#snickerdoodle fic

[amorisxx]

✨Random Snickerdoodle headcanons✨

-Patrick’s first gift for reader was this shirt

He proceeds to steal it from you as well.

-Reader definitely tried to teach the trio how to bake, including the special snickerdoodle cookies.

-Tashi is hilariously bad at baking. And not even because she burns the cookies or whatever. Actually, the cookies will come out looking delicious and perfectly presentable, but once you bite into them, they’re just immediately terrible. No one can figure out what she’s doing wrong.

-Not even Art can keep a straight face and pretend that they taste good.

-Art does a bit better because he follows your instructions to the dot. They don’t taste as good as yours, but they’re good enough. He gets really into it because he’s a perfectionist. He hates when Patrick tries to eat the cookie dough because he swears it throws off his ratio.

-Patrick surprises everyone by being naturally good at it. Once he gets the recipe down, his cookies rival yours. He’s a very messy baker though.

-He likes to pretend he’s on a cooking show and narrates his entire process. Tashi thinks it’s immature, but still laughs at him despite herself.

-It melts your heart that they all indulge in your hobby.

[amorisxx]

I may have a bit of this in my drafts 🤭

google show me soft top milf tashi smut. GOOGLE PPEASE OLEASE LLEASE PLEASE

[elvensorceress]

wip wednesday

tagging anyone who wants to share something 💕 @tizniz @spotsandsocks @eddiebabygirldiaz @hippolotamus @daffi-990 @lemmeaskthedevil @exhuastedpigeon @chaosandwolves @smilingbuckley @belasmalhotra @rainbow-nerdss @bekkachaos @blutterlie @livinginsunnyhell @singitforthegirls @sazanahashi @epicbuddieficrecs @jesuisici33 @inell some snickerdoodles of longing (part 2) for beloveds

Buck hasn’t made any move to finish his drink or get up from the table, so Eddie goes to him and rests a hand on Buck’s shoulder. 

It would be so easy for Eddie to run a hand through his soft dark gold curls. It would be so easy to lean over him to wrap him in a hug, protect him as much as possible. He doesn’t, but. Maybe he will later. For now, he gently touches Buck’s hand that’s still mindlessly hovering in front of him, holding his bottle. 

Whatever trance Buck was in disappears. He blinks and a couple drops of tears spill down his cheeks. His arm lowers and he sets his almost empty bottle on the table. “Sorry,” he says, not looking at Eddie even as Eddie stands beside him. “I— Sorry.” He blinks deliberately and wipes at his face, and sniffs like he’s holding himself together. 

Eddie shakes his head and gently rubs Buck��s shoulder, over the back of his neck, and what the hell. Why not stroke Buck’s hair, too. Why not. He needs love and comfort and Eddie has an abundance of it. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie tells him. It’s not okay. Whatever it is, it’s not okay, and he knows that. But it’s okay for Buck to cry if he needs to. It’s okay for him to feel and hurt and whatever else is going on with him. Not that Eddie wants him to hurt. But sometimes it’s unavoidable. 

Sometimes? Or all the fucking time.

Either way. He lets his hand coast over Buck’s head. Just once. Just lightly over his soft, pretty hair. He steps in closer afterward so Buck can lean on him as Eddie rubs his shoulders, purposefully massaging soothing lines into his tense muscles. What else can he do? 

They’re not saying goodbye. He is not doing that. He can’t— this can’t be all there is. This can’t be the last time they’ll eat together and talk and touch and see each other. Not that they’re actually talking. But they could. 

This can’t be all they get. 

“We’ll still talk. Right?” Buck asks quietly, voice stilted and just as ripped apart as Eddie feels, somehow so in sync that they’re sharing the same thought. “We’ll st-still be. Talking? We— we won’t— you won’t— We’ll still talk? We’re still— E-Ed-Eddie.” 

Eddie grips him harder, clutches enough to bruise. “Yes,” he says and takes hold of both Buck’s shoulders so he can keep him close. He might not believe his absence will matter for long— Buck doesn’t need him, he has other people, Buck will forget him and all of this— but as long as Buck wants it, as long as Eddie is breathing, he’ll belong to Buck. “Yes. Always. If you want me to, I will. I swear.”

Buck sighs. It’s long, deep, slowly letting out all his air. “Okay.” He sounds so defeated. But he goes still the next second and then looks up at Eddie. “If I want you to? If? If I want you to?”

Well. Eddie doesn’t know how Buck will feel tomorrow or a week from now or if he’ll be angry and want to put it behind him. Why would he want to remember how Eddie is leaving? Eddie doesn’t want to remember that. Why would he want to think about Eddie anymore at all? 

Is he the reason Buck is hurting? 

Is Eddie ever not the reason someone hurts? 

“I will,” Eddie says instead. “Of course I will.”

Buck notably shifts away and gets up from the table. He steps back. Away. He steps away and puts distance between them. Distance. Steps backward. Eddie isn’t touching him. Can’t comfort him. Can’t hold onto him. 

“Do you really think I wouldn’t want you to?” Buck asks, and it sounds angry. Why wouldn’t he be angry. “Do you think I am just okay with never talking to you? Or never seeing you? Ever again? Do you really think that?”

Or maybe it’s less angry and more heartbroken. That would be more accurate. Broken. “No. That’s not— I didn’t mean that. I meant— ” What the hell did he mean. 

He means he doesn’t matter. He means Buck has people. Family. The good kind of family not the parental kind of family. The family they chose. He means it’s easier to think that Eddie means nothing to people because why would he be worth anything to anyone? It doesn’t make sense. It’s not even logical. There’s no proof. All the evidence says otherwise. Even his own son left and shut him out. And Eddie doesn’t blame him. Eddie fucked up. What else do you do with your traumas? Run away and shut it down. Run away and ignore. That’s all Chris knows. Like father, like son. Like mother, like son. 

Eddie tried to be a good father, he gave everything of himself to be what he thought was good and respectful and nurturing, and he still fucked up. “I meant— I— Buck.”

“You don’t want to be in the way,” Buck says. Heartbroken. Definitely. Unmistakably heartbroken. “Is that it?”

More or less. Eddie doesn’t want Buck to hurt with reminders. Doesn’t want Buck to not live his life. Even if it means forgetting Eddie. Eddie’s tired of being the thing that hurts people and makes them have to leave. That’s how he loses all the people he loves. 

“Eddie—”

“Yes! All right? Yes. I don’t want to hurt you and I don’t want to prolong this and make it worse and I don’t want you to worry or blame yourself for not being able to fix it because I know you want to fix it. But you can’t fix me. And I don’t want to be the thing that does this,” he gestures at Buck. His sad, broken voice and his haunted, bloodshot eyes and his unshaved, deflated, distant, forlorn everything. “To you. I—” Breathe. He has to breathe. He sounds as wrecked as Buck does. And one of them has to hold it together. 

He hates this. Hates this. Hates himself most for ruining everything but also for hurting his beloved, irreplaceable friend. Eddie tries again, but still sounds rough and hollowed out. “I don’t want to drag you down. Okay? You should move on and forget me and— and it’ll be better.”

Not so much for Eddie. He’s never let go of anything in his life. But Buck should. Buck should survive him. 

[brennacedria]

I have so many cozy scenes for Kaela and Lucanis and even Spite.

Like Kaela reading adventure stories to Spite every night so that he doesn't move around too much and disturb Lucanis's sleep. The deal is that after at least an hour, but often more, Spite has to lay in bed quietly for Lucanis's sake.

Lucanis figuring it out, and coming to read Kaela stories when she inevitably gets sick from not getting enough rest herself. He reads until she falls asleep, then sits with her, resting while being nearby in case she wakes and needs anything.

The both of them cuddled on the sofa in the dining hall, reading to each other after dinner.

Her surprising him with cinnamon cookies, because she can't make churros but she DOES make really good cookies and having them ready when he wakes up from the mandatory nap she makes him take.

Him not meeting her at the eluvian after trips to places like Hossberg, but rather he goes directly to the baths (oh yeah, the lighthouse provided a Tevinter bath in the new basement to the dining hall) and preparing everything for her to scrub down then soak for an hour, so she can get all the blight and grime off and just relax while he and Bellara prepare dinner.

Her moving to another room in the lighthouse (with a real bed!) with windows for her but heavy drapes to block out the view of the Fade for him, so that he doesn't have to spend time with the meditation room's aquarium, which Kaela assumes would remind him and Spite too much of the Ossuary.

Lucanis making more and more trips to Kaela's new room at night, not officially moving in because he still feels most comfortable in the confined space of the pantry, but still spending enough time in her room that he may as well move in. Their relationship has eventually progressed by this point, but still most nights they just lay together until falling asleep, or reading to each other still.

Occasionally Spite still wakes up while Lucanis sleeps, but he and Kaela have their agreement now, where he stays calm and sits with her while she reads, or they play cards, or anything relaxing like that. She wonders at one point, can Spite read? If not, she finds a way to teach him, and then he joins in the tradition they've all developed of reading to one another in quiet, cozy moments.

Spite never becomes other than spite, he's given enough opportunity to live his role, but he gains more of the traditional traits of Determination and Affection in the progress, and he doesn't rail against the transition.

Ultimately, the time comes to leave the Lighthouse for good; Lucanis just can't push off the Crows any longer, and his responsibilities to them become more than he can manage from the Fade. They all move to Treviso, but not to the manor proper; a cottage on the grounds (if it could be called that--it's still more grand than Kaela's childhood home, which was not insignificant) is more appropriate for the intimate little life they've all built together.

They continue indefinitely while he leads the Crows, and she uses the eluvians to spend her days in Minrathous rebuilding the Shadow Dragons, this time with the official support of the Archon. Every night they both come home to their cottage, and read or play cards or other little games. Lucanis teaches Kaela to make churros, and she teaches him her mother's recipe for cinnamon cookies.

Their friends don't get to visit as often as they like, in spite of having eluvian access; they come for important dates and anniversaries though, including for a long-delayed wedding at the main Dellamorte manor.

[sabraeal]

We Seek That Which We Shall Not Find, Chapter 10

[Read on AO3]

Written for @itspotatobee, who won the first ticket of my 1000 Follower raffle!

Clean 2BR/1BA, the listing had said; recently renovated, convenient street parking.

Obi huffs, breath just barely starting to mist in the night air. There’s nothing convenient about having to park two blocks away from the door— oh, he gets his steps in, sure, but last winter the city plowed a drift right against the driver’s side and then charged him a fine for the pleasure, and this summer about half the street lamps blew along his route back— must be the heat, the super had said, old bulbs like that go when you sneeze on them— and three months later, not a single one’s been changed.

The only plus side tonight is that it gives him plenty of time to get up a good froth on his self-loathing. Like that latte machine from the coffee shop he’d worked at that one time— some corporate one trying to pass itself off as a mom and pop, calling the shit pastries mom’s secret recipe and charging an arm and a leg, all while never paying a dime over minimum wage. He’d only lasted two months at that place, shown the door after he let one of the regulars have the run of the back during close, right before taking them into the walk-in and—

Well, he hadn’t much of a leg to stand on when it came to protesting his pink slip. But even though he’d had to give back the apron— good riddance; sky blue had never been his color— they couldn’t take away the four different kinds of latte art he’d learned to seduce Ms Walk-in behind the counter. Or how to make the perfect espresso.

Just the kind of skills that would impress Little Miss Honor Roll, really. Nothing future doctors-slash-rocket-scientists like to think about more than where their coffee comes from. And whether it’s got a cute little cream heart poured into it. Seems like a real good use of their time.

Obi slams the door behind him, dropping his keys into the melted Hard Mike’s bottle that serves as their resting place. Not that he’s supposed to be showing off for Lady Lynet. That’s Beaumains’ job, after all. He’s supposed to keep his hands and smiles to himself, because even if this girl weren’t legal issues level of young, Shirayuki’s still so out of his league he might as well be playing in the pee-wees.

A fact which seems to slip right out of his head whenever there’s just the Honda’s center console to play chaperone. It’d be so easy to just lean over, to put himself right in her orbit and find out if she might lean back. To compress a foot worth of dead space to an inch and let her choose to close that last bit. Really make her grandparents wonder what she could get up to into an idling car for twenty minutes.

Or at least, that’s what he should be thinking— what he always had when it came to picking out the next notch in his bedpost. It’s what makes sense— everything boiling down to some animal attraction that rides rough-shod over common sense; the kind of horny-stupid makes him think that chasing a girl that looks like the larval stage of a librarian is going to lead anywhere besides heartbreak.

But instead, he keeps looking over the cup holders, wondering if her hands are as soft as they look. If her fingers would fit between his like a lock’s tumblers, or if they’d just be as mismatched as their heights made them look. If instead of leaning of leaning up to meet him, she might cup his hands between her palms, as if just him was enough, and—

The door groans beneath his back, matching the one that drags out of his throat. This is worse than wanting to fuck her, isn’t it? Like the start of a mental illness or something. Maybe he should just save them all some time and just—

The lights flick on, blinding him. Takes a minute for everything to resolve into the grin perched on the arm of his couch.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Torou drawls, one bare foot swinging just above the balding rug. It’d been shag once, long before they’d picked it up from the curb. “A sad sack.”

“What are you doing?” The boots seemed like a great idea before he left, but now he’s stuck trying to untie his laces while the peanut gallery looks on. “Don’t tell me you waited up.”

“First off, it’s like, eleven. I’m not eighty.” She ticks her point off on her fingers, flashing nails that look more like a color blindness chart than art. “Second, what kind of sister would I be if I didn’t wait up for my dearest, sweetest little—”

“We are not related.”

“By some cosmic clerical error,” she sighs, one hand dramatically pressed to her tank top. “But what was I supposed to do after all those dire texts you sent me?”

Might be awkward to be bent over right in the doorway, all vulnerable and shit, but at least Torou can’t see his face when he mutters, “Those weren’t about me.”

“Uh-huh, sure. You can tell me ‘your friend’” —her fingers flash in a seriously improbable amount of quotes— “needs advice all you want, but I can read between the lines. Hell, I invented writing in the margins, okay, you can’t just— oh my god, did you dress up?”

God, he needs to finish his bachelor degree yesterday. At least then he might be able to afford a one bedroom. “I wear this all the time.”

Torou claps a hand over her mouth— an upgrade, in his opinion— and tilts her head.  “Please don’t tell me that’s what you’ve been saying all night.”

Obi frowns. “I’ve definitely worn all of these clothes before.”

“Together?”

Sure, maybe he picked up the button down at Goodwill like a week ago, after he knew he’d be swinging by Shirayuki’s before the game— but the T-shirt and jeans, definitely. “Don’t you have something better to do? Like I don’t know, binge Love Island until you figure out who you want to fuck the most?”

“Please, I can do that just by looking at the lineup. It’s not like any of those people get better when they open their mouths. Now, come on” —Torou tips off the arm, patting the cushion beside her— “What’s she like? Is she hot? Does she have an even hotter friend? Is she going to slash my tires?”

Impossible; that girl probably doesn’t even dog-ear pages on her own books. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Oh my god, there is a girl.” Torou’s on her feet now, dogging his heels all the way to their postage stamp of a kitchen, getting underfoot like all the worst cats he’s ever known. “Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d know you were trying to pull some ass, I would have cleared out! Listen, next week, just text and I’ll—”

“It’s fine.”

He throws open the fridge, less from any real need to stuff himself, and more to keep himself from picturing it— Shirayuki, here in his place. Shirayuki, letting him herd her back towards his bedroom, breath already coming in those thin, hiccuping gasps, fingers buried in his hair. Shirayuki, curled up on his couch, head resting on his shoulder, the light from the TV washing over her sleeping face forty minutes before the movie’s even over—

“I’m not bringing her here.” Ever. “You don’t need to get gone or whatever.”

“Oh, I get it.” The curl of her smirk says she doesn’t, not even a little. “I shouldn’t wait up. So what’s her place got? Hot tub? Sex dungeon? Memory foam? No roommates?”

“I wish this place had no roommates,” he grunts, grabbing the closest thing to the door. Just his luck, it’s one of Torou’s stupid diet drinks, some kind of carbonated water that has briefly been shown a picture of fruit and then had the flavored label slapped across it. “No, it’s not— we’re not like that. And I’m not trying to.”

“Oh?” Her arms fold across her chest, every angle completely unimpressed. “So, what? You just spent fifteen solid minutes blowing up my phone in a fucking panic about your moves because you want to stay friendly?”

“I wasn’t panicked.” Just doubting his ability to read a room. At least one filled with people whose whole personality couldn’t be summed up as DTF. “Just…wondering. About if I was coming off too, er…”

“Friendly?” His stomach rolls with every waggle of her eyebrows. “Yeah, I know all about coming on too friendly, and then you have to find somewhere to—”

“Cut it out.” It flies out of him, too sharp, too raw, and Torou must hear it too, since her smirk smooths into a line. “Seriously, that’s not…it’s not going to happen.”

“What? Why not?” There’s a defensive set to her arms now, a real stubborn angle in the way her head tilts. “You’re a catch.”

“Sure, as long as you’re fishing in industrial runoff.” Her mouth rucks up, fight ready to spill right out of her— should have known better than to say something like that when she’s already spoiling for one— but he holds her off with a wave and a generous sip of that flavorless diet stuff. “Nah, listen, it’s not like that. She’s just young. Like, way too young.”

That gets an eyebrow up, scrap traded for skepticism. “What? Is this how I’m gonna find out you’re hanging around a middle school or something?”

Diet drink goes down the entirely wrong pipe. “Jesus,” he coughs. “I didn’t say she was a baby.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She leans on the counter, a smirk already slanted across her smug face. “So how old is your fetus then, you cradle-robber?”

“She’s not my”— it’s terrible, watching her eyebrow tick higher, too knowing— “Seventeen.”

“What?” Torou stares at him, weirdly blank. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean ‘that’s it?’” He hasn’t been questioning his life and choices for whole a week just for this. “If we did anything— I mean, if I did anything—”

“Which clearly you’re thinking about.” The curl at the corner of her smirk digs deep into her cheek. “A lot.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to.” She leans back, shoulders rolling into a lazy shrug. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re what? Twenty? You guys could have been in high school together.”

Hah, wouldn’t that be something? Her, an over-achieving little freshman, well on her way to honor roll, and him, a senior who was only good enough at math to figure out how many days he could skip before they’d keep him back. Probably wouldn’t have even looked at each other twice if Wisteria didn’t find some way to put him in her orbit. But if he did…

Well, maybe he would have actually had a reason to show up to class, instead of barely eking out a diploma on a technicality. Maybe he would have even looked at that stupid flier for Senior Prom and thought—

“That’s not the point,” he mutters, scrubbing at a cheek, hoping she can’t see the heat flooding his face. “I’m not a senior and she’s not a freshman. She’s seventeen, and by the time she’s not…”

He’ll be a handful of months away from being able to legally buy that handle of Skol in their fridge.

“Uh-huh,” she hums, taking the gross diet water out of his hands and taking a swig. “So what’s the plan? You’re gonna wait around until she’s eighteen, and then—?”

“What? No. I don’t have some creepy countdown until she’s legal or whatever,” he squawks, hands waving between them. “Besides, it’s not like she’s suddenly not gonna be a high schooler.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but like, there’s this thing that most seniors do: it’s called graduating. It’s the thing where you suddenly aren’t a high schooler anymore.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” God, this is why he didn’t want to talk to her about all this; Obi’s never had trouble making bad decisions, the last thing he needs is her helping him make another one. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. She’s probably not even interested.”

“What, in you?” Torou snorts. “Did you forget to mention this girl is blind or something?”

“No, there’s just…” Wisteria Junior. “Someone else that’s a way better choice.”

“Yeah?” Her mouth twitches, and— god, she is finding this way too funny for his health. “How do you figure?”

He’s her age, for one. Good looking too, if you’re into that clean-cut prep type. Which, if the way she dresses is any indication, it definitely is. “He’s rich.”

“Oh.” Torou settles back with a sigh. “Sucks for you then.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, swiping the water and pouring the rest down the sink. “For real.”

*

Wisteria has a gift— well, many gifts if he believes the tabloids he flips through waiting in line at the grocery store, bestowed on him by a mix of sound generational investments and genetics— for always knowing when it’s Obi’s bucket squeaking down his hall, cleaning up his students’ shit. For a bunch of kids who are meant to be the linchpin of this country’s economy in the next decade or so, it doesn’t bode well that none of them can seem to walk their wrappers to the trash bin. Business majors? More like major pains in his ass.

“Obi.”

That GQ-worthy mug hangs outside of his office, not even a hand raised to flag him down, just relying on the authority in his voice. What’s obnoxious is that it works— Obi perks right up, like a dog to a whistle, head swiveling to where that asshole stands, all casual lean and cashmere. Guy might only be a TA right now, but a few more years of playing prodigal CEO and they’ll probably hand him a PhD for free.

“We should talk.” Now his fingers twitch, the laziest come-here curl. The sort of thing that would look stupid on anyone else, but for him— Obi’s already leaning his mop against the wall. “Come here.”

He turns his back, obedience not only demanded but expected, and well— that gets Obi’s boots to squeak up short, one eyebrow pitched to his hairline.

“Aren’t you rich?” he snorts, checking one hip against the wall. “Would have thought your mama would be able to afford you some manners.”

Now that gets His Majesty to draw up short, craning a neck so elegant it makes Obi wonder if people in his tax bracket breed for them like borzoi.

“Come here, please,” he manages after a long moment. “We should talk, thank you.”

Obi sighs. When it comes to people with more money than sense, sometimes you gotta take what you can get.

He ducks into the office, tugging off his work gloves and tucking them around the loop of his belt. It’s not a private one— even Izana Wisteria, CEO, MBA (almost), Esq (at least he assumes, that seems like the sort of thing people with money get for fun) can’t do better than one desk out of four, though the other ones are empty, cleared out for the king to hold court. Or at least office hours, though it’d take bigger balls than his to ask someone on Fortune’s “30 Under 30” for help on ECON 230.

“What’s the problem, my liege?” Obi grins, finding a new wall to lean insolently against. “Got another cute maiden for me to terrorize? Gotta say, I think my schedule’s filled up on that one.”

“No.” His mouth twitches, good as a laugh out of the ice prince — and probably at his expense. “But speaking of Shirayuki…”

Oh boy. Better batten down the hatches for this one. If he thought Torou roasted him, then Wisteria was going to practically cremate—

“I have been informed that I owe you a…apology.”

Well. That wasn’t on his rich boy bingo card today.

“Oh?” Obi shoves off from the wall, dropping into one of the seats across from him. “I didn’t think you were allowed to do that. Don’t you need at least three PR managers to sign off on any statement before you can—?”

“I know you’re under the misapprehension that you’re hilarious,” Wisteria informs him, his dulcet tones pinched as he picks through them. “But I am allowed to handle my own personal liaisons, thank you.”

“Oh,” he gasps, letting the word wallow around in his mouth before letting it loose, if only to see Wisteria flinch. “I’m a liaison. Should I sign an NDA?”

“You’re a liability, that’s what you are,” His Majesty mutters, finger drumming an impatient line on his desk. “And no. I can already tell that litigating you would be a nightmare.”

“Don’t worry, your lordship,” he hums. “If the paps ask, I’ll only give them glowing reviews of your—”

“That” —Wisteria tucks a pen violently into its holder— “is exactly what keeps me up at night.”

Obi gives him his most charming grin. “You know, since you’re allowed to handle liaisons” —he throws around a liberal amount of finger quotes, enough to get some good froth on His Majesty’s glare— “are you gonna try to liaise with that hot chick from the humanities department? You know, the one that’s always hanging around here, trying to get the dean to sign off on things. What’s her name, Ha—?”

“You really are quite practiced in being utterly intolerable, aren’t you.” Wisteria adjusts his glasses, and not for the first time, Obi wonders if they’re actually prescription. “Just because I am allowed to tender my own personal apologies does not mean I take joy in doing it. And I assume from the way you are acting like” —a clown, his frown practically shouts— “this, the feeling is mutual. So let us just forge through the rest of this matter as quickly as possible.”

“Or we could just not and say you did.”

“I have thought of that,” Wisteria admits with a breath light enough to take for a sigh. “But I’m almost certain that she would check.”

He’d almost pay to see that— Little Miss Honor Roll with her hands on her hips, gently hounding Izana Wisteria into acting like a decent human being. “Oh, definitely.”

“So, let’s get down to it shall we. An apology, after all, has three parts.” There’s something like a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth on that last bit, like he’s got fond memories of the scolding that earned him that little taste of manners, but it’s gone before Obi can really appreciate it. “I have come to understand that in asking you to interfere with the natural progression of plot in our current campaign, you were maneuvered into the direct path of my brother’s infatuation.”

Right, rich boy for, I asked you to fuck around, and we found out a little harder than expected.

“I mean, you told me to come run interference between your brother and his girlfriend.” Act as a disruptor, Wisteria had called it. A real nice way to say, be an asshole and we can call the whole thing square. “I knew what I was getting into.”

Long fingers knit, forming a bridge over a spray of unfinished paperwork, and Wisteria sighs. “I’m well aware. But I have been informed that this does not absolve me of your resultant discomfort. Should you have experienced any.”

Which you must have, he doesn’t say, because the whole table had to talk him down from choking you out.

“Well, yeah. Can’t say I love being hated or whatever, but it wasn’t like I was coming to make friends.” Though he somehow managed it anyway, considering how many texts he’s gotten from the Big Guy about properly leveled gear and suggested feats. “Besides, your brother is fun to fire up.”

Another twitch, this time aimed at someone else’s back. “That he is.”

There’s a strange kind of silence that settles in the air between them; not weird, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, but almost…friendly. Just two dudes vibing, because they don’t need to talk to understand each other. The sort of thing that would feel good, if it wasn’t with a guy who wore sweaters worth more zeros than his bank account.

“I forgive you.” It’s a stupid thing to say— the last thing any Wisteria needs is absolution. Not from him at least. “If that’s what you need to hear. Even though I don’t really think there’s anything to apologize for.”

His mouth curls, the smallest flash of teeth peeking out of Wisteria’s smirk. “Thank you, regardless.”

“Anyway.” Obi’s hands itch, dying to do something— anything— besides just sit here and feel companionable toward a man with more letters tacked on to the end of his name than there is alphabet. “I should really—?”

“Of course.” His Majesty doesn’t stand, of course, content to watch the peasants scramble to please him. Or, right now, watch Obi plant his palms and mosey up to standing. “I’d hate to have your supervisor stroll past and take you to task when I’m the one who requested a chat.”

Obi lets a dry laugh saw out of him. “Don’t worry, your frostiness, I get fifteen minute breaks just like everyone else.”

There’s a tightness to his mouth now, a furrow digging itself right above that perfect nose— really, there’s got to be a program or something, people don’t look this good by accident— but it’s gone as quickly as it blew in, leaving only that still-lake smile behind. “Thank you for giving it to me, then.”

“No problem. Anytime, I guess.” He’s the most tolerable person in the department, funny enough. And that’s not just because he stuck his neck out to get Obi in the door in the first place— though he won’t lie: it helps.

“Obi…” The ice prince is on his feet now, one hand delicately braced on the corner of his desk, and Obi wouldn’t quite call this melting, but it’s certainly enough sweat to need a coaster. “Aside from my brother…you are enjoying the game, aren’t you?”

He blinks. “Yeah. It’s” —the most fun he’s ever had sober— “cool. I, uh, like it.”

For reasons that don’t entirely include a little red-headed alchemist and her insistence on handling him. Er, Beaumains.

“Ah. Good.” And just like that, his highness is solid ice again, no puddle to mark he’d ever perspired at all. “I had been under that impression. We’ll be expecting you this Saturday, I presume?”

Obi huffs out something just shy of a laugh. “And miss what trap you’ve set us all up for this week? You better believe it. Maybe this time I’ll take a page from my lady’s book and bring a bribe.”

There’s no missing that flash of teeth now, disappearing quick behind the drawn curtains of his smile. “Your mistress, as you call her, said much the same thing. Minus the bribery. Though she did ask how I felt about raisins.”

“O-oh?��� He’d already been dragging out his saunter to the door, but now his boots scuff to a stop, leaning back to ask, so casual, “Did she?”

“Yes. She apparently— how did she put it? Looks forward to cutting through the knot you’ll be trying to convince us to untangle.” Wisteria doesn’t laugh, but he does let out a rusty hah for good measure. “She also inquired as to whether it would be all right to bring along another guest.”

His stomach takes a real tour of the space beneath his rib cage. “Another…guest?”

“Yes. A friend of hers, I gather.” His smile curls up at a corner, content as a cat. “It seems her post-session postmortems have convinced said friend to try their hand at tabletop.”

“Right. Cool.” He clears his throat, totally not desperate as he asks, “So like, is this a friend-friend, or, uh…?”

“Friend…friend?” One elegant eyebrow lifts. “I’m not quite sure what you’re driving at.”

“I mean”— he may not be Wisteria’s brother, blushing at every brush with embarrassment, but god, he’s pushing his tolerance to its limit— “like a lady friend? Or do you think—?”

“Sorry!” A curious head pops around the door, eyes darting between them— and then the hours posted on the door. A student— thankfully not anyone he knows. “Are you guys doing office hours?”

“I am,” Wisteria offers. “Apologies, Obi. It seems that we’ll have to continue this…riveting discussion later.”

“Ah…” He’d really rather die than try to talk about this after common sense has had time to come around. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I, ah, got it.”

His smile widens to an almost wolfish grin. “Do you?”

“Yeah.” Obi shrugs, casual. “Totally.”

*

He does not, actually, got this.

In fact, not only is he not in the same neighborhood of getting this, but Obi doubts he’s even in the same zip code. He’d have to get on a transcontinental flight to even get on the same continent as getting it, and even then, he probably couldn’t find it with a map and a mailing address.

It’d actually be kinda funny, if he wasn’t living it. Torou certainly seems to think so.

“Just text her already.” Torou flips the page on her Marie Claire, and oh, she might sound over it— might even look over it, sitting there as her toe nails set or whatever. But Obi can see her watching, spying on him from the corner of her eyes, not even bothering to read which nail trends everyone will be ‘rocking’ this holiday season or which easy fashion looks look best on the three same-bodied models they’ve found to wear them. “You’re driving her, aren’t you? It’s sort of your job to know who you’re picking up.”

“But what if it is a guy?” he moans, half muffled in the pillow. “What if it’s a guy and he’s driving her?”

“What if it’s a girl and they’re making out right now?” Torou deadpans. “What if it’s a girl and they’re making out right now and you’ll have to drive them?”

He’ll admit, that pulls him up a little short. “I mean…I guess that would be…uh…”

Fine, he wants to say. That’s what he would have said if one of his hookups pulled something like that. Hell, he probably would have been fine with a guy too, so long as they were both into it. But he thinks of anyone so much as putting an arm around Shirayuki, having her turn those big eyes up at them, and he—

“Ugh,” he moans. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

The magazine drops, louder than a gunshot. “Oh my god.” Torou stares at him, white all around her eyes. “You want to d-word her.”

Dick? “We’ve been over this, I’m not—”

“No, no.” Her head shakes, that thick mane of hair flying everywhere. “You want to d-word her because you l-word her!”

Date. She means date. He wants to date her, because he—

“W-what?” A cold sweat prickles just beneath his collar. “Which l-word?”

“Oh my god.” Torou stares at him like he should be behind plate glass and under terrarium lighting, like he’s a sideshow. “You have to ask? Wow, you’re really down bad.”

“No, I…” His teeth snap shut, one big clack that echoes through his ear canals. Yeah, he could deny it, throw out all kinds of protest about how just not happening this whole thing is, but—

Well, it’s not like it’s going to make him seem less down bad. “I’m gonna see if she needs that ride.”

Torou laughs, picking up her magazine. “Yeah, you do that, champ.”

hey, he picks out, giving her a glare over the horizon of his phone screen, u ned ride 2nite? HRM tol me u mite hav 1

A little check mark pops up nearly immediately— she’s read it, oh god— and Obi dies nearly a hundred deaths between then and when the little gray (…) pops up beneath it.

Yes, please! Is it alright if my friend comes with us? I’m sorry, I should have asked days ago.

A three-day old breath shudders out from his lungs, and it’s a good thing he’s already lounging on this chair, because the thing would have taken his knees with it if he’d been on them.

np mi casa es su casa w cars tho

Thank you!! She’s been hearing me talk about the game for weeks. This time she insisted she had to come with me.

She. Obi drops his forehead onto the edge of his screen. The friend is a she. Which isn’t a guarantee it’s all friendly and platonic or whatever, but it’s something. Elbow room, at least.

got it 2 see if were ax murders rite

I don’t think that was specifically a worry, no. She goes to school with Zen and Kiki too.

There’s a long pause before she adds, Though she certainly has an interest in checking some people out.

His fingers hover over the screen, and— just how is he supposed to take that? Anyone else and he’s think she mean him, but—

Also I know this is a little last minute, but… Would you mind coming a little early? Maybe…6?

Ya sure np. His forehead furrows, finger hesitantly adding, n e reason y?

Another one of those long pauses, the kind that leaves him wondering if maybe all this fluttering and  squeezing in his chest area might be the sign of a cardiac event rather than being down so bad it gives him palpitations.

Nothing big, she says, far too casual for the follow up of, My grandparents would like you to come to dinner. If that’s cool with you.

Oh. He presses a hand to his chest. This is what a cardiac feels like.

“TOROU.” Obi doesn’t even wait for her magazine to drop, just barrels straight into, “What does it mean that she wants me to come over?”

Her mouth tilts into that all-too knowing smirk. “Well well well, looks like your fetus doesn’t mind that you’re three steps from the grave, huh? Guess you won’t need me to clear out, unless you guys are going to do a tour of—”

“No, that’s not— that’s not it.” He tips the screen towards her, like somehow she might be able to read eight point font from across the room. “She wants me to have dinner with her grandparents.”

“What”—Torou’s eyes grow wide, pressing deeper into the couch like a cat trying to scramble out of a bath— “the fuck?”

“Oh cool,” he mumbles, numb. “So that was the right reaction.”

[maenecoon]

thought you might be amused to know I saw this post -> https://www.tumblr.com/zeldahime/768433217319682048 <- and my very first thought was "oh puppy Chay in that one only fans AU" which I believe is yours? (haven't read it myself yet, but ik vaguely of it and if I'm right that it's yours, I hope this makes you laugh, and if I'm wrong, don't mind meeee 💦😂)

oh my fucking god, first of all hi i love your fics-

seCONDLY

YES

YOURE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT

this is so puppy chay coded! he's ghost writing on tumblr, clearly 😂😂 love how you clocked it even without reading it lol, thanks for stopping by! <33

[rayrayor]

Ok a spicy not sweet holiday story, which I forgot to drop on the actual holiday. DOH!

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

hey!!

could i maybe get a roommate fic where carmy’s getting ridden and about to come and has no filter so it slips out that he loves her

Baby, Please.

it’s been on the tip of his tongue for too long. it was only a matter of time.

roommate!carmen berzatto x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. carmy’s a bit pathetic at some points in this (you’re welcome)

word count - 2.4k

authors note - ah shit, here we go again. I always end writing carmy as a little bitch in these, sorry lmao (i’m not). but here it is!! a love confession!! will they ever talk about anything, I hear you ask? we’ll see…

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

series masterlist. masterlist. inbox.

Carmen automatically smiles when he hears your keys clinking against the lock in the front door.

As soon as he clocks it, he rolls his eyes at himself. You’re not supposed to get butterflies in your stomach when your roommate comes home on a random Thursday evening.

And yet here he is, sitting on the couch, trying to play it cool - as if he hasn’t been waiting for your return for the last hour and a half.

You’re usually back from work before he is, and suddenly he’s grateful for it. He couldn’t do this everyday. Sitting, waiting for you to come home as if you’ve been gone for months rather than nine or so hours. The apartment feels a little bigger, a little colder without you in it. Carmy wonders how he lived here for so long without you.

You swing the door open, kicking off your shoes instantly. Throwing your bag onto the counter, you take in the sight of your home. It’s clean, tidied, more organised than you’ve seen it in a while. Carmy’s been putting the work in while you’ve been gone.

“What happened, Carmen? Are you okay?”

“W-what?”

“Were you stress cleaning?”

He laughs, all full and warm.

“No, babe. Just regular cleaning.”

He rises from the couch, coming over to press a kiss into your cheek before slipping your jacket off your shoulders and hanging it up behind you.

“Carmen, what’s that smell?”

“Tomato and basil slow baked rigatoni. Homemade garlic bread. And then, if you have any room left… my homemade snickerdoodles.”

“Did you… cook for me?”

“Yes I did, baby. It’s the least I can do after you’ve been at work all day.”

It’s all so domestic, so thoughtful, so heartfelt, that you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. You step forward into his space, looping your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his lips. He grins at you when you pull away.

“What was that for?”

“A thank you,” you whisper, kissing him again. “I really won the roommate lottery, huh?”

“We both did,” he chuckles, covering your face in kisses while you squirm in his arms.

Eventually, he lets you go, but not before raking his eyes up and down your figure very slowly. He takes you in - your work clothes, the way your hair is falling out slightly, your bare feet. As much as you want to let him devour you, you’re starving. A different kind of hunger to his.

“Dinner first. That after.”

“What after?” he plays coy, trying to fight the smirk off his face.

“Don’t play dumb, Berzatto. It’s not a good look on you.”

With that, you leave the kitchen to get changed, laughing as you go.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You sink further into Carmy’s side on the couch, trying desperately to pay attention to the vintage sitcom that’s playing on the TV.

All you can focus on are the rough fingertips tracing patterns on the bare skin of your thigh. They keep getting higher, brushing the seam of your pyjama shorts occasionally. Every so often, Carmy leans in to press a kiss onto your temple, into your hair, behind your ear. You rest your head on his chest, soothed by the steady beat of his heart.

“That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I could eat that pasta every day for the rest of my life and die a happy woman.”

Carmy laughs, and the sound rumbles through both of you.

“I don’t cook for you often enough.”

You sit up, then, turning in your seat to look him in the eyes.

“Carmen. You cook for me almost every day.”

“Yeah, but… not really.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Most of the time when I’m cooking at home, I’m trying a new recipe, or perfecting an old one - for the restaurant. And then we both eat it for dinner. But tonight, I actually picked a recipe I knew you’d love, and made it for you. Because I don’t cook for you often enough.”

You lean in to press a gentle kiss to his lips, smiling as you do it.

“You know I don’t mind either way, right? Whatever you make is always delicious. Except for that weird duck mousse from last week. That was… awful.”

He shoves you playfully, laughing when you topple backwards onto the couch cushions. Climbing onto you, he digs his fingers into your ribs, chuckling as you try to squirm away from him.

“Stop, before I kick you in the stomach or something,” you plead, wrapping your legs around his waist to try and keep him still.

When that doesn’t work, you resort to dirtier tactics. You roll your hips up into his, watching as his face changes when he realises what you’re doing. The tickling stops, replaced by fingertips gripping your sides in a completely different way.

“Fuck,” he murmurs into your neck as he drops his head down. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Minx.”

“Well you wouldn’t stop, so…”

“You’re usually telling me not to stop, honey. ‘Oh, Carmen, don’t stop baby, don’t stop’…”

You laugh as he mocks you, half in disbelief, half in amusement.

“You’re such a dick.”

“You still want me though, huh?”

The atmosphere in the room shifts, tension thickening in the air. Carmy’s eyes go dark as he looks down at you, gaze raking across your face. You nod in response to his question, chewing at your bottom lip.

“You gonna let me thank you for dinner properly, Berzatto?

Who is he to say no to an offer like that?

You tighten your legs around his waist and pull his hips down to yours, flipping you both over on the couch. You settle with your thighs on either side of his, your weight keeping him anchored down to the cushions.

“You look so pretty underneath me,” you whisper, tracing the features of his face with your gentle fingertips. “Pretty, pretty boy.”

Carmy’s hips buck up into yours at the praise.

“You’re so fucking predictable,” you giggle as he groans. “You love this, don’t you?”

“Love what?”

His voice is all strained and breathy already, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Being my bitch.”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes, but his tightening grip on your waist gives him away. You lean in to press your forehead to his, breathing him in for a moment. Carmy tilts his head up to meet your lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth as you whine.

You tangle your fingers into his hair, melding your lips against his. You let him explore your mouth, winding your hips down into him in a steady motion. You lean back to pull his shirt over his head, yours following suit shortly afterwards and ending up in a pile on the floor.

Carmy kisses his way across your chest, nipping and sucking as he goes. You’re way past the don’t leave marks stage. Neither of you care anymore. You rake your nails down his stomach, smirking when he shudders, goosebumps rising across his skin.

You tip forward to bite at the muscle of Carmy’s neck, licking a stripe up his throat as you go. He tastes like his minty shower gel and cinnamon sugar from the snickerdoodles. It’s the perfect combination to make your mouth water.

He tangles his fingers into the waistband of your pyjama shorts, trying to tug them down. You go to stand up to help him, but the whine he lets out stops you in your tracks.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“Carmen, if you want my pants off, you need to let me stand up.”

“You can do it here.”

He pulls you back down into his lap, ignoring your raised eyebrows. You manage to slip your shorts and panties down one leg, rising awkwardly on the other to try and get them off. You kick them to the floor, chuckling as you settle back over Carmy’s hips.

“Happy now?”

“Very happy,” he mumbles, reattaching his lips to your jaw. “The happiest. Got the prettiest girl in the world naked in my lap right now.”

Heat rises across your chest at the compliment, head ducking down to avoid his eyes.

“Shut up,” you mutter, tugging down the waistband of Carmy’s sweatpants.

You pull them and his boxers off in one fell swoop, dropping them onto the floor. When you take him in your hand, he reaches out and grabs your wrist, looking up at you through thick lashes.

“Wait, baby.”

You freeze instantly, finally meeting his gaze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothings wrong. Just need to get you ready first.”

You shake your head, gentle smile on your face. He’s always thinking about you. Selfless boy.

“I am more than ready, Carmen.”

When he looks at you with skepticism in his eyes, you decide to make a point.

You trail your fingers down your stomach, pulling them through your wetness when you reach it. Sliding a digit inside, you rock your hips, throwing your head back. You can both hear how ready you are, and it makes Carmy groan.

“Oh, fuck.”

He’s whispering in awe, careful not to spook you when you’re so clearly in your own little world. You add another finger, and Carmy has to grip your hips as hard as he can to stop himself from flipping you over and having his way with you.

You remove your fingers and shove them straight into Carmy’s mouth, panting as he laves his tongue around them. You both whine in unison. Always so in sync.

“I’m more than ready,” you whisper into his jaw. “Promise.”

“I believe you,” he croaks, wrecked already. “Please.”

“You’re so pretty when you beg.”

You line him up, sinking down ever so slowly. You want to feel every inch, every ridge, every movement. You don’t want to miss anything.

You both drop your heads back in bliss, chests heaving against each other. You’re adjusting, while Carmy’s trying to get a hold of himself. He doesn’t want it to be over too quickly, but it so easily could be if he isn’t careful. He runs his hands up and down the bare skin of your back, admiring how soft you are.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he says through gritted teeth. “Shit, baby.”

“You feel so good. So big, Carmen. Fuck.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you can’t help but tease, running your thumb over his bottom lip.

“Talk like that. Fuck.”

“Oh,” you laugh in fake realisation. “You like it a little too much, huh?”

He leans his head forward to rest on your chest, gasping when you lift your hips up to drop them back down. It’s all so slick, so easy. It’s like you’re made for each other, made to fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

You can’t help but want to push him a little further. He’s always so quietly domineering, so seemingly in control, that you love when he allows himself to fray at the edges slightly. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get you off.

“So you don’t want me to tell you how you’re filling me up just right? That you’re so big, that you feel so fucking good? That I could sit here for hours? That I’ve never had it like this with anyone?”

Carmy’s hips buck up involuntarily, and you chuckle a little cruelly.

“Baby, please.”

“Okay, Carmen. Okay.”

You press a sugary sweet kiss to his lips before settling your hands on his broad shoulders to give yourself some stability. You set a steady rhythm, winding your hips up and gliding them back down with a clear purpose. Your knees ache, and your hips are being held open a little too wide, but you feel delirious with it, high off the pleasure. It’s good. So good.

“Shit, honey. Fuck. S’good, yeah? So good. Keep going, don’t stop.”

You’ve always found his babbling amusing, but right now there’s nothing funny about the way the sound of his voice pushes you undeniably closer and closer to the edge. You never want him to stop talking.

Carmy moves one hand from your hip to between your legs, rubbing soft but intentional circles onto your clit. It sets your nerves alight, whole body buzzing with anticipation.

You keep your rhythm going, even as it’s getting harder and harder to concentrate. You can feel that Carmy’s close, that he’s sitting on a knife’s edge waiting for you. You realise, suddenly, that you want him to come before you. You want to undo him.

You move one hand to tangle in his hair, while the other settles at his throat. You don’t squeeze too hard, just enough to turn his moans into breathy little ah ah ahs.

“Baby, please. Fuck, so close. So good, honey. You’re so good.”

Your grip tightens in his curls, making him groan. Your hips get faster, and so do his fingers on your clit, the pressure more insistent now.

“Fuck, yeah, that’s it, don’t stop baby. Fuck, I love this. I love you. Keep going, so close. Atta girl.”

Your brain is too lost in your actions to register his words. Instead, you press your forehead to his, kissing him gently in contrast to the violent slam of your hips. This juxtaposition seems to be Carmy’s undoing, his grip on your hip tightening so much you hope it’ll bruise.

He emits the most gorgeous moan you’ve ever heard when he comes, which sends you straight over the edge. You tighten like a vice, whole body shuddering with it. Your climax seems to last forever, every single one of your nerves fried and frayed.

You both come down slowly, foreheads pressed together and lungs heaving. You’re panting into his mouth, smoothing out his hair where your fingers have ruffled it. Carmy’s arms wrap around your back, pulling you in so you’re chest to chest as he presses a kiss to your temple. You sit like this for a while, completely at peace in each other’s company.

Eventually, after what could have been hours but was probably minutes, you break the silence.

“So we should probably talk about the I love you, huh?”

@jazminsjaz @buendiabebeta @kingsqueensandvagabonds

[so-much-for-the-seashells]

Logan Howlett, the man you are. (Headcanons!!)

Minors, do not interact.

A/N: Y’all. I’ve been in a writing rut, but something about Logan- and Huge Jackedman, by extension- regaining his moment in the spotlight has gotten me back at it. Hugh was 1000% the reason I found out that I have a thing for dilfs, and let me tell you, I ain’t mad about it. To quote one author, who I can’t remember off the top of my head but wrote a KILLER breeding kink fic for Wolvie, “before there was Jensen Ackles, there was Hugh Jackman.” If you know me or my work, you know I’m a Jackles girl, but Hugh? Hugh will always get me going, whether he’s a ringleader, a robot shadow boxer, or otherwise.

TLDR I’m so in love with Hugh/Logan again. I always am, but I’m really on fire rn. Don’t worry, I will be continuing the 2SC series, but I needed this.

As always, all interaction, especially your words, is so very much appreciated!! I hope you like this one! Also, thank you for 120 followers! This account is maybe three months old, this is an insane milestone.

CW: it’s really just soft with a side of spice, the most flavorful being daddy/breeding.

-first of all, this man is a the biter.

-and it’s not always in a sexual sense

-he’ll just walk up to you and gently graze his teeth against your exposed shoulder or neck

-especially at night, after sex or not. He’ll be holding you close- you’re the little spoon ofc🎀- and just nibble on the juncture of your neck and shoulder while you cuddle into him

-honestly, it doesn’t hurt. And he only leaves marks if he wants to, ie when he’s balls deep inside of your little cunt OR wanting to remind the world who you belong to

-he’s just got a bit of an oral fixation is all

-speaking of which, he could be between your thighs for the rest of eternity and he’d be fine with it. He LOVES when you tug on his hair as he makes you squirm, only needing one strong hand to hold you down

-he goes feral when he sees you wearing his shirts

-loves to throw you over his shoulder and to play fight

-he’s interested in anything you’re interested in

-mans can’t cook to save his life but adores watching you and “helping”

-aka being all up in your business when you’re literally just trying to chop an onion

-he can be clingy. Not in a whiny way, in a playfully annoying way.

-will always find a way to make you late to anything. Sometimes it’s for the sake of a quickie, other times it’s because he wants one more kiss or to see the last five minutes of whatever show you guys watch together

-if you’re into daddy, he’s into daddy. Especially if you’re significantly younger than him

-he likes to squish you- your boobs, tummy, ass, wherever. He loves your body for what it is and loves you

-this man is so in love with you, by the way

-he’s old as hell but if you teach him how to text he’ll text you sporadically throughout the day. Sometimes it’s really blurry, almost impossible to decipher, pictures of things that remind him of you, other times it’s “When will you be home?” even though he’s already called you to ask four times. That’s mainly on his days off though- if he’s not doing something or you then he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

-that’s not to say he’s not always thinking of you. On missions, wherever, you’re the first thing in his mind. Give him a locket with a picture of the two of you and chances are he’ll wear it forever

-oh back to the other one he totally texts like an old man. If you try to use slang, or even just use “u,” you’ll confuse him so bad that he’ll think he’s in the future or that you’re speaking a different language. He also doesn’t like emojis, unfortunately 😞

-he’s got a sweet tooth. Loves to bake with you- he can’t cook but he can make a mean batch of snickerdoodles. No one knows why, and he’ll never offer any explanation.

-speaking of sweets that’s why he loves eating you out so much, because you taste so sweet to him

-and all of his nicknames are sweet based- sweetheart, sweets, sugar, etc- with the exception of darling which coming from him would put anyone on their knees immediately

-speaking of being on your knees he loves when you do it. Not as much as he loves eating you out, but he does enjoy a solid blow once in a while

-he’s a sucker for cockwarming, even if it’s barely sexual. Just as a way to be close. If you don’t mind him smoking he’ll smoke a cigar while you do so, and get into a nice soft headspace

-the kink of his that annoys him the most is breeding. He doesn’t want kids (unless you do, which is its own conversation. Personally I don’t so works for me haha) but when he’s balls deep, pushing you into the mating press, it doesn’t matter. Especially if you’re in a place where he can fuck you raw all the time- ie you take the pill, have had a hysterectomy, etc- then he will, and he will always spill his seed deep in you, mind filling with pictures of you all round and swollen and cute even if it’s impossible

-however it is hot when he gets in that headspace regardless of if kids are in the question or not

-hang on I thought of something else and then I forgot it

-uhh

-oh that’s it. Praise. Loves getting it, loves receiving it. If you’re more receptive to degradation he’ll give you that, but he loves telling you what a good girl you are

-also has a blast with brat taming

-anyways back to the soft stuff

-he loves domestic life. Curling up with you on the couch with fluffy blankets and snacks, watching rom coms and other cheesy movies

-he’ll rest his head in your lap if you’re drawing, crocheting, reading, etc

-he loves being petted. Your hands in his hair, tracing his muscles, whatever. It makes him so happy and it’s soothing for him

-and we all know how he’s mr gruff n tuff, right?? Well if he’s really eepy and lying on his lap while you stroke his hair, there’s an ever slight chance you can get him to purr. Don’t tease him about it, though, or he’ll get super self conscious

-if you like to workout he’ll work out with you

-he really likes to box to blow off steam, but if it’s with you and you’re not a fellow mutant it’s more play fighting than anything, but it’s still fun

-he’s a sucker for cheesy dates

-call him ‘Lo’ or ‘Wolvie,’ or any nickname that fits him. He thinks it’s adorable, and owns it. He also gives you like fifty nicknames of his own.

-he loves long walks on the beach if it’s accesible, hiking’s also fun to him

-he’ll never take his anger out on you, ever

-he loves reading with you, just sitting in comfortable silence with your respective books

-that’s all for now!!

If you have any ideas for ficlets or headcanons, my asks box is always open!! Xx

[rangerbarbz]

First Time

Author’s Note: Y’all i am so sorry it’s been so long since i posted a fic. I am a junior in college and i have two jobs so i have been so busy. However expect some more stories now that it’s winter break! Hope everyone is having some happy holidays 🫶🏼

Summary: Reader and Ford go all the way for the first time together

It was a chilly night in Gravity Falls, Oregon when Stanford Pines and you decided to make some cookies. It was the perfect atmosphere for baking: comfy clothes, the temperature had dropped down, and the sun dipped behind the woods surrounding the Mystery Shack. The rest of the Pines family had went on an excursion to break into the theatre for a free movie, so you can’t imagine they would be back anytime soon.

Ford and you were in the kitchen trying to figure out what to make with the few ingredients you had available.

“Hmmm… So I’m seeing cinnamon here,” you said, looking into a cabinet next to the fridge. “I’m not seeing much else. What do you think about Snickerdoodles?” You grinned excitedly and faced Ford who was already smiling.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice resonating in you. God, his voice was so attractive. You remember hearing him talk for the first time in the library where you worked and your heart just melting.

He was in the fantasty section talking to himself when you walked by the aisle to reshelf a book. He was in the same area where the book needed to be relocated. Turns out you were holding the novella he was wanting to read, and you two struck up a conversation. He was kind and smelled delightful. You were too shy to ask him for his number, but a young girl who came into the library once a week for a crocheting club set you up on a date. You were unaware at the time this young girl was his great niece. The rest is history.

“Do you think everyone else will like them? I want to make sure these won’t go to waste,” you asked, scrunching your eyebrows together.

Ford scoffed as he was scraping flour from a measuring cup back into the bag. “Please, those things will be devoured. You have nothing to worry about.”

You laughed softly, standing up on your tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Glad to hear that.” A small smile spread across his face.

While you two prepared the ingredients and mixed everything together, you filled Ford in on the workplace drama. He would never admit it, but he loved to gossip with you.

“I can’t believe Denise would do that,” he said in disbelief, shaking his head. “I mean who does she think she is?” You rolled the last ball of cookie dough in cinnamon and sugar before pressing it into the pan.

“Right?! Like come on, now. I thought we were civilized.” Ford chuckled at your comment and put the cookies in the oven.

“Some people just never learn.” He snaked his arm around your waist and put a hand on your hip, bringing you closer to him. You placed your hand on his broad back and leaned your head on his chest.

“We got about 25 minutes until these are done. Wanna see what’s on TV?” you suggested, looking up at him. He cocked his head to the side.

“Sure. I think that’s enough time to get through half an episode of ‘Ghost Harassers.’”

“Ah, man. Dipper’s got you hooked doesn’t he?” You giggled and began to walk into the living room, him following suit.

Ford sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. I know it’s fake, but their reactions to these so-called ghosts are so funny.” He sat down on the recliner while you fiddled with the TV antenna to get it to the right channel.

It finally flickered to a group of men with flashlights running through an abandoned house screaming. “Ah! Got it!” you exclaimed. You ran over to Ford and sat on his lap. Your legs draped over his, feet hanging over the armrest. This time he kissed your cheek, his stubble tickling your face.

“Good job, dear,” he murmured in your ear. Butterflies formed in your stomach from hearing his low voice.

“Thanks, baby.” You leaned your head on his shoulder as one of his arms cradled you. He was so strong; you always felt protected by him. One hand was splayed across your stomach while the other was on your knee.

You were so engrossed in the show you didn’t notice Ford wasn’t paying a lick of attention. You were wearing loose shorts which exposed much of your legs, and he was entranced.

You lifted your head up to look at him, eyes drifting over your thighs. His hand remained still on your knee, however.

“Stanford?” You had a mischievous smile on your face.

He quickly looked over at you like he had just been caught doing something wrong. Since the lights were still on, you could see the blush spread across his face.

“Something catch your eye?” you teased, inching your face closer to his.

“I-uh. My apologies. I was distracted.” He cleared his throat and returned his eyes to the TV. Oh, so he was going to play dumb? You were going to drag it out of him.

“M-hmm. What was distracting you?” You egged on. He glanced over at you and back to the TV.

“Your, um, legs. They just looked very nice.” Ford answered quietly, avoiding eye contact with you. It was so cute to see Ford get flustered.

You had kissed and hugged, but never went much further than that. It was hard to find alone time, and Ford could be hesitant about showing affection. This didn’t bother you, though. You were willing to wait how ever long you needed to for him. He had been through a lot, so it’s reasonable for him to want to take things slow and gain trust.

“Ford, you can touch my legs if you want,” you reassured him, placing a hand on his. “Do whatever you want. I don’t mind.” You gave him soft kiss on his lips and cupped his face in your hands. Your fingers slid through his silver hair and down the nape of his neck.

He sighed into your mouth and you felt his hand slowly creep up your leg. His other was on the small of your back. His hand began to slowly travel up and down your leg, stopping to squeeze every now and then as you continued the kiss.

God, he was being so gentle with you and all you can think about is ripping his clothes off.

You shifted your body so you were straddling him without breaking contact with his lips. His hands started to squeeze your thighs a little harder, his thumbs rubbing your inner thighs.

You whined a little against his lips. You could feel his lips turn into a smile. You decided to deepen the kiss by opening your mouth and sliding your tongue along his lips. You felt him shiver as he welcomed you. What started as an innocent kiss began to turn into a make-out sesh. His hands had moved to your hips and were gripping them. Not tightly enough to hurt you, but enough to feel oh so good.

You broke away from the kiss when you heard the oven timer go off. “Dammit, cookies,” you joked, getting up from Ford’s lap. “Don’t move. I’ll be back for you, handsome.” You quickly pecked his nose and made your way into the kitchen. The Snickerdoodles smelled delicious as you pulled them out of the oven. You placed the pan on the stove top not wanting to damage the kitchen table from the heat. You removed your oven mitts from your hand and placed them back in the drawer where they came from.

“Cookies are done! Just-“ You were cut off by Ford scooping you into his arms and carrying you to his room. You were giggling uncontrollably all the way there feeling like a bride on her honeymoon.

He pushed open his bedroom door and gently placed you on his bed. He sat beside you, his eyes staring earnestly into yours. He took your hands into his, fingers intertwining perfectly together.

“Y/N, I’ve been thinking,” he started. “I am tired of dancing around these feelings I have for you. I want to be completely vulnerable.”

You were a little worried as to what he was about to tell you.

“I’m in love with you. I love everything about you, and I know in my heart this is deeper than surface level admiration. And…if you’ll let me. I want to show you just how much I love you.”

Tears started to well up in your eyes. You lifted your hand into his and began to plant kisses on each of his knuckles. “Oh, Stanford. I would be honoured, but are you sure you want to move forward like that? I know you like to take things slow.”

He shook his head and smiled at you while using his thumb to wipe away the tear falling down your cheek. “I’m totally sure. I was holding back my affections for you because I was scared. I’ve never felt this strongly for someone before, and I didn’t want to make careless mistakes. Now all I want is you. If you’ll have me, that is.”

You grinned and nodded your head eagerly. “Yes, please.” His face was pink perhaps from the whirlwind of emotions you both were experiencing.

He leaned forward his hands holding your face now. His movements were more sure than they had ever been before. You laid on your back, letting him take charge.

Your innocent kiss quickly turned rampant, exploring each other’s mouths. Your hands gripping his broad shoulders and moving through his hair once again. His elbows were on either side of your head, his breath becoming more ragged. His lips moved from yours to kiss down your neck. You moaned into his ear as sucked on a spot in the dip of your collarbones. There was sure to be a hickey there in the morning, but you didn’t mind. There was something erotic about having a mark from him.

Ford kissed down the other side of your neck, leaving yet another sign he was there on your collarbone. His mouth went to your ear to whisper, “May I take off your shirt?”

“Yes,” you hissed. That was all he needed. His fingers tugged the hem of your oversized shirt and pulled it over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra which had Ford somewhat short-circuiting. His eyes drank you in, eyes trying to capture your beauty permanently in his mind. He stared for so long you had become a tad insecure, so you crossed your arms over your breasts.

“No, no,” he moved your arms away quickly. “I’m sorry, dear. You’re just so…beautiful.” You felt your face heat up. His eyes were just so full of adoration, and it made you nervous.

“Thank you,” you replied softly. He smiled gently and started to kiss down your chest. They were as soft as feathers. He then kneaded at your breasts, letting out a sharp exhale. His calloused hands felt wonderful against you. His thumb caressed your nipple before he put it in his mouth. You yelped at the contact. His tongue swirled around your aerola as his other hand pinched your hard nipple between his fingers.

“F-Ford,” you breathed, your hands gripping his hair. He had began to suck at your nipple and repeated the same actions to your other breast.

He continued to move down your body, leaving a trail of kisses down your stomach. He got to your loose shorts and looked at you as to ask for permission. You nodded, your face becoming hotter.

Ford’s eyes glinted with lust as he looked into your eyes. “You know, I loved the way you said my name. Can’t wait to hear you say it more.” You could barely register how smooth that line was before he was removing your pajama bottoms. You didn’t wear underwear to bed so you were now completely exposed.

Ford sat up to look you up and down. His lips were parted slightly, and his hands gently rubbed your thighs. He looked at you in disbelief.

“Y/N, you are the most heavenly sight I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” Ford murmured. “You look like art.” His eyes had gazed down back to your now dripping core, but you couldn’t wipe the grin off your face. He sure knew how to worship his woman.

“But frankly, my dear, I’m about to be very disrespectful to you,” he mumbled, his lips kissing your inner thighs.

“Oh God,” you moaned. He was making his way to your center but taking his sweet time. Ford was a loving man. However, you could tell a primal part of him had been awakened.

His placed sweet kisses along your folds before flicking his tongue along your clit to tease you. You cried out in pleasure as he dove into you. He licked a stripe inside you and moved his tongue back and forth. You heard him moan deeply as he tasted you. Your brain was becoming foggy from how good everything felt and how he enjoyed pleasing you. Your thighs pressed against the side of his head; his hands were massaging your hips.

“Stanford, please. I want to feel you.” You needed him so bad. He lifted his head up from your thighs, slick covering his chin and lips. His hair was a ruffled mess. God, he looked good.

“Of course, sweetheart.” His finger rubbed along your entrance. He breathed heavy as he slid a finger into you. You let out a sharp inhale as you adjusted to him.

“Ford…”

“You feel so, so good.” Ford pumped his finger back and forth in you. Your eyes were closed and your legs had started to shake. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. Seeing you come apart underneath him was almost too much for Ford.

You had decided that he had done enough for you. It was time to return the favor. “Baby, baby. I wanna ride you.” Ford stopped and slowly removed himself from you.

“Are you sure?” he asked. I don’t mind-“ You pushed him down onto the bed and climbed on top of him. You grabbed his face and kissed him passionately.

You separated from the kiss to see his eyes wide and a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “Take off your shirt,” you demanded. He quickly removed his loose red shirt to reveal a toned, yet scarred body. You had actually seen him shirtless before accidentally when he came out of the shower in just a towel so this wasn’t a shock. You found it incredibly attractive. Although, it took lots of convincing for him to believe you.

You ran your hands over his chest and kissed him once more. “You’re so sexy, Stanford,” you whispered to him before biting his earlobe. You spastically kissed him all over his body, letting your hands now roam over his muscular arms. You couldn’t tell it by looking at him, but he was packing some heat under those sweaters. You were also grinding down on his painfully erect dick which caused him to whimper.

Ford sat up and held you close to him as you fumbled with pulling down his sweatpants. He sprang free and you lowered yourself onto him. He let out a guttural moan as he felt your walls tighten around him. His forehead was against your shoulder while you bounced up and down on him. His strong hands had grabbed onto your ass, his fingers pressing into the tended flesh.

“Y/N…Oh my…” You held his face in your hands, making him look you in the eyes while you fucked him. He had a loving look; you had an animalistic one.

“I’m… Not going to last much longer, darling,” he said between breaths.

“Me neither baby.” It was the truth. He already almost had you with his finger, but now that his length was inside you, you didn’t stand a chance. Your legs had started twitching and you threw your head back, allowing Ford to assault your neck further. His arms were now wrapped around you as you came insanely hard. You thought you were gonna see stars. It only took a couple more seconds for him to fill you up. His chest heaved up and down as he collapsed on his bed with you on top of him.

“That was…wonderful,” he sighed, placing a kiss against your temple.

“Agreed, but I think we need a shower after that,” you suggested.

Ford raised one of his eyebrows at you. “Round two?”

You laughed and smacked his shoulder. “Oh you bet.”

P.S. I didn’t look over this so if you see a typo or bad grammar no you didn’t

[amorisxx]

Snickerdoodle pt. iii

(Halloween special)

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader summary: The fall fest rolls around. You and Art are part of the parent committee. An unexpected meeting leads to another moment in a parking lot. warnings: smut 18+, car sex, piv, cheating, description of panic attack word count: 3.6K a/n: This part gives a bit more context to each of their lives. It doesn't really progress the plot very much, but I enjoyed writing it. previous part | next part

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

It’s a Wednesday afternoon. The house is quiet, free of the frenetic energy that children bring. Kaleb is still at school, and you’d taken the day to finish preparing your baked goods for the fall fest on Friday. The only noise to be heard is the sound of Art panting into your ear.

“Oh…f-fuck… please, please.”

Halfway through decorating the sugar cookies, he’d started pressing kisses to the side of your neck. You had tried shooing him off, but it was to no avail.

That’s how you end up pressed against the kitchen counter with your dress bunched up at the hips. One strap is halfway down your arm as Art frantically ruts into you from behind.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans into your neck. 

He has one hand holding your hip in place while his other arm pins your back against his chest. In between thrusts, he uses one hand to greedily palm at your breasts.

When you start clenching around him, Art snakes a hand around to your front. He moves his fingers to where his cock is throbbing inside you. He groans at the wetness that has seeped out of you and collected at his base. You moan when he drags his fingers up to rub desperate circles over your slippery clit.

“Want you to cum, ah, need to feel it baby, please,” he pants.

It isn’t long before you’re throwing your head back and squeezing around him.

Ѽ

“Now, will you please let me finish these cookies?” You huff. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you come over.”

He snorts. “You said you could use the help.”

“Well that’s when I thought you’d actually be of some help.”

He grins at you with lidded eyes.

The truth is Art did come over to help you, but he also came because watching you bake has become one of his favorite things to do. Since the two of you have started seeing each other more often, he’s started spending time at your place during the weekends when Kaleb has to stay with his dad. Though you don’t admit it, he’s noticed that you tend to bake when you’re worried. Art thinks it must take your mind off of things. It’s as if you go on autopilot. You disappear into the task as everything fades to the background. It reminds Art of what tennis used to feel like.

The baking also reminds him of his grandmother. Before she moved to the nursing home, she would always bake cookies for Art when he was young. He’d know because the sweet aroma would fill his nostrils upon entering the front door.

Sometimes, he was able to watch her bake and take in the entire process. It was calming for him to observe all the various steps and pass her different ingredients. He wondered how she knew the exact amount to add, and she’d tell him it was because of “years and years of practice.” Art quickly grew fond of the idea of building something up from scratch. And he learned that through lots of practice, you could make something really sweet.

So, in a way, you remind Art of his grandmother. He doesn’t tell you that though because he doesn’t think that’s the best thing to say to someone he’s just been balls deep inside. He does tell you, however, that he likes seeing you like this.

You look up at him in between adding orange icing to a cookie. Some of the icing spills onto the counter as you tilt your head and furrow your eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

He gestures around the kitchen. “It’s nice, you know, being able to watch you make something.”

Though you’re looking down at the cookie, he sees the smile splitting your lips open. Art leans forward and swipes the icing from the counter with his index finger before popping it into his mouth. He smiles at you around his finger, and you flush as warmth spreads throughout your body.

Ѽ

“Nancy,” you start. “I just finished setting up this entire table. I am not moving all of this again.” You gesture to the spread of homemade cookies, pumpkin shaped cake pops, and pretzel rods dipped and drizzled in orange, black, and purple icing and sprinkles. The cookies themselves were a pain to arrange. You wanted there to be an even number of skull and jack-o’-lantern shaped sugar cookies on each platter. And each cookie needed to be facing forward. You didn’t think you had the patience for some snaggletoothed kid to ask what’s this? And plant their finger right on the cookie only to decide they hate pumpkins and leave it there. 

“Okay!” She says defensively. “I just wonder if it’s such a good idea for the sweets table to be so close to the bouncy house. I wouldn’t want the kids to get sick.”

She turns to assess the giant inflated pumpkin. “I’d say they probably need a good 50 feet to walk and let the cookies settle before they start jumping up and down…don’t you think?”

You stare back blankly at the woman. “You just had me move because you said the smell of the petting zoo might ruin appetites.”

“And it could!” She whips her head back around at you, her blonde bob slapping the side of her face. “Those baby goats are cute, but they don’t smell great hon!”

You fold your arms.

“Alright.” Nancy raises a hand with a shake of her bobble head. “We won’t move,” she relents, “but could you maybe just tell each kid to eat their treats at the table, you know just to make sure they stand around for a couple of minutes before running to the bouncy castle?”

You start to tell her that it’ll be hard to control what a bunch of excited, elementary schoolers do after they get some sugar in them, but decide it’s not worth arguing with her. You glance over at her husband, Frank, who has set out his red and black folding chair next to the drink cooler. She’d instructed him to make sure each kid grabbed one drink at a time because “lord knows we’ll be picking up half full juice boxes all night.” Without so much as a glance, he’d mumbled a well versed “yes honey” and sat in his chair, staring into the distance and scratching his chest.

You decide to take a page out of Frank’s book.

“Sure, Nancy.”

Ѽ

Your table proves to be a popular one. You’re not even halfway through the festival, and most of your cake pops are gone, and the sugar cookies are depleting by the minute. You blame Art for being such a distraction that you didn’t think to bake more cookies just in case. Once he’s done with face painting duty, you plan on letting him have it.

You’re counting how many jack-o’-lantern  cookies are left on the platters when a voice interrupts you.

“I always did love your baking.”

“Chris? What are you doing here?”

Your ex husband is standing in front of you, hands in his pockets as he smiles down at your spread of goodies.

He makes his way over to your side of the table. “My boy practically begged me to come, so of course I had to show up.”

You turn and purse your lips. “Well I hadn’t heard from you so I assumed you weren’t coming. They took your name off the list at the PTA meeting.”

“Dad!”

You look over to see your son barreling towards his father. He laughs reaching out to haul him up into the air. His little pirate hat goes crooked on his head. “You came!”

“Yeah, man, I told you I would!”

They fall into their own conversation as you help serve treats to some other kids that have wandered to the table. Despite your feelings about Chris, you can’t help but smile at the sound of Kaleb’s giggles. You’re glad that his dad’s presence brings him so much joy. You remember a time when you too felt that unyielding happiness around him. That flutter in your belly and the warmth in your chest that can only be characterized as pure, genuine fondness. God, you were so fond of him.

At the time, you thought you could never experience anything better than that. It’s why you agreed to marry him. And why you also agreed to stopping your birth control. Knowing he wanted to start a family with you made you love him even more, because to have a child with someone is to irrevocably tie yourself to that person. Being loved by Chris was your point of reference for so long.

But that was before.

Before he decided you weren’t enough for him, before he decided to be withholding, before he made you feel unlovable. It turns out that having a child with someone isn’t the symbol of unconditional love that you’d believed it was. Once you had removed the rose tinted glasses, you were able to see that love isn’t something that’s promised to you. Even if someone makes that promise to you, the love itself may not endure. You’re not sure how much control Chris really had when it came to loving you. You’re still figuring out what love entails when you’re not with him.

Now, you just hope that Kaleb will never learn what it’s like to not be loved by his father. That he’ll never have to vie for his affections nor his attention. That he will always feel held by his love and not stifled by it.

You feel something poke your hip, jolting you from your thoughts. It’s Kaleb, pressing his plastic pirate’s hook into your side to get your attention. You grab the hook in your hand, reminding him to be mindful of the point. He offers you a sheepish, snaggletoothed smile. “Sorry.”

You sigh and run your hands over his curls before gently tugging his ear. It’s a habitual motion that began when he was a toddler. He could be a little rambunctious, running around the house in nothing but a pull-up to avoid bedtime. When you’d finally catch him, you would ruffle his hair and gently pinch his little ears, calling him a silly monkey. He would erupt into fits of giggles before breaking away again making “ooh-ooh ah-ah” sounds.

Kaleb takes his arm behind his back in an effort to control his hook. “Dad said I can go with him tonight!”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah! Said once this is over we can go have some real fun!”

Chris laughs, patting Kaleb’s shoulder.

“What does that mean? Real fun?” You raise an eyebrow at your ex.

“Oh Christ! I’m just gonna take him to get some ice cream or something,” he says.

“I’m just trying to make sure my son doesn’t pick up any of your…” you look over him from head to toe, “… bad habits.”

He rolls his eyes.

“But yeah, that’s fine,” you sigh. “Do you have the booster seat?”

“Yeah, and it’s the perfect height for him to see the girls at the strip club tonight,” he cracks a smile like it’s the funniest thing ever.

Kaleb catches sight of a classmate and almost knocks his dad over in his haste to run to them. Chris shouts “Be careful!” before glancing over at you and chuckling.

You curl your lip in disgust before turning toward the couple approaching your table and offering them a bright smile. You can feel Chris’ eyes on you as you move to serve them. Once they’ve gone, you turn to him.

“Is there a reason you’re still standing here?”

He chuckles. “How do you know I didn’t want some of your cookies?”

“Okay, well what are you getting?” You ask impatiently.

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he runs his thumb over his bottom lip and smirks, “You look really good.”

Your stomach twists.

“I miss you.” He searches your face. “You know that?”

You scoff. “No you don’t,” you say definitively before turning away from him.

You then notice that Art is making his way over to your table. He’s wearing the same black and orange “fall fest committee” shirt that you are, but his figure fills it out much better than you can. His jeans are hanging effortlessly on his hips, and you think that if he hadn’t stuck with tennis all those years, modeling would’ve been a great second option.

Your field of vision gets cut off by your mosquito of an ex husband. You literally swat at him to move away, but he’s still smiling at you.

“Please just get whatever you’re gonna get and leave me alone.”

He reaches for you. “C’mon, baby, don’t be like that.”

You yank your arm out of his reach, sending him a warning glare.

He ignores the warning, stepping closer to you to lean down near your ear. “You know every time I come pick up Kaleb, I just think, God, what will it take for me to get those pretty legs open again?”

A loud smack resounds as his head snaps to the side. You’re gritting your teeth. “Fuck you.”

He holds his cheek from where you’ve smacked him, a tiny smirk etched onto his face.

You point your finger at him. “How dare you? How dare you come to me with this shit! You have a fucking fiancée!” Your hands have started to tremble as your anger rises. “I mean, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?? You don’t get to treat me the way you did then come here saying shit like that!”

You don’t realize that Art has been standing there. He sees your trembling hands and glassy eyes and subtly positions himself between the two of you. “Is everything okay?”

You’re still glaring at your ex as if daring him to say something else.

Like the coward he is, Chris lowers his voice like he’s talking to a rabid animal. He tells you that you need to calm down before turning to Art. “Yeah, man, everything’s fine.” It’s just like him to make it seem like you’re the one who’s unhinged in the company of outsiders.

Thankfully, Art isn’t just some person.

He fully stands between the two of you, blocking you from Chris’ sight. You hear him say, “yeah well it doesn’t seem like it, man.” The muscles in his back are tense and his shoulders are square.

Chris sounds like he’s about to say something, but Art doesn’t let him finish. “I think you should leave her alone.”

You swallow and look down at your shaky hands willing them to be still.

Chris makes a move to step around Art. His jaw is clenched tight. “Respectfully, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

Art lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t a request,” he says.

A second or two passes by as the two men stare at each other. Chris squints at Art, throws a glance around at you before stepping back with a laugh. He shakes his head assessing the way Art has planted himself in front of you. His eyes drop to where you’re fisting the end of Art’s t-shirt in an attempt to calm your nerves. He mumbles something about not being surprised but continues his retreat. “I’ll drop Kaleb off Sunday night,” he announces over his shoulder.

Once he’s gone, Art turns to you, rubbing his palms down your arms. “Hey,” he bends down to look you in your eyes. “You’re okay.”

It only makes your lip tremble more, the anger from earlier dissipating as something else takes over. Art tells you he’ll be right back. You bring your arms over your chest as your breathing gets heavier. The ruckus in the air is starting to feel suffocating. Your ears are ringing and you begin to feel tingling in your cheeks.

When Art comes back, he has Nancy’s husband, Frank, in tow. He tells him something, but you can’t hear him over the sound of your own heartbeat. You’re gasping for air. You barely pick up Art’s voice saying “come with me.” You let him take your hand and lead you out of the chaos.

Ѽ

The sound of Art’s car door shutting makes you realize that your face has stopped tingling. You blink as your breathing returns to normal and the static-like ringing in your ears fades away. You rub your palms over your fabric covered thighs and take one big breath before exhaling. Something moves in your peripheral vision, and you glance to your left. Art is sitting in the driver’s seat, but most of his upper body is facing you. His soft eyes watch you with a patience that makes you want to cry all over again. You reach for him.

Art immediately pulls you to him, letting you settle in his lap as you wrap your arms around his neck and rest your head on his shoulder. He presses a kiss to your head.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Baby,” he runs a hand over your back.

“No, it was pathetic. I can’t believe I let him get under my skin like that.”

“It was a panic attack. It’s not your fault,” Art murmurs into your hair. “And that’s exactly why he did that. He wanted to get a reaction out of you. Don’t blame yourself.”

You lift your head up to look at him. You search his face. All you find is sincerity.

You brush your thumb over the skin behind his ear and lean in. Your noses gently bump against one another before you’re pressing your lips to his. It’s soft, slow, and deliberate. Art places his palm flat against the small of your back as he returns the kiss with equal tenderness. Through your lips and your tongue, you try to tell Art everything you aren’t able to say with your voice. And if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was telling you the exact same thing back.

When you bring your hips down to roll against him, Art tells you “we don’t have to.” It’s your turn to tell him that you want this.

You move to the backseat. He peppers quick kisses over you every now and then as you both work to get each other’s pants down. It would probably be quicker to simply take them off one at a time, but you two aren’t thinking properly. Your head is swimming from how bad you need him right now. Once you’ve gotten your jeans off, and Art’s are to his knees, he’s sitting back against the black leather, pulling you with him.

You release a small whimper when his wet mouth attaches to your throat. His forehead knocks against your shoulder as you reach your hands under his shirt. “Off. Please.” He lets out a soft grunt as he complies with your request.

Before he can fully toss the committee shirt to the side, you’re running your hands over his chest. You stop at his nipples, letting your thumb roll over the small buds. Despite his attempt to hold it in, Art moans when you lean down and swirl your tongue around his nipple. It makes his cock jump.

You begin to move against his hard member, seeking out the friction of him bumping against your clit. Art gets his tongue back into your mouth as he reaches under your shirt, pinching your nipples. His lips smack against yours as he brings his hands around to your back. He lets them trace down your spine until they meet the band of your underwear.

Art dips both hands into your panties and smoothes his palms over your cheeks. He grips your ass as he guides you to rock against him. You moan into his mouth before you lift your hips to allow him room to pull his underwear down his thighs.

His dick slaps against his abdomen.

Your mouth waters and your stomach clenches in anticipation. You reach for him, and Art lets you take him in your hand, pumping him one, two, three times before he’s greedily grabbing your hips. He promptly hooks his thumb in the seat of your panties. He uses the leverage to pull them to the side, and you guide his tip to rub against your sticky folds. You moan as you drag it upwards to which Art starts rutting his head against your clit.

Without warning, you press Art’s tip to your opening. He hisses when you start to sink down onto him. With him fully buried in your cunt, you let out a sigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, hugging you to his chest. You two share a kiss as he begins shallowly thrusting into you.

Ѽ

After the both of you have finished, Art doesn’t pull out right away. He keeps you there for a moment telling you he just wants to feel you for a little bit more. Naturally, you don’t protest. The two of you sit within the fogged windows of his car in blissful silence as he lazily strokes your back.

Unfortunately, the shrill ringing of your cellphone punctures that silence.

It’s Nancy.

She asks where you’ve disappeared to, then doesn’t let you respond as she tells you that Frank is at your table which is now empty. They’re going to start cleaning up in about 45 minutes.

When you rejoin the festival, you and Art spot your kids and their friends comparing their various prizes and candy. Standing off to the side is Tashi. She sends you a smile when she notices you. Your stomach drops.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: As always, let me know what you think <3 my asks are open!

[arisdaughter]

"Yep!"

Open Starter: She didn't get the girl

M

She smiled as Willa kissed her.

It was a joy she hadn't felt in a while. She enjoyed the feeling of being loved.

Until it got ripped away from her.

She shot up, looking around the Hermes cabin. She wasn't there. She was here, on the ground in a shitty sleeping bag. Her back hurt and the grief gripped her heart.

She was here, and Willa wasn't.

She didn't know what to do. Cry? Scream? Stew in it?

Oh, who was she kidding, all three options weren't exactly good in a cabin of sleeping people.

So, she got up, silently got dressed and went for a 3am walk.

@arisdaughter @childofthewargod @dianedantedominic @theorphicforest

@that-girl-cupid @ithacas-prince @daonedaonlyskh @hispanic-child-of-hermes @aria-pane @unhinged-waterlilly

@chaos-pers0nified @ariathemortal @i-was-never-sane @gaygirldoodles @smileyalater

@if-i-could-cry-i-wouldnt @startswithahell

If you want to be added, removed or if I forgot to tag you, let me know :)

[elvensorceress]

snickerdoodles of longing

part 1

buddie | 14.2K | T rating for this half | ao3

Eddie starts, but the words die on his tongue.

Buck reclines into the sofa and props his feet on the coffee table. He doesn’t look at Eddie, but he asks while focused on flicking through house listings, “But what?”

But.

But is a very good question.

Or it’s not a question at all. It’s a reservation. A thing that might happen. Not a big deal of a thing. But still a thing.

The realtor might think they’re— not friends. Not only friends. More than friends. She might think—

Not that Eddie minds the thought of this thing that could be construed from Buck helping out or taking over his call with a realtor to find a house. He doesn’t mind.

But it would imply— it is a possibility that it might look like, from an outsider’s perspective, someone who doesn’t know better, it would appear that he and Buck want to, and maybe already are? Living together.

Or maybe not. Maybe it’s a stretch to believe? Maybe she won’t notice or care one way or another. Maybe lots of friends go house hunting together. Maybe it’s a regular thing?

It’s not a big deal anyway. If she thinks he and Buck are together. She probably won’t even notice. Why would anyone care if they’re a couple or not? Just because Buck wants to help him look for a house doesn’t mean anything beyond that. It’s a normal thing. He’s helping. Other people have friends. Single people need places to live, too. And they bring friends along to help them. Don’t they? And it’s not a bad thought. Eddie’s not offended. The idea of Buck being his—

Would Buck be his husband? Boyfriend? Fiancé?

It’s not a bad idea. It’s—

Eddie’s overthinking it. He doesn’t care if the realtor thinks he and Buck are a couple. It’s fine. Good.

Or— it’s completely neutral and not a big deal.

Buck is the best partner. Whoever gets to marry him will be really lucky. And so happy. Who could be a better, more loving, more supportive husband? Who would be more fun to have a relationship with? Buck is funny and silly and he has the best heart. He’s the epitome of thoughtful and generous. Even the worst days are made a thousand times better when Buck is part of them. Even the most boring tasks or tedious chores are more fun with Buck. Even something as stupid as folding laundry is better when they do it together.

It’s not a bad idea. Is the thing. It’s a really good thing. It would be the best thing. To be married to Buck.

If it were something possible.

It is the best thing to be someone Buck loves. Even if it’s in a platonic capacity. Platonic isn’t inferior. In most cases, it’s incredibly superior. Buck loves with all his heart and soul, without reservation, sometimes to his detriment but Eddie would love him back.

Eddie would love him back with just as much devotion and ferocity.

If it were possible.

If he could.

If they had that sort of relationship.

They don’t have that sort of relationship. It’s not even in the realm of possible. But if it were a thing, it would be a good one. 

~

Eddie decides he needs to move to Texas and slowly unravels as he comes to terms with how he really feels and what he's losing.

(read the first half now / second half will be up in a few days)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sugar Cookie

Warnings: non/dubcon, allusions to abuse and neglect, oral sex, manipulation, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You try to learn some new traditions for your first Christmas with Tony.

Character: Tony Stark

Day Eleven of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - experiencing a new festive tradition 

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stare at the floating screen and suck in your cheeks. It's only your first try but you're feeling overwhelmed. Just like always, you can't follow simple directions. You're a fuck up. 

It makes you wonder how you ever ended up here. In this immaculate kitchen with its shining marble counter tops, sparkling appliances, and many gadgets and accessories. Silver pans dangle from the rack hung over the island and knives are stuck to the magnet hold mounted on the wall. Yet you've made a mess of it all as flour dusts over the gold-veined surface and the smell of burnt dough tinges your nostrils. 

"Miss, is appears you've burnt the snickerdoodles," Friday says in her matter-of-fact way. 

"I did," you groan and plant your elbows on the counter, cup your chin in defeat. "I'm sorry." 

"You don't need to apologise to me," she assures. "You should start again at step one. 'Preheat the oven to 375 Farenheit...' 

"The oven's still on, you drone as you turn your face down. "I've ruined it all. I tried so hard but it's just all spoiled." 

"Miss, you can try again. I've already ordered more ingredients so that you can make everything," she insists. 

You puff. That dang computer. Of course, Tony insists that isn't what she is. She's a companion. She's more than code and she's a lot smarter than you, so you should listen. 

You push yourself up as you stick your lip out pathetically. You've never baked before. Tony knows this but it's a tradition. Not your tradition. You never even celebrated Christmas before. You watched it on the old VHS'. The films about daughters or sons or lovers trying to make it home for the holiday. Stuck between four walls, you always just assumed it was another fantasy. 

"Miss, you should dump the burnt cookies. They are not fit for consumption. And put a fresh sheet of parchment paper down." 

You nod and do as she says. Your hands are still fettered in the oven gloves as you take the tray and carry it to the bin. She opens it and you wince. You're still not used to that. 

You return to the counter and pull off the thick gloves. You tear off a new sheet of parchment and lay it on the pan. A frown tugs at your cheeks until they hurt. What if you can't do this? What if you disappoint Tony? He'd just be another person who you let down. There may not be many of those, but you can count everyone you've known on one hand. 

"Begin with the topping," Friday directs you. "Combine the granulated sugar and cinnamon together in a small bowl..." 

It's easier to let her tell you what to do. Almost like she's thinking for you. Tony does that too. He tells you what needs to be done so you're not so worried. Sometimes though, it's too much. All those expectations. Before, you were only ever expected to be quiet. 

You make three lines of four. The dough balls are perfectly arranged. Now you just need to not mess them up. 

"I would be happy to set a timer, miss." Friday offers. 

"Thanks," you say over your shoulder as you slide the pan into the oven. 

"You've made enough dough for three more batches. In the meantime, you could begin on the fruitcake," she suggests. 

"Uh, sure," you agree. 

"Mmm, smells like a fire," Tony's voice jars you before the companion-programmed interface can give her next command. "What're we workin' on, beautiful?" 

You face him and press your sweaty palms to the red apron with the frill edging. "Cookies. Or cake--" 

"There are a dozen snickerdoodles cooking with eleven minutes and thirty-one seconds left," Friday supplies. "And she was about to begin the fruitcake." 

You cringe and nod, "what she said." 

"What about the meringues? Peppermint? Just like I said?" He asks. 

"Sure, uh," you gulp, "you know, Mr. Stark, Tony... I'm not very good at this." 

"You'll get better, beautiful. Besides, it's tradition." 

"Y-yeah, I know, but I... I don't want to screw up or make you sick." 

"Baby, you're just fine. I know you can do it." He steps closer and puts his hands on your arms, "I see what no one else saw in you, huh? You got potential, you just gotta try." 

"I am. Trying, sir," you say. 

"I know, beautiful," he reaches to tap the end of your nose. "Don't be so mopey, alright? Look at all you got; a gorgeous kitchen, a gorgeous house, a gorgeous man..." 

You flick your lashes shyly and look away. He leans in and you let him kiss you. That's getting easier, even if the other things still hurt. 

"You know, there's nothing else I could ask for," he purrs as he draws back, "well, maybe one thing. Whiskey?" 

He looks at you with his deep brown eyes and that crooked grin. It was that look that comforted you the day you met. When the red and gold receded and revealed the very human man beneath. The first man you knew that didn't loathe you outright. 

"Yes, Tony," you answer and spin around. The liquor cabinet opens as you approach. You thank Friday and take out the dark bottle. A cupboard opens and you pull out a glass to pour. You bring the drink to him and smile nervously. "Here you are." 

"You know, seeing as this is your first Christmas and all, you're learning all my traditions," he leans a hand on the counter and sniffs the whiskey before he sips. You watch him tentatively, "we could start a few new ones." 

"New?" You echo curiously. 

He winks and takes another swig, "yeah, all this sweetness," he looks around at the cluttered ingredients, "I'm thinking something even sweeter."  

"Oh?" You bring your hands together and wring them. "What's that?" 

"Friday, scram," he looms close to you and sets his glass down.  

"Reconfiguring to standby," Friday responds promptly. 

He steps up and frames your hips with his hands. He sucks his teeth as he looks you up and down. You shiver as you're reminded of the night before. 

"How about you hop up here?" He keeps one hand on you as he sweeps aside the bag of flower and canister of baking powder with his other. "And feed me another kinda dessert." 

You look at him. You think you know what he means but you’re not sure. You’ll be embarrassed if you’re right. The last time he tried that you couldn’t stay still. 

“Oh,” you bat your lashes. 

“Oh,” he repeats coyly as he squeezes your hip. “You’re doing all this work, baby, why don’t you let me do some?” 

“Um, later... er, the cookies--” 

“I got a hankering for something better than cookies,” he grabs at your skirt and shoves his hands under the hem. He gropes your ass suddenly as he pulls you flush to him. You squeal in surprise. “What are these?” He pinches the fabric of your panties. “I didn’t pull these out.” 

“Uh, I...” you gulp. You didn’t think he’d be unhappy, you can see through every pair he gave you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Take ‘em off,” his voice deepens as he lets you go and steps back. He crosses his arms as his lips straighten to a dire expression. “Now.” 

“Yes, sir,” you blanch and open, your thumbs catching on your skirt before you can get the panties down. 

You teeter as you shove them to your knees and they fall to your feet. You bend to untangle them and stand. Tony takes them from you and flings them without looking. 

“Now, baby, I’m ready for the full course,” He takes you by the waist and turns your back to the counter. “You gonna serve it up to me?” 

You stare at him, speechless. His thumbs curl into your stomach then ease. He trails his hands to your hips and you yelp as he lifts you. You land on the counter and knock over a bowl as you slap your palms on the marble. 

“Tony!” You squeal. 

He hushes you as he raises the apron and your dress up your thighs, “open up for me, beautiful.” 

“Please, can’t we wait--” 

“I’ve been waiting,” he growls and bends before you can stop him. Not that you would even try. 

He grazes your thigh with his lips and his facial hair tickles you. You quiver as he nuzzles along the crease of your leg and against your pelvis. You tense as he grips your knees, holding them wide as he shoves his mouth against your cunt. 

You cry out again. You spasm as his tongue glides between your lips. His flicks around your clit and you whine. It’s so sensitive you could explode. 

You grasp the back of his head and try to push him away, “it’s still too much--” 

He hums and keeps going, ignoring your protests as he suckles on your bud. The pressure is enough to make you buck. You lean back on your arm and hiss. He puts his hand over yours and presses it to his skull, as if to make you urge him on. 

He wiggles his head as he eats you up unabashedly. He snarls and groans and laps. You whimper and shake, your insides consumed in flames. You can hardly stand the heat as he seeps through to your skin. You push your nails into his scalp and murmur his name. 

“Mmm, delicious,” he slithers against your thigh, pressing a wet kiss to your leg. 

You close your eyes as the sight of his head just peeking out beneath the rumpled apron makes you blush. You bite your lip and shudder as he goes back to his eager tending. He clutches your hand tighter as his tongue swirls around and around. 

The smell of smoke tinges your nose again. You sniff and flutter your lashes. You open your eyes and see the silver curls climbing out of the stove. You squeak and try to twist free of Tony. He grabs your thighs and sinks in fingertips in until you ache. 

“Ton-y,” you eke out, “the cook-ies!” 

“Leave em,” He growls as he snakes his hands under your thighs and hooks his arms around them. He yanks you so you fall onto your back, splaying wider as you crush mixing spoons and bags of chocolate chips and sugar. “I got more than enough right here.” 

[attapullman]

The Perfect Pink | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: While bartending for Rolling Acres Retirement's Valentine's Party, you encounter a pink-cheeked man and his cherry-loving cousins.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: all fluff with alcohol mentions

A Note From Mo: Here is my Pink Lady fic for @thedroneranger's Pick Your Poison event to go with this gorg moodboard! As a part-time mixologist and full-time Bob Floyd lover, this was such a fun concept to play around with and has inspired me to come up with more pink drinks. I've never been a Valentine's girly, but I fully believe this pink-cheeked WSO could convince me otherwise. To everyone who reads this, I love you bunches and bunches, all 365 days in the year!

It’s so pink. Horrendously. Abysmally. Pepto-bismally. PINK.

When you agreed to tend the bar in a pinch, a few bundles of carnations and candy pink paper hearts were your guess for the evening’s decorations. But when you showed up to Rolling Acres Retirement's Valentine’s Party holding a crate of soda water and a handful of shakers, your senses flatlined with the amount of pink covering every surface.

Petal pink tablecloths straightened over round tables; a small bouquet of magenta carnations attached to each folding chair and incensing the recreation hall of the retirement home. Heart-covered paper plates and folded napkins set up at each place setting, glittering confetti sprinkled around the tableware. The ceiling isn’t even a reprieve, a rainbow of fuchsia and rose and flamingo and blush balloons filling up every available inch of space.

Suzette on the front desk had complimented your dusky pink sweater - an appropriate choice for the holiday - but set against this backdrop you feel like another decoration. An oversized bauble that also makes cocktails and pours cheap wine.

And now, standing behind this makeshift card-table-turned-bar covered in bubblegum crepe paper, your brain might explode in a cloud of hot pink smoke. Counting out pours and trying not to slice yourself making garnishes is a struggle keeping up with all these orders. While the average age of the party goer may be eighty, they drink more than the 21st birthday bash you bartended last weekend. You’ve been here all of an hour and Mrs. Moscovitz has already downed three fuschia cosmopolitans.

While disappointed you don’t have more romantic Valentine’s Day plans - though, when have you ever had a date on this too pink day? - it’s fun to see who’s turned up to celebrate. White-haired couples are swaying on the makeshift dance floor, every shade of pink and red in their attire. Bridge groups and knitting circles are excitedly chatting at their respective tables, gossiping over who is in attendance and with whom. Even the staff have wide grins splitting their faces, enjoying the festivities that break up the bleak winter. It’s the least you can do to spend the holiday providing beverages for this crowd.

The best part is the families. While romantic love is thick in the air, so is platonic love. Family members of all ages have come out to spend the holiday with the residents. Mr. Gordon’s daughter and her family have driven hours to catch up over pot roast and sparkling cider while his grandson plays trucks over a pile of chocolates he snuck from Suzette.

Orders have slowed down and your eyes keep glancing over to Ms. Floyd’s table. The entire clan has showed up for dinner, dancing, and to take home a batch of her homemade snickerdoodles. Multiple relatives are taking up two entire heart-sprinkled tables. Your focus is mainly on the second table for too far from you, where the grandkids have been relegated to play cards and swap candy hearts to pass the time.

“Why don’t you go ask the pink lady for more cherries.” God, he’s cute. The only guy in this place near your age and his attention is stolen by a pair of toddler girls obsessed with the cherries in their Shirley temples. 

You divert your eyes quickly when you realize he’s talking about you and your pink sweater. The girls giggle shyly, the high pitched squeals of glee as they convince him to go up instead. Fiddling with shakers, wiping down the counter, you try to stay busy as you physically feel him approach the converted bar and your trembling hands.

“Hi!” His smile is thin and nervous and his cheeks are pink, blushing from his little cousins and their antics. Also because you’re much prettier up close and he’s wearing a shirt he’d never normally be caught in if his grandma hadn’t picked it out. 

He’s much cuter at this distance as well. Sandy hair combed neatly, one small strand slipping out behind his ear. Friendly cerulean eyes framed by golden wire spectacles, similar to the ones several of the ex-military men at Rolling Acres are sporting. His thin lips falter slightly as he takes in how well the pink of your sweater compliments your skin. God, he wishes he wasn’t wearing this shirt.

You spring into service mode and grab a fresh cocktail shaker. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m technically up here for some cherries.” You dutifully nod, hoping to hide the fact you’ve been watching him converse with the toddler girls in their matching baby pink dresses most of the night. You make a small dish of cherries up and push it toward him, shaking your head when he attempts to pay. “The thirty-eight cents of cherries is a small expense for a night those two will talk about for weeks. They’re on the house.”

He grabs the dish with a smile, but realizes he now has no excuse to stay by the bar. And while he loves his cousins, he’s on leave for a few more weeks and you’re really pretty. A few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. He extends his hand with a timid smile. “I’m Bob.”

You reach out and shake his hand back as you introduce yourself, hoping the condensation coating your fingers isn’t too noticeable. He immediately commits your name to memory, happy to replace “The Pink Lady” with a name as fitting to you as yours.

He moves out of the way as a woman in a magenta scarf orders a round for her bingo group. Bob watches as you whir into action, pouring liquors and counting off ounces. The delicate way you garnish each drink so the owner feels special. Your gracious smile when a tip is stuffed into the heart-shaped velvet box provided to you for tips.

When the line at the bar dies down, he sidles back up to your makeshift station. Bob notices the way you eye the decorations warily, still adjusting to the deafening pink of it all. He drums lightly on the blushing pink tablecloth, catching your wide-eyed attention. “Everything all right?”

“Uh, this place is too…pink?” you laugh, gesturing to the overabundance of rosy hues surrounding you. For possibly the first time all night, Bob realizes that while you were the only pink thing that had his attention, it is suffocating in the recreation hall. 

“Yes, yes it is,” he chuckles right back, eyes soaking in the offending decorations. There’s a comfortable air between the two of you, and he decides to push his luck for more time with The Pink Lady.

Bob clears his throat, pulse thrumming through his body. Tonight is his one and only chance to land a date with the pretty bartender.

“So, to go with the theme, what is the pinkest drink you can make me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, his best attempt at flirting. A hint of a giggle escapes as you purse your lips, contemplating his challenge. 

“I can make you a pink lady.” 

He narrows his eyes. “Is that a real drink, or have you named it after yourself?”

“It’s real, I promise.” You’re all smiles at his attention as you combine the gin, applejack, and grenadine with a splash of lemon juice. He really could watch you work for hours.

As you reach for the last ingredient, his eyes bug out. “Is that an egg?” He’s a Navy man, his normal bar only has cocktails with two ingredients. Since when did eggs go in cocktails?

“When you dry shake an egg white it creates this nice foam, adds to the drink.” While he wants to come across as open-minded and cultured, he’s hesitant. “If you don’t like it, I’ll make you something else.”

He’s bewitched as you pour the perfectly pink drink into a plastic coup, the creamy white foam rising to top it off. A cherry balances the rim, one that won’t be stolen by his mischievous cousins. As he looks between the freshly poured drink and you, he swears your cheeks are the same happy pink.

You push the drink toward him, excited to share something new with a customer. Always a gamble as a bartender, but worth it when you expand someone’s palate. He gives you a tentative smile, unsure if he’s going to like it, but he really wants to impress you. In return, you give him an encouraging nod, completely unsure of how this will go. He takes a sip, the frothy mixture coating his tongue.

As far as he’s concerned, the drink is named after you. Not too sweet, not too tart, a divinely balanced combination of flavors in a perfect pink concoction. Bob is convinced you would taste just as good, especially with a cherry. The thought makes his brain blank.

“Do you like it?” Your hopeful eyes are endearing. He wants to brush the strand of hair from your cheek and assure you that he likes it, that he’d like anything you made him because you made it. But you’re practically strangers so he stumbles over his words as he promises it’s delicious. 

The bowl of cherries for his cousins still in his hand, Bob stands to the side of the bar and sips his tartly sweet drink, casually keeping up conversation with you as you serve other patrons. You’re glad for the company, enjoying the way he asks about your technique and mutters out the few things he knows about wine from conversations with his aunt. Despite the fact you’re working, it’s the best Valentine’s Day you’ve had in years with this bespectacled man watching you tend bar.

He’s just so cute, blushing his own special pink hue when your eyes connect while you shake up a few martinis.

“Uncle Bob!” There is no mistaking who is calling him over. Two identical heads pouting as they motion him over. His time with you is up. He gives you a sweet smile, trying to memorize every inch of your face, before motioning his hand filled with cherries in their direction. You bittersweetly grin right back, smile lingering as you start on Mr. Nickerson’s two merlots as you watch his broad shoulders walk away.

Oh, how you wish he would come back.

Because it’s a retirement home and not a frat house, by ten the party is wrapping up. You’ve exchanged shy glances with Bob a handful of times, but his family has taken up most of his attention with Navy questions and inquiring when he’s going to visit next. He barely registers the event is over before he’s rummaging through his mom’s handbag with his last attempt at salvaging the night.

You’re cleaning up your supplies when the Floyd clan walks past, all waving good night to you and the staff, thanking you all for a great Valentine’s night. The girls thank you for their cherries, a stem hanging from one’s lip. 

Staggering at the end of the crowd is Bob, his cheeks flushed and palms tingling. He stands in front of your table, rocking on his heels, working up his courage. You give him a warm smile, thanking him for his company, and he completely melts. As he holds up his occupied hand, he hopes this works.

“Forgot to slip this in earlier.” His smile is tense as he jams a few dollars through the absurdly small hole in your improvised tip box. You thank him before both blurting out awkward goodbyes. As he catches up with his family, a pang rings through your chest. Disappointed he’s gone, never to be seen again. 

Bob Floyd, a Valentine’s mirage you will remember fondly.

Once all your things are packed, you square things up with Suzette with your pay for the event and a promise to stop by to visit the residents later in the month. You schlep everything to the car, a mixture of emotions painting your face in the rearview mirror as you make your way back home. The weight of defeat keeping you from bringing anything inside except for that damn tip box you’re hoping will cover groceries for the week.

You pry open the velvet lid and are met with the best surprise.

There, at the bottom of your substitute tip jar, underneath all the singles the elderly stiffed you with, was a scrap of cheap rosy pink napkin. You unfurl it to see neat chicken scratch handwriting, the pen poking through the fabric in spots as he worked to write out his message with a phone number beneath.

I’m here until the 27th. Drinks on me? - Bob

Now that you think about it, maybe you do like pink.

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Cookie's Fic Recs

I feel like no one really does rec lists anymore! But last night I was feeling and sappy and mushy and decide to put together my own little list of fics I love. These are in no particular order, and they don't follow any real theme/tropes other than I dearly love them all, and you should definitely give them a read!

*I tried to tag everyone I could find a blog for, but if I missed anyone, please let me know I can tag them!

The Instinctual Gravitation Towards Warmth by kimkhimhant (@kimkhimhant)

This is my comfort fic. No joke, this is what I read when I want to die. It’s angsty as all hell, it’s made me cry, but it is so indescribably good. Kim is an addict going through recovery, finding love and family along the way. He hits rock bottom—arguably multiple times—but always claws his way back, always with the support of the people that love him. It’s such a beautifully written and cathartic story, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it. But it’s almost certainly the fic I’ve reread the most. 

Error in the Code by BlackwaterVial (@blackwatervial)

Sneaking this VegasPete onto my otherwise KimChay list bc it altered me. I think most people already know what it is, but jic: it’s a sci-fi/cyberpunk/android AU, and it’s one of the best things I’ve ever read. I go feral for androids and this fic delivers in all the best ways. The world building alone makes me weep. But all of the characters interactions, the way we get such an in depth feel for everyone despite the limited PoV, and the most satisfying take I’ve seen on android artificial intelligence ever—I can’t recommend this story enough. 

Idiots & Idioms by snickerdoodlles (@snickerdoodlles)

This one is actually a series, and it's genuinely so much fun to read. For the most part it's a SocMed fic with Chay taking over Wik's twitter and making it everyone's problem, and it's fkn hysterical. This one is actually a series, and it's genuinely so much fun to read. For the most part it's a SocMed fic with Chay taking over Wik's twitter and making it everyone's problem, and it's fkn hysterical.

Silver for Truth by snickerdoodlles (@snickerdoodlles)

This fic is the Kim & Khun vs. Tawan team-up we deserve. Kim is a ruthless, demented bitch, that's too cool to beat Tawan to death bc what if he messes up his wrists right before a show?? Big, get 'im. Kim is the feral-est cat ever, leaving behind evidence and bodies for Kinn bc saying "hey bro, I still love you/look out for you" is too much emotion for him. The fic is also from Tawan's PoV which also makes it the funniest thing ever, for reason that I won't spoil <3

The Wiked Lies We Live by shubaka (@shubaka)

Oh my god, this fic. Canon divergence (technically??) where most things happen as normal... except KimChay have been bodyswaped at the start of it. The little twists Shu puts on the events of canon, given it isn't the correct characters experiencing them (such as Big being very confused about why Kim is suddenly nice to him??) are so much fun.

A Portrait of Affection by froginthesun (@froginthesun)

Kim is an artist and Chay is the part time nude model he hires. ‘Nuff said right there, except no it isn’t, this fic is beautiful. Kim’s frustration with his craft is palpable, and so is the way he rediscovers his passion through Chay. The writing is wonderfully detailed, every chapter felt like walking through a museum. And tension slowly building between them—unf. 

Sunshine in My Closet by moneskin 

This is an A/B/O AU that is so satisfying to read. Typical hilarious boundary violations (Chay stealing Kim’s clothes, a bewildered Kim handing over a freshly worn outfit, having barely any idea who this strange kid is) characteristic of the AU, but then the story also delves deeper into more serious topics. Chay has a history of abuse from a past alpha that he has to learn how to navigate with Kim, who is incredibly patient and works hard to make Chay feel safe and loved. Overall a very sweet and comforting read. Seriously, this fic makes me melt.

Your Body Feels Like Disrespect by Blue_Jay (@bluejayfiction)

This fic is so funny because it begins with Kim blurting out, in the middle of an Important Mafia MeetingTM, that he and Chay aren’t having sex, and then wanting to die about it. Followed by Kim’s family trying very hard to both support and terrorize him. It’s hilarious, sexy, and one of my favorite reads when I need a pick me up. (Bless Kinn’s determination to be a Good and Supportive Brother, and Vegas for being the Worst Person Ever.) 

In Silent Screams (In Wildest Dreams) by BelladonnaWyck and StratsWrites 

This is definitely a darker fic. There’s DubCon, Kim is generally Sketchy, but it’s very hot. And I love explorations of his character where he isn’t just outwardly psychotic and cruel. This fic shows the kind of dark that I think Kim could have been, if you just tilted his character a little to the left. He still seems very much the way he is in canon, but he’s also… a lot more calculating and cold, sometimes. I love it. 

Forget-me-always by bisexualbard (@bisexualbard-writes)

I cannot sing the praises of this fic enough. I think it’s probably tied for IGTW for my most-read fics. I’ve probably read this one more often in reality, but only bc it’s shorter. But oh my god, does it hurt. Kim gets struck with amnesia post-break up, does a little light stalking, and gets Chay to help him learn/remember who he is. In the process realizes that wow his life sucks, and there’s no way he wants to go back to it. Especially if he’s the kind of person that hurt Chay. He would rather start over. (Ofc, he doesn’t get to). This fic makes me cry, it’s so good 

Coffeehouse Play by AirgodSLV

This is a canon divergence AU that I adore. The KimChay characterization is on point. I love that despite everything going on around them, they also get to be two boys that hang out and play videogames and try to shove each other off the couch while Porsche makes dinner. Given the age difference it’s so easy to make Kim Older and MatureTM, but he’s still a kid, and this story never once forgets that. It felt so honest and true to his character that Kim does have a lot of plans, and he’s very smart, but he’s also still so young, and sometimes shit just goes wrong. 

Want and Need by bisexualbard (@bisexualbard-writes)

God, this fic. T h i s f i c. Post-canon Chay goes to therapy and becomes a camboy (in that order) and it’s delicious. Watching the steady breakdown of his and Porsche’s relationship is so satisfying. Everything one of them does to make things worse feels awful, but is so in character that it’s hard to be mad at them for their decisions. Kim readily giving up control if it means he can be with Chay, and Chay getting a crash course in how to dom. All of it is just. So good. This is such a good fic

Your Look, Through This Lens by WildelyDawn (@wildelydawn)

AU where Chay becomes Kim’s photographer. This fic emotionally hobbled me. Just a fair warning. You will cry. But that said, the ending isn’t nearly as sad as the tags would have you believe! At least in my opinion. I think it’s fairly open/hopeful, and beautiful either way. I love the way this fic shows how Kim balances being Wik while also being part of the mafia. And I love how temperamental he is; always hot and cold, while remaining pretty even as far as how he expresses himself. Always very aloof/detached, just out of reach, with Chay never really sure where he stands/what Kim wants. But at the same time the fic happens just before Kim gets a big break, and the subtle ways he shows his excitement and nerves as things start coming together—it’s wonderful. 

Love’s a Two-Way Dream by giraffeter (@giraffeter)

This fic is dark. Kim atticwife’s Chay and it’s not a good time. But!! It’s not just dark for the sake of it; Kim is a genuine sociopath, yes, but it unfolds slowly. You get a sense of creeping dread as he does things that are just a little bit off, until finally the Big Bad Thing happens. At first he seems normal, playing the part of good and respectful boyfriend. But it just goes downhill from there, and I love every word of it. The ending especially is very satisfying. 

In the Dark of the Night by bisexualbard (@bisexualbard-writes)

Not to recc everything Bard writes, but… This is a rape recovery fic that I feel handles the subject matter incredibly well. There’s no gratuitous rape scenes, and even with the flashbacks, I don’t remember any of them being incredibly detailed. I think Bard handled the fic with incredible respect and grace. This is another one that’ll make you cry. The way Chay handles his past trauma while trying to have a relationship with Kim is so painfully real. And so is the way Kim wants to help him, but doesn’t really know how. But they figure it out together, and it’s amazing. (Also Kim acquires a stabby child in the form of an OC that I adore.) I just love the path Chay's recovery takes in this fic, it's so visceral and relatable. It's all around just. So good. I love this fic for the same reason I love IGTW and it's because both fics show an excellent depiction of recovery.

Chains and Crowns, A Flower Can Both Make by Sweet_William (@sweet-william-writes)

Incredibly Regency AU. Historical AUs are some of my all time favorites, and this is everything I didn’t know I needed. Sweet_William captures the essence of an Austen-esque style while still making this feel like the KinnPorsche characters. Chay is wonderfully feisty, Kim is delightfully complex, and the various family interactions always had me cackling. 

Simple Little Secrets by CorvusCloudburst (@cloudburst-ink)

Chay sees the future when he touches people. Kim thinks he’s either insane, a spy, or a conman. Oh, and Chay’s visions of Kim? Always sex-related. The shenanigans are endless. What more do you need?? They’re both crazy4crazy and it’s my favorite thing ever. Their banter is snappy and fun, the writing is sexy, and it never once gave me second-hand embarrassment despite Chay’s horrible situations.