#meat wrapper

[fat-packer]

Better get a pic for tummy Tuesday before it turns into another tumultuous Tuesday

[marmotsomsierost]

As per usual, i run out of wrappers before filling. As not per usual, i have neither wonton wrappers nor rice paper in the house. Not even frozen. (Not like rapid defrosting wonton wrappers was anything other than a disaster last time, but ssh.) What do??

Siu mai with dubliner cheese and hatch corn tortilla quesadilla.

[tfshouldidohere]

Me vs storebought lumpia

[edible-words]

Turtles are bundles of rich meat in a hard wrapper, wanting only a tool to be unshelled.

"Plagues Upon the Earth: Disease and the Course of Human History" - Kyle Harper

[kylaroberts]

Wraps and Rolls - Fresh Spring Rolls With Thai Dipping Sauce According to science, shrimp is a healthy, low-fat, high-protein alternative to meat that doesn't raise cholesterol.

[worlds-we-write]

The Weight of It All

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader

summary: You’ve been hiding your sickness—and the truth—from Joel for weeks. But when a pregnancy test confirms your fears, the weight of it becomes too much to bear. Telling him risks reopening old wounds… but keeping it secret might break you both.

WC: 3.8K

tags: Age gap (60s Joel x 30s reader), pregnancy reveal, anxiety, crying, panic, mentions of past child loss (Sarah), emotional vulnerability, soft Joel, comfort, domestic tenderness, happy ending

My Masterlist

You’ve been sick for days. Maybe longer.

It started as something small—dull headaches, a little nausea in the mornings, that tight ache behind your ribs when you stood too fast. Nothing worth bringing up. Not with Joel. Not when he already worries too much.

You’d blamed it on stress. On the cold. On whatever dried meat Maria had handed you from the trade post. But it hasn’t gone away. It’s gotten worse.

Today, it hits harder than usual. Your stomach twists before your eyes even open. You lie in bed, curled on your side, one hand pressed to your mouth, breathing shallowly through your nose.

Joel’s already up. You hear him in the kitchen—footsteps creaking across the floorboards, the soft clink of silverware, the low grumble of the stove catching. You try to move, but the moment you sit up, your body rebels.

You make it to the bathroom just in time.

You vomit hard, clutching the edge of the sink like it might keep you tethered. Cold sweat beads on your neck, your spine prickling with heat and nausea and panic.

It’s not the first time this week.

And still, you haven’t told him.

By the time you pull yourself together, Joel’s voice is already calling down the hallway.

“Breakfast’s ready. You up?”

You splash water on your face and don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, your lips chapped. You stare at yourself a moment too long.

Then you step into the hallway like nothing’s wrong.

He doesn’t question you.

He never does at first.

Joel’s at the stove, dividing up the food onto two plates. It’s not much—just scrambled eggs and a toasted slice of bread—but he’s humming under his breath like he’s proud of it. You try to sit down without making a face. The smell turns your stomach.

“Didn’t hear you get up,” he says, voice low and easy. “Sleep okay?”

You nod. Lie.

He sets the plate in front of you. You force yourself to eat a few bites, chewing carefully, swallowing around the nausea.

“You sure you’re not gettin’ sick?” he asks after a while, studying you. “You’ve been lookin’ a little… off.”

You shake your head too quickly. “No, just tired. Stomach’s been weird. Probably a bug or something.”

He doesn’t push. Just narrows his eyes, then reaches over to squeeze your thigh under the table. A quiet gesture. Comforting. You wish it didn’t make your chest ache.

You don’t talk much after that. Joel launches into something about a new gate they’re reinforcing on the east wall, and you nod along, trying not to gag every time you lift your fork. You excuse yourself early and claim a headache. He offers to make tea. You say no.

By the time you crawl back into bed, you’re already crying.

The test isn’t something you went looking for. Not really.

It’s tucked in the back of your dresser, hidden beneath a pair of old gloves and a cracked mirror you meant to throw away. You remember Maria handing it to you months ago, half-joking—“Just in case.” You’d laughed then. Said something sarcastic. Stuffed it in the drawer and forgot.

But you find it now.

Hands shaking.

Heart pounding.

You stare at the little plastic thing like it’s a weapon.

You haven’t had your period in… shit. You count on your fingers. At least two months. Maybe more. You try to remember when the last time was and come up blank. Just nausea and headaches and crying over stupid things like burnt toast and Joel leaving his damn flannel on the floor again.

You sit on the edge of the bed and peel the wrapper back slowly.

The directions are smeared but readable. You follow them. You take the test.

You wait.

Two minutes feels like an hour.

You pace the room, bare feet cold against the floor, every breath too shallow, too loud. You’re not ready for this. You can’t be. You’ve been careful. Joel’s older. You thought…

You glance at the stick.

Two pink lines.

Clear as day.

No denying it. No maybes. No confusion.

You’re pregnant.

You sink to the floor and cry so hard your throat burns.

It’s not that you don’t want a baby.

It’s that you don’t know how to have one. Not here. Not in this world. And not with Joel, not after everything he’s been through. After everything he’s lost.

You think about Sarah. The photo he keeps in his coat pocket. The way he still gets quiet when kids are nearby. The way he looks at you sometimes—like he’s waiting for you to vanish, too.

He hasn’t said her name in months.

But you see it in his eyes.

You press your hands to your stomach. Try to imagine what’s inside. Try to make it feel real.

And it does.

Terrifyingly real.

But you don’t tell him.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the week after.

You keep pretending.

Keep hiding.

Keep waking up sick and saying it’s nothing.

Because you love him too much to ruin this.

And you’re afraid—so afraid—that this will be the thing that finally breaks him.

You don’t remember when it stopped being something you could ignore.

Maybe it was when your nausea turned into full-blown vomiting every other morning. Maybe it was the way your body started to ache differently—heavier, tender in places it hadn’t been before. Or maybe it was the way Joel kept watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You try to keep up the act. Try to smile when he brushes your hair behind your ear. Try to laugh when he mutters something sarcastic about Jackson politics or how damn cold it still is. You sit with him by the fire at night, listening to the quiet crackle of the wood, letting him rest his hand on your thigh like nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

You’ve got a secret growing inside you. One you didn’t ask for. One you still don’t know how to feel about.

And it’s eating you alive.

You start waking up before Joel does, slipping quietly out of bed to vomit or dry heave into the toilet, chewing your lip to keep from crying out. You brush your teeth in silence. Splash cold water on your face. Sit on the edge of the tub until the spinning stops.

By the time he’s awake, you’re already wrapped in a blanket on the couch, pretending to read a book you haven’t turned the page on in three days.

“You sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’?” Joel asks again that morning, a mug of tea in his hand instead of coffee. “You’ve been… quiet.”

“I’m just tired.”

He gives you a look.

You try to change the subject. “What time you heading out with Tommy today?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just hands you the mug. It’s chamomile. Your favorite. He’s trying. It makes your heart ache.

“I could stay,” he says slowly, sitting down beside you. “Ain’t nothin’ urgent. We were just gonna check the perimeter out past the ridge.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “I’m fine. Go.”

His jaw tightens a little. Not in frustration—more like… uncertainty. Like he doesn’t quite believe you but doesn’t know how to press without making things worse.

He kisses your forehead before he leaves.

You cry as soon as the door shuts.

You wander out later, needing air, even though the snow’s still packed in frozen ridges along the path outside the cabin. The sky is overcast, the wind sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You wrap Joel’s flannel tighter around you—he left it behind again this morning—and follow the half-trodden trail into the woods behind the cabin.

No one follows.

No one knows.

You find the edge of the treeline, the big flat rock you sometimes sit on in warmer months. You stand there now, breath puffing out in clouds, staring down at your gloved hands like they might hold an answer.

You fish the test out of your coat pocket.

You’ve been carrying it with you. You don’t know why.

Two pink lines, clear as ever.

You could throw it into the snow. You think about it—feel the urge in your fingers, the burst of anger that’s starting to rise like bile. You want to throw it, scream, crush it beneath your boot, pretend this isn’t happening.

But you don’t.

You sit.

And you hold it.

And you cry again.

That night, Joel makes soup. He tries not to burn it this time. You sit at the table and pretend to eat, smiling when he cracks a joke about the carrots being too soft. You’re exhausted, not just physically but from the weight of pretending.

“Was Maria askin’ about you today?” Joel says casually, handing you a piece of crusty bread. “Said she hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“Just been tired.”

“She said you should stop by.”

“I will.”

You won’t.

Joel leans back in his chair, watching you. “You know you can tell me if somethin’s wrong, right?”

You freeze.

He says it so gently, it almost breaks you. No suspicion in his voice, just quiet concern. The kind he only shows when he thinks you’re about to run—or when he is.

You want to tell him. You do.

But fear clamps down hard on your throat.

What if he looks at you and sees a mistake?

What if he looks at you and sees Sarah?

What if this is the thing that makes him leave?

You force a smile. “I know.”

Joel looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

He just reaches for your hand across the table and holds it in his calloused palm.

And you grip it like it’s the only solid thing keeping you from unraveling.

-

The nightmares come next.

You dream of blood. Of silence. Of holding something small and helpless and watching it disappear. You wake up gasping, clutching your stomach. Joel stirs beside you but doesn’t wake, and you’re glad. You don’t want him to see you like this.

You start wearing looser clothes. You start avoiding the mirror. You start skipping dinner.

Joel notices. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.

“Did I do somethin’?” he asks one night, voice quiet against your shoulder.

You’re in bed, turned away from him, pretending to be asleep. His fingers brush your arm.

“You’ve been distant.”

You say nothing. Your throat tightens.

“I ain’t mad,” he adds. “Just worried.”

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“I love you, y’know,” Joel murmurs. “Even when you shut down like this.”

That’s the moment your heart breaks.

Because you realize what you’re doing isn’t fair. Not to him. Not to yourself. Not to the tiny life you’re carrying inside you.

But you’re still not ready.

Not yet.

You nod into the pillow, blinking tears onto the fabric.

“Love you too.”

A week passes.

Maybe more.

You lose track of time, counting your life in nausea and guilt and half-eaten meals. Joel never says it out loud, but you can see it in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

You think about telling him every night.

You rehearse the words. I’m pregnant. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m scared.

But when you open your mouth, nothing comes.

Until finally… it does.

You don’t plan to tell him that night.

It’s the same as every other evening lately. Joel gets back late from patrol, shedding his coat and boots at the door with a tired grunt. You’re already in the kitchen, stirring soup that smells better than it tastes. You’re still too nauseous to eat more than a few bites, but you pretend for his sake.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just waiting.

The table is quiet as you both eat. Joel hums under his breath between spoonfuls, something familiar—an old Johnny Cash tune, maybe. He thanks you like always. Tells you it’s good even though it’s barely seasoned.

After dinner, he offers to wash up, and you let him. Your hands won’t stop shaking anyway.

You find him in bed later, shirtless and reading something he borrowed from Tommy—a survival manual someone dug up from the library. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just shifts a little to make room for you under the quilt, reaching out to rest a warm hand on your hip when you slide in beside him.

You lie there stiffly.

Heart pounding.

Stomach twisting.

“You’re awful quiet,” he murmurs after a while, voice rough from sleep already creeping in.

You swallow. “Just tired.”

“Mm.” He turns slightly, fingers idly stroking the hem of your shirt. “You been sayin’ that a lot lately.”

You tense.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “Yeah.”

Joel doesn’t push. Not right away. He just keeps tracing slow circles on your skin, quiet and patient, like he’s waiting for something you’re not sure you know how to give.

And then—

“Been thinkin’…” he says slowly. “Maybe you oughta see that doctor Maria keeps fussin’ about. Just in case.”

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

Joel rolls onto his side to face you, propping himself up on one elbow. His brow furrows, and the concern there nearly guts you.

“You’ve been sick almost every damn day,” he says gently. “You ain’t eatin’. You’re pale. You cry at soup commercials.”

You bark a laugh that dissolves into a sob before you can stop it.

Joel’s expression shifts. Alarmed now. He sits up fully, cupping your face in both hands. “Hey—hey. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, curling into yourself. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What—? Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

And finally—finally—you say it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not shocked. Not gasped or cursed.

Just… silence.

You feel him go still, like every muscle has locked up at once. His hands fall from your face.

You don’t look at him.

“I found the test a couple weeks ago,” you say, words tumbling now, rushed and raw. “I thought it was a stomach bug, or something I ate, but then it didn’t stop. And I remembered Maria gave me that test a while back and I just—fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, Joel. I didn’t mean to do this to you.”

“To me?”

Your breath catches.

Joel’s voice is low. Barely above a whisper. You finally glance at him.

He looks shell-shocked. Not angry. Not even upset. Just… wrecked. His eyes are wide, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep something inside from breaking loose.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “After everything. After Sarah. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the blanket bunched around his waist, like it might offer an explanation he can’t find in your words.

“I thought you’d leave,” you admit softly. “Or worse—I thought you’d stay, but you’d hate me for it.”

Joel blinks slowly. “You really think that little of me?”

“No.” You wipe your eyes. “No, I just—I know what this means for you. I know what it could bring back.”

Joel’s breath hitches. He leans back against the headboard, one hand dragging over his face. The silence stretches between you like a rope pulled taut.

“I ain’t mad,” he says finally.

You flinch.

“I ain’t,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Just… I need a second.”

You nod. Curl your knees to your chest. You try not to cry again, but your chest won’t stop heaving, your hands won’t stop trembling.

Joel stays where he is for a long time. Not speaking. Not touching you.

But he doesn’t leave.

And somehow, that’s what breaks you the most.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe twenty.

Then Joel shifts.

He reaches for you slowly, hesitantly, and when you don’t pull away, he pulls you into his arms.

You bury your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart.

He holds you through all of it. Lets you sob until your voice goes hoarse, rubbing your back and whispering nothing-words you barely register.

When you finally quiet, he kisses the top of your head.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, not angry. Just aching.

“I was scared.”

“I know.” He sighs against your temple. “So was I.”

You blink. “You?”

Joel nods, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet, rimmed with red.

“I knew somethin’ was off. Knew it wasn’t just the weather or the food. I kept thinkin’ about what it could be, and I… I think I knew. I just didn’t wanna be the one to say it.”

“Why?”

He swallows hard. “Because if I said it, it’d be real. And if it’s real, it can be lost.”

Your breath catches.

He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“But I’m not walkin’ away,” he says, voice rough but certain. “Not from you. Not from this.”

You close your eyes.

“Joel—”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, whisper soft. “But I want to try. If you want this… I want it too.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I do. I really do.”

He pulls you into his chest again and kisses your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And this time, you believe him.

You wake to the sound of rain tapping against the window.

It’s still dark, the kind of blue-black quiet that only settles in just before dawn. Joel’s arm is wrapped around your middle, his chest pressed warm and steady to your back, one hand splayed low over your stomach like he already knows what’s growing there.

Maybe he does.

He hasn’t moved all night.

You lie still for a while, not quite ready to break the spell. The room is quiet, the fire low in the hearth, the storm outside soft but persistent. You can hear his breathing behind you—slow, even, calmer than you’ve heard it in days.

It’s the first time you’ve really slept in weeks. The first time you haven’t woken up sick with dread curling through your spine. There’s fear, still. Of course there is. But it’s quieter now. Outweighed by something else.

Something that feels a little like hope.

Joel stirs not long after, mumbling sleep-drunk nonsense against your neck.

You hum softly, shifting to face him. His eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep. You expect him to look tense. Uncertain. But he doesn’t.

He looks soft.

His thumb brushes your hip. “Mornin’.”

“Hi,” you whisper.

His gaze drifts to your stomach, then back to your face. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Better.”

He studies you a beat longer. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. Still tired. A little queasy. But… it’s different now.”

Joel’s fingers flex against your side. “Yeah. It is.”

There’s a quiet pause. Neither of you says it, but it’s there in the air between you. Real. Alive.

“I kept thinkin’ about what I’d say,” you admit quietly. “When I finally told you.”

Joel smiles faintly. “What’d you come up with?”

You shrug. “I didn’t think I’d get that far.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering at your cheek.

“You were right to be scared,” he says. “I was scared, too.”

You nod.

“But I want this,” he adds. “I want you. I want this baby.”

You blink fast. “You sure?”

“Sweetheart.” His hand moves back to your belly, resting there like it belongs. “I ain’t been sure about much in my life, but this?” He leans in, voice low and raspy. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Your eyes sting again.

He kisses you softly—slow, lingering, like he’s not in a rush anymore. And for once, neither are you.

Later, when the sky lightens and the rain slows, Joel gets up and pads to the fire to stoke it back to life. You sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his flannels, watching him move around the cabin like he’s already settled into this new chapter.

He talks as he works.

“Might need to reinforce that back door soon. Wind keeps slippin’ through the cracks.”

“Mmhm.”

“And we’ll need more blankets. If you’re gonna get cold easier, can’t have you freezin’ all night.”

You smile, resting a hand on your stomach.

“Could build a new shelf for the pantry,” he adds, glancing at you. “Start settin’ aside things for winter. For… y’know.”

He gestures vaguely at your stomach, the faintest blush creeping into his cheeks.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“What?”

“You’re nesting.”

He frowns. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

Joel mutters under his breath, but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

He crosses the room a moment later and crouches in front of you, palms resting on your knees.

“I’m serious, though,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever we need. You just gotta tell me what’s goin’ on, alright?”

You nod.

“No more secrets,” you whisper.

“No more secrets,” he echoes.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to your thigh, then rests his forehead there for a long moment. When he looks up again, his eyes are glassy.

“You ever think about names?”

Your heart lurches.

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Well,” he says softly, “maybe we should.”

You stare at him.

“I know it’s early,” he continues. “But I keep thinkin’ about it. The kind of name we’d give. What kind of person they’ll be.”

You reach for his hand. “You really want this?”

“I already do,” he says.

You smile, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “What if it’s a girl?”

Joel swallows hard. “Then I guess I’ll have two reasons to keep this world safe.”

You press your forehead to his.

And you both sit there in the early morning quiet, breathing together, dreaming of something you never thought you’d have again.

A future.

That evening, Joel pulls you into his lap while the fire crackles, his hand absentminded on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles over the curve that isn’t there yet but will be.

He talks to the baby like he’s already met them.

Tells them how much he’s looking forward to teaching them to fish, to play guitar, to run without looking back. He jokes about how stubborn they’re probably gonna be, how it’s definitely your fault, and how he’s not gonna let them out of his sight until they’re at least twenty-five.

You laugh, and cry, and laugh again.

And when you fall asleep in his arms, it’s the first time in weeks that your dreams aren’t full of fear.

They’re full of names.

And tiny hands.

And sunlight.

tags: @lowrisemiller @pedrito-is-punk7 here ya go from a post a couple weeks ago

[nothingxxgood]

Recipe for Gyoza These Japanese pot stickers are a fun favorite! Little fried wrappers are filled with pork and veggies, and dipped into a tasty sauce. 1 egg, 1 tablespoon vegetable oil, 2 cups chopped cabbage, 1 package wonton wrappers, 1/4 cup soy sauce, 2 tablespoons rice vinegar, 1 tablespoon sesame oil, 1 clove garlic chopped, 1/4 cup chopped onion, 1/4 cup chopped carrot, 1/2 pound ground pork, 1/4 cup water

[undeadmagick]

Broke Boy Guide to Altar Offerings

Hey! Are you broke but still wanna offer something up to the gods? Don't worry! (So am i) So here's a guide of things that are either free, low cost or that you probably already own to slap onto those altars. Mind you: These are mainly modern offerings that I attribute to these different classification of gods. I'll likely update as time goes on with other classifications :)

General Offerings to Deities:

random flowers from outside

random sticks from outside

hand written letters/prayers

plushies of the animals they're connected to

raw/cooked meats as "sacrifices"

drawn symbols

Art/Creative Deities:

symbol painted bottle caps

pens/pencils/markers

old sketchbooks

stickers/prints

origami

comic books

figurines

Death Deities:

bones or meat from your meals

dirt from a dead plant

dying flowers

skull imagery

coins or other gifts for those passing

photo/belongings of your late loved ones

Familial/Household/Protector of Children Deities:

photobooth photos

jewelry gifted from family

baby teeth from your children

breast milk

old baby shoes

framed photo of family

cookies/bread

homecooked meals

Fire Deities:

birthday candles

charcoal discs

burnt herbs

alcohol

incense

tobacco

matchbox/lighter

Healing Deities:

your current medications

bandaids

water

skincare

vitamin gummies

spell jar in an empty pill bottle

Knowledge/Wisdom Deities:

old books & textbooks

pens/pencils

mini chess pieces

written down philosophical quotes

good test scores/report cards/degrees

Love/Lust Deities:

origami 3D hearts

chapsticks

unused makeup

love letters to deities

love letters about S/O or crush

current perfume/cologne

current lotions

apples

Nature Deities:

plants dedicated to them

herbal tea packets

feathers

milk

fruits/vegetables

spells using recycled materials (toilet paper rolls, etc.)

bread

acorns

Sea Deities:

beach sand

shells

sea water

tiny sea animal figurines

shared fish dinners

makeshift spell jar using a shell

Trickster Deities:

laffy taffy joke wrappers

cards against humanity packs

other comedy card games

[duckymonstah]

Thanksgiving Won Tons Wontons with a turkey, cranberry, and almond filling.

[venomvalley]

FESTIVAL FUN

sevika x fem!reader | 2.3k words

SUMMARY: You love celebrating Valentine's Day. On the other hand, Sevika hates it, but she goes along with your plans anyway—so why not show her some appreciation for her efforts? Yes, you have steamy sex in a photo booth.

TAGS: 18+ only! modern zaun, girlfriends being cute and in love, semi-public sex, oral (sev!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), scent kink if you squint

NOTES: HAPPY VALENTINES DAY BESTIES!!! barely got this out in time but i STILL DID IT!! this was based off a request that i tweaked to fit vday cause it was way too perfect

-> READ ON AO3

It's Valentine's Day, the most loving day of the year. The lower streets of Zaun gleam with gaudy pink and red neon lights, buildings bathed in streamers and ribbons—decorations put up by the local teenagers (that technically count as vandalism without the approval of the city). Coincidentally the only demographic truly excited for the holiday.

Well. Teenagers and you.

Sevika couldn't give a damn, but she loves you enough to let you drag her through the streets to soak up the atmosphere of the recently-renovated Lanes. A local festival came to the area two days ago in honor of the holiday—your true destination, but you can't resist a detour through the market to sniff out the best-looking goods. Heart-shaped sweetbread, heart-shaped cookies, noodle bowls topped with heart-shaped mystery meat. Food served in pink and red ceramic, heart-patterned wrapping paper, topped with pretty bows.

Midway through your apple tart, you glance over at her as she takes a seat beside you on the stoop of the shop's entrance. The crowd passes in a blur, laughing and yelling and celebrating the advent of the weekend. Grumpy as always, she schools her expression into something a bit more chipper (if you can call the awkward stretch of her lips chipper) when she catches your eye.

"I know what you're gonna say," you begin, nudging her with your shoulder as you unwrap more of your food. "I'm a little too old to be excited about shit like this."

She shrugs, head turning to survey the crowd. "As long as you like it, honey."

Sacrificing her own wants just to see you happy? Yeah, that's the purest form of love you can think of. The kind of love you expect from her—actions over words, meaningful in the most discreet of ways. Never possessed a flair for the dramatics for the entirety of your relationship, no extravagant gifts or public displays.

She loves from the shadows. A quiet, tender thing to behold.

You take another bite, the heat of spice-cinnamon prickling your tongue. "How sweet of you."

"I could be sweeter if we actually made it to the festival before nightfall."

"I wasn't aware we were on a schedule."

"Do you know who you're talking to?"

You pause for a moment, brows ticking up as you finish your last bite. "That's a good point, actually."

So after you throw away your wrapper, you set off for the festival with a relieved Sevika in tow, and you absolutely don't get distracted a single time. She definitely doesn't have to steer you back on track when you reach the cute display of Valentine's Day jewelry, or the expensive flower booth with bouquets imported from Piltover.

The festival grounds themselves adapt to the tightly-packed streets of Zaun, rides delegated to one main road, then food stalls on another, then local merchants lining a nearby intersection. A beautiful, lively sight to behold. Unbearably loud with the whirring of mechanisms and the screaming children. The air thickens with the smell of grease and fried food, churning your stomach as you pass through the crowd to check out the rides.

And then you spot it. A photo booth tucked into the corner, painted in streaky pink, two young girls stumbling out of it on your approach. It's a bulky thing made of metal, the door flimsy when you pop it open. You slot a few cogs into the machine, directly beneath a PAY HERE sign beside the entrance, and the inside hums to life with a white glow.

"What are you doing?" Sevika calls from a few feet away, hands outstretched in confusion.

You turn to her, stepping into the booth. "When was the last time we took pictures together?"

"Never."

"Exactly, so get your ass in here."

The space was already a tight fit before she squeezed herself inside, and now the both of you brush elbows as the screen in front of you mirrors the scene. A large reflective lens directly above it blinks a steady blue light.

"This is stupid," she grumbles, knocking into you when she crosses her arms.

"It's romantic."

"I'm already sweating."

"You'll live."

She turns to you with a furrow-browed pout just as a countdown begins on the screen. You jump to attention, smoothing down your shirt and fixing her bob of dark hair.

"Okay," you say, "let's do this."

5…

You lean into her and flash a toothy smile at the camera, arms curling around her waist.

4…

In the preview screen, she looks down at you with a wrinkled brow, refusing to move.

3…

"Smile, Sevika," you hiss through grit teeth, jostling her body with your own.

2…

A set of fingers suddenly dig into your side, wriggling at your most sensitive patch of skin—

1…

You collapse against her in a fit of laughter just as the shutter snaps in a beam of blinding white light, and you reach for her hand with a mirthy squeal.

She releases you after a moment, the space too tight for her to sidestep your irritated swat to her ass (a lot less punishing from your leftover giggles). "We paid money for these pictures, Sev! The first one's gonna be awful!"

"Isn't the whole point of this shit to have fun?" A roll of her eyes as she pulls you close yet again. "Relax."

The countdown begins once more, and a wandering hand cups the swell of your ass. You jolt, hips twisting to escape her reach, but the small space leaves you little room to maneuver.

"I swear to Janna, I'm gonna kill you—"

She cuts you off with a rough kiss pressed to your lips, chuckling against your mouth, an arm curling around your back to glue your chest to hers. The shutter of the camera paints the booth in bright light for a split second, and she pulls away with a smug grin. Grey eyes crinkled at the outer corners, sweat beading on the bridge of her nose, unbelievably proud of herself.

"You weren't kidding about the sweat, huh?" you ask, tone tinged with a teasing edge as you wipe a thumb down her nose.

The mirth fades from her face as her expression falls then morphs into a comically deep frown. "Not funny."

Her shenanigans continue through two more pictures, with you joining in. For the third, you bite the arm she throws over your shoulder, hard enough for her to recoil away. For the fourth, you're locked in a standing wrestling match that she, of course, wins.

With a metallic whine, the pictures slowly print out of a slot below the screen, which flashes with a cheesy thank you message surrounded by popping hearts. Each photo is filled with smiles—smug grins, gummy laughs, love stamped onto a laminated page. So much better than the stiff poses you tried to go for.

"So. Did I ruin it?" she asks, chin hooked over your shoulder, hand soft on your waist.

"Okay, I admit I was wrong." A thumb traces around the pink border. "I love them." You turn in her hold and pull her down for a soft, tender kiss. "Thank you."

Her lips twitch into a smile, then she pulls you closer as your arms curl around her neck. "You owe me."

"Do I?"

"Mhm," she hums against your jaw, nipping her teeth over your pulse. "We'll be here the rest of the night. No time to actually celebrate."

Her libido is nothing to scoff at, and it's been this way since you've known the woman. Not like you'd ever complain. At times, you probably beat her out (no, you definitely do. she's told you on multiple occasions that another round might actually kill her).

"This is the celebration."

"Not for me."

You roll your eyes, but arch your back into the hand currently unbuttoning your shirt. The air inside the booth blisters your skin, long-since thickened from shared body heat, and the removal of your clothing gives you little relief. She tugs up your bra then latches onto a flat nipple as you work to unclasp the toggles of her top. A difficult task given the wet heat of her mouth, tongue swirling around the hardening bud.

You trap a moan behind clenched-shut teeth and shove the shirt from her shoulders. Whisper, "Fuck—Sev—okay—" to redirect her attention away from your sensitive tits.

She pulls away with a soft pop then catches your lips with hers. Licks into your mouth as you press your bodies together, tacky with a sheen of sweat, skin soft and unbearably warm. She seeks to devour you, a pent-up need that she never even voiced finally rising to the surface. Your back clangs against the metal wall with a dull thud, and shaking hands make quick work of the buttons on your pants.

The first touch of her fingers against your pussy—thick and calloused and deliciously agile—leaves your jaw dropping, and she moves her kisses to trail along your thumping pulse. Circles a fingertip around the bud of your clit, and your knees would give out if not for the way you cling to her shoulders, arms tight over her back.

You know you have to be quick and quiet, and that pressure lingers in the back of your mind even as the heat in your gut begins to coil.

"Relax," she whispers, breath ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. "It's just us."

She knows you too well. Noticed the roadblock in your brain, felt the tension in your muscles when the thought first popped up, and she soothes it away with a few calming words and a grounding kiss.

Gods, how did you get so lucky?

Everything is heat. Broiling, visceral heat—between your legs, her slick cheek against yours, the muscled planes of her stomach that you smooth a palm over. She smells like sweat and smoke and something so Sevika that it makes you dizzy.

Staying quiet gets harder when she runs two fingers over the entrance of your pussy, noisy and wet, and she huffs a laugh against your cheek. Slides a slicked-up finger inside you, and you almost jump clear to the ceiling in celebration. Just what you needed, a thick, long solution to the emptiness, and you reach down to play with your clit.

"Another," you say, tilting your hips forward in a silent plea.

When she adds a second, it doesn't take long for you to cum, insides clenching tight and rhythmic around her, teeth a heavy bite on her shoulder to muffle your moans.

You pull away from each other when your body sags against the wall, both of you breathing heavy, bathed in a fresh sheen of sweat. (So much damn sweat.)

"Fuck, it's hot in here," you huff, barely taking the time to recover before you turn her around and press her against the wall.

"You'll live," she says with a grin, and yeah—you deserve that.

The space is small, but just large enough for you to fall to your knees without feeling cramped. You work on undoing the clasps of her pants before tugging them down her thick thighs, a task made harder by the wet slip of her skin. Out of nowhere, she fits her fingers between your teeth, musky with the taste of you, a string of slick connecting them that you immediately lap up.

You run your fingers down the curls of fur on her mound then tease your thumb over the hood of her puffy clit, spit pooling on your tongue as her fingertips tease the sheathe of your throat. Searing eye contact as you push her wrist away then dive into her pussy, so wet you can't help but moan, the sound muffled by her flesh.

Her hand presses to the back of your head, trapping you in place with a shaky exhale as you wriggle your tongue against the entrance of her pussy. You love eating her out. Can't get enough of her smell and taste, the way she clings to you all needy from overwhelm. Always so wet for you, slick enough to drown in.

Above everything, she makes you feel wanted. Pretty.

You flatten your tongue then lick over her clit, adjusting your rhythm to the subconscious rocking of her hips. With hands curled around the back of her thighs, you brace yourself, tugging her closer, the sudden clench of her cunt punching a whine from your chest.

She cums on your face with a sharp hiss, body curling toward your head, muscles twitching beneath your hands. Your shoulder aches from the sudden force of her grip, and then she's pushing you away with a heavy exhale. You suck in a lung-filling breath as she soothes a hand over yours, the lower half of your face soaked from nose to chin. Best part of eating her out, in your opinion.

"Shit," she says, eyes bleary and lidded, utterly spent after her orgasm. "I need a second."

You can't help but smile in triumph, reaching for your shirt on the floor to wipe your face with (that'll need an immediate wash when you get home). For a moment, you consider the consequences of walking around the Lanes smelling like a brothel, then remember that it's the Lanes—much worse smells permeate this part of the city than sex.

At her request, you help with her shirt, fingers a bit more shaky than expected. You smooth down each other's hair, fix your clothes, and after one final, long kiss, you're ready to leave.

With an awkward clear of your throat, you open the door and step out of the booth, glancing around the crowd to make sure nobody catches your eye. Luckily, everyone busies themselves with the festivities, too tunnel-visioned to take note of their surroundings. Thank Janna. You might collapse and die of humiliation if a family of four stood right outside, subject to the suspicious rocking of the booth.

Or maybe you're a bit paranoid about being caught doing something naughty.

But Sevika doesn't give a shit. She steps up beside you with a sniffle and begins fanning her shirt with a hand. Says, "Hot as hell in there," before moving along.

All you can do is follow in awestruck adoration.

Ah, how you love the Day of Love.

[unintentionalseductress]

I don't know how your "thirsty weekends" works, but all I'm thinking about now is #16- glory hole with sylus.

That's exactly how Thirsty Weekends works! You pick a prompt and a character and inbox me!

And I had so much fun writing this! Hope you kinky kittens like reading it!

Glory hole

--------

There was a week left for your wedding with Sylus and you decided to surprise your fiance with something you knew would please him immensely; a private glory hole, featuring you.

With the help of a friend, you'd gotten naked and slipped into a narrow box with holes on opposite sides, one for your pussy, another for your mouth, and two on the sides so that your tits could be groped. A sign had been posted over the side of the box saying 'use me'. You waited on your hands and knees in anticipation, growing wetter by the second knowing he'd be home any minute.

Your core tightens when you hear the click of the door, then your grin falters as you hear other people's voices, your heart leaping into your chest when you recognize them. A mix of men, all of Sylus's acquaintances; Rafayel, Xavier, and Zayne. Why were they here?

"Why is there a box in the middle of your living room? Did you get a pet?" Rafayel's voice fills the room and you panic, unsure what to do.

"It says 'use me' on the side of the box." Zayne's footsteps can be heard approaching the box and your eyes widen as you try to think what to do.

"Sylus you didn't plan something did you? Like some sort of final wild party before getting hitched?" You hear Xavier ask in disbelief. Your eyes are glued to the limited view from the holes in the side of the box and you recognize Sylus's expensive shoes as he approaches, then dips a hand in through the side, finding your breast and squeezing.

"It appears it's a final present before I say goodbye to my bachelorhood gentleman," Sylus says smoothly as he withdraws his hand and you feel your senses float out of your body, leaving you weak. What was going to happen now?

"Enjoy yourselves."

Before you can comprehend what's happening a cock is shoved into the hole near your mouth. It was a nice organ, but you hesitate, then hear the voices outside. "Nothing's happening Sylus!"

You weigh your options. You could end this right now and have everyone see you like this. But also...something about the anonymity appealed to you. You give a tentative lick to the cock before taking it into your mouth. The action causes the person to let out a groan and the group jeers. "Is the whore in the box good Rafayel?"

You let out a squeak of surprise as hands come in from both sides and roughly grab your boobs, squeezing and pulling at your nipples. Stuck and unable to turn in the narrow space, you're helpless to do anything except take it. You moan against the meat in your mouth as another hand enters the back hole, a finger tracing your folds before it pushes into your cunt, fingering you from behind.

The sudden assault on your body brought a powerful turn on that your weren't expecting. They had no idea who was in here and the thought of being used was filling your brain with a haze of sexual need. Rafayel suddenly withdraws and another cock, longer and thicker this time, enters the glory hole. You suck it without hesitation and the men whistle.

"Damn Zayne, the way your eyes rolled I thought she sucked the soul from your body!"

You moan and whine and whimper as they squeeze and abuse every inch of your body that they could reach through the holes then gasp as you hear Sylus ask, "Who wants the honor of fucking her first?"

You hear condom wrappers being ripped open and before you could think, a cock starts to penetrate you from behind, splitting you open around it's covered girth. You let out a needy groan and the men laugh.

"Sounds like she's having a good time!" You wished you could rub your clit as you were getting fucked but the box was too narrow for you to reach so you settle for having your nipples tweaked and pulled. Another cock enters the glory hole and you obediently take it into your mouth, bobbing your head and letting your pussy be abused to their liking. You can feel whoever is using you getting close to their climax, then feel their cock twitch and shoot it's load, caught by the condom before it's withdrawn from your slick depths.

You barely had time to recover when another cock pushes in, and you feel your senses heighten because you recognize this one; it's unmistakably Sylus, and his cock adjusts inside you to graze against your g spot with each stroke. Your voice now becomes a pathetic string of moans as he gets your sweet spot each time. In your sensitized state, you cum immediately, a loud keening sound ripping from your throat and echoing through the box as you climax. There's cheering for Sylus as he withdraws.

You take two more cocks after this, and service everyone for a few more rounds before all the men decide they've had their fill. With sighs of satisfaction, they leave, thanking Sylus for the evening's entertainment and wishing his good luck with his wedding.

You lay there, covered in sweat, your pussy sloppy from being used so many times, wondering if you could somehow escape out of the box now that everyone had left, then yelp in surprise as the panel on the side is lifted up, and Sylus smirks down at you. Your face turns red as he assesses you before slowly lifting you out of your confines, settling down on the sofa with you on his lap.

"Did you have fun sweetie?" he asks, chuckling as you hide your face in his neck.

"You knew it was me?"

"Of course."

"Why didn't you stop it then?"

"Did you not like it?"

"I...I did..."

"Then what's the problem?" Sylus presses a kiss to your head. "My sweet bride, do you think I was unaware of your fantasy to be used as a glory hole? I thought it would be best for you to get it out of your system before you officially become my wife. And you just made it so easy tonight."

He laughs heartily as you punch his arm, your face turning a brilliant shade of crimson before kissing you senseless.

---

I am horny and need an immediate gangbang from all of them now *hides face*

[technocite]

monsterframe 1999. everyone's having a bad time. one of the symptoms is craving raw meat, infested materials, or two-week old hamburger wrappers

eleanor's the only one who is chill when transformed

[brklynbxby]

closed starter for @mysteriousxgirls

Medellín, 7:03 a.m.

The gates slid open with a mechanical groan, like they hated letting anyone go. Diego stepped through them without looking back, clutching a small plastic bag that held five years of state-issued life: a worn Bible, a couple of letters, and a photo of Liyana so creased it had white veins spiderwebbing across her smile. He wore what the prison gave him — a plain grey shirt that clung awkwardly to shoulders that had grown broader with time, khaki trousers stiff at the seams, and slip-on shoes that felt like cardboard under his feet. Over it all, a cheap navy hoodie hung off his frame, the zipper sticking halfway up. It wasn’t cold, but he kept it on anyway. It felt like armour, flimsy as it was. He was twenty-four when they took him in — caught with two kilos in the backseat of a borrowed car, set up to carry the weight for someone higher on the ladder. He’d known better. He just hadn’t been given a choice. Or maybe he had, and he picked wrong. Prison was what people said it was: cold, loud, brutal in the quiet moments. Fights over nothing, guards who didn’t give a damn, food that tasted like wet cardboard and regret. Bland oatmeal for breakfast, beans and rice on repeat, sometimes a mystery meat that smelled like burnt rubber. He never asked what it was. You learned not to.

Now he stood outside, breathing air that didn’t smell like bleach or desperation. The sun felt surreal on his face. A battered red pickup rolled up to the curb, horn tapping twice. Mateo. A friend from school, before everything. They hadn’t talked in years, but Diego had called him last month — just to see if anyone from his past still picked up. A lot didn’t but Mateo did. “Damn,” Mateo said, leaning over to push the passenger door open. “You look older.” Diego smirked faintly, sliding in. “Fuck, I feel older.” As they pulled onto the main road, Mateo glanced at him. “So what’s the move, hombre? You want a beer or a burger?” “A burger,” Diego said without hesitation. “Biggest one they’ve got. And fries. Real fries. Not that half-cooked cafeteria shit. You know they served this one thing, they said it was chicken, but it was grey. Grey, man.” Mateo laughed, shaking his head. “Welcome back to the real world. You’re getting a double with bacon and cheese.”

They hit a drive-thru just outside the city. As Mateo ordered, Diego pulled out his phone — cheap, secondhand, barely holding charge as the red bar kept reminding him. He stared at Liyana’s number. A picture of them still as the contact photo. A picture back when life was simpler. A date they went on at a milkshake shop, they must’ve been around 18 years old. His thumb hovered over the screen before he pressed call. It rang. Once. Twice. Straight to voicemail. He stared at the screen for a second, then tucked the phone into the pocket of his khaki trousers. Mateo didn’t ask — just handed him the burger. “Liyana?” Diego nodded once. “She still in the city?” He asked again. “I think so?” Diego announced before he peeled the wrapper back slowly. The two had been together since high school. “She wrote me letters. Visited. Then one day she said she couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t keep her life on hold for me. I don’t blame her, man. She deserves the fucking world and she was always way more than just my girl. But I told her — when I got out, I’d find her. I’d make it right.” He took a bite, chewing slowly, like the flavour hurt. “I lost her once. That’s on me. But I’m not losing her again.” Mateo looked over at him for a long second, the truck humming under them. “You sure that’s a door that’s still open?” Diego didn’t answer right away. He just looked out the window as the city came into view, bright and busy and full of things he hadn’t touched in five years. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’m knocking until my fingers bleed.”

[trippinsorrows]

matters of the heart

authors note: hi, friends! this one here is courtesy of the lovely @romanreignsbae who approached me with this concept a couple of weeks ago. we worked out a lot of the kinks, but i've made some....changes and additions to switch things up a bit. 😅

warnings: smut (oral, penetrative, different positions, etc), age gap (10 years), toxic (?) dynamics, and slight, blink and you'll miss it, angst.

words: 7k

“Shit!”

Her palms grip the cool metal of the railing, freshly filled acrylics lightly scraping and pressing into the banister that’s the only thing keeping this moment of pleasure from a scene of horror. That and the relentless grip he has on the meat of her hips, big hands digging into her supple skin the same way his tongue invades the most sacred part of her.

Forehead against that same cool metal, Solana closes her eyes and bites down to keep from screaming. To keep the entire posh neighborhood that is her view from this angle knowing just what’s taking place. Not that he’d care. No, she wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what he wanted. A spectacle, an X rated scene to be made. For the entire city, his city, to see, to hear, to know.

A low groan sits in the back of her throat, begging and dying to be released when he drags his tongue up the entire length of her soaking cunt. His hand moves to her ass cheeks, spreading them apart, granting him unobstructed access. 

“Fuck,” she curses, that grip on the railing tightening with each lethal lick of that dangerous tongue of his. The sounds of the bustling city before him, tall buildings lit up, filled with workers doing overtime, streets that are barren sans the few bodies walking and praying to make it home safely. It’s a beautiful view but one she’s gotten so used to seeing that the initial razzle dazzle of it all faded a long time ago. Plus, it’s hard to focus on the sight before her with the man behind her, on his knees, eating her out like his life depends on it. 

She should have known, should have known the minute she stepped on his massive balcony to get some air that he’d have her this way, bent over, face buried in her pussy. The same way she knows when he’s finally had his fill—whenever that is—he’ll have that dick buried inside her next. 

Her cunt flutters at the thought. 

Something that doesn't miss him. Unsurprising. Not much does. 

Hence why his deep voice vibrates, chuckling before another insertion, that of his thick finger, dragging out that groan and moan from Solana. Followed by another finger. Prep. He’s preparing her to take him, the way he usually does, because despite months of fucking, it seems like every time Solana goes to tackle that part, there’s a bit of an adjustment. His dick is so unforgiving, always needing to stretch her out like it’s the first time every time.

And, they are well past the first time. 

The sounds of him slurping and sucking on her as if the space between her legs holds to key to all of life’s mysteries does little to help the seldom self-control she has regarding her volume. Again, though, it feels like that’s what he wants. 

He wants her to come undone. Wants her to lose control. It’s like he gets off on it. 

Because he does.

“Roman, please…” She begs, the moan stretching the same way his thick fingers stretched and fuck her tight hole. “Dios…” More words of Spanish tumble out of her mouth at the same time he groans under her, pulling her closer, like the space between her cunt and his face isn’t already nonexistent. He’s insatiable. 

He keeps her that way for God knows how long, bent over the railing of his balcony, on his knees, eating her out until she feels her knees only have one more buckle in them before giving out entirely. 

But, the minute he moves from off his knees to his feet, her forehead laying on her forearm, she tries to steady herself from the orgasm—or two—that he just gave her. That's when she hears it. The familiar sound of the foil wrapper being ripped open, latex slid on that length that has to be dripping cum on the porcelain tiles. 

Her hand grips the railing for the thousandth time as he begins to slide himself inside of her slippery, dripping walls. 

“Fuck,” his deep voice groans behind her, hands on her hips helping steer and guide him. “Feels fucking amazing every time…”

Shared sentiments.

As uncomfortable as the stretch can be, it’s always outweighed by the pleasure that fills her, at the way he fills her. Overwhelming and all consuming. The best sort of reprieve from even the most stressful of days, and it’s been a stressful day. 

Hence why when her phone lit up with a text from him, she wasted not a second nor a minute before responding with an immediate, obvious answer. The way she was barely inside his penthouse when he had her slammed up against the closest wall, mouth on her, clothes already being ripped off.

That was hours ago.

She’s not sure what time it is now. Just that it’s late as fuck, and she’s most likely spending the night.

Again, wouldn’t be the first time. 

Roman rocks into her, behind her, thrusting into her with a need, dick digging deep into her. It’s his turn to say something in a language he can’t understand but something that is universally understood. Pleasure. He feels pleasure in this moment. Same as her. 

His hand fisted in her hair as he slams his hips into hers, repeatedly, again and again, knocking into her g-spot, eliciting delicious, carnal moans. Silence and volume be damned. It’s nearly impossible to stay quiet with him fucking her like he is. 

And, that silence is clearly not what he’s wanting anyway. 

“Stop trying to suppress it,” he groans, mouth near her ear, biting down gently on the lobe. “I want to hear you. Tell me how good it feels.”

Fuck. She’s not sure there’s enough words in the English language to describe how good it is, how amazing it feels. All of it. 

Roman fucks her into yet another orgasm, one that once again has her knees buckling, and her body operating off of fumes from the reserves.

Yet, that doesn’t stop him. 

Of course not. 

He carries her over to the bed, dropping her down on her stomach, the jiggle and motion of her ass earning yet another slap and jiggle courtesy of that big hand of his. Solana fists the sheets at the same time the bed dips under the weight of him joining her. Pushing her frizzed, fucked out hair out of her face, she catches just in time the dangerous sight of him sitting up against the headboard, stroking that still erect, long, thick dick of his that’s coated in her cream.

His eyes lock onto hers, tone even, gesturing to his lap. “Ride me.”

Damn.

She doesn’t need to be told twice. Fatigue be damn, the desire to have him inside of her outweighs logic, as it does most times and in most scenarios involving him. 

Solana quickly moves up to her knees, climbing onto his laps and lowering herself down onto his length, both of them moaning almost in tandem as she uses his strong, solid chest to steady her as she moves atop him.

Head thrown back, mouth parted, she works herself, back and forth, sliding along his dick, his hands moving up her stomach, fisting her heavy breast.

“Fuck,” he curses, thumb ghosting over her hardened nipples. “Just like that.”

His praise does more to her than what makes sense, not that any of it does. Hence why Solana continues to do as she’s done for the past few months.

Enjoy the ride. 

—-------

The next morning, Solana wakes up to an empty bed and the curtains shut, bathing the room in darkness sans the light that peeps through underneath the dark drapery. Rubbing her blinking eyes, she rolls onto her back and aimlessly reaches for her phone on the nightstand.

7:15am blinks back, reminding her that she needs to get her ass up and now, because while she doesn’t have to be at the hospital today until late afternoon, she does work in two hours, and getting home, getting settled, and everything else, will take some time. 

So, the sooner she’s out of here, the better.

Climbing out of bed, she yawns, stretching her sore limbs while walking across the room to grab her bag. She refuses to call it what it is. Her sneaky link bag. That…that’s just too much. It also doesn’t feel like what this is. Whatever this is, anyway.

At one point, she questioned it. She questioned it a lot, because what would make the self-proclaimed king of Gotham pick her, of all people, that night.

It was a simple thing. A night of clubbing and dancing away all her problems with Hannah, her best friend since moving to Gotham a few years back for school. More importantly, the celebration of a long overdue breakup.

Solana just wanted to have fun. Live a little. She was open to a one night stand. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was the man with whom she ended up leaving with that night.

Roman Reigns. 

The Tribal Chief. The Capo. The Head of the Table. God himself, to some people.

One of the first things she learned when arriving in the grand—not so grand—city of Gotham, that everything the light both touched and didn’t touch belonged to him. The leader of two of the biggest crime syndicates in the world, he ran the city with an iron fist. Nothing happened without his knowing or his approval. An open sort of deal where he didn’t need to hide his hands, the Bloodline and Cosa Nostra influence and presence far too long and deep for that. They were everywhere, and they all connected to him.

Roman was the exact type of danger Solana’s family back home in Mexico warned her about. The kind of “darkness” her mother and abuela feared would consume her when she announced she’d decided to attend Gotham university, located in the city of Gotham. A choice that made all the sense at the time as, despite being the home base for open crime, GU boasts one of the best pre-med and medical schools in the country.

Solana promised she’d be careful, determined to fulfill a lifelong dream of becoming a doctor, of being more than what she grew up seeing. A lot of love, so much love, but also a lot of struggle and poverty. She wasn’t going to let that be her story as well.

Which is why when Roman sent one of his men to bring her to where he sat, perched up nicely and kingly in the VIP section, clearly intent on finding a woman to bring home, that should have been all she needed. 

She should have said no. Politely declined. Grabbed Hannah’s hand and led them the hell out of the lion’s den. But, that wasn’t what happened. She didn’t reject the offer. She simply double checked that she was still sharing her location with Hannah and followed the flustered redhead up to his section.

Stood in front of him as he took in her, the same way she took him in. That perfectly chiseled face, neatly trimmed beard, pink, full lips set in a straight line, warm brown eyes that bounced back and forth from her breast to her face. A man, in every sense of the word. 

“This isn’t your scene.” His deep voice broke through the silent stare-off of sorts, the way they both seemed only focused on one another despite his entourage.

And, with a boldness, to this day, she hasn’t the slightest clue where it came from, she responded, voice soft, eyes never leaving his. “So why am I here?”

He smiled, and it still remains one of the best sights one could ever be worthy of viewing. His eyes remained locked onto hers, but his command was directed to everyone else. “Get out.”

And like Moses parting the sea, the bodies emptied out until only two remain. Herself and the Tribal Chief.

A small part of her still struggles to understand just how in less than twenty minutes following his clearing of the space, she ended up where she did. Bent over the arm of one of the sofas, skimpy blue dress raised up to her waist, thong discarded who knows where, his massive dick pumping into her. 

And especially what happened after that. 

Solana clutched onto the back of his head, her face buried into the crook of his neck. Her body was on fire, the feeling of him still buried deep inside of her doing little to help her cope with the aftermath of her orgasm. Especially with every subtle movement he made, including the way his fingers stroked her spine. 

But, it was when he traveled that hand upwards, forcing her gaze onto his, lust meeting lust. His thumb moved over her bottom lip, parting her lips, teasing an entrance. “Leave with me.”

Staring at him, nothing but the thought and feel of him hardening once more, consumed her judgment. The answer rolled out before she even realized what she’d agreed to.

“Okay.”

Up until that point, it was the craziest thing she’d ever been told. Not done, because letting a man ten years her senior, a dangerous man at that, fuck her in the VIP section of the city’s hottest club, Harley’s, snagged that spot in the ‘done’ category. 

It shall always be one of life’s greatest mysteries. 

Solana made sure she kept her location on and shared with Hannah but certainly still left with him that night and got fucked thoroughly and properly for the first time in her life. All throughout the night. 12/10 in any and all areas. It was erotic, sensual, and everything she never knew she needed.

It was also one and done. Or, at least, that’s what she’d thought.

Because almost five months later, she stands under the shower in his penthouse after yet another night of explosive sex. It was his suggestion that started it all. She was fully prepared to do her walk of shame afterwards, leaving with the benefit of knowing she’d at least fulfilled her initial goal of having a good time.

A very good time.

But, he’d been the one to stop her, to ask for her number, to say he wanted to “see” her again. 

Fuck.

He wanted to fuck her again.

And truthfully….she felt the same.

Sex was always just an okay thing with her prior boyfriends. Never anything to run, scream, and leap for joy about. That wasn’t the case with Roman. She wasn’t sure if it was the age difference and his obvious copious amount of experience compared to herself, but it was vastly different in all the best ways. A wonderful sort of distraction for the third year med school student. 

So, not a hard sell. Not a hard sell, at all.

Thus, the arrangement. Random hook ups that typically took place at his place, sometimes the back of his SUV, sometimes his bathroom. Eventually bleeding over into her place from time to time. Not her preference, however. Her shitty apartment seemed almost disrespectful for the billionaire mafia kingpin, even if it was solely used as a place to fuck.

Granted, she tries not to think too hard about the little things that have improved since he first came over that one day. Like, how the fucked up AC unit she’d been complaining to her landlord about since the 99 and 2000’s was suddenly replaced with something top of the line. Or, how the random rent increases she's dealt with since moving in disappeared, her rent dropping even lower than what it was when she first signed her lease.

Nope. She refuses to think of any of that, especially the way that random drop-in sexcapades have included her often spending the night, having a change of clothes and emergency bag kept tucked away in his closet and the drawer in his dresser he’d made just for her.

Or, the casual conversations they had sometimes, as they laid in bed together.

None of that mattered, cause it was just sex. They gave each other an….out, something each desperately needed from time to time.

And, she refused to see or acknowledge anything more than that. 

About half an hour later, Solana is dressed and in the kitchen, fixing a quick breakfast and cup of coffee before she leaves. She also does not acknowledge the few times she’s cooked for him….for them.

Irrelevant. 

She's just brewed her eight ounces of french roast coffee and looks over to where the options for creamer sit, waiting for her to pick which one will be the flavor of the day. Solana can’t recall if that stack was always sitting there the first time she came over, or rather, the first time he welcomed/allowed her into his kitchen.

Also, irrelevant. 

“I need to talk with you about something.”

The deciding between which creamer to use—Hazelnut or Vanilla Almond—is suddenly replaced with the confusion and semblance of dread that fills her at that infamous statement. 

Rarely has she seen anything good come out of such an opening. Foolery is usually what follows. Something undesirable and uncomfortable. 

And turning around, mug of freshly brewed coffee in hand, meeting his dark gaze, the tick in his jaw he does when irritated, Solana just knows she’s in for some shit. 

Fuck.  

He’s standing before her, shirtless, dark gray sweats hanging low on his hips. Distracting, but not enough for the weight of that statement. 

“Okay.” The perfect facade for a calm demeanor when she feels anything but. “What—” She clears her throat. “What’s going on?”

Solana leans back against the counter of his expensive granite, opposite of where he leans against the granite of the expensive ass island. The ten second bout of silence between her question and his answer is torture.

“I have…a proposition for you.”

Her nonchalant expression shifts just a bit. A proposition? She moves her weight from one foot to the other, using the only thing she has to pull from, the nature of their dynamic, to muster up a guess. 

“I told you, I don’t….” Just saying it feels off. Has her struggling to maintain eye contact. “I—I don’t do threesomes.” 

Then again, before him, she didn’t do friends with benefits either. Yet, here she is. Still, Roman is hard from a friend. Not even an acquaintance.. He’s just….a person.

A person she has amazing sex with from time to time. 

Maybe more than just time to time. 

His gaze darkens. “And, I told you I don’t share.” She looks back up, realizing not only was her assumption loud and wrong, but it’d also clearly irritated him as well. Great. “I have a dilemma.”

He has a lot of things, it seems, except the actual reason for this whole random ass, intimidating ass conversation. 

“Okay…”

When he looks away, suddenly interested in the double door stainless steel refrigerator, it’s hard for her to not focus on his side profile. Roman is easily one of the most attractive men she’s ever encountered. Sculpted and cut from the Gods. If only the beauty didn't stop with his appearance. 

Because as great as the sex is, outside of those few occasions where he's less….him, he can be an asshole. Another reminder that this arrangement is simply physically based. Roman may be attractive on the outside, but that inside…it leads a lot to be desired. 

A lot. 

“I need an heir.”

Silence.

For the eighteenth time in the span of less than five minutes, she has no idea what to say or how to respond to that. Hence, her repeating of the same word. “Umm, o–okay.” Because, again, what does one say to that? Congratulations? Her next question, however, is the one sitting at the top of mountain confusion, hence needing to be asked. “What does that—”

“I want you to be my surrogate.”

Her eyes widen, the mug in her hand almost slipping and shattering into a thousand pieces. “You—what?”

Solana blinks once, twice, and then slaps her temple lightly, for good measure, because there’s no way he said what she thinks he just said.

No way in hell.

But, instead of him offering a different answer, he looks over at her, doubling down with both big ass feet of his. “I need you to give me a child.”

It’s that statement that has her placing the mug of now lukewarm coffee on the counter as she brings her hands to her head. “Oh my God.” She can only focus on the design of the marble flooring and not the lunacy that just left his mouth. “Hannah was right. You are secretly crazy.”

To be fair, Hannah had also joked—not really—that she, too, was crazy for ever even leaving with him that night, for fucking him not once, but many times at this point.

And, right about now, Solana is thinking her best friend was right.

About the both of them. 

“Shut up.” His irritation returns with his curt dismissal of her sudden realization. Months of fucking this man, and this is how it comes out that he really is crazy. Of  course. “Let me explain.”

Her eyes are as wide as saucers, any and all appetite completely depleted. “What’s there to explain about that?”

He rolls his eyes, Solana realizing it’s probably not wise to take her focus off this beautiful, dangerous, potentially psychotic man. “I’m dealing with pressure from the Elders—”

“Who are they?”

Irritation flashes. “A group of older men in the Bloodline who serve as a council of sorts.” Something tells her they’re not his favorite group of people. Makes sense. Roman seems like the type of man who doesn’t do well with answering to….well, anyone. 

“They want me to produce an heir. I’m not getting any younger, and they think it's irresponsible for me to not have one at this point in my life.”

Makes sense. Solana can acknowledge that. Even with her limited knowledge as to how all this works, Roman being closer to 40 than anything and not having an heir to inherit his empire when he dies really does seem irresponsible.

Of course, they’re putting pressure on him. It’s just her…place(?) in all this that doesn’t make sense. Why he’s asking her. 

Why is he asking her?

Regardless, she has another question teetering at the top of her list. “What do you think?”

He just looks at her before completely avoiding the question. “I would just need you to carry and birth the child. You won’t need to be involved in his or her life after that.”

But, as he provides what he considers clarification, Solana sinks further into the realization that he’s not crazy.

He’s serious. 

That doesn’t change the fact that the situation, proposal, whatever is still insane. And, she voices as such.

“This is….” 

She trails off, now pacing before him, hugging herself, unable to wrap her head around just what she’s hearing. 

“I’ll cover all of your medical expenses along with paying off the rest of your schooling and anything else you owe.” At that, she stops, turning to look at him, eyes widening once more. His intense gaze is locked on hers. “You'll graduate medical school and finish residency with zero debt.”

What the fuck?

Solana falls back against the counter, scoffing in disbelief. Is he….is he for real?

“All because....you....you want me….to have your baby?” The more she says it, even thinks it, the crazier it sounds, but he’s continued to look just as serious as he was the minute he walked into the kitchen.

“It’s less about you and more the convenience of you.” There’s something about his response, the almost offensive nature of his tone that makes her shift her weight once more. Makes her feel something close to…hurt? She’s not entirely sure, just knows that the impolite expression on his handsome face and audible in his deep voice aren’t exactly helping the situation. “You’re in prime childbearing years, and your medical records don’t indicate any fertility issues—”

“Wait.” Pause. “How…how did you get my medical records?”

And, just like that, an already….weird situation just got infinitely weirder. Because, once more, what the hell?

However, he remains seemingly unbothered. “I’m Roman Reigns.” Something about his tone makes her stomach flip, makes her nails tap against the counter she continues to grip. “If I want something, I get it.”

She doesn’t deny that. She can’t. Clearly. HIPAA be damned.

Still, that cloud of shock remains sitting prompt and directly over her head. “I don’t…” She rubs her temples. “This…this is a lot.” To say the least. “How would…” A distracted thought that’s sidetracked from another important question that pops into her head. “Wait…I thought heirs were only recognized through marriages. How….” And, it’s when she looks over at him, sees the slight shift in his eyes, that she realizes what he either hasn’t gotten to yet or was hoping to maybe avoid altogether. “You’re kidding.” Alas, he’s not. He’s not at all. 

Her mouth drops open, stammering a reflection of the hits that keep on coming. “You…you want me to marry you, too?”

“I don’t want any of this.” More harshness. Another wince on her end. If anything, he’s honest. Brutally. “It’s simply a business arrangement. The marriage would be in name only, and the minute the child is born, we file for divorce.” 

Pacing back and forth, Solana does her best to not allow herself to fall into information overload, even though she’s damn near already there.

Roman wants her to give him a child. Have his baby. Marry him. And then….pretend like nothing happened? 

She should have just stayed in bed.

“Roman, I—”

“You don’t have to give me an answer right now.” Solana isn’t sure she could, even if he did need one right now. “Think about it. I’ll have everything laid out in a contract. Read it over, and let me know before the end of the week.”

Partial relief, as it only being Monday gives her a couple, but not a lot, of days to really sit on this all. Not even the….proposal but just….everything that’s happened since she first met Roman Reigns that fateful night in the club months prior. 

She nods, voice quiet once more. "Okay."

No. Not okay. Far from okay.

—------

“So let me get this straight.” Solana stabs the spoon into the shared carton of moose tracks ice cream being passed and forth between the two friends. She scoops an unnecessarily large amount and stuffs it into her mouth, intentionally downing it slowly to help prolong the answer she’s far from eager to give. “He asked you to marry him.”

Solana swallows. “Not…not necessarily.” 

“So, there was no mention of marriage?”

“Well, yes—”

Hannah’s eyes widen. “Then. he essentially asked you to marry him.” Solana groans, leaning deeper into the dark sofa that’s always been more uncomfortable than not but the best that she could afford at the time. Still, really. “And he wants you to be his surrogate.”

Solana winces. Just hearing it makes it sound even more insane. “Technically, we have to be married in order for the child to be recognized as his—”

“His little mafia prince or princess?”

“Hannah.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, snatching the carton back, explaining almost panicked, “this is all way too much for me.”

Solana scoffs. “You?” She shakes her head, acknowledging the most uncomfortable part of it all. “I’m the one who has to give him an answer.”

An answer that’s not as easy as it should be, or maybe as she’d like it to be.

Hannah quiets down, the only sound in Solana’s small apartment coming from the TV playing a show neither women have watched since sitting down to discuss the proposal. A waste of electricity, if Solana was thinking clearly, but she’s not, because she’s too caught up in her head over what could end up being the most important decision she’ll ever make.

“So, tell me again, what exactly it’ll include,” Hannah asks, offering the carton to be shared once more. Solana takes another scoop, relaying everything Roman said, the premise of his offer. It would probably be easier to just share the contract Roman had his assistant, Paul, email her. But, she doesn’t. Probably cause that makes it all just way too official. “Wow….do you know how rare it is for someone to graduate college and medical school and everything else with zero debt?”

It’s not rare.

It’s unheard of.

Because, it doesn’t happen. 

But, Roman is prepared to do just that.

“I know,” Solana murmurs, her interest in ice cream waning by the second, prompting her to place her spoon down on the napkin laid out on her old coffee table. “It…it feels too good to be true.”

“But, that’s why he said you’d guys sign a contract, right?”

Solana nods. “Yeah.” Leaning back into the sofa, she begins to play with the bottom of her oversized shirt, a random purchase from Walmart’s graphic t-shirt rack. At one point, it had a portrait of Prince from Purple Rain. Now, it’s just distorted, tarnished, and nothing but a comfy thing to sleep in. “But, like…a baby, Hannah?”

Hannah frowns, her full lips more pronounced. “I know, but….it’s not like you’d keep it?”

True. However, that doesn’t negate her counter. “But, I’d still have to carry it for the better part of the year.”

Hannah shrugs one shoulder, her top falling just a bit to exposed, smooth, flawless, brown skin. “Well, yes, that’s how pregnancies work.”

Solana closes her eyes and moans. “Hannah.”

“I’m sorry,” the other woman apologizes, messing with her box braids. A sign of nervousness. “I’m just….I don’t know what to say.” 

Fair, because Solana, too, doesn’t know what to say.

Or do.

On one hand, Roman’s proposal sounds like the craziest thing ever. The rest of her collegiate expenses paid off in exchange for marrying him, giving him a baby, leaving the baby to be raised by him, and his family, with a divorce to top it all off as she continues to live her debt free life? 

But, also, like Hannah smartly pointed out, to be able to enter her dream career, making more money than she could have ever imagined, saving lives and doing what she loves without the cloud of student loans over her head?

That could change so much for her. She could maybe buy a house, help her parents pay off their mortgage and their debts. She’d be in such a good financial position for when the time came for her to actually settle down and start a family. 

And, then there's that whole side of it. Family. How the hell is she supposed to tell her family about this? How could she ever help them understand why she's agreed to be the surrogate for a literal killer in exchange for financial freedom? How does one go about explaining that to their family without being put on an involuntarily psych hold for temporary insanity?

She'll wait.

Solana groans, appetite completely gone. This shit sucks. It should be an easy decision, but it's not, and as much as she would like to say her answer is no, and that's that....she can't.

She can't bring herself to do that, because the appeal of living an essentially carefree life when it comes to finances feels almost too good an opportunity to turn down.

A dream come true, depending on how one looks at it.

It’s just the getting there that has her so torn. 

Because the idea of conceiving and carrying a child right now doesn’t feel or seem all that appealing. And, it’s not that she doesn’t want kids. She does. 

Just not now.

She wants to finish up school and be a bit established in her career before going down that road. 

But.

It’s not….it’s not as if this will be her child. Yes, biologically, he or she will be hers, but she’ll have no place in their life. Roman will be the father, and what story he tells them about their maternal parentage is for him to figure out. Plus, he has a big family. The child will be loved. 

She’s just the conduit, of sorts. 

And, as far as the marriage part, plenty of people get divorced. She’ll just be a part of that fifty percent club. Not to mention, it won’t even be worth mentioning to any future partners. Neither will the surrogacy, really. It’ll just be….a chapter in her life. 

One not worth revisiting when the last page turns. 

 —-------

Roman fucking hates waiting.

He understands why in this situation, but it doesn’t make him any less annoyed. 

Another heavy, irritated sigh at having checked his phone once more only to see a lock screen full of notifications, none of them from the person he’s wanting to see on his phone.

Needing, in some instances.

Jaw ticking, that just spikes his irritation all over again. He hates that shit, too. Needing something. Anything. From anyone.

Hence why his hatred for the Elders has only been exacerbated by this whole fuck ass situation they’ve put him in. 

It’s fucking aggravating, and the urge to tell them all to fuck off is something he struggles with on the daily. 

But, deep down, beyond the layers of stubbornness, he knows they’re right. At 36, approaching 37, he needs an heir. 

It’s long overdue.

Hence his approach to Solana. 

Not ideal. Not ideal at all.

But, of his options, of his roster of women, she makes the most sense. She’s easy. No drama. No theatrics. For months, they’ve had their arrangement, and she’s never once tried to make it more than what it is. She just gets it. 

He just hopes she can get this as well. 

Roman understands her apprehension as well as her shock, but in laying out the facts and details, he's optimistic she can understand that it's nothing more than a business arrangement. Just as he told her. 

Stepping into the shower, Roman allows the water to wash away the stress of the day and lingering thoughts of his official-unofficial non-friend with great benefits, scrubbing and washing his body clean. 

The entire night routine, of sorts, ends with him walking into his bedroom and climbing into his bed, despite his mind still racing. The last glance he gives to his phone, still without the notification he’s been waiting for, is the last thing he sees before drifting off to sleep. 

—------

The sounds of nature, the ray of sunlight bleeding into the room through the open doors that lead to the balcony. Roman’s frown is deep as he blinks his eyes open and inhales deeply, the scent clean and subtle, a combination of her perfume that lingers on the sheets, her side presenting an absent space.

Roman sits up and rolls his shoulders, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, sliding his feet into the Nike slides. Making his way out the room, the framed photos on the wall of the hall that lead him to the staircase tell a story.

Their story. 

That Valentine’s Day card she made for him when they were in the second grade, the edges torn, that stain in the corner that smeared her artwork the result of some shitty classmate that “accidentally” spilled apple juice on it.

The same way Roman “accidentally” punched him right in his stupid face immediately after. 

The collage of polaroids she’d made for him on his 13th birthday, a gift of labor and love, photos of mostly him, but them as well, along with a few including the twins. 

The photo of them at prom, an event he was 100% okay with skipping, never really caring much for shit like that, but she wanted to go, so they went. Back against him, her dainty hands placed atop his as she smiled so bright, her eyes creased slightly, her happiness from that night seeping through the photo that documented what she’d once called the “best night” of her life. 

Her partially agrees, and not for any reason related to the actual prom. No, that shit was a disaster. The music sucked, someone spiked the punch, Jey and Nicki were kicked out of the hotel for their usual bullshit, Jimmy and Naomi almost broke up, Bayley landed a suspension for beating the shit out of Samantha in the girls bathroom. It was....a lot. But, what made it memorable for him was afterwards, was where instead of attending the after-party, she asked to go back to his place, and they became one with each for the first time.

The first time he ever told her he loved her.

Then there's another collage, of course, created by her, reflecting the week they spent together, just the two of them, in the Maldives to celebrate their high school graduation.

That...that will always be one of his fondest memories. For one week, it was just him and her, no pressure, no outside distractions. Just the two of them.

Happy.

Roman swallows, realizing revisiting only makes things worse. He opts to keep his focus on the cherrywood steps that lead him to the first floor and the backdoor that, similar to the doors in the bedroom, remain open and inviting. 

That’s where he finds her, out on the patio, standing in front of the easel, paint brush in one hand, working efficiently and dutifully. The sleeveless, long white dress grants him a view of the inked “Roman” written across the back of her upper arm. And, even with her curls and coils down, the wind pushing her hair up and to the side teases the small R tattooed on the back of her neck.

The same way he has two tattoos for her located discreetly on his body, embedded and hidden within tribal ink. Etched on his soul. 

A small smile on his face that grows with each step he takes towards her, only to deepen and his eyes to shut when he’s able to wrap his arms around her.

She smiles, lowering the paint brush, looking over her shoulder. “Can I help you?”

He says nothing, kissing the side of her neck. She giggles, and it’s the best thing one could ever hear. He looks over at the unfinished piece, not enough completed for him to make a guess at what she has in mind, hence him asking, “what is it?”

Her smile shifts into a smirk, her voice teasing, “guess you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” Groaning, she giggles once more, placing the brush and palette down as she turns around and beams up at him. “How was your day today?”

“Long.” Too long. They’re always too long. 

She presses her lips together, fingers dancing up his chest. “That great?”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he dismisses. Unsurprising, or it shouldn’t be. Roman lifts his hand to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing over that single letter, his expression softening. “I just wanna enjoy you.”

The wind brushing against them makes her curls flap around wildly just as the smile on her stunning face grows. She moves to take his hand in hers, leading them back into the house. Roman says nothing, hand firm in hers as she guides them upstairs and into the bedroom.

His eyes never leave hers, like he’s scared that doing so will make her go away, make her leave.

He had that happen once before. 

Never again. 

She lays down on her side, prompting him to do the same, captivated by her eyes, a warm rich brown, just a few shades deeper than her complexion, glowing and illuminated from the sun of the open windows adjacent to their bed.

She smiles, deeply, dimples on full display. “So, you asked her.”

And, just like that, the softening expression of his shifts into something else. Hardened. Irritated. “I don’t want to talk about that, either.”

She says nothing, reaching and stroking his beard. “Not talking about it won’t make it suddenly go away or disappear….” She swallows, full lips dipping into a bit of a frown. “I like her.” Her gaze lifts to him. “And, so do you.”

It’s an easy, quick dismissal. “She’s a means to an end.” 

A knowing smile. One he’s seen a million times over. “You were never able to lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he defends, reaching to push back some of her coils. “She means nothing to me. It’d be a business arrangement.”

Her frown deepens once more. “She’d be giving you a child, Roman.”

“Also, a business arrangement.” A staunch defense followed by a hushed, vulnerable admission, “it shouldn’t even be her.”

She swallows. “Roman…”

“It should be you.” His voice is thick and even, jaw clenched from building emotion. “It should be us.”

She just looks at him, stares at him, finally asking in the quietest voice, “how long are you going to keep blaming yourself, my heart?”

A powerful question for which, after all these years, he still has no answer for. 

He’s not sure he ever will.

Roman shoots up in bed, chest heaving, the lightest sheen of sweat across his forehead. The bedroom bathed in light colors, the sunlight from the beautiful day, and the wrinkled space beside him no longer present. 

She’s no longer beside him. 

It’s none of that. None of her.

Just him. 

Alone.

He swallows, jaw clenched as he tries to settle himself. All these years later, and he still struggles with this portion. The coming to. The most painful reminder he could ever have/experience. The return to reality. A reality he’d give anything to not be his reality. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the view of his phone lit up on the nightstand. A phone he hasn’t touched since getting in bed, thus there being no activation on his end to cause it to light up.

That means he has a new notification.

Blowing out a deep breath, he runs his hand through his partially dry hair, grabbing the iPhone.

And, for the first time in days, a message from the name that hasn’t appeared since their last conversation.

Solana.

It’s not missed upon him how he takes a second before unlocking the phone and navigating to the messages app, her thread at the very top, reading an unambiguous response. 

Solana: I’ll do it. 

--------

authors note: and, here we are, folks. if you've been around here long enough, you know i don't typically ask questions of ya'll at the end of the chapters, but this particular au is, i think, pretty different from the others. or, maybe i'm just delusional.

because, in case you missed it, the 'she' roman was dreaming about is not solana. thus, i'm curious. lmao. specifically, what do ya'll make of roman and solana's whole....fwb, of sorts, arrangement? seems like they both view it the same but also...maybe not.

[buffetlicious]

Compare this bowl of Pork & Shrimp Dumplings Noodles (水饺面) with the previous purchases. Choo Chiang Roasted Meat Noodle House (珠江烧腊面家) has been sending their dumpling for slimming exercise so they are now flat and flappy looking. The filling is getting lesser and yet the wanton wrapper remained the same size thus you get the excess skin around one side of the dumpling. It is getting so bad that I asked mum to buy this only when I have a craving.

[2millu2]

Forbidden Sweet - Monkey. D Luffy

ఌ Ft. Luffy x crewmate/ bestfriend fem reader

WC: 2.5k

Warnings: Smut, PwP, aphrodisiac ,oral (male receiving), Penetration, Luffy begin Luffy ,Needy Luffy ,Riding, fem reader,

Luffy's messy black hair was tousled by the warm sea breeze as the Thousand Sunny sailed across the rolling waves of the Grand Line. He stood at the bow of the ship, rubber body leaning forward with an adventurous grin stretched across his face as always. Even after all this time, the thrill of exploring new islands and seeking the ultimate freedom as the Pirate King still filled him with unbridled excitement.

From the galley, the aroma of Sanji's latest culinary masterpiece wafted through the air, causing Luffy's stomach to growl hungrily. As the captain made his way over, he saw Nami emerging onto the deck. The navigator's slender figure was accentuated by her tight shirt and short skirt as her long, tangerine hair cascaded over her shoulders. Luffy felt his heartbeat quicken slightly as their eyes met.

"Nami!" Luffy called with a wave, that infectious smile creeping across his lips. "What's for dinner? I'm starving!"

The young woman rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling back at her simple but endearing captain. "Patience, Luffy. Sanji's still putting the finishing touches on the meal."

:::Time Skip:::

Luffy wandered into the galley kitchen, stomach rumbling loudly as usual. Sanji had kicked him out earlier while preparing the main meal, so the raven-haired captain was searching for a snack to tide him over. His dark eyes scanned the shelves as he let himself into the pantry area.

At the very back, tucked away, Luffy spotted a bar of fancy-looking dark chocolate. Chocolate was one of his favorite treats, so he snatched it up eagerly. As he turned the bar over in his hands, he noticed the wrapper said "Aphrodisiac" printed on it. Luffy furrowed his brow in confusion at the unfamiliar word but shrugged it off. Chocolate was chocolate in his book!

He tore into the rich bar, quickly devouring it with his usual voracious appetite. Not satisfied, he kept rummaging and quickly fin off any other snacks he could find stashed away - cakes, pies, baskets of fruit, and his favorite meat. Patting his now bulging belly contentedly, Luffy gave a loud burp and was about to head back outside.

That's when he felt it - a strange, tingling warmth spreading through his body. His heart started pounding harder as he broke out into a sweat. Looking down, Luffy's eyes widened as he noticed the prominent tent rising in the front of his red shorts. He had gotten random erections before but they usually went away quickly. This time felt...different, more intense.

Luffy squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his face flush bright red as confusing waves of arousal washed over him. He couldn't control the instinctive urge to reach down and palm himself through his shorts, soft groans escaping his lips. What was happening to him?

He felt off and was going to look for Chopper. When suddenly, the reality of his situation dawned on Luffy - he was the only one left on board the Sunny! The rest of the crew had gone to explore the nearby island's forests in search of some legendary treasure. His best friend, you, were the only other person still on the ship. If there was anyone who could help, it was you.

Luffy quickly pulled open the door to the kitchen, stumbling out as he tried to keep one hand discreetly pressed against the throbbing bulge between his legs. With his free hand, he fanned at the beads of sweat dappling his forehead as he staggered toward your quarters, tongue lolling slightly.

You had just woken up from a nap and were startled by the loud knocking at your door. As you pulled it open, you were greeted by the sight of your dear captain - panting heavily with flushed cheeks, a glazed look in his eyes as he stared at you desperately.

"(Y/N)...need...help..." Luffy gasped out between ragged breaths. He his hand squeezed his bulge as another shudder ran through his body.

You felt your own face heating up in a blush. "L-Luffy? What's wrong?!"

The dark-haired boy swallowed hard before finally groaning, "I ate...this weird...chocolate. Now I feel...really weird..." He trailed off as another wave of arousal hit, causing him to involuntarily grind his hips forward.

Realization slowly dawned on you as you noticed him not-so-discreetly palming the huge tent stretching his red shorts. The snacks he ate must have been laced with aphrodisiacs! You opened your mouth to tell him you needed to go find Chopper right away.

But before you could speak, Luffy cut you off with a desperate whine, "I...I can't wait anymore!" In one quick motion, he shoved his shorts down over his straining erection, finally allowing his long, throbbing cock to spring free. Your eyes widened at the sight of his impressive size, the flushed head already dribbling streams of sticky pre-cum.

"Please..." Luffy's chest heaved as he gazed at you pleadingly, one hand wrapped around his thick shaft to slowly stroke himself. "You gotta help me..."

You felt your throat go dry as you stared back at his sinfully erotic cock before you. Finally finding your voice, you managed to choke out, "W-What...do you need me to do?"

You swallowed hard, unable to tear your eyes away from the lewd sight of Luffy feverishly stroking his m cock right there in the hallway of the Sunny. A thin sheen of sweat glistened over his toned, tanned torso as he panted hotly through parted lips. Even in this compromising state, his penetrating gaze still radiated that same sense of earnestness and trust.

"Please...Touch me," Luffy half-whispered, half-whined. The ache in his throbbing shaft had reached an unbearable peak, his body trembling with unfulfilled need. "It won't stop...throbbing. I don't know what to do."

Watching a string of pre-cum trail down the side of his flushed erection, you felt an unmistakable pulse of arousal between your own legs. How could you possibly resist your captain's pleas when he looked at you with those desperate, needy eyes? You were the only one who could provide him relief.

Decision made, you stepped forward and gently took Luffy's hand to guide him back into your quarters. The rubber boy followed obediently. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Luffy eagerly crowded into your personal space - the heated musk of his arousal enveloping you in heady waves.

"L-Luffy..." you breathed, suddenly very aware of his powerful, chiseled physique looming over your smaller frame. Your throat felt tight with desire as his gaze roamed hungrily over the curves of your body. Tentatively, you reached out to wrap your fingers around the thick base of his thick length. An impatient moan tumbled from Luffy's lips at the new contact.

"yes...please..." he whimpered unabashedly, surrendering himself to your touch. "Make it feel better..."

Giving his thick cock a few, slow experimental strokes, you marveled at the sleek heat and impressive girth pulsing against your palm. Precum continued to steadily bead out of the flushed, swollen tip - creating a deliciously lewd sound with each stroke of your hand.

Fueled by Luffy's shameless moans of approval, you gradually increased your pace - twisting your wrist with more conviction on every upstroke. His fingers sank into your hair, not guiding but just grasping as tremors of ecstasy wracked his frame.

"Ah! (Y/N)...!" Luffy cried out, completely lost in rapture as his hips stuttered forward to meet your strokes. His breath came in ragged pants - almost pained in their intensity. "Don't...stop...!"

With your free hand cupping his heavy sac, you could feel his heavy balls tightening in anticipation of release even as they continued to churn out ropes of fresh arousal. Luffy's broken whimpers had dissolved into a mantra of curses and moans that could undoubtedly be heard echoing down the ship's hallways.

Luffy's breath came in shallow, ragged pants - lips parted wantonly as his hips snapped forward in frantic thrusts to meet your steadily pumping fist. His thick cock felt achingly hard in your palm, veins throbbing as his arousal reached a feverish peak.

"I can't...!" The string of curses dissolved into a guttural groan as Luffy's spine arched rigidly. His nails dug into your shoulders as hot ropes of sticky release began spurting from his swollen tip - rope after rope of thick, seed splattering across your hand, wrist and even streaking up towards your face and heaving chest.

A litany of filthy grunts and whimpers spilled from Luffy's slack jaw as he surrendered to the throes of climax, hips jerking erratically until the last few weak spurts dribbled down your fingers. Panting harshly, the raven-haired captain slowly dragged his glazed eyes back up to meet your own heated gaze, a dazed look of bliss painted across his features.

Amazingly, even after such a powerful orgasm, his erection barely flagged - still achingly stiff and flushed with arousal. Luffy groaned in a mixture of relief and renewed desperation as you continued to sensually stroke him, your slick palm effortlessly gliding up and down his impressive length.

“(Y/N)..." he whimpered brokenly. "It's still not enough...I need more..."

You felt a dizzying rush of heat between your own thighs at his shameless confession. Reluctantly releasing your grip on Luffy's thick shaft, you gazed up at him through hooded lids. "Get on the bed," you uttered in a breathy tone that was half-command, half-request.

Without hesitation, the rubber captain eagerly complied - climbing onto your mattress and splaying himself out with blatant, lust-fueled abandon. He shamelessly spread his legs, putting his glistening cock on full display while fixing you with a hungry look.

You felt your cheeks flush hotly, suddenly self-conscious as you slowly shed your own clothes, revealing your naked form to Luffy's raking gaze. His throat bobbed visibly as his piercing eyes drank in every soft curve and dusky swell of your body. Once fully bared, you tentatively crawled up to straddle Luffy - hovering your slick entrance just an inch above his swollen tip.

Glancing down at his thick cock, throbbing and flushed with need, you felt a fresh wave of arousal pool between your thighs. With a steadying breath, you reached between your bodies to grasp his heated length, guiding the swollen head to nudge against your wet folds.

Luffy's breath hitched sharply at the initial contact, his raw expression one of naked longing and impatience. He held himself tantalizingly still, fully putting his trust in your movements as you gradually sank down - inch by delicious inch - until your combined gasps melted into twin moans of satisfaction.

"Ahh...L-Luffy..." you shuddered as you felt him stretching and filling your slick walls to the hilt. It was all you could do to still your shaking thighs as your body slowly adjusted to his incredible size.

"(Y/N)..." The captain's voice was a strangled groan as you gradually lifted your hips, nearly pulling his thick cock free before sinking back down in one smooth thrust. A violent shudder ripped through his frame as he instinctively bucked his hips to meet your sensual rhythm. "More...!"

Biting your lip, you gradually increased your steady pace - turning your hips in tight circles as you rode his throbbing length with fervor. Your breasts bounced heavily as Luffy's hands flew up to grasp your sides, his fingers digging into your hips as he encouraged your movements.

Each time you impaled yourself on his cock it sent sparks cascading across your nerves, dragging Luffy's girth against your silken walls with deliciously lewd noises. You felt almost delirious with pleasure, a sheen of sweat blossoming over your flushed skin. Still, it somehow wasn't enough to sate the aching need coiling low in your core.

Luffy seemed to sense your desperation for more as a familiar, feral glint flashed across his lust-darkened gaze. With a low, possessive growl rumbling in his throat, he suddenly surged upright - wrapping his stretchy arms around your lower back. Effortlessly reversing your position, Luffy pinned you beneath his frame, situating himself between your spread thighs as he loomed over you with that wild, ravenous look.

"My turn," he grunted before capturing your lips in a searing, needful kiss. His hips drew back, his thick cock leaving a deliciously empty ache in its wake...only to slam back into your cunt a second later with bruising force! You cried out into Luffy's mouth - partly from pain, but mostly from the dizzying wave of euphoria that crashed over your senses.

Luffy's hips snapped forward relentlessly - burying himself to the hilt with each frenzied thrust as he chased his feverish need for release. The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filled the cabin, punctuated by your intermingled cries of ecstasy.

With his hand fisted in your hair and face buried in the crook of your neck, Luffy took you with wild, almost feral desperation. His harsh grunts and the rigid tension in his body spoke of the single-minded intensity fueling his motions.

You could do little but cling to his sweaty back, nails raking heated lines down his tanned skin as Luffy's swollen arousal stretched and filled you to the brink. Each punishing slam of his hips stoked the flickering flames of your own impending orgasm higher.

"L-Luffy!" you cried out, back arching as you teetered just on the edge. "I'm...I can't...!"

As if sensing your desperation, a low, groan rumbled in Luffy's broad chest. Your hand abruptly snaked down between your writhing bodies to urgently stroke the bundle of nerves nestled between your folds. That final spike of stimulation was all it took to plunge you over the dizzying precipice.

Your release crashed over you in shattering waves as you arched against Luffy inner walls fluttering and pulsing around his thick cock in rhythmic spasms. White-hot pleasure danced across every nerve, temporarily blinding you to everything except the lingering ghost of Luffy's name on your lips.

Even as the world slowly bled back into focus, you felt Luffy's own harsh pantings ghosting against the skin of your neck as his tempo reached a feverish pace. His hips snapped forward in tight, erratic jolts - burying to the hilt with each punishing grind.

With a hoarse, animalistic groan muffled against your throat, Luffy stiffened above you - his cock twitching and pulsing as he finally found his own shattering release. You moaned softly at the feeling of his thick seed spilling in heavy spurts, painting your fluttering walls white with each spurts.

For several minutes, the only sounds were your harsh, rasping breaths slowly calming as you clung to each other in the hazy aftermath. Luffy eventually stirred enough to prop himself up on one elbow, gazing down at your thoroughly spent form through a sweaty fringe of raven hair with unmistakable gratitude and adoration.

"Thank you, (Y/N)," he whispered with uncharacteristic tenderness, leaning in to brush his lips gently against your own, "I needed that..."

You mustered a weary, but deeply contented smile in return as you reached up to toy with the mess of tangled hair. "Anytime, Luffy...anytime."

You both fall asleep laying on your bed until you both heard the sound of Sanji yelling

“LUFFY YOU ATE ALL THE FOOD” Sanji yelled through the Sunny as he must had found the empty pantry Luffy let out a loud laugh and you giggle beside him knowing him all to well.