#so. there. have both half-eaten mediums

[that1notetaker]

Hijack Week day 1: First Kiss We know where this is going. We know, you know. We know. Hiccup: This is bro behavior. I'm helping a homie out so he can experience something he would otherwise not get the change to even get the option to choose. Anyway I'm not going to think about what I'M feeling. Jack: (lmao he died)

[empathicliar]

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀what you deserve ¸.•* eren yeager.

𝟔𝐤. 𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 , 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝.

༺❀༻ || 𝐬𝟒!​eren , 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫!eren , 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐲-𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤!​eren , college ua , for my caramel babies , eager!eren , she / her pronouns , overstimulation , sweet talker , lots of kisses , multiple orgasm's , strangers to lovas , plot based , no protection , cream pie!! >~< , dirty talk , use of pet names.​

" when you put a lil' umph in it, that's when i lose control. "

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there's only so much you can handle in a day's worth before overstimulation kicks in. rocking in a chair for four hours while getting a new row of ginger bundles sewed in by your auntie is already enough. gossiping about how your uncle is a piece of work can get added to that list too.

the white juicy couture track suit you have on is hugging your curves tighter than normal. you have ymir's 'friend' historia to thank for that. you'd only spoken to her once about how loose your tracksuits were and how badly you wanted them tighter and she got to work, completely redoing the threading to boost your ego a little to much.

eager with your hair to be done, you'd already marked a couple of other errands off the list. your fingers nails are coded with medium length cut-out shaped nails. a white base with some carnation pink painted bows. not wanting it to be to basic, you got some pink and white zebra stripes on your middle and pinky fingers.

your white painted toe-nails are covered by the ugg's you had to throw on due to the weather. you were always saying you hated summer until it wasn't around anymore and the cold had you shivering in the warmest of places.

its something about looking, feeling and smelling good that has you obsessed with yourself all over again. the vanilla scent is leaking off every surface of your body, the oil drops in your purse coming in clutch every time you wanted a refresher.

it's about four pm when your hair appointment is done. its something simple you could always deal with. 18 , 22 , 24 inch hair reaching your plush ass, your back already itching from the prickling nest.

" thank you s'much auntie! " you're exclaiming in her ear, already squeezing her to death with a hug.

you're not even close to being done. this winter break is going to be different. you naively figured you could get everything you wanted done while in college, yet when you finally touched the grounds it's like your shoulders slumped further down into a unforgivable pattern.

you stopped taking care of yourself mentally. you never stopped being a pretty bitch, nothing stops that. you got all the main things done. your hair was always styled, you don't play that. you're always soft and buttery smooth. the pet peeve for any hair on your body making you cringe.

you were always smelling good, it just became apparent you weren't going out of your way to take enough time for everything. by the time five rolls around, your sitting on your phone outside of your homegirl's house, waiting for her to get home.

mirrors by jhene aiko is playing softly in the back, your tinted windows are up and the bag of chick-fil-a nuggies are half eaten to your right. being your passy princess until further notice.

it doesn't take long for nicki to get to her place. she has big shopping bags in her hands, big balling on one of these cold ass afternoons. " you have a key to my house, you could've went in. " nicki reminds you, it slipped your mind completely. you glance at the hello kitty charm that hung in-front of your key fob, your dorm room key and her house key.

the long, black table you'd laid on more time's than your own bed has a ring light above it. a strollie with different lash things you'd never taken a hobby to is on the right side of it and the actually bundle set you asked for sits beside a bottle of water. eating the rest of your nuggets while nicki took a few bites of her salad, you both talked for God knows how long.

it's been a while since you've been in this cozy place. the apartment is on the first floor and in a gated community. you were so proud of nicki, she kept her word on making it big in life.

" you still going to ymir's tonight? " she asking while scratching the top layer of your lashes. wrong decision. it's like talking through an intense orgasm. your grabbing her hand to stop her to reply. she's only laughing at you the whole time.

" y-yeah girl i am. " your muttering out, your own laugh pouncing off the walls. nicki is a pro when it comes to getting you up and out of her chair satisfied. she snaps a video of the lashes and your making a fake brave face the whole time trying not to chuckle from the silence.

your in your car again by seven o'clock. playing with your hair in your review mirror, tucking the strands behind your ear and letting the multiple fans in your car fully dry your lashes. the song is back to playing at it's last pause while you move your lid's up in a uncomfortable position and let the air hit the base of your water lines.

you've driven to ymir's place so many times from nicki's house, you've gotten familiar with every back road, speed bump and pothole. the potholes brings back a awful memory of damage you wanted no part of remembering.

the weekend commute of straight peace was in motion. you got to ymir's house later than usually and took a joyful stride to your favorite love seat. the comfort makes you stifle a moan. you've done to much today to not get a break.

a song from ymir's recycled playlist is playing, it might be from sza's new album but you aren't to entirely sure. the only thing on your mind is food and weed. in the middle of the table there's snacks. cheddar popcorn, cherry bite twizzlers, some sour gummies and gushers. you opted on the popcorn and two packs of gushers.

on the back, light tan wall is a flat screen tv that's curved more towards you than it is connie and you finally correct your suspicions when you notice the name of the song and artist. i knew it, your thinking out with bunched up arms.

its seems like its been to long since you've been here and genuinely had time to stay.

since college had started in february, you branched out quickly when it came to friend groups. it wasn't a challenge when said friends had been around since high school. ymir, the brown haired girl with freckles and the nicest jaw line known to man offered you weed for exchanged of a pencil in junior year and connie, a surly boy with short, almost balding grey hair and a sleeve tattoo his mother didn't approve of just so happened to be next to you pouting from your win.

only a month into knowing them both, you were already coming to ymir's house and smoking like no tomorrow. connie tagging along some of the days, but he was mostly with his own group at the time. after high school, you figured this was going to be the time you all parted, saying ' i'll see you tomorrow bitch!' and never actually seeing them.

you were more than wrong when you realized you all had been planning to go the same paths.

those year's led up to these moments. now, every weekend ymir would host these little... parties or when it was strictly chill vibes and no one had the time or the energy to run around with don julio in each hand. she would host a small kickback. only inner friends only.

that consistent of you, ymir, connie's dumb ass, a girl named sasha, who connie knew in pre-school, sasha's close friend jean or john. you'd forgotten a little to quickly for your liking. they'd been coming around for months and last and least, jean's friend eren yeager.

eren's... alright. you don't have anything bad to say about the boy. he's always sweet enough to you but it seems like every time you want to engage in a conversation, its over shadowed by whatever else someone is saying. at the end of the day he's still a stranger you hadn't taken the full time to get to know. it's funny how many times you'd shared a blunt with him, lip's colliding yet never learned a single thing about him.

he has a attracting spirit. the kind you found hot to an extent. he's the type to wear strong fragrances to turn heads and its exactly what he does. that skunky scent of lavish soap and expensive cologne he seemed to never leave the house without was a dead give away he was in the area. he's always adorn in sweat pants and baggy shirt's that don't do him any justice.

you could tell he takes pride in his look, well he somewhat did at least. he always has this self-approving look on his face. his fingers are always decorated with silver rings that go well with the skeleton bone tattoo that paints from his left veiny hand to his shoulder.

it makes it hard not to look his direction when he makes such a grand entrance. he's a real eye catcher, a pretty boy you knew shouldn't be anywhere in your area. you don't do good with flirty looks and bed room eyes. they could lead you to a spare bedroom any fucking time.

" |⋆|, ghost face or michael myers? " ymir asks, breaking you out of your mini tundra.

" probably ghost face, he's so fuckable. " connie rolls his eyes, taking a big hit from the blunt he'd been preparing for minutes. the bud is covered in ashes' by the time he pulls away, heaps of smoke coming from his side of the room.

sasha, who got the second best seat in the house sat a few feet away from you. she giggles. " real recognizes real. " you nodded with a smirk and clapped her hand, the noise echo's in the spacious living room.

" you nigga's are just freaky, that's all it is. " you almost let a 'shut up connie.' fall from your lips but the front door opens. in walks the person who was always late. eren. he has his hands in these loose, black sweat-pant pockets, you don't have to see those daring fingers to know he has them covered with hard looking rings. the grey t'shirt he's wearing has a design on the front you cant really decipher.

" what's up yeager. " eren tilts his head up for a greeting and makes his way to connie. his plush lips twist into a confident simper as he daps the two guys up.

eren's speaking again, taking a glance at the table with half of the snacks missing and only two rolls left. " y'all couldnt wait on me? "

" you take forever. " you say, bringing a dark blanket to your chest. " so what? " eren replies with smugness, his green eyes peering at yours with pure coy. you only return it with your infamous eyeroll to kill his dreams.

'i hate a nigga that knows he's good looking. '

" you live the closest. " stating the obvious, eren plops down in the seat in between connie and jean, folding his arms over the back, man-spreading his clothed legs to get some more room. its like he knows you want to look at his every move. he's too damn fine for his own good.

it isn't long before he's changing his seating position and he's reaching at that brown wooden table for a pack of rolls and the weed grinder. he opens the black container – seeing connie left him enough for one blunt. he's taking his win quickly.

finger's making quick toil on folding the creases in, tongue slipping out to seal it. you're face is fuming when he brings the lighter to the end of the blunt and the light reflects on his face. he's so focused on the misty smoke and not wasting the little he has, he doesn't notice the gushing look he's getting from the woman across the room.

'did it just get hotter in here or something?' you take a glance to the thermostat next to the goldish rimmed painting hanging above your head. sixty-seven degrees and no showing of anything getting hotter anytime soon. you chew on your lip. its probably that thick ass blunt ymir made you. it has to be kicking in or something.

speaking of the freckle faced stoner, she walks back into the room, you hadn't even noticed she'd gotten up. she's empty handed, using one of her hands to swipe a strand of hair out of her face. " bro, can we start the movie? i'm tryna' hang out with historia later. "

sasha ooo's like a school girl, wiggling her pale, small fingers teasingly at ymir. " you're always with historiaaa~. " sasha has this silly smirk on her face and the brown skinned girl groans from it, flipping her middle finger in her direction.

usually it takes a while to pick a movie. by this time the weed is hitting all of them and blurring the limit for time. they would often scroll through the same list on netflix and not even realize it.

this time is a little different, ymir is in a real rush to get to this 'friend' of hers. she has the tiny roku remote in her fingers as she continuously flicker through the movies. she ultimately stops on a scary movie and clicks the screen. she sends a look around the room for any concerns then actually plays the movie.

before the credits have even started the pop of a chip bag is already sounding around the room and cheesy flavoring is flooding your senses. sasha's wincing with a pouty smile, not realizing how alerting the noise was.

the first scene is a white girl manually popping corn. the volume is low but the surround sound speakers ymir got installed almost a year ago make it seem much louder. it isn't long before that same girl is killed in front of a big front yard.

by the time the movie ends, everyone is pretty much out of it. heads leaning on arm rest's. the lighters have stopped clicking and the smell of weed isn't prominent as it used to be. you'd grown used to that cozy smell. the foggy room is actually clear for the first time in years.

wiping your eyes like a kid, then realizing you had on lashes. you curse underneath your breath. looking around the quiet room, sasha and jean are sleeping soundly. connie was sleep twenty minutes into the movie. you could hear his loud ass snores. ymir isn't even in the room anymore. the second the movie ended she was gone out the front door but not without giving you a loused side hug.

you figured you were the only one functioning correctly and tossed the blanket to the side. the cold sends chill's down your arms but you don't mind it. it feels sort of good. your painted feet hit the tiled floor with a small 'plap' sound and you glance around the room to make sure it hadn't woke anyone up.

" where you going' ? " jumping, the fabric of your white, zip up jacket is grasped. instead of consoling your fear, the mad-man laughs.

" stop laughing bro, i almost had a heart attack. " you pause, taking a breath. " thought yo ass was sleep. " you explain further, standing up fully and getting a good, well hazy look at eren. his phone light is on dim and he's barely bringing it up high enough to make it known he's awake.

both of his shoulders are pretty much in use by the two boys he's squished in between. instead of looking uncomfortable, it looks like he found slight comfort in them being next to him. it's leaving a smile on your face instead of a panicked frown.

he hum's, dropping the dark phone in his lap. " still didn't answer my question. " you tilt your head, thinking back to said question.

when it finally hits your scuzzy mind, you're letting out a soft 'oh!' " no where, well i don't know. i just want some fresh air. " you're falsely admitting, stretching your body to release any tension.

did you really need some fresh air or were the stirs from connie and jean making it known they could wake up and once again take away the little time you had to get to know eren? it's probably the bud thinking for you at this point.

" you can come with me. " turning on your heels, you almost miss the several groans from jean and connie from being pushed aside. " you that eager nigga? " questioning with the slightest amount of tease, he's right behind you in a heart beat.

" nah. " turning back to look at him, he's already looking at your back side with a smirk. his own limbs being stretched out. he slips on his slides and you didn't feel like putting on your boots, so you opted on stealing ymir's flip-flops she kept by the door.

you didn't really plan this far out. it has to be around eleven or so, your to high to drive home, you actually didn't need any air and you can already tell its cold as hell outside. it was just the perfect excuse to get out of that room and into a more private one with eren, no one was going to interrupt your mission.

men are so easy, your practically nodding to yourself. ymir's back door is opened and closed within seconds, the back porch is nicely clean except for a few leaves and dirt that you didn't really care about right now, you swiped some dirt off the second step and shuffled to the left to give him some room.

eren is sitting down on the first step soon after, without the hassle of wiping anything down. now, its quiet and cold, and there's really nothing to say or do when the wind is speaking.

" how long you been in shiganshina? " he asks after long periods of silence.

" my whole life. " your replying, low eyes blurry with the upcoming mist from the weather. " and you? "

" born and raised. " then its quiet again. your messing with your acrylic's , only looking up when a tree bristles loud enough to sound like it might fall.

" those are really pretty. " quirking your head up, it seemed like you're staring into a bottomless pit of beauty. eren's not even paying attention to anything but you and the way your skin is still so moist in such cold air.

its little details on his face you thought you'd already noticed before that have you feining. you squint your eyes. his nose is pierced on the right side. the actually dot isn't a dot like yours. its a silver star that's small but glance worthy when anyone see's it.

his hair looks so healthy, not only in the sun but also in the moonlight. you're kind of jealous of that. even in its normal state in that low back bun, you can tell he isn't using men's one-hundred in one. the wind casts a breeze in your direction, that's giving you another reminder. the soft smell of lemon and something sweet like pineapple's is hitting your nose. such different smells that go rewardingly well on him.

" gimme' your hand. " your obeying it without question, he chuckles at the haste and you dare to drag your hand away. " i'm playing pretty, i just want to see. "

" why? " asking nicely and still letting him slither those slender, tattooed fingers over your bedazzled nails, he's humming again and not answering your question now.

" hello? " rubbing his thumb over your knuckle gently, the calluses of his own has you quietly swallowing. he perks your hand up finally and actually looks at the nails now. " my bad, my mom does nails. " you frown, still not understanding what that has to do with him looking at your hands like a meal.

giving him a better show, you half curl your hand and lay it side ways in his own. your palms touching and forming heat you didn't know you needed to entirely bad. " so? " you mutter, not returning the eye contact you know he has on you.

" nothing, she could just do better than this. " he flaunting out, stretching those delicate fingers ever so slightly. you don't even realize he brings both of your hands down and resting them on his rough lap, you're to focused on the cute little gesture's he's making.

" you letting me meet your mommy already? " it was cute how he wanted to get his mom some new clients, he must be a momma's boy. eren's nodding instead of laughing though, replying with simplicity. " yeah. "

" what's up with you bro. " you chuckle. " i don't even know your birthday and your trying to let me meet your mom's- "

" march thirtieth. " cutting you off, you almost forgot you had even said anything about a birthday. your brain is realtering itself to remember that date when this high is over.

eren's not ashamed to look at the prize he wants. he's been plotting for fucking months and nothing is going to break him out of this. his low, emerald eyes are falling down the pattern of your silver zipper, falling into your lap. undressing those lacey panties he just knows you have on under those pants.

it has you shying away, wanting to turn around in your respectful seat. that's when it hits you. that grip on your hand wasn't from your other one. it's from his, unmoving and finally locking into those intimidatingly attractive eyes, your glancing at those wet lips he managed to always keep looking mushy.

you know they are the softest lips you'd ever feel. like pillows sent from heaven. you grip his hand, no longer just wanting to feel his sweaty palm, but those fingers- his fore arms, his strong shoulders. everywhere he'd allow you.

" eren... " encaging his fingers into a tight hold, he takes a quick look at his thigh. he isn't able to hide the side smile that's forming. you don't even know why you're calling his name, you just wanted him to say something with that slutty voice of his. – just acknowledge you in every way possible.

" yeah? " your beady eyes are watering from the constant pressure of wind and its becoming so fucking obvious you both don't want to be in the cold anymore.

" what are you trying to do? "

" you want me to be honest baby? " baby... that word has you dripping, squeezing your thighs together to take away that ache in your cunt. you nod. you can't find those confident words anywhere in sight. its hard to say men are easy when you're soaking just from being close to him.

" i wanna take you to a room and make you feel real good. " his head is cocking to the left and those eyes he kept on you are dropping lower. his hand twitches in your grasp and it doesn't take much to know he's putting you in eight different positions in his head.

" we don't even have to fuck, i just want to eat your pussy. "

your mouth lathers with saliva, and your standing up to entirely quick. eren is laughing behind you and your so horny you don't even tell him off. you don't care about the three people on the couch sleeping good. you want to take this pretty boy up on his offer.

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folded up, knees to your chest. the air is hitting your warm pussy. your panting from the littlest touches to your body. plush form being demolished by the stronger man keeping you still. eren has his hands in the bottom creases of your knees, applying pressure that only gives you minimal lay away to move around.

your pussy is leaking on the sheets, all type's of fluid leaving a stain you didn't care for. he's mouthing on your cunt, his spit coating your pussy in a new layer of slick. eren kept his word. he didn't need to fuck you to feel good. he made that known when he took a long lick from your entrance to the top of your cunt in a slow strobe, whimpering hard.

" stop squirming baby. " he's muttering into your pussy, kissing your puffy clit. face full of your cum and arousal. he's so deep in between those legs he can barely breathe. his stubbled chin constantly coming in contact with your needy, waiting entrance.

you cant keep your hands from gripping at any and everything. your holding onto the spare room pillow, covering your face and mouth to keep the others from hearing the total mess you're steady becoming.

" nah, move that. " you don't listen, your voice pouty and muffled in the pillow. eren doesn't have time to play games with you, he's been doing that for months. he snatches the pillow away himself and throws it at the wall.

" i wanna hear you. fuck them. " your spasming on his tongue again before you can speak. weeps of moans falling on deaths door from the amount of pleasure happening on your pretty pussy. your hiccupping from the lack of air entering your lungs, to caught up on the way eren is twisting his tongue over your sensitive clit.

eren's been licking, flicking and sucking on your clit for almost a hour. he just can't get enough of you. you taste so sweet and tarty, its like a fucking desert he can only indulge in. anything your body is willingly to push out for him to taste he's sucking it up.

fucking his tongue in and out of your tight hole, eyes open the entire time to watch you come undone. your hair is sticking to your face, the ginger bringing the caramel out of your skin and aiding your beauty. he didn't think you could get any more sexier.

" fuck baby, " smacking your inner thigh, he gets a breather before he actually dies in the best way possible. " pussy to damn dangerous. " he's huffing and hitting those soft, thick thighs, wanting nothing more than to leave his marks on your skin.

your cute little face scrunches and yelps fill the room, his mouth falling back on those fat lips to get another sample, tasting that sweet juicy fruit. his jaw is hurting and damn near begging for it to end but he doesn't give a fuck. he wants to make you feel good, too good.

your to much of a pretty girl to not have someone in between these legs every day. " 'ren! " eren speeds up, ignoring those pleas. " 'ren, baby please. " you're begging, the knot in your stomach forming from the endless pleasure. you don't know if your begging because its too much or he's to damn good at this and you need to repay him somehow.

– between the base of your thighs being smacked and the vibration of eren moaning, a shock ascends throughout your body. cumming for the third time that night. stars are forming in the far corners of your eyes. it feels like eren has full control of your body. he's keeping you still with only two arms and smirking from how fucked out you already look.

your body is still twitching and it takes a army and every working limb you have to pull him off of you by his hair. he's raspy and to happy for someone who could've died from being to pussy drunk. your chest is heavy and it feels like you can finally inhale properly.

" my bad. " sheepishly apologizing, he plants a soft kiss to your abused clit and toothily smiles when you give him a death stare. gently bringing your knees from your squished chest down, he's kissing your sore knee-caps, wetly sucking on the frontal part of your thighs.

somethings bothering you heavily and its making your chest warm unnaturally seeing him care about every aspect of your body. " why are you taking care of me? "

" whatchu' talking about? "

" this. " you lazily point at his hands that sting a way into your pores. " you kissing on me like you love me and shit. "

" wouldn't go that far. " your rolling your red eyes again and dragging a hand down to your tummy, letting it rest for the time being. " this is mandatory though. you just fuck with the wrong boys. " you want to take it as a stray but actually process it. have you really been messing with guy's who didn't think to care for your body?

it has you recurring every misaligning person you let into your safe space and have a way with your figure. " hey, don't think about it " eren snaps in your face. " that's why i'm here, ima take care of you baby. promise. "

biting your lip, your pushing everything away because he asked you too and something about that foreign feeling doesn't feel to damn bad. you don't have it in you to talk or ask him for anything else, but you spread those legs of yours and beckon him to come here. how can he ever say no to you.

he's shuffling in-between you, applying his hand on one of the pillows next to your head. you stare into his alluring eyes, raking your hand from your own stomach to his. he's gulping, his adam's apple plumping with nerves.

" you wanna fuck me yeager? " he feels like a virgin when you speak like that. anxious and scared to disappoint, he's nodding, bring his head down to plant a soft kiss to your plump lips. just like you thought, they're so pulpy and flush. he kisses like butter, like a piece of bubble gum that's so slinky you almost want to swallow it.

the kiss is deepening with the mood, the fist in his hair is keeping him from cumming in his pants. he almost doesn't want to pull away but he can feel her dripping under him and there's only so much his dick can take before it's begging to be buried inside that soft cushion.

he's making quick work with his clothes. sitting on the balls of his feet, he's tugging his shirt over his head. the sight of his toned chest has you gawking. it's a good thing he only wore comfy clothing, you would've pounced on him the moment he walked into this house.

" take your time... " you joke, casting your surly eyes to the space below your plush tummy. tapping your nails on your stomach. he's already groaning from the sight. you didn't think he could get any faster, he's slipping out of pants and those tight boxers in second.

to say you were disappointed never crossed your mind. you're actually fucking nervous. he's thick, with a healthy pink tip and some inches that make you squeeze your stomach in.

" don't go getting scared on me pretty. " stroking his length, he's bringing your left leg up, kissing the base of your ankle sloppily. his dick is leaking with pre-cum, slouching his tip on your clit. you both let out a soft gasp.

the feeling is euphonic, sensitive clit being brought back to life with one little swipe. your grinding lightly on his tip and he's hissing from how wet she is. " yeah baby, mhmm... you know how to do it. " he praises, his teeth biting into his cheek.

" put it in 'ren. " lifting your hips, you get so close to pushing his dick in and he aids it, his brows knitting, mouth falling open when he aligns it right, sliding into your entrance with ease.

the moan's fall off the wall. he's stretching you so well. the pain almost feels too good. your mouth shaped into a 'o and your hands are fumbling for something new to grab. eren has his head draped down to watch him slip inside of that pussy that cant help but suck him in.

he's whimpering when you clench- moaning when you're folding your legs around him to push in deeper. it's like he can cum from this alone. you just hugging him in has him gapping.

" pussy to fuckin' wet, fuckkk. " he's groaning out in between deep thrusts, pace picking up fast as fuck for someone on the verge of tapping out. your body is following his orders, back arched with intent to make him feel good. eyes rolling from the captivity of his being.

its almost to much when he pushes in to deep, hips runting into your poor cunt like she hadn't been through enough. his tip is ramming into that gushy spot inside of you that has your brain shuttering to working. your mewling loud -- unable to form a single coherent word.

legs pulled tight to hold him in, cunt tightening on his dick making his steady thrust sloppy for mere seconds before he's back to putting in work. dainty fingers coming to rest on his v-line, not pushing but not letting him reach that spot that makes you go fucking crazy. he's silent with how bothered he is about that hand, he knows you're still sensitive and recovering from those heavenly orgasms, but he's to entuned to stop when he knows it'll make you feel so, so good.

" move it. " he's stating with attitude, you refuse to and he only slows down. you whine from the loss. your moaning his name pathetically, lifting your own hips to get that feeling back before its gone. he holds your supple hips down, leaning down to kiss and fondle with your brown nipples.

" e'ren, come on! "

" you gonna keep that fuckin' hand down? " you nod, panting, surprised you were even able to speak in the first place. he's returned that pace little by little, watching your fingers retreat to one of the blue pillows behind your back, eyes closed.

head hanging low, hair coming out of that bun from all the tugging, he almost looks like a greek status above you- one hand on your tummy, squishing it down to feel the cave his dick is making, the other bringing your left leg back to his lips, folding you – he's to caught up in how response you are to his touches.

propping your ankle on his shoulder, leaning down to look you dead in your watery eyes. you cant shy away from nothing now. he's thrusting in deep, pussy gushing all over the sheets and his length. eye's faltering when it comes to keeping that contact.

" i'm so close baby. " he's warning you and your nodding to agree with him, your arms lifting to his neck, dragging him down for a kiss. tongue lacing with his like second nature – eyes shut when that knot in your guts is on the verge of breaking and broken cries are falling in between the kiss.

" gonna cum in you baby, you don't mind that d-do you? " to head-struck, your nodding like a idiot in heat. that gives eren a new goal, he's stroking in like a wild animal, biting his lip so hard it bleeds when you squeeze him.

trying your hardest to keep your moans in, eren pushes in one last time and hits that blurry spot that renders you brain dead. your moaning, clawing on his v'line with that new set to keep him from moving. cunt completely spent and aching again when eren is painting your walls white.

the warm feeling only making it worse, now he cant move or you might regret it. eren's heaving, one hand on the headrest to puff out and rush in the smell of sex, vanilla and shea butter.

" fuckkk i gotta' get you a plan b asap. "

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

©𝙀𝙈𝙋𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙄𝘾𝙇𝙄𝘼𝙍 any sort of stealing or modifying is prohibited, mess with your momma not me.

[luvsupa]

tags: chef!geto x married!reader, cheating (don’t do this guys), naoya is readers husband, food play(ish), geto has tattoos + purple eyes, smut (kinda), mdni,

w.c: 1.9k

+ finally this is out of my drafts 🙂‍↕️

“i’ve hired a new chef.” your husband, naoya, announces coldly from the other end of the long, polished dining table. the sharp clink of cutlery echoes through the grand dining room as you both eat the meal your private chefs had meticulously prepared—medium rare wagyu steak with truffle mashed potatoes and buttered asparagus, the kind of meal that screams luxury. but his voice grates on you, cutting through your attempt to enjoy the evening.

you grip your knife tightly, scraping it against your plate in irritation, barely tasting the food. naoya’s eyes finally flick up from his plate, narrowing as he notices your silence. his leg bounces under the table, the tension radiating off him as he grows impatient with you ignoring him. 

“i’m speaking to you, woman,” he snaps through gritted teeth, barely holding back his annoyance.

you drop your utensils with a clatter, meeting his icy gaze. “and i’m listening. another chef, huh? what is this, the eighth or ninth employee you’ve hired just to fuck behind my back?”

naoya leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. his tongue rolls against his cheek, a clear sign that you’ve struck a nerve. but instead of shame, he’s amused.

“whatever happens between me and my staff is none of your concern,” he says smoothly, his arrogance on full display. “and this time, i’ve hired a male chef. try not to spread your legs for him the way you do for everyone else.”

the words sting, but they’re nothing new. his chuckle follows as he tosses his dirty napkin onto his half-eaten plate and stands, casually loosening his tie from his work suit. “slut,” he mutters under his breath as he walks out of the dining room, leaving you with the hollow clink of his footsteps fading in the distance.

you stare down at your left hand weighed down by stacks and stacks of luxurious jewelry—gifts from naoya, from a time when he at least pretended to love you. the massive diamond on your ring finger feels heavy, a cruel reminder of the life you thought you’d have. a life where you were cherished, not ignored and humiliated.

but that was before the affairs. before he cheated on you with everyone from his secretaries to the maids. you’ve tried to leave him more than once, but his connections, his power—he’s made it clear he’ll destroy you if you ever walk away. 

and so you stay, trapped in this gilded cage.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

the next morning, you wake up tangled in silk sheets, the rich fabric cool against your skin. you turn to the clock on the nightstand—9:40 a.m. naoya is already gone, no doubt having left hours earlier for work. good, you think. it’s better that way. waking up to his smug face would only ruin your morning.

slipping into your soft slippers, you wrap yourself in a sheer lilac robe, its light fabric brushing against your bare skin as you make your way to the bathroom. after freshening up, you take extra care with your skincare routine and hair, making sure you look more presentable than you did when you woke up.

the enticing aroma of freshly baked pastries and pancakes floats through the air as you descend the grand, floating staircase—something you’d begged naoya to have built when you first moved in.

you walk into the kitchen, expecting to see one of the female chefs who probably has a history with your husband. but instead, you freeze mid-greeting.

“good morning, rina—oh…” your words trail off as your eyes land on a tall, muscular man in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with an ease that seems almost hypnotic. his back is turned to you, but you can’t help but admire the way his broad shoulders stretch the black tank top—no, wife beater—that clings to his frame. you can see the muscles in his arms flex with each movement, glistening in the soft morning light streaming through the tall windows. his long, dark hair is tied up in a neat bun, and his discarded chef’s jacket hangs over the back of a chair.

he turns at the sound of your voice, a warm smile spreading across his lips, and you’re suddenly struck by how impossibly handsome he is. it’s not just his looks—it’s his presence. confident and utterly intoxicating. your mouth goes dry as you try not to ogle him, but it’s impossible. fuck, he looks good.

“ah, good morning, mrs. zenin. apologies for the late breakfast,” he says smoothly, his voice deep and velvety, and you have to lean more into the wall for support.

you quickly correct him by letting him no the preferred name rather than naoya’s evil surname. “a-and, there’s no need to be so formal…?,” you drag on for his chance to introduce himself.

“such a beautiful name,” he compliments, sending a shiver down your spine. you feel like a teenage girl speaking to her crush for the first time. “i’m geto suguru.”

suguru. you roll the name over in your mind,

“do… do you need any help, suguru?” you offer, your voice barely above a whisper. you step closer to him, drawn in by his presence. his cologne is subtle, but it clogs your mind, intoxicating you as you catch the scent of sandalwood and something dark and sensual.

he looks down at you, smirking at your shy demeanor. “you wanna help, pretty?” his eyebrow quirks as he motions you to join him, and you nod, as the petname made you all happy.

he motions you to move to his other side but as you follow- your gaze catches something else—tattoos. a full sleeve, intricate designs snaking up his toned arm. your mouth goes dry again as your eyes linger, tracing the ink and the way it contrasts against his skin.

he notices, of course, and chuckles. “got these during a… phase. not really proud of it,” he admits casually, his voice smooth as silk.

“i think they’re attractive,” you say softly, barely able to look him in the eye as you flirt back.

his smirk widens, and he turns back to the stove, pouring a decent amount of pancake batter onto the pan. the butter sizzles, filling the air with the rich, delicious scent of breakfast. “i think you’re attractive,” he murmurs, “shame you’re already married.”

his words hit you like a punch to the gut, a reminder of naoya, of the life you’re stuck in. your smile falters, and geto notices, his sharp eyes catching every little reaction.

“is that whipped cream?” you ask quickly, desperate to change the subject, trying to pull yourself together.

“just finished,” he replies, turning down the heat on the jam. his voice is low, smooth, teasing. “wanna taste?”

you nod, unable to resist the pull of his presence. geto steps closer, his gaze never leaving yours as he dips his finger into the whipped cream. slowly, he brings it to his mouth. his lips part, his tongue gliding over his finger as he sucks the cream off, savouring it with a soft, sensual hum. his eyes flutter shut, and the moment feels intimate—too intimate.

your lips part slightly, unable to look away from the sight of him. his finger glistens as he pulls it from his mouth, the motion slow, deliberate, teasing you without a single word. he dips back into the bowl, scooping up a thick, generous glob of cream, his eyes darkening with desire.

“say ahh, baby,” he whispers, his voice so low, it’s almost a growl, holding his finger near your lips.

your breath catches, your glossed lips parting eagerly as you wait for him to feed you, heat pooling between your thighs at the way he’s looking at you. but instead, his hand accidentally slips, the cold cream falling between your breasts, slowly trickling down your cleavage.

you gasp at the shock of it, the cold against your heated skin sending a shiver through you.

“oh… i’m sorry,” he murmurs, though the wicked smirk curling at his lips tells you he’s anything but. “mah i clean that up?” he politely asks as you mutter out a soft, yes, as he smirks.

before you can fully process anything, his large hands are on you, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool marble counter. your breath hitches as your robe falls open slightly, the flimsy material slipping down your shoulders, baring more of your chest. geto positions himself between your legs, his gaze locked on your cleavage, his tongue slowly wetting his lips.

you tremble above him, his body so close, the heat of him making you dizzy. he leans in, his breath warm against your skin as his fingers slowly push more of the fabric of your robe, exposing the thin top beneath. his eyes darken with hunger as he takes in the sight of you.

with agonizing slowness, he lowers his head, his long tongue sliding up the valley between your breasts, collecting the cream in long, deliberate licks. the sensation sends a shock of pleasure through you, and your head falls back, a soft moan escaping your lips. he moves up to your neck, sucking gently on the sensitive skin, leaving hot, wet kisses. fuck, you didn’t realize how touch deprived you were until now- especially being in his presence is making your cunt quiver.

his hands glide up your body, one gripping your waist while the other cups your breast. your eyes flutter at the intensity as your breathing quickens as he kneads your breast through the thin fabric of your top. you let out a broken moan as he sucks harder at your neck while simultaneously pinching and twisting your erect nipples between his experienced fingers as his tongue continues its sinful path along your throat. and oh, the sweet melodies of your moans escaping your mouth does something to geto. he feels his work pants get tighter and tighter the more you let out your moans. fuckk he thinks it’s beyond pathetic how something so minimal is making him this hard.

“m-more,” you plead breathlessly, your voice a desperate whisper.

geto chuckles against your neck, his lips brushing your ear. “does your husband even know how fucking needy you are?” he taunts, his voice thick with amusement. his fingers pinch your nipple harder, drawing a gasp from you. “how much you crave this? how desperate you are to be touched like this?”

you shake your head, unable to form words, your body arching into his touch, wanting everything he can give. but just when you think he’s about to give in to your pleas, he pulls back, his heat leaving you suddenly cold as he turns his attention back to the stove, his movements casual as if nothing had just happened.

your eyes fly open in disbelief, your body still trembling, aching for him. he flips the pancakes calmly, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as though you hadn’t just been begging him for more.

“i-i didn’t get a taste,” you whine softly, your voice thick with need, still perched on the counter, your legs open, desperate for him.

he glances back at you, a knowing grin spreading across his face as he finishes preparing you your breakfast as he turns around, hands you a beautifully plated dish of pancakes, the whipped cream and fresh jam. “i don’t want the food- i want you,” you whine as he places the food beside you.

“you can’t always get what you want, spoiled brat.” you huff in frustration, your body still burning for him, but before you can say a word, he leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

“maybe i’ll let you have more when you learn some manners, hmm?” 

[clairewritesjjkxreader]

Sukuna’s Wife and Yuuji’s Onee-chan (Sukuna x Reincarnated!Y/N) scenario

Request/Inquiry from @aikothingdream:

“It would be funny to see Yuuji also not like his teacher hitting on Onee-chan”

Life as a cursed spirit’s “bride” was hilariously boring. 

Gojo described your cursed energy as below average, you had zero martial arts training or talent, and Sukuna threatened Gojo and Yuuji not to put you in danger. 

Yuuji was often busy training, studying, or hanging out with his new classmates. You were happy that he had people to look after him in your place, but without a job or a class to attend, you were a parasite.

To alleviate your guilt, you did everyone’s laundry (minus their unmentionables, even Yuuji's, who furiously insisted he was old enough to wash his own underwear–kids, they grow up so fast *sigh*), mopped the hallways, wiped the windows, and other chores. 

You just finished rearranging the clothes in your cabinet for the second time today. 

You sprawled yourself on the floor like a starfish. 

Free food, no rent. Everything was paid for here. This should’ve been the ideal life, but you were so booooored.

Spurned by the desire to fill the void, you went to the kitchen. No one was around. Of course. 

You searched the cupboard, but only found a half-eaten package of cookies. The fridge had a can of whipped cream on the verge of emptiness and some strawberries.. 

Shutting the fridge close with your hip, you chomped on a cookie and a medium-sized strawberry then sprayed a swirl of cream in your mouth.

“Guess who’s back with treats! I–ah.” Gojo Satoru stopped at the kitchen doorway, a plastic bag full of sweets hanging from his hand. 

A silence fell over as you saw each other. 

He stood there, quietly as you stared, frozen with a mouth stuffed with sugar. 

You: (⊙ｏ⊙)

Gojo: ( ._. )

Gojo: …

Gojo: …pft.

You: …!

You forced yourself to chew faster, but expectedly, the thing that was supposed to be in charge of you and your brother burst into maniacal laughter.

“PWAHAHAHAHA!” 

“Mm…mf!” 

“Oh, man. I gotta take a picture.” He pulled out his phone. 

You wanted to say something, but there was too much stuff in your mouth! 

Gojo continued laughing between clicks and flashes until you started choking like a pelican who swallowed too big a fish. 

In an instant, he was behind you, arms wound tightly around your abdomen. “Please don’t die. It would be too pathetic!”

“Aurgh..!!!??” Translation: You think I wanna go like this, you a&%****!?

With one, strong squeeze, Gojo forced the food out of you. 

“That was close! Good thing I was here or who knows what would’ve happened.”

“...”

“Hm?”

“...”

“Not going to say anything? What’s wrong, nee-san?”

Feeling a vein near popping, you coughed out, “I believe I asked you not to call me that.”

“You’re so cold. Megumi and Kugisaki call you that. Even the second years!”

You had a couple of things to say, but considering that he technically saved your life, you opted to keep them to yourself. “Thank you for the help, now please let go. I’m going to clean this up.”

But as you said this, your knees buckled and his arms shifted to stop you from falling.

“Aw, don’t be like that.”

Whoosh

A giant knife flew towards Gojo, stopped only by his infinity. 

You both turned to find Yuuji standing by the door, panic and shock on his face as he gripped hard on his right arm responsible for throwing the blade. 

“I-I didn’t know how that happened, I swear!”

Sukuna spoke from his cheek. “You damn blue-eyed bastard. How dare you touch my wife so shamelessly?”

“Excuse me?! I just saved her from cho–” 

“Yuuji!” Embarrassed, you pushed yourself out of Gojo’s embrace and walked towards your brother. “Welcome home. Do you have any requests for dinner?”

“I’ve been craving curry rice since this morning.”

“I think we just ran out. I’llgocheckthestorageroom!” Flustered, you rushed out of the kitchen, forgetting your own mess. 

Yuuji quietly went to mop the food you choked out.

Gojo sighed. “Yuuji, what should I do, I don’t think your sister likes me.”

“Gojo-sensei.”

When Gojo met his student’s gaze, it held a surprising sharpness. “???”

“Thank you for taking care of us,” Yuuji’s normally cheery tone was flat as he spoke, “but please don’t bother my sister too much.” 

“???????”

Later that evening, in Fushiguro’s room…

Gojo: Megumi, why is everybody so mean to me?

Gojo: (˃̣̣̥ᴖ˂̣̣̥)

Megumi: Please leave. 

A/N: I tried to have more fun with this one so I was more liberal with my style. Anyway, I got a few more requests, the products are coming soon!

@shadowywizardarcade @hannya-exists @nineooooo @lilachaeyo @pumpkindudeishere @jessbeinme15 @fluffy-koalala @cringeycookies @frogzxch @isimpfordanielpark @marvelsgirl4ever @sanzusmom @sheccidoscar @marvelsgirl4ever @alastorhazbin @satosuguswife @lumaniii @leahlovesreading @blackstaw @nineooooo @boba--12

Other snippets of this au are found here.

[paper-mario-wiki]

Hey how do you cook chicken so often. It's always a huge fucking hassle to me to prep and cook chicken and it's so expensive I usually don't bother. Is there some trick you know for making it easy?

the answer's a lot more simple than ya think. i just have a huge bag of chicken breasts in the freezer. dont remember PRECISELY how much it was, pretty sure under $25 for 10 pounds at costco, and it'll last you several weeks when cooking for one.

the only real "prep" for making it easier is, when i don't have any chicken thawed in the fridge, i take some out of the freezer and put it into a plastic bag in the fridge. then, by the next day, ive got chicken that can be cooked and eaten up in 10 minutes. while still raw, it'll stay good for 2 days refrigerated, and up to 4 if you're stupid.

the breasts are actually a little bigger than i'd like when cooking just for myself, so while they're still frozen i find their middle and split them in half on the hard corner of my kitchen counter.

before seasoning, pat down the breast with a paper towel to get excess moisture off. it'll cook more evenly and make seasoning stick easier. i only use salt and pepper before cooking because im lazy and spiceless (poor), but you can definitely use herbs and whatnot when cooking. also smash down some of the thicker bits of the meat with the bottom of a cup or a mallet if you've got one. as long as the breast isn't thicker than, say, the width of your index finger, it'll cook through very easily, mostly in its own juices. otherwise you'll have a harder time cooking it evenly, though it can still be done. it just takes longer and might not look as nice.

pan-frying is as easy as putting in a splash of olive oil (not a ton, just enough for the breast to rest in), and cooking for 5 to 7 minutes on both sides, depending on how brown you want it. this is on medium-high heat, so i set my stove's little heat dial to 6 or 7.

for reference, the meal i made today (chicken breast, hashbrown, fried kale) was prepared in about 15ish minutes, including prepping the chicken and getting it on the pan, which was done first cuz it takes the longest to cook. the hashbrowns cooked on the far side of the pan away from the chicken, and the kale in my air fryer for 3 minutes. the chicken came off the pan first, and i let it rest for a few minutes while i let the hashbrowns finish cooking.

it sounds like a lotta work, but sincerely the most tedious thing about cooking with chicken is thawing it out, so having a few single-person servings of chicken in the fridge makes the whole process much simpler.

make sure that you're wiping down surfaces and utensils that the chicken touches while still raw, and try not to let any of the other foods at all. salmonella is easily avoidable, but still no joke.

[helplesspuppet-bsd]

Date Night

 

Pairing: Chuuya x FEM!Reader 

Established Relationship 

Type: Fluff/smut 

Warning: smut (Minors DNI) 

Pet names used: baby, darling, babe, good girl, love 

Overall Word Count: 910 

Chuuya was granted permission to have the day off by Mori after a successful mission, he decided to spend entire day with you. The day started with an extravagant breakfast, then you both laid on the couch cuddling and watching cheesy romance movies until the sun set and then a late-night ride on his motorcycle, backpacking you, your arms wrapped around his torso for support. Chuuya rode you around the city, admiring how beautiful and peaceful it was at night. 

“You enjoying yourself baby?” Chuuya asked with a smug smirk as he looks back of you as he waits for the light to turn, you smile and nod, your arms wrapped tightly around him but not tight enough to distract him. Chuuya looked back towards the road just before the lights turned green. He soon decided that it was time to go home and prepare what he had planned for the rest of the night. After all, only the best for his love. Chuuya parked his bike inside the garage, and he got off the bike, helping you off after.  

“Chuuya, baby... Can you please put me down...?” You asked as Chuuya carried you to the dining room, using his gravity manipulation to make you lighter. Chuuya chuckled to himself as he kept you in his arms, “No, no Darling. You are staying right where you are.” Chuuya cooed as he entered the dining room with you, placing you on the table and kissed you, passionately. 

You held Chuuya’s face, to bring him closer to you, Chuuya pulled away by an inch or two “Baby... You are so beautiful.” Chuuya whispered pulling you into another passionate kiss. It became heated very quickly as you tugged on his shirt. 

 “Chuuya...” You whispered as Chuuya put his hand on your lowered back, and his other trailing up your thigh. 

Chuuya began to kiss your cheek slowly brought it down to your neck, a subtle moan left your lips before he brought you into a tight hug, his face buried into the crook of your neck, “No... We can’t just yet, we haven’t eaten dinner yet.” Chuuya muttered against your neck, the vibrations from his voice cause you to shudder, before picking you up again, your legs wrapped around his waist and letting you down on the chair. 

“What would you like for dinner, Y/n?” Chuuya asked as he placed his hand on his head “I don’t care Chuuya. We could order take away.” You responded as you leaned into his touch as his hand moved to your cheek. 

“Doesn’t answer my question, Babe. What’d you like for dinner?” Chuuya responded as he looked at you with a smirk and lifted an eyebrow. You gave a small laugh, “I don’t know, Baby...” You replied before an idea popped into your head “Pizza?” You asked “Really? Pizza?” Chuuya said as he went over to the landline on the wall “What kind do you want?” Chuuya asked as he dialled the number for the pizza place nearby. “Hmmm... Cheese?” You asked as you continued to look at him with a blush on your face, Chuuya had always had a high sex drive, and you wouldn’t lie that you’ve been having dreams of him fucking you into the mattress on those long nights. 

As you were in your own mind, you didn’t realise how long you’d stayed until the pizza was right in front of you. 

It was quiet as you and Chuuya ate. It always was... You both enjoyed having silence as you two ate half of a medium-sized cheese pizza. 

He carried you to the bedroom, placed you on the bed gently. Chuuya began to climb on top of you and started placing soft kisses on your face. 

“Can you be a good girl for me?” Chuuya asked, his voiced laced in need and desire as his mouth returned to your neck placing kisses on it, causing you to let out soft moans. 

“Will you?” Chuuya asked again, kissing your lips a second later “Chuuya....” You whispered his name, watching him take off his gloves, his soft hands gliding it down towards your pussy, feeling how wet it was. 

“Oh baby...” Chuuya whispered as he brought his body lower down his head now in between your thighs, before looking up at you as if asking for permission to continue, he watched you nod. 

He buried his head in your thighs, his tongue trailing up your sweet cunt, listing to the moans that leaves your lips as he continues. Chuuya felt gentle tugs on his hair by your hand, he looked up at that adorable expression you were making as you became a complete mess for him, it was enough motivation for Chuuya to keep going, until you cum on his face, he lapped up your juices with his tongue until you calm down from your high. 

“Chuuya.” You said in blissful pleasure, Chuuya let out a low chuckle as he crawled up to you “You were such a good girl, my love” He whispered as he cradled you in his arms as he felt your body go limp as you closed your eyes. 

Chuuya always focused on your pleasure, while you focused on his when you had energy to continue. Chuuya stroked your hair, his smile alone showed how much he loved and cherished you. He placed a small kiss on your head before closing his eyes and sleeping alongside you in his arms. 

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Hello, I hope you are having a wonderful day. If you're still taking requests, I've got a fluff/wholesome/silly one if you want. So basically, the Avengers go inside of a McDonald's, (probably because Tony wants a cheeseburger). What they didn't expect to see is on a large table next to the playground, is a tired Loki with a sleeping toddler in one hand and a take away coffee cup in the other hand, with five half eaten happy meals on the table, with four other kids alternating between playing on the playground, eating their happy meals and putting cartoon stickers on Loki. The kids aren't actually his, he didn't kidnap them or anything, he's just been made a babysitter (why he was put/or/forced into babysitting can be up to you). Unfortunately for Loki, the kids he is babysitting are just as chaotic as he is, he even has one kid that is allergic to peanuts but tries to eat them behind Loki's back anyway, he has lost track of the amount of EpiPens he has had to use on that child alone. The sleeping toddler in Loki's arm is a very energetic toddler that by some miracle Loki had managed to get the little one to sleep, which he doesn't want to ruin. It turns out that Loki isn't a bad babysitter, he keeps them alive, he feeds them, he keeps them unharmed (mostly with the help of magic, he really doesn't want to deal with any medical dramas or crying), and fills them up with sugar just before the parents arrive to pick them up (it's his little form of revenge). I guess it could be a bizarre scene for both sides, the Avengers weren't expecting to see Loki, and Loki was really hoping that they wouldn't see him, especially not his big brother, who he knows will laugh at him. He is Loki of Asguard and he is burdened with ....these children.

Sorry if the request was too long, I hope that you have a fantastic day 😊. It's up to you whether you want to insert reader or not, I don't mind either way. I just thought it would be a fun/funny situation.

Thank you for your request! Tbh, this is one of the best request I have never gotten till now. I had a really fun time writing this. I hope you like it 💖

Burdened With……Children?!?~Oneshot

Summery: Loki babysits chaotic kids at McDonald’s as punishment—Avengers walk in and witness his sugary downfall.

Characters: Loki x f!reader

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

It was a Tuesday. A harmless, sun-drenched, blissfully uneventful Tuesday—until Tony Stark decided he wanted a cheeseburger.

Not just any cheeseburger.

The cheeseburger.

The kind of cheeseburger that lived in song and legend. The kind forged in ancient grease, layered with melted nostalgia, wrapped in soggy paper that stuck to the bun just a little.

Naturally, this meant McDonald’s.

“Why are we doing this again?” Steve Rogers asked, frowning like he was being personally attacked by fast food capitalism. “We just saved an alien diplomat from a wormhole accident in lower Manhattan. Shouldn’t we be debriefing?”

Tony didn’t slow down. “Steve, Steve, Steve… There’s only one kind of briefing I want. And it’s medium rare with a side of fries.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You know McDonald’s doesn’t do medium rare, right?”

Tony wheeled around, walking backward. “And yet somehow—despite your PhD in gamma radiation—you continue to miss the point, Banner. The craving has spoken. And it wants processed beef.”

“I could’ve made burgers,” Wanda offered, mostly out of politeness.

“No offense, Wanda, but last time you tried to cook, the pot levitated and Steve’s sandwich disintegrated.”

“That was a perfectly good panini,” Steve muttered.

Clint snorted. “Well, it’s not like this day can get weirder. Let the man have his burger.”

Famous. Last. Words.

Because when the Avengers pushed open the glass doors of McDonald’s, trailing in behind a sparkly-shirted toddler and a mom arguing with the soda machine—

They saw him.

Loki.

God of Mischief. Prince of Asgard. Scourge of New York.

…currently seated at a long, ketchup-streaked table, absolutely covered in stickers, holding a sleeping toddler in one arm and a nearly empty coffee cup in the other.

The table was surrounded by Happy Meal boxes in various states of dismemberment.

Around him, a small army of children waged war on physics, patience, and public decency.

And Loki?

Loki looked like he had aged seven Midgardian years in three hours.

Tony was the first to recover.

“No. Absolutely not. What the hell am I looking at?”

Loki glanced up, slowly.

He had the haunted stare of a man who had known war. Not just any war, but a very specific war: the kind fought with sippy cups and screams.

“…Why are you here?” he asked, voice hoarse, like he’d swallowed a balloon animal and was trying to pass it off as dignity.

“We should be asking you that!” Steve exclaimed, looking around at the battlefield of fries, crayons, and crushed chicken nuggets. “Are—are you babysitting?”

Thor let out a booming laugh so violent it nearly set off the soda machine.

“BROTHER! You didn’t tell me this was your penance!”

Loki’s eye twitched.

The toddler in his arm stirred. Without looking, Loki conjured a pacifier from thin air and popped it in. The child blinked. Sucked once. Fell back asleep.

It was so seamless that even Natasha raised an impressed brow.

“I am not merely ‘babysitting,’” Loki said with the slow, chilling calm of a man narrating his own descent into madness. “I have been… tasked. Punished. Sentenced.BURDENED.”

“To McDonald’s?” Bruce asked.

“To children.”

He gestured toward the chaos surrounding him.

A curly-haired girl was attempting to glue french fries to her forehead using ketchup.

A small boy in a Captain America shirt was chewing on a plastic spoon like it was a relic of war.

A third child was lying on the table, declaring himself “the floor is lava.” Loki had drawn a glamour rune over the ketchup to give it a realistic glowing effect.

And off in the corner…

“Oh my god,” Wanda whispered. “That one has stickers on his eyes.”

“I have tried to stop them,” Loki said. “I have bartered with logic. I have summoned clones of myself to distribute chicken nuggets in five places at once. I even told one of them that Odin sleeps beneath the ball pit and will rise in fury if they disturb the ancient realm of plastic spheres.”

Sam whistled. “And how’s that working out?”

One child jumped into the ball pit with a scream of, “ODIN! I SUMMON THEE!”

Loki didn’t even flinch. “You tell me.”

“Okay,” Tony said, sitting across from him like an interviewer. “Let’s back this up. Explain. Now.”

Loki sighed, rubbing his temple with the hand not occupied by a sleeping toddler. “It began as all things do: with hubris. I made the error of telling my beloved that her profession—owning this establishment—was unworthy of her station.”

“Oh no,” Wanda said, eyes wide.

“I may have used the words ‘burger serfdom’.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Damn, man. You really do have a death wish.”

“She smiled at me,” Loki continued grimly. “She smiled, kissed my cheek, and said, ‘Then you can handle Toddler Tuesday next week.’”

There was silence.

Then Steve said, “Wait. Your girlfriend owns this McDonald’s?”

Thor wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Indeed she does! A fierce woman! She once threw a shoe at me because I used the bathroom without buying anything.”

Natasha blinked. “She made you babysit as punishment?”

“She said if I was going to insult the sanctity of her work, I could live it.”

Loki gestured to the mess of children around him. “She called in favors from employees and friends. There are five of them. Technically six if you count the one who thinks I’m his biological father and now refers to me as ‘Papa Mischief.’”

“Which one’s that?” Bruce asked.

Just then, a tiny hand slapped a sticker onto Loki’s back. “I made you a tattoo, Daddy!”

Loki closed his eyes. “That one.”

“You have stickers on your face,” Clint noted helpfully.

“I know.”

One child ran by with a ketchup bottle and shouted, “GLORY TO THE SAUCE KINGDOM!”

Another followed with an empty fry container like a crown, proclaiming, “WE STAND WITH THE SAUCE KING!”

Thor wheezed.

Loki looked at his brother.

“Thor,” he said. “Please. End me.”

“Uncle Loki,” came a voice, deceptively soft.

Loki’s head snapped around so fast he nearly spilled his (cold, watery) coffee.

It was him. The Peanut Menace.

Alexander the Fifth, as he called himself—probably because the previous four versions died of the same allergy-related chaos he gleefully flirted with daily.

The small boy stood near the napkin station with the air of a man about to commit a felony. Clutched in one fist was a sealed peanut butter cookie he had somehow smuggled in.

Loki narrowed his eyes. “Alexander. What did we say about peanuts?”

“That they make my throat close and I get to see God.”

A pause.

“…And are we supposed to see God today?”

Alexander considered. “No, sir.”

“Good boy,” Loki said, already summoning the sixth EpiPen of the afternoon into a floating orbit above his shoulder like a grim magical warning. “Now drop the cookie.”

Alexander did.

Then immediately ran toward the soft-serve machine, screaming, “SUGAR BEFORE DEATH!”

Wanda flinched. “Is he okay?”

“He’s been clinically diagnosed with chaos,” Loki muttered.

Thor was doubled over with laughter, slapping Steve’s back. “He is like a mini-Loki!”

“Please don’t encourage that,” Natasha warned.

“I tried to hex him into a turnip once,” Loki said blandly. “It failed. He absorbed the spell and sneezed glitter for three hours.”

Bruce turned to Y/N’s register and whispered, “Can I just order a margarita and lay on the floor?”

“Okay, new plan,” Clint said, “Why don’t you just clone yourself again? Like, five Lokis for five kids.”

“I tried,” Loki hissed. “I created four clones. They each claimed a child. It was going well. For twenty minutes. Then they unionized.”

Sam blinked. “The clones unionized?”

“They demanded breaks. Paid leave. Unlimited nap time. One of them wrote a manifesto about workers’ rights in crayon.”

“And?”

“I disbanded them.”

“How?” Steve asked.

“I cursed them into Teletubbies.”

“Fair,” said Wanda.

“Also,” Loki added grimly, “two of the clones fell in love with the same child. Things got… tense.”

“I can’t tell if you’re lying or not,” Bruce said.

Loki looked him dead in the eye. “Neither can I anymore.”

Just then, “Captain Crayon”—as Loki had mentally dubbed the child with the sticker crown and mashed-potato warpaint—climbed onto the condiment counter and screamed:

“BATTLE FOR THE THRONE OF KETCHUP BEGINS NOW!”

“Why are they like this?” Clint whispered.

“Because I taught them to be,” Loki said, watching with dead eyes. “I gave them structure, and they made war. I gave them snacks, and they made religion.”

“Was… was that a metaphor?” Steve asked.

“No,” Loki said. “They literally formed a religion around the soft serve machine. They named it Creamus Maximus.”

At that very moment, a child in a robe made of napkins walked past chanting “Blessed be the swirl, holy be the fudge.”

“I feel like we should help,” Bruce said.

“No,” Loki said flatly.

But it was too late. The Avengers were already moving.

Steve knelt to talk to a child in the corner. “Hey, buddy. What’s your name?”

The child hissed and bit his arm.

“OW!”

Loki sipped his cold coffee. “That’s Grayson. He’s a biter. We don’t touch Grayson.”

Steve clutched his arm and nodded grimly.

Wanda knelt to another kid. “Do you want to draw?”

The child looked up. “Make the paper dance.”

“What?”

“Make. It. Dance.”

“…Okay?”

Wanda made the crayon swirl magically. The child screamed and ran away shouting “SHE IS THE DEMON WITCH! SHE COMES FOR OUR SOULS!”

Wanda blinked. “I was trying to help.”

“She’s been cursed,” Loki said, deadpan. “By a child who can’t spell the word ‘soul’.”

Sam tried to get a handle on the soda station. “No refills, okay guys? Let’s keep it—HEY! STOP CLIMBING THAT!”

A six-year-old had somehow scaled the machine and was attempting to pour Fanta directly into their mouth. Another stood at the base, chanting “CHUG CHUG CHUG!”

“This is exactly like college,” Sam muttered.

Clint tried to clean the table. He was tackled by a kid who thought he was an evil janitor sent to “suppress the fry rebellion.”

And Thor? Thor was just sitting in the corner laughing so hard he was wheezing.

“I have not known such joy in centuries,” he said.

Loki glared at him. “Then take two.”

“I dare not,” Thor chuckled. “I enjoy watching you suffer.”

The bell above the door chimed.

Every head turned.

And there she was.

Y/N L/N—owner of McDonald’s, Loki’s mortal lover, and the reason he was being devoured alive by children—stood in the doorway like a queen arriving at court.

She wore no cape.

But she didn’t need one.

She had the aura of a woman who knew how to handle grease fires, teenage employees, and gods who thought fast food was beneath them.

She surveyed the scene: The chaos. The stickers. The war over condiments.

And then…

She smiled.

Loki stood up slowly. “My love,” he said. “It is not as bad as it looks.”

She raised a brow. “Loki. Someone just yelled ‘FOR CREAMUS MAXIMUS’ and headbutted the ice cream machine.”

“It was a peaceful uprising.”

“The ball pit is bubbling.”

“They summoned Odin.”

“One child bit Steve.”

“I warned him.”

She marched over to Loki, arms folded. “And what have we learned?”

“…That peanut allergies are not a joke?”

She smacked his arm lightly. “You made fun of my job. And now you’ve survived Toddler Tuesday.”

Loki slumped onto the bench beside her. “Please. No more Tuesdays.”

Y/N kissed his forehead and whispered, “Next week is Birthday Saturday.”

Loki let out a silent scream.

“So,” Clint said, dodging a flying juice box, “uh… is there a plan to end this?”

“Oh yes,” Loki muttered darkly, summoning his sixth coffee cup of the day. “There is always a plan.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Loki… what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, feigning innocence with the skill of a professional liar. “I merely… distributed celebratory treats.”

“What kind of treats?”

“Frosted cupcakes.”

“Frosted with what?”

Loki sipped his coffee. “Enchanted sugar from a pocket realm of eternal energy.”

“…You fed them cursed cupcakes?!”

“They’re not cursed,” he said, affronted. “They’re just… invigorating.”

At that moment, five kids simultaneously screamed, “CUPCAKE POWER!” and sprinted in opposite directions—one climbing the walls with suspicious agility.

“I hate you,” Y/N whispered.

“You love me,” Loki corrected smugly.

“I will feed you to the ball pit demon.”

“Creamus Maximus would never betray me.”

“Creamus Maximus is melting.”

They turned to see that the soft-serve machine was… steaming. Not from overuse.

From power.

“Did you enchant the ice cream too?” Tony demanded, ducking as a child flung a spoon of chocolate into the air like a victory salute.

“It now dispenses seven flavors at once,” Loki said. “And plays Norse lullabies when you swirl.”

“That’s why it was singing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Thor’!”

“…I may have improvised.”

And then, the time came.

The clock hit 6:00 PM.

The doors opened.

And in came the parents.

At first, it was like watching a peaceful transition of power.

But then… the sugar hit.

“Mommy! I can SEE SOUND!”

“My hands are alive, Father!”

“Uncle Loki said I’m immortal now!”

The parents blinked. “What—what the hell did you feed them?!”

“I call it Asgardian delight,” Loki said, voice laced with regal smugness. “An herbal blend of energy, joy, and just a touch of madness.”

Y/N glared. “You fed them sugar bombs as revenge.”

“They shall not sleep until dawn,” Loki said proudly. “That is the price of crossing me.”

A mom looked at her child, who was tap dancing with two Happy Meal toys in each hand. “This is like the Exorcist!”

Another parent found their kid drawing runes on the wall in ketchup.

“Is this… a summoning circle?”

“No,” Loki corrected. “That one’s just artistic.”

As each sugar-drenched, hyper-speed goblin was handed off, the parents grew increasingly panicked.

And Loki?

He looked rejuvenated.

“Vengeance,” he said softly, “is a dish best served in a to-go box.”

An hour later, the restaurant was… quiet.

The kids were gone.

The floor was covered in fry dust. The ball pit had stopped vibrating. The walls were sticky. Thor was asleep in the party room wearing a birthday hat.

Steve was curled under the counter muttering, “I’ve seen war. But not like this.”

Natasha was cleaning a knife that somehow ended up inside the ceiling tile.

Bruce was staring at a crayon drawing of the Hulk that said “Angy Green Friend.”

Clint had a child’s sock on his head. No one knew how it got there.

Tony? Tony finally got his burger.

He sat in the corner, holding it like it was the Holy Grail.

“Worth it,” he whispered.

Sam had taken over the drive-thru mic and was doing stand-up comedy. “Welcome to the House of Hell. Would you like a side of existential dread with that?”

And Loki?

Loki lay across the booth bench like a corpse, crown of stickers on his head, half-asleep.

Y/N sat beside him, arms crossed.

“So,” she said, poking his chest. “Learned your lesson yet?”

“I will never speak poorly of the fast food industry again,” he mumbled. “May the arches of gold light my path.”

“And?”

He cracked one eye open. “And… you were right. The true gods… are the ones who babysit.”

Y/N kissed his cheek, smirking. “You still owe me a drive-thru shift.”

Loki groaned. “Very well. But only if I can enchant the headset to filter stupidity.”

“Deal.”

They sat there, surrounded by empty fry cartons, dried ketchup art, and what might have been a plush Grimace cult symbol… and breathed.

“You were weirdly good with them,” Y/N said.

“They listened to me.”

“They climbed you like a tree.”

“They obeyed the sticker crown rules.”

She laughed softly. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Loki grinned, eyes half-closed. “Burdened with children… and yet blessed with fries.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned against his shoulder.

And somewhere in the distance…

“FOR CREAMUS MAXIMUS!” echoed from the ball pit.

Loki sat bolt upright. “No. No. NO—”

“Loki,” Y/N said, grabbing his sleeve. “Let it go.”

But it was too late.

The soft-serve machine was glowing again.

And Creamus Maximus had risen.

-the end

[thetidesthatturn]

Petals in Ink - Part One

Pairing: non-idol florist Park Seonghwa x tattooist female reader

Warnings: use of Y/N, not a warning but we have SOFTBOI SEONGHWA, next part gets spoicyyyy…

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people.

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Part Two

You notice the florist before you notice the man.

Boxes arrive one morning like a migration of bees—buzzing movers weaving through the narrow alley that separates your tattoo studio from the now unshuttered storefront next door. You watch them through the window between clients, arms folded across your chest, a half-empty iced americano sweating on the sill.

You’ve owned Blackline for almost four years now. Nestled in a tucked-away street in the heart of Seoul, your studio grew from a one-chair hustle into a sanctuary for skin-bound art. Now, you’ve got two artists working under your roof—Nari, whose delicate linework could make grown men cry, and Ryu, whose specialty in spectacular realism keeps your waitlist booked out six months in advance. You’re proud of what you’ve built.

Even if it’s slowly eaten away your time, your sleep, and your sense of what a weekend is supposed to feel like.

Relationships? Fleeting. Dates? Rescheduled or forgotten. You live for your work, for the way ink can bloom against skin, telling stories that words can’t quite shape. But sometimes—like now, in this pause between clients—you find yourself staring out the window and wondering what it would be like to need someone more than your next appointment.

The new shop doesn’t have a sign yet. Just a clean black awning and wide glass windows that catch the morning light. Inside, it’s all empty shelving and promise.

You almost miss him—tall, in an oversized beige cardigan, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, carrying a crate of what you assume are pots or vases. His hair falls in dark waves, tucked behind one ear. He moves like someone who isn’t in a rush, but who always gets things done.

He disappears inside.

You blink, shake it off, return to sterilising your workstation for your next piece. But something hums under your skin now—a quiet curiosity. Not the usual kind you reserve for potential clients or portfolio reviews.

No. This one is personal.

And when you walk past that shop later and catch the scent of freesia and something greener—mint, maybe—you know two things with sudden, unshakable clarity.

One: it’s going to be a flower shop.

Two: you’re absolutely screwed.

You return with lunch bags dangling from your fingers and gossip waiting at the door.

The bell above Blackline’s entrance jingles softly as you nudge it open with your shoulder. The scent of roasted sesame oil and gochugaru wafts in with you, but it’s not enough to distract from the hushed voices floating from the back of the studio.

“I’m telling you,” Nari says, her voice low and conspiratorial, “he arranged those boxes like they were a bouquet.”

“Oh my god.” Ryu snorts. “So he cares about symmetry? That’s what’s got you drooling?”

You freeze just inside, eyebrows lifting.

“Please tell me we’re not rating movers now.”

Two heads pop out from the break room. Nari is already smiling like she’s been caught in the middle of something good, her neon hair pulled into a messy twist. Ryu raises a brow, leaning one hip against the doorframe, sleeves pushed up past his elbows to reveal the faded beginnings of his own ink.

“You’re late,” Ryu says, eyes sliding to the takeout bags. “You bring penance?”

You toss him his order without ceremony. “One kimchi bokkeumbap. Extra egg, no green onion. Nari—tteokbokki, medium spicy.”

“God-tier,” Nari murmurs, catching the warm box with reverence.

As they settle at the back table and tear open chopsticks, you drop your own lunch at your station but don’t sit yet. You can feel it, that weightless pause, the way both of them keep glancing toward the shared wall.

You cross your arms. “Alright. Spill it.”

Ryu doesn’t even look up. “New shop next door. Flower place, apparently.”

“We figured it out while you were gone,” Nari adds, mouth half-full. “He brought in these tall glass vases. Minimalist. Heavy. Probably hand-blown. And—”

“And?” you prompt.

Nari chews quickly, swallows, then grins. “He’s stupid pretty. Like… tragic drama second lead who steals your heart even though you know he’s not endgame.”

You scoff, but there’s a flicker of something in your chest.

“Dark hair, pretty mouth, kind of delicate looking,” Ryu adds casually, plucking a piece of kimchi from the rim of his bowl. “But with hands. You know. Those hands.”

You squint. “What does that mean?”

Nari fans herself with a napkin. “It means I would absolutely trust him to unbutton me and arrange my funeral flowers.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, finally sitting down.

But you do glance out the window as you eat. And somewhere in your chest, that hum from earlier sharpens—like the first outline of a new design, just waiting for colour.

You finish wiping down your station just as the sun kisses the horizon, setting the street aglow in rose-gold haze.

The last client had left smiling, skin still red and blooming where your needle had danced hours earlier. A floral shoulder piece—full of curling stems and delicate buds, the kind you’ve become known for. There’s always something bittersweet about finishing a design like that. You put so much into it, then watch it walk away.

You stretch your shoulders; your hoodie smeared with faint dots of ink and stencil residue. The others had clocked out earlier, Ryu calling a quick goodbye over his shoulder, while Nari made a dramatic show of checking her makeup before heading to a date. You had stayed behind, as usual, cleaning and replying to messages, stubborn in your devotion to every last detail.

Now the studio is quiet; just the low hum of the steriliser cooling down and the familiar creak of the front door as you lock it for the night.

You’re sliding the key into the deadbolt when you hear it—

“Hey.”

The voice is low, smooth—but not rehearsed. Gentle. Warm, even in one word.

You turn.

He’s standing a few paces away, hands in the pockets of a soft linen coat, the collar turned slightly from the breeze. His hair is tucked neatly behind his ears, falling just over his cheekbones. And his eyes—dark, quiet, searching—hold yours with a kind of cautious curiosity.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, lifting one hand. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.”

A smile curves his lips, small and sincere. “I’m Seonghwa. I just opened next door.”

Your gaze flicks instinctively to the now-softly lit window beside your shop. The florist. Of course.

“Right,” you say, straightening slightly. “The flower guy.”

His smile deepens, a little amused. “Is that what I am now?”

You shrug. “Depends. Are you any good?”

He laughs—quiet, almost startled, but there’s something rich in it. You feel it settle low in your stomach.

“I hope so,” he says. “You’re the tattoo artist, then?”

You nod. “Y/N. Owner of Blackline.”

“I figured.” He pauses, then reaches into his coat pocket. “I brought you this. Kind of a neighbourly peace offering.”

He offers it without fanfare—a small, simple bouquet. Not showy. Just… intentional. Three pale yellow ranunculi, a sprig of eucalyptus, and something soft and lilac-tinted you can’t quite name.

Your fingers brush his as you take it.

“They’re for creativity,” he says quietly, almost shy. “And steadiness. I thought that might suit you.”

You glance down at the flowers, then up at him. There’s no sales pitch. No performance. Just the quiet sincerity of someone who sees things in layers.

You tuck the bouquet carefully into the crook of your arm.

“Thanks,” you murmur, a little breathless now. “They’re… beautiful.”

He smiles again, softer this time. “So is your work. I saw a piece on someone earlier. Shoulder, full bloom. That was yours?”

You nod. The irony isn’t lost on you.

“Maybe I’m just drawn to florals,” you say.

His gaze lingers—just a moment too long. “Then I guess we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”

You don’t look away.

“I guess we will.”

~

You don’t even bother with anything fancy tonight.

A packet of instant ramen, jazzed up with a soft-boiled egg and a handful of a slightly wilted spring onion you forgot you still had in the fridge. You eat it standing at the counter, chopsticks clinking lightly against the ceramic bowl, the hum of the streetlights outside filtering in through the half-open window.

It’s a rhythm you know well—work, dinner, sketch, sleep. Maybe a shower if you’re not too drained. You like the simplicity. The structure. It leaves no space for unnecessary noise. And love? Romance?

That’s just another kind of chaos.

You’ve dated before, sure. A few guys who seemed promising at first, all clean smiles and complimented tattoos. But it always ended the same—disinterest, disrespect, or disappointment. Men who couldn’t handle ambition. Who thought they were being deep when they were really just performative. Who played at mystery but held no substance. You’ve seen it all, a sea of red flags.

So you stopped looking. Stopped caring. Love is beautiful on paper, sure, but in real life? It’s just a detour you don’t have time for.

You rinse your bowl and retreat to your desk, iPad open on Procreate, the outline of a piece you’ve been working on for days waiting for its final details. A phoenix wrapped in chrysanthemums. You thumb your stylus and lean forward, eyes narrowing with familiar purpose.

But after five minutes, you realise you’ve drawn the same petal three times.

You erase it. Try again.

And again.

And then he’s there—in your mind. That soft, unassuming smile. The way he stood just close enough to hand you the bouquet, but not close enough to make you uncomfortable. His voice, the warmth of it. The steadiness in his eyes.

Seonghwa.

You grit your teeth and sit back. “No.”

You don’t think about things like this. People like this. You don’t chase after strangers with pretty hands and gentle words. You have deadlines. Clients. Appointments.

And yet…

Your gaze drifts to the edge of your desk. The small bouquet sits there in a glass you repurposed from a soy candle jar. Pale yellow and soft green. Still fresh.

You hate how your chest tightens a little when you look at it.

With a frustrated sigh, you force yourself forward again. Pencil to paper. Focus.

An hour passes. The lines finally take shape.

But when you crawl into bed, limbs heavy and skin slightly cold from being hunched over too long, your eyes don’t stay closed for long. Because tonight, in the half-formed haze of sleep, your dreams are stitched in petals and eucalyptus and the brush of fingers against your own.

And in the centre of it all, there he is—Seonghwa.

Soft. Steady. Blooming.

The morning starts like clockwork.

Your alarm buzzes against the nightstand. You rise, brush your teeth, shower with the same three products you always use. Pull on your faded hoodie and jeans. No fuss. No thinking. Your steps follow the well-worn script, down the block, around the corner, into your usual café. You order an iced americano—no syrup, no nonsense.

You sip it as you make your way toward the studio, the city already humming to life around you. The air is warm for morning, thick with the scent of rain that didn’t fall.

You round the corner and, of course, there he is.

Seonghwa is standing in front of his shop door, fumbling with a keyring. The moment he sees you, his face lights up like it’s instinctive—like you’ve just made his day better without doing a damn thing.

“Morning,” he says, voice cheerful, smile sweeter than syrup.

He holds up the cup in his hand and gives it a little shake. Iced americano. No words necessary. Of course that’s what he’s drinking.

Your heart does something inconvenient. “Hey,” you say quickly, nodding.

And then you’re hurrying to unlock your own door like a getaway driver. What the hell was that?

You push into the studio, let the door fall closed behind you, and lean against it for half a second longer than you should. Your americano sweats in your hand.

Just be normal. You shake yourself out, take a long sip, and pretend you’re not affected. Pretend that smile didn’t feel like a stone dropped in the still water of your morning. You have work to do. Art to finish. An afternoon appointment that’s been waiting three months for a phoenix and chrysanthemum back piece.

You flick on the lights. Everything is as it should be. And then chaos arrives, as it always does.

The front door swings open in a burst of chatter.

“—and he had the nerve to call me high-maintenance because I said no to a fourth drink on a Tuesday—”

Nari barrels in, full volume and freshly caffeinated, dropping her bag onto the counter like she owns the place. She’s halfway through complaining about how her date was only interested in fucking her when Ryu strolls in behind, sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky.

“Babe,” Ryu says, setting his drink down, “that’s all you’re interested in too.”

Nari gasps, scandalised. “How dare you.”

He shrugs, smug. “I dare because it’s true.”

You snort into your coffee as you make your way to your station.

“Anyway,” Nari continues dramatically, plopping onto the couch in the waiting area, “he kept talking about crypto. Like passionately. I swear, if one more man asks me if I’ve ever heard of the blockchain—”

“Maybe he thought that was his love language,” Ryu mutters.

You tune them out just enough to keep your focus. Your stylus is already hovering above your iPad, tracing lines that still live in the muscle memory of your hand. But part of your mind drifts—to a pale yellow bouquet. To a smile that should not have hit you the way it did.

You shake your head.

No. Focus.

This is your rhythm. Your world.

You’ve survived worse distractions than a pretty neighbour with flower-stained fingers.

Haven’t you?

The buzz of the machine fades out with the final line.

Your client admires the piece in the mirror, all flushed cheeks and grateful eyes, and you walk them through the aftercare instructions like always. You smile, you nod, you say thank you for trusting me with your skin. You mean it.

And then they’re gone, the door swinging shut behind them with the soft chime of the bell.

You glance at the clock, realising you’d finished an entire hour early. Rare. Unheard of, really. Usually you’d use the time to prep, clean, or dive into messages and waitlists. But today?

You sit at your desk and open your iPad.

Your fingers hover above the screen for a moment, uncertain. Then, without fully thinking it through, you open Procreate and start sketching.

Flowers.

But not just any flowers.

You draw the pale curve of ranunculi petals first, loosely layered like soft paper pressed between pages. Then the spray of eucalyptus, long and trailing, just slightly unruly. You add in the lilac tint of the mystery bloom he gave you—delicate, near translucent—and the way the stems all angled just slightly toward the centre, like they were leaning into each other for warmth.

You sketch them the way you remember receiving them. Not the way they sat in the cup by your desk. The way they felt in your hands. The subtle weight of them. The quiet intention.

You don’t even realise how much time has passed until you glance up and see the light outside has shifted—cooler now, shadows stretching across the studio floor.

Your fingers hesitate.

This wasn’t for a client.

It wasn’t for your portfolio. It wasn’t even for work.

It was just… for you.

And that’s somehow more terrifying than anything.

You close the app, but not before exporting the sketch to your photo roll. You don’t name the file. You don’t have to.

You already know what it is.

~

The café line is longer than usual this morning, but you don’t mind.

You’re tucked into your hoodie, earbuds in, brain already ticking through your schedule—back piece touch-up at ten, flash walk-in at one, consult at three. It’s the kind of mental math that keeps your hands steady and your world turning.

Until someone stops beside you.

“Figured you came here too.”

You glance up, half-surprised to find Seonghwa standing there. His hair is tucked under a soft charcoal beanie, and he’s wearing a long beige coat layered over a black turtleneck. Effortlessly warm. Effortlessly unfair.

You raise an eyebrow. “How’d you know that?”

He smiles, the kind that sneaks up on you. “Saw the logo on your cup yesterday. You had the same drink.”

Of course he did. He notices everything, it seems.

Before you can respond, the line moves forward. You both step up.

“Mind if I go ahead?” he asks, sickeningly polite.

You nod. “Sure.”

But when he gets to the counter, he speaks without hesitation.

“Two iced americanos, please.” Then, without even glancing back, he turns and hands one to you.

You blink, fingers closing around the cup before your brain catches up.

“I—thank you,” you say, voice softer than intended.

His smile deepens, not smug, just sure. “Want to walk with me?”

You should say no. You’ve got a dozen things to do. Could blame your schedule, say you’ve got to get back and prep.

But the way he looks at you—the soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his voice doesn’t push, just offers…

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walk side by side down the quiet side street that separates your lives. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t try to fill every silence. Just lets it unfold.

After a few blocks, he asks, “So… how’d you get into tattooing?”

You pause, not because you don’t know the answer—but because you never really tell people. Not in full. Not the real version.

Still… something about him feels steady enough to hold it.

“I had a hard time growing up,” you start, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. “Wasn’t the daughter my parents wanted.”

He listens. Not a word interrupts you.

“They wanted me to be neat. Respectable. Something clean. You know, medical school. Teaching. That kind of thing.”

You sip your americano, trying not to let the taste of old memories sour it.

“But I wasn’t. I was… messy. Loud. Drawn to the wrong things, according to them. I moved out at sixteen. Got an apprenticeship at this tiny studio near the train tracks. Didn’t pay much. But it gave me something I’d never had before—control over my own skin. Over anything, really.”

He doesn’t respond with pity. Just lets the weight of your words settle in the space between you.

“That’s brave,” he says finally, voice low. “Choosing your own path like that.”

You glance at him, not quite ready to say thank you. Not quite ready to admit it meant more than he probably knows.

The studio comes into view, and with it, the end of the walk. You stop at your door. He stops too.

“I didn’t get to ask you how you got into floristry,” you say, a little breathless now. “Sorry. I talk a lot.”

He shakes his head, smile still warm. “You don’t. Not really. But… if you want to hear my story—maybe over dinner?”

It knocks the wind out of you in the smallest, strangest way.

“I—uh…” You clear your throat. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like that.”

You’re just about to reach for the handle of the studio door when Seonghwa shifts beside you.

“Oh,” he says, as if just remembering something. “Before you go.”

You turn slightly, brows raised.

He pulls his phone from the pocket of his coat and unlocks it with a swipe. The screen glows between you, open to a blank contact form. He holds it out.

“Put your number in?”

He says it casually, but not without intent. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like asking for a number isn’t always tangled in expectation.

You glance at the screen, then back at him. “Smooth.”

A small laugh escapes him—just air and teeth and something fond at the edges. “I try.”

You take the phone and type your name and number, thumbs suddenly more self-conscious than usual. You hesitate before hitting save, then hand it back.

He doesn’t look at the screen.

“Thank you,” he says, like you gave him more than just digits. Like it’s already stored somewhere else, too.

You nod, gripping your americano a little tighter than necessary. “Text me the time and place?”

“I will.”

There’s a pause—thick with something neither of you want to name yet. And then he smiles again, the kind that feels like it belongs just to you.

“Have a good day, Y/N.”

You manage a soft, “You too,” before slipping into the studio and pulling the door shut behind you.

But even as you move through your space—flipping lights on, prepping ink, setting up your chair—you can still feel it.

The echo of his voice. The warmth of his smile.

And the weight of a contact saved, waiting to become something more.

It starts the moment Nari walks in.

She barely makes it through the door before she freezes mid-step, her eyes narrowing like she can smell something.

“…Why do you look suspiciously at peace?”

You don’t even look up from your desk. “What?”

“You have this weird glow. Like someone who got laid or got free skincare samples.”

“I got neither.”

She tosses her bag onto the couch and points an accusing finger. “So something happened.”

Ryu strolls in behind her, matcha in hand, catching only the tail end of her accusation. “What’d I miss? Did that cute guy from the dumpling shop finally ask her out?”

“No,” Nari says dramatically, “she’s being cagey. And Y/N never hides anything unless it’s juicy.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “You two are exhausting.”

“Which is why you love us,” Ryu replies, dropping his bag near his station. “Spill. What happened.”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” Nari narrows her eyes. “Then why did I just see you walking down the street with flower boy?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “Knew it!”

Ryu raises a brow, intrigued. “Wait. You were walking with the sexy florist?”

You shrug, too casual. “We got coffee. Walked. Talked. It was nothing.”

“Oh, honey, that’s never nothing,” Nari sing-songs.

Ryu crosses his arms. “You hate people. You never walk with people. Hell, you barely tolerate us.”

“That’s not true,” you mutter.

“You literally hissed at a delivery guy last week.”

“He tried to pet my dog tattoo without asking.”

“He thought it was real.” Ryu deadpans.

Nari plops beside you, bouncing slightly on the stool. “So? What did you talk about? Did he compliment your hands? Did you touch?”

“Oh my god.”

“He’s so gentle,” she adds, dreamy. “Like a cinnamon roll wrapped in artisanal linen. Did he ask you out?”

You look up at them, finally. “Yes.”

Dead silence.

Then—

“WHAT?!” they shout in unison.

Ryu clutches his chest like you’ve physically wounded him. “You got a date and you didn’t tell us?”

“It just happened,” you protest.

“When is it?” Nari leans in.

“Dunno. He’s texting me.”

“Oh, he got your number?” Ryu hums. “Look at you, playing it chill. Next thing we know you’ll be sketching wedding invites in Procreate.”

“Okay, out. Both of you.”

But you’re smiling.

And they see it.

“She’s smiling,” Nari hisses in a whisper-shout.

“I didn’t think her face could do that,” Ryu replies.

And as they fall into bickering again, you turn back to your station.

Still smiling.

Still thinking of the florist next door, who asked for your number like it was nothing—and handed you a coffee like it meant everything.

You’ve just finished saying goodbye to your touch-up client when your phone buzzes.

You remove your gloves, thinking it’s just a notification. Maybe a reminder, maybe something from your supplier. Instead, it’s a message that stops you cold.

Unknown

Hey, it’s Seonghwa. I know it might be a bit soon, but how is this evening? I was planning on making kimchi stew tonight and usually make enough to feed a family of five, so having another mouth to feed is perfect. Let me know. ☺️

You stare at it. Then reread it.

Then—“Oh my god.”

The yelp escapes your throat before you can stop it, sharp and startled.

Nari pokes her head out from the break room like a meerkat on caffeine. “What was that?! Are you okay? Did someone die? Did he text?”

Ryu is right behind her, saran wrap sticking to his arms, expression instantly nosy. “Please say it was the florist. Please. I need this.”

You hold up your phone wordlessly, face heating.

Nari grabs it like it’s a sacred scroll, reading aloud in a high, romanticised tone. “‘Kimchi stew. Enough for five. Another mouth to feed.’ Oh my god, it’s domestic. It’s happening. He’s inviting you to his home.”

“To eat,” Ryu says dramatically, hand to chest. “Do you understand how intimate that is? That’s a soft boyfriend move. That’s ‘I knit scarves and own too many throw pillows’ energy.”

“He’s going to feed you with love and intention and probably a rice ladle.” Nari fans herself. “I can’t believe you’re going to die in a flower-scented apartment.”

“I—I didn’t even say yes yet,” you stammer, which is a mistake because Nari gasps like you’ve insulted the gods.

“Why wouldn’t you say yes?! Do you want to die alone and untouched while some man who smells like cheap body spray slides into your DMs to ask if you’ve ever considered feet content?!”

You cover your face. “This is too much. I’m not… I don’t do this.”

“Exactly,” Ryu says, smug. “Which is why we’re so invested. This is character development. You’re the mysterious, emotionally distant protagonist who’s just been invited into a soft boy’s kitchen.”

“You’re right on schedule for the act two intimacy arc,” Nari adds. “Next thing you know he’s tucking your hair behind your ear and showing you how he dries baby’s breath.”

“I’m going to vomit,” you mumble.

“No, you’re going to shower, put on something cute-but-effortless, and go.” Ryu pulls out his phone. “I’m calling in backup. You are not going to this date in a hoodie with ink stains.”

“But I always wear—”

“Nope.”

“This is sacred ground,” Nari says, already grabbing her bag. “We’re dressing you for love. Or at least light emotional unraveling.”

You look down at your phone again. The message still glows on the screen.

You start typing.

Sure. That sounds nice.

Then you pause. Backspace.

And type:

I’d love to. What time?

You’ve barely finished locking the studio door when you hear it—Nari’s sharp inhale.

You turn. They’re both waiting for you outside like fashion-forward vultures.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

“Oh yes,” Ryu counters, eyes glittering with unholy excitement. “We’re making sure you don’t leave your apartment looking like you’re on your way to buy toilet paper and cry into a microwavable meal.”

“I wasn’t even going to—”

“Exactly.” Nari loops her arm through yours before you can protest. “Which is why we’re coming with you.”

“To my apartment?”

“To the scene of the crime,” Ryu says with solemn reverence. “Where we’re going to burn your ratty hoodie and summon a decent outfit from the ashes.”

You sigh, already defeated.

Twenty minutes later, your apartment is a war zone.

Your bedroom looks like a department store threw up. There are clothes everywhere—on the bed, over the back of your chair, spilling out of a drawer you didn’t remember opening. Your cat is hiding under the bed in fear. Nari has claimed command of the closet while Ryu rifles through your dresser like he pays rent here.

“Oh my god, what is this?” Ryu demands, holding up a graphic tee with a cracked design. “Are you planning to seduce him or remind him of his emo phase?”

“Put that down,” you hiss. “That shirt has sentimental value.”

“Then sentimentally burn it.”

“Okay, okay,” Nari calls, pulling a hanger triumphantly from the closet. “This. This right here.”

You turn—and your stomach flips. It’s a simple outfit, really; a cropped, form-fitting long sleeve black shirt, paired with a pair of straight leg, high-waisted jeans, and your nicer, less battered pair of lace up boots. You haven’t worn the shirt in… well. Ever. Not in front of anyone that mattered.

“That’s… kind of dressy,” you mumble.

Nari raises a brow, scoffing. “Dressy? He invited you into his home. To feed you. Wearing this says, ‘I care just enough to look good but not enough to make it weird.’”

“And this,” Ryu adds, holding up a sleek leather blazer, “says, ‘I will let you hold me but also I might fight you if you disrespect me.’”

You stare at them both. “Do you guys dress all your friends for battle?”

“Yes,” they say in unison.

You finally change.

They make you do a spin.

Nari squeals. Ryu gasps like he’s watching a bridal reveal.

“You’re hot,” Nari declares, clapping. “Like, aggressively hot.”

“You’re going to ruin that poor florist,” Ryu says dramatically. “He’s going to drop his ladle.”

You groan, grabbing your phone and keys.

“Alright, you gremlins. I’m leaving. Alone.”

“Text us when you get there,” Nari calls after you.

“And when you leave,” Ryu adds.

“And if you die.”

“And if he kisses you!”

You slam the door behind you. But you’re smiling.

And the nerves? The anticipation? They hit you all at once. Because you’re not just going on a date.

You’re going to dinner at his place.

And somewhere in the city, Seonghwa is probably preparing kimchi stew right now.

~

The cab pulls away, leaving you alone in the quiet hush of early evening.

You glance up at the building. It’s modest—clean brick, black iron railings, ivy crawling along one side like nature’s afterthought. There’s a small flower box on a second-floor balcony, and somehow, you know it’s his.

You stop at the main door, hand lingering over the buzzer marked P. Seonghwa.

And that’s when you realise—

You’re holding your breath.

Not just from nerves. Not just because you’re about to walk into someone’s space, their world, their scent and music and lighting and all the pieces of them that don’t get seen on sidewalks or in shop windows.

No.

You’re holding your breath because this feels different.

And you’re not used to that.

Not used to the flutter beneath your ribs. The anticipation. The fear—not of him, but of what it might mean if he’s real. If this isn’t just a fleeting moment. If the soft-spoken florist next door is exactly who he seems to be.

You draw in a quiet breath through your nose.

Steady yourself.

Then press the buzzer.

“Hey.”

His voice crackles slightly through the speaker, warm even when distorted.

“It’s me,” you say, your voice lower than usual, like you’re afraid of waking something.

A soft click. The door unlocks.

“Come up,” he says.

You step inside, climb the stairs one at a time, your heart louder with each step.

And when the door opens, and he’s standing there barefoot in soft grey sweatpants and a black sweater, hair a little mussed, apron dusted with something red—

You forget every excuse you thought you’d need.

“Hey,” he says again, this time in person, that same warm, steady smile on his face.

And suddenly you’re not holding your breath anymore.

His apartment smells exactly like you expected it to.

Warm and earthy, with notes of fresh eucalyptus, something faintly citrusy, and the unmistakable sweetness of something stewing low and slow on the stove. It smells like how you’d imagine his shop to, but maybe deeper somehow. Lived-in. Personal.

And it feels like him too.

The walls are a soft, creamy white, with black-and-white framed prints of botanical sketches and soft landscape photographs spaced with quiet intention. There are plants—everywhere. Hanging from macramé cords in the windows, sprawling along shelves, nestled in corners in oversized ceramic pots. They don’t look like decoration. They look like company.

The lighting is low, golden. A soft record plays something vintage in the background—warm guitar, hushed vocals. His space doesn’t try to impress you. It just is. And somehow, that makes it even more disarming.

He closes the door behind you and immediately turns to you with gentle purpose.

“Here—let me take that.” His fingers graze yours as he slides your leather blazer from your shoulders, careful like you’re fragile and the coat is heirloom silk. He hangs it near the door, smoothing it on the hook as if it matters.

You blink; toes still planted on the threshold of his world.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, gesturing toward the open living space as he moves toward the kitchen.

You step in.

There’s a couch with mismatched pillows; a knit throw casually draped along the back. A low wooden coffee table with a small bowl of dried lavender and a stack of neatly arranged books. You don’t know why, but your throat tightens a little.

“Red okay?” he calls over his shoulder. He’s already at the counter, where a bottle of red wine sits uncorked next to two glasses.

“Y—” you start, then— “Yes.”

Too quick. Your voice cracks a little, betraying you.

He smiles without turning. “Didn’t even finish the question.”

You hover just inside the kitchen now, trying not to stare at the way the sweater clings to his back, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, apron strings tied low around his waist. He’s stirring something in a pot, steam rising in gentle curls.

He pours a glass and sets it on the counter for you without looking back. The moment he turns his attention to the stew again, you seize your chance.

You bring the glass to your lips and take a generous gulp. It’s bold, a little dry, and hits immediately. Not the wine—the nerves.

You lower the glass just as he glances over his shoulder.

His smile curves. “You might be more nervous than I thought.”

You choke on the wine. “I’m uh— not used to… this.”

“This?” he echoes softly.

You wave a vague hand. “Being invited into a florist’s plant kingdom to eat a home-cooked meal.”

That makes him laugh, low and real.

“Good,” he says. “Then we’re both doing something new tonight.”

He pours his own glass, then gestures toward a small table tucked into the corner, already set for two—simple ceramic bowls, wooden chopsticks, a flickering candle in a short glass jar. Nothing flashy. Nothing performative. Just thoughtful. Like him.

“Sit?” he offers.

You nod.

Seonghwa brings the pot over with two hands, setting it gently on a woven mat at the centre of the table. The scent that rises when he lifts the lid nearly knocks the breath out of you—rich, spicy, and comforting in a way you didn’t realise you’d missed.

He ladles the bubbling stew into your bowl with quiet precision, then into his own. “Help yourself to the side dishes,” he says, nodding toward a row of small plates—stir fried radish, spicy cucumber salad, steamed egg, and a dish of sweet black beans.

You barely register them.

Because the moment you lift the first spoonful of stew to your mouth—everything else disappears. Your eyes roll back.

You groan. “Oh. This is good.”

He laughs, that same soft, delighted chuckle you heard outside his shop. “Yeah?”

“Are you kidding me?” you say through another bite. “I would sell my soul for this stew. I would get your name tattooed on my forearm for this stew.”

Seonghwa chuckles again, cheeks colouring faintly. “Please don’t do that.”

“No promises,” you mumble, already going in for another bite.

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel strained. Just… warm. You don’t even notice how easily you relax into it.

Until your curiosity wins out.

“So,” you say between mouthfuls, “you know a bit about me. Now it’s your turn.”

He looks up, brow raised slightly.

“Where’d you come from? Why Seoul? Why floristry?”

He finishes chewing, sets his spoon down gently.

“I’m from Jinju,” he says. “Small city. I grew up in my parents’ flower shop. They’ve run it since before I was born.”

You nod, quietly picturing it. “That explains the accent.”

He smiles again, and god, you want to frame it.

“I used to help out a lot—after school, on weekends. Started with sweeping floors, unpacking boxes. Then arranging. Deliveries. It just… became part of me.” His eyes soften at the memory.

“But I always wanted to come here,” he continues. “Start something of my own. Not because I didn’t love what they had, but because I needed to build something that was mine. You know?”

You nod. You know that feeling intimately.

He shrugs, almost sheepish. “So I saved. Waited for the right lease. Took forever to find a space that felt right.”

“And now you’re next door,” you say, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

He returns it. “Now I’m next door.”

He pauses.

“I don’t know anyone here yet,” he adds after a moment, his voice a little softer now. “No friends in the area. So… meeting you was nice.”

Something flickers in your chest. A tug.

“It was nice meeting you too,” you say, and it’s not a platitude. Not a reflex. It’s real.

He looks at you for a beat longer than necessary. Not intense. Not invasive. Just… like he wants to know you.

Really know you.

And for the first time in a long while, you think you might want to let someone try.

Dinner ends the way it began—softly.

You insist on helping with the dishes, despite Seonghwa’s polite protests. He relents with a small smile, rolling up his sleeves as you both migrate to the sink.

He washes. You rinse and dry. The rhythm is easy. Familiar, even though it shouldn’t be.

You steal glances at him—at the way the muscles in his forearms flex as he scrubs a pan, the slight curl of hair behind his ear, the way he hums under his breath without realising it. It’s disarming.

Unfair.

Domesticity shouldn’t feel this good when it isn’t yours.

You’re drying a bowl when you feel it; the gentle swipe of something wet across the tip of your nose.

You blink, startled. “Did you just—?”

You look up, and he’s smiling—mischievous, but soft. His finger still glistens faintly with bubbles from the dish soap.

Before you can react further, his face falls slightly, and he’s already reaching for a towel.

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wide with sudden concern. “I didn’t mean to—was that weird?”

You don’t answer—not yet—because he’s stepping closer now, gently dabbing your nose with the towel like it’s made of silk.

And then, without thinking, his free hand rises, cupping your jaw with such careful tenderness it freezes you in place. His thumb brushes the skin just beneath your eye. Light. Reverent.

Your breath hitches.

The towel falls from his other hand, landing soundlessly on the counter as both of you freeze—eyes locked.

Your chest heaves. His lips part slightly. You can feel the warmth of him this close, the weight of everything unsaid thrumming in the quiet between heartbeats.

Then, before you even fully register the movement—

You’re kissing.

It starts soft—uncertain—but steady, like falling into warmth you didn’t know you needed.

His lips are plush against yours, one hand still cradling your cheek, the other sliding to rest at your waist. You respond instinctively, leaning into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater as your body answers a question your mind hasn’t been brave enough to ask.

It deepens, slow and certain, like something unfolding between the cracks in your carefully constructed world. There’s no urgency. No rush. Just the quiet, overwhelming realisation that you want this.

Want him.

When you finally pull apart, the silence is thicker than it was before—warmer, heavier.

His thumb lingers at your cheek for just a second longer. Your lips still tingle. Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed.

But you don’t speak—not yet. Neither of you rushes to fill the space.

Seonghwa’s eyes search yours, not for permission, not even for confirmation—just to see you. To be sure this moment happened. That it mattered.

It did.

You step back slowly, breath still uneven, eyes darting down.

He’s the one who finally breaks the stillness.

“Thank you,” he says, voice soft. “For coming. For… trusting me with your time.”

You nod, still not trusting your voice. “Thank you for dinner.”

You glance around for your blazer, but he’s already reaching for it. Holds it up carefully, like he did everything tonight—no rush, no hesitation. Just gentle, constant intention.

You turn and let him slide it over your shoulders.

You glance up at him again, lips parted like you might say something else. But all that comes is a breath, barely audible.

He opens the door.

The night air is cooler than before. Your cab is waiting at the curb, headlights casting soft beams across the sidewalk.

Seonghwa follows you out, walking with you to the car. Not because he has to. Because of course he would. When you reach the door, he pauses—hands in his pockets now, gaze steady but not demanding.

“I’d like to see you again,” he says, almost like a question.

You smile. “You will.”

His mouth lifts, just slightly. A silent promise.

You slide into the cab, and he closes the door behind you himself. Doesn’t leave until you’ve driven off.

Doesn’t stop looking until you’re out of sight.

And in the quiet of the ride home, wrapped in the scent of his place, of dinner, of him—

You think maybe, just maybe—

This isn’t something you’re going to be able to ignore.

Not anymore.

[mojojorp]

MOM

Reader is a combat medic, a BIG sweeth tooth and a mother to 141 boys (dont forget can cook too) a waifu material

In case with Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

MasterList

Warning!!: jelly and OOC Ghost, and jelly Soap

You grunt from your chair stretching your arm up, exhausted with the examination paper that one of the nurses gave you

“guess I need a little snack time..” after tidying up the paper you walk into the door and think of what will you make for your snack time

As you open the door there in the doorway stands a tall man with his skull balaclava on his head, you jump a little placing your hand on your chest

“Oh my God..!!” you gasp

‘Seriously this man going to be death of me’ you thought while calming down your heartbeat

“Doc” he casually greets looking down at you

“Simon! what’s wrong? you need something?” you notice his eyes narrowing

“.....I heard Johnny got some sweets”

“Uhh..yeah..well like the usual Johnny, right? I mean is not unsual for him to got a sweets from me” you tried to explain the strict Lieutenant, remembering the first time you gave him sweets after Gaz, Soap, and Price

You could say that he is...

“you know the drill Doc”

“must you always do that Simon?” you could almost feel him smirk under that balaclava planning something devious

“..hmp of course he’s the one who brags about it” Ghost crossing his arm on his chest

...Quite delight especially when that time you cook for them

 “Fine...” you sigh shaking your head, both of you heading to the kitchen

.

“Chocolate cake? or cheese cake?”

“Chocolate one”

“Okay..guess I have make it for – “

“NO I WANT IT ALL TO MYSELF” his gruff voice boomed as he glared at you

“okay..okay hun! Geez..what happen that make you like this Simon?” you ask while preparing the utensils and the ingredients

“Jhonny fault for swaying the sweets you gave ‘im in front of my face...tauntingly” he leans on the counter watching you preparing the cake, you glance at him and sigh tiredly

“of course..Jhonny you’re the source of it all”

“dont forget you’re the one who spoil ‘im”grunt Ghost

“well..being the oldest one and having 5 ‘lil brothers will doing it to you” Ghost just huffs, he already knows about your family condition a part of him feels envy...but then he is in love with your motherly side enough for him wanting to married you

“Im waiting Doc...” you just hummed at him fully concentrating on the task, Ghost just stared at you fondly

He knows that you didn’t want any help when you making something for the rest of the team, and says that they only making it worse so he makes the tea instead

.

.

“mhh..good as always Doc”

“ehehe thanks Simon~”

Then in the hallway Soap who had just done from his training smelled a delicious scent, rushing into the kitchen his body hunching nose sniffed around the room like a dog searching for the source of the scent

“DOC! Y-you make something?” he cried out at you who now cleaning up the utensils, if he has a dog's tail you bet it’ll wag excitedly right now

“Uhh..yeah..” you pointed at Ghost who was busy munching the medium size chocolate cake with his balaclava pulled up to the bridge of his nose, both Ghost and Soap stared at each other

The lieutenant squinting his eyes at Soap, while the Scottish man stared at the half-eaten cake

“Ohhh~ LT, you’re – “ Soap swaying way to the cake tried to persuade Ghost to share, and...

HAUMPH

“Mmmhh...ish gooddd..”

Your eyes widen in disbelief so does Soap with jaw open wide his bulk arm reaches the cake.. trying to reach the cake, crushing his hope and dream into dust

“sorry Soap not gonna happen...” wiping the chocolate from his mouth, taking his cup of tea

“Appreciate the cake Doc, its delicious as always” he approaching you

“always?!” Soap shriek snap his head at you

“u-uh yeah y-you’re wel – “suddenly he kisses your cheek while staring at Soap tauntingly then pulled down his balaclava and walking away from the scene, with a blushing face you touch the cheeks he kisses

‘Oh dear...he’s REALLY gonna be death of me..’

Soap stand there fuming not just eating the whole cake in front him, he just kiss YOUR cheeks?!

‘oh..its on now...LT’  you sigh glance at Soap

‘maybe I’ll gave him mine instead’

[treatbuckywkisses]

Perspective

Summary: artist!steve and .... you weren't supposed to find out like this

A/N: this was written on my phone:) I've had this idea for 3 years now and finally fully executed it and I feel good enough about it to post it!!! please let me know all your thoughts & reblog!! love you big🩷 moodboard made by yours truly💛 dividers made by @firefly-graphics

Warnings: literally so soft and fluffy, mentions of insecurities, my blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for my work to be translated, copied, or shared.

Steve loves art.

He loves that there are multiple ways to express himself; drawing, painting, sculpting. Oftentimes he found himself lost in whatever medium he was using. Hours passed without him noticing and he felt lucky to have so much time and freedom with his arts. But that freedom required frequent check-ins. Always making sure he wasn't too lost and keeping up with himself.

A few years back he'd gotten so immersed in a project he hadn't eaten for a whole day and when he finally remembered it might be a good idea, his mild hunger he previously ignored had turned into a splitting headache along with his stomach screaming in agony, and by then, it was too late. He'd found himself dehydrated and damn near passed out from it. So now if he doesn't answer the phone within half an hour, you show up with a full spread and a list of questions.

And without fail, every time you let your self in the studio asking for signs of life, he has no choice but to fuss and whine, "Don't you know I'm a bit old for a babysitter?" (His easy smile tells you he's at least partially joking.)

Still this remark results in a scoff or a pointed look. He likes knowing that you care so deeply.

Besides, you're the only person he doesn't mind showing his art to, even before it's finished. Because somehow, you always see his vision, even when others don't. Steve likes that a lot. You're always there for him even if it's not physically and he's unsure if you know this or not.

Being friends with Steve since uni, you've been his model plenty of times but that didn't mean Steve got used to how intimate the setting was. Honestly, you've been his model enough times, Steve can sketch you by memory. Every part of you has been embedded in his mind. Your lively essence the only thing lacking compared to you lounging around his studio.

He had such intense focus on watching both you and his sketchpad. He had to be sure not to miss any detail. From the way your hair sprawled out over your shoulder, down to the tip of your cute nose and over the curves of your cupids bow. Even though this wasn't new to you by any means, he could tell you were a bit squirmy when he finally met your eyes.

It was intriguing how impressive Steves talent was, and always has been. Especially with the typical artist ego some folks get. No matter the amount Steve prospered, he remained as humble and dare you say bashful as ever. Cheeks pinking up with his blue eyes shining at the praise. Remembering that minor detail from professors in uni till now with big time art collectors.

Steve may have fucked up. 

Scratch that. Steve definitely fucked up.

He forgot to tell you about a consultation he had today. Depending on the client consultations could be pretty lengthy. Looking at his portfolio, recommendations from previous clients, credentials, blah blah until finally getting to what this client expected to receive from buying something Steve made. It was a whole process you knew all about, having to wait on Steve to potentially celebrate afterwards.. if you'd been told that is. He has no one to blame besides himself. Yet for some reason, he hadn't expected this to happen so soon..

He doesn't mean to be a creep, really! He just can't help himself. He would definitely be mortified if you ever found out. It's the only thing he's ever kept from you in your entire friendship. Not that he wants to! He just can't possibly imagine a positive reaction to you being the only material in an entire sketchbook. He knows you. That's why he keeps it hidden. 

You can't find out he has two pages full of just your eyes. Or that he's drawn you in every angle he could without being lewd. (Not that he hasn't thought about it, he just really, really  couldn't risk that getting out.) All the things you've ever nonchalantly complained about. Every curve of your body, stretch marks varying in color, the size of your nose. Everything you view as an insecurity perplexed Steve. At first it was supposed to help you. When you got bad about it and didn't think anyone noticed until Steve brought it up. He had this grand idea. If he made it, you'd have to think it was gorgeous! The thing was, once he started, he couldn't seem to stop. Not in a bad obsessive way, in a way that allowed him to see you, to truly see you.

Normally, when you model for Steve you're just there for him to double check his vision while he gives it life. They don't always look exactly like you, he just mimics your movements, but in the end he does get to sneak in a detail he knows is from only you, that's what makes his pieces stand out. That he's certain of. You know you're the base for quite a bit of his works both in paintings and sculptures. Knowing deep down you're the same shape as whatever he decided to turn you into. And you always compliment his work, so Steve couldn't understand why it was hard for you to view yourself the same way he does.

When Steve is finally finished with his consultation he's able to check his phone on his trek back home. There's one missed call from about half an hour ago, which he knows is all it takes, so he's expecting you to be awaiting his arrival, most likely with takeout. 

What he didn't expect, however, was to walk in on you flipping through sketchbooks. You hadn't heard him come in the front door so he sets out to look for you. Once he finds you..It's as if time is standing still.

He doesn't know why but he's frozen. He can't even allow himself to breathe as he watches you pick up his yellow sketchbook. You open it like you probably opened all the rest, not knowing what you were about to see, and Steve can't believe he's allowing this to happen. He's so confused in himself he doesn't even feel like he's thinking. Why did he think plain sight was a good hiding spot? If he didn't hide it then it wasn't a secret, right? Oh, fuck him.  

He takes the risk to make his presence known, softly knocking on the open door so he doesn't startle you too badly. The first thing he notices are the tears in your eyes as you look at him for the first time all day. He can't decipher what the tears mean for you, but his stomach flips with his own interpretation in mind. 

"Steve.." 

"I'm sorry—" 

A small huff escapes you at your sudden burts to each other and Steve knows. That look in your eyes he couldn't make out earlier. Those eyes he's etched into his own, blanketed in tears, are also filled with admiration. 

He releases a light sigh and starts explaining himself. "For once I can't positively say I know what you're thinking. It wasn't meant to be exactly the way it turned out somehow." He hates how vulnerable this feels, which is a bit ironic if he lets himself think about it. He takes a deep breath and decides to take another (arguably bigger) risk, "I couldn't stop myself. I know how that sounds believe me, but honestly. I just couldn't get you out of my head now matter how hard I tried to. You've been there for me so much I'm not even sure you fully realize how much you've helped me. Hearing you talk about yourself so negatively? I don't know, I just felt that I needed to help you see how beautiful you are." Steve looks over at you and the tears are streaming down your face, he didn't know they could be so enamoring. 

You can barely choke out his name and he's thinking the worst. But when you follow it with a soft kiss to his lips, he feels like he can finally breathe. Foreheads pressed against each other he smiles the most he ever has before. "What can I say? I found my muse." 

[johnathancanines]

On A Foam-White Horse: Chapter 3

Story Rating: M / Chapter Rating: PG ? Warnings: there's some obtuse talk/references to sexual exploitation in the entertainment industry and a miscontrued comment which is resolved safely. Nothing happens. Word count: 4,948 Notes: Giving into my low impulse control since it's friday and I finished chapter 5. Almost had a heartattack when I thought I'd hit the text limit but I had NOT thank fuck, tumblr's system is just weird as fuck. I'm torn on how ic I feel Polly and Tommy are in this, my confidence in my capacity to write them varies day to day lol.

Niamh is pronounced NEEve. Sadhbh is pronounced SIGH-ve like five. Dairmuid is pronounced DEERmud. Tadhg is pronounced TIE-g.

[MASTERLIST]

Taglist: @evita-shelby (please lmk if you'd like to be added!)

Polly stood at the door of Niamh’s house, it was one of the ones just on the line between the houses of the poor and the middle class, nicer and neater then the houses on Watery Lane but still humble compared to even her new one. The girl had money, she could get something nicer if she’d wanted, Polly supposed it must have been a desire to stay near family or not spend too much on rent or property. She knocked and waited, you could hear the sounds of little children playing right through the door. She smiled. Then there was the sound of steps and a woman.

“Boys please try to play a little cleaner!” A woman called, her voice getting louder as she came towards the door.

Then the door was opening and Polly was greeted with a pretty blonde woman — a fake blonde judging by the brown showing by the scalp. She was pretty, and visually the total opposite of Grace — or any woman she’d seen turn Tommy’s head — besides that blonde hair which she supposed was a kind of comfort. She was dressed well but practically with none of the flair Polly had half expected from a movie star, looking more like a middle class woman than a celebrity. What probably shocked her the most was how small she was, Polly herself wasn’t exactly a tall woman herself but even with them both having heels on she had a noticeable advantage. After seeing an actor on a big screen you expect someone larger than life when you see them in person, but Niamh Brennan was astoundingly ordinary. She was beautiful and put together yes, but she was far more human in reality than the silvery double that lived on theatre screens. It didn’t make her anymore trustworthy, but it did make her more touchable, easier to handle.

“Can I help you?” Niamh asked with a polite smile, her voice was nicer in person without the side effects of recording, smooth with a medium pitch even if her accent was jarringly foreign.

Polly smiled back just as politely. “Niamh Brennan? I’m Polly Gray. It’s about time we met don’t you think?”

Niamh smiled like she’d eaten a lemon and moved aside and Polly strode in like it was her house and not the other woman’s.

“Sorry if I’m a bit rushed.” Niamh said as she closed the door behind them. “I’ve gotta get to London by three so I can get to rehearsal on time.”

Polly looked at her surprised. “Do you have to do that everyday?”

“No, thank God.” Niamh replied. “I only bother with London on the weekends when it pays out the most. I head down on Fridays and get back on Mondays, the rest of the week I either do shows in the area or work on something else.”

“And the boys?” Polly looked down at the two little boys playing on the floor of the parlor, neither could be older than 5. She smiled reflexively at their little faces looking up at her with innocent curiosity.

“My cousin Aisling lives with us and helps out with the boys. She takes care of them while I’m gone and just generally keeps a lid on the place.”

Polly turned her attention to Niamh who had a hand on her hip and another to her brow looking as if she were running through about a hundred lists for the hundredth time.

“How much packing do you still need to get done?”

“Oh, not too much I don’t think? I just always feel like I’m forgetting something and when I do think I have plenty of time I’m late so I tend to panic early then sit anxiously.”

Niamh laughed at herself and seemed to shake herself out of her mental rut, turning her attention to Polly with a bit more composure. Polly had some sympathy, she’d had two children that age and no man to help support her. It was a hard life and to have to travel every week to work couldn’t make it any easier.

“Well then, how about you finish up getting ready to go and we can chat before you head out?”

“Oh it’s fine, we can talk now. I don’t want to make you wait on me when you came all the way here.”

“Oh no it’s no trouble. I can play with the boys, time’ll fly by.”

Niamh hesitated briefly, weighing things out before she relented and led them through the open parlor room door where her nephews were avidly watching them, toy trains and blocks laying forgotten.

“Boys, this is Mrs Polly Gray, she’s the nice lady who’s been helping your cousin Sadhbh with her troubles. Why don’t you say hello?”

“Hello Mrs Gray.” The older one said in that way small children recited well learned thing.

“Hi…” the little one said, turning his head shyly and fiddling with the train in front of him.

Niamh pointed to the larger boy with dark hair and eyes and a long face. “That’s Ray,” she pointed to the smaller shy boy who was fairer than his brother with sandy brown hair and hazel green eyes. He reminded her so much of her little Michael at that age it twisted her heart into pieces. “That’s Ollie. Boys can you do me a big favor and keep Mrs Gray company while I finish getting ready to go on my work trip?”

The boys nodded with different levels of excitement and Niamh took what she could get, fussed for a last moment then went up the stairs to finish whatever needed finishing. Polly took the opportunity without her there to take a good look around the room. She didn’t expect to see some damning bit of evidence just laying about but you could tell a lot about a person from their home if you knew how to look. The entryway had been clean and minimally but nicely decorated, a whole wall of it dedicated to nothing but coats, boots and umbrellas — an attempt to keep small children from tracking mud and rain all over the house no doubt. The parlor was also nicely put together but save for small signs of life like the boys mess, books left on end tables, and family photos on the walls there was little to make it homey. It was clear that Niamh hadn’t settled in yet, perhaps had no intention to, but she had at least tried to make it look like something. There was even an open toy chest by the fireplace filled to the brim with everything a little boy could dream of.

Polly knelt down with the boys on the carpet and placed her bag on the couch, smiling.

“Hello Ray, Ollie. That’s a very nice train, where does it go?”

Time really did fly while she played with the boys. They were very sweet and friendly, even shy little Ollie had warmed up to her and babbled happily about his trains and stuffed bear. Healthy, happy, well adjusted children were good sign of character in her book when it came to those who rose them. The family was very protective of information about their origins, and she and Tommy had used every trick they knew to find out. She could never quite get a straight answer about the boys other than they were her twin brother Dairmuid's boys and Niamh had taken them in out of necessity. But Polly could sniff out the likely truth from between the lines. The boys were likely bastards. She’d heard a bit about the man and known enough men like Dairmuid, performers with good looks and the easy charm he showed on screen, they tended to leave a child or two in their wake. And with him gone it’d fallen on Niamh to deal with the consequences of his indiscretions. It was good of her to protect them from that stigma, to take them in and raise them. She knew many who wouldn’t.

It was clear that if nothing else, Niamh was a dedicated guardian to her nephews. Polly could respect that.

The only thing she couldn’t shake was the sense that there was something else in the house with them. The sense of a man standing in the room with her, his presence solid in her mind even though she could see nothing was there. And there was the sense of a wake, of a place tinged with dead. Perhaps it was the family’s lingering grief and the knowledge that Dairmuid Brennan was dead playing tricks, perhaps it was his spirit unable to rest with so much undone. It was hard to say as the sensation seemed to dissipate just as she tried to place it.

There were footsteps on the stairs as Niamh returned lugging a suitcase that she left by the end of the staircase before joining them.

“There, done! Sorry about that.” She said a bit breathless.

“Oh no, I’m the one who dropped in with no warning, I would’ve come a different day if I’d known you’d be so busy.”

“It’s fine really. Like I said, I panic early and then sit around waiting to leave.” Niamh sat in a chair opposite where Polly still sat with the boys by the couch. “So what brings you here?”

Her accent was thicker than Polly’d expected, though she wasn’t an expert in American accents. But it had a quality to it that was rough around the edges. It didn’t sound like something you’d hear on a record with all it’s dropped “R”s and “T”s turning to “D”s.

“I just wanted to chat a bit about Sadhbh, I got a new home in the suburbs recently and I think it would be best for her and Moira to come live with me for a while.”

Niamh looked surprised then thoughtful. “You’re probably right. Mary’s a good person but well…” She hunted for a diplomatic term. “She’s prone to negative thinking. They’ve known you longer than I have and they’ve both got good heads on their shoulders so I won’t get in the way. The girls are both old enough to make that kind of decision so really, if they’re good with it I am too.”

Polly smiled, and it was a bright genuine one. She hadn’t known what the response would be and had been ready for a fight just in case. “I’m glad to hear it —” she turned to get her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. “ — This is the address of the new home and the telephone subscriber number for your records.”

She leaned out and Niamh met her in the middle taking it, she opened it and looked at the address with a small nod. Then reflexively checked her watch.

“Great. I’ll let Aisling know before I head out and ask her to put it in the address book.”

“Do you need to be heading off soon?”

“In a bit, yeah. Things were a bit slower today getting out the gate.” Polly got up and smoothed out her skirt. “Well then how about you get ready and I’ll walk out with you?”

Niamh raised an eyebrow but nodded before coming over to her nephews for hugs, kisses, goodbyes and promises to be back as soon as she could. Then she headed to the kitchen to let her cousin who’d been making the boys’ lunch know she was off and about Polly’s new address before she picked up her suitcase and gave everything another compulsive sweep of the eyes.

It was a short walk from the front door to where Niamh’s car was parked, again it was a sensible thing, while still reasonably attractive it didn’t stand out and seemed mainly designed with function in mind, with a large back seat and well enclosed passenger area. Perfect for someone who travelled a lot, sometimes with small children. More and more it was seeming like Niamh Brennan was a fairly practical person for a performer, which made her getting into all this IRA business even more odd.

“Tommy told me you’d come to talk to him.”

“Ah, this is what I was waiting for.” Niamh said as she put her suitcase in the back. “How much did he tell you?”

“Not much. Enough to make me wonder about why you’d be involved in all of this and why you’d want to help him. He says you’re doing it as a thank you to me.”

Niamh leaned against the car door, arms crossed.

“I’m involved because for me it’s not just politics, it’s family business. I’ve got family and friends who’s lives are in the balance with this war. Of course I’m going to do something about it. As for Tommy,” she sighed. “Yes it’s mainly as a thanks to you for being so kind to the girls. When Sadhbh got attacked she was looked at by doctors of course, but they said in the long run we’d want to talk to doctors in Europe — with the war and all there was all kinds of guys who needed even more work than she did and all the guys who’re the best at this stuff are here. So we came here and it made sense for her to stay with family instead of just staying in London because it was closer to the doctors. But while we got her in okay for a consultation… well…” Niamh’s face fell. “There’s just more guys out there who’re higher priorities. I mean, no jaw trumps big scar and some muscle issues — I can’t get mad at em for that but still… It’s been hard on her and I fucked off for a whole year so I wasn’t a help when she needed it. You were. Thanks doesn’t seem like much and money feels cheap. I’m already all tangled up in this shit, the least I can do is try to give him some cover.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment and Polly looked at her, looked into her in that way she could. She’d give the girl one thing, she had a much more open face than Grace ever had. Her instincts were that the girl was harmless to them, maybe in the long run a potential investment as they “diversified the portfolio”. The chill of death she’d felt in the house still lingered around Niamh, maybe even more strongly than it was in there. Twins were odd creatures, with one dead and one alive there was bound to be some kind of link to the grave in her. If she had anything to hide it wasn’t related to this business with Tommy and that was good enough for Polly.

“You give your word this isn’t some trick or double-cross? That you’re honest about doing what you can to help Tommy?”

Niamh looked at her incredulously. “I just effectively gave you two hostages and you know what my nephews look like now.”

Polly understood the implications but didn’t acknowledge them, instead she waited to hear the words aloud.

Niamh sighed. “I give my word.”

“Good. And I give mine to do whatever I can for the children, regardless of however this shakes out they’ll feel no ill will nor any negative effects. This all stays between the adults.”

Polly spit on her palm and held it out to shake. Niamh looked at it for a moment with the only flicker of concern she’d seen in her. Was some kind of superstitious then? Or just not keen on making a sealed agreement. Hesitantly Niamh spat on her own palm and they shook. Polly smiled.

“Safe trip dear.” Polly said.

“Thanks.” She replied uncertainly.                                                                                                      The last civil conversation Tommy had with Pol before he told her about her children had been her confirming that, at least when it came to the Irish business, Niamh was being honest and that she seemed to be an overall sensible person. Tommy would argue that anyone who worked in the arts was incapable of being sensible but it was good to know at least she wouldn’t be actively plotting his death. If there was anything else he wanted to know about her visit or talk over it would have to wait until Polly was willing to even look at him again. Regardless of Polly’s distress business had to continue on and so he had ensured that Ms Brennan would be invited to the reopening of the Garrison so that they could talk without being too obvious. Campbell was still having him followed and he wasn’t interested in giving the man any more leverage.

The party was in full swing when she made her appearance looking more like the movie star people expected her to be with her cousin Tadhg as an escort. A sensible woman not to walk through Small Heath alone dressed like that. She wasn’t overdressed but he could tell her dress was the most expensive there and made to fit her perfectly. She was inarguably beautiful, with a face more like a grown cherubs than Grace’s aristocratic features. There he went again, comparing her to Grace. It was impossible for him not to with how the situations mirrored themselves so powerfully. He had to work to keep his feelings about Grace and her actions off of Niamh, if he was going to mistrust her it should be on her own lack of merits, not the wrongs of a woman on the other side. There was a lot of cheering and chatter as people caught sight of her, to Tommy’s surprise she actually seemed bashful in the face of everyone’s excitement to see a minor celebrity in their midst. He’d have thought she’d be used to it by now with how long she’d been at it.

It took a while before he could spirit her away to the back but he managed it, settling them without thinking at the same table where he’d burned Grace’s letter. Its ashes mocked him.

“Sorry I took so long, the boys didn’t want to go to bed once they knew there was a party and—” she said as she sat.

Tommy cleared his throat. “No, no it’s fine, it’s alright.”

She didn’t beat around the bush. “I heard about your letter to Churchhill asking for an export license.”

“Oh you did?” He replied with a raised brow and a glance, yes a cigarette would be needed for this.

“It’s a good move. I know it’s for whatever you’re doing to make this whole thing work for you but it was good. So far Churchill’s only known you through Campbell’s words, now he’s got your own in there too. Not much of it sure, but it’s something for me to work with.”

“I see.” He said as he lit up.

“I’ve gotten a meeting with him.” She said in a rush.

He looked at her, brows raised in surprise. “You do now?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t pretty but I guess I made enough noise to get people’s attention.”

“You didn’t have your friends help you with it?”

She made a face and shifted awkwardly, she suddenly seemed to realize what she as doing and tamped down, smoothing the action into a readjustment of her dress.

“They’ve got so much going on I didn’t want to bother them.”

If he didn’t know she was a spy, wasn’t actively picking apart her every move, he wouldn’t have noticed any of it. But he had, and it was damning. He was struck suddenly by the idea that Niamh was maybe not the most confident woman. Grace had been the opposite, assured of herself even when, perhaps, she didn’t have any right to be. Niamh however was a successful actress and spy — she’d certainly never been caught and he had some suspicions on what she’d helped achieve — but it seemed like it all sat uncomfortably on her. He’d worry about putting his life in the hand of someone so unsure in themselves if she hadn’t already gone and wrung a fucking meeting out of Winston fucking Churchill on his behalf. Jesus fucking Christ. This woman was nothing like Grace at all. Grace had killed for him yes, but as time had passed and her true identity had been revealed, he wondered how much of that had really been for him, and how much because she simply loathed the IRA. There had also been the IRA man mysteriously murdered and blamed on him, that he thought now was Grace too. She had come here to fight the IRA and gotten to kill at least one, that it helped him as well he was sure was just a happy addition for her. She had sold him out in the end after all. Niamh did not know him from fucking Adam but she had said she would help him, given her word, and was acting on it even when she clearly didn’t want to be. No matter how he had run the numbers after their last meeting he couldn’t see a clear path into how her involvement in this operation would benefit her beyond the explanation she’d given herself.

So she was, if anything, an insecure fool.

He cleared his throat, looking at the remains of Grace’s letter in the ash tray.

“When this conversation is over and we go back out there people will expect that I take you home or that we’ve already had our fun back here.” He looked into her large green eyes. “Would you like to make that assumption accurate?”

She stilled, her face going carefully blank, almost like a soldier gauging how many guns were on him, and he knew he’d made a mistake. Grace’s ghost had sent him off balance and he had thoughtlessly made this woman feel threatened. Had other British soldiers said similar things to her in Dublin? Gangsters in New York? Managers and club owners? He knew how some girls supplemented their earnings, or were pressed into unwanted acts to keep their careers. He’d thought only drowning out another woman, he hadn’t thought about her.

“If not, I can make sure no one gets the wrong idea. I own establishments here and I am planning an expansion into London where I will need to hire performers. Clean, legal establishments that normal folk go to after a long day to drink and dance, nothing untoward.”

She was silent still for a long horrible moment and he could not meet her gaze, his eyes caught somewhere between the cruel ashes of Grace and his tightly interlaced hands. Tommy was not a good man, not by a mile, but he had his limits and the shame and self disgust that a woman might think he’d take advantage was hot in him. Gently her hand came to rest on his forearm, her touch warm like sunlight.

“I know you meant nothing untoward Mr Shelby, I can see you’re not that kind of man, and if I were a different kind of girl I’d give it a real hard think. But I’m not interested in anything like that with anyone. I’ve had plenty of men chase me and enough play games and leave me hanging. I told myself when I was a girl I’d wait for a man who loved me and for marriage. But I don’t hold it against you for shooting your shot.”

He nodded, still unable to meet her eyes. “Still, Ms Brennan, my apologies. I’ll remember for the future.”

She gave his forearm a gentle squeeze.

“All’s forgiven Thomas.”

Fuck.

He cleared his throat. “Ms Brennan very soon the association between us, however tenuous, will be noted by other men in my line of business, men who own some of the establishments you currently do shows at. I will supply you with a list of these establishments and which it would be wise for you to avoid for the foreseeable future. Once our expansion is complete I will hire you to do shows at those on the list that have shifted ownership to us.”

She removed her hand from his arm.

“Thanks for the heads up, I’ll be sure to memorize it.”

He nodded and made himself look at her, to really see if she was alright.

Near as he could see she was, arms rested comfortably on the table, head tilted slightly as she observed him in return. The crystal beads of her dress and the gems of her jewelry twinkling in the dim light. He wondered how could she possibly be so calm after how strongly she’d reacted before, was it an act? Then it occurred to him, the letter. While it was barely identifiable beyond having formerly been a letter in an envelope there was a corner of one of the stamps that hadn’t completely burned. She was an American, she’d recognized the design, added it to his behavior and made a very accurate guess as to who it was from. She held nothing against him because she knew he wasn’t thinking — or that he was but not clearly.

His sources had said she’d been abandoned by her fiancé after the war and before her brother died, he supposed she understood his pain even if she didn’t share his methods of curing it.

“You should head out first, go talk to Ada and see little Karl. I’ll come out after and make sure no one thinks anything improper happened. We were just talking business and came in here so we could hear ourselves think.”

She nodded, picked up her purse from her lap and tucked her chair back in after herself.

“I’ll let you know how it goes with Churchill, and if I don’t get to see you again before I head out it was nice seeing you again Mr Shelby —”

“— Tommy, please, Tommy—”

She smiled coyly, she smiled and he felt a bit better about himself. “Tommy — If I don’t see you later, It was nice seeing you again and congratulations on the reopening. The gold is just the right level of gaudy to be fashionable.”

The small jolt of a chuckle that squeeze out of him came as a surprise. He motioned her on as he took a drag of his cigarette.

“Go on then, mingle. If people know movie stars are coming to our pub we’ll make more money.”

Niamh laughed and headed back out into the main room. Tommy hung back for moment to collect himself and make sure Grace’s letter was completely obliterated. There might be some validity to worrying about the similarities of their roles in his life but Polly had been right, he’d let Grace taint his view of every woman around him. Tonight Grace’s sway over him had caused him to make a woman feel unsafe to be alone with him. It needed to end. Not for Niamh, or Polly or anyone else, but for him. He wasn’t a good man but he had his limits and if people didn’t know what those limits were then who was he?

When he came back out he headed straight to the bar next to Lizzie and John and asked Arthur for a whiskey. He drank it down in one. John grinned at him. “Had a good time back there with miss Hollywood, ay? Good way to christen the pub.”

Lizzie raised her brow over her drink as she sipped. Arthur looked over with interest while still trying to pour drinks.

Tommy shook his head. “No. We talked business. I want her to preform in our London clubs after the expansion is finished.”

John didn’t look impressed. “Yeah sure, and you took her back there to do ask her that?”

“Easier to hear each other in there than out here.”

John gave him a look which said “bullshit”, Lizzie did too. He hung his head and put both hands on the bar as if relenting before he turned to John and Lizzie. He could put on an act too, when he needed.

“I did ask but she said no. Apparently she’s saving herself for marriage.”

John and Arthur broke out into incredulous laughter.

“Now that had to be line!” John said.

“Yeah don’t all those types get up to things?” Arthur said. “They talk all about it in the papers, marryin’ and divorcin’, marryin’ and divorcin’.”

“Well judging by her reaction I’d say it was genuine.” Tommy replied. “What she screech and clutch her pearls? Call you a bad, dirty man?”

John joked and Arthur laughed with him.

He looked at them with mournful eyes, embellishing the act.

“Worse. She put her hand on my arm and said that while she thought I was a nice man she was waiting for her future husband.”

John crowed in pain, fist to his mouth as Arthur shook his head in sympathy as he went back to filling pints, muttering about it being a “bloody shame”. Lizzie gave him a look that was a question and he gave her a blink and a slight nod that was an answer. An understanding passed between them and her lips quirked in a small smile, patting him on the back. It made him almost feel gallant and not like he was atoning for his earlier crime.

By the end of the night any gossip about a potential tryst between them was dead, excitement that they might get to see her some night in their end of Birmingham was up, and Ms Niamh Brennan’s reputation as a decent sort of woman was solidified. And all it took was a small amount of embarrassment and John and Arthur taking the mickey out of him for a while.

[h0tb0x1nnac0ff1n]

Daryl Dixon X Fem! Reader (Negan’s Daughter)

Warnings: Slight Stockholm Syndrome, near death, hypothermia, scattered memory, reader being desperate, slight angst mostly fluff

Era: No specific place, kinda my own little world. After Negan in a cold area (it’s snowing)

A/N: I had decided to try a different view point this time to make it more ♡ethereal♡ so no use in y/n, in a 3rd person pov

Please Save Me Mister…

She wondered the woods like a lost puppy, she had lost everything. Her father is now disappeared, her home was destroyed, everyone she ever known is now killed, disappeared, or gone. The attack happened suddenly in the morning, she had hardly any time to prepare, so she was forced to leave wearing nothing but her white strapped dress, which she wore to bed, her underwear, and a brown leather jacket, she had not enough time to put her shoes on. Her only weapon for protection is her pocket knife.

It had been about 3 weeks since her home, her ‘sanctuary’ had collapsed. It’s was unfortunate that they had struck in winter, she had survived by huddling herself up in abandoned clothing stores, she’s had no food for several days, maybe six days? Maybe 4, she can’t remember, the days had blended together after a bit. Unfortunately, in the entire clothing store, not a single hair of shoes large enough or small enough for her feet. Not even half sizes to hers. Having no other way of finding shoes she had made her own, cutting up souls of the shoes and tying them to her feet to make temporary shoes. However, with the snow being as deep as it is, the white cold powder engulfs her leg up to her knees. So they hadn’t lasted long.

Many days had passed, melting snow for water, eating whatever fruits she could find off bushes. She was sitting under a tree, her feet buried in the snow now, she had not felt the cold anymore. Her skin grew pale and blue, her nail’s skin had became a shade of icy purple. Having not enough energy to even care, she lay her head on the trunk of the tree. Suddenly she heard the sound of snow crunching behind her, they were rhythmic so not a walker. It sounded like boots, crunching into the soft powdered snow. Too tired to even move, she knew this person whom was walking in her direction was a human, meaning she hadn’t anything to worry about when it came to being eaten alive. As the sound got louder and louder, she became nervous, this person was now only a few feet away from her when suddenly it went quiet. She decided to peak around the corner of the tree to see who or what it was. Inching closer to the edge, trying her hardest to not make a noise she sees the man she had been listening to. He was well built, wearing a poncho, jean pants, and a pair of work boots. His hair was medium length and brown. He held a crossbow in his hands. He was rather handsome, especially his arms, they look to be sculpted right out of a Greek sculpture. Though, he was handsome she had a terrible feeling that he was no good, that he was a dangerous man. She decided to stand up slowly, keeping both of her hands onto the tree that separated the two of them, she felt her feet had gone completely numb, she ignored the feeling and began to run the other direction away from this man, the snow was loud beneath her feet, it would be sure to attract anything in her area. Running as fast as she could, she heard the man running behind her. The cold air hitting her lungs, her going days without eating, not drinking proper water. She felt her knees start to give. She ran for as long as she could. Until she had tripped and hit her head over a tree root that was sticking from the ground, laying there on her back looking into the sky, the man had caught up to her, looking down to her. He looked her up and down, observing and questioning how the hell she had even survived as long as she did, or how long she had been out here.

Her eyes felt heavy, the tiredness had taken over her body completely now, as her eyes began to close the man spoke to her. “I’ll take ya home.” She had smiled at his warm comforting words, then she replied, softly, almost inaudible “Please save me mister.” Then her eyes shut, before she passed out she felt large warm hands pick her up bridal style, falling asleep, she lay her head on his shoulder.

She awoke in a dark brick cell with a large fuzzy blanket wrapped around her. She lay on a hard uncomfortable mattress, feeling the cold touch of the breeze touch her skin from over her she saw a small window where light shun through it. However the window was too high up for her to see through. She saw a shadow walk across the window, then she heard the sound of keys jingling and the sound of a lock unlocking. Spooking her, she sat back down on her bed and huddled herself into the corner. The man as before walked into the room with another man and a woman. Immediately she recognized the man as Rick Grimes. The man responsible for everything that had happened to her. The woman was also familiar, she wore a winter coat along with dark blue jeans, she had a samurai sword on her back. The man with the crossbow whispered something to Rick and he walked up to the girl. “My name is Rick Grimes, this is Michone and Daryl, my partner here told me he found you lying in the snow. You were stone cold, we’re very surprised you didn’t get any frost bite.” He spoke, “I know what kind of man you are Rick” she said, looking straight at him. Rick had a puzzling expression “You killed everyone, do what you want with me but my father was Negan, you took away EVERYTHING from me. YOU are the reason I almost died!” She said raising her voice, jumping out of the bed and grabbing the bars of the cell. Anger and resentment in her tone, if looks could kill… “I know you are Negan’s daughter, and I understand your anger, that’s why you’re here in this cell. Your father is alive, he’s in a different cell apart from here. You may not go see him until we can trust you. Until then, Daryl here will take duty in watching you most of the time.” He gestured to the man she had met before. She was staring at Rick, never taking her eyes off him. Staring at him like how a lion stairs down a gazelle. Rick started backing away from the lady in the cell, “she’s all yours now.” Then Rick handed Daryl the keys, then Rick and Michone walked out of the room.

Many days had passed, being interrogated, having two bathroom breaks a day, eating nothing but soup and bread. Which, she was thankful for. Though this was the enemy, she is rather grateful for their hospitality. Especially grateful for the man Daryl, who is the reason why she isn’t dead right now. The reason why her belly is full of warm food and has a bed and a blanket to sleep on. She felt so much gratitude, she even looks forward to seeing him, especially since he was really the only person she ever saw. Daryl watched her during the day until she fell asleep when somebody else would take Daryl’s shift. Most of the time it was Michone or Rosita. However, today was different. The snow began to melt, the food proportions became larger, and they began to give her more water. Daryl looked outside through the window of another cell, deciding it was time for something. “Would you like a tour? Officially meet everyone?”

With that she was walking down the sidewalk, seeing the weather was still rather chilly, Daryl had brought her some sweatpants, new underwear, a T-shirt, and a bra he was able to get for her as a donation from a mother woman. Daryl had also brought her some socks, and a pair of shoes that fit her just right. However she was still tied up with Rick’s handcuffs. Still, she felt rather thankful for everything Alexandria has done for her, seeing that actually her father may have been wrong about these people. Getting to a park, there were three other people who were watching her with guns, making sure she can’t run away. “If I let ya loose and let ya stretch your legs ya won’t run?” “Of course I won’t Daryl.” She said in an innocent tone. Unlocking her cuffs she raised her arms in the air and stretched real big. Walking down to the pond they had, she sat down next to it, looking at her reflection. She hadn’t seen what she looked like in weeks. She remembered that now she can actually feel her face and her toes for once, a smile spread on her face. She felt free, she could feel the healing scabs on her knees, the cold hair filling her lungs. The air smelled clean, and refreshing. Shutting her eyes, she lay down on the grass to feel the suns warmth on her skin. “What’er ya doin?’” Daryl asks her “I’m just relaxing, that’s all.” Daryl nodded in response. “I see you like the pond.” She opened her eyes to see the man Rick grimes standing above her. So she sat up to face him. “We never officially met, so may I ask you to walk with me?” She nodded and walked with Rick around the neighborhood. She introduced herself and shared information about the sanctuary and her father’s old plan. She shared about her mother, Lucille. How her father went mad after her death, who her father was before everything had happened. After hours of talking and getting to know each other, she was back in her cell with non other than Daryl taking watch over her.

She felt bold, an idea had creeped into her mind. She felt grateful for Daryl. She knew he was the reason she is alive right now. He was the one who made sure she was safe, he fed her, he gave her clothing, water, blankets, and a person to talk to. “You know Mr. Dixon, I don’t know how you’re still single. You’re a kind man who works very hard, and I’m going to be honest you’re physically very attractive. Well not just physically I mean, emotionally and your personality is also attractive too.” She said blushing, she had never really confessed to someone in such way. She really only confessed to people through text or having a friend do it before everything went to shit. “Ya don’ know shit bout’ me to say somethin’ like tha. Ya don’ know me as much as ya think ya do.” Daryl said looking down to his knife. “I don’t need to know a lot to know when someone is a good man. I know you’re a good man Daryl, people trust you a whole lot, Rick trusts you, Michone trusts you, Gabriel, Tara, Rosita. Everyone trusts you Daryl, why can’t you let me trust you?””Cuz’ ya different, ya not jus’ some girl locked in this cell woman, ya the daughter of the worst’ man my whole group has ever seen. The man who killed probably over a hundred people. Of course we ain’t gonna trust ya.” “But I’m nothing like my father. You can believe me.” Daryl looked at her with sorrow “Ain’t my call to make.” Daryl then looked back down to his knife in his lap.

many weeks had passed since she lived in the cell. Eventually people started to trust her, and now she lives in an actual house with Daryl. After she had confessed to him, Daryl took a very long time to actually accept that someone had shown an interest in him, that someone actually felt for him romantically. Even after he accepted it he had to understand that he felt the same way, Daryl had never really felt anything romantic, just lust. Many times before the outbreak Daryl would higher a hooker or go to clubs but he never felt anything for those women. He never really knew what being in love was, he had to have someone show him what it was.

Daryl went up the stairs of the house to see what his girl was doing, as he opened the door slowly he saw her relaxed body lying under the silky sheets of their bed. Daryl took off his shoes and crawled into the sheets, hugging his girl firmly, but not roughly, he didn’t want to wake her up. However he failed to do so, and she opened her eyes to see Daryl holding her from behind. She drowsily smiled and positioned herself to face him, pecking her lips onto his, and he decided to kiss her back. She wraps her arms around Daryl’s waist and snuggles her face into his chest. They both close their eyes and fall back asleep.

Even though she is now trusted by the community, she has never gone back to see her father. Mainly because she is disgusted with how much he had lied to her. She had begun to help around the community mostly by gardening. She actually began to feel like she was at home, the place her heart had always been searching for and she had finally found it. She is loved, trusted, and respected by everybody. Forever loved, and forever at peace with herself, she dreams of her life just the way it is. She dreams of kissing Daryl, and him holding her in his arms, him allowing her to brush and braid his hair whenever she gets bored, cooking him dinner and him eating every bite and always going back for seconds. His little compliments that he gives her, may seem stupid to others but are as powerful as a love poem to her ears. To her, he is a living breathing poem. And to Daryl, she is a living fairytale, a beautiful girl. Ethereal and goddess like. A powerful woman you would read about. Forever in the same story together, written and designed for eternal love.

@mosstheshoeshoethemoss @shade4479 @lostgirl677 @sph347800000 @crusadecherryblossom @dixon-wings @blackrippedskinnybeans @jinxghoul @floptwd @stinkygirl009

If you responded to my blog asking to be tagged and I did not tag you there was a problem and I could not find your blog.

[thevioletcaptain]

the ashes by imogenbynight

1.2k | mature | deancas

a 13.01 coda with dean scattering cas' ashes. technically this is canon compliant but i feel like i need to trigger warn for like… cannibalism? not really but. man. idk.

Dean sits with the ashes when they get back to the bunker. Sits with them and stares and goes a little insane with it, until he can’t stop imagining himself cracking open the lid and reaching his fingers inside.

Would Cas be soft? Chalky, velvety, like the white-charred remnants of driftwood after a bonfire? Would he be rough as his voice; as the sand his pyre had been built upon?

With a belly full of fire and whisky and desperate unease, he stares and stares as his thoughts spiral. As he thinks about pressing his damp index finger into the ash and raising it to his mouth. Swallowing it down and letting Cas become a part of him.

He could keep Cas forever that way; absorbed into his being.

Fuck, he can’t stop thinking about it.

Years ago, they worked a case where a young couple had been so frantic with love, intensified to the trillionth degree by the cruel touch of famine, that they'd eaten one another alive. Torn into each other's flesh with teeth as they clung together, ecstatic and bloody. Dean remembers feeling as confused as he was revolted by what had seemed to him a far-too-literal leap from desire to hunger.

Now, though, he kind of understands it.

Because it wasn't hunger, exactly, that lead to such a violent conclusion. It was need, followed through to its inevitable end. And he gets it now. Gets wanting to take the one you love into yourself and keep them there always. To hold them so wholly that they become a part of you, so you can never be parted again.

Of course, that's the thing that stops him, in the end. Not what should have stopped him--not the sick, visceral horror of what ultimately equates to eating his best friend's remains, no matter how he spins it--but the fact that tying Cas to himself in such an irreversible way feels like a betrayal. A punishment to Cas' spirit, however much of it still exists. He can't do that. Can't force whatever part of Cas' grace or soul might linger in the ash to endure however many years Dean has left as a part of him. Can't tether Cas so selfishly in death when Cas had never seemed to want to stay with him in life.

Cas might have been the love of Dean's miserable fucking life, but he's not under any illusions that the feeling ran both ways.

He learned early that it wasn't even possible--learned before he'd even fully slipped into loving Cas himself. Learned before he ever could have known how important it would be to him. Anna had told him, point blank, and he'd seen the difference in her. Human, feeling; angel, cold. And sure, Cas has come a long way -- had come along way by the end. He feels. Dean knows he feels, and feels for him, in particular. But his capacity for it is limited, and it's never been clearer than in his ability to leave Dean behind at a moment's notice. He's detached. Was detached.

So he can't force Cas to be a part of him. Would never forgive himself.

When he had eventually started falling, he'd hoped the knowledge that nothing could ever come of it would help keep him from toppling headfirst into something deeper than a fleeting infatuation. He hadn't been so lucky.

And now here he is, staring down a can labeled Cafe Bustelo Medium Roast and thinking the kind of thoughts that make his stomach turn in endlessly cycling fits of longing and revulsion, all because he fell in love.

It's half past five in the morning when he decides he can't keep the ashes in the bunker. Can't have the sick temptation. Less because he thinks he's actually going to do it, and more because he knows he won't be able to stop thinking about it whenever he sees the tin. So he scoops up the tin, and creeps down to the garage to the Impala, and drives west on US-36. 

Keeps driving until the rising sun starts turning the sky in his rearview a pale shade of pink, and he sees a few lonely lightning bugs blinking in and out of view on an quiet roadside near Phillipsburg.

He's pulled over before he's consciously decided to do so.

It's a pretty spot, is his first thought. Tall grass and scattered wildflowers spanning the open meadow which slopes down to a stream. A rusted old windmill stands vigil over the scene, slowly spinning in the gentle breeze.

Cas would like it here, is his second thought. Would gaze up at the windmill and make some observation about the ingenuity of human invention, and crouch down to watch the fireflies as they gently sink back into the grass at the arrival of the sun. 

The image is so clear in Dean's mind that he forgets, just for a second, that Cas is gone. Or-- he doesn't forget, exactly. He just isn't thinking about it so directly. Is so focused on the visual of Cas in the tall grass beside him, on the memory of his voice and the way his long fingers would look dipping between blade of grass that when he looks back down at his hands, at the coffee can he's holding with white-knuckled grip, the reminder of why he's here is harsh enough to leave him winded.

"I woulda brought you here," he says once he's caught his breath, like Cas can hear him, but it's a lie. They rarely had downtime, and whenever they did Cas almost always took off. Dean was lucky to get him to stick around long enough to watch a movie, most of the time. But he'd have wanted to bring him here. That much is true. He would have wanted to.

"I hope--" he starts, then stops, drawing his lip between his teeth and looking first to the sky, then to the ground, then just closing his eyes. Taking several deep breaths. "Man... Cas. Cas, I hope you're--"

Okay. Safe. Alright. Fuck, but all the words he has equate to alive, and with me, and whole, and underneath them all an unwavering current of coming home soon. Anything else feels like another lie. His throat clicks on a swallow.

"I hope you're happy," he says finally, and pries the can open. Stares down at the small cloud of ash that rises with it. "I'm gonna miss you for fucking ever, but wherever you are... I really hope you're happy."

With the windmill at his back, and the field of flowers spread out before him, he lets Cas' ashes run through his fingers as he gives him over to the earth, and he doesn't notice the texture at all. He's too busy thinking about how Cas' hand felt in his the last time he'd helped him to stand. How heavy he'd been, then. How light he is now.

It's not until he's preparing to return to his car, wrung out and cracked open and raw as an exposed nerve, that he notices the thin cut on his ring finger. He must have nicked it on the coffee can, or the fence, or the dry grass, and it doesn't hurt, but-- his blood is swelling from it in a bright red drop, and his hands are dusty with ash. His heart lurches at the sight of Cas' ash and his own blood mingling.

He raises his finger to his mouth.

Cas is holy on his tongue.

[also on ao3]

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @mysticstarlightduck!

Character Profile Tag

Full Name: Ivander Montane

Kind of Being: Mixed human, elven, dwarven, siren, and Daramakti (alien, but he doesn't know that) heritage

Age: 31

Gender: cis man

Appearance: Ivander is a man of medium height and an unremarkable build, with a hawkish sort of face. His skin is pale enough to show off the blue blood beneath, lending him a cerulean hue. His eyes, also, are a shade too turquoise to be human. His hair is black and slicked back, and he has a pencil mustache and goatee he keeps neatly trimmed. His ears are oddly double-pointed. All of this is an illusion, however. Ivander’s true face is ruined by a flesh-eating curse. He wears bandages under his clothes to keep the blood off, and much of his ears, nose, lips, and eyelids are beginning to be eaten away. The only sign of this in his daily life, though, is the cane he walks with and the gloves he wears to keep from leaving behind bloody fingerprints. His fashion sense otherwise is impeccable, consisting of beautifully tailored suits in flattering colors.

Occupation: A detective for the Unity Bureau of Arcane Investigation, a subsidiary of their police force.

Family Members:

Antonin Montane (estranged father who neglected him for his entire childhood and who keeps an abusive hold on the entire Montane family through controlling the family fortune)

Marius Montane (uncle who raised him despite the turmoil he endured as Antonin's younger brother)

Idrin Pashan-Baijahreet (mother who went missing when he was eight, a former merchant of the Flying City)

Tomas Montane (an older cousin he looked up to)

Eva Montane (a younger half-sister he doesn't know about, as she was born after he cut contact)

Pets: Hell no

Best friends: Ceyrel Gavorn is his partner at the BAI and has been his only friend for about a full decade now. She's an ornery hobgoblin with a crude sense of humor that one might think Ivander would turn his nose up at, but they both have a love of salacious gossip that bonds them together.

Describe their room: Ivander’s entire apartment is color-coded, so his whole bedroom is purple. The walls are an icy periwinkle with ivy patterns, while the curtains are a powdery mauve. His sheets and rugs are plush and a dark plum color, over a hardwood floor. Given how fastidious he is in everything else, it's a surprisingly messy space. Dirty clothes line the floor, and there's a mountain of old cups and pill bottles on his bedside table. His wardrobe is well kept, but very overstuffed. His bed is completely unmade and covered with bloodstains he just can't keep up with washing out anymore.

Way of speaking: Camp english accent - he sounds like a gay-coded villain in a kid's cartoon. He uses lots of big words and underhanded insults.

Physical characteristics (posture, gestures, attitude): Ivander’s posture is meant to lean. He usually drapes himself in some doorframe or another, or slouches onto a chair. From the way he moves, you can clearly tell he's in pain. From the way he moves, you can also tell he grew up at fancy dinners and investment meetings.

Items in their back pocket/purse: Eyedrops, bandages, meds, rune handbook, teeny tiny pistol.

Favorite sports: Ivander would rather die than do or watch a sport. If you tell him you're an athlete, he'll laugh.

Powers: The ability to pull miracles from a mostly unwilling god and to write an unbreakable contract.

Relationships (how they are with other people): Ivander is the king of intimacy issues. He's terrified of getting close to people, since the last person he was close to disappeared in the night. He puts up a jaded, bemused, and even cruel front to cover up his aching loneliness. He'd much rather hurt you than allow you to hurt him.

Fears: Death and damnation, living in pain forever, getting close to someone and proving to himself once and for all that he's incapable of overcoming the selfishness he was born into.

Faults: Ruthless, selfish, elitist, gossipy, cruel like a middle school bully. He can just be a real asshole when he wants to, and refuses to ask for help. He's also utterly blind to his positive qualities.

Good Points: Determined, brave, clever, cares deeply about the few friends he does have. Genuinely the last person you'd expect to be truly heroic, but he does manage despite himself. When he lets himself be, Ivander is a highly empathetic person.

What they want more than anything else: To cure the curse that's killing him.

I'll tag @the-golden-comet @leahnardo-da-veggie (this blorbo's for you, my guy) @sergeantnarwhalwrites @willtheweaver @finickyfelix and anyone else who wants in :)

Blanks under the cut

Full Name: Kind of Being: Age: Gender: Appearance: Occupation: Family Members: Pets: Best friends: Describe their room: Way of speaking: Physical characteristics (posture, gestures, attitude): Items in their back pocket/purse: Favorite sports: Powers: Relationships (how they are with other people): Fears: Faults: Good Points: What they want more than anything else:

[eldritchpotato]

Octopi and the Castaway's Cry 2

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

It’s almost cruel how beautiful the sky is after the rain passes. You’ve redoubled your efforts to start a fire but the soggy environment isn’t helping and quite frankly you have no idea what you're doing beyond attempting and failing to use two sticks to create friction.

It’s even more frustrating now that you have food right there, you just need to cook it. You’re so close.

Unfortunately being handed food does not unlock the secrets behind how to make fire. You’re no closer than you were before.

Maybe you could eat it raw, the fact you're even considering it speaks to your hunger. But it hasn’t been dead long, you’re pretty sure you’ve read something about freshly killed healthy meat being safe to eat raw.

You aren’t totally useless though. After banging some rocks together you manage to break off a piece sharp enough for cutting through the scales. You’re no expert in gutting fish but you know to avoid the intestines.

Messily you manage to separate red raw bloody muscle from the organs and entrails. You’re not sure exactly what is safe to eat but the few pieces you’ve cut look close enough to raw fish you’ve cooked with that if you swallow it fast enough you might not vomit immediately.

It’s exactly as bad as you feared. The texture isn’t too bad since you can’t bring yourself to do more than swallow but it tastes like fish and blood all the way down. You’re a gagging nauseous mess by the time you are done but the fish went down.

Your arms and clothes are stained red like you murdered someone despite only cutting up two smallish medium-sized fish. The remaining pile of innards makes you shudder.

You pick up the rock, careful not to spill as you waddle towards the beach. You toss it, guts and all, into the water to let the fish have their fill. Then you desperately try to scrub the blood and aura of fish from yourself. You’ve never missed soap so much in your life.

You strip off your clothing trying to wash the muck and blood from them too before laying them out to dry.

A clicking makes you jolt, your gaze snapping to the source. She’s back.

“Uh, thank you for the fish,” you call after a short eternity of awkward silence.

She clicks, her head tilting like a curious dog. Her expression is unreadable, but then again only her eyes are what they seem. A mask cannot emote.

If she wanted to hurt you she could have while you slept. Her pulling you from the depths and leaving you food speaks otherwise.

You were quick to judge and fear the monster, that is survival. But it would have been your own failing to see nothing but the monstrous.

She doesn’t move closer either. The waves lap at your legs and rinse away the sand, both of you simply watch each other.

How stupid would it be to approach? She is clearly intelligent, the closest thing to another person for miles. You wade into the water a little further. Perhaps she is as lost as you are.

Her eyes never leave you but neither does she retreat.

You continue your approach. Remembering your nudity it’s almost a relief to crouch down and leave nothing but your head exposed.

She’s gone in the blink of an eye. One moment bobbing in the water and the next… nothing. You only see the blur of red streaking towards you a moment before she reaches you.

You’ve touched squid before, having eaten it in restaurants a few times when feeling especially brave, this is nothing like that. She touches you.

Coils of cool muscle wrap around you, suckering to your skin. You barely manage an embarrassing shriek before you’re being hauled towards the shore. Her grip is firm but not overpowering. The problem is that there are just too many grips.

She half releases you, half tosses you onto the shore. A strange clicking emanates from her as her tentacles come together beneath her to keep her humanoid torso supported outside of the water.

You spit sand out of your mouth. Her rescue attempt had done more harm than good. The water hadn’t even reached your waist, you had just crouched down to try and not be tits out in front of a sea monster. Now you were… everything out.

You scrambled to try and cover yourself, your face burning red. Just what exactly had you gotten yourself into?

[psalacanthea]

Vegetarian Pot Pie

hey whats up i made this for my friends and they said it was good, so I decided to write the recipe down while i still remember it (for once in my life), so I can make it again. I will share it with you.

This is rich, filling, delicious, but doesn't just taste like a sad chicken pot pie with no chicken. This is a proper vegetarian dish, and perfect for winter. Extremely cozy and nice. If u need something to make for Christmas but don't want to work all day, this is for you.

It does not have peas because I'm not a fucking MONSTER

...

Ingredients:

1 leek

1 sweet potato (I used white sweet potato, orange are too sugary for me)

1 large russet potato or 2 small-medium

1 large carrot or 2 small-medium

1 large parsnip

mushrooms of choice (i used pre-sliced baby bellas)

2 decent-sized cloves of garlic

sage

rosemary

thyme

parsley

cream (milk or a milk sub is ok too but it won't be as rich)

3 tbsp butter

3 tbsp ap flour

1 carton (or 2 cans) vegetable stock

white wine (i used chard but any other non-sweet white like a pinot grig would be ok. just no sweet whites, the root veggies are plenty sweet)

s&p

store-bought pie crusts (if you like suffering make it yourself!)

utensils:

1 pie pan

1 small pot

Strainer (you can use a slotted spoon to remove stuff if you don't have [or let it cool and use your fingers])

1 lg. saucepan

Knife

Spatula or Big Spoon

(steps below cut)

To begin you're going to want to enhance your vegetable stock-- store-bought veggie stock is boring and often too tomatoey, we want to mitigate that. Veggie broth doesn't have to taste dull!

Separate leek greens from whites. If your leek is pretty stumpy, you can use 2.

In a small pot at medium-high heat, sear the leek greens on both sides, and sautee 1-2 mushroom, sliced. Once the leek greens have been browned in spots, add 3/4ths cup white wine or so (you can eyeball it). Simmer until all the alcohol smell is gone from the wine (won't take long.)

If you feel inclined, you can also add any carrot/parsnip tops you might have trimmed off, to save waste. Keep in mind that these are both sweet vegetables, though, and that might change the flavor a little. Carrot greens tho would add a nice bit of freshness, and would be a fine sub for parsley.

Add vegetable stock, a sprig of thyme, rosemary, sage, and parsley (you can tie them together w/kitchen twine to make a bouquet garni, but if you're gonna strain the stock you don't need to)

You can also add bay leaf if you have like 3 containers of them in your spice cabinet for some reason and need an excuse to use them.

Turn the heat under the stock down to low, and simmer until it's reduced by about a third, maybe an hour (it can hang out while you do other stuff.)

Peel potatoes, cut into 1 to 1/2 inch chunks (small but not tiny). You should have about two cups. cube size is partially preference, but smaller chunks mean you can get all the flavor in every bite.

Do the same for the sweet potato, but reduce amount to a cup. You won't use the whole potato for this recipe, but they're SO good roasted wrapped in tinfoil and eaten plain with salt.

Scrub parsnip and carrot, cut into pieces that seem about the same as the potatoes, about a cup of each. (I don't peel my carrots don't @ me.)

Cut leek whites into half-circles.

If your mushrooms are not pre-cut, slice mushrooms until you have about a cup of them ready to go.

Please note, if you have extra veg cut-- just add it. Extra filling is no big deal you can just eat it by itself or add it to your plate of pie. No need to waste anything.

Squash and finely chop garlic cloves.

In a large saucepan on medium- medium high heat, add 3 tbsp butter and 3 tbsp flour, mix together as butter melts to form a cohesive mixture- a roux.

Cook until roux is starting to bubble. Add leeks, add carrots, mushrooms, and parsnips. Salt lightly to encourage moisture loss.

Sautee in the roux for 3-5 minutes or so until the veggies are starting to smell good and the roux is getting gold, then add garlic.

Cook for 30 seconds to a minute more, stirring constantly, until you can smell the garlic. Garlic burns easily!

Strain enhanced stock into saucepan.

Add potatoes and sweet potatoes.

Stir until the roux dissolves into the stock and it begins to thicken, and then turn down to low heat (you want small and regular bubbles, but not big glorpy ones).

It might not look like enough gravy, but we don't want a ton. It's a pie, not a stew. If you REALLY think it's not enough, your stock might have reduced too far. Add a bit of water if you must.

Remove leaves from 1 large sprig thyme, and add to filling. Remove leaves from and finely dice 1 sprig rosemary. Do the same for sage. Toss out the stems.

The gravy should still be thin-ish, but we're going to reduce it down more as the potatoes are cooked through.

Cook until potatoes are just barely fork-tender. Even slightly undercooked is ok. Taste gravy for salt and pepper. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Add 1/3rd cup heavy cream/milk or so. Stir in.

Strip the leaves from 1-2 sprigs of parsley, finely chop, stir into gravy.

Taste again. Season again if necessary.

Let the filling cool. Try not to eat it all.

Unroll 1 pre-made pie crust, and put in the bottom of your pie pan. Try to make it even all the way around.

Now! The easy way to seal a pie (without egg wash) is as follows.

Fold down the edge of the lower crust so that it sticks out past the top edge of the pie pan.

Add filling. Get that shit as full as you can while keep that sticking out edge of the pie crust dry.

Place top pie crust over the pie.

Fold the edge of the lower crust over the upper crust, rolling them up together to make the crust edge.

Either with a fork or with pinching, make the edge crust look prettier.

If the edges of both the lower crust and the upper crust have been rolled inside themselves, you shouldn't have filling leakage.

Cut venting holes on top in whatever quirky design you want.

Stick in a 350f (177c?) oven until it's done.

I don't know how long, I don't measure those things. The crust will be golden brown and the filling will be bubbly.

the wine is skippable, yes, but it adds some acidity that you need. try a squeeze of lemon into your gravy if you don't use it.