#never needed a slow cooker

[jfk-blown-away-blog]

Blender

[oceantornadoo]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[rashomonss]

The brothers and the Human Realm

a/n: so ik ‘jealous much’ won the poll but it’s still not done yet so have this instead!

context: a part of me still finds lessons 40-43 funny because the brothers have never really been to the human world that much, and they don’t really know how certain things work. Take the slow cooker and ice cream truck for example. So these are little headcanons I have for when all of y’all are together in the beginning of their stay in the human realm.

enjoy <3 , also these are in no specific order

you all are hopeless…

Solomon and MC would so fuck with the brothers while being in the human realm.

For example they’d take Lucifer to the shadiest mexican restaurant possible then after they finished eating they would tell the waiters it was Lucifer’s birthday and watch the Avatar of Pride sit there with a big ass sombrero on his head as they sang happy birthday to him.

MC later took a picture and sent it to Diavolo who then made it his lock screen.

Satan and Belphie tried to electrocute Lucifer by throwing a toaster in the bathroom while he was in the middle of a shower. This happened after the fact you told them not to put water on the toaster because it could electrocute someone. 

Beel ate an entire bottle of ibuprofen liquid gels because he thought they were hard gummies.

Beel also ate the food and cake shaped wax candle melts you had bought for Asmo as a gift

Beel lastly ate your whole brand new container of melatonin and it knocked him out for 15 hours straight. Needless to say Lucifer was very concerned for his wellbeing, and Belphie soon questioned if you had anymore.

Belphie and his brothers were never taught stranger danger, because who in their right mind would be a danger to them in the Devildom?

So after you had explained to him what an ice cream truck was he vowed to go to one with you.

However when a creepy old man in a white van offers him candy he believes it to be the same as the ice cream truck so he gets in the van.

When the brothers relay this information to you, you begin to lose your shit explaining how that was not in fact an ice cream truck he got into but instead a kidnapper van.

The brothers don’t know how to eat certain human world foods.

Such as a banana, watermelon, mango, pineapple, kiwi, avocado, cherry, dragon fruit, papaya, onion, etc.

So when you first buy one from the grocery store and leave it out before cutting it they automatically think it’s some weird shaped human food and bite into it eating the skin or seeds and all.

After they tell you about the weird but delicious taste of it you ask if they cut it or spit out the seeds before eating it, and when they reply with a puzzled look and a no your heart drops.

Thank god they’re demons. You then proceed to buy the same thing again this time cutting it up in front of them so they know what parts to eat of certain things.

Expanding on the cherry part, did y’all’s parents ever tell you not to swallow watermelon or cherry seeds because if you did a cherry tree or whole watermelon would then grow in your stomach??

I know mine and some of my friends parents would tell us that when I was younger to make sure we didn’t swallow any seeds.

If they didn’t then oh well, anyway…

Continuing with Solomon being an ass, he would so tell something like that to the brothers. If he happened to see Beel swallow a cherry whole he would then proceeded to tell Lucifer not to let him do that.

And when the oldest asks why Solomon would then go onto explain that if he swallows cherry pit then a cherry tree will then grow inside his stomach.

Of course this freaked out Lucifer so for the next hour he tried getting Beel to spit out all the cherries he ate.

You would have to organize their fridge and pantry in the new house because they don’t know which human world foods need to be refrigerated or not.

After you arrive at the house you spent a good three hours explaining to them not everything can go in the pantry because some of it will spoil after you open it.

Then you proceed to gag when you pulled out an expired chunky milk container from the pantry.

They find the concept of drive thru or fast food places astonishing. The fact that you can just order wait in a line for a few minutes in your car then get your food is crazy. They do however all panic though when you get to the front and they don’t know what to order off the menu.

Car washes are also something they found themselves favoring. You would turn up the music as you slowly pulled in and joked by telling the brothers you were going on a ride of sorts.

Which in turn shocked you when they did believed you as the car wash stared. Each of them were staring out the windows with starry eyes as different colors of soap were thrown on your car.

You laughed to yourself as they all admired the way the soap blended together, Asmo and Mammon found themselves taking pictures of the whole thing. While Belphie was telling Beel how this looked like a starry sky.

And Levi went on to tell Satan how this reminded him of an anime scene. Lucifer also found himself sitting quietly in the passenger seat enjoying it too. (Lucifer is a certified passenger princess, fight me on that)

Each brother questioned you on how this was possible and you replied with smile. After the car wash was over and you drove through the dryers they all asked if you could do that again, to which you replied smiling “maybe some other time”.

Lucifer watered the fake succulents and plants you put around the house for two weeks straight until you said something.

They love watching true crime documentary’s to the point you’d have to physically pull them away from the tv.

It happened one afternoon while a few of them were relaxing in the living room and you were looking for a channel to watch.

Deciding there was nothing interesting on you put on an old true crime documentary and began watching it. As the brothers heard the story of the crime from the tv they each became immersed in it.

Telling you things such as “how could humans do that to each other?” or “wow humans are more brutal than we thought” or even adding in their own comments on how they could have made the crime worse.

It became a guessing game between all of them to figure out who killed who during each episode you watched.

Much to everyone dismayed Satan was the one who won every time.

Meanwhile while they were all immersed in the tv you noticed Lucifer standing behind you, arms crossed also watching tv. You told him to sit down and watch with all of you but he denied, claiming he wasn’t really interested in stuff like this anyway.

Yet he never moved from that same spot each episode.

Each of the brothers have made something explode in the microwave.

Lucifer stained it red when he went to reheat pasta, but he put it in for to long and it exploded. Mammon overfilled his ramen thus causing it to leak then explode.

Satan and Levi also happened to be reheating takeout at the same time, but both of the containers were styrofoam and exploded. Levi got annoyed and Satan threw the microwave at Lucifer.

Asmo put some skincare product in there because he found something online about a certain hack, and it exploded causing the microwave to smell like burnt strawberries.

Beel put too much food in the microwave causing it to all melt together then explode.

Belphie put a coffee in there to reheat and it exploded, but he was too lazy to clean it up so he just left it. Lucifer was then next to use the microwave and got coffee all over him.

You made all seven of them watch the entire twilight series as a joke but ironically they all actually enjoyed it.

Satan even went out and bought the books, and finished all of them in about 2 hours

Bonus

Solomon distracted Diavolo for 3 hours straight by making him watch 5 minute craft videos.

Diavolo then proceeded to break things to try these said crafts which caused Barbatos to have a meltdown.

Barbatos destroyed an entire sidewalk because he saw two rats run across it into the sewer.

[skzdarlings]

02. sharing a bed series ; skz ; lee know

masterlist.

sharing a bed series part 2/8. because it’s the cheesiest most classic trope and it’s FUN.

-

pairing: lee know/reader content info: sexual content. friends2lovers, sharing a bed trope. reader&minho had an argument. reader gets pussy eaten. minho likes to tease.

inspired by the cinematic masterpiece known to the world as lee know log 9, aka that vlog where minho went camping and i never recovered.

-

There is a perpetual hum around the campsite, heaters and lamps and cookers buzzing through the night, plus the rain has started coming down harder.  Its restless patter over the tarp of the luxury tent is more a nuisance than relaxing. 

The noise is not why you are still awake.   Your insomnia is the cause of good old-fashioned guilt. 

You and Minho lost your reservation thanks to some traffic delays and the campsite only had single-bed tents available by the time you arrived.  You have been sharing a bed all weekend, but right now you are alone.  Minho stormed out an hour ago, claiming he needed a walk to clear his head after your argument.

The argument you started. 

All weekend, you’ve been testing Minho’s seemingly infallible patience.  Minho might joke around sharply, but he’s a secret softy and it’s hard to get him genuinely angry.  You could feel yourself being a ridiculous ass but, like everything else of late, it felt out of control.  You were like a third party watching your own stupid argument, unable to stop yourself and unable to help him.  He was the mature one, leaving to find some space.

Even if it was after calling you ridiculous and uptight.      

You didn’t cry.  You didn’t let yourself cry.  Maybe you can’t control anything else, but you can control that. 

Now, you just lay in bed and listen to the rain.  You can’t sleep anyway, so you leave the lights on for Minho.   The rain is coming down pretty hard.  You hope he gets back soon.   Much as you don’t want to face him, you are worried about him. 

As if summoned by your thoughts, the tent opens and Minho stomps inside.  He is wearing a backwards hat and a hoodie, neither of which did much to protect him from the downpour.  You look over your shoulder at him, watching him shake himself out.   The wet hat comes off and hits the ground with a slap, the hoodie following.  It leaves him shivering in a t-shirt and shorts, his jaw clenched. 

He turns abruptly, looking right at you.  There is so much intensity in his gaze as he stares at you, slicking his wet hair back.   An unbidden spark of heat bursts inside you.   I want him to look at me like that when he fucks me, you think.  The thought makes you whip away to stare at the white tent wall.  Your heart pounds.   That pounding intensifies when Minho struts up to bed, crossing the space in a few quick strides.  You don’t dare turn around, clutching the blankets and staring at the wall.

He turns off the lights.  Then you hear him leave, disappearing into the small bathroom joined to your tent. 

You exhale.  It takes a while to come down from the burst of adrenaline, but it has mostly dwindled by the time Minho returns.  You hear him moving about in the dark.  You lay straight as a board, your back to him. 

You stare through the dark at nothing.  You know you should apologize for earlier but you can’t bring yourself to speak.   You just breathe. 

Minho climbs into the bed.  It dips under his weight and you feel a flood of warmth from his company.  He has toweled himself dry and changed into sweatpants and a dry t-shirt.  He smells fresh and clean, and just a little woodsy. The bed is not very big so he bumps you as he lays down.  It makes your heart race again, which just makes you cringe. 

The rain has slowed.  It still patters against the roof of the tent, but gently.  

The quiet makes the silence between you even more tense.  It feels heavier than the blankets, dense and suffocating.   You swallow. 

The argument was your fault.  Everything that went wrong this weekend was your fault.  You’ve been on edge and quick to overreaction, uncharacteristic to your usual composure.  You could tell it was worrying Minho but he has never been the type to pry.  No, he waits until he is asked, which would be great if you knew how to ask.  Hug me, hold me, help me.   You don’t know how to ask for the things you want.   So you just continued to spiral, taking it out on him.  

It should be you turning around, you facing him, you apologizing, but it’s Minho who rolls over.  You freeze when he wraps his arms around you and hugs you tight from behind.   He doesn’t quite kiss your shoulder, but he presses his face there for a second.  Wisps of his dyed blonde hair tickle your face.  You can imagine his eyes closing when he sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “I shouldn’t have said that shit.  I don’t even know why we were fighting.  Just call it my fault, okay?  I shouldn’t have taken a city girl camping.”   

He is trying to joke with you.  His friendliness is what gets you.  Even after everything, he is still so good to you.   

You put a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sound when you start crying.  It’s a useless effort because your shoulders shake and Minho can feel it.  Resigned to your pitiful state, you let your gasps shudder out of you. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, rolling you onto your back.  He wipes his thumbs over your wet cheeks, staring down at you with his brow furrowed in confusion.  “I was just kidding.  I’m sorry.  Take a free slap.”  He grabs your hand and lightly taps his own cheek with it. 

It does make you laugh, but it’s a watery sound, rippling through your tears. 

“Minho,” you say miserably, “I lost my job.” 

Understanding fills his expression.  You can’t bear to look at him, so you roll towards him to hide your face in his chest.   He lets you, wrapping an arm around you and rubbing your back as you make a blubbery mess on his shirt.   You tell him the whole story, about the promotion you lost to someone else, about the sudden downsizing and subsequent firing.   You are someone who functions with meticulous planning so your life being upended sent you hurtling into an unfamiliar state of panic.  

“That’s why I went out alone the other night,” you say.  Your tears have slowed to hiccups by now.  “I know it was stupid and it made you mad.  I just felt like I was gonna explode.” 

Hopping bars and picking up random men is very out of wont for you.   That’s why you did it.  Minho was less than pleased when he found out you went wandering around downtown at night, inebriated and alone.   His scolding was reasonable but you were beyond reason.

He goes stiff when you mention it now, though he doesn’t stop rubbing your back. 

“I wasn’t mad,” he says after a minute.  “I was just worried.  And…”

You peek up at him.  He sighs and groans and yells all at once, an amazing feat of sound, throwing his head back so it thumps hard against the headboard. 

“I was jealous,” he says bitterly. 

“Jealous,” you say.  “Of me?”  

“Yes.”  He gives you a very sarcastic look.   “I wished it was me in that little black dress going out and—no.  Obviously not of you.  Why do you always torture me like this?   Go cry on the floor.”  He jostles you but jokingly, still holding you against him. 

You laugh a little, resting your head on his shoulder.  Your head feels fuzzy and you don’t think it’s from crying.  Minho just admitted he was jealous of you going out with some other guy.   It feels like your heart is doing circus tricks. 

“There was nothing to be jealous of anyway,” you say softly.  “We didn’t do anything.  He insisted he was, um, really good with, uh, his mouth, you know, but then, like, the more he insisted, um, you know me, I started thinking too hard and, um, he couldn’t make me, well…”

“Keep stammering.  It makes me feel less embarrassed about myself.”   

“Minho.”  You slap his chest.  His laugh is more of a maniacal cackle, his demeanour having shifted back to glee at your admission.   You lift your head to look at him, biting your lip, noticing how his eyes go to your mouth.  “He wound up leaving before it could go farther,” you say, your words startling him into meeting your gaze.  You know it’s a petty blow, but you can’t help but admit, “He said I was too uptight and left.”

Minho’s whole face scrunches up like he just got punched in the gut.   

“No,” he says.  “No.   You’re just saying that to bully me.  I didn’t call you the same thing as that idiot.”   

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“No.” He groans again, closing his eyes and kicking his feet.  “Ahhhhhhh.  I should be shot!”  

You are laughing properly now, clinging to him as he squirms in horror.          

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Oh really?”  He cocks an eyebrow at you, his mouth a grim line. 

“Well.”  You burst into laughter all over again.  “Maybe just a little!” 

He laughs hard at that, shaking his head, but still retaliates by tickling you.  Your laughter turns hysterical, peels of giggles as he pokes every ticklish inch of skin. 

“Minhoooo,” you whine to no avail.  He just grins and continues his attack. 

Your wriggling pushes the blankets off the bed.  You try and whack him with a pillow so that hits the floor too.  Soon it is just you and Minho and some dishevelled bedsheets, you on your back with him leaning over you.   You are both out of breath, both smiling.  His hands are by your head, cradling you under him, while yours are on his chest as if preparing to push. 

The room feels quiet, the silence again tense.  But this tension is not rife with the same uncertainty as before.   It is not guilt or shame, but a longing that comes from the whispered confession that he was jealous of the last man in your bed, the simple reality that he is sharing your bed right now.     

You do not push him away.  You hook your fingers in the collar of his shirt and pull.  His elbows bend as he swoops down, meeting your raised head.  He kisses you, deep and hot and slow, gently pressing your head back into the plush bed.  Your squirming is very different now, legs opening to make room for him to settle between them.  He feels so good on top of you, the feeling of his strong thighs between your legs, of his chest under your hands, wisps of hair brushing your face as he kisses and kisses and kisses you. 

The kiss ends when you are simply too breathless to continue.  He rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard. 

“Wow,” you say softly.  You look at him.  His dark eyes are often severe in a playful way and right now they are intense, seductive, and it isn’t a joke.   You touch his bottom lip, holding his gaze while he kisses the tips of your fingers.   “Just so you know, that kiss was way better than everything that happened the other night.”

He grins at that. 

“Oh,” he says.  “Really?” 

“Yeah.”  You watch him kiss your fingers again, then your palm.  He looks at you as he dips a little lower, kissing the inside of your wrist.  You are hypnotized by the heat of his dark stare, so you speak without thinking much.  “Everything you do turns me on, though,” you say.  “Even earlier, when you were crushing that garlic with the knife—”

His seduction breaks with a little laugh and he raises both eyebrows. 

“Garlic?” he asks.  “The garlic got you hot?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” you say, pouting.  “You already made me cry once tonight…”

“Oh, is that what happened?” he says.  “Sure, okay, let’s play.  I made you cry.   I should make it up to you?”

“Mhm…”

“Well then.”  He leans in close to kiss you but he lingers for a torturously long time, just hovering above your lips.   Then he abruptly pulls away.  He kneels upright and sits back on his heels.   

Confused, you push yourself up on your elbows.   He is looking around the room and tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“What is it?” you ask.   

“Hmm?”  He looks at you, tilting his head as if you are the confusing one.  “What?  I’m just looking for some garlic, since you’re into that for some reason.  Give me a minute to remember where I put it.”  

“Ahhh, I hate you!”  You flop back down, covering your face with your hands. 

Minho, diabolical creature that he is, throws back his head and laughs.  He tries to pry your hands off your face but you stubbornly hold on.  He sighs with theatrical exasperation and gives up.  

You hear the rustle of fabric.  Curious, you peek between your fingers.  Minho is staring down at you with a single eyebrow cocked, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips.  That smirk grows as he reaches back, flexing his arms before grabbing the back of his t-shirt and pulling.  Your hands fall away from your face completely, your eyes drinking in the gradual reveal of skin as he pulls his shirt off.   It lands somewhere on the floor, forgotten. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding curtly.  “Your turn.”  He makes a come-hither motion with two fingers.  “Come on.  Hurry up.” 

Your brain has short-circuited.  It takes a second to make sense of his request and another minute to actually do it.  You sit up long enough to peel your shirt off, then flop back down where you continue to stare at him.   You are checking each other out, looking up and down.   Your eyes goes over his bare chest and down, your mouth falling open. 

You breath catches when he cups his hardening dick through his sweatpants, rubbing the heel of his hand there. 

You meet his gaze, already breathing harder.

“What else then?” he says, still stroking himself through his clothes as he looks at you. 

“Uh, ah, erm, hm—”

“You said everything I do turns you on.”  He falls forward and catches himself on both hands, so suddenly you gasp.   Once again his arms cage you in, his face close to yours.  His hips come down heavy between your legs, his dick hard where it presses intimately against you.  “So,” he says.  “What else then?” 

“Oh.”  You are staring at his mouth, gaze heavy-lidded when he rocks against you.  “Um.  Well.  Sometimes when you’re driving in reverse and you put your hand on my headrest, it kinda—” 

Once again, his seduction attempt is thwarted when he can’t help but laugh.  He drops his head, laughing harder when you lightly smack him.    

“Stop asking if you’re just gonna laugh!” you say, even while laughing too. 

“Okay,” he says.  “Garlic and driving in reverse.  I’m learning so much.” 

“I’m gonna kill you.” 

“That would be very rude,” he says.  “Especially since I’m about to go down on you.” 

“You—wha—ohhh—”

You grab his head instinctively, fingers sinking into the natural dark roots of his dyed hair, just as he dips down to press kisses on your chest.  You arch under him as his mouth finds every sensitive spot, licking sweetly and biting meanly, as to be expected from Minho.  By the time he reaches the waistband of your shorts, you are panting and wriggling and clawing at him desperately.   

You don’t even have time to overthink.  The world and all its troubles fall away for the time being.  

You will figure things out.  You always do.  Right now, you let yourself lose control.   You usually hate the feeling, but in this moment you don’t mind at all, because Minho has you.   You trust him completely.  Surrender is easy.   

The rest of your clothes join the messy heap on the floor.  He runs his hand smoothly along the inside of your thigh before guiding it over his shoulder.   He kisses there, then kisses you excruciatingly chastely between your legs.  When you try and move, he keeps you steady, the sturdy hands that captivated you now holding you firmly in place. 

When he finally stops torturing you, he gives you everything at once: a long, hot lick right up your centre.  Again, your fingers find his hair.  He doesn’t complain or lose focus even though you are scratching at him a bit ferociously.  Ever a skilled worker, he stays on task.  It is so deft and swift and thorough; you get so wet and slippery that you can feel it running it down your skin.  

When you get close, your hips lift but he brings you back.  He looks up between your thighs as he brings you over the edge.  Your legs shake and your eyes close and you bite your hand just a little, trying not to be too noisy in the middle of the night at a campsite. 

He climbs back up when finished, looking like a very smug feline as he wipes his face on the back of his hand.   

“On a scale of garlic to driving in reverse—” he starts. 

You playfully cuff the side of his head. 

“That good?” he continues to tease. 

You roll your eyes but smile.   You think it is a seductive smile, but you do feel a little wrecked.   Still, you stay on task too, sliding your hand down his chest, down, down, down and—

“Oh,” you say.  You look down at the same time as him.  A noticeable wet stain is on the front of his sweatpants.  “You already—”

He flops down beside you and sighs.

“Sorry,” he says.  “You weren’t the only one amazed with my sexy performance.” 

“That’s okay,” you say with a laugh.  You roll over to rest your head on his chest.  His arm comes down around you, hand running down your naked back.  You giggle when he cups and squeezes your ass.  You dance your fingers down his pants to the wet spot where he came.  “I think it’s kinda hot, actually.” 

Minho came from eating you out.  Of course you think it’s hot. 

And of course he has to be Minho about it. 

“Okay,” he says.  “Garlic. Driving in reverse.  Premature ejaculation.  Uptight was definitely the wrong word.  I honestly don’t know if I can keep up with a freak like you—”

“Ugh!”  You roll away and turn your back to him, mostly to hide the fact you are laughing at his stupid joke. 

He follows you, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you from behind.  This time he kisses your shoulder properly, once, twice, three times.  All the way up your neck to your ear and just behind it. 

“You’re lucky I like you so much,” you whisper. 

“I like you too,” he whispers back, kissing your shoulder again. 

You smile and close your eyes, listening to the rain and letting yourself snuggle safely in his arms. 

[shhuuga]

im sorry but kitchen sex w lee know would be so heavenly. like you’d just be cooking dinner peacefully then all the sudden your bf just comes up from behind to scoop you and turn you around.

then it just turns into a heated makeout session next thing u know your bent over the kitchen counter being pounded into mercessily!!!

AGHJGHFHDHSHDJSSJ

[HTTPS]fuckin' mess.[.ORG]

(this is so bad m sorry, im a bit out of it but thought i'd give yall something to gnaw on while i finish up the final touches on the revamp of big barbie !!)

warning!! this url contains: [ cussin, unprotected $3X, cr3amp1ez, br33din kynk, cum 3ating, nd 0v3rstim ! you've been warned 🙀 smut under da cut! ]

it was like a scene from a movie. the rain outside was pattering against the windows of your shared house with now clear signs of letting up. you stood over the warm slow cooker, taking a spoonful of the curry you were making, trying to decide if it was too spicy for your whiny boyfriend to handle. (if you put too much pepper in his food he'll cry about it, but he'll drown his food in hot sauce) when the food hits your taste buds, you smile contently, just the way you like.

"babyyyy" minho drags himself into the kitchen, his lanky figure hunched over. "im cold."

"that might be because you're shirtless and the heat isn't on, min." you turn around to get a good look at him, wrapping your arms around his neck while giving him one, two, three quick kisses, rolling your eyes as you see his lips are still puckered and give him a fourth.

"you're so smart, my love.." lino nips, his tone sarcastic and cheeky. he lets you go back to tending to the food, thinking for a moment before pushing up behind you, kissing your neck.

"miiin, what're you doing?" you know the answer. he's trying to get you away from your cooking, trying to direct your focus to him. you push back against his cock, feeling it get harder through his sweatpants. fuck, it was working.

"i just want kisses" his voice was smooth, like it always was when he lied. his teeth started lightly grazing right over your soft spot, lapping at it like a kitten. you took a look at the timer set for the food, then at the big, veiny arms that were circling your waist and turned around, softly pushing minho into the kitchen island.

his lips immediately met yours as he picked you up, hands under your butt as he spun the both of you around, setting you on the island. he leaned in, pushing you down softly with his chest to yours until you were holding yourself up by your elbows. the brunette's hands moved from your butt to your thighs, caressing and squeezing your brown skin.

"we'll be done before the food's ready. just wanna get warm.." he leans in to kiss your neck, his hands moving to slip your sweatpants off and push your his shirt up on your waist.

"mhm, whatever you say, min." your voice is sarcastic, knowing he's just horny, not cold. when he shuffles you out of your pants, a chill hits your clit, making you clench around nothing. mim groans at the sight of you, pulling his cock out of his pants before sliding the tip up and down from your clit to your hole, whimpering a little.

"you goin soft, honey?" despite the fact that you were feeling the same thing he was, you teased him. seeing him being soft and submissive was something you almost never got to see with minho, and he hated the power you have over him.

"are you?" his eyes meet yours, his dick sliding inside you, all the way to the hilt. he didn't bother waiting, the way you moaned out and gripped his bicep telling him all he needed to know.

his pace was brutally pleasuring. his dick hitting your g-spot every time he thrusted into you, making it hard for anything to come out of your mouth but broken attempts at saying his name.

"mi..min! ohhh, fuck- don't, don't stop!" you could feel his breathing picking up, a sheen starting to cover his forehead as he started fucking you impossibly faster, his hips not letting up in any capacity. your eyes started to roll back him your head as you shut your eyes, the feeling of an orgasm bubbling in your belly.

"nuh uh, no. look at me- fuck- fucking look at me, baby. i wanna see you, open your eyes." his left hand reaches up to grip your chin softly, in contrast to everything going on beneath it. the hickeys forming on your neck, your titties bouncing in your shirt, and most importantly your boyfriend's dick pounding into your pussy mercilessly.

you open your eyes, biting your lip before letting out one more "baby!" before cumming all over minho's cock. it only takes him four more pumps before he cums too, staying buried inside you even after the fact. kissing your neck and leaving even more hickeys in his wake.

he pulls out after another two minutes, immediately attaching his mouth to your kitty to your complete surprise.

"min! oh, fuck, what're you doing?" your manicured fingers reach his hair in seconds, your head lolling back again.

"ts your fault.." he mumbles into your pussy, his nose bumping into your clit.

"you made such a fuckin' mess."

[0mg-bird]

Cake Batter ~B Floyd x Fem! Reader

Summary: How Bob comes home to an expected mess, both of his girlfriend and the dinner.

Warnings: Just fluff and some language.

You practically danced around the kitchen, making sure all the different things you had going were turning out the way you planned. You had sent Bob off to work after a morning of rolling around in bed, apologizing that he had to spend his birthday with fighter pilots and not you in lingerie. Then, you had showered and gotten dressed and rushed off to the store. You were determined to make his favorite meal, all from scratch, so you searched the store for every ingredient needed. You never claimed to be a chef, but you were going to try your hardest to make the best dish possible for the man you’ve been in love with for six years.

Music played in the background as you danced around the kitchen, mixing things in this bowl, seasoning vegetables in that one. You truly believed there was a method to your madness.

Then, slowly, it started falling apart.

Your cornbread burns in the oven, the roast you started early somehow still isn’t tender, you forgot to add the carrots in to simmer with the broth and you start questioning if the lettuce for a side salad is rotten or not.

Panic starts to set in when the clock inches closer to the time Bob said he’d be home. You turn the heat up in the slow cooker, then try and focus on making his birthday cake instead.

While pulling another mixing bowl down, you get lost in thought. Hands wiping at your apron, you huff at the remembrance of your families doubt. They make countless jokes about all the faults you’ve been through over the years. Bleaching your laundry, locking keys in the car, forgetting to pay the water bill, and most of all, soiling every meal in some way.

It’s like you’re a bad omen when it comes to every task an adult should complete successfully.

Your father once said the real reason Bobby didn’t pop the question was because he was scared of having a wife who’d accidentally poison him.

You shake yourself free from that absurd claim, then go back to your measurements.

How much flour did you put in already? Was that too much sugar?

You shrug, humming to yourself as you turn to the fridge and retrieve some eggs.

Cracking them open, you drop half the shells in the batter, making you curse and fish them out with a spoon. Whisking away, you don’t see the initial spark of the outlet where the slow cooker is plugged into, but when you smell something odd, you see the flame coming from the wall.

You gasp and shout, hastily setting the mixing bowl down, it teeters on the edge of the counter.

You grab a towel, trying to throw it over the fire, this is when you really begin to panic. The flame burns your hand, making you cry out but continue to smother it until it extinguishes. Tears well in your eyes from the pain, but when you hear the crash of the bowl and turn to see the cake batter splatter everywhere on the floor, you cry with defeat.

What do you do now?

You’ve ruined it all.

You immediately grab a wet rag and sink to the mess, trying to wipe it up. Your hair falls in your face, tears fall fiercely.

As far as your dearest Bobby goes, he pulls into the driveway, relieved he is finally home. His key turns in the door, and he expects you to be reading on the couch, maybe watching a movie. He pictures you greeting him with a kiss, telling him about dinner reservations you made maybe. What he doesn’t envision is the scene unfolding as he comes into his small house.

“Honey?” He calls, clicking off the stereo. Immediately he hears the sound of your cries. Panic floods him.

He follows the sound into the kitchen, a brisk pace about him. There, he finds you on the floor, wiping up a mess, covered in cake batter, face red, loose hair falling against your damp cheeks.

“What happened?” He asks, and your eyes lift to him with pure sadness. You speak but your words are sobbing and broken. “I-I was making dinner and then the-the cornbread burned because I left it in too long while chopping vegetables and I forgot the carrots and I put too much flour in the cake and then the kitchen caught on fire-”

“Fire?” He panics, looking around, sure enough there’s a large scorch mark on the wall where the outlet is.

“Mhm.” You nod, getting to your feet. “And I didn’t know what to do- why don’t we have a fire extinguisher? And then the batter fell and made a mess and I was trying to clean it up before you came home and saw but I wasn’t fast enough and now it’s all ruined!”

He comes forward, not caring that he’s stepping in the residue of batter. He holds your shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay, just breathe.” He shushes, but you can’t even look at him.

“I ruined it, it’s not okay! I-I had a plan, I was determined but I fucked it up.”

His arms are wrapping around you, his hand on the back of your head, he’s whispering to you to calm down, that everything’s okay.

“I’m sorry, Bobby.” You cry into his shoulder.

“It was an accident, I’m not mad at you.” He says, pulling you back. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears that come. “Just breathe, you didn’t ruin nothing, okay?”

You shut your eyes, nodding. Your hands go to hold his wrists, but you wince at the pain. His eyes widen. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“I burned myself.” You sniffle, lifting your hand to show him.

Bob pulls you to the sink, holding your wound under cold water to give you some relief. “It’s just been a rough day, huh?” He asks, not in a mocking tone. He’s so utterly genuine, you want to cry all over again because he’s too perfect for you.

“I wanted you to feel special, I was going to master your favorite meal and it was going to be great.” You say, feeling defeated.

“I believe you, and I bet it was gonna be great, baby.” He says, grabbing a towel and wrapping your hand.

As he guides you away, lifting you to sit on the counter top, he kisses your fingers before going to grab the first aid kit.

You feel dumb, it was his birthday and yet he was talking care of you.

He gently rubs some Vaseline over the burn, then wraps it with a bandage. “See? All better, and the world didn’t end.” He smiles at you.

You shake your head. “I’d make a terrible wife.” You say, looking down at your feet.

Bob’s brows furrow, not liking the way you talk about yourself. “Hey…” He says, rubbing your knee. “Who says that, huh?”

“Me. My family.” You admit, wiping your face.

“Well, that’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it?” He asks, coming to stand between your legs. His finger lifts your jaw, forcing your head up to look at him. “One bad meal doesn’t matter.”

“I am a terrible cook, I over season, I burn, I make a mess. I can’t even cook a frozen pizza.” You say, and he pauses.

He can’t deny it, but he won’t say that.

“You’ll get better with time. Besides, I can cook so it’s fine.” He pushes your hair back, smiling.

“I’m cursed, Bobby, that’s why you don’t want to marry me.” You huff, looking into his big blue eyes that squint a little at your accusation. “I never said I didn’t wanna marry ‘yuh.” He says.

“But-”

“But nothin’. I’d marry you tomorrow if it was up to me, honey, but I want to make sure we are settled in every aspect before I make you my wife. It has nothing to do with whatever curse you think you have. You ain’t got no curse, you’re perfect.” He means every word, cradling your head with his gentle hand.

Slowly, you nod. “I’m sorry your birthday wasn’t better.”

He pulls you from the counter. “I came home to you, my birthday was great.”

His sideways smile makes the corners of your lips lift, and suddenly you’re leaning into him, kissing him deeply. Bob grips your hips, holding you to him as he groans at the fever of your mouth.

After a moment, he pulls back. “Let’s clean up and then we’ll go out to eat, okay?”

You nod, kissing his cheek. “Okay.”

All this mess over some cake batter.

[jintaka-hane]

Put the goggles on

Masterlist

Two idiots who don't dare to make the move

🥽 Paulie and you have been dating for three months.

🥽 A year ago, you were hired by Galley-La Company as an accountant to assist Iceburg in financial management. As part of your professional responsibilities, you had to meet with different foremen every 15 days to evaluate the procured materials, their expenses, and how they influenced the company's financial performance.

🥽 The accounts with Paulie never added up, so you found yourself forced to see him more often, which allowed you to get to know each other better. Every time you met with him he would have a stupid grin on his face, and everyone around you noticed.

🥽Two bets were made behind your backs at the company. The first, that Paulie would fall in love with you and ask you out within a year. The second, that you would turn him down. 

🥽They got the first one right, but missed on the second.

🥽 Long before he even gathered the courage to invite you on a date, you could sense his interest in you from his nervous demeanor whenever you were near and the awkward way he expressed himself. You found his shyness endearing, but you were determined that if he wanted something with you, he had to gather the determination to ask for it himself.

🥽 When he finally gathered the nerve to ask you out, stumbling and blushing like a teenager, you thought he was incredibly cute, and knowing he's a good guy decided to give him a chance.

🥽 Now, you are in a sort of relationship.

🥽 Your dates are innocent, going for walks, dinner, or to the movies, him always treating you with respect and never crossing the line. At most, you've managed to hold hands without him fainting from the embarrassment. He's so in love with you that aside from the ropes he carries hidden in his clothes, he always reserves one for you, just in case you ever need his protection.

🥽 You've never had any problems with showing your body, but knowing him, you try to take it slow, always opting for simple clothes like long jeans, and T-shirts that cover your belly. You're confident that over time, he won't get so nervous.

🥽 He believes you're not dressing like this for him, but that it's truly your style, and he respects you a lot for it, thinking he's found his ideal woman.

🥽 The problem will come later...

🥽 The first kiss comes. You decide to take the step because you know if you don't, it'll never happen. At your doorstep, just before saying goodbye, you grab him by the jacket and press your lips against his. He turns completely red, his ears burning, and his goggles fogging up, but to your surprise, he responds quite well and goes along with you. However, he keeps his hands in his pockets while you're kissing.

🥽 As the days go by, the kisses become more frequent and linger a bit longer, but he never touches you more than, perhaps, caressing your cheeks. He wants to respect you as you deserve.

🥽 The problem is that you don't want him to respect you anymore...

🥽 This situation begins to frustrate him as well, and unconsciously, his mind starts to conjure scenarios he's ashamed of, situations where you do embarrassing things to him and vice versa... sometimes involving his ropes. He feels deeply guilty for his imagination, and in an exaggerated sense of extreme loyalty, he decides to save himself for you for when the time comes, refraining from... pleasuring himself. If you're a chaste goddess, he wants to be worthy of you.

🥽 You're not a chaste goddess and you're starting to grow impatient.

🥽 Days pass, and the man is like a damn pressure cooker about to explode. He's always tense and in need of relief as soon as possible, but he won't do it. For love, he won't do it.

🥽 You know him well enough to notice that he's under a lot of tension, especially evident in his increasingly frequent rough behavior with others (never with you). You decide to take a step to address it, and one night, before he leaves after the goodbye kiss at your doorstep, you invite him in. The invitation catches him by surprise; it's late, and it might not be socially acceptable for a man to enter a woman's house at that hour, but eventually, he accepts.

🥽 Entering the living room, you invite him to sit down while you prepare some beverages in the kitchen, giving him some time to get used to the surroundings. When you return with the drinks, you see that he has taken off his goggles and has seated himself at the far end of the sofa. You sigh and sit down on the other side. For a few seconds, you both look at each other.

🥽 He's deeply ashamed to even entertain such thoughts, but he feels an overwhelming desire to suddenly grab you, tear your clothes off, and take you on the couch. Yet, he's terrified that you'll see it as disrespectful towards you. He's convinced that if you're with him, it's because of how he behaves with you, and he fears that if he acts on his impulses, you'll think of him as nothing but a damn pervert. He doesn't want to lose you.

🥽 You're consumed by the desire for him to suddenly grab you, lay you down on the couch, and take you right there, but you're terrified of hinting at it and having him think you're easy, risking losing his interest. You don't want to lose him.

🥽 You both remain seated on the sofa, maintaining a safe distance, talking about uninteresting topics, without anything happening, in an awkward and uncomfortable situation.

🥽 In a moment of tension, he stands up under the pretext of going to smoke on the balcony, stepping out into the cold night with the hope that it will clear his head and provide him with some idea of how to approach you without scaring you.

🥽 You remain seated on the sofa, watching his silhouette in the balcony window, pondering how you can get closer to him without scaring him. And suddenly... an idea strikes you. Perhaps with him, instead of removing clothing, adding more might work! Determined, you grab his goggles from the table and put them on.

🥽 He prepares to enter the living room with a downcast expression, thinking he hasn't a clue how to approach you and fearing you'll become frustrated and leave him for someone more assertive. As soon as he steps into the room and catches sight of you, he freezes in place.

🥽  You're standing on the table, smiling broadly, with both hands on your hips. Looking at him, you say cheekily: "Look at me! I'm a foreman at Dock One! Specialized in rigging, knots, and masts. What do you need, sir?"

🥽  He stands there, gazing at you without moving for a few seconds, until gradually, a blush appears on his cheeks. A shy smile begins to form on his lips, slowly widening until it transforms into a hearty laugh. You find yourself laughing too, pleased that your ice-breaking idea has worked. Then, rushing towards you, he sweeps you up in his arms embracing you tightly, and kisses you passionately.

🥽  You return the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as you feel his hands slide down your back beneath your shirt, caressing your skin. "At last!" you think to yourself.

🥽  With a determined move, he scoops you up in a bridal carry position as you gasp in surprise. "Where's the bedroom?" he asks, unable to separate his lips from yours.

🥽  "At the end of the hallway," you respond instantly, reaching for the goggles to remove them.

🥽 He swiftly grasps your hands to prevent you. "No, please..." he says with a mischievous grin on his face, "keep them on".

.

[archieimagines]

Imagine finding Niragi after the Beach.

first time writing aib! i haven't written in a while so i was definitely a little rusty, but i'll have more free time from now on so ideally the next ones will be better! warnings: niragi. a drastically unhealthy relationship (of course), niragi slander, burn injuries and gore, guns, problematic grief, mentions of massacre. if you have any triggers i doubt you'd want to even look at this man, apologies. requested by: @nonsocosamett3r3. can't tag, but i hope you see this! for now, aib requests are open! written by: archie support me on ko-fi!

The store was quiet, only tainted by the sound of lit gas heating your ramen and the quiet bubbling of the soup.

Your eyes fixed on the flame like it was magnetic. After the horrors of the Beach, something just drew you to it. That little flame…

Amazing.

Amazing how something so small could grow so big that it would engulf the whole resort. The whole community. Your whole future, and who you'd planned to spend it with.

You’d loved Suguru for so long, even before you’d arrived in this world. You’d vowed to love him as long as you were alive, but that was before he’d given into his brewing internal sickness.

It hurt too hard to think it. It utterly carved your heart to think that his only relief from himself might take fire and flames. The only way to be kind to him would be to let him die, and finally, it came. He was better off dead, and yet... you couldn’t help aching for him.

He was the one person you’d come into this with. The one person you knew you could trust. Even when he was at his worst. 

You shook your head. It wouldn’t do to dwell on how he’d protected you from the witch trial. How he’d given you a pistol and told you to hide on the roof. “Wait for me up there,” he’d said, a firm hand on your back to nudge you towards the stairs, his spare pistol pressed into your palms. “Anyone aims at you and they’re dead.”

Even at his worst, his most unhinged, he still took care of you. He was never all ba-

No. Thinking like this would only make it harder. You needed to focus on how he was a murderer, how he was manic, how he embodied all of humanity’s darkest traits. Perhaps then, you could function in this world without him.

A sigh. The cooker’s flame danced before you, and all you could see in your mind was Niragi. How the fire clung to him. How he screamed and thrashed—

You shut the gas off.

No, you couldn’t look at it. The flame.

The spices in the ramen no longer smelled good; they churned your stomach and the burn of suppressed tears sat in your sinuses. Your head dropped into your hands, the heels of your palms pressed to your eyes. You wouldn’t cry over him. He was a murderer. A sadistic, psychopathic, narcissistic—

A clatter behind you.

“Auh, phuck.”

Panic pushed you to your feet, your breath hitched. You’d perched in the homewares aisle with your campfire cooker, and wherever that distorted voice came from was barely two aisles back.

It was so dark, you were so tired, and so many people hated you. Not even through any fault of your own. You didn’t choose to love the most hated man at the Beach. You were an easy target and anyone who recognised you surely wouldn’t hesitate, so you grabbed for the pistol from your belt and readied yourself for an assault. You’d not die at the hands of an angry Beach resident tonight.

Slow footsteps took you through the store, startled every time you heard a grunt or a clash. Someone was rummaging through the shelves and audibly struggling.

The smash of a glass bottle on the floor, then a strained voice. “Phuckin ‘ell.”

You neared the corner of the aisle and peered around, pistol held out before you. You only hoped they couldn’t hear the trembling rattle of your hold on it.

What you saw was inconclusive. Someone with a flashlight held in their mouth, pointed at shelves full of medical wares. They struggled with gathering supplies, knocking them over instead and hissing in pain, but you couldn’t gather a single feature.

This was your chance to strike a new alliance. They were clearly wounded and in no fighting condition, so you could easily best them if you needed to, but… Would it really be worth it to make a connection with someone that may surely hold back your chances in a game?

You had half a mind to turn away, leave them to their own struggling devices-

But the choice was taken. A loud groan and the flashlight dropped from the person’s mouth, clattered to the floor, and rolled a few inches.

The stream of light pointed directly to your shoe and lit up the tip of your weapon.

You might’ve expected the person to be startled with the realisation that they weren’t alone, to stumble back or at least gasp. But instead, you were met with an audible sneer.

“Ah. Gonna kill me?”

The end of your pistol still pointed into the darkness, though you could just barely see the silhouette of your target. And oh, you quivered. Your aim was as fractured as your heart, and you’d never held anyone in place with your aim before. It was clear to see.

A familiar snort. “You couldn’t hit me if you tried.”

Your brows tugged together. Your voice had left you entirely, chest heaving with the growing panic at how this tall figure found no sense of danger in you. And yet, that voice was so…

“S-Suguru?”

“Oh?” A beat of silence, and then a soft, sore laugh. “I taught you better than to tremble, baby.”

You almost dropped the pistol. It couldn’t be. You’d seen him fall off the roof shrouded in flame, and it’d been long days. Death was the only escape for him, and he needed it. But here he was, and you couldn’t help but hope it was true.

You dove for that flashlight to check that your wants hadn’t deceived you and scooped it up to point directly at Niragi to take him in in all his… misery.

Your heart broke. The sound of it was a distraught gasp, instant tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Suguru…”

His gorgeous skin was rippled with the fusion of the fire. His hair ragged and burnt, chest and arms crimson, raw and leaking with infectious fluids.

His face scrunched with immediate hatred, his voice a pained hiss as he turned away. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking pity me.”

“I’m not-“

“Don’t.”

Ah, this was your Suguru. Blunt and dismissive, hostile even to you, but you knew how to handle him. You didn’t let him see dizzying wave of relief that drowned you, you held back those tears. Even if he was the most hated man in this realm, he was yours. You weren’t alone in this world anymore.

You took a brief moment to breathe and let your head calm before stepping in close, light shining on his arms. The skin had melted, black patches of fabric stuck into his skin, all the way up to his bare torso. But he didn’t like you looking.

He snatched away the light and the next thing you knew, you were blinded. Your eyes squinted against it, blinking, brows tugged together as you tried to seek out his face once more against the light.

A delicate hand to your cheek, a soft sigh. That was the sound of lazy Sunday mornings with him, the sound he’d always made with his nose buried into your hair.

You let your eyes close, transporting back to simpler times with his touch. His thumb ran so gently across your cheekbone and for the briefest moment you could pretend things were normal, that he was just your boyfriend back in Tokyo. Your beautiful, troubled, bespectacled boyfriend.

If only he didn’t smell of ash and molten flesh, you could have convinced yourself that nothing had changed.

His touch dropped away, the light directed away and your eyelids fluttered open once more. His gaze was so soft on yours. How could this boy with beautiful doe eyes ever hurt another? Perhaps… Just perhaps, he’d learned his lesson. He didn’t deserve this life.

“Let me see,” you murmured, carefully taking the flashlight from his hold. He was like a lost child as he watched you inspect his chest, so gentle as you opened his shirt to see the scarring. You couldn’t help the grimace as you peeled some of the sticky fabric from yellowed, skinless flesh, but he didn’t even wince. He just watched you quietly, intimately.

You met that gaze, and the butterflies in your chest were dizzying. “I’ll dress it for you. Okay?”

A grunt of agreement.

[maple-seed]

Thrown - Chapter 48: Myth and Mortal

Summary: Loki attempts to come to terms with your nature.

Word Count: 1,667

Author's Notes: We're all in this together, okay? I'm not immune to the feelings.

Thrown Masterlist Loki Masterlist

You hadn't invited Loki. You hadn't mentioned it, even. Loki wouldn't have known at all if it weren't for Thor.

"I apologize for not attending lunch yesterday. I had to be here to receive an important shipment." Thor gestured at the hall, which was bustling with the finishing stages of construction. He put on a sly smirk. "I would be available tomorrow, if you felt I needed to make it up to you." You laughed. "Maybe dinner instead? Tomorrow is Gerdy's birthday. I usually bring her flowers." Thor nodded. "Dinner it is. Please give Gerdy my regards."

That had been all that was said on the matter, but it didn't sit well with Loki, the idea of you going alone. And so the following day the waning morning found him at your doorstep. Knocking on the door was no longer something that occurred to him, and he simply stepped inside. You were in the kitchen, placing ingredients into a slow cooker. No doubt the dinner Thor had negotiated.

You offered him a bright smile as he approached. "Hey, what are you doing here?" He placed a kiss on your cheek. "I would like to join you this afternoon, if that's alright." "Yes." Your smile warmed. "I would like that, thank you."

He helped you with the rest of the preparations for dinner, the two of you had a quick bite for lunch, and then set off together down the road towards town.

The walk was typical, with light conversation and laughter. You stopped at a flower shop in town and selected a small bouquet that primarily featured forget-me-nots. The walk grew quieter as the cemetery grew near, and Loki took your hand as he followed you through the silent plots. The quiet grew heavy. It was a lovely day, the sun was bright and the grass was full and green. The area would be quite pleasant if it weren't for its purpose. Eventually you came to a stop and the both of you looked down at the headstone. Loki glanced over to you, you were wearing an expression of resigned sadness. He squeezed your hand gently, and you met his eyes with a slight smile. You sighed, then bent to place the flowers in the vase attached to the grave marker.

"Happy birthday, Gerdy." You stood and straightened. "I brought Loki with me today."

You then proceeded to speak to her about things in your life, the goings-on of old friends, pottery techniques you were working on. You spoke about Loki, and it was clear this wasn't the first time he had been brought up, which warmed his heart in a way he couldn't quite explain. You spoke to her as if he had known her. In that moment, more than ever, he wished he had. He wanted to know this woman who had been such a powerful impact in your life. Who had sheltered you in a time when you needed it most. In a time before he could. He wondered which parts of you had come from her. He would have liked to see you side-by-side, to recognize the influence himself.

Your one-sided conversation drew to an end. You stood for another moment or two in silent contemplation, then wished Gerdy a farewell. Loki offered her a hushed thanks before turning to follow you again.

The walk back was far more quiet. You hung off his arm as you walked, with your eyes distant. A thought that had been prowling the edges of his mind, held at bay by his duty to you, took this opportunity to strike. He had been fighting it off, but it grew like ice in his stomach now; some day he would be making this walk alone. Some day all too soon, at that.

Mortal. It was a word he had taken for granted, even knowing what it meant. Mortal. Mort. You were named for your death. Suddenly he reviled the word. He may never use it again. It suddenly became clear that he had been harboring a certain amount of denial. Your life was limited, he knew that as a fact, but still some part of him didn't believe it would come to bear. As if somehow, somewhere along the way, he would find some way to save you from your fate and keep you forever. This walk had cast a harsh light on the reality of the situation. He tried to push it out of his mind once more.

Apparently, in the silence, you had been following a similar train of thought.

"I'm going to get old, you know." "Yes, that is the natural order of things." He said matter-of-factly. You rolled your eyes. "What I mean is I'm going to get old and you won't. Every year I'll get more wrinkles and a little flabbier and you'll stay just as young and handsome as ever." "I'll grow even more handsome, I suspect." You chuckled. "I'm sure. What will people think, watching us walk down the street?" "I imagine they will finally question why I am with you, rather than the other way around." He glanced down at you. "It will be a refreshing change of pace." "Please. People don't question that." "Oh, I'm quite certain they do. You simply don't hear the whispers. Perhaps you are already going deaf?" You huffed an exasperated sigh. "You are impossible." He smirked, victorious.

You left it at that, for a few minutes at least, but clearly this was weighing on you. "Really, you don't think it will bother you? Years down the road?" He gave you a reassuring smile as he walked. "I will cherish every line on your face, as they will be tokens of the time I had with you." You bit back a smile. "And the flabby bits?" He clasped your hand in both of his. "A greater surface area on which to bestow my affection." You laughed. "I'm not sure I believe you." "No need. It will all be proven true in time."

The two of you passed out of town and onto the road to your home. Several more minutes passed without a word. Loki could feel something brewing in your thoughts. Your grip on his arm tensed ever so slightly. Still, you didn't say anything, and he was beginning to think it would pass. The two of you were almost to your cottage, walking alongside the low stone wall that enclosed your field, when it came to a head.

"You're going to outlive me." He deftly smothered the panic inside him. "Yes, but I believe finding a replacement shouldn't be terribly difficult. There are literally billions of humans, after all, so my-" "Loki." You came to a halt, he had no choice but to do the same. Your face was drawn into a solemn expression. "When I'm gone-" "Darling-" "Please. It's important." He clenched his jaw and looked down at your hands in his. In this moment they seemed much more fragile. You took a breath. "Promise me that when I'm gone you won't bury yourself too. None of those ideas like your century-of-isolation plan. Don't wall yourself in." He managed a half-smile as he brought a finger to trace your jaw. "Worried that all your good work will be undone?" "You did the work." You mumbled. His smile grew as his hand cupped the back of your neck. "Our joint efforts, then." "Don't do that to yourself." You whispered, clutching his shirt. "Please promise me."

His feet shuffled and he had difficulty meeting your gaze. When he finally looked down at you again he could feel tears threatening the back of his eyes. "I won't be ready." It came out weaker than he anticipated. He looked away and took a breath to steady himself. "It doesn't matter how long-" His voice cracked unexpectedly and he swallowed the rest of that thought. "I won't be ready." You shook your head slightly as you reached up to cradle his face, wearing a sad, sympathetic smile. "We never are."

He pulled you in close, and you let him. Your arms wrapped around his waist while he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You were solid and present beneath his touch, but he knew this was all too ephemeral. He didn't want to move, he didn't want to leave this moment. He wished for some power that would allow him to stretch it out across a thousand years.

He stood with you like that for quite some time. You held him patiently, made no effort to step away. Eventually, Goat had taken notice of the two of you and began making his way across the field, bleating obnoxiously. That finally broke the spell and Loki sighed, taking a step back, but clung to your hand.

"I imagine you have things to do." He murmured as he lifted your hand to place a kiss against the back of it. You nodded. "A couple things to sort out before Thor and Valkyrie show up." "Let's go, then."

Rather than walk to the gate, Loki crossed over the stone wall, then helped you do the same. He laced his fingers with yours and started toward the cottage. He let the silence rest for a moment.

"I suppose our story needed some element of tragedy." He mused quietly. "If we're to earn our constellation, that is." "Oh?" You smiled. "You think they'll put us in the sky?" "Oh, certainly." He squeezed your hand. "The stuff of legends, you and I." You laughed. "And to think I was going to settle for just a star." "The best star, mind you."

You opened the door to your kitchen. Preparations were made. Friends arrived. Dinner was shared. It was as so many nights had been before, and as many nights certainly would be again.

But perhaps on this night, when you were alone once more and sleeping in his arms, Loki held you a just little tighter.

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[adorkastock]

Take care of your body and mind, art friends. ♥ Need help with the basics? Check out Mind. Body. Artist. It's a blogcast site @astrafauna & I started about taking care while making art. It's on hiatus right now but there's tons of useful stuff in the archive. Content breakdown below the cut ✂️

Introduction to MBA List of topics we have done and hope to do Meet the hosts: Sarah Dahlinger Sarah Forde

Mental Health 🔵Dealing with Crowdfunding Stress 🔵Define Who You Are 🔵Monthly Wrap Up 🔵Is This What You Want to be Doing? 🔵Use “And” 🔵What does a trout have to do with social media trolls. 🔵How to Take Advice to Win 🔵Do What You Need to do to Succeed 🔵Using an Alternating Schedule to Balance Both Art and Fitness (or whatever recharges your battery) 🔵One Success Metric to Win 🔵Art and Grief 🔵There Is No Time Limit for Getting Back Up 🔵Pick your Perfects to Achieve your Real Goals 🔵Can't work? Time to study! (with short exercises) 🔵Creating with ADHD 🔵How to Balance Creative Work and Day to Day Work 🔵Overcoming Self Doubt and Creative Burnout 🔵Getting Back Up After a Failure

Physical Health 🔵How to Roll Out Your Arms for Tendonitis Relief or Prevention 🔵Four Way Wrist Curls 🔵Ice/Hot Baths for Tendonitis Relief 🔵Stretch Your Wrists and Forearms 🔵Stretch Your Hamstrings: My favorite hack for eliminating low back pain. 🔵Tendonitis Flare Up: Fixed in a Few Days 🔵What I Learned from a Year of Never Missing a Workout. 🔵Let’s talk with a Licensed Massage Therapist about pain while making art.

Food Prep 🔵Recipes Intro 🔵Egg Muffins 🔵Lavish Bread Mini Wraps 🔵Five Minute Crock Pot Veggie Chili 🔵How to Make All Your Meals for a Week Without Really Trying 🔵All Week Salad 🔵Chicken with Onions 🔵Slow Cooker Pork Stew

Artist Interviews 🔵Interview with Loish 🔵Interview with Iris Compiet 🔵Interview with Doug Hoppes 🔵Interview with Heather R. Hitchman 🔵Interview with Brynn Metheney

[talesofadragon]

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞

Chapter V - Synopsis: Halfway through the semester, Y/N thought the only dire changes she’d face would be a hectic schedule and a few sleepless nights. But with the arrival of a mysterious woman with flaming red phoenix hair and a swarm of butterflies in her stomach at the mere thought of her professor, exam season is shaping up to be an even bigger rollercoaster than she imagined.

Pairing: Professor!Steve Rogers x Student!Reader/Mum!Reader

Warnings: Age Gap (14 years. Both are adults), teacher/student dynamic, abusive relationship, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, terrible partner, co-parenting. 

Genre: Angst | Fluff | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Slow Burn | Age Gap | Teacher/Student

Word Count: 4K Words

All Masterlists | Paint Me Midnight Blue Masterlist

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆, Stark University buzzed with frenetic energy. Though the campus was always lively, these last few days felt like a pressure cooker—everyone was moving, but no one had time to breathe. 

Y/N delivered her argument earlier that day in Professor Coulson's Trial Advocacy class. It went well—too well, in fact—since Coulson kept the session past its scheduled time, firing one question after another at her. Luckily, Y/N didn’t have another class immediately after; even if she did, this was the time of year when professors were more forgiving about tardiness. They called it "We were students once, too.” Y/N called it breakroom chatter about the looming doom of their upcoming exams.

But students weren’t shy about playing the game either. They knew how to take advantage of this “forgiveness” by squeezing in a little extra time for themselves—chatting with friends, smoking a cigarette, grabbing a quick bite from the diner across the street. Any excuse was good enough to show up fashionably late. Or to not show up at all.

While Y/N didn’t have a class to attend, she did need to finish some work for Steve. Call it diligence or desire, she chose not to take an extra five minutes to toe off her heels and tone down her outfit. The better part of her reasoned that she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. But the sensual part, the one she nestled in the deepest recesses of her being, wanted to savor the moment and revel in her outfit just a little longer. 

Swapping her casual attire for something as crisp and sharp as her plaid light brown skirt, off-white turtleneck, and beige blazer with brown accents was her own version of a Cinderella moment. 

Maybe it was nostalgia for her teenage years or the desire to feel like herself again—confident, empowered, even a little attractive. She couldn’t say for sure. But between her classes, work, and caring for Nyla, Y/N rarely had time for herself. She had almost forgotten the feeling of wearing heels, let alone walking in them—there was something undeniably alluring about a woman in a striking outfit and bold stilettos. Thankfully, her agility hadn’t faded with time, just like her ability to command attention in a well-cut skirt.

She met a handful of inquisitive looks on her way to Steve’s office. Students carefully assessed her, trying to guess which department she belonged to and whether they had seen her before. The university was immense, so even if she were a social butterfly—which she was not—there was no way for her to have known any of them.

Though curious, and some a little charming, the looks she received were mundane. The interest was there, but there was a glint of something missing. An intensity she had started, albeit reluctantly, yearning for. These gazes weren’t the kind that sent a thrill through her, the kind she secretly craved even if she’d never admit it. No, it was almost blasphemous to dare and compare them to those blue-green eyes she revered, a meeting point between serenity and escape—a bridge she should never, ever cross!

Steve’s office loomed ahead, commanding the distracting thoughts away. Y/N inhaled sharply, smoothing out the invisible creases of her skirt for reasons that were beyond her. Knocking on the door once, hand already on the handle, she paused, waiting for a reply that never came. She pushed the door open, eyes immediately drawn to Steve’s desk. A gasp escaped her, her heels digging into the tiles when she met an unfamiliar sight. There, sitting comfortably in Steve’s swiveling chair, was a woman.

“Excuse me,” Y/N called out authoritatively, gaining no visible response. “May I ask who you are and what you’re doing sitting at Professor Rogers’ desk?”

The woman was dressed in a pristine maroon pantsuit, exuding an air of professionalism and composure. Yet, her callous behavior contradicted the very image she tried to project. She wasn’t a professor—Y/N was sure of that. And since she had never seen her around campus, it was unlikely that she was staff. Whoever she was, whether the owner of the university or the president of the country, she had no right to be lounging in Steve’s office as if she owned the place.

With a slight arch of her dark brows, the woman’s gaze swept over Y/N’s smaller frame. “Professor Rogers is not present at the moment,” she answered as if that was the question Y/N had posed.

“I didn’t ask about Professor Rogers’ whereabouts.”

“These aren’t his office hours,” the woman commented casually, seemingly unfazed by the edge in Y/N’s voice.

Y/N’s fingers twitched at her side, irritation beginning to simmer in her gaze. She was speaking English, for heaven’s sake. What was so hard to understand? Unable to get through to the woman, she decided on a different approach. 

“My name’s Y/N. I’m his assistant.”

Though Y/N meant to assert the authority her title afforded, the reaction she received was unlike what she expected. The woman’s aloof demeanor shifted to one of intrigue. Her catlike eyes softened, and a small crinkle appeared at the corner of her lips.

“So, you’re the famous Y/N,” she said, the amusement in her eyes evident. Y/N felt something flicker within her, a small jolt of surprise that coursed through her veins. The woman adjusted her phoenix-red hair over one shoulder and leaned forward slightly, giving Y/N a more deliberate once-over. “Bucky talks about you all the time.”

Bucky? Y/N’s heart sank at the mention of her former History professor. She’d been bracing herself for another name. Swallowing the confusion, she buried it deep, down by the embers of her hope that had briefly flickered to life. Bucky was the one talking about her?

“You know Professor Barnes?”

The red-haired woman smirked, the kind that hinted at knowing far more than she let on. Her lips, however, played a different tune. “We go way back. Bucky, Steve, and me.” 

Y/N nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a thin, disappointed line. A sharp discomfort settled over her as she realized she'd been standing there for an awkward five minutes, talking to a stranger. 

Determined not to show any sign of weakness, even though the woman's overconfidence and cryptic remarks gnawed at her, Y/N squared her shoulders and walked to the desk. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor fueled the confidence she desperately clung to.

“If you could please wait for Professor Rogers in one of the seats across from his desk,” Y/N said as politely as she could, though a hint of disdain threaded through her tone.

“I’m perfectly content where I’m sitting.” 

The nerve of her! Y/N took a deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “It’s not a matter of content but a matter of respect,” she enunciated sharply.

The woman’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Are you calling me disrespectful?” she asked bluntly.

“Did I say that aloud?” No, Y/N hadn’t, but she was glad the woman wasn’t clueless. “If you truly know Professor Rogers, then you know his stance on conformity. He likes things a certain way.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re in his seat,” Y/N pointed out, gesturing toward the chair in question. “He’s only permitted me to sit there. So, if you wouldn’t mind pulling up one of the chairs in front of the desk, I’m sure we’d all appreciate it.”

If the woman had been perplexing before, she was downright baffling now. She laughed, her cherry-red lips parting in genuine amusement. Y/N couldn’t fathom how someone like her could muster so much energy this early in the morning. 

Gracefully, the woman pushed the chair back, the wheels gliding smoothly across the floor. She stood to her full height, her ankle boots giving her a few extra inches. She crossed the short distance between them with a mixture of assertiveness and finesse that bordered on predatory.

As she moved to take a seat, her features became clearer under the office light. Her green eyes, like a verdant forest bathed in sunlight, were striking. Her face, a masterful blend of sharp lines and elegance, held an enigmatic allure. She towered over Y/N, the age gap between them becoming more pronounced the longer they looked at one another. The woman was clearly in her thirties—like Steve.

“Natasha Romanoff,” she introduced herself as Y/N placed her books on the desk and turned on Steve’s computer. “Normally, I’d indulge in a mysterious exchange, but the scales are uneven today. I know far more about you than you know about me.”

“Nice to meet you,” Y/N hummed dismissedly.

Logging into Steve’s computer, she immediately pulled up the list of tasks for the day: updating attendance records, double-checking grades for Steve’s Intro to Artistic Visualization class, and reviewing the research papers that had passed through the plagiarism checker, among other things.

She reached across the desk to grab Steve’s binder, a languid smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of one of the teddy bears they had won at the fair. Nyla had split the plush toys evenly between her and Steve, and according to him, one of the three had to find a place in his second home—his office.

If the gesture alone hadn’t warmed Y/N’s heart, the image of Steve holding the small toy in his much larger hands, waving it around with animated enthusiasm, surely did. She could still see him playfully swaying the bear before her eyes, its stitched mouth "kissing" the tip of her nose. The memory brought a fresh wave of goosebumps to her skin—thankfully, it was still cool enough for long sleeves to cover them.

“Drink?” Natasha’s voice snapped her out of the memory.

Y/N blinked, raising her head as her mind adjusted back to the present. Is she asking or commanding? was the first thought that crossed her still-dazed consciousness.

“Oh, sorry.” Y/N quickly stood, heading toward the refreshment area. “It didn’t even occur to me to ask if you wanted anything to drink.”

Almost as if Y/N’s genuine tone had thrown her off, it was Natasha’s turn to momentarily lose herself in a stupor. Her daze, however, was fleeting. She quickly recovered, replying, “I was actually asking if you wanted something to drink. I know my way around this office, hon.”

“Nonsense, you’re a guest,” Y/N insisted, her tone polite, though laced with subtle passive-aggression. If Natasha noticed, she didn’t comment. “Let me get you something. Coffee or tea?”

Natasha hesitated, her gaze lingering on the coffee drip beside Y/N. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, still eyeing the rich brown liquid. Y/N was just about to place a mug beneath the spout, fingers hovering over the pot’s handle, when Natasha cleared her throat. “Actually, I’ll have water, please.” 

Y/N didn’t question her choice, even though Natasha looked like the kind of woman who could down two pots of coffee without breaking a sweat. Hell, she looked like liquor couldn’t hold her, not the other way around.

Without a second thought, Y/N poured her a glass of water and placed it on a coaster by her side of the desk. She poured herself some coffee, adding two sugars, and praised Steve for having a well-functioning machine, even though she’d never seen him sip a cup of coffee in his life.

Back at her desk, Y/N set down her drink of choice, drifting back to her work. Beneath her lashes, she spotted Natasha leaning back, her spine practically glued to the chair. She was gulping down her water, pressing her nose to the rim of the glass. Confused, Y/N subtly chanced a glance, sensing the evident queasiness that shook the woman’s otherwise imperturbable demeanor.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Natasha replied swiftly. Although she intended to douse Y/N’s concern, the tremor in her voice only deepened it.

“You don’t look okay,” Y/N pressed, studying the way Natasha scrunched her nose. “Let me get you another glass of water.”

“Lemon,” Natasha coughed. “Can you…do you have something infused with lemon?”

“Uh, sure. Hold on a second.”

Darting back to the refreshments area, Y/N opened the mini-fridge. She scoured the shelves of iced tea, sparkling water, and juices. While she didn’t find anything with lemon, she did find a few fresh ones on the lower shelf where Steve stored his fruits. He had a penchant for yogurt and granola bowls.

Y/N made quick work of cutting the lemon and boiling some water in the kettle. Carefully mixing both in a new glass, she ventured a guess that Natasha’s discomfort was a result of nausea—one hand stifled her discordant groans while the other rubbed her stomach giving Y/N a clue.

“Here.” 

Y/N replaced the old glass with the new one, which Natasha eagerly took from her hand.

“Thank you,” Natasha whispered, her voice void of that effortless confidence. Instead, it was laced with exhaustion, despite her best attempts to mask it.

“You’re welcome. Do you need anything else?”

Natasha nodded, languidly drinking the lemon-infused water. “Can you please move your coffee away?”

Perplexed, Y/N slid her cup to the far right of the desk. As soon as the mug was no longer close to the redhead, Natasha’s shoulders visibly relaxed, the tension evaporating like the steam coming from her glass. She sighed—almost moaned—in relief, her grip tight on the glass of hot lemon water. She hadn’t yet removed her hand from her stomach, tracing gentle, delicate circles around her belly.

A gasp escaped Y/N for two distinct reasons. The first was the conspicuous diamond ring that sat elegantly on Natasha’s ring finger—a regal emerald cut that reflected power and elegance in an iridescent interplay of blinding light. The second was where her fingers had been splayed, tracing the contours of her belly.

“You’re pregnant.”

The words left Y/N’s mouth before she even had a chance to evaluate them. Whether correct or not, Natasha’s enlarged pupils and the flare of her nostrils told her this wasn’t the right thing to say. Of course, it wasn’t! What kind of person jumps to the conclusion that a woman is pregnant based on signs that could easily indicate a different ailment or less serious condition?

Maybe it was because Y/N had been pregnant once, and the sensory sensitivity had steered her clear of even the smell of morning dew. She could pinpoint the signs easily—the slight discomfort, the twitches, even the hesitancy and over-calculation for the simplest of things, like a cup of coffee.

She was about to apologize, insisting that she didn’t mean any of it, but something in Natasha’s expression changed. Instead of the guardedness that had hugged her so tightly since Y/N first set eyes on her, a shadow of vulnerability crossed over her features.

“Is it that obvious?”

Y/N shook her head, sitting down in her seat and wringing her fingers together. So, she is pregnant.

“No. I just took a wild guess.”

“You wagered right. I better never bet around you.”

Y/N chortled at Natasha’s remark, the tension in the air gradually receding. “How far along are you?” she asked in a quiet tone.

Natasha rubbed her barely-there bump, smiling. “Two months.”

“First pregnancy?”

Natasha nodded. She stayed silent for a moment, the gears in her head practically spinning until she confessed, “I never thought I would get pregnant. It never happened in all the years we’ve been together.”

Y/N didn’t want to think of him if “him” was the person she could never stop thinking about in the first place. Instead, her mind unfortunately drifted to Paul and the first night they spent together—the night that led to conceiving Nyla. Ironic how some women wait years to get pregnant, while others are surprised by tiny versions of themselves on the first try.

“Are you scared?” Y/N ventured, watching for Natasha’s reaction.

But Natasha was unfazed. If anything, delight seeped through the cracks of her initial weariness, swiftly altering her feelings to something better, gentler. “A little bit. But I’m mostly excited. I can’t wait to grow our family. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Yeah. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, hon. If that’s something you want someday, I hope you find it too when the time is right.”

There was so much sincerity in her words, a mother’s delicate warmth harmonizing her sentences. But all Y/N could hear were the echoes of Natasha’s last words: when the time is right. Didn’t she know? Had neither Bucky nor Steve told her that Y/N, at only twenty-two, already had a daughter? A rambunctious, affectionate, social, and bubbly little girl whose eyes may have been a feature inherited from her father, but their glow resembled an infinite sky of possibilities and miracles.

The timing wasn’t right, and she would always be reminded of that when she looked at her classmates, Natasha, hell, even Steve. But she could never say that aloud, could she?

“Thank you,” she replied solemnly, busying herself with her work. She was far enough behind, and she needed to get a move on.

Natasha didn’t give her a moment of respite, though. “Is Steve available tonight?” she asked, her attention darting to the computer.

Y/N inhaled deeply, hyper-aware of the crescent moons her fingers dug into her skin for no apparent reason. “I monitor Professor Rogers’ academic schedule, but I don’t have the slightest clue what goes on in his personal life.” Hence why I don’t have a clue as to who you might even be, Y/N internally added.

“Well, does his academic schedule tell you anything about whether or not he’s taking work home tonight?” Natasha fired back, unfazed by the subtle hostility in Y/N’s reply.

Home. She said home.

“If I manage to complete today’s tasks on time, then Professor Rogers should be free for the evening.”

“Perfect! I plan to tell him tonight. I know he’s going to be excited to hear it,” Natasha stated. Y/N didn’t care to provide commentary, attempting to enter the attendance records digitally. She only hoped Natasha wouldn’t notice her slip-ups; she had already entered three records incorrectly. Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately for Y/N—Natasha continued, “He’s going to think it’s a boy. He’s the type to.”

“A girl. St—Professor Rogers strikes me as a girl dad. I think he’d want the baby to be a girl,” Y/N mumbled under her breath, hoping her lower tone was enough to mask her emotions.

Natasha regarded Y/N skeptically, the tilt of her head almost personal. Y/N refused to let her scrutiny bother her anymore. Her mind kept drifting to thoughts of Steve and Nyla, replaying their interactions in her head. She knew it was wrong to think of them together, but the more Steve came to mind, the harder it was to shake Nyla’s presence alongside him. She blamed it all on Paul. If he had been a better father to their daughter, maybe she wouldn’t be sitting here thinking these sacrilegious thoughts about her professor.

She didn’t need that fickle little toad to love her, nor did she care for him to treat her any better than he ever had. She just wanted him to be better toward their daughter, like Steve was.

Steve had a tenderness, a protectiveness in the way he moved, in the way he looked at Nyla. Y/N wasn’t blind; she could see it. Steve longed for what she had. Now, in his late thirties, it was clear he was ready to settle down, to have a family. And he looked the part too—like every girl’s Christmas wish and every mother’s prayer. The way he treated Nyla, like a little princess—hell, that was even his nickname for her—showed that he was meant to be a father. A girl’s father more than anything.

“You seem so sure about that,” Natasha noted. Though her words were framed as a statement, the unspoken “why” hung in the air.

Before Y/N could respond, a knock sounded at the door, giving her a momentary reprieve. She suppressed her relief and casually invited the person outside to enter. Unfortunately, luck was not entirely on her side. It was Steve who entered the office, and his eyes didn’t find her first.

“Nat, there you are!”

Steve’s smile lit up his face, his blue-green eyes sparkling at the sight of Natasha. She mirrored his enthusiasm, and though she had shown a colorful palette of emotions during her conversation with Y/N, her expression was now purely candid—similar to when she had talked about her baby.

Y/N watched as Natasha stood and threw herself into Steve’s waiting arms. It was as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, though Y/N knew that couldn’t be the case. If her suspicions were correct, then…she didn’t even want to continue that thought. 

“I let myself in,” Natasha said, her voice muffled against Steve’s shoulder. Their arms were tightly wrapped around one another. “Didn’t want to bother you in case you were busy.”

“You could never bother me,” Steve assured her. He stepped back slightly but kept his hands on her forearms, his eyes sweeping over her. “Is that a new outfit? It looks incredible. Gives you a certain glow.”

Natasha laughed, her curtain bangs shaking alongside her shoulders. “That glow has nothing to do with my outfit.”

Y/N wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt and believe, truly believe, that she implied her secret pregnancy. But her glances felt more suggestive. And if even Steve picked up the innuendo, judging by his bright cheeks, then Y/N wasn’t wrong. 

Steve cleared his throat, letting his hands fall back to his sides, though his fingers traced along Natasha’s arms as they dropped.

“Since you’re here, did you have breakfast yet? We could head to the cafeteria, or maybe a café nearby,” Steve suggested.

“Anywhere’s fine as long as we can sit outside. It’s nice out,” Natasha replied.

“I think you’d like the café by the east side of campus. They have great bagels. I could text Bucky to join us after his class.”

“Don’t worry about Bucky. He can third-wheel another time,” Natasha joked. At least, it seemed like a joke—Steve laughed heartily. Y/N, on the other hand, stood quietly on the sidelines, feeling like the real third wheel. Did they even notice her anymore?

In classic Steve Rogers fashion, he offered Natasha his arm. “Shall we?” he asked gallantly, and she didn’t hesitate to link their arms together. It looked like Steve didn’t forget about Y/N after all. Torn between relief and frustration, she caught his gaze. He smiled softly at her, offering a small wave. “Don’t overwork yourself, Y/N. I’ll see you later.”

“See you, Professor. Enjoy,” Y/N managed to say. But as the doors closed behind them, she couldn’t ignore the fondness in his gaze when he looked down at Natasha or Natasha’s gentle glances toward her stomach. The sharp sting that followed cut through Y/N’s heart, leaving her reeling.

What was she even thinking? Of course, he wouldn’t acknowledge her in the presence of another woman—a better woman. Y/N was just his student, practically a child in his eyes, a mess of imperfections. A pretty skirt and blazer wouldn’t change that fact, not that Steve had ever noticed her new outfit. Not that she really wanted him to… right?

God, what was she getting herself into? And how could she possibly get out before it was too late?

Series taglist: @crazyunsexycool @imaginexred

Originally, this chapter was supposed to include two more scenes, but since we're already at 4K words, I didn't want to drag it further. So, Natasha has officially entered the chat, and with her comes jealousy! What do you think Twilight (reader) will do with these troubling doubts and feelings?

[ohtobeleah]

Hey hope this is okay and still open✌🏻😅

Breeding kink with Hangman. If you've already done that, that's fine as well🥰

Thanks, hun, love your writing

Say no more anon I got you covered.

Warnings: This is Strictly Scandalous, Smut ahead.

I feel like I see a lot of breeding kinks for Bradley but never enough for Jake. Before we get into the smut of it all I think this would be a really good time to tag your fav fic writers that have written for Jake Hangman Seresin and the sudden breeding kink he finds he has when he finds the right partner. The love of his life. 

I think Jake would have the sudden urge to procreate after he sees you doing something so incredibly mundane and motherly? LIke perhaps you were brought up watching your own mother make your fathers lunches in the morning while he got ready for work. So it's in your inherent nature, not because you feel like you have to, but because acts of service are your love language and it makes you just as happy. Maybe you just liked cooking and the smell of whatever you were concocting in the slow cooker is just all too much for Jake to not think about what you would be like as a mother. 

So he catches himself thinking about the idea of you being all swollen and full of his cum far more often than he’d like to admit when he should really be focusing on flying the multi-million dollar fighter jet he's being the throttle of.

Jake catches himself at the Hard Deck, watching you play with his niece and nephew who have come to visit and thinking damn–what if that were your kids. His kids. He had to pause and take an exaggerated sigh before taking his shot in the game of pool he's playing with Bradley because he can't concentrate thinking about what you would look like pregnant with his child. He’d never really been the type of guy to think about a family–but then you came along and rocked his boat and now Jake's drowning in the thought of you being the mother of his children and he can't think or anything else. 

“You wanna make me a mama baby?” You’re straddling Jake's lap, ever so painfully bouncing on his length. Your slick walls coating him in your arousal as he guides you up and down, up and down. Biting his bottom lip because you know he's been acting funny lately and you know it's because of his new found fetish. “Bet you'd be a great daddy, been calling you that for years.” 

“Dont–” Jakes gritting his teeth, trying his best not to give into his temptations. “If I start, I won't be able to stop till you're carrying my child.” He says it almost like a threat, a warning lingering on his tongue while you sink low on his cock and lean in to whisper into his ear. Biting his earlobe gently as you smile against his flushed skin. Jake ran hot, you knew that, but he was as hot as a furnace with you naked on top of him, riding him at an agonisingly slow rhythm in the dimly lit living room. 

“Make me a mama Hangman.” You chuckle. “Wanna have your babies, make you the best daddy in the world.” Jake knows hes fucked when you start picking up the pace, your hands sliding down his explosed chest before theyre coming up to squeeze at your tits, you know he likes it when you play with yourself. His own personal porno. He snaps when you moan his name, the nickname falling off your sweet lips like you were made just for him. “Jakey–”

He takes that as all her permission he needs to flood you, taking control as he shifts you up slightly on your knees, pulling you flush against his chest and holding your arms together behind your back. Jakes taken control. He fucking up into you, groaning every time he feels his tip kiss your cervix. 

“Ahhh fugghh–yess, yess Jake!” 

“Bet you’re gonna look all kinds of beautiful carrying our baby around mama.” Jake instantly falls in love with the term of endearment. “Gonna fuck a baby right into you mama.” Jakes in heaven, he really is. You're moaning above him, clenching him so good before you’re milking him to the point he's bone dry, he couldn't give you anymore if he tried. He was spent by the time his orgasm is draining him of every ounce of fluid in his body. 

“I should go clean up–” You're dismounting, but Jake's following you, trapping you between him and the lounge as he lays you down. “What are you playing at Lieutenant?” Jake loves when you call him Lieutenant, you aren't navy so you don't often. But when you do, it sends his heart clear out of this world because he knows there is nothing but pride behind the status. 

“I'm gonna make sure that when you pee on that silly little piss stick in a few weeks that it’ll be positive.” He's kissing your lips to silence your protest as he guides two of his digits into your folds, collecting the load he just pumped into you that had started to drip, before pushing it back into you.

“Mmmm, Jake–” 

“Does that feel good mama?” Yep, he wasn't gonna stop calling you that, not now not ever. “You like when I finger fuck my cum into you?” He knows the answer he’ll get will be a whimper of pleasure just by the way your back is arching off the lounge. Your nails digging into his exposed back–surely to leave red raw lines trailing from his neck to the small of his back. “Gonna do this every damn time, make sure you're carrying our baby in no time.” 

“What if I just want you to fuck me all over again?” You raise your brow, biting at your bottom lip as Jake stills, the idea hadnt popped into his head, but now that you had planted the seed his cock was standing to attention and raring to go again. Twitching at the thought of being buried in your cum soaked cunt. “I mean if we’re gonna do this we may as well do it right huh baby?” Jakes processing the idea and he's down for it, but he knows that he gave you everything he had in the first round. 

Jakes kissing you, pulling his fingers out of your pussy before sucking the mix of his own cum and your arousal off his middle digits before jumping off the lounge, leaving you to follow him with your gaze as you sit up on your elbows. 

“Jake?” You question as he disappears around the corner, shouting back at you in response. It only makes you laugh at the father of your future children. 

“I need a gatorade, I'll be right back.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Strictly Scandalous // Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

[cyberneticfallout]

Chapter Ten: Radstorm Beast

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 - Ch 9 - Ch 10 - More Coming Soon

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Reader Summary: An intense radstorm appears in the night leading to a battle and a revelation. Tags: Slow burn (and I mean SLOWWW), angst, eventually more smut, language, canon-typical violence, chem/alcohol use, more tags will be added Posted on AO3: Smoothie and The Ghoul Word Count: 2.8k

The feeling of raindrops gently tapping against your skin startles you awake in the dead of night. It's a sensation you haven't experienced in this region for what feels like an eternity. Wiping the cool water from your face, you sit up slowly, taking in the sight of the camp. The Ghoul lies peacefully nearby, undisturbed by the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain.

As you watch the fluttering embers of the campfire, a sudden green flash of lightning illuminates the sky, followed by a deep, rumbling thunder. The unexpected storm spooks you, a sense of foreboding creeping in as you realize a radstorm is fast approaching. In all your years across the wasteland, you've never witnessed one this far west. Back east, you encountered them far too frequently.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you anxiously mutter under your breath as panic sets in. Desperately scanning the surroundings for any form of shelter, a flash of lightning briefly illuminates the darkness, revealing a dilapidated Slocum’s Joe in the distance. Without hesitation, you crawl over to the sleeping ghoul and shake him awake.

"Heh?" he groans, barely stirring from his slumber. "What's the deal, Smoothie?"

"Radstorm!" you urgently exclaim, your voice filled with concern.

He looks at you with a hint of indifference in his sleepy eyes. "And?"

"Come on, we need to find shelter," you implore, gesturing towards the looming storm outside.

The Ghoul lets out a nonchalant grunt. "Doesn't affect me, remember?"

"Oh, for fuck’s sake!" Frustration boils over within you as the urgency of the situation amplifies. Without hesitation, you grab the Ghoul's cowboy hat and bolt towards the donut shop, hoping he'll follow. Despite his yelling obscenities at you, you push forward, each step bringing the looming storm closer.

The sound of thunder reverberates through the air, a chilling reminder of the imminent danger. Your heart races as you push yourself to run faster, the limited supply of rad-x in your bag serving as a stark reminder that you can't afford to risk radiation sickness at the moment. The rain intensifies, pouring down in heavy sheets, soaking you to the bone.

Finally reaching the building, you muster the last of your energy to slam open the door and collapse onto the ground, your chest heaving as you gasp for precious air. As you struggle to catch your breath, you turn to shut the door behind you and that's when you notice The Ghoul standing in the doorway, his dead eyes staring back at you with an unsettling calmness.

“Hat. Now,” he snarls, his tone commanding. Despite the exhaustion coursing through your body, a spark of defiance ignites within you. With a stubborn glare, you reach for the cowboy hat and place it atop your head. The Ghoul's eyes narrow as he watches you defiantly wear his cowboy hat. His patience begins wearing thin as he demands in a low, threatening growl, "Give me the hat, now."

"Maybe," you pant, still struggling to catch your breath, "I feel like being a cowboy right now."

The Ghoul's expression darkens, his jaw clenching in a silent display of seething anger. His hand twitches, as if he's on the verge of taking action, but he ultimately restrains himself. The storm outside rages on as you both stand locked in a silent standoff.

"You don't get to play games with me, sweetheart," he snaps, his voice dripping with menace. The underlying threat, coupled with the disturbingly affectionate nickname, instills a queasy feeling deep in your gut. This standstill begins transforming the donut shop into a pressure cooker of defiance and intimidation.

"It's truly confusing," you begin, your voice steady, "the way you seem to constantly switch between wanting me and hating me."

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the room, casting a stark light on his face and revealing a conflicting mix of emotions. His features contort, caught in a moment of indecision, as if battling an internal struggle that threatens to consume him. You catch a glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes, a glint of something deeper beneath the tough exterior. He clenches his fists, the muscles in his arms tensing with a raw, primal energy. The room seems to vibrate with his pent-up frustration and simmering rage.

“I don’t hate you, I-“ The Ghoul's words are abruptly cut off by a loud roar that shakes the building, the sound reverberating through the air and drowning out whatever confession he was about to make. In an instant, the atmosphere shifts from tense to downright terrifying.

Realization dawns as heavy footsteps draw closer, the unmistakable sound of a yao guai echoing through the walls of the shop. Panic sets in as you both understand the gravity of the situation - there's no way the two of you can take it on, especially in the midst of a raging radstorm.

Without exchanging a word, he swiftly ducks down beside you, his presence offering a sense of fleeting protection. The storm outside intensifies, the howling winds and crashing thunder serving as an ominous backdrop to the situation. Your eyes widen in surprise as you notice The Ghoul loading a weapon that looks like a hand cannon, unlike anything you've ever seen before. Is he seriously thinking of fighting that right now?

He glances over at you, his gaze meeting yours with a silent intensity. In a swift and subtle gesture, he lifts a finger to his lips, a universal sign for silence. But you can't help but shake your head in protest, silently urging him not to go through with whatever dangerous plan he has in mind. Ignoring your protests, he quietly gets up and heads toward the door, each step deliberate and filled with purpose.

“Cooper…. Don’t do this,” you whisper, the sound of his true name cutting through the silence like a knife. It seems to startle him, making him pause in his tracks as he turns to face you. The look of utter confusion in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent question as to how you could possibly know his real identity.

He pushes forward, his hand reaching for the doorknob. You watch in silence as he steps outside, the heavy door closing with a muted thud behind him. Alone in the dimly lit donut shop, you are left to anxiously peer through the large window in front of you, the glass reflecting the eerie glow of the radstorm outside.

In the darkness outside, the glowing silhouette of the yao guai stands out starkly, its massive form a menacing shadow against the backdrop of the swirling rain and debris. Through the large window of the shop, you watch in tense silence as Cooper moves with quiet determination, carefully maneuvering around the deadly creature.

The sight of it sends a shiver down your spine, its sheer size and ferocity a chilling reminder of one you faced years ago. You realize that this is the same yao guai from the other night. It must have been stalking the two of you.

As Cooper steps closer to the yao guai, you hold your breath, fear gripping your heart in a vice-like grip. The rain pelts against the window, creating a distorted view of the unfolding confrontation. Despite the chaotic storm raging outside, an eerie calm settles within you as you observe his movements with bated breath. The yao guai lets out a guttural growl, its glowing eyes fixed on the ghoul’s silhouette.

A flash of lightning illuminates the scene for a split second, casting long, jagged shadows across the room. In that brief moment, you catch a glimpse of Cooper's face, a mask of determination etched with a cocky smirk. As another rumble of thunder reverberates through the air, the yao guai lunges forward, its massive form hurtling towards him with frightening speed.

But just before the creature reaches him, Cooper moves with astonishing agility, sidestepping the attack with a grace that belies his rugged appearance. In one swift motion, he raises his weapon and takes aim, the deafening roar of the gun echoing through the storm-ridden night. The shot reverberates through the building, shaking the very foundation as a bright flash of light illuminates the room. The yao guai lets out a deafening roar, a mixture of pain and fury filling the air. It stumbles back, wounded but not defeated, its glowing eyes fixed on Cooper with a fierce intensity.

Against all odds, Cooper stands his ground, his jaw clenched in unwavering determination. With a steady hand and fierce focus, he raises his weapon once more, the fire of resolve blazing in his eyes. Another shot shatters the stillness, the creature's glowing eyes fixed on him as it charges forward with deadly intent. But as the gun roars, the bullet misses its mark, and the behemoth's momentum proves too great. With a sickening crash, Cooper is flung through the window - a shower of glass fragments scattering in his wake. The deafening sound of breaking glass fills the air as you shield your face from it and he tumbles to the ground beside you.

You glance between your hands, shooting him a pointed look. “If this is your idea of being a hero, you're not doing great.”

He groans, pushing himself up from the floor. “Shut the fuck up, Smoothie. You ain’t doin’ any bet-“

Before he can retort, a deafening crash shatters the moment as the massive form of the yao guai jumps through the broken window, its glowing eyes fixated on the two of you with a predatory intensity. The creature roars, its sheer ferocity filling the cramped space of the donut shop with a bone-chilling sound. The yao guai charges forward, its massive claws raking the air as it closes the distance between you. You attempt to make a run for cover as it lunges towards you but the glass covered floor proves difficult.

Cooper's finger tightens on the trigger, the gun's barrel aimed with lethal precision. A resounding gunshot echoes through the room, shattering the tension like the glass surrounding you. But before the bullet can find its mark, the yao guai's massive form crashes into you from the side, its claws slashing through the air and striking your back with a searing pain. The force of the impact sends you sprawling, the breath knocked out of your lungs as you slam into the debris-strewn floor. The world swims before your eyes, a haze of agony and disorientation clouding your senses as you struggle to regain your bearings.

As you attempt to push yourself up from the shattered floor, the yao guai looms over you, its hot breath washing over your face in a putrid wave. With a primal growl, the creature raises its massive paw, claws poised to strike a fatal blow. Panic grips your heart as you desperately search for an escape, the pain in your back lancing through you with each labored breath.

You manage to wrestle the gun from your holster, your fingers wrapping around the cold metal weapon. With a quick and precise movement, you aim at the yao guai's looming eye and pull the trigger. The yao guai stumbles back, a deafening roar of agony escaping its maw as it flounders in pain, its one good eye now filled with raw anguish. With a final, desperate cry, the monstrous creature collapses to the ground, its massive form shaking the very foundation of the donut shop. The once-glowing eyes now dim into lifeless orbs, the threat extinguished in a single, decisive moment.

The room falls eerily silent, the only sounds breaking the stillness being the rain drumming against the shattered windows and the ragged, uneven sounds of your breaths as you struggle to regain your composure. Cooper rushes to your side, his voice cutting through the haze of pain and disorientation. "Hang in there, Smoothie," he says, his tone a mixture of concern and urgency.

The initial shock begins to fade, replaced by a wave of searing pain that radiates through your body. With a raw, guttural scream, you feel the full extent of the deep claw marks on your back. The agony is overwhelming, a pulsating ache that renders you momentarily breathless. Cooper's hands are gentle yet firm as he assesses the wounds, his expression set in a mask of focused concern.

"We need to get you patched up, sweetheart," he whispers. He helps you to your feet, offering support as you wince with each movement. The world spins dizzily around you as you take a step forward. A spike of excruciating pain lances through you, causing the edges of your vision to blur and darken. Your strength gives out, and the world tilts dangerously before everything fades into a deep, dark abyss of oblivion.

As consciousness ebbs and flows like the tide, you struggle to grasp onto the fleeting moments of lucidity that come and go. In the haze of fragmented reality, you catch glimpses of Cooper's rugged features as he carries you through the wasteland, the passage of time blurred into a seamless continuum of day and night.

Snippets of words filter through the fog in your mind, fragments of his voice urging you to hold on, to fight against the tide of darkness threatening to consume you. You hear him mutter curses under his breath, his gruff tone laced with a hint of exasperation and affection as he chides you for getting hurt.

Through the haze of pain and fatigue, Cooper's presence is a constant, his unyielding strength a beacon of hope in the otherwise desolate landscape of your fractured consciousness. You recall the moment when you let slip Cooper's real name, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability in the face of danger. Does it really matter now, where death looms ever closer?

A sense of resignation settles over you, the harsh truth of your mortality looming large in the recesses of your consciousness. Despite Cooper's valiant efforts to keep you alive, you can't shake the feeling of impending doom that hovers on the edge of your fading senses. The wasteland is a merciless mistress, and you are but a speck in its vast and unforgiving expanse. Sleep overtakes you once more.

Your eyes struggle to focus as consciousness timidly returns, the relentless grip of pain still a haunting presence in your body. With a deep, shuddering breath, you manage to pry your heavy eyelids open, the dim light of the decaying hospital room casting a grim shadow over your surroundings. The stark realization sets in as you take in your surroundings – the barren walls, the layers of dust and sand coating every surface – a far cry from any functional medical center.

The afternoon sun filters through a cracked window, casting dusty rays of light across the dilapidated room. The muted sounds of the wasteland drift in through the broken walls, creating an eerie backdrop to the scene. Lying on the ancient hospital bed, you feel a sense of disorientation wash over you, the memories of the yao guai still a jumbled mess in your mind.

As you turn your gaze to the right, your eyes fall upon the ghoul posted against the wall, his weathered features softened in sleep. Despite the desolation of the room, there is a strange sense of peace in the quiet of the moment. Your throat protests with a raspy cough, a harsh reminder of the parched dryness that plagues you. When was the last time you drank water?

The sound of your cough reverberates through the room, rousing Cooper from his slumber. "Shit, Smoothie. You still hangin' in there," he croaks, his voice rough with concern.

You try to form a question, to ask where you are or what happened, but the overwhelming pain clutches at your words, silencing your inquiry.

"Now shut that pretty little mouth of yours, darlin'," Cooper interjects, his tone firm yet filled with a hint of warmth. "Save your strength. I found us a doctor. Or at least a fella who claims to be one."

A man enters the room, a palpable stench of sweat and decay trailing in his wake. Dressed in a tattered, weather-worn suit that hangs loosely on his emaciated frame, his hair a tangled mess, he exudes a dubious air of confidence. A crooked smile twists his lips as his bloodshot eyes fixate on you. Recognition sparks in your mind - this man is the infamous salesman from Filly with a reputation for his indecent liberties with chickens.

"I have concocted an elixir that heals all! But I must warn you: the taste, not great," the snake oil salesman declares with a dubious grin, his eyes alight with a deceptive spark of promise.

Your gaze slowly shifts to lock with Cooper's, a silent exchange passing between you. He sees the storm of rage building within you, the distrust and disdain simmering just beneath the surface.

"What's the problem?"

Tag List: @fallout-girl219 @ellabellabunny123 @sunnexaltation @coolrobloxkid28 @cheshirecat484 @capan-deveraux2 @rebelmarylou

[dira333]

Off-Brand Version - Fukunaga Shohei x Reader

For @fuzztacular because she doesn't mind sharing Fukunaga with me.

Words: 2540

It’s a well-known truth that Fukunaga Shohei is a better cook than he is a comedian and a better friend than he is a roommate.

The dishes from his last midnight cooking session are still in the sink and the remnants of something, dried up and flaking off the kitchen isle, tells you it wasn’t a great success.

You’ve had other roommates before him, some that didn’t clean up after them and some who did. 

If you’d list up all of Shohei’s weaknesses against the demands and rules you’ve set up ages ago, you’d have to kick him out.

But you don’t want to. So you don’t.

-

You wipe the counter as your coffee trickles down, file all the dishes into the dishwasher and start the rice cooker for your usual breakfast.

Early mornings are your refuge against the madness of life. 

Shohei’s bedroom door opens as you pour creamer into your cup.

“I’m never going to drink again,” Shohei announces for the nth time this month as he moves past you, his hair disheveled and still wearing PJs. 

“Do you want something to eat?” 

“Coffee first,” he eyes your cup.

You grab his head and turn it toward the coffee machine where a whole pot is waiting. “This one’s for you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles through his squished cheeks. “Where’s the sug-?” He quiets when you slide it over and sends you a sheepish grin. “Am I too predictable?”

“A little. Are you hungover or just dehydrated?”

“What’s the difference?”

You hesitate. You haven’t experienced either.

“Well,” you swallow your hesitation. “Nevermind. I’m making Korean Egg Rice if you want some.”

-

The truth is, not many people can live with you just as you can’t live them.

You’ve called yourself Type A too many times to count, not because you believe in it, but rather to make it easier for people to understand how you roll.

“Type F,” Shohei had commented at that first ever meeting, pointing at himself and chuckling. “Fool or Fukunaga, whatever you want it to be.”

- - -

“We got invited,” he declares on Friday, in a break between work places.

Cooks usually work late, but Shohei got lucky with this place where they need him in the mornings too for the breakfast rush.

He uses the day shifts to build his Comedy Career in the right after, though that’s slow going.

“To what?” You ask from the kitchen table, your makeshift home-office two times a week.

It doesn’t really make sense for you to work from home, really. 

Not with this Kitchen Table set-up, at least.

The truth is, and you’re a little ashamed of that, that you only work from home to spend time with him.

It’s just half an hour some days, and other days all you get is watching his back as he recreates a dish he dreamed up in his sleep, but you like watching his back and reaping the results of his cooking. You’ve just not found the courage to tell him that. Yet.

“Uh,” Shohei blinks as he tries to figure out how to explain it. “Well, Kuroo knows some guy who knows some guy and there’s a celebration and we’re invited.”

“Who’s Kuroo again?”

Shohei pushes up his hair into something like an Mohawk, just messier. You get the resemblance immediately.

“Wait, we?”

“Yeah,” he nods, grinning. “I’m supposed to bring you. I think he likes fighting with you.”

You groan. “I don’t like fighting. He was just wrong about that article he quoted and you know how I am about wrong quotes.”

“Yep,” he pops the P. “Oh, did you eat already? I was going to make Paella.”

“Nope,” you shake your head like the dirty liar you are. “I’m starving, really.”

“Can’t let that happen with a cook in the house,” he ties an apron around his waist. “Do you mind listening to my new stand up routine while I work.”

“Depends, do I have to laugh at certain parts or can I just listen in?”

“No, I’ve got a pre-recorded laughing track, I will be fine.” He winks at you and you duck behind your screen, hoping against hope that he doesn’t know how much that affects you.

- - -

“Yer early,” a warm, syrupy voice calls out as you enter. 

You blink, surprised to see double. Oh, nevermind, it’s just twins.

“Sorry, I, uh,” you turn around as if Shohei will magically appear out of thin air. “I’m looking for my roommate? Fukunaga Shohei, I’m supposed to meet him here.”

“Ah, yer the smart one,” the guy on the left comments, taking of the black baseball cap with the restaurant logo to drag his hand through the bleachblond hair.

“Depends who you compare me to,” you point out and his brother snickers, followed by a “Shut yer trap!” from the blond.

“I’m Osamu Miya, but you can call me Samu,” the snickerer tells you, offering you his hand. He’s the one with the smooth voice, the one that reminds you of rich chocolate that’s melting. It’s embarrassing how attractive that sounds, especially when you’re head over heels into Shohei.

“Mhm, yes, uh,” you shake his hand regret it immediately when his grip is warm and firm.

“And I’m Atsumu Miya, the famous Setter.”

You blink. “The famous what now?”

His face falls. He’s kind of adorable like that, though you’ve never been a fan of mobbing someone for fun. “Is that a sports term?” You ask to clarify, pulling back your hand from Samu, sorry, Osamu’s grip. “I’m not good with Sports.”

Both of them look at you like you’ve suddenly grown a second head.

“Did no one tell you what tonight is about?”

“Well,” you start when the bell chimes behind you. You turn, hoping on a rescue but nevermind. It’s Kuroo of all people. 

“Ah, you’ve already met the hosts,” he links his arm around your shoulders without asking. God, you hate being touched without asking. You try to shake him off but he’s persistent. 

“Hey,” Osamu calls out, “give her some space, will ya?”

“Oh,” now Kuroo’s the one blinking. “Sorry.” He steps away. “Old habits die hard. Is Fukunaga coming?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “He said to meet him here. He’s bringing some food.”

“Nice,” Atsumu declares. “Double the food.”

-

Shohei arrives late, hair disheveled as usual and smelling like the cheap oil they use to fry up stuff. You’ve grown used to the smell by now because he carries it home after work everyday, but you can tell he’s feeling awkward about it amidst all those guys that seem to have showered in aftershave before arriving.

“Hey,” he finds you at the bar. You’re not there for the alcohol but the chairs, because all the other seating arrangements are too soft and you can’t stand it when your body sinks into a cushion when you’re supposed to be sitting.

“Hey,” you smile at him, can’t help it. “I missed you.- I mean, I’ve been missing you here. Samu’s fun, but he’s not you. Like, comedy wise, you know? His jokes only work because of his weird dialect and-”

“Did you try his food?” Shohei interrupts you, nodding into the direction of your plate.

“Yeah,” you reach for it only to realize it’s empty already. “The Onigiri are good. Just the right amount of filling. What did you bring?”

“Chicken Wings and Ribs. I was thinking Paella but it doesn’t taste as good when it’s cold.”

“What a shame,” you pull a face. “I love your Paella.”

He smiles, the edges of him softening. “I’ll make it again when we’re back home.”

“Hey Hey Hey!” Bokuto slings his arms around the both of you, nevermind the fact that you’ve slid out of his grasp three times already. “Are you excited for the game?”

“For sure,” Shohei tells him, shifting in Bokuto’s hold to the point the bigger guy has to let go of you. You send your roommate a thankful smile.

-

Something’s wrong with Shohei.

You haven’t yet figured out what it is, but you can tell it’s there. It’s in the way he’s grown quiet next to you, watching instead of talking. 

He’s tried a few of the things Samu made before giving up, pretending to be not hungry when you know he usually eats thrice as much.

When the match starts and everyone unites around the TV to watch some people play a sport you know nothing about, Shohei stays close.

“Can you explain?” You ask quietly, unwilling to start a new discussion about how you know nothing about it.

Shohei startles. “Oh, sure. So the point of the game is-”

“Oh, hey,” Samu appears to your left. “Ya mentioned ya know nothing bout it. Sit over here, ya have a better view. Tsum, move yer fat ass, we need tha space.”

“Oh, no, I don’t-”

But Atsumu’s already gotten up and moved, all the while bickering and everyone’s looking at you know, waiting for you to fill the empty spot.

Even Shohei, quiet again, pushes you forward.

“It’s fine,” he tells you and without him having your back you have no reason to decline.

- - -

Samu pays your Cab back and you hate it. 

It feels like you owe him now, not just money but so much more. Food, an experience, a helping hand you didn’t ask for.

“Did you like it?” Shohei asks, picking at a threat in his jacket, the bag with the leftovers on his lap.

“It was okay,” exhaustion sits heavy on your chest like one of those fat cats that like to choke their owners while they sleep.

“The game?”

“Everything,” you wish you could pull your knees to your chin and curl into a ball, roll away until this is all forgotten. “It was a lot but it was okay. Did you have fun?”

Shohei doesn’t answer for a moment.

When he does his voice is weirdly tight. Even if you weren’t as perceptive as you are, you would have noticed, you’re sure.

“I think Osamu likes you. Did he give you his number?”

“He asked for mine,” you tell him. “I didn’t give it to him.”

In the flickering light of passing street lights you can see the surprise on his face.

“Why not? He’s a total catch.”

“Why? I mean, why is he a catch?”

“He’s good looking,” Shohei counts off on his hands, “Funny, respectful of your boundaries, a good cook, generous, smart…”

“Aren’t you all that too?” You bite your tongue but it’s too late, the words are out of your mouth.

Shohei halts, fingers still in the air.

He breathes out, deflating visibly.

“I’m more like an off-brand version of him.”

“Off-brand?”

“Yeah,” he nods solemnly. “He’s buff, I’m a twig. He’s funny, I’m still working on it. His cooking is- did you taste it? He has his own restaurant and I work as a shift cook. He has the money to pay our cab and I-”

You grab his hand and squeeze it.

“You know,” you talk around the lump in your throat. “Some people really like off-brand stuff.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” you trudge on, not really sure where this is going. “Like, some people buy Louis Vuitton handbags and stuff, but not everyone. Some people have the money but they don’t want the designer stuff, the name brand handbag, you know? It’s too high maintenance for them.”

“High Maintenance,” Shohei repeats quietly and you want to ask what he thinks about it but the cab stops in front of your apartment building and you have to get out.

It looks different now, after tonight. 

Atsumu’s place with his built in bar, huge TV and the fifteen rolled up bath towels for easy use that you assume were put there by his cleaning service… it feels like a different world.

“I’m not High Maintenance,” you say, more to remind yourself than anything else. “I like my weird apartment.”

And, suddenly brave, you add. “And my weird roommate too.”

“I’m weird?” There’s a glimmer of humor in his eyes as he asks.

“Type F,” you remind him. “Type Fukunaga.”

He links your arms together before trudging up the stairs.

-

“Shohei?” You ask, fresh-faced and Pyjama-clad, surprise in your voice. “What are you doing?”

“Oh,” he turns from the stove. “I’m uh… making Paella.”

“After six rounds of Ribs and Wings?”

“Well,” he rubs the back of his neck. He was supposed to use the bathroom after you, not start cooking for Dinner at midnight. “I wanted to, uh… make a point. A statement, if you will.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” his fingertips are hammering onto the kitchen counter like he’s playing invisible drums. “Cause, you know, if you want to impress someone, you need to put your best foot forward.”

“I do agree that Paella is your best dish.”

“Right?” His smile blooms. “So I’m making it.”

“And who’re you going to impress with it?”

“Oh,” Shohei falters again. “Well, uh… you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” he pulls his shoulders up to his ears. “Because, you deserve some name brand stuff. Something High Maintenance.”

“Even if I don’t want it?” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly nervous about where this is going.

“Even then,” he clears his throat. “And I’m going to give it to you, if you have some patience with me. This is just a promise. Like a promise ring, but with food.”

Shohei pauses.You can see the gears turning. “A paella ring?” He offers, the joke terrible.

You smile. “A Paella ring.” 

For a moment, all you share is that smile and the promise of something. Then, his words sicker into the part of your brain that has already tried to say goodnight.

“Wait, did you just… confess to me?”

Shohei blushes. “Yeah, was I… too weird about it?”

“No, I’m weird about it. You know my brain, I didn’t get it.”

“Oh,” he smiles. “Should I go again?”

And it’s that, really, that will always stand out to you. Type F, Fukunaga. 

“Yes please,” you tell him, knowing he’ll do it again and again, only for you. 

-

“Okay, so what do you think about this one?” Shohei turns his phone on the table so you can read the script to his newest Stand up Routine. “Also, Wings or Ribs?”

“Wings,” you say as you read on. “We’ve had Ribs last time.”

“True that.” He gets up to order, is back in less than a minute. “They already prepared it. Seems like we’re too predictable.”

“Oh,” you look up. “But we can’t switch it up. I only like the Wings and Ribs here.”

“I could offer to cook,” he thinks out loud. “Some Paella on the Menu would be a nice change, don’t you think?”

You smile. “I’d like that. Also, the Paella Ring is a nice touch to the Routine. When are you trying that out?”

“Tonight. Are you coming?”

His knee knocks into yours below the table as his hand finds yours above, squeezing it tight. There’s a ring there, no diamonds, a promise of something more and the reminder of what already is. 

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Course. I’m High Maintenance like that,” Shohei winks.

You lean in to kiss that joke right of his lips. 

[enarei]

Americans love having an electronic slow cooker a pressure cooker a rice cooker and three dozen sized pots and then never learning how to cook actual food because they can't read a recipe that doesn't reference their specific model of gizmo which abstracts what would actually be happening if they were cooking on a stove. no you need three dozen shelves and countertop space to store your machines for cooking one specific type of ingredient every time you make a more complex meal because if it's not perfectly consistent every time you might as well kill yourself. dude the manual pressure cooker is gonna explode and the slow cooker is gonna set your house on fire and cooking rice on a pot is gonna give you mega cancer

[baronessvonglitter]

if love be rough with you, be rough with love | chapter 12 | "motivating factors"

Dave York x f!Reader

Word count: 3,362

Summary: seeking revenge on Dave for sleeping with his wife (the nerve of the man!) you become entangled in a bidding war for your heart.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, angst, very slight slut shaming, jealousy issues, online stalking, coercion, bribes, mild assault (reader is grabbed), threat of using weapon (knife), oral (f receiving), mild blood/blood kink, desk sex, unprotected piv, creampie, choking, confession of love, mention of guns/shooting, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, gets nails/hair/Brazilian done

Author's Note: (Josh, the fake boyfriend from the previous chapter, makes an appearance) Also, TW for weapons (mentioned in Warnings above), reader wields a knife to protect herself but doesn't need to use it. I was inspired by Ani Bezzerides from season 2 of True Detective.. "any man who puts his hands on me is gonna bleed out in under 30 seconds"

Series Masterlist

You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. It's getting you nowhere. You're young, beautiful, and unattached you tell yourself, taking a good hard look at yourself in the mirror. The person who stares back hasn't showered in a couple days, her hair is greasy and stringy, and her eyes are puffy and bloodshot from crying so much. Let's be honest, Dave wouldn't come within six feet of you while you're looking this hopeless, much less fuck you. You refuse to live in the safety of your sadness, eating your own bitter, broken heart.

He's bothered to text you a couple of messages, the first one quite innocuous, asking about your weekend with a smiley emoji and the second a voice message, describing in detail the dirty things he wants to do to you. The second one should lift your spirits, but it fails.

Snapping out of your funk, you make a salon appointment for a mani pedi, a facial, a blowout, and just for fun, a Brazilian wax. You're not going running back to Dave.. he's going to be running back to you.

Later you get the girls from school and drop them at home. Dave's there early, or maybe he never went to work at all. "Hello, Mr. York," you smirk. "Will you tell Carol I won't be here for dinner?"

He looks up from taking a peek into the slow cooker to answer you, and his speech is stopped. "Good afternoon," he greets you with a slight raise of his brow. He's thinking you look like a million bucks right now but he doesn't say it. A slight chill goes through him, mixed with curiosity at your makeover. "Sure, I'll tell her you won't stay." He pauses, eyeing you from top to bottom. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's peachy," you reply, a megawatt smile on your face. "Just let her know I'll be out.. probably all night."

"With friends," he says, and it's a statement, not a question. "Where are you going?"

"Just going to the movies.. I guess you could call it a date," you shrug.

"Oh. That's great." Dave's voice is flat. "You'll be back tonight, right?" There's no one around and he pulls you close to him, hands grabbing your ass to pull you against his throbbing need.

You gracefully extricate yourself out of his embrace. "Oh, if the date goes well I won't be back until morning.. if you catch my drift." Damn it feels good to say that, to see the look on his face right now.

He glowers at you, running his tongue along his lips. "You remember our little conversation a few nights ago. You remember what I said.."

"I do." You turn just as serious as him. "And you said you'd never hurt me."

"As long as you don't leave me."

"So it's okay for me to have to listen to you fucking your wife and for you to forget to come and see me after?"

"Sweetpea, you don't--"

"Enough." You turn to walk away but he grabs you by the arm.

"I want you," he whispers, but this time it's without passion, without the need to subjugate you with his temporary love. There's a tinge of privation, of insecurity in his voice.

"But you don't want me with you. I can't be with you and I can't be with anyone else. What am I supposed to do?"

He's quiet, at war with his emotions and his practical reasoning. "What's his name? How do you know him?"

This is how it feels, you think to yourself. At least you won't have to hear me like I heard you. "I don't think his name really matters," you say with a nonchalant air as you open a bottle of water and take a sip. Dave's jaw clenches. Seeing him angry like this, you can't help feeling a surge of desire. If you were alone in the house you'd ask him to take you right there on the kitchen counter. "I'm a grown woman, I can take care of myself," you add insult to injury.

"He's only going out with you to get in your pants," he says, disimpassioned.

"Well I wasn't planning on giving him my heart," is your retort, shrugging, "And why do you need his name? Gonna do a quick background check?" you tease him.

"Actually, that's exactly what I intend to do.. so I'd appreciate it if you gave me your date's name." His eyes linger on you, though he doesn't reach out for you again. "I just want to make sure he's a safe and respectable man."

"Why? You're not."

It slips out before you even have the chance to realize it, and when you finally meet his gaze it's cold. You shiver. "He's respectable. Unless I don't want him to be. I have you to thank for teaching me that."

A wave of jealousy engulfs him and still he doesn't let it show. All that he's taught you in your time together, all that you've given to him so freely and happily.. it could be given to someone else, someone far less deserving. "I'm going to make sure the girls eat," he says, brushing past you.

You want him to ask you to stay.. no, to demand it of you, to blow off your plans and be with him, even if it's in secret. You also want him to hurt the way you were hurt. "His name is Josh Collins.. yes, that Josh." He turns to look at you but you're checking your fingernails, smoothly shaped and polished. "Don't wait up. If you really need to let off some steam I'm sure your wife will be available." A bright smile hides your hurt. There's brief satisfaction that Dave is perturbed about your going out, but it's a brief feeling, not as satisfying as you thought it'd be.

As you're getting ready and hoping Dave isn't up to something, he's in his office, up to something.

He's had to find people before, but they tend to be higher profile individuals. Josh Collins which he punches into the keyboard with barely-constrained petulance, is harder to find, but he can do it with the tools he has at his disposal.

Your generation doesn't know how to keep a low profile. Dave smiles to himself, finding the Josh Collins who attends the same university as you, with a personal page on every social media network imaginable. He's even found the guy's Spotify playlist. He's able to get Josh's email address, and sends him a message, providing his personal cell number. There's a risk the email will go unanswered, but Josh appears to like attention.

A few moments later Dave gets a call from an unknown number. He answers it confidently, introducing himself. "I want to know what your intentions are with with my girl tonight." He speaks with an authority he knows will have Josh shitting his pants.

The voice that comes over the line sounds young and scared. "Oh, um, it's good to talk to you, sir. I promise I have nothing but noble intentions with your daughter, sir."

Dave rolls his eyes. "I'm not her father, you fucking idiot. But it would be in your best interest to cancel your date tonight. Of course I'm happy to compensate you for any inconvenience this may cause your part," he so generously offers.

Josh goes from scared to interested. "We're talking compensation, like.. money?"

"Yes. Money." Dave can't believe you've agreed to go out with such a moron. He's obviously beneath you.

"I don't know.. I've been waiting a long time for her.. this is the first time she's said yes to a date with me and I don't know if I'll get the chance again."

"I understand that, believe me. Is there anything I can offer you? A brand new car? A vacation to Ibiza or wherever guys like you drink and fuck all day?"

"Five thousand bucks," Josh counter-offers with all the swagger of a man who really believes he's the smarter of the two. "Send it to my CashApp."

Dave has to stop himself from laughing. "I'll do you one better. I'll send you ten thousand dollars if you cancel your date. And I trust we won't have any more issues going forward, is that clear?"

"Crystal," Josh answers, staying on the line until he makes sure the money has been sent. And there it is, a clean, crisp 10K in his account.

You reach Josh's place, and almost turn back on a change of heart. Dave hasn't stopped you, hasn't even called or texted you. He wasn't even there to see that your outfit was appropriate. This only makes you more determined to keep on.

"Damn you look good," Josh greets her, giving her an appreciative look over. "You look amazing.." As you come in to get situated he makes no secret about checking you out, in fact his eyes bulge out like a cartoon character in love. "Why don't we stay in tonight? I've got beer."

"I got all dressed up to go out," you tell him.

"I thought we could stay in.. get comfortable.." he moves to wrap his arms around you but you expertly evade him.

"We're going to be late for the movie," you remind him.

"You're really going to tell me you're dressed like that and you just want to go to a movie?" Josh says with a wry smile. "No wonder your dad called begging me to cancel tonight.. he must know you're wild."

Your blood runs cold. "What... who called you?"

Josh tells you about the email, the call, the money offered in return for breaking off the date. You take a seat, feeling like your heart is going to give out. Only Dave would do something like this. It's got his signature all over it. "He really paid you?" you mumble. "What's he going to say when I tell him you didn't call off our date?"

"Come on, you're not.. you're not going to tell him, are you?" Josh laughs nervously, pulling you up by your arm.

"Let go of me," you try to wrench your arm away.

"Doll, come on, why waste this night, huh?"

From your purse you pull out a switchblade, flick it open and aim to use it. "I. Said. Let. Me. Go."

Josh releases his grip, hands going up as an anxious smile flits over his face. "Whoa! Hey, it's not that serious.." he backs away, not willing to get stabbed.

"Stay away from me," you warn him, and leave on shaky legs.

In your heated frame of mind you drive straight to Dave's house. Carol and the kids are asleep; he's in his office. You march right in. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He looks surprised for only a moment before regaining his composure as he takes note of your anger. "You actually went on your date," he surmises from your outfit and the scent of your perfume.

"Josh told me you paid him off to cancel our date. Why would you do that?"

"I was trying to protect you. You're an expensive employee when it comes to preventative measures."

"Ten grand.. that's how much my loyalty is worth? How are you going to explain such a loss to your wife?"

Dave has the audacity to look flustered for a moment before fixing his dark gaze on you. That look pins you in place, makes you subservient.

"You do know I only went out with him because I was upset, don't you?"

He nods, a movement scarcely visible to your eye. "I know, and I believe I know why you were upset."

"I heard you and Carol.. you never sound that way with me.."

"You know the situation is.. complicated."

"To say the least." You surreptitiously wipe your eyes, catching tears that barely fall past your lashes. "At first it was out of curiosity. But I also wanted to see what it's like, sharing you with someone. Even if you're not really mine."

Dave's reaction seems to be split between surprise and arousal. He takes a seat next to you on his sofa. "Sweetpea, what I have with you is different from what I have with Carol. I can't say I'm not attracted to her. You provide things she doesn't. Or won't, in some cases."

"It's not just that," you sniffle, accepting a tissue that he hands you. "You two have a history that I can never catch up with. I was born too late to be the right woman for you," you give a bitter little laugh.

He shakes his head, softly patting your back. "It's apples and oranges, baby. No use in trying to compare."

"Did you love Carol when you married her?"

He gives a deep sigh, one that's usually reserved when one of his daughters asks him a big question that can't easily be answered. "If I didn't love her I wouldn't have married her. We have a deep intimacy, a shared past that we've built together over many years."

"What do you think she would do if she found out about us?"

"She's not going to," he tells her, effectively putting a lid on the conversation.

"It's not a threat," you explain, ready to fight for your right to know things about him. "I was just speaking hypothetically."

"She'd be pissed, what do you think? And believe me, she'd put you down for equal blame. So don't get any ideas."

"I know you don't love me," you tell him. "But do you care about me? Even just a little?"

"Sweetpea, if you haven't noticed it, I'm... fucking obsessed with you."

You then do something you've never done before: you kiss him in the privacy of his home office. This is the one place you're rarely allowed, and it's intoxicating to take charge here. Of course, Dave pulls you closer, taking control of the kiss, bringing you to the edge of his desk. Your short black dress rides up to reveal your thighs.

"I don't care what you do with Carol," you tell him, breathless after your kiss. "Just as long as I get my share." You grab his belt buckle, pulling him between your thighs.

He cups your face, studying every feature, his eyes giving nothing away as they take in your beauty. His hand travels down your neck, dips into the front of your dress to cup your breast, giving a careful pull on your nipple, watching your face contort in shock and pleasure. "I told you never to leave me," he whispers as a warning as his other hand slides up your thigh.

"I came back," you reply. "Dave, we can't exactly take our time.." you whisper.

He knows you're right; you need to rush this as quietly as you can. But he still wants to draw this out, make you suffer a little bit, even if it's a pleasurable torment. "Tell me how much you need me right now.."

"I need you more than my next breath," you whisper, your forehead pressed to his.

Satisfied with that answer, he pulls up your dress a little more, sliding his fingers beneath the soft fabric of your panties, and stops, transfixed as he touches you. "Did you wax this pretty little pussy for me?"

"I thought you'd like it," you bite your lip.

A little smirk grows on his face. He's practically salivating. "Let me see how smooth you look.. take these off and spread your legs for me."

Obediently you remove your panties, flicking them over your shoulder to land on his desk. Parting your legs you show him you're already wet, wanting, and smooth as silk. Dave feasts his eyes on you before he kneels, placing your legs over his shoulders and tastes you, slowly and gently exploring you all over again.

You muffle your sighs, your broken, ragged moans as his tongue delicately teases your clit. He tastes you all over, nibbling your labia and pulling it with his pursed lips, licking broad stripes across your naked flesh, savoring the smoothness of your skin, the sweetness of your flavor.

Your thighs quake, threaten to crush him but he expertly holds them apart, flicking his tongue against you, sliding in one, then two, then three fingers, amazed when you accept everything he has to give, that you accommodate him every single damn time. "Come for me, sweetpea," he hums against you. "I'm not fucking you until you come for me.."

"Oh Dave!!" you whine, coming apart at the touch of his hands and his tongue. He's daring you to be louder than you should, daring you to break the rules a little with your new hairstyle, fresh manicure and waxed pussy. To be with him requires a taste for danger, an understanding of embracing risk. Your nails scratch at his shoulders, drawing fresh blood beneath his shirt as you give in to your release, your scream quick and short as your body writhes in silent ecstasy.

Not wasting a moment he rises, discarding his shirt and undoing his trousers. Your fingers find the wounds they made on his flesh and you bring his blood to your lips, tasting the very life of him. Dave watches this, his unemotional facade cracking, becoming mesmerized. When he kisses you he tastes his lifeblood, a secret on your tongue of which he wears the marks upon his skin.

Running his tongue over his lips he scoots you to the edge of his desk, thighs parted wide for him as he pulls himself free of his underwear. "My girl is so eager.. she's making it very hard for me to control myself," he warns you.

"I pulled a knife on Josh for trying to put his hands on me," you tell him, your proud achievement for the night.

He shakes his head. "That's the hottest thing I've ever heard you say."

"I didn't have to come back," you tell him as he positions himself at your opening, teasing your folds with his tip.

"So why did you?" It's a genuine, vulnerable question as he begins to slide the first couple of inches inside you.

"Because," you pause, angling your hips up, gasping as your channel starts to take him, "I'm in love with you, Dave.."

It takes his breath away at the same time that he fully buries himself inside you, sheathed within your tight, warm heat. "Oh fuck," he growls. "Why did you say that?" His hand clasps around your neck, pressing on your windpipe. He watches the flicker of fear in your eyes before it melts away to trust.

"Love," he repeats, moving his hips as he loosens his grip on your throat. "If this is love, we're both fucked." Cupping your ass he pulls you closer to him, grinding his pelvis against yours, circling his hips in a way he's learned you like. "How could I not love you, sweetpea?" he whispers, a secret in your ear.

He brings his forehead to yours as his hips move harder, an animalistic approach to your newly revealed feelings, and you wouldn't have it any other way. Your bodies clash together with each thrust, knick-knacks on his desk knocked over, the sounds of your colliding flesh, your quieted moans and gasps fill the air. Dave watches himself slide in and out of you, transfixed by the way you take all of him in with every thrust. Your entire body feels like it was made only for him, your nerve endings singing with praise as he slams into you, and the moment is only made more splendid when you come in perfect unison.

It's only a little later, once he's helped you clean up (he gets you to agree to let him keep your panties in his desk) and he's kissed you softly, that he lingers around you, which he usually never does.

"I have an idea for a little outing," he says, soft and sweet.

"Oh? What's that?"

Dave smiles at you, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Sweetpea, have you ever fired a gun?"

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