#deviled eggs go hard

[expecto-kedavra]

I could crush at least 13 deviled eggs rn, EASY

[wewontbesleeping]

Still haven’t fully decided what to make for my family’s Christmas party tomorrow. Feeling torn between white chocolate brownies (I have wanted to make these for a while so I think they’re a shoo-in), cranberry chocolate cookies, ginger molasses cookies, and a sugar cookie crust pudding pie (I don’t have a recipe for this one and would essentially be making it up, so I’m a little nervous about this one). And if I make all of them? What then?

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

taglist: @ilovesoapandnotthebar @ricabobbie @venus111sworld @nanamisboobies @delusionsofgrandeur13 @x3rox @genericpenname @lovemymustache @sweetybuzz25 @asiavvv @jazz-cat-on-a-broom @violetisheresworld @depornable @sugarandserum @emilyyyyyys-stuff @julesneedshelp @rene-with-an-e @caramelsundaysstuff @adeptua @beautifuleaglealpaca@chronicallyicky @s-void @trulovekay @mary-magdaline @moongir99 @goldiesoaked @backtotheintro @ribbitribbitquack @matumogs @xjustxlookingx @prettgirlwhoreadsatnite @angielove07 @olives10 @zzzz20d @greylykaylee @suikasweetheart @deliciouslydisturbed365 @british-ppl-scare-me @bless-my-demons @tofunoodlesoup @rafaelcallinybbay @blahox @dethspllz @casual-darkness @lem-hhn @astridminsstuffie21 @xdcgfvh @viviansvault3 @mygsbin @booboobear-12 @pink-hufflepuff @just-lilita @succulambb

[ventique18]

Malleus' Monologue, Part 1

"At the time of my birth, I received a blessing. That is..."

"Power, that reduces everything to nothing."

Senate Member A: "Malleus-sama, you were born to rule over all of those who walk the night. One by one, we shall grant this prince a blessing."

Senate A: "From myself, [Power], over everything. Lightning that obliterates anything that stands in your way. None shall touch nor hurt you."

Senate B: "From myself, [Voice], so that the very darkness itself may obey you. The freezing wind that storms over the Devil's Mountain. Resound so dreadfully that all things shall tremble beneath your feet."

Senate: "And from myself, [Time], that shall never pass you by. As unchanging and eternal as the night sky. In this ever-changing world, may your light forever guide our hopes."

"Night's blessing--"

"But..."

"What I truly wish for is..."

Attendant A: "You highness, it is time for you to wake up. Let us tend to your clothes and hair."

Attendant B: "Allow me to comb your hair first."

Young Malleus: "... Yes, thank you."

Malleus: "Ouch!"

Lightning strikes.

Attendant B: "Gaah!!"

And the attendant starts crying.

Malleus: "Ah! I, I'm sorry. I..!"

Attendant A: "You need not worry, your highness."

Chamberlain: "It's this clumsy attendant's fault for hurting you."

Attendant B: "My, my... Apolo... gies..!"

Chamberlain: "Take away her away at once."

Malleus: "......."

Malleus: "Lilia! You've returned from your journey!"

Lilia: "Oh, Malleus! You've already gotten used to walking on two legs before I knew it..."

Malleus: "Yes! I've gotten so used to walking now, that I can-- Ah!"

He stumbles on his feet.

Lilia: "Woah there! You say you're used to it, but you're still quite green, huh?"

Malleus: "Ugh. I still trip on my own tail... I'm fine now, you can put me down."

Lilia: "Hehe... Compared to when you were still an egg, you're a lot heavier in my arms now."

Malleus: "... Of course. I'm 22 years old now."

Lilia: "Why, you're still a baby at 22. But your hands and feet are big! Just like his parents, this one is growing up into a fine dragon."

Malleus: "E-- Ehehe! Stop tickling me, Lilia!"

Lilia: "Tickle tickle!"

Malleus: "Aha-- Ahahahaha!!!!"

But something happens so suddenly.

Lilia: "Gah!"

Malleus: "Lilia!! Your ears are bleeding!"

Lilia: "Guh! ..... I'm fine, don't worry."

Malleus: "But..!"

Lilia: "I'm fine, I'm fine. Calm down, take a deep breath... See? It's fine."

Malleus: "... I'm sorry, Lilia. You're hurt because of my voice..."

Lilia: "This isn't a big deal. Don't fret over it."

Lilia: "With more training, you'd have more control over your power."

Malleus: "... I understand."

But good things always come to an end.

Lilia: "Ngh... Sorry, looks like I have to go now."

Malleus: "What? Already?"

Lilia: "Work hard on your training while I'm gone, Malleus."

Malleus: "Okay... I, I'll study more and more."

[see-arcane]

You know the one good thing about being a pessimist?

It feels great to be proven wrong.

Bravo, Bobby Egg.

I was so happily surprised by this. This film went through a fantastic puberty between the leaked script and the screen. The main points to note:

-No, Ellen is not hot for Count Orlok. She and Thomas are 110% in love. There are even certain Harker-flavored quotes thrown in to prove as much. (Details under the cut.)

-Count Orlok is a terrifying bastard and a half. Significantly more imposing than classic Orlok’s spindly rigor mortis-stiff figure and only wearing a sliver of Dracula’s performative charm. He is a Devil-Death archetype playing a monster who operates in deceit and contracts to wring out what he wants. That and a lot of corpses.

-This film is so beautiful. No gothic touch is skipped.

In sum, I more than like this film. I love it. It isn’t perfect, because no film can be, but damn. I am so proud of this nightmare you made, Bobby Egg.

SPOILERS FOR Nosferatu (2024) BELOW

-Getting some cons out of the way. There are points where a few of the actors lean maybe a bit too heavy on the ham-and-cheese in their deliveries (I’ll not blame the kids, they’re very young, but yeesh. That’s some cartoon acting.)

Yes, the g-slur is still used; though while I wish it hadn’t appeared in Eggers’ script at all, it does make sense within the context of the setting, i.e. Thomas and the Innkeeper probably only having the one word they know, same as in Dracula. And yes, naked teenage girl-on-a-horse does happen for the vampire hunt scene. Whee.

-Now, an early pro: Eggers nixed the ‘hot teen girl tries to pickpocket Thomas’ bit, and the ‘land of phantoms and thieves’ line never happens. All that happens after Thomas wakes in the inn—post witnessing the vampire slaying in the local graveyard, mud on his shoes to prove it was real—is he discovers himself utterly alone. No people, no horse. Cue the long walk.

-Ellen doing the ‘Come to me,’ bit early on is her in adolescence. It’s revealed that her Weird Girl elements have been turned up to 11, tragic lonely past included (replete with dad threatening to send her to a madhouse), and her prayer was just for company. The psychic ping was picked up by Orlok, who took advantage, turning an isolated and desperate barely-more-than-a-kid’s wish into a ‘covenant.’

-Thomas was met not long after this, cue them being genuinely in love <3

-Knock Does Not Jerk Off On Screen. If he does, his back is to us, and Little Knock is covered with some occult tablet or suchlike while he’s doing his ritual business. Also he kills a guy in his cell. Using his teeth.

-Castle time! Thomas is greeted by a driverless carriage at a crossroads and seems to be hypnotized into stepping in. A lot of things Thomas does once in Orlok’s territory seem to very clearly have psychic puppet strings attached. That and some increasing terror on Thomas’ part. There is no warm Dracula-style welcome from Orlok when he arrives, but a terse and strange leading to the dinner table where paperwork is demanded.

- We get a glimpse of this version of the Count’s ego. Thomas calls him sir. Orlok demands Thomas address him as my lord. And then we get the bread cutting scene. Thomas’ thumb bleeds. Orlok get far too interested. His voice, a very guttural and rasping bass, turns into something closer to an animal trilling and growling. Thomas is paralyzed beside the fire; cut away as Orlok closes in.

-Ellen and Anna Harding have a bit of a Mina and Lucy deal going on at the beach. It’s sweet <3 (Prepare for pain </3)

 - Orlok starts getting tricky. He 1) borrows (steals) Ellen’s locket from Thomas and 2) Tricks Thomas into signing a contract to ‘sell’ Ellen/break their marriage via a strange contract in a language Thomas can’t read, with Orlok using the prop of some gold to imply that this is merely a document in ~his native language~ to complete the property sale. Thomas signs, less for the gold than to be gone from the castle and back to Ellen…only for Orlok to insist Thomas is not well. He must stay the night.

- No mind games here. Just Thomas pleading to leave and Orlok’s parting word being that he will stay, and that he will obey his orders.

-Orlok has already chomped Thomas on the tiddy as of last night. Next night, after Thomas almost lands a blow on him in the coffin—Orlok sleeps with his Orcock out in the box, by the way, alongside several rats—Orlok wills Thomas to unlock the door he shut between them. Cue Thomas being tranced onto the bed, pounced on, and basically dry-humped by Orlok as he drinks Thomas all but dry. Thomas is left that way, only to be woken by Orlok’s wolves—he has those too!—and go clambering out the window, dropping to the river below.

-Orlok makes Ellen’s life hell. Holy fuck. The 1838 quality ‘medicine’ definitely doesn’t help—corsets for correcting posture, draining blood because there’s too much in there, binding to the bedposts to stop sleepwalking, general drugging etc etc—but FUCK. Lily-Rose Depp did a great and terrible job of reproducing shaking fits and some of the faces and sounds she made had me thinking I might choke on my own tongue. And for all the sexually provocative poses/noises that happen, every time she comes out of it it’s clear that she hates this. It’s on par with psychic rape.

-The only times we see Ellen respond positively~ to Orlok’s dream-advances is when she’s telling Thomas about the ‘marrying Death’ dream where everyone died and she was deliriously happy and then the infamous trailer line about Thomas not being able to satisfy her as Orlok can~~~

Well guess what.

Guess fucking what.

That was Orlok leaning on her brain. The same way he did to Thomas when, eventually, after the nuns rescue him and pray the plague/vampirism out and he makes it home while half-dead, he lays in bed with Ellen and gets a panic attack combined with Orlok’s image being grafted over Ellen’s face…

…a reverse of the illusion Orlok gave him in the castle, with Thomas imagining it was Ellen on top of him instead. The effect terrifies Thomas all over again and he unwittingly tosses Ellen away, I can't breathe, get off of me, get off!

-Orlok does his murder snacking. Knock, who escaped, offers to find and kill Thomas to please the Count, literally on his hands and knees. Orlok calls him a dog and backhands him, insisting Ellen must be given, not stolen.

-Orlok has already visited Ellen by this time. He presses her to keep her deal with him. She tells him, flat out, I abhor you. In response, Orlok grabs her and chucks her like a ragdoll in a rage. He fumes, telling her he will give her three nights to pledge herself to him, and in the meantime he will start killing. (RIP to Anna and her little girls, the latter of whom ORLOK KILLS IN FRONT OF HER, EATING THEIR THROATS OUT AS SHE ENTERS THEIR ROOM.)

-Before all that, he spins bullshit about Thomas ~selling her to him for mere gold~. A technical truth that Ellen, mid-Orlok spell, spits back at Thomas amid a rage, along with details that are likewise based in only a granule of reality; but which Orlok did not mention in their scene together. Things like Thomas being weak and childish, that he ‘fell into Orlok’s arms like a fainting woman.’ Interesting choice of spin there, Orlok. But whatever.

This all culminates in what is either reality or a dream or a blend of both as Thomas makes sudden desperate love to her, Ellen weirdly heady about it, telling him yes yes yes they will show Orlok their love. Cue her snapping back to full cognizance (awake? dreaming?) as her eyes and mouth spurt blood in a vision. She collapses in fear and tears as Thomas holds her. AND THEN:

-Ellen. Drops. The I am unclean line. She wants Thomas away from her, she is not worthy, she puts him in danger.

-Thomas goes full Jonathan and clings to her. Nonsense. I love you. I love you. I love you.

-V i n d i c a t i o n

-Anyway.

-Dafoe-Von Franz-Van Helsing is a kooky science occultist. Finds a book that Knock had which fills the role of highlighting Orlok as Solomonari (hey, Scholomance shout out!) and Knock as a would-be beneficiary. Also includes the ‘maiden offers her body and blood to the monster to kill it via sunrise’ bit.

-While he reads this, he does NOT actually spell any of these details out to Ellen when they have their secret mini talk about tricking Thomas into hunting for the coffin with him and Sievers. He gives her a big ~you're the only one who can save us magic maiden martyr~ pep talk, but that's it. Meanwhile, Ellen was already preparing to offer herself to save Thomas and whoever’s left in Wisborg. Not the same kind of agency as the original, but still better than I was expecting.

-Harding, Thomas’ rich friend whose wife and children got drinked to death, dies of plague in the family tomb. They burn the bodies.

-In the ruin Orlok bought, cue the iron stake slamming down as they open the coffin..! But whoops. Knock’s in the box, not Orlok. Von Franz says Ellen offering herself is the only way~ Thomas doesn’t waste time throttling him, just makes a run for their home.

-Too late, of course. Orlok is there (with a very cool homage to the original stalking shadow silhouette routine) and Ellen welcomes him. While they are both naked in bed and it’s implied that they are/or intend to have sex, the bulk of the scene centers on Orlok taking Ellen’s blood from her breast. No clear shot of the Orcock on screen for that bit—Bobby Egg saved that pleasure for the Count flashing Thomas at the castle.

-Orlok’s death throes. Are so. Fucking. Cool. Definitely up there with one of the best vampiric demises I’ve ever seen on film. No spoilers there. You’ve got to see it.

-Heartbreak o’ Clock as Thomas bursts in just as Orlok has died and as Ellen is dying under him. There’s time for them to hold hands. And then she’s gone.

-We close on Von Franz popping up with some poetic soliloquy shit and a bunch of lilacs. The final beat is an overhead shot of Ellen, the Maiden, laying under the now-skeletal Orlok, as Death. Looks almost like a painting. Unlike the implication in the leaked script, she does not look happy/at peace. Simply asleep. The End.

-Other important notes:

1) Orlok has a little combover’s worth of hair on top and mighty and powerful ‘stache. Not Dracula-white, but it is there. Finally.

 2) The guy who plays Dr. Sievers has Alan Rickman’s voice. If he isn’t in opera, he should be.

3) I was too late to get a popcorn coffin box. I shall be in mourning until the New Year.

4) Bobby Egg if you can give me one more gift, let it be a deleted scene of Thomas beating Von Franz over the head with the iron stake, please and thank you <3

[obeymeluv]

Food and Friends [Random TWST Boys]

You make food from your world and get the boys to try it. If you can't make it, Sam gets it to you.

Featuring: deviled eggs, fried pickles, and flaming hot cheetos

I haven't read all the vignettes on every card or watched all of the events so I don't know if these foods already exist in Twisted Wonderland but I thought of the food I'd miss. Or ones I think would be kind of hard to explain.

I guess this is like a "Southerner Edition" since I'm from the south lol. Any references to how things are made are just how my family makes them, not the ultimate way to make anything.

Not proofread. Might do that tomorrow.

I. Deviled Eggs

You've been trying to find a way to ease the homesick ache with little success. The school had great food (a surprise, given that Crowley was the headmaster) but nothing like what you were used to. There were things that came close to your favorite foods but nothing was exact. After scrounging up enough money, you stocked your pantry with staples and went to work recreating things.

Ace and Deuce let themselves in when you were in the middle of taking eggs out of an ice bath. Deuce's eyes sparkled as you expertly freed the eggs from their shell prison. He enjoyed basically every style of egg and was not above a plain boiled one. Honestly, he was silently wondering if he could slip you a few thaumarks to eat a few since they were right there and he was here now.

"What are you doing?" Ace squinted at you curiously as you deftly cleaved the egg and scooped the yellow yolk balls into a bowl.

"Making deviled eggs," you replied, arranging the pitted halves to make room for more.

"What's that? Spicy eggs?" he watches you add mayonnaise, yellow mustard, and paprika, mixing and fluffing until there's something creamy in the bowl. He can smell the mustard and it stings his nose just a little.

"No. It's deviled eggs." you laugh, grasping blindly for the nearby cup with a plastic sandwich bag already folded over it. Deuce and Ace look like children, peering at you with big eyes as you taste a bit with a second fork, sprinkling salt and pepper over it before plopping it into the bag. You push and twist the filling down into a corner of said bag before snipping it off.

No one says a word as you paint the hollows with the mix. Sometimes you swirl it into a little heap, sometimes you fan it back and forth so it's flat but no less full. Deuce thinks it's absolutely genius that one egg can make two of these things. He hasn't tried them yet but he's sure he'll like them.

"I can't really explain it. You just have to try it." you pop one in your mouth, pointing a thumb back at the plateful. Ace looks mildly skeptical but you can see the intrigue. Deuce makes the face you usually see when Crewel gives an essay question on an Alchemy test. He's debating on how to pick said egg up; the half is small in his big hand. And slippery.

And Ace's complaining about the filling getting on his finger is right in his ear.

Deuce takes his first bite and it's like heaven in his mouth. You have the tang of the mustard, the creaminess of the mayo, the complimentary fattiness of the yolk and he doesn't think he's tasted anything like it! He lets out an involuntary moan and has no shame, reaching around Ace for another one before he's even swallowed the first.

Ace is on his third and Deuce is gunning for a fourth. You've wisely stolen a few and stepped aside. Living in Twisted Wonderland has given you a sixth sense and something's about to go down.

There's one deviled egg left and they've both realized it.

A small fight ensues and you nearly choke to death when Deuce wins.

When did they even fall to the floor?!

He's jammed Ace against the cabinets, leaning back into him like a chair. You're ninety percent sure one of Ace's arms are pinned to his chest. Ace tries to hook his legs around and kick Deuce, or at the very least kick himself free, but that just makes Deuce push himself up to sit on Ace's shoulder so he can stretch and tangle their legs together. "Get off!" Ace hisses, Deuce's weight forcing him to roll forward.

Deuce ignores him, settling into the flat of his back. He swings his once-tangled leg out in front of him and hums happily, feet now crossed at the ankles.

"Get off!" Ace yells again, kicking his feet.

"Good, right?"

Deuce can't answer you. His cheeks are full.

Who else likes them: Epel, Ruggie, Trey

Who refuses to eat them: Vil, Idia, Leona

--------

II. Fried Pickles

You were glad Twisted Wonderland had pickles but were surprised none of the restaurants offered fried pickles. When you asked Azul if he'd ever put it on the menu he just looked at you like you were crazy. Not unusual for someone who came from the Coral Sea but if fried chicken made sense to him, why didn't fried pickles? Hell, he even knew what fried mozzarella sticks were!

"Because that doesn't seem like something you'd fry?" he adjusted his glasses. It was something he did when he didn't know how to fill the silence in a conversation. The silence was an honest one, too, because what in the sevens were you talking about?

"How can you fry it, anyways? It already comes in liquid." Floyd questioned, interested now. He couldn't quite picture what you were talking about.

"One can generally only fry something in batter and the pickle liquid is not thick enough for frying." Jade observed.

"No one's ever heard of it? Seriously? It can't just be from my world!" you looked between the three mermen. Their blank eyes stared back at you.

"Easy fix. C'mon!" you motioned for them to follow you into the Mostro Lounge kitchen. They abandon their midmorning tea to watch you grab little food gloves and set up your dredging station. You don't know how you did it or when it happened but the Lounge's kitchen became your second kitchen and your preferred seasonings are always at the front of the cabinet. Azul watches you season the flour with spices, adding splashes of buttermilk, pickle juice, and hot sauce until there's something dippable and smooth.

"This is a really common appetizer where I'm from." you explain. "And you can make a lot of it from one pickle. Or a jar of pickle slices."

"Ah. I see," Jade leans over the two plates you've set out beside the flour mix. One is for the handfuls of pickle slices covered in the juice, the other is for slices that have been blotted dry. "The frying is possible because there's no longer a juice film to compete with the batter."

"Pretty much." you shrug. You never imagined someone would want to scientifically analyze the fried pickle process. Then again, it's Jade.

You'd set up a sauce pan with a few inches of oil before they'd entered the kitchen. Once the thermometer went off, you started frying in batches. Azul's stomach turned a little at the sight of oil soaking into the napkins but not out of disgust. He was a sucker for fried chicken and the distinct smell of something fried was making him hungry.

Pickle chips were a blessing and a curse. Small and convenient but dangerous at times like these. A few handfuls made more than fifty fried pickles and you were afraid they'd go to waste. You'd like them, hell yeah, but you were also afraid to get sick from eating so many.

For all his curiosity, Jade was the last one to try it. He kept his eyes locked on Floyd, drinking in every twitch of the brow and crinkle on his face. Floyd munched away happily, sometimes tossing in two or three at a time. Azul tutted and huffed at his burnt lip, nibbling a pocket for the heat to escape so he didn't make the same mistake again.

They were crispy, flavorful, and a bit vinegary with a flash of heat at the end. Definitely something you could eat a lot of without realizing it. Azul wouldn't even let himself question the calories or how much exercise he'd have to do to break even. No, instead he asked you, "How much do people pay for these?"

Who else likes them: Rook, Jack, Ruggie, Cater

Who refuses to eat them: Jamil, Malleus, Sebek

--------

III. Flaming Hot Cheetos

Sam was, admittedly, intrigued by the packaging. Flames and some kind of spotted cat on the bag? Interesting. You told him stories about how kids would pay others to split bags of these at your school. At one point there was a ban on them because teachers got tired of finding red fingerprints on classwork after lunch. They were also tired of kids using them as an excuse to get up for water, trying to stay out of class as long as possible.

He watched you open the bag and briefly forgot you came from a world with no magic. With a name like 'Flaming Hot Cheetos' he thought the bag would give a little cloud of smoke or pop of fire when you opened it. An unusual blend of spices hit his nose and Sam didn't know what to think. Cater peered interestedly into the bag as you pulled out a chip; it was thin, long, and dusted an almost violent red.

Not quite Riddle red, but redder than any chip he'd seen!

His mission to bring Trey jugs of milk and sticks of butter was temporarily forgotten as you began to feast on your other-dimensional treat. You gave Sam one for his troubles--poor fella had to transport and disguise himself and everything--and Cater batted his lashes at you sweetly. He was a mega-lover of spicy things, after all!

Too bad he couldn't post about it on Magicam, though. It'd make for an interesting picture!

It made Sam cough and you thought you saw his eyes water. He thanked you for sharing but quickly refused another one. The shadows pawed at you and slithered up your side, begging, but Sam told you to ignore them. Cater made a happy noise as you passed him one, warning that his fingers would stain red. The boy shrugged, biting down.

Cater didn't know what to think at first. It wasn't a super dense chip but it wasn't airy nothingness, either. There was a crunch but not much substance. Once you bit it, though, your mouth tingled with a rush of heat. It's almost like it dissolved on his tongue! His nose felt like it wanted to run but he didn't care; these things were crunchy and delicious!

"I like these!" he accepted another one, ignoring the temptation to crack open some of the milk and take a swig as the heat lingered. He bought a drink to mellow the burn but didn't regret the taste. "My lips look hot, too," Cater checked his reflection in his phone when his lips started to feel a little funny. They looked plumper and tinted from the spices.

A sexy flushed, just-bitten kind of look!

"They're pretty good," you agree.

Who else likes them: Rook, Lilia, Malleus, Idia

Who refuses to eat them: Jack, Ruggie, Jade, Vil, Riddle, Leona

[cwittr]

BUT I LASTED TEN ROUNDS LIKE A FREAK !

synopsis: how long does team thanos last in bed !

pairings: thanos x reader, namgyu x reader, se-mi x reader, min-su x reader, & gyeong-su x reader

THANOS ⚰︎ 4 - 6

thanos fucks like a rabbit. he can go on and on just drilling into your weeping hole, fucking you like he hates you. and everytime you try to wiggle from his grip or scoot away, it just eggs him on, giving him more confidence and energy to fuck you. arguably the meanest out of all of them. he’ll drag orgasm after orgasm out of you like it’s nothing. it’s almost a little scary, like, he never gets tired. sometimes he’ll shove your face into the pillow to make you shut up, too focused on his own pleasure to care about how overstimulated you are.

SE MI ⚰︎ 3 - 4

sem likes to take her sweet, sweet time with you. makes sure to suck on your clit until your sobbing. likes to alternate between fingering you oh, so sweetly and fucking you hard and rough with the strap. speaking of straps, she loves when you act like it’s a real dick. babbling on about how deep she is and how you need her to cum inside you, it drives her fucking crazy. and if you wrap your legs around her waist to get her impossibly deeper, she loses all morals and goes crazy.

NAMGYU ⚰︎ 3 - 4

nami is a little devil in bed. he loves fucking you nice and deep, hitting every little spot that makes you writhe. he taunts and mocks you, poking fun at the incoherent babbles you make when he’s balls deep. he’ll pull out right as your about to cum just to lap at your throbbing clit, suckling and gently nipping at the swollen bud. alternates between fucking you soft and gently, and fucking you with a vengeance. loves edging you between rounds tehehe.

MIN SU ⚰︎ 2

poor baby gets so sleepy so quick :(( since he’s a subby boy at heart, he lets you pick out the positions, location, when / where he cums, basically lets you have complete control over him. the biggest crybaby when it comes to overstimulation, if you’re still bouncing on his cock after he cums he’ll become a pile of mush and tears. biggest munch ever!! even bigger than sem n namgyu!! has and will fall asleep eating your pussy.

GYEONG SU ⚰︎ 2-3

unpopular (?) opinion but i think gyeong is suchh a sub. will rut into you like a feral dog while he shoves his face into your tits, sucking on your peaked nipples like he’s expecting milk to come out. he loves to 69!! he’s such a sucker for getting head + hes obsessed with your pussy so it works out for both of you. once he starts getting sleepy he’ll cuddlefuck you until you both fall asleep.

[figgypopidol]

Eat it or Yeet It

Damien Haasx Reader

Eat or Yeet 

As you entered the sound stage to film your first Eat it or Yeet it you couldn't tell if you were more excited or nervous. While you weren't the pickiest eater in the world you did have trouble with some textures and you knew that would be tested today as you sat between Damien and Shayne at the table. Your leg bounced with nervous energy as Courtney handed out bibs for everyone, Damien asking politely but insistently that he get the purple one. You couldn't help but laugh at the joy on his face when Courtney handed it  to him before handing you your own bib.  Your leg continued to bounce nervously as Courtney started their introduction, Damien put his hand on your knee under the table and your leg calmed, you gave him a small smile that he returned. 

“Today on Eat it or Yeet it, it's Easter!” Courtney said and you all gave a little cheer. 

“That's right all your Easter favorites have been Eat or Yeet It - afied by our own Garret who is over in the Garret comfort station.” Courtney said. 

“We’ve got carrot juice and marshmallow peeps.” Garret said. 

“Yikes.” you couldn't help but say and a laugh went up around the table. 

“Alright let's get to eating or yeeting!” Courtney yelled. 

The first dish that came out looked like deviled eggs though they were brightly colored and sprinkled with something on top. You didn't even try to go for it as Shayne, Damien and Amanda all went for the bell. In the end it was Shayne who got it. As he ate you saw the disappointed look on Garret's face and laughed. 

“These are fine.” Shayne said, looking suspiciously at the egg. 

“I think they’re meant to be sour.” you told him. 

“ That is correct! Shayne you are a freak. Courtney said before reading from her card, “these are sour deviled dyed eggs, hard boiled eggs with whipped yolks, mayo and malic acid.” 

“At least you got some protein.” You said to Shayne who had a grossed out look on his face. 

As they reset the table you could feel Damien tap your knee encouragingly and when you looked at him he gave you a thumbs up. When Courtney revealed the next dish you went for it, your hand ringing the bell before the others could. It looked like a safe dish, carrots wrapped in what you assumed were bacon or faux bacon and sure carrots weren't your favorite but you weren't opposed to them. Plus with it being the second dish you could just hang back and watch the rest of the table eat and not worry about the big bite. 

“Alright here we go 3, 2, 1!” Courtney counted down and you took a big bite of one of the carrots. 

As you chewed you tried to dissect the flavor, something mapley perhaps, carrot definitely and was that liquid smoke or just bad smoked bacon, and then you tasted it the unmistakable tart of pineapple. 

“Does this have pineapple?” You asked stopping your chewing. 

“Uhh,” Courtney looked at their cards, “yes! These are Pineapple and Honey Maple glazed carrots wrapped in faux bacon.” 

“Bucket.” you said trying to remain calm as Damien grabbed the yeet bucket for you. 

“Get water.” you heard Damien say as your head was in the bucket trying desperately to spit everything out. 

You’d been allergic to pineapple your whole life but usually it didn't affect anything as you could easily avoid it, and you always listed it on your allergies just in case. Apparently today it had been overlooked. 

You gratefully took the water from Damien whose face no longer held any of the good natured mirth from earlier. You were about to tell him you were alright when you felt the itching start in your throat, you must have swallowed some of it and if your throat was already itching it could get worse soon and that was not something you wanted to happen. 

“I need my bag.” you managed to get out and saw Damien jumped out of his seat and take off for the bullpen. 

“Are you okay? How can we help? What's happening?” Courtney was kneeling next to you, their hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

“I’m allergic to pineapple.” you told them and their eyes went wide, their head wiping over to look at Garret who looked panicked. 

“Allergic?” Shayne asked just as Damien came rushing back in your bag in his hands. 

“What do you need?” Damien asked, putting your open bag on the table. 

“Inhaler and benadryl.” you told him before turning to Shayne. 

“It's on my paperwork, I thought … who puts pineapple on fake bacon.” you almost cried and Shayne's hand replaced Courtneys rubbing small soothing circles on your back. 

As Damien got your inhaler and found the benadryl in your bag you could see Courtney and Garret talking quickly with Spencer, Kiana and a few other people who were shooting you worried glances. You quickly puffed your inhaler and took the benadryl downing all the water you could before focusing on your breathing, making sure air could get into your lungs. As air filled your lungs you relaxed a little, perhaps there was some tightness but the fact that you could take deep breaths was good and meant the worst of it had been avoided. 

“You okay?” Damien said quietly from where he was kneeling next to you. 

“Yes, thank you for getting my bag. I think I got it before I ate too much.” you told him trying to give him a little smile to show you were okay. 

“I’m - I’m okay.” you said louder and everyone turned to you. 

“I’m so sorry y/n. I had no idea.” Garret came over to you and you gave him a nod and a small smile. 

“I know, it's a weird one.” you told him. 

“Alright I think we’re scrapping this, y/n go home and rest.” Ian said from behind Garret and you wondered when he had arrived. 

“Come on, we'll get your stuff from your desk and I’ll drive you home.” Damien said and you nodded getting up from the table. 

When you reached the sound stage doors though, Damien turned to you “Will you be alright getting to your desk? I want to talk to Ian.” 

“Yeah I’m fine, just going to be really tired in about fifteen minutes.” you tried to joke with him but Damien didn't seem to be in the mood. 

P.O.V Damien 

He watched as y/n walked out of the sound stage and then turned on his heel to confront Ian who was talking with Courtney, Garret, Spencer and a few others. 

“Is y/n going to be okay?” Ian asked as Damien approached. 

“So they say, that could have been really bad. This isn't a little allergy.” he said seriously. 

“But they’re going to be ok?” Ian asked again. 

“This is the second time an allergen has appeared on eat it or yeet it. First it was the walnuts which was fine because I didn't get it but now y/n and the pineapple. Who the hell is food safety?” Damiens voice was getting louder and when he felt a hand on his shoulder he turned to see it was Shayne. 

“Damiens got a point. We don't even know how serious y/n’s allergy is.” Shayne said his face  serious. 

“It’s bad. They definitely would have put it on their paperwork.” Damien said. 

“Okay, okay we’ll figure this out and we’ll make sure it never happens again.” Ian said, holding his hands up in defeat. 

“It better not.” Damien said before turning and walking away Shayne following him. 

“Is y/n really alright?” Shayne asked when they were away from everyone. 

“They say so but they took two benadryl so they’ll be tired. I’m going to drive them home and maybe just stay so they’re not alone.” Damien said, ripping the purple bib off his neck when he realized he was still wearing it. 

“Alright, if you or y/n need anything you know you can call and I’ll help however I can.” Shayne clapped him on the back and Damien nodded. 

As Damien walked over to your desk he tried to take some calming breaths. He was beyond angry at the situation but it wasn't your fault and he would hate to take it out on you when you were the one hurt. He couldn't believe this had happened, when it happened the first time with the walnuts in the churros it had been laughed off as lucky that he hadn't dinged the bell but now y/n was hurt by someone's oversight and Damiens instinct was to forge a warpath until he found someone to blame but that wouldn't help you right now so instead he walked to your desk trying to calm down. 

You were sitting at your desk, forehead on the cool surface as he approached, he took one final deep breath before kneeling down and putting his hand softly on your back. 

“Ready to go?” he asked quietly and you nodded before following him. 

As you walked out of the office and made it to the parking lot he grabbed your hand entwining your fingers. He saw out of the corner of his eye as  you looked down at your clasped hands then up at him before walking closer to him, hands still entwined. Once at his car he opened the passenger door for you before getting into the drivers side and punching your address into his gps. 

“Should we pick anything up on the way?” he asked as he drove. 

“No I …  I should be good. I’ll just sleep the benadryl off and take it easy tonight. Lots of water and something easy on the stomach later.” you told him. 

“Alright, well if you need anything, like  … like someone to stay with you … or anything.” he said, his eyes shifting from you to the road and back again. 

“You don't have to stay with me Damien, I’m sure you have better things to do. I’m just going to sleep.” you told him. 

“What if staying would make me feel better?” he said, not looking at you. 

“Oh Damien I didn't mean to worry you so much.” you told him, “I feel like such an idiot, getting the shoot cancelled and having everyone fuss and worry. It's just a small reaction. Really I’ll be okay.” 

“Allergies are serious.” Damien said, turning onto your street. 

“But - “ you started to say and Damien interrupted you. 

“You are not an idiot for stopping the shoot, whoever didn't read the allergy sheet is to blame not you. You provided the information, I know you did and of course we’re all going to worry and fuss. You could have died.” he said. 

“Died is a bit dramatic, I have an epipen.” you told him trying to lighten the mood. 

“People only have epipens for allergies that can kill them,” he pointed out. 

“Yeah but you were so quick with the water and benadryl and my inhaler that it staved off the worst of it. I'm going to be fine Damien, you’ve no need to worry about me.” you told him. 

“Worrying is one of the things I’m best at.” he gave you a little smile and you returned it with a small laugh. 

“Can I at least walk you to your apartment?” he asked as he parked in your apartment's lot. 

You nodded your head and when you both got out of his car Damien held out his hand for yours. You gave it to him automatically before leading him to your apartment door. As you unlocked it, your mind raced for a reason for him to stay just a little longer. 

“Do you want something to drink or eat?” you asked as the door opened. 

“How about we get you settled and then I can worry about myself.” he smiled at you and you swooned just a bit. 

You had a long standing crush on Damien and while the two of you were friends, good friends even, you had never really thought the two of you could be more but with  how worried he was about you and the care he was showing you were maybe selfishly at least going to pretend that there could possibly be more. In the morning it would fade away just like the side effects of your allergic reaction but right now you could pretend he felt the same. 

He followed you into your apartment taking a look around as you put your bag away and locked your front door. 

“Umm so that's the kitchen, I have a brita in the fridge that should be full and you’re free to eat whatever you want. I’m going to go wash my hands and face, and change into something comfortable.” you told him leaving him in the entryway of your small one bedroom. 

As you washed your face and hands you examined your face and throat for redness or swelling. You saw a few spots that definitely werent there that morning and there was certainly a puffiness about your appearance that you hoped was only noticeable to you. As you crossed the hallway to your bedroom you listened for Damien but didn't hear anything which you hoped meant he was relaxing on his phone. In your bedroom you pulled out a large tshirt that used to belong to one of your older brothers friends, which you only knew because it was their last name on the back of the shirt, that had somehow come into your possession sometime between high school and moving to LA. 

When you appeared back out in the living room it was to find Damien on his phone sitting on the corner of the couch. He immediately looked up when you entered and gave a little smirk at your outfit. 

“Your high school?” he asked, pointing to the team logo on the front of the shirt. 

“Yeah, go pirates.” you gave a little fist pump and he laughed. 

“Didn't have you down as a football player.” he said getting up from the couch. 

“Originally not my shirt,” you said, turning around and showing the last name on the back, “belonged to one of my older brothers friends but ended up in my laundry somehow and well … here we are.” 

“Not an ex then?” he asked, walking closer to you. 

“Oh god no, my brother's friends are like brothers. I've known them all since I was in elementary school, I think the very idea of me and anything romantic would gross them out.” you explained. 

“Good to know.” he said quietly and you couldn't tell if you were meant to hear that or not. 

“I should get to bed.” you said and Damien seemed to snap back to himself. 

“Right, are you sure you don't want me to stay?” he asked again. 

“Yes, yes please go about your day. I’ll probably sleep until late, have dinner and sleep some more. Really there is no reason for you to stay. I appreciate it though, you’ve been so kind.” you told him. 

“If you insist. Will you at least text me when you wake up so I know you’re alright?” he asked. 

“Of course.” you smiled at him. 

He hesitated for a minute, seemed to think better of something and made a move to walk toward the door when your hand shot out to touch his chest. He stared at you but you didnt let it distract you from your insane moment of courage as you leaned up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, your hand lingering on his chest. His hand came up to clasp the one on his chest as you pulled back. 

“Thank you Damien.” you told him and he nodded. 

You slipped your hand out from beneath his, he cleared his throat and then made his way out the front door with one more look back at you. You crashed on your bed quickly after Damien left and when you woke up your apartment was dark, the digital clock on your nightstand read 10:02 p.m but you’d promised Damien a text and so you sent one. 

y/n: Hey! Sorry just woke up and I realize it's late but I promised to text 

Damien: how are you feeling? Need anything? 

y/n: I think I’m just gonna have some cereal and relax for a bit before sleeping again. I feel better though. Thanks again for everything today. 

Damien: Anytime, seriously 

y/n: Allergic reactions at work are not something I want to make a habit of 

Damien: Good to know. Think you’ll still be feeling better tomorrow? 

y/n: Absolutely 

Damien: Want to grab dinner? Just the two of us? Promise no pineapple. 

y/n: Absolutely, pick me up at 7? 

Damien: It's a date. 

You smiled at your phone and kicked your feet in excitement. Maybe having an allergic reaction at work wasn't the worst thing to happen.

[millerskitty]

Running If You Call My Name

❥ dbf!joel / f!reader x joel miller

❥ (18+) nsfw

❥ reader insert

❥ medium burn, no outbreak au. some timelines are changed to fit the story.

dividers by @/saradika !

summary: you are a twenty five year old woman who lives with your father in austin, tx. you’ve been good friends with the millers for years, but in the past few months you’ve begun to see joel in a new light and it’s disrupting your life.

warnings: brief mention of parent loss, grief, loneliness and sexual harassment (by an inconsequential coworker) (pls let me know if i forgot anything — this is my first fic)

word count: 1.7k

masterlist

Chapter 1

That summer had been a scorcher. It was routine to shimmy out of your business casual and throw on a tank top and shorts each day after work. You let your hair down from its clip and let it fall naturally.

It was Friday evening and your father was out grilling in the back. Corn on the cob, fajitas and sausage were on the grill, making the air smokey and delicious. You knew there would be a big bowl of potato salad in the fridge and deviled eggs on the shelf above it. You stepped out of the glass sliding door to join the chef.

“How was work, doll?” Your father asked, sliding up his sunglasses to greet you.

You approached him for a big bear hug. He was damp with sweat from the hard work of grilling in the heat. “Hey Pop. Work was work.” You said, going over to a pool chair and reclining it so you could get some sun. “Are the Millers coming over?

“‘Course, Joel’s taking Sarah to pick out some gear for her softball camp. She leaves tomorrow.”

“Oh cool, and how was your day off?” You lathered some sun screen on your arms, chest, and stomach. The smell of chlorine coming off the pool was met with the barbecue smell. It was a nostalgic combination, reminding you of the two and a half decade’s worth of memories made in your backyard.

“All good, changed the oil on the truck, decided to grill for Sarah’s last day at home.”

The Millers usually came over when Pop was grilling. You wished you’d made a cake for Sarah’s last night in town.

“I made her some of that pink salad she loves.” He seemed to read your mind.

You lied back, closing your eyes and clearing your thoughts for half an hour. Your peace was interrupted by the sound of cicadas buzzing louder to compete with the sound of a truck pulling into your driveway. Joel and Sarah must have come straight over from shopping instead of walking down the street to your home from theirs. There was a flutter in your stomach when you’d heard Pop answer the front door and greet them, Joel’s booming voice asking where you were.

It was only a few moments before you’d heard the glass sliding door open and Sarah popped over to you.

“Hey Bug.” You said, looking up at her with a smile.

“Oh we’re sunbathing, huh? Let me get changed, be right back.” She said, turning on her heel with her backpack over her shoulder.

You loved that girl to death, she’d been in your life for the past decade. Ever since she and Joel had moved down the street, they’d become a part of your life. Joel and Pop hit it off when Joel had noticed Pop trying to fix a gutter on his own.

Pop was cursing up a storm when he’d failed to secure the gutter and it all toppled down. Joel had been outside sitting on the tailgate of his pickup truck that evening when he’d seen Pop and jogged over to help. It had taken him a fraction of the time to get it right. Pop was impressed and slightly embarrassed, but he thanked Joel with a cold beer and the rest was history.

Life had become less lonely with the Millers around. Before they’d moved down the street it was mostly just you and Pop. Your mother passed away when you were just a toddler. She was sick and it almost killed Pop when he couldn’t do anything to save her. After a few years overshadowed by grief he’d turned his life around and became everything you needed from a mother and a father.

You were fifteen when you’d started to babysit six year old Sarah for Joel. Now ten years later, at twenty-five and sixteen you were very much bonded. You’d been there for Sarah when she’d come out as a lesbian. It took Joel by surprise, but he embraced his daughter and her choices.

You felt a pang of guilt as she took her spot beside you by the pool. Your friend would probably get the ick if you’d mentioned that you maybe, sort of, kind of had a crush on Joel. Your fathers sat beside the grill, just out of earshot, nursing two cold beers and chatting. You had to fight the urge to look back at Joel. The opportunity to get up and cross paths with him would come when the food was ready.

The truth was you’d inadvertently developed a crush on Joel Miller. It felt sort of twisted, he was twelve years your senior, almost forty years old. Not exactly old enough to be your father, but still a noticeable age gap nonetheless.

You’d asked him for guitar lessons last Winter and he obliged. He took you to a music store and you picked out an acoustic guitar. He was excited to pass down the skill to at least one other person. Sarah was never interested, what she really cared about was competing in sports. You’d gone over to their home on weekends and practiced, Joel moved your fingers patiently back to their position when you’d messed up. His large, callused hands landed and held the strings down with ease. He’d tried to make you commit to developing your own calluses to improve your skill.

By the end of Winter you’d learned how to play a handful of songs, mostly dad rock that Joel loved and knew by heart. He would smile so bright when you’d finally get it right. You did everything in your power to get him to flash his teeth and celebrate your little victories.

“That’s it, Darlin, those fingers ain't just for clickin’ and clackin’ on a keyboard now.” He’d chuckled.

You had been drunk on his praise and your shared laughter one evening when you leapt up from your seat and onto Joel's lap, throwing your arms around his neck. His arms wrapped around your waist and you pulled your head back, coming face to face with him. His breath was warm on your lips and you swore there was something in his eyes. It flashed and faded as quickly as it had appeared.

You both dropped the embrace and Joel cleared his throat, helping you pack up for the night. Tears of embarrassment stung your eyes as you silently gathered your things and went home without another word.

You knew in that moment that you were well and truly fucked. As it would happen, you couldn’t stop thinking about Joel from that moment on. You tried to temper your feelings. You mostly doubted that he’d felt what you felt in that moment. The spark, the fear and the desire to cross the line. But the gleam in his eye, the way he almost leaned forward then hesitated replayed in your mind.

You’d stopped responding to the guys you were matched with on dating apps. You’d lost interest in anyone other than Joel. You’d imagined all the ways that evening could have gone. He could have become upset that you’d crossed his boundaries, but he didn’t. He could have closed the gap between you and pressed his lips to yours, but he didn’t. And you hadn’t spoken of that incident since it happened, two seasons ago.

“Can you two go in and grab the potato salad and eggs from the fridge?” Pop had asked you and Joel, tearing you away from your thoughts.

“Yeah, no problem.” Joel said, opening the sliding door and motioning for you to head in first.

Your skin prickled when you sensed his eyes skating over your body from behind as you opened the fridge.

“Pop made pink salad for Sarah,” you said, grabbing the bowl of potato salad and turning to face Joel.

“She’s gonna go nuts.” He said grinning, “How’ve you been, kid?”

“Not a kid, Joel.” You huffed. “I’m a quarter of a century old.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He took the deviled eggs from the shelf in the fridge and followed you out to the back.

~

After the barbecue, Pop had made a run to the gas station for more beer and Joel made his way to the kitchen to help you clean up while Sarah took a dip in the pool.

“How’s Angel treating you?” Joel asked, drying off the wet dishes from the rack.

“She’s good, but I’ve been neglecting her a bit lately.” You said, speaking of your six string acoustic guitar. An image of that moment in Joel’s garage flashed through your mind and you blushed.

“That’s a shame, what’s been keeping you too busy to play?” He knew where your dishes belonged, putting them away in the cabinets and drawers as he spoke.

“Work, mostly. This guy at the office has been bugging me to go out on a date with him, it’s borderline sexual harassment.” You huffed, wiping down the inside of the sink.

“Well that’s just not right. You should tell the boss.” Joel said, his voice stern.

“He’s the boss’s nephew.” You turned and saw Joel’s jaw clenched. Your stomach flipped. You hadn’t meant to strike a nerve.

“Shouldn’t matter, he's a punk. What’s his name?”

“Easy, cowboy.” You said, stepping closer to him. “Nothing’s gonna happen, he’s just overly confident.”

“Tell him your friend Joel wants to talk.” This time he was grinning, drying off a glass bowl. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the tanned skin on his muscular arms.

You were staring until you heard the screen door pop open, then the front door creaked open as Pop appeared just in time for you and Joel to put some space between the two of you. You finished wiping down the counter and Joel rejoined your dad in the backyard.

You poked your head out the door and called out, “Pop don’t forget we’re going to go get my car fixed in the morning.”

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry I forgot. I have a work thing in Odessa, I'm gonna be out all weekend.” He said sympathetically. “You’re a big girl, you can go by yourself.”

“I’m not afraid of going alone, silly. I’m afraid that they’re gonna overcharge me cause’ I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I’ll take her, I won’t let that happen.” Joel said, pressing a bottle of Budweiser to his lips.

“See, no one would dare bullshit our Joel, here.” Pop grinned. He was giddy and buzzed.

“Alright, nine-thirty sound good to you?” You asked, trying not to sound excited.

“Sure. I’ll pick you up.”

Chapter 2

[mooneltwo]

a silly au Idea i had, theres no devil fruits in this pokemon x op au but theres pokemon everywhere. Dragon obtained a Victini egg and wanted to use it but when it hatched it imprinted hard on him and basically was too human in nature so he let it go on dawn island to do its own thing and have its own adventure

[gigiii1sblog]

DORM-ROOM DEVIL 007

Warnings: mature content, fluff, sexual content, teasing, dirty talk, unprotected sexual content.

Chapter seven: can’t handle it?

CHRIS POV:

She was still asleep when I slipped out of bed.

The sun was barely up, its soft gold leaking through the blinds, casting strips across her bare back. My sheets looked different wrapped around her—like they belonged to her now. Her hair was messy, lips slightly parted, and I swear I could still feel her everywhere. On my skin. Under my nails. In my fucking throat.

I ran a hand through my hair, grabbed a hoodie, and made my way to the kitchen—mostly because I needed to do something, anything, or I was gonna crawl back into bed and do it all over again.

And that was dangerous.

We weren’t supposed to go there. But we did. And now, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About her. The way she moaned my name like a secret. The way she told me I couldn’t handle it—and maybe she was right. Because I was losing my damn mind.

By the time she walked in, I’d already made coffee and was leaning against the counter, shirtless, mug in hand.

She came in quiet, wearing my shirt again, nothing else underneath. Just bare legs, a bruise blooming on her thigh where my hand had gripped too hard. Her eyes were soft, a little sleepy, but when they landed on me, her mouth twitched like she already knew I was gonna say something stupid.

“Morning, roomie,” I said, voice low and smug.

She blinked. “Don’t start.”

I grinned. “Start what? I was just gonna ask if you wanted eggs. Maybe some toast. You burned a lot of calories last night.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Mm.” I took a slow sip. “You weren’t complaining when I had you on your stomach, begging.”

She snatched the mug right out of my hand and took a sip like she owned it—and me. “I don’t beg.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” I leaned in, lowering my voice to a murmur. “You did. Nicely.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she held my stare. That was the thing about her—she could blush and bite back in the same breath. A devil in soft skin.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, pushing past me to sit on the counter. “You’re not that good.”

I chuckled, stepping between her legs. “Want me to prove you wrong? Again?”

“Try me.”

Fuck. It took everything in me not to press my mouth to hers, not to spread her open right there. But instead, I just stared—let the silence stretch and twist and pull. She looked at my lips. I looked at hers. Her breath caught first.

That was the real win.

But then—my phone buzzed.

I glanced at it. A text from someone I didn’t care about anymore. Another girl. Old news.

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I looked back at Y/N. “You staying in today?”

“Maybe.” Her voice dropped. “Why? You want a round three?”

I leaned in, mouth brushing her ear. “I want a lot more than that.”

She swallowed hard.

And just like that—we were both wrecked all over again.

⸻

The toast popped up right when I slipped my hoodie over my head.

I didn’t sleep much. Kept waking up in the middle of the night to her shifting in the sheets, her legs tangling with mine, the smell of her shampoo everywhere. I hated how comfortable it felt—how natural it was having her in my bed. Like we’d done it a thousand times.

She’s in the kitchen now, sitting on the counter, wearing that oversized shirt she threw on last night—my shirt. Legs bare. Hair messy in the kind of way girls try to fake. Not her. She didn’t try. She just was.

I grab my keys from the counter and open the door halfway when she speaks up, casual, like she’s asking me what time it is.

“Hey—just so we’re clear. Last night was fun, but… no pressure, right?”

I stop.

My hand tightens on the doorknob.

She doesn’t even look up from her mug.

“Like… we’re good? It didn’t have to mean anything. We were both just high and vibing.”

I force out a low chuckle and nod, keeping my tone light.

“Yeah. Totally. No big deal.”

She finally glances over at me, eyes unreadable but calm. Too calm.

Y/N POV:

The second the door shut, I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

“Say less, roomie.”

His voice was still in my head.

God, I hate how that stung.

I stared at my coffee, half-cold now. My legs were swinging lightly from the kitchen counter, the hem of Chris’s shirt brushing against my thighs. It smelled like his body wash—peppermint and smoke. Faint but stuck to me.

I hated how much I liked it.

I meant it when I said “no pressure.” At least, I thought I did.

We were both high, still a little drunk from the night before. It was messy and impulsive and fun—but somewhere between his hand at the small of my back and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing he wanted to touch, it stopped being just fun.

It felt different. Like he actually cared. Like I mattered.

And I couldn’t let that show. Because I’ve been down that road before—the kind where you care too much and the other person doesn’t care at all. Or worse, they act like they do… until you give in. And they’re gone.

So I played it safe. Said what I thought he’d want to hear.

No strings. No feelings. Just… vibes.

But the second he agreed, the second he smiled like it was no big deal?

I wanted to scream. Or throw the mug across the room. Or chase him out the door and ask what we’re even doing.

Instead, I slid off the counter and wandered back into my room. Not his room. Not our bed. My own. Cold. Empty. Quiet.

Christopher Sturniolo wasn’t supposed to get under my skin. He was supposed to be the hot, smug lacrosse-playing roommate who occasionally walked around shirtless and left ashtrays on the balcony. He was supposed to be fun. Stupid. Temporary.

But he kissed me like he knew me. Like he wanted all the chaos, not in spite of it—but because of it.

And now he’s gone. Probably already rolling another blunt, laughing with his boys. Probably already texting some other girl with the same hands that had just…

I stopped that thought.

Crawled under the covers.

Buried my face in the pillow and whispered to no one.

“It meant something to me.”

Y/N POV: Later that day

I didn’t see him all day.

Not in the kitchen.

Not in the hallway.

Not even on the damn balcony, where he always smoked like it was his religion.

It was like he vanished. Or like I was the one avoiding him. Which… I kind of was.

What the hell was I supposed to say?

Hey, thanks for fucking me senseless on the balcony and kissing me like it meant something. Want to split rent this month?

I spent the whole afternoon getting ready. Shaved, glossed, contoured, and dressed like I had something to prove. Because maybe I did. Maybe I needed him to see me tonight. Needed him to regret brushing it all off like it meant nothing.

So I wore the tiniest black skirt I owned. Barely-there straps. Heels that made my legs look like a problem. And red lip gloss, because I remembered the way his eyes dropped to my mouth last night, like he was hypnotized.

I walked into the party like I owned it—music shaking the floor, bass vibrating through my bones. Everyone was already drunk and loud and touchy, and for a second, I let myself forget he might be here.

But then I felt it.

That stare.

Heavy. Slow. Dangerous.

I didn’t have to look. I knew it was him.

But I looked anyway.

Chris.

Leaning against the wall, red Solo cup in hand. All black fit. Chain around his neck. That backward cap. He looked too good. Too easy. Like sin made into a person.

He was already watching me—like he’d been watching me since I walked in. Eyes flicking from my thighs to my lips, jaw locked like he was pissed. Or hungry. Or both.

I looked away first.

Walked straight past him and into the kitchen.

Let some random guy hand me a drink. Didn’t even care what it was.

“Damn,” the guy said, smirking as he looked me up and down. “You’re Chris’s roommate, right?”

I raised a brow, sipping. “That’s what they call me.”

“You’re hotter than he said.”

I laughed. I didn’t ask what Chris had said. I didn’t want to know.

But I did make sure he saw me laughing. The guy touched my waist. I didn’t stop him.

The song changed. The lights dimmed. People were dancing now. Close, sticky, drunk. I let the guy pull me in, sway me with the bass, his hands sliding lower.

But it wasn’t him I was thinking about.

It was Chris.

The way his hands gripped my hips last night. The way he cursed under his breath when I kissed down his neck. The way he almost broke trying not to give in.

And when I turned my head, I saw him.

Still leaning. Still watching. But now his cup was empty, his jaw clenched tighter. He looked like he wanted to kill someone.

Or grab me.

Or both.

I couldn’t help it.

I smiled at him.

CHRIS POV

I told myself not to care.

Told myself it didn’t matter. She said it didn’t mean anything, right? That we were just messing around. She meant that shit.

Cool.

So why did it feel like the walls were closing in every time I looked at her tonight?

Every guy in that party was looking at her like she was a goddamn fever dream. And I got it. I fucking got it. That skirt? Those heels? The gloss? She knew exactly what she was doing.

But I knew what she tasted like. What she sounded like when she was on top of me. What her eyes did right before she moaned my name.

And now she’s out there letting some douchebag touch her waist like he earned it?

Nah.

I tossed my cup, cracked my neck, and walked straight toward her.

Didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care what happened.

“Roomie,” I said, loud enough to cut through the music, just behind her.

She turned, slow and smug. “Chris.”

“You good?”

She shrugged. “Perfect. You?”

I glanced at the guy beside her. “Yeah. Just wondering if he knows you fake your moans when you’re bored.”

Her jaw dropped—eyes wide. Shocked. Pissed. Turned on? Probably all three.

She took a step closer. “Jealous?”

I smirked, leaning down so only she could hear. “Not even a little. But you keep letting him touch you, I might remind you what real hands feel like.”

Her breath caught.

I saw it. Felt it.

But she recovered fast. “You’d fold if I touched you right now.”

I tilted my head. “Then try me.”

For a second, neither of us moved.

The music throbbed.

People danced.

Time slowed.

And we just stood there. two people pretending we weren’t falling into something we couldn’t undo.

Y/N POV

I didn’t touch him.

Didn’t say a word.

But he was following me.

Not with his feet, no, he stayed back, leaned up on that wall like he owned it, but with his eyes. That lazy, possessive glare. Like he was daring anyone else to get too close. Like he wanted me to know: I see you. And I remember exactly how you sound when you fall apart for me.

I slipped past the bodies grinding on each other and dipped into the backyard. Cooler air, string lights, weed smoke curling in the corners. I needed a second. Maybe a drink. Maybe a joint.

But I got him instead.

Chris.

He slid the glass door shut behind him, crowding the space with his presence before he even said a word.

“You gonna pretend I’m not here now?” he asked, voice low.

I turned, folding my arms. “We said it didn’t mean anything. Remember?”

He tilted his head, stepping closer. “Cool. Then why are you running from me?”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re dodging. And flirting with every guy that looks your way.”

I scoffed. “Oh, right. Sorry. Forgot I was supposed to stay celibate after giving you a lap dance three nights ago.”

His lips twitched, like he almost smiled. But didn’t.

“I’m not asking for that.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. He just looked at me—really looked. Eyes dragging down my outfit, pausing on the sliver of skin between my shirt and jeans. The kind of look that made my mouth go dry and my thighs shift.

“I’m asking,” he said finally, “why the fuck you’re acting like it didn’t mean anything when you were begging for more.”

That shut me up.

Because yeah, I did beg. And yeah, I meant every goddamn word. But this wasn’t supposed to be anything. He was messy. Loud. Arrogant. Avoidant. And too hot for his own good. I was only supposed to have one rule:

Don’t fall for the devil living down the hall.

But now here he was, smoking on the back steps like he hadn’t wrecked me just last night. Shirt a little damp from the heat, backwards cap tugged low, jaw clenched. Dangerous and golden and completely unaware of how much power he had over me.

I sank down beside him without a word.

He passed me the blunt. I took it.

Silence stretched long between us. But it wasn’t awkward. It was thick. Tense. Heavy with things we weren’t saying.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then he said it, quiet, but sharp.

“I think about you more than I should.”

I froze.

Turned to him.

He didn’t look at me. He just passed the blunt again, jaw locked.

I took it, but I barely remembered how to breathe.

“Chris…”

“I know,” he muttered. “We said it didn’t mean anything.”

Another beat.

Another pause.

And then, without warning, he turned to me. Hand sliding behind my neck. Eyes burning.

And he kissed me.

Hard. Slow. Deep.

Like it meant everything.

CHRIS POV

I tasted her lip gloss first, sweet, cherry-something, smudged against my mouth as she pressed into me like she’d been waiting all night. Her hands curled in the front of my shirt, tugging me down just enough that I could feel the sharp pull of her nails against my chest. Every part of me went tight.

She kissed like she had something to prove. Like she wanted me wrecked.

And damn if I wasn’t already halfway there.

Her back hit the brick wall behind the house, barely hidden from the party still going inside. I didn’t care. Not when her thighs brushed against mine like that. Not when she looked up at me like she wanted to ruin me.

“You came out here just to kiss me like that?” I rasped, breath hot.

“No,” she said, dragging her fingers up into my hair. “I came out here to see if you could handle it.”

I swear something snapped inside me.

I kissed her harder, hands sliding to her waist, then lower, feeling the way her body curved into mine like it belonged there. Like she was made to get under my skin.

Her hands worked the hem of my shirt up—slow, teasing, intentional. I let her. Let her see the way my stomach tensed under her touch.

“You’re so full of yourself,” she whispered against my jaw. “Bet you think about this all the time.”

“All the time,” I admitted. “But not like this. This—this is worse.”

“Worse?” she echoed with a smug smirk.

“Yeah. ’Cause now I’m not stopping.”

I grabbed her hand, laced our fingers, and pulled her away from the wall, leading her inside. We didn’t say a word as we passed the crowd. Didn’t need to. Everyone else disappeared the second she kissed me. All I knew was I wanted her upstairs.

Now.

Y/N POV

The hallway was dim, the music muffled, but my heart was pounding so loud I barely noticed. His fingers gripped mine like he couldn’t believe I was real. And part of me wanted to make sure he knew I was.

When we got to his room, he shut the door behind us with one hand, the other still resting at the small of my back. His touch was hot, grounding, rough enough to make me ache. I turned before he could speak and kissed him again, slower this time, my hands pushing at his chest until he let me guide him to the edge of the bed.

He dropped back, legs spread, shirt still rucked up his stomach like he didn’t even care anymore. Eyes locked on me.

That look.

Like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted. Like he was starving for it.

I stepped between his legs, dropped to my knees.

“Y/N—” he started, voice rough.

“I know what I’m doing,” I said, glancing up at him through my lashes. “You’re not scared, are you?”

His jaw clenched. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good.”

I tugged at his belt, slow and confident. His hands fisted the sheets. He didn’t stop me. Couldn’t. And when I leaned in, mouth brushing the soft skin just below his hipbone, he hissed through his teeth like he was already falling apart.

CHRIS POV

I should’ve stopped her.

I should’ve said something smart. Something cocky. But my brain wasn’t working anymore.

She looked up at me from the floor, eyes dark and lips parted, and I swore I could feel my heart trying to crawl up my throat. Her hands, her mouth, her teeth—every touch was a promise I didn’t deserve. And I didn’t care.

I wanted it anyway.

But right as I reached for her, needing more, needing everything—she climbed up onto the bed, straddling me, kissing me like she couldn’t get enough.

She whispered, “You sure you can handle me?”

And I lost it.

I flipped us, pressing her into the mattress, dragging my mouth along her throat, tasting the sweat-sweet skin there. She gasped and arched beneath me, legs wrapping around my hips, her hands already pulling at my jeans.

No one had ever made me feel like this. Like I wasn’t in control. Like I didn’t want to be.

She kissed me with everything, teeth, tongue, desperation, and I gave it right back. There was nothing soft left between us now. Just heat. Pressure. And the kind of tension that breaks things.

I didn’t ask if she wanted it.

She didn’t ask if I was sure.

We already knew.

And when it happened, it wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rushed. It was earned. Days of glances. Nights of close calls. Hours of pretending we weren’t going to do this.

But we did.

And it was everything I didn’t want to admit I’d been craving since the second she moved in.

Y/N POV: The next morning

The sheets still smelled like him.

Not just cologne, but skin, weed, warmth, and whatever the hell that thing was between us last night. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from it or bury myself in it forever.

I found his hoodie on the chair and tugged it over my head without thinking. Still oversized, still warm from where he’d worn it just an hour ago.

A knock sounded on the slightly cracked bedroom door before Chris leaned in.

“You up?”

I nodded, messy hair and puffy lips giving me away. “Barely.”

He stared at me for a second too long. His eyes dragged over the hoodie I was wearing—his—before they met mine again.

“C’mon,” he said, already turning to walk down the hall. “Everyone’s gone. I’m bored.”

“Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer until I followed him down to the parking lot and he unlocked his beat-up black car. The windows were down, music already low and moody. Mac Miller. Cinderella.

He looked at me from over the roof of the car and said, “Let’s go nowhere for a bit.”

CHRIS POV

I don’t know what the hell I was doing. I just knew I didn’t want to sit in that room and pretend last night hadn’t happened. I also didn’t want to talk about it. Not really.

But I wanted her next to me.

Y/N climbed in wearing my hoodie and bare legs, looking like a problem I wasn’t ready to solve. I reached over, tugged her seatbelt into place just so I could feel her breath catch when my fingers brushed her ribs.

She smelled like the sheets. Like me.

We drove in silence for a bit. The windows were down, her hair blowing around, her leg propped up on the dash like she’d done this a hundred times with me.

Except she hadn’t.

“Where are we going?” she finally asked, voice soft.

“Nowhere.”

“You’re so weird,” she teased, laughing under her breath. “Is this your post-hookup plan? Ghost me via a highway?”

I glanced at her. “If I was ghosting you, I wouldn’t be playing Mac. I’d be blasting Future.”

She smiled.

God, that smile.

Y/N POV

He stopped the car somewhere out near a view, a hill behind some abandoned skate lot. You could see the whole city from here, sun bleeding gold across the skyline. It was stupid pretty.

We sat on the hood of the car, shoulders bumping, his hoodie swallowing me whole while he lit a blunt, offering it to me first.

“Ladies first,” he said, like a dick.

I took it, just to feel his fingers brush mine again. “So what, this is your little date spot?”

He raised a brow. “What makes you think it’s a date?”

“I’m wearing your hoodie, you gave me the aux, and you brought me to a place with a view.”

He smirked. “Damn. Caught red-handed.”

We smoked in silence for a bit. Then I said, “You ever been in love, Chris?”

It slipped out before I could stop it. He paused, completely still, like the words hit him somewhere deep. Then he blew smoke toward the sky and said:

“Once. I think. Was too young to know if it was real.”

I nodded. “Same.”

He looked at me again, but this time he didn’t look away. His fingers brushed my knee. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Still think about him?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “When it’s late. Or when someone looks at me like they mean it.”

He looked down.

“Do you?” I asked.

“Do I what?”

“Think about her?”

He was quiet a long time. Then he said, “Not anymore. Not after last night.”

My chest tightened.

CHRIS POV

I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t even know what I meant. But it was the truth.

She looked at me like she was trying to memorize me. She did that sometimes. stared too long, said nothing.

“What happens now?” she asked, her voice barely above the wind.

I shrugged, gently tugging a strand of her hair behind her ear. “We keep being us.”

“Just roommates?”

I smirked, leaning in just enough that her breath caught. “We were never just roommates.”

She didn’t move.

She just looked at me, serious, soft, searching. Then, like she couldn’t help it, she kissed me again.

Slow. Unrushed. Honest.

And right there, on the hood of my car with the city beneath us and her mouth tasting like smoke and secrets, I knew this wasn’t going to be casual.

Not for me.

Im so sorry this is so rushed and bad I wanted to get something out for you guys!

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44

@emeraldsturns @sturnslux3

@kalel2005 @sarahsturns

@teheabrams @needchrissturniolobad

@julessspoetry @sturniszn

@slutforchrissturniolo2

@alinagrace11 @beardedbernard

[littlepinkbirdie]

Little Heartbeat

Pairing: Lewis Pullman x Reader (Married) Genre: Fluff | Humor | Family Feels | Pregnancy Reveal Timeline: A few weeks after their 1-year wedding anniversary

You stood in the kitchen barefoot, hands nervously smoothing down the side of your sundress for the hundredth time. The soft hum of chatter and backyard laughter drifted in from the open screen door as Lewis appeared behind you — curls slightly tousled, shirt half tucked in, holding two lemonades like they were shields.

“You okay?” he asked, offering you one.

You took it and nodded. “Yeah. Just… kinda feels like we’re about to drop a bomb.”

“A tiny, adorable bomb with fingers the size of tic-tacs,” he said, then lowered his voice and added, “Still can’t believe there’s a whole human growing in you.”

You smiled down at your belly, barely showing but already the biggest secret you’d ever kept.

“I feel like I’m lying to everyone,” you whispered. “They think we’re just hosting a barbecue because we missed Easter.”

“Well, technically, we are feeding them,” Lewis said, motioning to the table full of ribs, coleslaw, and your mom’s famous potato salad. “We're just also about to break their brains.”

He kissed your temple, gently. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You glanced toward the cake on the patio table. White frosting, lemon filling, and a single sentence piped in gold script: “See you in January, Baby Pullman 💛”

It was subtle. Simple. Elegant. And totally out of place next to the basket of hot dog buns.

You laughed nervously. “They’re either going to cry… or someone’s going to choke on a deviled egg.”

About twenty minutes later, you stood beside Lewis as everyone gathered around the cake.

“Okay!” you called, trying to sound casual as Lewis wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “We figured it was time to cut dessert!”

Your best friend rolled her eyes. “You two are so dramatic with your cakes. Remember your engagement one?”

“Hey,” Lewis said, grinning, “we like a good surprise.”

He stepped aside to hand you the knife. You sliced through the soft frosting, and your mom leaned in with a phone to take pictures—until she paused, squinting at the inscription.

Her eyes widened. “Wait… wait a minute.”

Silence fell over the group like a dropped curtain.

Your dad leaned in next. Your sister gasped. Your best friend dropped her solo cup.

“Oh my God,” someone whispered.

“You’re pregnant?” your mom said, voice trembling. “Is this—are you serious?”

You and Lewis shared a glance before nodding.

“I’m twelve weeks,” you said softly, eyes already stinging. “We wanted to wait until it felt real… and now it really, really does.”

The backyard erupted. Cheers, tears, a dropped beer bottle, and someone — you suspected your sister — screamed, “I KNEW IT! She wasn’t drinking mimosas at brunch!”

Your mom covered her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks, hugging you tight and whispering, “My baby’s having a baby.”

Lewis was immediately pulled into a hug by your dad, who clapped him on the back so hard he nearly dropped his lemonade.

“I’m gonna be a grandpa?” your dad said, half-choked up. “Does this mean I can finally buy that ridiculous rocking chair?”

Lewis laughed through his own tears. “Buy two. I’m gonna need one too.”

Later, when the sun was setting and the cake was mostly crumbs, you and Lewis sat on the porch swing wrapped in a blanket of contentment and half-melted twilight.

“Everyone handled it better than I thought,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder.

“No one fainted. Only one person cried into a hamburger. I’d call that a win.”

You laughed, but then he turned to you — his expression soft and full of something that looked an awful lot like awe.

“You’re going to be such a good mom,” he said quietly, like it was just for you.

And when you looked at him, glowing under the warm golden light, hand resting over your belly, you knew two things for certain: You were no longer just the two of you. And this, this was the start of everything.

╔══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╗╔══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╗╔══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╗

You were curled up in the passenger seat of Lewis’s truck, hand resting over your still-small bump, as the driveway came into view — his parents’ cottage framed by pine trees and early summer sun.

He reached over and laced your fingers together, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You sure you’re ready?” he asked.

You smiled at him. “Only been thinking about this since the minute we found out.”

“You’re gonna make my mom cry, you know,” he said, pulling into the gravel. “Like... not sniffly cry. Full-on waterfall.”

“I packed tissues,” you grinned. “For both of you.”

An hour later, the four of you were seated around the back porch table, lemonade in hand, feet bare in the cool grass. Lewis’s mom had made her famous blueberry crumble. His dad was flipping grilled veggies. It felt like the kind of afternoon that hung in the air like a secret — quiet, golden, sacred.

You exchanged a glance with Lewis. He gave the tiniest nod.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “We have something we wanted to tell you. Something kind of big.”

His mom leaned forward, eyes already suspiciously wide. “Okay…?”

Lewis looked at you. You smiled and placed his hand gently over your belly.

“We’re having a baby,” you said softly.

For a second, the porch fell completely still.

And then—

“Oh my God,” his mom whispered, covering her mouth with shaking hands. “Are you serious?”

Lewis was already getting pulled into a hug before he could answer.

His dad stepped back from the grill, stunned. “Wait. You’re—? You’re gonna be a dad?”

Lewis laughed, nodding, voice choked. “Yeah. We are.”

His mom’s hands were on your cheeks, her eyes shining. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, pulling you into the kind of hug that felt like home. “You’re giving me a grandbaby.”

“I didn’t want to say anything,” she sniffled, “but I had a feeling. You were glowing when you walked in.”

“I think that was sweat,” you joked through your own tears.

His dad eventually wrapped both of you in a big, warm bear hug, voice thick with emotion. “We’re so happy for you, honey. You two are gonna be such good parents.”

“You’ll come visit, right?” his mom asked, wiping her eyes. “Whenever you want. For help. For rest. For—anything.”

“You’ll probably get sick of us,” Lewis said.

“Never,” she promised. “You’ll just have to pry the baby out of my arms.”

Later that night, you were curled up on the couch beside Lewis, your head on his chest, the fire crackling in front of you. From the kitchen, you could still hear his mom humming — baking banana bread for the baby, because she said she needed to “practice grandma recipes.”

Lewis kissed the top of your head. “You did perfect today.”

You smiled into his chest. “So did you.”

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered. “We’re building a whole little person.”

You turned your head to look up at him, eyes soft. “And they’re already so loved.”

AUTHOR NOTE: okay so im obsessed im making this a series.

[ayeyolooo]

SHARING A BED WITH THEM!

(gojo, inumaki, geto, yuji, choso.)

INUMAKI!

you heard three soft knocks on your room door, which made you wake up. “come in.” your voice rasped out. you rubbed your eyes as you looked at the door to see who was walking in. you seen your blonde haired boy. the both of you had just gotten into an argument so the both of you didn’t sleep with eachother today. but that changed soon as he walked in the door. his cheeks were rosy and so was the tip of his nose. “yes?” you sat up and turned on your bedside lamp. “bonito.” (hi) “hi inu what’s up, i thought you wanted to sleep in your room today?”he dropped his head down. “sausage with eggs and grits.” (i can’t sleep without you.) you pouted. “well it was you who said it.” he nodded. “tuna.” (i know) he replied. “caviar Rolls.” (i need you, i can’t sleep without you.” you pouted giving in you opened your arms wide having him smile and crawl to you. you held him and stroked his cheek and hair. “do you want to do bible study?” he perked up and immediately nodded. “okay go and get your bible so we can start.” you smiled grabbing your highlighters, and pens. inu came back with his blue bible and his notepad. the both of you prayed before reading the word together. you giggled at inumaki trying to read the words without having a hard time.

he giggled at you not understanding what some of the messages meant. he was happy to write them down for you. the both of you read psalms 91 which brought inumaki some comfort, due to him having a nightmare which brought him to your room. gojo opened the door quietly and seen the both of you holding hands and praying for eachother. he just smiled and closed the door back gently. he was genuinely happy for the both of you. inumaki has finally found his light, the person that brought his closer to God, the one who helped him with his nightmares. the one who prayed over him before every mission. y/n. you were literally heaven sent, and everyone was very appreciative of you.

an hour passed and the hoth of you were cuddled under eachother while the tv played in the background. the both of you were sleeping mouths wide open with slob coming out, and inumaki snoring.

some of the bible verses inumaki and y/n study on the daily.

—Jeremiah 29:11

'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.

•inumaki sends you to read that verse when you’re worried about your future, or when you’re worried about school.

•you would send him this verse when he’s worried about a mission. when you send that to him, he feels at peace and calm.

—psalms 15:1

—Ephesians 4:26-27

"Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil".

•the both of you would send this to eachother when you’d had just gotten into an argument, or when the both of you are stubborn gojo would slip these verses under the both of your doors signing them with your names so that the both of you would think that the other person sent it

—psalms 91:1

1He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty

•the both of you send this to eachother when you’re worried about going on a mission.

this is toooo cute🥹. i’m most definitely adding bible verses in my stories now🫶🏾.

[heezqn]

pairing : non-idol!riki × f!reader

synopsis : you weren't looking for love- said it loud enough for your therapist, your neighbor, and the moon to hear. but nishimura riki didn't care. armed with heart-shaped eggs, cartoon ducks, and a truly unfair level of patience, he spent two years loving you anyway. now, you're faced with the terrifying question: what if you said yes? a chaotic, soft-hearted tale of commitment issues, snarky banter, and the boy who refused to walk away.

genre : friends to lovers, slice of life, fluff, humor, slight angst if you squint hard

warning : mild cursing, mentions of commitment issues, riki's too perfect

word count : 1.5k-ish

you were not looking for a boyfriend. you made that very, very clear. to yourself. to your therapist. even to your nosy neighbor.

your parents taught you love had limits. friendships taught you people leave. romantic partners asked, "what are we?" like your existence needed a label. eventually, you decided that if everyone wanted temporary, you'd give them nothing at all.

and then came nishimura riki.

bright-eyed. soft-spoken. annoyingly persistent.

you told him straight up the first week. "i have commitment issues and i cry when i see videos of puppies abandoned in cardboard boxes."

he blinked. "that just makes you human."

"no, it makes me clingy and dramatic."

"okay, clingy and dramatic human," he said, shrugging. "what's your favorite snack?"

you tried to ghost him after that. blocked him for a week.

he emailed you.

subject: URGENT

attachment: a cartoon duck holding out a heart that said, "plSsSs come back :("

you cursed the duck. you cursed him. you unblocked him.

and somehow, two years later, here he was.

still not your boyfriend.

still showing up.

still refusing to give up.

𔓘

"wake up, satan's least favorite child," riki said, yanking your blanket with absolutely no mercy.

you groaned and swatted blindly in his direction. "touch that blanket again and i will break your fingers with a spoon."

"it's sunday, y/n. you said you'd go on a walk with me today."

"that was before I remembered i don't care about cardio or you."

"that's so crazy, because just yesterday you literally made me a playlist titled 'songs i might let you marry me to.'"

"that playlist was for research purposes," you deadpanned, eyes still shut.

riki sighed dramatically and dropped onto the bed beside you. "you know, most people would be emotionally devastated after two years of getting rejected, insulted, and kicked out of beds."

"and yet you're still here," you replied, rolling to the edge of the bed and shoving him off without remorse.

a thump followed by a muffled "ow." then silence.

"…riki?" you asked, half-heartedly.

"…do you think my ancestors felt that kick?"

you snorted and hid your face under the pillow.

"i think i broke my soul though," he groaned.

"your soul broke the moment you fell in love with me," you replied flatly.

he laughed from the floor. "true. but at least your foot touched me. that's progress."

minutes passed. then came the scent. bacon. croissants. that cinnamon-honey thing he knew you loved. the devil was trying to bribe you again.

he returned with a tray, balancing it like he'd just opened a michelin-star restaurant.

"peace offering," he said, smiling way too innocently. "i even shaped your eggs like hearts."

"you manipulative bastard," you said, grabbing the fork.

"say it with love, at least," he replied, sitting at the edge of the bed like he wasn't the human form of a disney dog.

you took a bite. then another. then stared at the plate.

"… did you drug this? why does this taste like you sold your soul to make it?"

"i did only with love. that duck you hate? he's my dealer."

you glared. "i hate you."

"no, you don't."

"yes, i do."

"you adore me. it's written all over your face."

"my face says restraining order," you muttered, shoveling food into your mouth.

"but seriously why is this good? i've never seen you cooking before." you asked, genuinely offended.

"i watched like seven youtube tutorials last night."

"you have issues."

"you love me for them."

without thinking, you mumbled, "yeah, i love you."

silence. a pin could've dropped and you would've heard it. you blinked, frozen mid-chew.

riki stared at you like he just got punched by a rainbow. slowly, a grin crept onto his face. the stupid kind. the "you're mine" kind.

"excuse me?" he whispered.

your brain short-circuited. "i meant- i love food. i love this food. not you. the eggs. the eggs were hot. i mean- heart. SHAPED. SHAPED like hearts, not from the heart. SHIT."

"you love me." he stood up, slowly.

"riki, don't-"

too late. he tossed the tray aside (gently), scooped you up, and spun you like you were made of glitter and giggles.

"PUT ME DOWN YOU DAMN TWIG!"

"you LOVE me! two years of waiting and it was breakfast that did it! god bless croissants!" he sang, holding you in the air like you were simba. "you said it!"

"I TAKE IT BACK!"

"no refunds!"

you flailed, laughing and fighting and trying not to grin as big as he was.

when he finally set you down, you huffed and crossed your arms. "you're still not my boyfriend."

"not officially," he said, leaning down until your noses almost touched. "but i'll keep waiting. as long as it takes for you to be ready."

you stared into his eyes. god, you hated him. you hated that he loved you with no timelines. no expectations. no ultimatums.

you sighed, defeated. "fine. but if we do date, you're doing all the grocery shopping."

"i already do."

"and laundry."

"i color-code your socks."

you squinted. "and if i say i want to keep pretending we're not dating?"

he smiled. "then i'll keep pretending. as long as you let me love you anyway."

tou rolled your eyes, lips twitching.

"…fine. But if you send me that duck again, i'm blocking you."

"that duck is already our child. be respectful."

𔓘

it was a tuesday. a very tuesday tuesday. cloudy sky, unwashed hair, socks that didn't match. the kind of day that screamed mediocre. you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of your living room, surrounded by snack wrappers and the shame of four unanswered emails.

riki was on your couch, upside down, feet on the backrest, head hanging off the seat like he had no blood circulation to care about.

you tossed a chip at his face.

"do you ever sit like a normal person?"

"do you ever admit you're in love with me?" he countered, catching the chip in his mouth.

you flipped him off.

he grinned. "see? that's your love language. vulgarity and projectiles."

you tried not to laugh, but your smile betrayed you. it always did around him.

two years of you saying "we're just friends," while he made you soup when you were sick, sent good night memes, and remembered how you hated the sound of ticking clocks.

you were a walking contradiction. don't have to keep loving me, but please stay forever.

and he did.

you leaned your head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.

"hey." riki's voice broke the silence. he was sitting upright now, way too serious for your comfort. "i need to ask you something."

your stomach flipped. "if it's about me finally watching that anime you like, the answer's still no."

"it's not that." he sat on the floor across from you, legs folded. his eyes met yours, soft and steady. "i want to ask you something important."

your throat tightened.

"like… emotionally important?" you asked, squinting. "because i thought we had an unspoken agreement where i avoid feelings and you pretend i'm not emotionally constipated."

he gave a half-smile. "i've been pretending for two years. can i have five minutes of honesty?"

"…only if you promise not to propose."

he laughed, eyes crinkling. "fine. no proposals. not yet."

you narrowed your eyes. "not yet?"

"y/n."

"what?" you snapped.

"will you officially be my girlfriend?”

you stared. he waited. you stared harder.

"…seriously?" you said, blinking. "after two years of me bullying you into submission, now you want to make it official?"

"you said you loved me."

"i was full and sleepy! i would've said i loved a tree stump!"

"but you meant it."

"…shut up."

he scooted closer. "i want you. all of you. the sarcasm, the panic, the weird fear of emotionally manipulative ducks-"

"trauma," you muttered.

"-and even the way you kick me off your bed. i love it. i love you. and if you're still not ready, i can wait. but i just had to ask."

you looked down at your matching pair of socks which probably would've not been so if riki had not color-coded them.

"…if i say yes," you started slowly, "do i get to keep pretending that you annoy me?"

"absolutely."

"and i don't have to do any couple-y stuff i'm not ready for?"

"you set the pace. i'll just be here. with duck memes and breakfast."

You exhaled. then, quietly, "okay. fine. boyfriend status granted. but don't get smug."

too late. he tackled you backward in a hug, squishing your cheeks.

"my girlfriend said what?" he whispered in your ear.

you groaned. "don't make it weird-"

"my GIRLFRIEND-"

"i will revoke it so fast."

he pulled back, hands raised in surrender but eyes sparkling.

"deal," he whispered. "now let me update your contact name. i'm thinking 'duck wife.'"

"i'm breaking up with you."

"no takesies backsies."

this is my first piece so pls let me know your thoughts

[thegildedbee]

:: March 4 :: Selection for Week 10 of 2025 :: 🐝"a study in scarlet" (1887) from sherlock holmes: a year of quotes* 🖊️

"I never read such rubbish in my life." "What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes. "Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him." "You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. "As for the article, I wrote it myself."

The first two chapters of A Study in Scarlet are a master-class in writing -- and although I've made desultory dissections of them multiple times, it seems that no matter how much I deposit into the dusty trunk in my mental lumber room, oddly enough, the interior space never seems to fill up. Hmmmm.

So, the appearance of this article, "The Book of Life," which sports a "pencil mark at the heading," occurs simultaneously with the curious incident of the flatmates at the breakfast table. What curious incident, you may ask? That Holmes was already ensconced at the table before Watson's arrival, when -- heretofore -- "he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning." And yet, on March 4th, Watson arrives somewhat earlier than is his norm (some manipulation on Holmes's part?), and it seems likely Holmes lingered somewhat later than his norm, and there, placed to hand, the periodical in question, containing an article that not so subtly announces: "read me!"

You can see, no doubt, where I'm going with this :-) Watson has been fascinated by Holmes over the many weeks they've shared digs, and one of the objectives of his Sherlock-sleuthing has been the effort to fathom what in the devil his fellow lodger's occupation may be, reticent as he himself is to inquire straight off. I imagine Holmes has been equally fascinated by Watson, and fascinated by Watson's responses to Holmes's being, and has been deliberately mum on the topic of his lifework just to see how Watson proceeds in consequence. How likely is it that Holmes has ever had such an up-close and personal continuous opportunity to observe another individual? That in itself was likely an addictive circumstance. I find it hard to believe that Holmes was unaware of Watson's perplexity, and therefore had, for whatever reason, decided that March 4 was the day the question was to be answered, in a manner of his own choosing. So: in which periodical did "The Book of Life" appear? This is, admittedly, a tangential question and likely there is little to be gained by trying to posit a realistic option (and here I've no doubt made it obvious as to why it is taking me so long to process two (!) chapters). . . . Nonetheless :-) I reckon that the periodical would be a weekly, because that would allow Holmes, after however many weeks he and Watson had been not-answering the question, to be able to arrange for the article to appear at a non-too-distant time, once he had hit on the idea of using TBofL as his door-opener -- to the world, and to Watson. That is, I don't think it is a coincidence that this event happens when it does (and the universe would never be so lazy, correct? :-) After pondering and hunting, my candidate is Nature, which was founded in 1869, and in which it was not unusual for articles to appear without an attributed author. I think that the Proceedings of the Royal Society are unlikely as Holmes isn't FRS, and the dry exactitude of the essay rules out a general interest publication intended for entertainment. Nature seems to hit the sweet spot between these two poles. As editor Walter Gratzer notes in A Bedside Nature: Genius and Eccentricity in Science, 1869-1953, the journal was filled with material such as "leisurely ruminations on phenomena involving rainbows and lightning and the curious behaviour of ants and pet spaniels," and of reports from all over the globe, such as those of the Astronomical Society of Riga and the Montevideo Natural History Association. I propose, therefore, that Nature is likely to be a congenial home for the purported article.

And in taking a closer look at the period roughly from 1873-1891 (Holmes and Watson are held to have met in 1881), here are some indications of the potpourri of topics one would find within the pages of Nature: observations on how tuning-forks affect garden spiders; whether scorpions are suicide-prone; if sea urchins are capable of altruism; and a weighing of evidence that animals have a sense of humour. Surely there is room for a report within Nature's pages on how observations on "The Book of Life" might best be conducted?

But consider as well: there is an article by Francis Galton on the genetics of criminality; an article on the chemistry of cremation; a review of a work of geometry by Charles Ludwige Dodgson and his construction of an algorithm for finding the day of the week for any given date; reports on the physics of surface tension by Agnes Pockets, a German woman who had not been allowed to attend university and used her kitchen as a laboratory; and "The Remarkable Discovery of a Murder in Bermuda" (of a man who had killed his wife, weighted her corpse, and deposited it in the ocean, calculating "truly enough that the fish would very soon destroy all means of identification; but it never entered into his head that as they did their ravages, combined with the process of decomposition, would set free the matter which was to write the traces of his crime on the surface of the water"). I rest my case :-) Sherlock Holmes himself subscribed to Nature, and announced the arrival of the science of deduction within its pages! The readers of A Study in Scarlet might themselves have made such a comparative observation, underscoring -- between the lines -- a strong indication of Holmes's membership within the scientific community, broadly understood. And, for fun, two more examples of the congeniality of Nature's topics in this time period and the Sherlock Holmes stories: 1) the first is editor Norman Lockyear's stamp of approval for Jules Verne: "For in the author we have a science teacher of a new kind. He has forsaken the beaten track, bien entendu; but acknowledging in him a travelled Frenchman with a keen eye and vivid imagination--and no slight knowledge of the elements of science -- we do not see how he could have more usefully employed his talents." and

2) A rhapsody on the introduction of the Remington Typewriter: "The principal question which this beautiful and ingenious little instrument suggests to our minds is, whether it would not be better for every one of us to learn the Morse telegraph language, and employ it for writing upon all occasions instead of the cumbrous letters now in vogue." (Oh, and it was here that William Gladstone published his argument that Homer was colour-blind, which apparently excited much heated discussion!) [If you're curious about the question of color identification (and how blue and green figure into this in particular) here's a good place to start (in today's world): "The way you see colour depends on what language you speak." . . . And, guess what, I haven't even had time to consider the specifics of Watson's remarks! I am a slave of the digression . . .

...................................................... *Levi Stahl and Stacey Shintani, eds., U of Chicago Pr, 2019

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