. It was right along the main street, a few fronts down from the mess hall and the Tipsy Bison.

“Oh, lovely!” The man at the back counter praised, clearing a space atop it for you to put down the delivery.

“Marsha.” You nodded toward her in greeting, uncomfortable with the way her eyes had followed you through the few aisles after letting the man go over the contents of the crate. Another nod to her daughter, standing right beside her with a small wicker basket full of root vegetables. “I’ve got a jar in there for you, with the garlic you managed to salvage from the garden.”

She didn’t say anything, looking for all the world like her voice had been stolen from her. A small nudge from her daughter jostled her and she seemed to find it.

“Thank you, Olive. That was…very sweet of you to think of me.”

“Of course, anything to be of help.”

“Yes, of course.” She repeated your words, trailing off as she noticed a figure across the street. Her eyes tracked their movement but when you turned to see what had caught her attention there was no one there. Suddenly she was speaking your actual name and it roused your nerves to life. “You…do so much for the town, I just wanted you to know that we all appreciate the time you take each year to handle the harvest.”

“O-oh, well, um, thank you, Marsha. That’s very k-kind of you to say.”

“Momma,” Millie whispered, taking ahold of the older woman’s arm. Something in her voice you couldn’t quite get a read on. Taking that as your queue to cut off the rather awkward interaction, you waved at them and began to head back up to the counter to collect the items you had requested in exchange for the crate of jars. Your ears were strained, trying to catch the hushed words the women shared behind your back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I realized how…unfairly we speak about her. Someone convinced me to apologize to her.”

“She doesn’t deserve apologies, she’s the reason-“

“Millie, we need to work on moving past that. It’s been five years now. We can all live alongside each other with the understanding of what happened.”

“No, momma, you may be ready to forgive her but I’m not. She got my Aiden and I’m not going to let her drag down Joel too.”

“He was the one who told me to be nicer to her, just trying to appease the lovely man.”

Any good feelings of a successful harvest and two weeks of working countless hours to jar, pickle, and transform the fruit from your trees vanished. The awkward yet positive sentiment from one of your more…complicated social connections going down with it at Millie’s angered words. You tried to muster up a smile for the man at the counter, taking the crate back from him with the trade items but you weren’t sure if you were able to. Not turning to look at the women, you exited the shop and made your way straight back home despite the list of errands in your pocket.

Of course Joel had caught wind of the way people spoke of you.

Heard it from Marsha herself, the source of all your troubles despite having done everything in your power to counteract the bad you had brought down on the town with your incompetence. He had put his own reputation at stake by sticking up for you and you only hoped it didn’t affect the way he was received. He was so important to the town, achieving far more than you in what he provided and brought in his skill set.

You didn’t want him to feel even a fraction of what you did as you navigated life here in the settlement. The pitying looks cast your way, the whispered words of what people felt entitled enough to voice, the way you seemed to only be good for one thing and it was the crop in the backyard of the house you had been assigned by pure circumstance.

The crate thudded atop the table where you thrust it harshly, frustration controlling your movements as you moved through the small house back to your room. Shucking off and resisting the urge to hurl your boots toward the closet you sighed as you felt tears prickle your eyes. They rolled hot down your cheeks as you curled up in the covers and gave up on what was supposed to be a good day.

previous chapter || next chapter

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

taglist: @merz-8 @morning-star-joy @joelsgreys @orcasoul @sawymredfox @sabmat @dreamingofleon @keylimebeag @pascalpvnk @picassopedro @tuquoquebrute @alejaa-a @jessthebaker @littlemisspascal @joeloverture @joelscruff @swiftispunk @tightjeansjavi @undercoverpena @idontknowyou-12345 @corazondebeskar @honeyedmiller @novas-dreamworld @slugz-writes-shit @fluff-lover @hiroikegawa @dugiioh @persephone-girl @furiousmushroom@communism-bitches @formulafun @copperhalfcent @lizlil @hiddenbabynyc

[eleonoraalbright]

An Ill-Timed Confession Part 1

Pairing: Peter Pan x fem!reader (kinda)

Summary: You tell Henry about your romantic feelings towards Peter Pan. Unfortunately for you, he turns out not to be Henry.

The citizens of Storybrooke gathered in Granny’s diner to celebrate. Most wore big jovial smiles and talked excitedly to their companions. You took note of the absolute happiness that seemed to radiate from David and Mary Margret. Nevertheless, their daughter was uneasy, as if she half expected the Pied Piper himself to waltz through the doors and rip her son’s heart out.

You felt sorry for Emma’s needless worrying, but understood where it stemmed from. After all, many restless nights would have to be endured before you forgot Pan’s threats in Neverland, not that you wanted to forget every single comment of his just yet. You pushed that particular thought back deep in your mind where it would have to be reconsidered later. You chose to focus on more trivial matters.

Hook was seated at the bar, drinking with the boisterous dwarves. It didn’t escape your notice how often his gaze flickered between the Savior and her ex-boyfriend; Neal left his place beside Henry to chat with Mother Superior. You eyed the pirate’s ill-natured manner with interest when Ruby interrupted your musings of his unfortunate predicament by placing a steaming mug of apple cider on the counter.

You accepted the hot beverage, maneuvering your way through the crowded restaurant and slid into the booth to sit across from Henry. His attention was directed to the storybook in front of him. Even upside down, you recognized the illustration of Cinderella dancing at the ball with her prince. Henry glanced up, seeming apprehensive at your arrival, he tensed for some strange reason. His fingers tapped the edge of the smooth paper.

You offered him a reassuring smile. It would be reasonable for his nerves to be a bit frayed after his harrowing adventure. You blew on your drink and asked in a quiet tone, “How’re you holding up?”

“Good. It’s good to be back here with my family.”

You nodded your head in agreement. That was the understatement of the year. The distress and danger he went through the past few days must have been unimaginable. People often said kids were resilient, however, it was odd how unfazed Henry was at being reunited with his loving family. Odder still was his cold and distant attitude towards you. This was the first genuine conversation you two had exchanged since his capture. It was unlike him to keep to himself for so long.

You were close friends and confidants. It was worrisome for Henry to be this reserved around you. What had happened in Neverland that would have caused such an abrupt change? The next second, you berated yourself for such a thought, having one’s heart torn out would have drastic mental consequences. It was possible he wasn’t comfortable discussing his feelings yet. On the other hand, it would be harmful if he kept them bottled up inside his mind to fester.

The best course of action was to respect his silence and hope in time he would open up. You took another sip of cider while Henry went back to reading. The message was clear; he had no interest in talking any further. The temptation to leave was strong, but you remained in your seat. There was a question you were desperate for Henry to answer, the sooner the better. You blurted out, “What was he like?”

He glanced at you again. “Who?”

“Peter Pan. What was he like? I only met him a handful of times on the island, and he was pretty intimidating. How did he act around you? I mean, Pan was deranged, how’d he manage to convince you to give up your heart?”

Henry shrugged and flipped a page before replying. “He told me magic was dying and my heart was needed to save it. I believed him. And he was…” Henry shivered a little. “He was scary. I’m glad he’s gone.”

You propped your elbows on the table and rested your chin in the palm of your hand, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t. Henry reached for his glass of root beer, refusing to utter one more word. You sighed, “Too bad he was a psychopath. Pan was kinda hot.”

Henry spat out his drink, spewing the soft drink all over the table and its contents. You grabbed a handful of napkins and dabbed them on the storybook. “Henry, be careful you almost ruined it!” Emma paused speaking to her parents and shot you both a quizzical look. You waved the wet napkins at her, signaling everything was fine, only a little spill had happened.

“What did you say?” Henry wasn’t the least bit concerned about the precious book. His eyes were wide and his mouth somewhat agape.

“I know, I know, he was a murderer and evil and wanted to kill all of us. But in my defense, he was attractive.”

Henry said nothing for a solid minute, and stared at you as if an extra head had grown from your neck. You were beginning to worry that the poor boy’s brain had broken upon hearing your staggering statement.

As the seconds ticked by you began to regret saying your astonishing confession aloud. Your attraction to Pan was something you had been grappling with ever since laying eyes on him.

You shamed yourself for feeling this way toward such a revolting person, but that would not dampen them. During the adventure, it had been eating you alive from the inside out.

The rest of the group had been debating over the best way to save Henry, how to rescue Neal, and the complications of getting off the Island. Meanwhile, you had been battling the guilt of being enamored with your best friend’s captor.

Near the end of the journey, you made peace with this upsetting fact by realizing you could acknowledge Pan’s attractiveness and still hate his guts for kidnapping Emma’s son.

Though the shock on Henry’s face made you question the wisdom of admitting this so soon after the terrible ordeal. You were on the brink of explaining your more nuanced views to him on this delicate subject when his expression changed.

The corners of his lips turned upward in a disbelieving smirk as he raised one eyebrow in wonderment. He said in a soft voice, almost to himself, “You… like Pan?”

The grin spread wider across his face and he covered his mouth with a hand to muffle the sound of his laughter. His body shook in a fit of merriment. He pointed a finger at you; his eyes contained a mocking glint which was quite foreign to them. “You have a crush on Pan!”

You were uncomfortable at his reaction, but believed it was somewhat deserved. Gesturing to him to lower his voice, you attempted to hobble together a defense. “Not really a crush per say, I–”

Henry interrupted, “That’s so gross. He's– he’s Rumpelstiltskin's dad!”

“That’s true, but it just makes me wonder whether or not Mr. Gold was that good looking in his younger days,” you joked.

He shuddered at that remark and twisted his features into one of disgust. “Ew, I’ll never understand girls.” Puzzled at your stance on his villainous great grandfather, Henry probed, “Why did you like him?”

“Like is a strong word. I didn’t like him. He was gonna kill us all for Pete’s sake, but I did observe that Pan was blessed… genetically speaking.”

A mischievous air hung about Henry as he inched forward in his seat, tilting his head close to yours, and whispered in a low tone. “Tell me, do you fantasize about Peter Pan?”

Your mouth dropped open at his blunt question. You replied in a strained voice, “Henry, that’s a very inappropriate thing to ask.” What on earth had possessed him to say that?

Moments earlier, he was repulsed at the prospect of you harboring secret feelings for Pan and now he was inquiring whether or not you fantasize about his relative!

It was your turn for your brain to stop working. Henry had never, never asked you such a personal question in all your years of friendship. This was most unlike him.

Was there a chance he had bashed his head on a rock somewhere to justify this sudden change of personality? He leaned back into the booth. “That alone gives me my answer.”

Before you could chastise him for his nauseatingly smug attitude, Emma sauntered next to the table. “Sorry to break up the chit chat, kid, it’s time for something you didn’t have in Neverland. Bedtime.”

Henry closed his book, disappointed for having to leave so soon. You were quite relieved; however, sensing Henry was having far too much fun with this knowledge at his fingertips. You were too stunned at your friend’s response to see he had left with Regina and not Emma.

That conversation had left a bad taste in your mouth. Something wasn’t right with Henry and it made you uneasy. Regret at having confessed your passing fancy towards Peter Pan seeped through you. It could be that this Neverland escapade still had a few loose ends that needed to be tied up.

You help David and Emma cover Mother Superior's body with a blanket. You shoved your trembling fingers in your coat’s pockets. Your eyes darted up to the sky and scanned for any sign of the one who did this. You didn’t feel safe. At any moment you could meet the same fate as well. The danger was lurking around the corner and–

“What the hell happened?”

You jumped slightly as Regina and Henry raced up to your group.

David answered her. “The shadow, it killed her.”

“Pan’s shadow? I trapped it on the sail.” Regina was confused.

“Yeah, well, it got free.” Emma said while crouching on the steps.

Comprehension dawned on everyone as they realized what that meant. Pan was back. You moved to Henry and wrapped your arms around him in a protective gesture. All thoughts of last night's events flew from your mind.

If Pan was somehow controlling the Shadow from inside the box, then he would never stop terrorizing them until he had the Truest Believer’s Heart. Henry was going to die. The adults discussed what to do as you patted Henry on the head.

The boy said in a hollow voice, “So Pan can still hurt me?”

Regina responded to comfort him, “We don’t know that.” You knew it was inevitable he did though.

“But we have to assume he’s still a threat.” Mary Margret clasped her hands together in worry.

You added, “And that he’s after Henry.”

“Then what am I doing here?” Henry wriggled out of your grasp, looking anxious.

David said, “He’s right. He’s not safe out in the open.”

“You’ll protect me, right?” He hugged Regina as she consoled him.

You were put off at how easily he disregarded you in favor of his mother. It was like he didn’t even acknowledge your presence. But of course, it was natural for a son to turn to his mom in his time of need.

You stopped scolding yourself when you overheard Emma tell Regina that Henry didn’t seem like himself. Your feelings of unease felt vindicated now if she was aware that her son was acting a bit different. It made your head spin; what could it mean?

After convincing Mr. Gold to give up Pandora’s Box, you all drove to the edge of Storybrooke. You huddled close to Mary Margret and David, watching the red smoke swirl out of the box.

It transformed into Pan, and Emma cocked her gun. Pan stood up, breathing hard, he acted confused, and dumbfounded to see everyone's mistrustful faces. You had to admit, he was a good actor. You couldn’t believe the next words that popped out of his mouth.

“Mum?”

Emma was also taken aback. “What?”

“What are you waiting for? Shoot him,” Gold ordered.

Pan panicked. “Don’t! Please! I’m Henry. Pan, he switched our bodies.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Emma continued pointing the gun at him.

You didn’t know what to think of this situation. You wanted to trust him. It would explain Henry's peculiar actions. The other, more cynical part, of your brain was reprimanding yourself for entertaining the outlandish idea.

Pan was a master manipulator, capable of slaughtering you and your loved ones in a millisecond if it benefitted him. He toyed with people’s minds and reveled in the horrible game of it. Your sympathetic side excused that truth when seeing Pan’s face. He was hurt and betrayed. Henry, you were sure it was him, needed a friend.

You almost took a step over the red line when Gold stopped you with his cane and said, “Don’t listen to him. This is one of his tricks.”

Pan/Henry was adamant. “No, it’s not! He did it right before Mr. Gold captured me in the box. I swear!” He stepped forward, but Emma stopped him.

Holding one hand out, she commanded, “Don’t come any closer.” Mr. Gold ordered her to shoot him again. She didn’t. “Maybe he is telling the truth. Maybe that’s why I can’t shake this feeling something’s off about Henry.” Mr. Gold argued with her, but Emma asked Pan to prove his claim.

He started listing facts about Henry. They weren’t persuaded by this. Emma stated, “Pan might know facts. But life is made up of more than that. There are moments. He can’t possibly know all of them. The first time you and I connected, you remember that? Not met, but connected.”

Pan’s face softened at the happy memory. He told her the conversation they had at his castle right after she came to Storybrooke. Emma lowered her gun and embraced him. “It is Henry.”

She released him and they crossed the line into Storybrooke. Henry hugged his grandparents and you soon followed. He enveloped you in a bone crushing hug which you returned with equal joy at having your friend back. It was a little weird since every sense told you this was to all intents and purposes Peter Pan. You pulled back to examine him.

Staring into his green eyes, you squished his cheeks. “This is so surreal.” You tapped his nose. “You really look like him, ya know.” Henry laughed, a delightful but bizarre sound coming from Pan’s throat. It was too innocent.

The full impact of what was happening hit you. You retreated a couple of paces from your friends, and hid your face as mortification overcame your entire being. “Oh no.”

“What’s wrong?” Henry put a comforting hand on your shoulder.

Your face felt ablaze. If Pan was Henry, that meant… “I might’ve– I didn’t know it was him!”

Mr. Gold urged you to go on. “Yes? What is it?”

You gulped as they came closer. “Last night at Granny’s, I told Henry—who I thought was Henry—that Pan was hot.”

Both David and Mary Margret closed their eyes in exasperation. Emma stared at you, questioning your sanity. Bell grinned, and to your surprise, Mr. Gold was unbothered by this. “How tragic. However, we have larger problems that must be dealt with other than your lack of taste.”

“Do you think he’ll do anything to me for saying that to him?” You asked Henry. He had smirked at your confession, which had made your heart beat faster at the sight. You wanted to slap yourself for that reaction. Now he frowned at your inquiry.

“I don’t know. Pan might not care or he might target you because of it. Don’t worry about it. We’ll stop him.”

You climbed into the truck’s backseat. The sinking sensation settled in your stomach despite Henry reassuring you everything would turn out for the better. Peter Pan had a plan and it would lead to everyone’s ruin. Your only hope was that he wasn’t concocting a special method of torture for you since laying open your abashed feelings towards him.

(The previous night)

In the body of his grandson, Pan walked arm-in-arm with Regina down the sidewalk to her home. It was loathsome having to humor the woman while she talked to whom she believed was her son. He answered her relentless questions to the best of his ability, keeping his replies vague and unassuming.

She didn’t seem to heed his noncommittal responses. He was impatient for this part of his scheme to be done. He restrained his strong desire to kill her this instant because he had to find her vault first. Pan distracted himself from that impulse by thinking of what you had told him.

It would be beyond humiliating for you when you found out the truth. He couldn’t wait to see your gobsmacked expression when he revealed his true identity, and made Storybrooke into the New Neverland.

Peter Pan would make you regret ever spilling your secrets to him. He was eager to make you into his new plaything, to see how long it took you to cry, to break. He wondered how far over the edge he could drive you. Grateful for the limited light, he allowed a cruel, sadistic smile to form on his lips. This was all too perfect and pleasurable for him.

[littlemissaddict]

Okay so I'm back on my Bucky bullshit and after a rewatch of tfatws I was inspired by the scene of Bucky waking up on the Wilsons' couch to Sam's nephews pretend fighting with the shield.

"No, no, no shit" the hushed whispered curse was what woke Bucky, how he'd never heard the crash of the pan that had caused said cursing he'd never know but upon opening his eyes, he was met with the sight of her in the small kitchen of their apartment. A smile worked its way onto his face at the sight of her pottering about as, he guessed, she was quietly trying to make breakfast.

The smile never left his face as he watched her, something so domestic about it all. Something that, after all his years fighting, be it alongside Steve in the war or as the Winter Soldier, he never thought it would be something he would get in his life. And don't get him wrong it took him a lot of healing and making amends to get over the things that he did, before he even felt like deserved this kinda life but now that he had it, it was definitely worth the wait.

"You know it must have been a late night for you to crash on the couch instead of coming to bed" her voice almost startled him from his staring, it seems he wasn't as inconspicuous as he thought he was.

"The mission didn't wrap up until the early hours of this morning and I didn’t want to wake you" he answered truthfully. They hadn't landed back at the compound until 2am and then by the time he'd made it back home it was closer to 3 than it was two so he figured that rather than disturbing her by getting into bed he'd just crash on the couch, "besides I've slept in worst places so it wasn't that bad" he shrugged, well as best he could as he was still laid down.

"Aw look at you, caring more about your girlfriend than your own comfort" she teased, placing a steaming mug of coffee down on the coffee table in front of the couch where he was laid before bending down and greeting him with a quick peck of a kiss.

"Fiancée" he mumbled against her lips, and when she pulled back she noticed there was a deep frown on his face.

Giggling at his correction, she simply smiled innocently down at him. "I know I just like hearing you say it" she admitted before turning with a flourish and heading back into the kitchen whilst Bucky watched with coffee in hand, answering her questions about his latest mission.

[feedybot]

The Tipping Point, PART 1/2

Chapter One: Just a Little Extra

You’d been on a “health kick” for about a week.

Again.

This time it was a Mediterranean thing—olive oil, fish, vegetables, whole grains. It actually wasn’t bad, at first. You’d meal prepped like a pro on Sunday, filled the fridge with colorful containers and planned your workouts on a little whiteboard stuck to the freezer. You felt good. You felt in control.

But then came Thursday.

You walked through the door after a long day, stomach growling, feet aching, the smell of garlic and butter already hanging thick in the air. You barely managed to get your shoes off before you called out.

“What’s cooking?”

Your husband’s voice floated in from the kitchen, warm and cheerful. “Something special. You’ve been working so hard lately, I figured you deserve a treat.”

You hesitated in the hallway, toeing at the tile floor. “I was gonna have the salmon and quinoa thing I made…”

There was a pause, followed by a sizzling sound and a smell that made your mouth water.

“Babe,” he said gently, stepping out with a grin and a wooden spoon still in hand, “that can wait till tomorrow. This? This is fresh.”

You peeked past him into the kitchen and saw a bubbling pan of creamy pasta on the stove—ribbons of fettuccine tangled in a thick sauce, glistening with cheese and butter. Toasted garlic bread waited on a tray beside it. And a little bowl of Caesar salad, as if it made the whole thing balanced.

It was your favorite.

You opened your mouth to argue… then closed it again. Your stomach made the decision for you, rumbling audibly. He chuckled, kissed your forehead, and gently took your bag off your shoulder.

“I’ll pour the wine.”

You sat down with a sigh. “Just a little,” you said, but you already knew the meal would be anything but.

—

One plate turned into two. The salad disappeared quickly—mostly to justify the second helping of pasta. The bread was warm and crusty, the butter soaked deep into its golden surface. You told yourself you’d just have a bite. Then just half.

Then it was gone.

By the end of the meal, you felt full in that slow, drowsy, too-comfortable way. Your belly pressed lightly against your waistband as you leaned back, wine glass in hand, feeling flushed and guilty and—somehow—happy.

He watched you with a quiet, unreadable look. His hand slipped to your thigh under the table, his touch gentle and reassuring. “See?” he murmured. “You deserve to relax.”

You wanted to protest. Say something about calories, or your whiteboard schedule, or the promise you made to yourself. But all that came out was a soft, sleepy hum of agreement as you leaned into his shoulder.

Chapter Two: Slipping Slowly

You did try again.

Friday morning, you woke up feeling that familiar pit in your stomach—not hunger, but regret. You told yourself it was just one meal. You still had time to turn the week around. You laced up your sneakers, chugged some water, and headed to the gym with determination in your step… and the pasta from last night still sitting heavily in your belly.

The workout was slow. You pushed through it, sweating harder than usual, your movements a little sluggish, a little less precise. You avoided the mirrors.

Later, back home, you snapped open one of your meal-prepped containers, trying not to think about the way it looked next to last night’s feast. Dry grilled chicken, couscous, and broccoli. It filled you, technically—but it didn’t satisfy you.

Your husband walked by, kissed your cheek, and didn’t say a word.

But that night, he offered to order in.

“Just for fun,” he said casually. “No pressure. You’ve had a long week.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m sticking with my meal plan.”

He nodded, accepting, and disappeared into the living room. You sat there alone, fork in hand, chewing a piece of roasted carrot that tasted like cardboard.

And then the smell hit.

Thai. Your real weakness. Rich coconut curries, sticky rice, those little crispy spring rolls that always came steaming hot and perfectly golden. You tried to block it out, but it was hopeless. When you peeked into the living room, he was already on the couch with the food spread out in front of him, looking up at you like he was trying not to smirk.

“You sure you don’t want just a bite?” he asked innocently, holding up a spoonful of glistening, spicy sauce.

You crossed your arms. “You’re evil.”

He grinned. “You say that like it’s a no.”

You lasted maybe five minutes before sitting down next to him, pretending you were just “tasting” it. The curry was sweet and velvety, the rice soaked in it perfectly. One bite turned into two. Then you took a spring roll. Then you asked for your own spoon.

Somewhere between the last dumpling and the end credits of the movie, you stopped pretending you were resisting.

That weekend followed the same rhythm—moments of resolve, immediately followed by tiny indulgences. Pancakes on Saturday morning, “split” fries at lunch that mysteriously disappeared almost all on your side of the plate, popcorn with butter during movie night. You told yourself you’d start over on Monday. Always Monday.

By Sunday night, you were laying in bed with a soft belly and a strange, quiet feeling that mixed guilt with something almost comforting. His hand slid under your shirt, over your stomach, and he kissed your neck softly.

“You looked really happy this weekend,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer, not right away. You just closed your eyes and let yourself be held, trying not to notice how snug your shirt felt across your chest—or how easily he touched the new softness you were starting to carry

Chapter Three: The Quiet Creep

You didn’t notice the changes at first. Not really.

Your clothes still fit—for the most part. Maybe the waistbands left a slightly deeper mark when you peeled them off at night. Maybe your bras needed a little more adjusting lately, and you’d started favoring the ones with stretchier bands. But nothing dramatic. Nothing alarming.

Besides, you’d always fluctuated a little. A few pounds here, a few there. It was just how your body worked. You were used to the ebb and flow.

What did change, quietly, was your appetite.

You started to crave more. Your little meals didn’t cut it anymore—not after the week of rich sauces and takeout splurges. You found yourself adding an extra spoonful to your plate. You stopped skipping dessert. You started looking forward to your husband’s surprise snacks and spontaneous cravings.

He made it all so easy.

Sometimes, he brought home pastries in the morning—just one for you, “because I passed your favorite bakery.” Other nights, he’d surprise you with something baking in the oven, always timed perfectly for when you walked through the door: rich, cheesy casseroles, gooey mac and cheese, buttery roast potatoes. You still worked out sometimes. You still thought about being healthy. But the effort felt less urgent now. Less important.

And honestly? You felt more content than you had in a while.

There was something comforting in letting go a little. The pressure to be perfect, to follow every food rule, to constantly strive for that someday body—it had always left you stressed and unsatisfied. But now, your husband looked at you like you were already enough. No, more than enough. Like the extra softness only made you better.

One night, you caught your reflection in the mirror as you stepped out of the shower. The change was still subtle—your belly a touch rounder, the curve of your hips a little fuller. You turned side to side, studying yourself with curious detachment.

You didn’t hate what you saw. You didn’t love it, either.

But when he came in behind you, slid his arms around your waist, and kissed your bare shoulder, you felt something shift.

He didn’t say anything—just rested his hands on the new softness, gently, almost reverently, and met your gaze in the mirror with a small smile.

You looked away first.

Chapter Four: Denial, Served Warm

You didn’t weigh yourself.

You told yourself it was a healthy choice—not obsessing over numbers, not letting a little digital screen dictate your self-worth. But really, you knew better. The scale sat in the corner of the bathroom, untouched, gathering a faint layer of dust.

Instead, you judged things by how your clothes fit. Or at least, how they used to fit.

Your favorite jeans had quietly migrated to the back of the drawer. The high-waisted pair with the stiff waistband? Forget it. You’d started reaching for leggings more often, oversized hoodies, anything soft and forgiving. You told yourself it was just for comfort, that you were bloated, that laundry day had limited your options. Every excuse, soft and soothing, wrapped around you like the blanket you kept pulling over your body when you collapsed on the couch after dinner.

Because dinners… had changed.

They’d become events.

He made them feel like rituals: candlelight, music, a bottle of wine, second helpings before you could even ask. You’d always had a decent appetite, sure, but lately it was different. You weren’t just eating because you were hungry—you were eating because it felt good. Every meal he made was so rich, so delicious, and he never held back with the portions.

And you never refused.

You didn’t even notice how often you went back for seconds. Or thirds. You didn’t notice how he lingered, watching as you cleaned your plate, smiling softly, always ready with more. You didn’t think too hard about how often he touched your hips now, let his hand rest on your stomach after dinner, or kissed the corners of your mouth like he was tasting the last bite.

But deep down… part of you knew.

You just didn’t want to face it.

One morning, as you got dressed for brunch with friends, you pulled on a blouse you hadn’t worn in a while. It used to be loose—your go-to when you wanted to feel effortlessly cute. Now, it clung around your middle, the fabric tight enough to pull slightly between the buttons. You tugged it down and looked in the mirror, trying to smooth it out, trying not to frown.

From behind, he appeared, arms looping around you.

“You look gorgeous,” he murmured against your ear, his hands resting right where the shirt felt the tightest. “Seriously.”

You gave a weak laugh. “It’s a little snug.”

“I like it,” he said, voice low, lips brushing your neck. “Everything about you lately feels… softer. Happier.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared into the mirror as he held you there, his fingers slowly moving over the new curves that weren’t there a few months ago. The ones you’d been trying not to notice.

You wore the blouse anyway.

And at brunch, you ordered the French toast.

Chapter Five: Numbers Don’t Lie

It happened on a Tuesday morning.

You’d just finished a shower, hair wrapped in a towel, steam still clinging to the mirror. You were running late, but something pulled you back into the bathroom. Your eyes drifted to the corner, where the digital scale sat, neglected and silent.

You stared at it for a long moment. Heartbeat rising.

You hadn’t stepped on it in… months?

Your stomach was still warm and heavy from last night’s dinner—creamy mashed potatoes, roasted chicken with thick gravy, and two slices of homemade apple pie, courtesy of your husband’s sudden “baking phase.” You remembered how full you’d felt afterward, how tight your waistband had gotten, how he’d smiled when you let out that soft little groan and leaned back, stuffed.

You’d laughed it off. You always laughed it off.

But this morning, the bloated feeling lingered. Your thighs looked fuller. Your belly curved out with a softness you could no longer write off as water weight. And now, standing there in nothing but a towel, you could see it—truly see it.

The roundness in your face. The faint roll forming beneath your breasts. The way your hips had widened just enough to shift how your towel tucked in.

You took a deep breath and stepped on the scale.

157.4 lbs.

Your breath caught.

You blinked. Stepped off. Stepped back on.

157.6 lbs.

You couldn’t remember the last time the number had been that high. Maybe never. It didn’t feel real. Not until you stood there for a long minute, towel loosening around you, reality sinking in like a weight on your chest.

You hadn’t just gained a little. This was… real. Measurable.

And yet, even as the number echoed in your head, another memory crept in:

Your husband’s hands on your waist last night, gently guiding you back for seconds. The way his eyes darkened as you finished the last bite. How he kissed you afterward like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He didn’t seem to mind. In fact… he seemed to like it.

That night, you made a salad for dinner.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you quietly as you prepped your plate. When he sat down with his own serving—generous, creamy, full of roasted chicken and croutons—you noticed he’d added a little extra to yours too. Some shaved parmesan. A drizzle of olive oil. A thick slice of buttered bread on the side.

“Babe,” you said, hesitant, “I was thinking maybe… I should cut back. A bit.”

He paused, fork in hand, eyes warm. “Cut back?”

You nodded, trying to sound casual. “I weighed myself today.”

His lips curved into something unreadable—half concern, half something else entirely. “And?”

“I’ve put on a few pounds.”

He reached across the table, took your hand.

“You look incredible.”

You wanted to argue. Say something logical. Sensible. Instead, you let him squeeze your fingers, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and tried to ignore how the bread was still warm… and how hungry you suddenly felt again.

Chapter Six: Mirror, Mirror

You waited until he left for work.

The second the front door closed and the lock clicked, you were already peeling your hoodie off. The living room still smelled faintly of breakfast—bacon, syrup, cinnamon-sugar toast—and your stomach gave a lazy churn, still half-full from the meal you’d eaten out of habit more than hunger.

Your hands were trembling before you even made it to the mirror.

You’d avoided it lately—never stopping too long, never letting your eyes linger. But today, you faced it. Stripped off the hoodie, then your leggings, then your tank top. One by one until you stood there in just a bra and panties. Bare. Exposed. No more soft lighting. No more flattering angles.

No more denial.

Your breath caught.

Your belly, once soft but subtle, now pushed gently forward—round, undeniably heavier. The waistband of your panties pressed into your skin, leaving a faint red line across your hips. There was a crease forming below your navel now, one that deepened when you shifted. You reached down and touched it, fingers trembling, tracing the unfamiliar curve.

Your thighs had changed too. Fuller. Plush. They brushed together now when you stood still, a faint rub that had become normal but you’d never really noticed. You turned sideways. Your backside jutted out more, your bra digging in slightly at the band.

You raised your arms and watched how everything shifted—the way your belly gave a soft jiggle, how the flesh under your arms was a little looser, a little softer than you remembered. You grabbed at your love handles with both hands, pressing into them, trying to reshape them, contain them.

They didn’t go anywhere.

Your chest, once barely filling your cups, now threatened to spill over them. Your favorite bra had started leaving marks. You’d blamed the dryer. You’d blamed swelling. You’d blamed everything but this.

This body.

Your body.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It came out shaky, broken. You turned, trying to find an angle that didn’t feel like someone else’s reflection—but it all looked unfamiliar. Heavier. Wider. Real.

You dropped to the bed, half-dressed, heart pounding. Your hands went to your stomach again, almost without thinking, cradling it. You sat there, feeling the weight of it settle into your lap, heavy and undeniable. You pushed against it. It pushed back.

“How did this happen?” you whispered.

But you knew.

You knew.

Every meal, every bite, every moment you’d shrugged it off and let him take care of you. The way he’d encouraged you to skip workouts, the desserts that had become routine, the casual grazing that seemed so harmless at the time. It had all felt so innocent.

Hadn’t it?

Or… had he known exactly what he was doing?

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text from him: “Thinking of you. Hope you’re relaxing today. I left a little surprise in the fridge.”

You sat frozen for a long moment, your stomach flipping—not from hunger, but from something deeper. Something almost like dread.

Then you stood up. Slowly. Still staring at yourself in the mirror.

Because for the first time, you didn’t just see the change.

You felt it.

And it scared you.

Chapter Seven: What You’ve Been Feeding Me

You didn’t open the fridge.

You couldn’t. Not after what you’d just seen in the mirror. Not after sitting on the bed in your too-tight underwear, holding yourself like a stranger. You ignored his text. You didn’t even reply. You just sat, stewing in a mix of disbelief, confusion… and something dangerously close to betrayal.

You didn’t want to believe it.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop spiraling.

The subtle portion increases. The constant temptations. The way he always brushed off your concerns with a compliment or a kiss or another warm plate full of something rich and impossible to resist. It had all felt so loving. So natural.

Now it felt calculated.

By the time he got home that evening, you were waiting.

He walked in with a smile on his face, a paper bag in hand, the kind you knew carried something indulgent. “Hey, babe—guess what I found at the bakery? Those little custard tarts you—”

You cut him off.

“Sit down.”

His eyes flicked up, surprised by your tone. But he obeyed, setting the bag on the counter and pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. You stood across from him, arms folded tightly over your chest, still wearing the oversized hoodie from this morning—but now you felt everything under it. The heaviness. The tightness. The truth.

“I weighed myself.”

He said nothing. Just looked at you, calm. Neutral.

“I’ve gained… over twenty pounds. Twenty. And you never said a word. Not once.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’ve looked beautiful every single day.”

“That’s not the point!” you snapped, voice cracking. “You knew. You saw it happening. And instead of helping me—instead of encouraging me to stay on track—you just kept feeding me. You wanted this.”

Silence. He didn’t deny it.

Your heart raced. “You planned it, didn’t you? You knew I couldn’t say no forever. You were just waiting for me to give in.”

He exhaled, slowly. Leaned forward on his elbows, eyes soft but steady.

“You were miserable before.”

You blinked. “What?”

He spoke slowly, carefully. “Always stressing over what you ate. Counting calories. Starting over every Monday. You hated your body no matter how hard you tried. And I hated seeing you like that.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I never forced anything,” he continued. “I didn’t hide vegetables or slip butter into your smoothies. I just gave you the freedom to enjoy things. And yeah… maybe I hoped you’d let go a little. Maybe I wanted to see what would happen if you stopped fighting yourself all the time.”

You stared at him.

“So you wanted me to get fat?”

He flinched slightly, but didn’t deny it. “I wanted you to feel safe. Safe enough to eat. To be full. To let yourself have what you want without guilt.”

You felt heat rise to your face—anger, shame, confusion, something molten and messy.

“You should’ve told me,” you whispered. “You should’ve asked.”

“I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

That stopped you. The room felt thick with silence.

He stood slowly, came around the table, and placed his hands gently on your hips. They settled higher than they used to. You felt the warmth of his palms against the new softness there.

“I love this version of you,” he said quietly. “But it’s not about what I want. It’s about what you want now.”

You looked up at him, breathing shallow. You could feel the weight on your body, the pressure of your belly against the inside of your hoodie, the way your thighs had begun to subtly touch even standing still. All of it.

“So what happens now?” you asked.

His answer came without hesitation.

“That’s up to you.”

[phyllocnistis]

rye 🌾

butch4butch

pastry chef and head chef get into it and head chef reminds her who's in charge.

this one's shorter than my last few but i think im gonna do some longer stuff next !

"table 13 up!" 

tatum's voice rang out over the sounds of dishwaters whirring, knives chopping, doors slamming, pans frying, waitresses chattering. no one seemed to pay them mind, other than a server who ran back and forth, asking for the forgotten sauce for table 8. the kitchen was in full motion at this moment, the height of the dinner rush. a few months ago, this would have put them in the so deep in the weeds, they probably wouldn't have gotten out till 2 am. but now, with tatum here? the place ran like a well oiled machine. 

of course, there were others to thank. ricky, the dishwasher, toiled over near-boiling water and steamed dishes, churning them out just as fast as they came in. cora, the sous chef, adapted well, taking on whatever tasks where given to her eagerly. sondra, the prep cook, was always watching from behind her steel table, chopping or mixing away at whatever was on her list. and then, there was lua, the pastry chef. not always here at night, typically coming in earlier and leaving before dinner, she'd been spending a considerable amount of shifts staying late, just to work a little with tatum. 

tatum was the new head chef, hired in from out of state. while initially only here to fill a gap while the company found a permanent chef, tatum organized the kitchen and presented such impressive food and work ethic that the owners had offered them a full time position, one they hesitated on for a few days. finally though, with some convincing, they were the new head chef at "Rye," a made-from-scratch restaurant that prided itself on whole, natural ingredients. 

lua enjoyed watching them. a walkway separated lua's table from tatum's stovetop, the two facing each other often. it had been the first little smirk that did it. lua hadn't been able to stop staring at them since her shift started, eyes locked on the sweaty arms that lifted heavy pots and plated food beautifully. tatum's hair was short, buzzed close to the head, and a septum ring that looked like barbed wire dangled from their nose. they were older than most in the kitchen, probably in their late 30s or early 40s. their eyes were deep set and they had a sharp jawline and an even sharper wit. catching lua staring, they asked loudly over kitchen noises, 

"can i help you, wonderbread?"

it took a moment for lua to catch up but when she did, she was stunned; huffing out a sigh and mouth agape, she shook her head, trying to come up with a better remark. 

"nah, i don't think you could! thanks though," she smirked, giving a sympathetic look before turning back to her bowl of dough.

it was playful kitchen banter, that's all! still, lua wondered if she had fucked up by back talking the new boss. it's not like she believed it either. she was sure tatum could bake, but the treatment she'd received as a baker from other chefs had always annoyed her. 

for tatum's part, they could bake, but not very well. realistically, they knew they couldn't help that much, and that lua was right. even so, they didn't appreciate her pointing it out in front of every one. 

they did appreciate how she looked when she did it, though. they loved other butches and lua ticked all the right boxes for them. as she turned back to her mixer, tatum watched as she hauled the heavy mixing  bowl onto a cart and turned, pushing the cart towards the back of the kitchen. 

her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and she moved purposely, on a mission.

tatum couldn't help it, the curiosity got the better of them. who was this person to back talk them like that? 

they took their gloves off and trashed them, following lua as she walked past coolers and hot boxes. 

lua tried not to think about what she had said, growing nervous tatum would reprimand her. she tried to clear her thoughts, but was unable to shake the feeling.

finally, she reached one of the large metal boxes at the back of the room, one tatum had seen but never actually used. they leaned against the wall casually and stared as lua unloaded the dough from the cart and placed it into the box. ah, a dough proofer. 

as lua turned around to walk back to her station, she jumped, startled by tatum's sudden appearance. 

"shit! you scared me!" she blushed and looked towards the floor, trying not to make eye contact. 

"oh, yeah? just wanted to see where you were going with all that dough."

lua's eyebrows furrowed and she finally looked at tatum, arms crossed, and fought back nervousness to ask,

"what, are you like obsessed with me now?"

lua smirked before throwing a towel over her shoulder and stepping forward to pass tatum. 

tatum wasn't obsessed with lua, they were just getting fed up with this "know-it-all" attitude and figured she just needed someone to put her in her place. they stepped in front of lua's path, blocking the walkway with their large frame. staring down at her, they crossed their arms to look imposing and said smugly, 

"my office, now."

lua was scared. so many thoughts raced through her mind. had she gone too far? misread the situation? was she getting fired? she turned, tail tucked, and walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway that lead to tatum's office. tatum did not follow immediately behind, instead taking a moment to check on the rest of the kitchen, leaving lua to stew in her thoughts.. 

lua sat on the hard leather chair in front of tatum's desk and took in the space. it hasn't been long enough for them to truly decorate, but a few photos hung on the wall and some knick knacks sat scattered on their desk. lua could feel her palms beginning to sweat as the anticipation dug into her, unsure of her fate. she’d worked here for so long, been so excited to put it on her resume. was she really gonna let some beefcake like tatum ruin her? she let the thought wander a little too far and before she knew it, she was fantasizing about their chest and arms. she wished tatum would ruin her. 

finally, the door to the office slowly creaked open and tatum's head poked through. their body followed and they strode inside, the door’s lock clicking behind them. sitting down behind their desk, tatum stared at lua with unwavering eyes. their hands sat clasped on their stomach as they leaned back, thinking of what they should do. 

fuck, they thought, now is my chance. 

she looked so good right now, sitting there with her hat off and hair fussy, clearly nervous. her coat was unbuttoned slightly at the top, not technically dress code, but tatum didn’t give a shit. lua’s collarbones and cleavage peeked out and tatum couldn’t help but stare. 

“hello?” 

lua’s voice shook tatum back to reality, reminding them they were supposed to be reprimanding her. clearing their throat, tatum narrowed their eyes and leaned into their desk, drinking up the sight of lua. 

“don’t you know the rules about workplace bullying?” they said, trying to sound stern.

lua scoffed, looking around the room before replying. 

“that? you think that was workplace bullying?” she asked, chuckling a little bit as she relaxed in her chair. 

tatum stood and walked in front of the desk. both lua and tatum had their arms crossed, staring up and down and one another waiting for someone to make a move. tatum was as cool as a cucumber but before long, lua grew too anxious waiting and found the courage to stand up, knocking her chair back a little as she did. now, the two stood with mere inches between their faces. 

“what are you going to do about it?” her voice shook more than she meant for it to, but the words came out nonetheless. 

this just about did it for tatum. they hated being undermined, especially if it was from a sexy butch coworker.. without thinking, their hand shot up to lua’s neck, thumb and index fingers pressed against her jawline. her eyes lit up as she stared back at tatum, desperate for them. 
“wow,” she gasped, “i didn’t think you had it in you.”

tatum exploded, excited to show lua exactly how much they had it in them. they pushed her down face first onto the desk, her hands catching her before she fell. with one hand holding her head down, tatum’s other hand pulled at her pants, desperately trying to get them over lua’s curves. once they did, they found boxer briefs that hugged her beautifully. lua whimpered as tatum’s hand explored her, rubbing her ass and feeling her thighs, playing with the seams of her underwear but never explicitly touching her. they let go of her hair and pulled her coat off, revealing a form fitting tank top. with force, tatum flipped her over and hauled her onto the desk and pulled off her briefs to reveal a dripping, hairy pussy. tatum dropped to their knees and pushed lua’s leg onto the desk, staring up at her, ready to prove her wrong. 

lua’s head rolled back and she began to moan as tatum’s tongue circled her throbbing cunt. before she could make too much noise however, tatum’s fingers dug into her thighs leaving dark red scratch marks. this stunted her moans. 

they ate ravenously, slurping up every bit of her as they could, gnawing at her thighs as she squirmed. unable to contain herself, lua pulled her tank top down and revealed massive, bouncing tits; a sight that almost made tatum cum on sight. the black tank top squeezed her breasts together in a way that made them look extra succulent. tatum stared up at her with their tongue buried in her cunt and couldn’t take it anymore. they stood up abruptly and began unbuckling their belt. like the good slut lua was proving to be, she dropped to her knees this time to help, mouth open, tongue out and ready to take all of them. the moment tatum unbuckled their belt, lua was pulling at their own briefs this time. hungrily and with wide eyes, lua stared down tatum’s rock hard cock, slick with precum, before shoving it down her throat. tatum had to stifle their moans this time. the sight of lua’s tits under their throbbing dick reminded them why they were here; lua needed punishing. 

yanking her up by her hair, tatum bent lua back over this table, spreading her legs with theirs. with a deep breath from both of them, they pushed the tip of their cock in and shoved hard, pressing her in between them and the desk. lua loved it, her pussy throbbing and clenching around tatum. suddenly, their hands pressed against her face and fingers slipped into her mouth, using her face as an anchor as they pounded their cock into her even harder. lua felt the cold wood of the desk press against her hard nipples and the feeling of tatum’s cock so deep inside her, she began to shake, orgasm taking hold of her body. tatum saw in the reflection of the computer lua’s tit’s bouncing as they slammed into her, each thrust hitting the perfect spot, and without warning, tatum felt the pressure of come rising through their veiny cock. with a final thrust and moan, tatum let lua fall onto the desk, cum leaking from her hairy cunt as she lay there, legs shaking. 

“i think that probably helped enough, don’t you think?” tatum asked smugly, staring at the destroyed mess they were leaving behind. pulling their pants up and smushing their now soft cock into their briefs, they turned back to face lua before walking out of the office. 

“you should get back to work soon.”

[the-fluff-piece]

"Invisible" choose your own romance

- Zoro or Sanji?

This is a "choose your own adventure" type continuation of "invisible", if you haven't read that, start here. You can chose at the end if you want to be with Sanji or Zoro, click on the link to get to the corresponding story

After Sanji rejected you, he offered to be friends - you accepted. As you get to know each other better and better, you discover new sides to your crewmate Zoro. Which one will you choose in the end?

The new friendship with Sanji led to new routines in your day. You started to help him a lot, earning his praise and time spent together, just the two of you.

Laughing, talking, working together; when no one else was around, it felt like you were made for each other. You enjoyed his company, his laughter and even occasionally his friendly teasing. When you closed your eyes, it felt like the day you had with him in another body.

You opened your eyes again and looked at your crewmate. Sanji was cleaning the table while you were washing dishes. Whistling, he threw the rag on the counter and proceeded to make tea in his careful fashion.

Your heart sank a little, he was preparing Nami's afternoon tea. Soon, the suspension of disbelief would dissipate and Sanji would prance to Nami, drooling and babbling like an idiot. Not leaving an ounce of doubt who he saw as desirable and who was just his platonic friend.

With a sigh, you saw him run out the door. And like always, you finished the chores on the kitchen alone.

Putting plates back in cupboards, bringing his knives, pots and pans back in order, you were deep in your work and almost fell backwards when a hunched figure said "yo" over the counter.

Stumbling and gasping, you saw that it was Zoro, who must have snuck in like a cat.

"Whoa Zoro don't do that! You're giving me a heart attack" You were heaving with shock.

"Sorry, I thought you saw me" He raked his hand through his hair, looking around like he was searching for something.

"Do you need anything?" You asked, leaning over the counter. Zoro wasn't exactly someone you had long conversations with, so it was plausible that he was just hungry.

"Do you have any leftovers?" He looked a bit sheepishly over the counter.

"We just ate" you chuckled.

"Well...I forgot how hungry I was" He sat down, swords clanking at his side.

"You forgot..." You raised your eyebrows at this. He blushed.

"Yeah sometimes I just want to get back to training so bad, I forget how hungry I really am" His stomach rumbled loudly and he looked embarrassed.

Without asking for a better explanation, you took the leftovers out of the fridge and reheated them on the stove, while a single blue eye watched hungrily.

When you eventually pushed a steaming plate towards your crewmate, he looked grateful and dug in with a "thanks!"

He was eating like a starving stray dog, he must have been really hungry.

"Stupid cook usually doesn't heat it up...smug bastard..." he said with his mouth full.

While he ate, you decided to sharpen the kitchen knives a bit, since Sanji loved to work with well kept equipment.

As you started to sharpen them, Zoro almost jumped over the counter: "nooooo!" And ripped the knive from your hand.

"What?" You shrieked at him.

"You're doing it all wrong!" He clutched the small chopping knife to his chest like a newborn.

"I'm doing it like Sanji showed me" you tried to pry it from his hands again.

"Well he's an idiot and incompetent with swords" Zoro stated, looking at the blade.

"I'll sharpen them for you. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't exactly wrong what you did, it was just not perfect. It took me years to perfect the process." He already started to run the side of the blade over the stone, keeping a careful angle and rhythm.

"Take it as thanks for feeding me" He winked.

"You know, steel may be hard, but it needs lots of care to stay sharp" He began lecturing you on his favorite subject - blades. While sharpening every knife in the kitchen, he talked about how he learned his trade. You felt that it really was his biggest passion and listened intently.

Sanji

Home.

For the first time, Sanji felt at home. Whole. Loved. Safe.

His crew was like his family and he knew he could always depend on them. With y/n, he has now gained an unexpected companion.

He lovingly looked at the album she made, it was right next to his cookbooks on the shelf and he took it out just as often.

After all he's been through, he felt he deserved someone like her in his life. He bathed in her appreciation, sucked up all her kindness like a sponge. She wasn't a guy - he could never accept help or gifts like that from a guy - but she also wasn't exactly a lady, high up on a pedestal, unreachable and perfect.

He could talk to her normally, confide in her, be himself. It felt like the purest form of friendship he had ever experienced. He could share his thoughts and feelings with her.

And she helped him in the kitchen, even if she tried to hide it. She kept order while he was away, she helped him prepare meals and made his life a whole lot more relaxed. He had more time for training now, fishing and taking special care of Nami and Robin.

He hummed to himself as he prepared afternoon tea for Nami. He smelled cake, y/n had surely made something in the oven. She used the kitchen now more of her own, after he had made sure that she knew the rules and kept order.

He watched her as she cut two slices of the fresh cake onto plates, loading them on her arm like he taught her and make her way out of the galley.

"Hey, where are you going?" He bend over the counter to catch a glimpse of her as she blushed slightly.

"Just eating out on deck" She mumbled and vanished out of the door.

Sanji got a strange feeling in his stomach. Something wasn't right. He left the tea to cool a bit and followed her outside. She made her way over the sunny's deck to a shady corner, where something was lying that looked like a pile of dirty rags to Sanji.

"Mosshead" He growled under his breath.

He felt the knot in his stomach tighten as she kneeled down in the grass and poked Zoro awake. The swordsman smiled broadly as he saw the cake - just as broad as Y/n who watched him take the first bite.

Sanji was already putting together insults in his head, when he stopped for a second to think about why he wanted to ruin this for y/n. She seemed happy. It made him mad.

They began talking. They laughed. Sanji realised he had almost breathed in the whole cigarette with angry puffs. While he was still searching for a good reason in his head to pick a fight with Zoro in this moment, the egg timer he had set for the tea went off and he decided to let it go, for now.

He tried to calm down, but failed miserably. When he served Nami her tea, he couldn't savour her exquisite appearance and the deep cut shirt she wore. Mechanically, he prepared dinner, alone, wondering where Y/n was and what she did. And with whom.

When he decided to go look for her, she was nowhere to be found. Except he didn't want to go look in the crows nest.

You

You regretted not talking to him sooner. Zoro was intimidating at first, but in the end he was just a laid back guy with a strange obsession. He liked swords and fighting, but he was interested in whatever you had to say, too. He listened closely, asking questions that showed you he really cared about what you had to say.

And he seemed more than delighted when you cared for him- reminded him to take a break and especially if you brought him food. He trained hard every day, he needed to eat a lot to keep up his strength.

Usually, gruff and buff wasn't your type, but Zoro turned out to have a charm of his own and you found yourself thinking less and less about Sanji the more time you spend away from him.

Whatever this was, one question burned on your mind before you let your feelings grow any further.

You sat with Zoro in the crows nest, talking about the last adventures and eating rice balls.

"Zoro, I know you've been sailing with Nami for a long time now. Do you...uhm...like her?" Your emphasis made clear what exactly you meant.

Zoro almost choked on his meal.

"What? Like? That egotistical, lying gold digging hag???" He seemed appaled at the idea, "Why are you even asking me this?"

"Most men seem to love her, I just wondered. She is really hot." You avoided looking at him.

"I don't care for that" He said.

"Why?" You had to ask. You've seen how he wasn't in the least interesting in women like Boa Hancock, Shirahoshi or even Hyori- who clearly wanted him.

He just shrugged. "Why should I? Dating a hot girl doesn't make me stronger." He seemed to think for a moment.

"You know what makes me stronger? When someone looks out for me, brings me food, listens to what I have to say" He looked at the onigiri you made for him, an than his serious gaze was set on you.

"Know what I mean?" His question sounded meaningful, like even he didn't dare to clearly state his mind.

"I guess so" you looked away.

Shit.

You weren't sure if you just ruined something that hasn't even started. Not even sure if he really meant anything at all.

"I'm sorry Sanji hurt you" he said out of the blue,"Just say the word and I'll whip his bony ass and cut his hair" a sinister smile played around Zoro's lips, you were sure he really meant it.

The talk with Zoro left you confused, but also excited and full of energy. You spend the whole next day occupied in a flurry of different feelings. Insecure how to act around him, you avoided Zoro, who respectfully kept his distance.

You were ripped from your thoughts by the sound of a hard impact on the ship - an attack?

You hurried to deck, were you found Zoro and Sanji at each others throats.

"Stop it you two!" Nami shouted at them.

"Not until he apologises!" Sanji aimed a fiery kick at the swordsman, who blocked with one of his blades.

"Apologise? You are the one who should be apologising - to y/n!" Zoro growled as he drew his second sword.

The two clashed, rocking the ship. Everyone was on deck now to watch the spectacle.

"I would never hurt her, stop saying that!" Sanji kicked against Zoro's crossed swords.

"Seems they're fighting over you, so it's your problem now" Nami said as she passed you, retreating into the ship.

Fighting - over you?

You watched helplessly as the two big hitters of your pirate crew clashed and fought.

"Stop it now!" You screamed and both didn't look at you, still locked in combat and pushing against each other.

"Go back inside y/n, I'll deal with this mosshead, he won't bother you anymore" Sanji shouted.

"Bother her? Y/n tell that stupid cook that you like hanging out with me way more than with him!" Zoro grinned maliciously as he realised he just set off Sanji more.

"No, you stop RIGHT NOW", you stomped your foot like an angry child, but they stopped, kind of. With a last clash they flew in opposite directions and landed on different sides of the sunny, still eyeing each other suspiciously.

Zoro was the first to stop, he slid his swords back into their sheaths and turned to you.

"I just told him that he should apologise for breaking your heart. You're far too good for him." He paused and swallowed. "And also...I think you're better off with me" He straightened nervously and avoided your gaze.

"NoooooOOOOOO" Sanji's protest grew louder as he dashed to you. He looked distressed, his usually neat hair in disarray. He bowed slightly, his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

"I know I have no right to tell you this anymore. I hurt you because I was too stupid to even see you. But I've.." he swallowed audibly, "I've come to love you over the last weeks. You're not just my friend; you're the person who makes my world brighter, who I would do anything for. I can't imagine my life without you in it" he theatrically sank to his knees, "only the thought of losing you to another man made me realize that."

‐----

So tumblr postet stuff again without asking me, so the whole piece is not done yet, I'm Sorry xD but it'll be finalised in the next days

What's going to happen now?

Chose Zoro

Chose Sanji

Taglist @sophsgloom @nim-rose @iloveartofcartoons-blog @caffeinated-chicken-nuggets @mugiwarasoul19 @yeeeeezly @atanukileaf @rosemaplefairy90 @carpinchootaku @corvinalitbitina

[hey-hey-j]

anyway here's another excerpt because I'm starting to lose confidence in the fic overall pfgggfhhf

He only has to catch himself on the doorframe once when he starts stepping out of his room, but from there it’s easy-peasy to keep one hand placed securely against the wall as he makes his way down the hall, slowly, all the way to the bunker’s small kitchen. The smell of something getting overcooked greets him before he can make it all the way inside. 

Like most mornings, John Dory is already down here, grinning that goofy grin of his as he hovers over the stove, flips something in one of the pans he’s got ever-so-slightly smoking on it. When he notices Floyd coming in he turns to greet him cheerfully, ears perking up excitedly. “Morning!” 

Floyd makes a low hum of acknowledgement in his throat, then follows it up with a mumbly “Morning.” He leans against the doorframe, rubs at his still tired eyes. God, he wants to go back to bed. “Where’s Branch?” 

If it’s not John Dory, then it’s usually Branch who’s down in the kitchen before anyone else, cooking breakfast with a lot more precision and a lot fewer pans than John Dory is doing now. If he’s not here, then he’s gotta be busy somewhere else. Floyd’s learned by now that Branch isn’t the type to let the day go to waste. 

John Dory brings his free hand up to his chest and flattens it there, says in a voice gone all melodramatic, “Our dearest Bitty B had to get an early start today.” Then, bringing his voice back down to its usual deep tone he adds, “He said he’s helping Poppy with the expansion plans.” 

Right, the expansion—weeks of back and forth correspondence with Clay and Viva, calculating the amount of new pods needing to be built to accommodate the Putt Putt trolls, how many Putt Putts total split up into how many couples and families, how many caterbuses will be needed to bring them all to the village and what adjustments need to be made to their food stores to account for the extra mouths to feed…. it’s giving Floyd a headache just thinking about the amount of work involved. 

(The amount of work he could be out there helping his baby brother with, but thinking about that just starts making his stomach feel all squeezy. It’s either that or the fact that he just chugged down a handful of pills on an empty stomach.)

Speaking of: John’s already placing a steaming mug and a plate of scrambled eggs (only slightly burnt at the edges) on the table before Floyd can even sit down, and once Floyd does he lets himself sink into the chair immediately, biting back another sigh at the tension seeping from his muscles. 

For a moment, he’s grateful that John didn’t notice the gesture, back turned to Floyd as he fills up his own mug at the counter. When he does turn to Floyd again it’s with a big smile plastered on his face, his best attempt at coming off as inviting. 

“So!” Way too cheerily. “How’re we feeling today?” 

Sitting up gingerly (despite the squeal of protest in his lower back), Floyd reaches for the coffee mug. For as much as he’s been going on about his empty stomach, he’s just feeling vaguely queasy at the sight of food right now. “Okay,” he answers John. Halfheartedly sips at his coffee—wait, no, that is bitter. Floyd peers warily down at the drink as he adds, “I took my meds early today, so….”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. 

Regardless, he can see John Dory nodding through his own swig of coffee, replying when he’s able, “Good to know they’re working, uh?” 

“I guess, yeah….” 

Though Floyd doesn’t feel like they’re working. 

An awkward silence passes over the two brothers then, abruptly. Floyd goes on peering down into his mug. Briefly he thinks about getting up and getting some dang creamer but even that feels like too much effort today. John Dory goes on standing at the other end of the table, mug cupped in both hands, one finger repeatedly tapping on the ceramic like he’s looking for something to say. Or like he’s nervous. 

“....Well, Branch is probably going to be gone for most of the day.” 

Floyd nods in response. “Yup.” Busy guy. 

“So, I was thinking….”

Floyd blinks up in time to see John Dory setting his mug down on the table. Placing both palms down flat on the surface so he can lean in closer to Floyd, just a little bit, like he’s trying to be conscious of his brother’s personal bubble. 

“Maybe you and I could do something together, yeah?” John’s voice has gone uncharacteristically low. Almost…. soft. His ears are pricking up with anticipation. “Just the two of us!”

There’s a kind of gleam in his eyes as he says it, something small and bright and almost like…. almost like hope, Floyd realizes, and right at that moment he feels his own ears droop with the knowledge of what John is trying to do….

Something leaps in Floyd’s stomach. He finds himself sighing, suddenly, not bothering to stifle it this time. One hand comes up to pinch at his temple again, the headache threatening to emerge earlier finally setting in. Another sigh. 

“I…. I think I just want to stay in today…. I’m so—”

Suddenly he’s biting back the next word. Literally—he feels his tongue catching in his teeth before he can spit it out. 

I’m….

“I’m…. I’m just…. not really feeling it right now.” 

He casts his eyes back down to the drink in his grip but he still catches it.

John Dory’s hands clenching against the tabletop. 

“Oh…. th-that’s okay!” The words are cheerful, but Floyd can still sense it, the pang of disappointment in his older brother’s voice. It’s almost enough to get Floyd walking back his statement right then and there, but—no. Floyd’s tired. He’s sick and he’s tired and he doesn’t want to go out today. No matter how much John Dory pouts about it. 

But, seeing that big desperate smile still clinging to John’s face….

That awkward silence again. Just as abrupt as before. Floyd closes his eyes against it….

“....Hey, um. D’you wanna…. come up to Rhonda with me?”

This time Floyd does swallow back the irritated sigh that wants to escape him. His eyes flutter back open, his mouth starting to say something—

“You don’t have to do anything!” John Dory briskly interrupts him with a raising of his palms, almost panicked, before he seems to realize what he’s doing and quickly tucks his hands under his arms, shrinking back from the table and therefore Floyd with his gaze going down to the floor. This time when he speaks, his words come out slower. More careful.

“I just…. need to declutter some stuff up there.” Nervously he moves his gaze back up towards Floyd, suddenly looking a kind of anxious that Floyd hasn’t seen in him since….

Bro, you look stressed. Breathe….

It’s in that moment that Floyd realizes he’s been biting his lip. He lets it go gingerly, eyes still trained hesitantly on John Dory. The tense line of his shoulders. 

If it’s just from here to Rhonda….

For what feels like the hundredth time, Floyd lets out a sigh. He moves to take another sip of coffee—BLECK, yeah, no, that’s still terrible. He pushes the mug away from himself, fixes John Dory with a look he hopes comes across as Fine, but don’t ask anything more of me. 

“Okay.” 

At that, John Dory smiles. Relief clearly flooding his eyes as he goes to pick up his mug again, starts making his way around the table. “Okay then, cool!” He says it breathily as he steps past Floyd, on his way to the exit. “I’ll meet you up there, okay? When you’re ready!” He points a finger before he disappears down the hall entirely. “Eat your breakfast!” 

Just like that, Floyd is left alone in the kitchen.

[apteryxparvus]

Congrats on 100! I’ve a request

Scaramouche/Wanderer (genshin impact) x reader roommates au. They’re doing mundane things together like cooking, cleaning, lounging, etc because they finally both got a day off work

Two months later, I finally finished this piece 😭

Part of my ✨ 100 followers milestone event ✨ that ran from September 2nd to September 9th.

Pairing — Scaramouche / Reader

Word count — 1,288 words

Content warning — slightly suggestive themes, Scaramouche might seem a bit OOC

“Wake up, sleepy head,” you whisper in Scaramouche’s ear, breath gently tickling his skin. His slumbering form stirs, mumbling something unintelligible as he instinctively turns, pulling the blanket closer to himself.

You can’t help but stifle a chuckle at his adorable drowsiness. Nestling deeper beneath the cozy blanket, you draw your body closer to his, hands gently resting upon his waist. His skin radiates a comforting warmth that contrasts with the coolness of the morning air.

The room is bathed in a gentle golden glow as the morning light filters through the window, illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air.

“It’s nearly noon,” you murmur, placing a tender kiss upon Scaramouche’s forehead. He furrows his brows, letting out a low grumble. “You’ve had your beauty sleep, and now it’s time to rise and greet the day!”

Scaramouche slowly turns towards you, eyes fluttering open to meet your gaze. Blinking a few times, he adjusts to the sunlight streaming into the room. Despite the slight frown adorning his face, his eyes are filled with a mix of affection and a sleep-induced grogginess. 

“How about we stay like this a little longer?” he mumbles, voice husky and laced with the remnants of sleep.

“Nope,” you laugh softly at his request, a mischievous glimmer dancing in your eyes. “Now get up,” you assert, and with a swift movement, you wrap your legs around his, drawing him closer. You give his cheek a playful, yet gentle nip, eliciting a surprised reaction from him. 

Scaramouche looks at you with wide eyes. “Was that really needed?” he asks, feigning a hurt expression. “Ruining my precious beauty sleep, as you called it.”

Realizing that you’ve successfully disrupted his peaceful slumber, you giggle at his protest. "Oh, come on," you tease, tracing a finger along his jawline. "Who needs beauty sleep when you're already the most handsome person I know?"

“Fine, fine,” Scaramouche murmurs under his breath. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he shakes his head in mock annoyance but the twinkle in his eyes betrays him — his lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. You feel yourself melting as the warmth of his lips linger against yours.

“Breakfast time then? How do you feel about some chazuke?”

Scaramouche’s eyes brighten at the mention of breakfast. “Sounds perfect,” he replies. “I love how you always know exactly what I crave.”

You can’t help but blush at his words. “Stop buttering me up, and let’s get to work.”

The kitchen is alive with the sounds of your synchronized movements — the clinking of utensils and the gentle sizzle of the grill pan. The fragrant aroma of the grilled eel permeates the air, its tantalizing scent mixing with the comforting earthiness of freshly brewed green tea.

Scaramouche takes charge of preparing the bowls of rice, submerging them in the tea. When the eel is perfectly seared, you transfer a few tender pieces into the waiting bowls, and sprinkle furikake over them, watching as the colorful seasoning melts into the rice.

Your attention is drawn to your boyfriend across the low table. You watch him pile several plump umeboshi onto his bowl, their deep color standing out against the white grains of rice, followed by a large assortment of pickled vegetables — radish, carrots, large pieces of lavender melon and seagrass.

After mumbling a quick thanks for the food, you lift your wooden chopsticks, savoring the blended scents wafting from the steaming bowl.

Scaramouche lifts his own chopsticks, a satisfied smirk gracing his lips. 

“Are you even going to taste anything beneath this mountain of pickled stuff?” you taunt.

He shoots you a playful sideways glare, before snatching the plumpest-looking umeboshi and tossing it whole into his mouth. You watch both fascinated and appalled as he continues to devour the pickled vegetables. Your nose scrunches involuntarily as you imagine the sourness on your own tongue, yet Scaramouche seems utterly unaffected, clearly enjoying the taste.

“You simply don’t know what you’re missing out,” he says, waving his chopsticks dismissively. "This is reserved for those with refined palates."

“Says the madman who thinks wasabi is too mild!” you shoot back.

Your morning banter dissolves into laughter as the two of you continue to enjoy the meal. Once your bowls are empty, Scaramouche insists on taking care of the clean up. 

From your seat on the low table, you watch as your boyfriend begins to clean up the plates. His movements are purposeful and efficient. The sigh of him — sleeves rolled up and focused on the task at hand — and the domesticity of the scene ignite a warmth within you.

You stand up and make your way towards Scaramouche, closing the distance between you as you stand up on your toes. With a light touch, your lips graze against the sensitive skin of his neck.

As you press your lips against a specific spot, his pulse quickens beneath your touch. Scaramouche pauses in his task, his body tensing before he relaxes into your embrace. His hands, still holding the dirty dishes, momentarily falter. A soft moan escapes his lips, mingling with the sound of running water and the clattering of plates.

You press your body against his, feeling the heat and strength of his figure against your own. Lingering for a moment, you savor the connection between you, before pulling back slightly.

“Thanks for the cleanup,” you tease. With a light skip in your step, you turn away from him and make your way towards the living room, laughter trailing behind you. Letting out a contented sigh, you sink into the plush cushion of the couch.

Scaramouche enters the living room a few minutes later, eyes locking onto your relaxed figure, curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your body, a peaceful expression on your face as you doze off slightly.

A devilish smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he quietly approaches. He takes in the sigh of you — your form wrapped in the softness of the blanket, your gentle, rhythmic breathing filling the room.

He crouches down, and leans in to get a closer look at your serene face. His eyes roam over your features — he traces the contours of your lips, the curve of your cheeks; he watches as your eyelashes flutter.

His touch is feather-light as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

You open your eyes slowly, momentarily confused by your surroundings. The sigh of your boyfriend crouching before you, his intense gaze locked with yours, brings you back to the present moment.

“Now look who is sleeping,” he teases. "All the work you put into waking me up, only to end up dozing off the moment you're away from me."

“Mmm, that breakfast did leave me feeling quite sleepy,” you murmur. Your hand emerges from beneath the blanket, reaching to grasp his own. You pull him towards you, his body falling atop yours. “Now, come join me for a short nap.”

Scaramouche chuckles. “Whatever this sleeping beauty wishes,” he responds as he slips under the blanket, snuggling his body against yours.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him. With every breath, you feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, a rhythm that synchronizes with the pounding of your heart.

As his hold tightens, your body instinctively responds, melting into his embrace. The world around you fades away as you surrender yourself to the comfort and safety he provides — his hold becomes your little sanctuary.

"Don't forget, we still have chores to do," Scaramouche whispers, interrupting your blissful state of relaxation. "The apartment won't clean itself."

"Fuck the chores," you mumble, your voice barely audible as you press your head against Scaramouche's chest. "Now sleep."

Author's note: I failed one of my exams, so uh... I'll be studying for the resit and might be as online as I hoped to be 😫

[olive-fics]

Maybe you could write abt older abby thats like a cowboy and her and the reader live together and their like happy n domestic?!

-Sure! Love this idea hehe (not proofread.. like usual)

Abby leaned against the wooden fence, her gaze fixed on the hills that stretched out before her. The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden hue across the expanse of the farmland. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of hay and the sweet aroma of wildflowers. A toothpick sat between her teeth as she wiped small beads of sweat from her forehead onto her pants.

The sound of your voice carried from the barn, breaking the silence calling out that supper was ready. Abby pushed herself away from the fence, her worn boots kicking up a small cloud of dust as she walked towards the homestead.

Abby trudged up the porch steps, her boots heavy with the day's accumulated dirt, making sure to not track any more grime into the house. She had dirt, oil, and who knows what else on her hands from the farm work she had been doing.

"In the kitchen Abs!" You called out to her with a giggle.

You stood in the kitchen, your hand, steady and practiced, tapped a spatula against the sizzling pan of bacon, releasing a tantalizing symphony of sizzles and pops. Upon the wooden countertop, golden-brown biscuits, along with a pot simmered with corn and a plate of porkchops.

Abby walked in and leaned on the doorframe to the kitchen, she was dirty and smelled like the barn, her baby hairs stuck to her sweaty forehead and neck..

"Well, aren't you a dirty lady?" you laughed, a playful glint in your eyes as you couldn't resist teasing her. You grabbed a damp rag from the sink, moving closer to where she stood. With a gentle touch, you began helping her wash away the grime from her face.

"I can do it myself, pumpkin," Abby giggled, her voice filled with affection. She leaned down and planted a soft, tender kiss onto your forehead. Her smile held a mixture of playfulness and gratitude, as she tried to keep her dirty hands away from your clean clothes and body.

"Baby it looks too good.. I can't wait to eat." Abby murmured into your ear. "I'll fix you a plate, hon. Go sit," you insisted with a warm smile, your voice filled with care and affection. You leaned in to plant a soft, lingering kiss on her lips before she could protest.

With the plate of delicious food in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other, you walked over to the table and set everything down. As Abby began to eat, you settled into your own seat across from her, your gaze fixed on her.

"It's great, Y/N. I love it like always." Abby giggled, her mouth muffled from the food, she said followed by a genuine smile.

"Good- I know how hard you've been working and I just wanted to make sure-"

"No need to explain yourself okay?" Abby put her hand on yours rubbing it gently. "It's wonderful my love."

You smiled and nodded.

♡

Later that night you snuggled next to Abby on the couch reading a book together, "Sense and Sensibility" -Jane Austen. Abby's hums were enough to make anyone drowsy, it was like a drug to you..slowly making your eyes heavier...

"Getting sleepy baby girl..?" Abby would murmur so she didn't wake you.. Gently petting your hair and caressing your cheek, she looked down at you and noticed you were out. Her lips pulling into a tender smile..She gently bookmarked the page in the book.

"alright then..bed time it is." She carefully lifted you into her arms, up the stairs, right into bed where she too would tuck you in and cuddle right behind you holding you close.

"Goodnight, my love."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

hehe sorry for my break I've had no motivation to do anything. :,) I really like this prompt and I honestly wanna write more on it.. IDK YOU GUYS LMK!!!!! :))

ALSO. TYSM FOR 180 FOLLOWERS?? HELLO? WHERE DID U GUYS COME FROM LOL. I LOVE U ALL.

ok, peace!!

[venny-the-chubbyblack-writer]

Title: “Beneath the Wild Winds”

Happy birthday sanemi 🎉🎂🥳

_________________

The sun rose early, its golden hues cascading over the training grounds of the Wind Hashira’s estate. Sanemi Shinazugawa sat on the wooden porch, idly tying bandages over his hands. Despite the early hour, his face was already painted with his signature scowl. Yet, today wasn’t just any day—it was his birthday.

Sanemi never celebrated birthdays. To him, they were just another reminder of the years filled with bloodshed, loss, and pain. But ever since you, his fiery, vibrant wife, entered his life, he found himself loosening his grip on the bitterness he’d carried for so long.

The clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen brought a small smirk to his lips. He didn’t have to look to know it was you. You always woke up before him, determined to bring a touch of joy into his otherwise somber life.

“Sanemi!” your voice rang out from inside the house, warm and commanding all at once. “Get your stubborn butt in here!”

He sighed but obeyed, his footsteps heavy as he entered the kitchen. There you were, standing in front of the stove, your full figure adorned in a simple, floral-patterned yukata that hugged your curves. Your dark skin glowed in the morning light, and your hair, styled effortlessly yet beautifully, framed your face. You were a vision—a stark contrast to the chaos of his life.

“What is it now?” he grumbled, crossing his arms, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of affection.

You turned, holding a steaming bowl of miso soup and a tray of freshly grilled fish. “Breakfast is ready, birthday boy.”

“Birthday boy?” he scoffed, though the faintest hint of a blush crept up his neck. “I told you, I don’t care about birthdays.”

“Yeah, well, I do,” you shot back, placing the food on the low table. “Now sit. Eat. And let me spoil you for once.”

He huffed but complied, sitting cross-legged at the table. As he picked up his chopsticks, you sat beside him, watching him intently.

“Stop staring,” he muttered, though his lips quirked up slightly.

“I can’t help it,” you teased. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

Sanemi clicked his tongue but didn’t respond. Deep down, he relished these moments—the rare times when he could be vulnerable, when he didn’t have to put on the façade of the gruff Hashira. With you, he could be himself.

After breakfast, you disappeared into the garden, leaving him to wonder what you were up to. He eventually followed, only to find you standing beneath the sakura tree, a small cake in your hands.

“Happy birthday, Nemi,” you said softly, your eyes brimming with love.

His heart clenched at the sight of you—your radiant smile, the effort you’d put into this day, all for him. He walked toward you, his steps hesitant.

“I don’t deserve this,” he said gruffly, looking away.

You frowned, setting the cake down on a nearby bench. Taking his hands in yours, you forced him to meet your gaze. “You deserve everything, Sanemi. You’ve fought so hard, carried so much. Let me be the one to remind you that you’re loved, okay?”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. No one had ever spoken to him like that—no one but you.

Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, his face buried in the crook of your neck. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw.

You held him close, your fingers running through his silvery hair. “Always, Nemi.”

As the day went on, the two of you spent it together, doing the little things that brought him peace—training side by side, sharing quiet moments in the garden, and stealing kisses under the shade of the trees. That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you surprised him with a warm bath, the tub filled with fragrant herbs and petals.

Sanemi leaned back, the tension in his muscles melting away as you gently washed his shoulders. He looked at you, his scarred hand reaching to trace the curve of your cheek.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmured, his voice soft.

You chuckled, leaning into his touch. “And you’re too hard on yourself. But that’s okay. I’ll keep reminding you how amazing you are until you believe it.”

For the first time in years, Sanemi felt a glimmer of hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find happiness despite the darkness of his past. And it was all because of you.

—————————

I him sm I’m not ready for the movies

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Sticky Rice

In which Eris seeks advice from the Drifter regarding a line she did not think she would ever cross. (Set after week 4 of Season of the Witch.)

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

The Drifter stood in the galley of the Derelict, humming tunelessly to himself, while he plucked another rehydrated mushroom from a bowl of brown liquid he'd been soaking them in for the past hour. He shook the liquid off it and began to slice it like the others.

There was a single elongated tone from the doorway.

He sighed.

“I told you not to bother me when I'm cooking for her,” he said, not looking up from his mushroom slicing.

The tone sounded again.

The Drifter looked up and pointed the knife at his ghost where it was hovering.

“I'm in a good mood right now. Don't ruin it.”

The ghost made the same sound, turned to look down the corridor with its single red eye toward the comms, and then looked back at him.

“Whatever it is, it can wait. I am making her food. I told you that’s special. You know that. Fuck off.”

It emitted the tone once more and floated away.

Drifter chopped the rest of his mushrooms, some fresh ginger, green onions and a long dried sausage before turning the heat on under a wok.

Just as the ginger began to sizzle he tossed everything in except the onions. A few moments later he added several sauces and some broth. Taking a deep breath of the steam over the wok, the Drifter nodded appreciatively at his own work. It smelled fantastic. He took a steamer out of another pot that had been boiling on a back burner and opened it. It was filled with semi-translucent rice.

He flipped the steamer basket upside down in the wok and then tossed the basket, now empty, into the sink as he began to stir. Once everything in the wok was fully combined, he turned down the heat, grabbed a mis-matched pot lid from a cupboard, and covered his concoction.

As he turned around, a hive portal opened up in the middle of the room.

Eyes wide, he reached for the knife off of the cutting board with one hand and picked up a cast iron frying pan in the other.

A familiar hand with a glowing green ball appeared out of the portal. The Drifter relaxed. The rest of Eris Morn stepped out.

“Hey, Moondust! I didn't expect you to visit. Happy to see you, though. What's up?”

“I tried to call but you did not answer.” The portal behind her disappeared.

A tone sounded from the doorway behind her. The Drifter glared at his ghost, pointed his knife at it and motioned the knife to the side. The ghost left.

He put his improvised weaponry down on the counter.

“I've come to seek your counsel.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Dinner’s almost ready. How about you sit there and tell me all about it while I finish making us food.”

Eris nodded and sat, removing her gloves, while the Drifter pulled two bowls out of a cupboard.

“When I first transformed, I invoked the resonance of the worms to power my ritual.” Eris began, “Ahsa answered.”

He put a glass of water down on the table for each of them. Eris took a sip of hers.

“She is bound in this with me. My power… feeds… off of her suffering.”

The Drifter paused at the counter, his wooden spatula in the air. He looked back at her and nodded slowly.

“It is not a line I ever thought I would cross.”

“She doing this willingly?” he asked, gently.

“Yes.”

“Did she know what she was getting into when she answered?”

“I am not certain. I think she, as I did, understood the possibility.”

“Sounds like she trusts you.” He scooped the sticky rice out of the pot into the two bowls.

“I am actively harming her. I am causing great pain. It is… torture. That is what it is. Have you ever done something like this? Is this a line you have crossed before?”

He looked back at her from the kitchen counter. “Yeah.” He looked away. “I'm glad to know Ahsa's choosing to do this willingly. Mine… uh… wasn’t...”

“I'm sorry. Was it… worth it?”

“Not a matter of worth. It just had to be done. But that sort of thing… it don't come free. It stays with you… that knowledge, of what it felt like, of what you did… of what you are capable of… “ He looked back at her. “The ends justify the means… ‘til they don't. And that will change you.”

Eris nodded. “There was no question when it was simply myself, but now, the risk and the burden is no longer mine alone.”

“It was never yours alone, Moondust. You don't exist in a vacuum.” He took two handfuls of chopped green onions and tossed them onto the two bowls of food. “Everything you do impacts the people around you, especially the ones that love you.”

“It is for the sake of everyone around me that I am doing this, especially the ones I love. “

“I know. Let me ask you this: what if it was me?”

“What?”

“I’m serious.” He put a bowl of sticky rice in front of her and handed her chopsticks. “What if it was me, not Ahsa, you had to put through this. Me that you had to torture. What would be different for you? Eat that while you’re thinking. It’s part of that counsel you asked for.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“In this extrapolation, if it was you I was harming, who was suffering, and in immense pain, we would have discussed it and chosen it together.”

“And you’d trust me to know what decision I was making, wouldn’t you? Because it’s me.”

“Yes.”

“And you’d know I trust you to know what you’re doing, to see it through with both our lives intact. That’s how it’d go, right? It’d be awful, but we’d do it, and we’d get it done and over with as quickly as possible.”

“Yes. That is… how it would go.”

He stood and picked up both their empty bowls and chopsticks, taking them to the sink.

“You don’t need counsel, Moondust,” he said as he returned.

“You need a hot meal and a hug.” He held out his hand.

Eris sighed, stood, slipped her arms around his waist, and let him pull her close.

After a few seconds she felt him relax but she instead pulled him close for a little longer, resting her head against his for a few moments more before letting go.

She felt lighter, less tense.

He cradled her face in his hands and ran his thumb across her lips. “I want you to let me do something.”

“Very well”

Slowly, his fingertips slipped under the wrapping she kept over her eyes. She tensed. He continued, gentle, giving her ample time to stop him. She did not.

He lifted it up, exposing a part of her she always kept hidden when not in hive form. Then he leaned forward and kissed her in the exact middle between all three of her eyes.

His lips pressed softly and gently against her scars and he held her there for a moment, his lips upon this most secret of places, chaste, reverent, before pulling back and slipping the wrapping back down in its usual place.

She let loose the breath she had not realized she was holding.

“Germaine…”

“We’ve both had to do things, terrible things, to survive. No matter what you end up having to do, no matter how bad it gets, I’ll still be here. I know you. I know you got this. Ain’t nobody else can do it but you. Whatever you need to do, you do it, because that’s who you are. You’re the one that gets shit done when no one else can. When there’s no hope, everything lost, no possible way anyone can win, you’re still there, saying fuck you to the universe and surviving. That’s why I love you. You’re a fucking badass.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Now go on and get back there. I know you probably aren’t supposed to be here and don’t have time to listen to me babble on about how much I love you. Call me later when you like, though, and I’ll keep going.”

She nodded and began to make her portal.

“And I, myself, have an apology to make to someone who attempted to do me a solid earlier and I snapped at them for it.” he muttered to himself.

He grabbed her hand and quickly pressed her gloves into it with a kiss to her fingertips just before she stepped through the shimmering green oval.

When the portal disappeared, his ghost was once more hovering in the doorway.

“Don’t gloat, asshole. I’m sorry. Thanks for trying to tell me it was her.”

The ghost emitted its single tone.

“Don’t let it go to your head, you jerk. And if you ever interrupt like that again it damn well better be her!” he called after it as it floated away.

This is one of a series of stories written during Season of the Witch that I called Kept Conficence, after the hand cannon with the lore that helped to inspire them.

Here is a link to all of them in order if you wish.

[imeternallylove]

Better off - Jethro Gibbs

Pairing: Leroy Jethro Gibbs x Reader

genre: angst, purely angst

warning: none

word: approx 680

main mastetlist | request | prompts

20. 19. 18. 17.

You noticed him clenching his jaw. And then he unclenched.

The hands you once wished to hold - to kiss, to feel moving through your hair as you lay beside him watching daytime television, to sense the way they raked up your waist in a movement that was nothing short of pure sin in the dead of night - remained on the steering wheel, the tight grip on the worn out leather causing his knuckles to furiously spill out an assortment of pink and red hues.

Situations like this were usually resolved with intense, angry make-up sex. "Pleasure in its most sinful form," he once said.

The mere concept made you ill to your stomach.

16. 15. 14. 13.

You both made no move to depart. Or converse. Or do anything other than wilt in the godawful silence that filled every nook and cranny of Gibbs' little car.  Your strained breaths, the erratic pants coming out in short gasps, barely audible from the tight scarf wrapped around your neck, were the only sounds that traveled through the environment. 

There was never a single second of silence in all your years together. When things were good, every hour with him was filled with a variety of melodies - the bang of pots and pans as you both tried your hardest to cook a meal (without turning the kitchen into a messy food court or the center of foodplay), the sounds of his deep, brazen laughter as he teased you over and over. His heavy breathing in the early hours of the night, as his lips hovered above your small form, vowing to kiss every inch of your precious little flesh, was perhaps the most typical sound. 

Even in the gloomy months that followed, stillness was never permanent. In fact, you craved it. Anything to silence the sound of plates crashing against the wall. The days of cooking had long passed.

12. 11. 10. 9.

You were afraid you'd bleed all over his automobile if your nails dug any deeper into your palms. Giving him yet another cause to despise you. Instead, you fiddled with your scarf.

Your choice of clothing was a technique of coping with the bitter cold that has gripped in town all week. Heavy storms combined with loud, irritating lightning strikes made you startle in fright as you lay lethargic and limp at night. The feel of his soft skin around your weak body was replaced with a steaming cup of coffee set on your shared bedside table and one too many blankets of his bourbon’s scented. You'd ultimately drift off.

Nothing, however, could wash away the fierce lashes of rain that gathered around both corners of your puffy eyes as you wailed into the darkness, a tsunami roaring within you as you wondered how, why and when it all went so damn wrong.

Pathetic fallacy, your ass.

8. 7. 6. 5.

Too long. You'd been in the car for much too long. You should have left the moment he pulled into the driveway. But nothing was ever easy with Gibbs by your side.

4. 3. 2.

You eventually proceeded to unfasten your seatbelt after what seemed like hours. The abrupt click of the buckle led him to look your way for a split second, fingers pressing deeper into the leather wheel before returning his sight to the window.

You noticed the single tear that flowed painfully across his face before he moved.

"This is me. The remaining items will be picked up by the delivery van the following day. Don't bother paying him; I already have."

And with that, you left.

1.

Almost. You almost left.

Even you were surprised by the rough hands that drew you back into the car the moment you opened the door.

“I’m sorry.” His face so red. “- God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay Jethro. You said it yourself, remember?”

“W-What are you talk-”

Shaking your head. “Don’t you remember?” Letting his hand go.

“Remember of what?”

“You said it.” You laughed dryly. “I’m better off without you, right?”

[sldlovescartoons]

As time went on Essek looked more and more forward to his meetings with Caleb. As it was he could only drop his disguises in very rural west and south areas and with the Nein and the whole thing got more exhausting all the time. Plus, Caleb was making such quick progress with his studies, chatting only got more interesting with each visit.

He was also pretty sure it was normal to miss one’s partner, but such romantic thoughts flustered him too much to think on so early in the afternoon. That train of thought was for once Caleb and him have gone through a whole bottle of wine.

“Professor Widogast?” Knocking on the door with his most neutral accent. He was Halsunn Deeproot today, a forest elf who did magical research. One of his partner’s favorite aliases.

“Ah, come in, Deeproot!”

And so he went in, senses immediately assaulted by the smell of cooking meats and veggies. Ah, so they were eating in tonight. Appreciated, since their latest separation had been especially long. The drow dropped his disguise as he drifted into the kitchen to the grin on of ridiculous human partner.

“Awh, putting Halsunn away already? But he’s such a looker.”

“Don’t tease me, young man, I’m of no mood for it.” He complained with no malice as he finally reached his destination and got to give Caleb a peck on the lips, getting a quick glance at whatever he was cooking before it was covered with a lid. “That looks… different.”

Caleb and Essek were not cooks, but they had been gradually improving now that they had to fend for themselves as full adults. That said, the list of things either of them could cook consistently good was short. Both could do the easiest of soups and some stews, Caleb knew how to do basics roasts and sides and he knew some very simple baking. This didn’t stop either of them from trying something more complex, wizard hubris and all. Whatever his ginger had in that deep pan wasn’t one of the roasts the human whipped out when he had the coin and wanted to impress. There was twine and toothpicks. The drow really hoped that he wasn’t going to spend his first night of this visit choking down something inedible, but it would be fair turnaround for those awful plum cookies Essek had made two visits back.

“Don’t worry, I practiced this one a bit. I wanted to do something nice to surprise you. Do you know what a few days ago was?”

Fucks sake, he’d forgotten something. What did he miss? An anniversary, surely, but he couldn’t…

“I- I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“Don’t worry, I forgot too, until it’d passed. Four days ago was the third anniversary of the day we met. It’s not something most people remember, or even celebrate, so don’t worry, it’s just- I remembered and wanted to make you a little treat.” Caleb glanced at some sand dials he had set up. The drow noticed more covered pots. Steaming something, maybe?

“You don’t have to go so out of the way.”

“I want to, though, and I will.”

“But of course.”

“Now-“ Another, slightly longer kiss and a soft smile with blue eyes that took his thoughts away more often than not. “Why don’t you go wash up a bit, hm? You smell like a beast of burden. Dinner should be ready by the time you’re done.”

“Bold words from the man who smells like ox mating season.” Essek was eternally glad that his complexion was too dark for blushes to show at the teasing. Also hypocritical since the cologne Caleb smothered himself instead of bathing regularly smelt like animal musk and the vague concept of a forest. “But yes, I think I will.”

He tended to take long bathes whenever he had the luxury of time to do so, so by the time he was clean and had his hair done (he would sooner die then have Caleb seen him without his curl cream in.) dinner was being put on the table.

“Just in time, darling.”

“Well time is one of my specialties.” The statement was something of a flirt or inside joke now-a-days, and got the soft smile he was looking for as a response. He gave him a quick peck on the lips and looked down at Dinner. “Caleb, did you make a roulade?”

“I did.” And he looked so proud of himself, too, but Essek kept looking and as further realization came to him. “But that’s not all, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

The meat roulades, sliced not too thick, not too thin, was served with rice and what was distinctly Xhorasian steamed veggies.

“This meal is very xhorasian inspired.”

“I figured you might be a bit home sick and the market in Rosohna was just a teleport away.” They sat down to eat, Essek much slower as he tried to process this gift.

“You went through all that trouble…”

“It wasn’t any trouble at all, so don’t worry about it and eat up, Liebling.”

And so Essek took his first bite (with chopsticks, even!!! Caleb was using a fork but he’d remembered Essek’s utensil preference, the darling man), a fair chunk of meat, filling, and rice.

And promptly burst into tears.

“Oh Schiess, is it that bad? I practiced the technique, but this is the first time with the marinade-“ Caleb, his darling starshine Caleb, started to lean over and fuss. The drow shook his head quickly to try and assure him, to try and get himself together. But he was having a hard time because-

Because Caleb had made *rat*. Giant Rat, had to be. Now in his den, they had mostly livestock and great beasts, their days of having to eating rats like the common folk was centuries past, but one couldn’t deny themselves a little comfort food every once in a while, could they? And what was more comforting and simple to creature of the Underdark than some well cooked rat? This rat dish reminded him starkly of something that his mother had ordered the chefs make when he’d recovered from an awful fever in his… twelfth year, maybe? Something hardy and comforting after he’d been sweating and puking for days to bring him back to health. A rare kindness from his mother and warm memory- and there the tears went again. Lights above, he was a mess.

“Wh- Where did you source the rat? It tastes fresh.” Essek was doing his level best to act like there weren’t thick crocodile tears on his face. His partner blinked at him in open bewilderment.

“I… killed it this morning, down in an abandoned part of the academy. I used the silver it earned me to buy the veggies. Is- is this because of the rat? It’s the most exotic meat I could find short notice-“ A Fresh Hunt!!! It was like Caleb had read his primary school journals from before he found out he didn’t like people and such.

“And you used plum wine in- in the marinade, yes?” He pushed forward, adamant to ignore the crying that was happening. Gods, it had been far too long since he had something that tasted like *home*. “Goes well with the nut and date filling- really cuts the gaminess of the- the rat.”

“So, we are ignoring the tears. Ja, alright.” Caleb seemed to resign himself to this reality quickly. This wasn’t the first time Essek had clammed up about something because feeling were embarrassing, and he knew he’d be told eventually. “Yes, I got recommended a good brand to use by Yasha and Beauregard, so we gave them to thank for that. Do you enjoy the bits of pan fried mushroom in the rice?”

“Yes.” Even though they were slightly over, a bit tough, just the thought was so sweet and so homey.

He had such a wonderful partner.