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aleksatia · 2 months ago

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Five Times the Kitchen Caught Fire (and So Did They) - Request

I've been completely swallowed by work and daily life, and for a long time (even though my hands were itching), I just couldn’t find the time to sit down and write something new. April is coming to an end, and most of my plans are still unfinished. So I’ve decided to focus on your requests first — they take priority — and Songfic Game will come after that.

Picked one of the requests at random — thank you @seris-the-amious for sending it in!

CW/TW: sexual content, explicit language, suggestive themes, alcohol use, mild intoxication, food-related chaos, fire/flood/kitchen disasters, implied nudity, mild injury (non-serious), emotionally charged intimacy, flirtation, teasing, domestic fluff, bad cooking decisions, one named lobster spared.

Pairings: Zayne x Girlfriend!You; Rafayel x Fiancée!You; Xavier x Girlfriend!You; Caleb x Not-yet-girlfriend!You; Sylus x Fiancée!You Genre: Domestic chaos meets romantic heat. Lovers tangled in kitchens, kitchens tangled in disasters. From soft smut to feral tension, from teasing to tenderness. Culinary mishaps, emotional closeness, playful banter, and sex that simmers like a slow-burn reduction. Fluff with bite. Fire alarms optional, intimacy inevitable. Summary: Five different stories, each with their own vibe and varying degrees of chaos — from soft fluff to full-blown kitchen insanity. Some are louder, some quieter; not all include intimacy, but you know me — I’ll make it up to our beloved LIs next time. Word Count: (5 stories) 1.3K | 1.6K | 1.9K | 3.6K | 4.2K

🍷 Cooking with Wine

You’d only meant to loosen up.

The recipe had three steps. You had two hands. One of them, unfortunately, held a wine glass for most of the night. The other kept getting distracted by those endless cooking reels and the fact that Zayne wasn’t home yet. He was supposed to be. But surgeries run long, and you got bored, then creative, then… clumsy.

The pan got wine. The sauce got wine. You got wine. Somewhere around glass number three, you decided that music and dancing would “help the flavor profile.” You were still wearing his button-up shirt from earlier — a white one, a little oversized, warm from where it had dried on the radiator. Only one button done. Just enough to cover what mattered. Bare legs and fuzzy socks.

The dog watched, fascinated, as you waltzed with a ladle.

When Zayne walked in, you didn’t hear the door. He moved too quietly for that. You only noticed when a shadow passed behind you — his silhouette in the hall, tall and still.

He stepped into the kitchen like a man entering a crime scene. His eyes scanned everything at once: the scorched pan, the bubbling red concoction, the open bottle on its side. The singed towel near the stove.

Then you.

You grinned, wobbling slightly, your wine glass half-full and tilted at a reckless angle.

“Darling,” you said, voice sticky-sweet and delighted, “you’re home just in time for dinner-slash-arson.”

Zayne didn’t blink. He crossed to the stove, sniffed the air once, and exhaled through his nose with terrifying neutrality.

“This is flammable,” he said.

“Like… sexy-flammable?” You fluttered your lashes. “Because I did wear your shirt, which I consider an advanced form of foreplay.”

He turned off the burner. Set the spoon down. Removed the towel with two fingers like it personally offended him. Then turned to face you, arms crossed.

“You put cinnamon in a tomato-based reduction.”

You squinted. “How do you know that?”

“I can smell it.” A pause. “And it’s floating on top like an oil slick.”

“I was improvising.”

“You were drinking.”

You tilted your head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

There was a long pause — like the kind that stretches between heartbeats on a monitor. And then Zayne stepped forward, one smooth movement, and cupped your jaw in one hand. His thumb brushed just under your lower lip, catching the smudge of wine you didn’t know was there.

“You are…” His voice dipped. Barely audible. “Absolutely not allowed near a stove unsupervised.”

You smiled against his touch. “Are you volunteering for the job?”

His eyes met yours — steady, dark, impossible to read. Then his other hand slid to your waist, pulled you forward with quiet precision. His mouth brushed yours. Not rushed. Not rough. Just… intent.

“You look like a disaster,” he murmured.

“Thank you.”

“And you smell like a vineyard in crisis.”

“I bathed in pinot noir for you.”

“Of course you did.”

The kiss deepened. His mouth was warm, patient, and maddeningly controlled — like he was cataloging every sound you made, every angle of your lips. His hands stayed low, anchoring you, guiding you. You arched into him, pressing closer, trying to pull him out of his perfect stillness.

When you moaned into his mouth — quiet, desperate — he broke. Just slightly.

His fingers clenched at your hips, hard enough to leave intention behind. His tongue slid along yours, not tentative now, but searching. Mapping. The clinical calm in him twisted into something rougher. More human.

He picked you up like it was nothing — no grunt, no awkward shifting. Just your thighs wrapped around his waist and the firm press of his hands under your legs as he carried you to the counter and set you down among chaos: wine bottle, scorched pot, an abandoned spoon.

His mouth found your neck next. Soft at first. Then not. His teeth grazed. His breath hitched when your hands found the hem of his shirt, dragging it out of his waistband.

“You're drunk,” he murmured against your throat.

“I’m charming.”

“You are a menace.”

“And you,” you said, tugging him closer until he groaned against your collarbone, “are very overdressed for someone who wants me off this counter.”

He chuckled — low and rare. Then obeyed.

The way he moved was maddening — methodical, as if he were dissecting the moment with reverence. Each button undone on your shirt felt like a soft command. His fingers skimmed your ribs, feather-light, grounding you between warm palms and the cool marble beneath you. He wasn’t rushing. Zayne never rushed. He savored. Studied. Tasted.

He dipped his head and pressed a kiss just above your heart, then lower, catching your breath between his teeth. Your thighs tightened around his hips, pulling him closer — close enough to feel how hard he already was beneath his slacks, restrained and ready. You weren’t sure which one of you was shaking harder.

His hands mapped your body like it was his favorite puzzle — thumbs brushing the curve of your hips, his mouth finding the soft underside of your jaw, then your breast, tongue circling slowly, painfully. You moaned, half a sound, half a plea, and he smiled against your skin like a man memorizing fault lines.

You reached behind, fumbling for the wine glass — still miraculously upright — and brought it to your lips. Took a long, slow sip. He paused, watching you. Sharp gaze, mouth parted.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you pulled him down and kissed him — wet, warm, deliberately messy — and let the wine spill between your lips into his. He didn’t hesitate. He drank from you like he was starved. Like it was ritual. Like you were the altar.

The kiss turned brutal — slick and heady, the taste of red grapes and something feral between you. He groaned into your mouth and pinned your wrists to the counter, grinding his hips forward until your head fell back with a gasp.

“Zayne,” you whimpered, back arching. “Now. Please.”

He didn’t answer. He just shifted, one hand dragging your underwear down your thighs with surgical precision. You didn’t even register when your legs parted wider — it just happened, instinct, need. He undid his belt one-handed, pants low enough for contact, not enough to waste time.

The first thrust was slow — testing. The second made your mouth fall open. The third pulled a strangled noise from your throat that didn’t even sound like his name.

Zayne cursed under his breath and buried his face in your neck. His rhythm wasn’t desperate — he never was — but it carried purpose, weight, knowledge. He knew exactly where to press, when to shift, how to pull your body apart and hold it there — open, high, ruined. One hand locked behind your knee, lifting your leg just enough for deeper angles, and when your breath caught, he did it again. And again.

You held onto his shoulders like the world was tilting. His skin under your fingers was warm, taut, real. His breath stuttered against your ear.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice raw. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“You know I am.”

“I want to hear it.”

You looked up at him, completely undone, and whispered, “I’m yours.”

He kissed you like he’d waited years. His hips stuttered. Your nails sank into his back. His rhythm frayed into something rougher, needier — less science, more prayer. You came with a cry caught in your throat, legs trembling around his hips. He followed seconds later, jaw clenched against your neck, breath faltering like something sacred had cracked open in him.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested on your shoulder, sweat slick between you, hearts slamming like fists.

And then — quietly, from behind you — came a soft drip.

Zayne glanced over your shoulder.

A single string of sauce, still too hot and wildly overspiced, slid off the edge of the abandoned pan and landed with a wet slap on the floor.

He sighed. “You burned the reduction.”

You smiled, still breathless. “But the dessert turned out perfect.”

🦞Omar the Almost-Dinner

You started with the garlic.

Three cloves, crushed under the flat of the blade, then minced until your fingers gleamed and the scent climbed into your throat. A generous pour of golden oil bloomed in the shallow copper pan, already warm, catching the light that poured in through Rafayel’s east-facing windows.

The whole kitchen glowed like watercolor — sunlight moving through glass, catching on polished marble, the sea breathing in the distance. It always felt like standing inside one of his paintings. Too beautiful. A little surreal. Like something sacred might happen if you just held still.

You stirred the garlic with a wooden spoon and whispered, “You’re not going to feel a thing.”

On the far end of the counter, the lobster shifted slightly inside the shallow glass bowl you’d filled with cold saltwater. His long antennae twitched.

You eyed him.

“I’m not going to name you,” you said firmly.

He waved one rubber-banded claw.

You scowled. “That wasn’t a wave.”

Another twitch.

“It wasn’t,” you repeated, softer now. “It was… a muscle spasm.”

You turned back to the garlic. Added butter. A splash of white wine. A whisper of lemon zest.

It hissed. Smelled like summer and salt and the things Rafayel hummed about when he painted early in the morning with one hand in your lap.

You glanced at the lobster. He blinked at you. Slowly. With dignity.

And it hit you.

You were going to kill something. Not just cook. Not reheat, not sear, not pan-fry leftovers.

Kill.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, throat suddenly thick. “It’s not that I don’t love you. I mean, I don’t. Not like — love-love — I love him. But I’m trying. For him.”

You gestured to the pot, now gently boiling behind you.

“That’s for you. That’s how it’s done. It’s quick. Dignified. You go in. You feed him. You become part of something beautiful.”

You paused. The lobster shifted again. Like he disagreed. Profoundly.

You looked down at your outfit.

His silk kimono, white and silver, open at the collar. Your hair twisted up, held in place by one of his old paintbrushes, soft bristles curled with dry cobalt. You’d worn it like a good omen. Like a challenge.

Now it just made you feel like a fraud.

You stepped closer to the bowl. He stared at you.

“…Omar,” you breathed.

Damn it.

“No. No! That wasn’t a name. I didn’t—”

He waved again.

You made a noise halfway between a sob and a curse. “Oh my god, you’re real. You’re someone.”

The pot behind you bubbled louder, as if urging you on. But your hand wouldn’t move.

You looked down at him — Omar. This wet little witness to your culinary ambition and your spiritual collapse. Your eyes stung. You pressed your fingers into the edge of the counter until your knuckles blanched.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

And that’s when the soft sound of bare feet against polished stone made you freeze.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, framed by light. His robe hung open just enough to reveal the fine line of his collarbone, the suggestion of morning skin and sleep-warmth. His hair was half-tied, the rest falling over his shoulders in sea-colored waves.

He took one look at you. At the bowl. At the tears.

And then, very gently:

“…Did you name the lobster?”

You didn’t turn around. You just sniffled — once, pitifully — and stared harder at the glass bowl where Omar sat like a prisoner on death row.

Rafayel crossed the floor in bare, silent steps. He stopped beside you. Looked down into the bowl. The silence stretched, long and gentle.

You swiped a hand beneath your nose and choked, “Ask him. Ask him if he’s mad at me.”

“…Pardon?”

You turned toward him, wide-eyed and red-lipped and clearly unraveling, the paintbrush still skewed at a defiant angle through your bun.

“Ask him,” you repeated, voice wobbling. “I almost turned him into your lunch. Omar probably hates me.”

There was a pause. Then, very seriously, Rafayel looked down at the lobster.

“Omar,” he said softly. “Do you harbor ill will toward my beloved?”

The lobster didn’t move. You looked devastated.

“I think he’s giving me the silent treatment,” you whispered.

Rafayel blinked once. Then, in a voice that was 80% calm and 20% suppressing laughter:

“Cutie… lobsters have extremely primitive nervous systems. Their brains are about the size of—”

“Don’t talk about Omar that way!” you snapped, and slapped his arm.

Rafayel clutched his chest in mock offense. “Forgive me. I forgot he was royalty.”

“He has dignity,” you said with a fierce sniff. “And a name. And feelings.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Rafayel leaned in. Kissed the tip of your nose.

“You are utterly unhinged,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to argue — but his hands were already at your waist, pulling you into him, your fingers still slick with butter and grief. He rested his chin on your shoulder, eyes fixed on the lobster.

“I was going to boil him,” you whispered. “With herbs. Lemon. I crushed garlic just for him.”

“Of course you did.”

“I ruined everything.”

“No,” Rafayel said, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You just… rerouted the menu. Happens to the best of us.”

You melted into his hold, the silk of his robe brushing your thigh where the kimono had slipped. His body was warm. Steady. He smelled like sea salt and sugar and some ancient perfume no one could name.

“What do we do now?” you asked.

He kissed your cheek, slow and indulgent. Then reached down, lifted Omar from his bowl like a high priest lifting a relic, and turned with regal grace toward the atrium.

“To the koi.”

The koi tank lived in his studio.

Not just because of the light — though it was exquisite in the late afternoon, spilling across the floor in long golden strips — but because Rafayel said the fish helped him “remember the rhythm of the world.” You never questioned it. Just like you didn’t question the fact that he sometimes hummed to them in a language the ocean might’ve forgotten. Or that he had names for all of them: Persephone, Laertes, Blanche, Judas.

Now he stood barefoot at the rim of the tank, the silk of his robe slipping open over his chest, Omar cupped gently in both hands like a waterlogged jewel.

The koi scattered as he approached. Swirls of red and silver and ghost-white fins vanished into the corners of their glass world. Rafayel crouched. Whispered something you didn’t catch. Maybe an apology. Maybe a blessing. Maybe a threat to behave.

Then, very delicately, he lowered Omar into the water.

The lobster drifted for a moment — legs splayed, antennae lifted like tiny banners of defiance — before kicking once and spiraling down toward the gravel, claws first.

You stood behind Rafayel, arms folded over your chest, watching the crustacean establish dominance over a large piece of ornamental driftwood.

“He’s fine,” Rafayel said, not looking back.

“He’s thriving,” you muttered, deadpan. “An icon.”

Rafayel turned, stood, wiped his damp fingers across the silk lapel of his robe. “You know, I’ve hand-fed Persephone for five years, and she still won’t come near me unless I sing Puccini.”

“I relate.”

He tilted his head. “To whom?”

“To Persephone.”

He smiled — soft and sharp at once — and stepped closer. “You cried over a lobster.”

“I cried over almost murdering a lobster.”

He reached out, ran his fingers down your arm. “And why, my sea-witch, were you even attempting culinary homicide?”

You sighed. Shoulders slumped. The knot of shame in your stomach finally loosened.

“I hate cooking,” you confessed. “I hate it. I hate the mess. The timing. The stress. Everything tastes like failure and burnt dreams.”

Rafayel’s brows rose. “And yet you attempted to flambé my emotions alive.”

“I was trying to impress you,” you said, voice quiet now. “Because I love you. And I thought — if I made you something real, something you cared about… maybe I’d feel more like I belonged in your world.”

His face shifted. Slowly. Like a wave gathering itself before crashing.

You swallowed. “But I couldn’t do it. Not to Omar.”

Something unreadable passed behind his eyes.

“...Are you telling me,” he said carefully, “that you were willing to sacrifice your own sanity to feed me something I could’ve ordered from a Michelin-starred restaurant… but not willing to harm a single dramatic sea bug because he blinked at you?”

You looked away. “He blinked with feeling.”

There was a long silence. Then: “I don’t know whether to kiss you or exile you.”

“You could try both.”

Rafayel stepped in close again. The sunlight caught the gold of his eyelashes. “I’d die on a battlefield for you, but a lobster gets your loyalty?”

You tried not to smile. “He had a name, Raf.”

He groaned. “I’m jealous of a lobster.”

You leaned into his chest. “You should be. He’s mysterious. Stoic. Dangerously well-armed.”

Rafayel let out a long, theatrical sigh.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he murmured, “but… I also hate cooking.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“I hate it. I hate heat. I hate measurements. I hate the way turmeric stains my cuticles. I once tried to cook for you, burnt my thumb on the skillet, and immediately painted the pain.”

You stared. He nodded solemnly. “It sold for nine thousand.”

You choked on a laugh. He kissed your temple.

“I’ll order sushi,” he whispered, lips brushing your skin. “It’s what civilization invented delivery for. People like us weren’t made for stoves. We were made for art. For emotion. For love. And for not setting the house on fire.”

“And Omar?”

Rafayel tilted his head toward the tank. “Will be invited to the wedding.”

He paused, watching Omar paddle in lazy circles.

“…But if he ever makes you cry again—” his voice dropped to a murmur, half-affection, half-threat, “—he’s the appetizer.”

🥞Pancakes: Physics & Other Casualties

You woke up too early for no reason. The sun hadn't fully committed to the sky yet, and Xavier was still asleep — somewhere beneath tangled blankets, breathing slow and soundless like only men with nothing left to prove do.

But you had energy. Too much of it. And a craving for pancakes.

You weren’t good at pancakes. Not exactly bad, either — just… experimental. Abstract. Four pancakes already clung to the kitchen ceiling like edible crime evidence, casualties of your first half hour. You had stopped panicking about the first one somewhere around the third. They weren’t hurting anyone. Probably.

The kitchen smelled like butter and mild fear. A playlist pulsed through your earbuds — something upbeat, guilty-pleasure catchy. You danced in place, hips swaying lazily, wearing only Xavier’s black athletic shorts (which barely clung to your waist) and a faded sports bra. Your hair was a mess. Your feet were bare. The floor was suspiciously sticky near the sink, and you were too far gone to care.

You adjusted your grip on the pan, focused like a woman on a mission, and flipped another pancake — up, smooth, controlled.

And caught it with your mouth.

A perfect arc. A clean drop. A hot, fluffy disc of golden triumph right between your teeth.

Your arms shot into the air, victorious. You wiggled. Spun. Posed like a champion gymnast sticking her final landing.

“YES!” you shouted around pancake.

Then you got cocky.

Still chewing, high on success and maple-scented hubris, you turned to the stove, picked up the frying pan again — and this time, tried to flip the whole pan. Into the air. For fun.

You wanted drama. Flair. Pancake-fueled glory.

What you got was: velocity + physics + betrayal.

The handle slipped from your fingers mid-arc. The pan flipped once, bounced off the edge of the stove, and landed squarely in the mixing bowl of batter you’d set just a little too close. The bowl spun. The counter caught a third of it. Your shirt caught another. The rest hit the floor in one majestic, cold, thick slap.

It was everywhere. Your feet. The cupboard. Your calves. The cat bowl. Possibly the wall. You blinked, slowly, looking down at yourself like someone in a war movie who hadn’t realized they’d been shot yet.

And then—

A breath behind you. You turned.

And there he was. Xavier.

Leaning against the doorway. Hoodie unzipped. Sweatpants low on his hips. Hair tousled, bare chest rising and falling in slow, stunned quiet.

He took in the scene. Ceiling pancakes. The lake of batter spreading across the tile. You, panting, pink-cheeked, wearing his shorts and speckled in something vaguely egg-based.

And — of course — the frying pan, upside down, handle sticking out of the mixing bowl like a flag of surrender.

You yanked out one earbud, breath catching. “You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.”

“I was,” he said quietly, eyes still moving — from your flour-dusted knees to your mouth. “Just listening.”

You blinked. “To the music?”

“To the part where you said ‘YES’ with a pancake in your mouth.”

You paused. Laughed. Bit your lip, embarrassed. “It was impressive.”

“It was.”

He didn’t move. Just… watched. You could never tell if Xavier was judging or processing. His expression didn’t give things away. But his eyes did. Bright and bottomless, pale as ice and just as dangerous when focused — and they were very, very focused now.

You tried to brush a bit of batter off your thigh. It smeared. Worse.

He inhaled through his nose, slow. “Is that my shorts?”

“No.” You lied instantly. “Yes.”

You felt warm all over. Sticky, sure — but also warm. The kind of heat that crept under your skin the longer he looked at you like that.

“I was going to bring you pancakes.”

“I see that.”

“They were gonna be good.”

“I believe you.”

His voice was calm, as always. But his gaze drifted lower — down your torso, your stomach, to the place where batter clung to your thighs like messy fingerprints. He blinked once. Slowly. Like he was storing you. Like he was learning you all over again in this ruined, ridiculous state.

And then… he moved. Not fast. Never fast.

Xavier walked toward you like inevitability — quiet feet on tile, breath barely audible, but his body all presence. You backed up without meaning to, hip nudging the edge of the counter, hands flexing at your sides. His fingers brushed your chin first. Lifted. Tilted. He studied you like he was reading your pulse through the shape of your mouth.

“You made a mess,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “That’s what mops are for.”

His thumb dragged along your lower lip. Batter. Butter. You.

“I meant this,” he said — and cupped your thigh, palm flat, streaking upward through the sticky warmth that clung to your skin. “You're dripping.”

The breath caught in your chest. He didn’t stop. Didn’t ask.

Xavier slid his hand higher, the glide of his fingers patient, unshaking, as he trailed a line through the batter and up — up, under the waistband of his shorts still hanging loose on your hips. He looked down as he did it. Watched his own hand disappear, like he wanted to understand your reactions in real time.

He brushed against you once. Deliberate. Barely pressure. You gasped.

His gaze snapped up.

Then he kissed you. Not sweet. Not soft. But steady — lips parted, tongue tasting everything you’d ruined. He didn’t devour. He took. Like a man carefully disassembling a weapon he didn’t want to break. His hand stayed pressed between your legs, just resting, while his other came to your neck — not choking, but claiming. Holding you still. Making you feel it everywhere.

“You’re warm here,” he said against your mouth, thumb stroking slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. “Wet. Sweet.”

You whimpered.

“Sticky.” He kissed your cheek. Your throat. Bit your collarbone. “Ruined.”

You barely had time to blink before he picked you up — just lifted, arms under your thighs, your back pressed to his chest. Effortless. Inevitable. Your hands clutched his forearms, nails dragging through soft cotton and into skin.

He didn’t speak again until the bathroom door clicked behind you. Then—

“I’m going to clean you.”

Not a suggestion. Not a tease. A promise.

He set you on the counter. Warm wood beneath your bare skin. He turned on the shower. Steam bloomed in the air — sharp and clean and him. The sound of water filled the room like rising tension.

Then he turned back. You reached for him — but he stilled your hands.

“Let me,” he said. “Don’t move.”

His hands were methodical. Almost reverent.

He pulled off your sports bra slowly, brushing every inch of your ribs with his knuckles. Kissed the space between your breasts like he needed to taste your heartbeat. The shorts followed — peeled down with both hands, batter clinging like reluctant gravity. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t grin.

He studied.

You were a mess. But to him — you never looked more sacred.

Xavier guided you under the water. Hot. Steady. His hands followed, dragging soap over your shoulders, your breasts, the dip of your waist — not rough, but firm. He washed you like ritual, like cleansing a blade before use.

And then his fingers slid between your legs again — slick now with water and shower gel, moving slowly, teasing your entrance in soft, circling pressure. You leaned into his chest, barely breathing.

He kissed your temple. “Relax.”

You tried. You failed — when he pushed a finger inside you. Then another.

His free hand cupped your breast, thumb stroking your nipple as he fucked you with slow, exquisite rhythm. No rush. Just purpose. Just Xavier. You sobbed once — quiet, overwhelmed — and he held you steady, nose brushing your cheek.

“You’re close,” he whispered. Not asked. Stated.

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. He kissed you — deeper, this time — and curled his fingers just right.

You shattered.

He caught you, of course. Cleaned you again. Kissed the top of your head, your hipbone, the inside of your knee.

And when he slid inside you after, slow and stretching, thick and perfect, it wasn’t out of hunger.

It was worship…

You came back into the kitchen wearing one of his long-sleeved tees and a pair of clean leggings — damp hair in a loose bun, skin flushed from the shower, limbs still humming from how he’d touched you. Kissed you. Fucked you.

The kitchen, somehow, was spotless.

The puddles of batter were gone. The ruined bowl had vanished. Even the ceiling looked suspiciously cleaner — except for one very visible pancake, clinging for dear life just above the stove like a martyr to your enthusiasm.

Xavier was at the counter, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a fresh mixing bowl in front of him. His movements were calm, measured — flour, eggs, a whisper of salt. The cat sat near his feet, round as a melon, looking both satisfied and ashamed. You arched a brow.

“He helped?” you asked.

Xavier didn’t look up. “He tried. Then ate half the batter and went into some sort of existential spiral.”

You looked down at the creature. Its belly shifted slightly with every breath. It made a faint, gurgling noise.

“You’re gonna regret that, buddy.”

The cat blinked once, as if to say: I already do.

Xavier cracked another egg with single-handed ease. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the long lines of his back move beneath soft cotton. Watching his mind in motion. There was something unbearably tender about how focused he became in small things — your things. How the world narrowed down to a bowl, a pan, and a promise.

“You didn’t have to clean everything,” you said gently.

“I know,” he replied, not missing a beat. “But you made a mess.”

You snorted. “You loved it.”

“I did.” He turned then, just enough to meet your eyes — and the corner of his mouth tilted. “I do.”

Heat crept up your spine. You stepped closer. The stove was warm, a fresh pan already heating, butter melting into golden puddles along the surface. He dipped a ladle into the new batter and poured it slow and steady, hands sure, movements silent.

The moment lingered. The smell, the steam, the soft crackle of potential.

You leaned in beside him.

“Do you want me to try flipping it?”

“No,” he said flatly.

You grinned. “Afraid I’ll outdo you?”

“I’ve seen your technique.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “You liked my technique.”

“Your technique almost destroyed the cat bowl.”

“That was a creative choice.”

He slid a spatula under the pancake — smooth, practiced — and turned it in a perfect arc.

You made an approving noise. “See? You’re showing off.”

He glanced at you sideways. “Someone has to impress the cat.”

It was then — as if summoned by memory or dramatic timing — that the pancake on the ceiling finally gave up.

It dropped. Straight down. Landed with a soft, anticlimactic plop right in front of the stove.

The cat groaned audibly, a single long note of betrayal and digestive despair.

You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking. “He can’t… he can’t possibly…”

“No,” Xavier said, deadpan. “He’s reached the limit of his mortality.”

You watched as the cat sniffed the fallen pancake, whimpered, and slowly waddled out of the kitchen like a man who’d seen too much.

Then, finally, softly — like he couldn’t quite believe it: “…Did you actually catch one in your mouth?”

You stood a little straighter. Chin up. “Yes.”

His jaw shifted — not a smile, not quite — and his eyes sharpened.

“…Do it again.”

🍗“Operation: Wing It”

“You won’t even make it past the marinade,” Caleb said.

You didn’t look at him when you dropped the chili flakes into the basket — just a little harder than necessary.

“I’m literally standing in front of a wall of sauces,” you muttered. “I think I’ve made it just fine.”

“You picked up sesame oil to make buffalo wings.”

You froze. Looked down. Yep. Sesame oil.

“...It's fusion,” you said defensively, and grabbed a bottle of hot sauce to cover the error.

Caleb made a low, amused noise in his throat — the kind that wrapped around your spine like silk and sandpaper.

You hated him.

Not really.

But in that moment? Absolutely.

He was leaning against the side of the shopping cart like he’d been born in a recruitment poster. Dark jacket open, arms crossed over his chest, that stupid military-issue smirk on his face. Skyheavan’s standard-issue glow made his skin look warmer than usual. More golden. More dangerous.

You tossed a bottle of vinegar into the cart without looking. It hit the bottom with a clang.

He flinched. “Careful. You almost declared war on the condiments.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped. “Are your elite commando instincts triggered by aggressive grocery shopping?”

“Just saying, if you treat the chicken like that, I’ll have to call for backup.”

You whirled around to face him, finger pointed. “I can cook.”

“You can make cereal.”

“I can make eggs!”

“Which you set on fire.”

“One time—!”

He stepped closer. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth — just for a fraction of a second — then back to your eyes.

That same flicker again. The one you’d seen a hundred times. Like he might kiss you. Like you might let him. But neither of you ever did.

Too many reasons. Too much history. Too many what-ifs.

“Tell you what,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “You make wings tonight. I’ll taste them. If they’re edible, I’ll say thank you. If they’re better than mine…”

His smile turned sharp. “…I’ll let you pick your prize. And I won’t stop you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And if they’re not?”

He leaned in — not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the heat of him through your shirt.

“If they’re not, you wear my shirt while I show you how it’s really done.”

Your stomach dropped. Your brain screamed something in Morse code.

You said, with all the dignity you could muster, “Fine.”

“Great.”

Then he leaned down and picked up your bottle of sesame oil.

“And I’m taking this,” he said. “Because even fusion has limits.”

You stormed into his kitchen like a woman possessed. Which, to be fair, you were.

By pride. By spite. By the unholy need to prove that just because you’d once burned eggs didn’t mean you couldn’t conquer poultry.

The countertops were unnervingly spotless. The knives hung in perfect alignment. The spice rack looked alphabetized by military rank.

You glared at the nearest drawer and yanked it open.

Soy sauce, vodka, pomegranate molasses, some kind of unmarked flask, another unmarked flask, two napalm-grade hot sauces and a tin labeled simply: “DO NOT”.

You closed the drawer. You opened another. Hot honey, fig jam, bourbon.

You opened a third. Ketchup. Tequila. Grenadine.

“What the hell — why is the alcohol stored with the condiments?!” you hissed.

“Because they get along,” Caleb said, casually leaning in the doorway, arms folded.

You turned so fast your braid hit your cheek. “Get. Out.”

He raised one brow. “Just offering guidance.”

“You’re smirking.”

“I always smirk when people handle raw meat like it’s a loaded weapon.”

You grabbed a towel, threw it over the bowl of chicken, and marched toward him.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Then you planted your hands flat against his chest — and pushed.

Hard.

Caleb slid backward across the smooth floor in his socks, both feet together, expression going from amused to incredulous to resigned defeat in two seconds flat.

“You are not allowed in here until I win.”

“You mean ‘if.’”

“WHEN.”

You shoved him again just for good measure, slammed the door behind him, and locked it. (Okay, you shoved a wooden spoon through the cabinet handles. Same thing.)

Silence.

You exhaled. Turned. And stared at the raw chicken like it had personally insulted your ancestry.

The marinade was where you’d shine. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

You opened another drawer. Dark green bottle. Handwritten label. Spanish text. No clue.

You tilted it. Sniffed. Complex. Herbal. Definitely alcoholic. Like absinthe with a sexier résumé.

You dipped a finger. Touched your tongue. Oh. Oh, that was good. Sharp, rich, mysterious. Like something Caleb would drink while brooding in a thunderstorm.

You’d seen someone marinate wings in beer once. This felt like the same vibe.

You shrugged. “Close enough.”

You poured generously. The chicken hissed like it was judging you. You hissed back.

Somewhere behind you, the spoon wedged in the handles creaked.

You whirled. “Don’t you dare!”

Silence. You turned back to your sauce, defiant.

You were not a soldier. You were not a chef. But you were going to make these wings your battlefield.

By some small miracle — or divine act of petty vengeance — you won.

They came out golden. Glorious.

The kind of golden that made you gasp when you opened the oven, momentarily forgetting the smudge of sauce on your cheek and the streak of oil in your hair. The kind of golden that shimmered, with just the right crisp at the edges and a halo of chili flake scattered like divine confetti.

You stared. You may have whispered holy shit. You may have also done a small, smug dance in your socks.

Then you plated them. Carefully. Triumphantly.

And carried the tray out like a warrior returning from the front lines with the head of the beast still steaming on a platter.

Caleb was already on the couch, legs stretched, looking for all the world like a man who’d never been ejected from his own kitchen.

You set the tray down in front of him with all the grace of a crowned queen.

He eyed it. Then you. Then the wings again.

“…Did you order takeout and hide the packaging?”

Your palm hit his shoulder with a satisfying thwap. He didn’t even flinch.

He leaned in anyway. Picked up a wing. Sniffed it. Turned it over once between his fingers like he was inspecting foreign tech.

Then — slowly, deliberately — bit down. Not a dainty bite. He stripped the wing like it owed him intel. Left nothing but clean bone and a line of sauce glossing his bottom lip.

You blinked. Maybe twice.

He chewed. Swallowed. Raised a brow.

“...They’re edible.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s it?”

A second wing disappeared. Then a third.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said around the fourth, “but I think I might be in danger.”

You blinked again. “From what?”

He looked you dead in the eye. “Falling in love.”

Your face went up in flames. You laughed — too sharp, too loud — and smacked his leg. But you didn’t stop smiling.

Neither did he.

Somehow, between the sarcasm and the second bowl, you ended up shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing. Hands sticky. Bowl empty.

You didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. But when he licked sauce off his thumb and looked at you like you were next —

You forgot every reason you hadn’t kissed him yet.

His eyes lingered on your lips longer this time. No flicker, no teasing half-glance. Just heat. Quiet, anchored heat that pinned you in place like a pressure point no one else had ever found.

“You win,” Caleb said at last, voice barely above a murmur, rough around the edges like it had been dragged across gravel. “The wings. The bet.”

You exhaled, shallow. “That hard to admit?”

His mouth curved, but not like he was amused. More like it hurt a little. “Harder than getting shot, honestly.”

You huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t go anywhere. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like hunger. Like want. Like he'd waited long enough.

“Go on,” he added, that low timbre settling over your skin. “Pick your prize.”

It should’ve been a joke. Should’ve been easy. But your body had other plans.

The ache hit first — low and warm, coiling under your skin. It wasn’t a rush. It was a pull. A slow, molten drag that made it suddenly impossible to sit still.

You shifted, crossing your legs like it would help. It didn’t. Your underwear clung where it shouldn’t. The throb between your thighs was steady now. Treacherous.

You didn’t look at him. “I’ll think about it.”

His gaze didn’t drop. Didn’t move. But you felt it. All of it. Like touch. Like heat.

Silence.

Then, you muttered, mostly to yourself, “Is it… hot in here?”

Caleb’s brow lifted the tiniest bit. “I was wondering when you’d say that.”

He stood. Slowly. The way a soldier moves when every muscle is trained not to betray urgency.

And that was when you saw it. The dark line down the center of his shirt. The way the fabric clung to him. And lower — the unmistakable strain in his jeans.

You shouldn’t have looked. But you did.

He stepped toward the window, cracked it open. The breeze kissed the back of your neck. Still not enough.

When he turned around, you were already watching him. He stilled.

For a moment, nothing moved. Not you. Not him. Just air, trembling between two people who’d been circling this for months.

You swallowed. “You said I could choose my prize.”

He nodded once. You tilted your head. Let your voice drop. “And you wouldn’t stop me.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. “I wouldn’t.”

You stood. Carefully. Your body felt foreign. Heavy and too aware of itself. Of him. Of the scent still lingering on your fingers. Garlic and heat and him.

You passed him slow — maybe too slow — the back of your fingers grazing his stomach as you did. A light touch. Barely anything. But he flinched. Like you’d struck a nerve buried too deep to name.

And then—

His hand shot out. Grabbed your wrist. You gasped. Stopped.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. Hard. Quiet. Like something had broken loose in him and he didn’t trust it.

Neither did you.

Not the look. Not the breath you just dragged in. Not the heat that rolled through your body like it had a will of its own.

You both stood there. Still.

Then—

His hand slid down. Fingers laced with yours. And he pulled.

You stumbled. Into him. Against him. Your chest hit his, and that’s when you felt it — the pressure. The hard, unmistakable proof that he wanted this just as badly. Maybe more.

That was the moment. The line. And you stepped over it.

You surged up and kissed him. Open. Desperate. Not gentle. Not slow. Teeth. Tongue. Breathless collisions.

He growled. Hands on your hips, your ass, your spine — gripping, anchoring, consuming. You broke the kiss only to gasp, “Bedroom.”

He didn’t ask. Didn’t tease. Just moved.

Your back hit the wall once on the way there — hands groping, mouths colliding, your braid being yanked just enough to make you whimper. Then the bed.

And then—

Clothes everywhere.

He was on top of you, between your legs, shirtless, flushed, panting like a man starving in a field of food he thought he’d never taste again. You pulled his pants open with shaking hands. He ripped your shirt at the seam.

Nothing delicate. Everything necessary.

When your skin met, it was violence. Beautiful. Raw. Atomic.

His mouth crashed against your breast. You arched into it, crying out, the sound catching in your throat as his hand found its way between your legs — fingers slicking through you like he knew you.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped. “Fucking drenched—”

“Don’t — don’t say it,” you gasped, but your hips bucked against his hand.

“Why?” he murmured against your nipple, tongue circling. “Scared it’s true?”

You clawed at his shoulders. “I don’t know what’s happening—”

“Yes you do.” His voice went rough. “You know exactly what’s happening.”

And he was right. You did. You wanted. And for the first time in years, you weren’t afraid of how badly.

He slid two fingers inside you, slow but deep, and your entire body snapped — taut and trembling, mouth open, no air left to swallow.

You came. Just like that. And he hadn’t even started.

His mouth found yours again. He kissed you through it — through your moans, through the tremors, through the shock of it all. Then he grabbed your leg, pulled it up over his hip, and lined himself up.

He looked at you once. Just once. Eyes dark. Wild. Asking.

You nodded. And he pushed in.

You screamed. Not from pain. Not even from stretch. From the depth. The snap. The way it felt like your body had been waiting for this exact shape, this weight, this claim and had finally found it.

“Jesus fuck,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. “I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You kissed him again. Bit his bottom lip. Rocked your hips to meet his thrust.

And then it was chaos. Sweat. Skin. Fingers. Scratches.

He flipped you. Dragged you to the edge. Held your hips and slammed into you so hard the headboard knocked the wall. You met every thrust. Matched every groan.

“Harder,” you gasped. “More — don’t you fucking stop—”

“Say it,” he panted. “Say you want it. Say you want me.”

“I do,” you cried, tears on your cheeks now. “I always — fuck — always have—”

His hand slid up your spine. His mouth found your shoulder. His hips destroyed you.

You came again — helpless, shaking, wrecked. He wasn’t far behind. When he spilled inside you with a ragged, hoarse cry of your name, it was like the room exhaled.

He collapsed on top of you. You both lay there. Sticky. Shaking. Stunned.

Your thighs trembled beneath the weight of him, and his breath scraped out against your neck like he was still chasing oxygen.

You thought that was it. That you’d burned it all out in one glorious, unrepeatable burst.

Until—

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

You felt it before he said a word. Still hard. Still there.

He lifted his head. Just enough to look down at you. Brows drawn, cheeks flushed, mouth slack with something like disbelief.

“Are you—?” you whispered.

He nodded once. Swallowed. “It’s not… it’s not going down.”

You blinked. A beat. Then—

You snorted. Just once. Couldn’t help it. Caleb glared, half amused, half mortified. “I’m serious.”

“I can feel that,” you said, breathless. “Trust me, it’s the one part of you I have no trouble reading right now.”

He dropped his forehead to your collarbone with a low groan. “This is… not normal.”

“Not… unwelcome,” you offered, lifting an eyebrow as your hand slid down his side. “Unless you’re saying you’re done.”

He froze. You tilted your head. Smirked.

“I mean,” you purred, “if it’s too much for you…”

Caleb growled — low and wrecked — and tried to shift off of you. But you didn’t let him. Your legs wrapped tighter. Your hips tilted up. And his cock — still painfully, impossibly hard — slid just a little deeper.

He sucked in a sharp breath. You both did. Then your fingers curled around the back of his neck.

“No,” you whispered. “Stay.”

And he did.

The next round wasn’t gentle. It was raw. Sloppy. Almost delirious. You were slick and open and aching for it — for him — and he moved like he didn’t care if it broke him.

He fucked you like it was his job. Like penance. Like prayer. And you took it. Gave back. Met every thrust with want and teeth and fingernails.

You came again. He didn’t stop.

He flipped you. Took you from behind, your cheek pressed to the mattress, ass in the air, his hand buried in your hair like a handle he couldn’t afford to let go of. You screamed into the sheets when he hit that spot — over and over — and your legs gave out under you.

You came again. He didn’t stop.

The third time, you were on top. Riding him hard, reckless, nails dragging down his chest. His hands were everywhere. His mouth bruising yours. It felt endless. It was endless.

The heat never faded. The pulse never slowed. And neither did he.

You came again.

The fourth time… you broke him.

His hands fell away. His mouth went slack. His body shuddered violently beneath you as he spilled into you once more, gasping your name like a confession.

He didn’t move after that. Couldn’t. You collapsed forward, your chest to his, your head to his shoulder, your thighs still trembling, your whole body pulsing around the stretch of him inside you.

You didn’t pull off. Didn’t want to. Your breath slowed. So did his.

You lay there, tangled together, limbs shaking, muscles useless, heat still simmering in the air like something sacred. Your hips twitched once more — involuntary. He groaned. But neither of you spoke.

You fell asleep just like that. Still connected. Still inside. Still everything.

Morning hurt.

In the good way. The kind that made you wince when you stretched and immediately smile through it. Muscles sore in places you hadn’t used since… ever. Your thighs protested. Your hips whimpered. Even your toes ached, and you were pretty sure at some point during round three you’d cramped your calf and moaned through it anyway.

The sound of the bathroom door made you stir. Caleb. Out of the shower, towel around his hips, hair damp, beard still glistening with steam. He walked like a man who’d been hit by a truck. You knew the feeling.

You didn’t move until he was gone from view. Then you groaned, rolled out of bed like every joint was filing a complaint, and stumbled into the shower just long enough to rinse off the worst of the evidence. Your thighs tried to fold under you again. You cursed him fondly under your breath.

You found one of his T-shirts — dark gray, soft, oversized, familiar — and pulled it over your head like you had every right to it now. Because you did.

The smell of coffee led you to the kitchen. Two mugs waited on the island.

So did Caleb.

He stood barefoot in front of the counter, head tilted, holding something in one hand. A bottle. Small. Dark. Unlabeled — no, wait. Not unlabeled. The label was peeling. Handwritten. And very, very familiar.

Your stomach flipped.

He didn’t turn around when he spoke. Just held it up like it was evidence.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, “you did not use this for the wings.”

You didn’t answer. The silence spoke for you.

He turned then. Slowly. Face unreadable. Bottle still in hand like it might explode.

“Oh my god,” he said. “You did.”

You lifted one shoulder, sheepish. “I thought it was... herb oil? It smelled good. Kinda spicy.”

He stared. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle. Not a smirk.

A full-bodied, stomach-clutching, almost-hurts-to-breathe kind of laugh that shook his shoulders and made him bend halfway over the counter.

“I told them I wasn’t gonna drink it,” he wheezed. “I told them — I said — ‘That stuff’s basically legal Viagra brewed in someone's grandma's basement,’ and you — oh my god — you cooked with it!”

You stared. “Wait, what?!”

He held the bottle like it had personally ruined his evening. “It’s called Mamajuana. Dominican thing. Rum. Red wine. Tree bark. Herbs. Aphrodisiac-level strong. My unit called it hellfire in a bottle. A guy once took two shots and tried to hump a satellite dish.”

You nearly fell off your stool.

Your face dropped into your hands with a groan. “You are not serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, grinning so hard it almost cracked his face in half. “And you marinated chicken in it.”

“I didn’t know!” you wailed, voice muffled. “I thought it was fancy olive oil!”

Caleb took a step forward, grin widening, voice dropping.

“Pip-squeak,” he murmured, “I came four times last night and still had a hard-on strong enough to pass for a concealed weapon. I thought I was dying.”

You made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeak and shook your head, still hiding behind your fingers.

Then — a shift. The humor lingered in his smile, but his gaze softened.

He stepped closer. Set the bottle down.

His hands found your hips, thumbs brushing bare skin where the T-shirt had ridden up. He leaned in, kissed your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Then your neck. Slower this time.

No rush.

Just the warm, quiet gravity of someone who knew you now. Not just your body. But your rhythm. Your fear. Your fight.

His lips hovered at your jaw.

“I don’t regret a second of it,” he said, voice low and real.

You looked up at him.

“Even if it wasn’t all... us?” you whispered.

His smile faded to something softer.

“It was us,” he said. “Every second of it. We just finally stopped holding back.”

You breathed in — deep, full, present. He kissed you again. Longer this time. Deeper. Less fire. More embers.

And when his hands slid beneath the hem of the shirt — yours now — and you sighed into his mouth, the ache that answered wasn’t urgent.

It was wanting.

Wanting more mornings. Wanting this. Wanting him.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “So. That still counted as winning, right?”

Caleb sighed like a man clinging to the last shreds of control. “You’re banned from my kitchen. Permanently.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied. “Guess I’ll have to keep making a mess somewhere else.”

His groan was low, helpless. And yeah. He was already planning the cleanup.

🦆 Fire in a Wreck During a Flood

It started, as most bad decisions do, with good intentions and a duck.

You had this vision — soft lighting, one perfect dish, a glass of red wine, maybe some music playing in the background. A date night he didn’t see coming. You’d even bought a packet of helium balloons from a tiny shop two zones over, planning to float them by the window while dinner simmered.

You never got to the balloons.

The first duck died in the oven around 5:40 PM — shriveled, blackened, and glistening like volcanic glass. You’d followed half a dozen different recipes, all of which disagreed, and all of which demanded equipment Sylus would never allow into his cathedral of a kitchen. In desperation, you tried to dispose of it quickly. The garbage bin felt too disrespectful. The sink seemed... decisive.

You honestly thought there was a disposal switch. There was not.

You shoved the remains down the drain with a wooden spoon and a whispered apology, until the bird jammed in the curve of the pipe with a thud and the faucet made a low, wet, glugging growl.

Water stopped draining. Then it started backing up. Then it smelled like duck murder.

You’d tried to fix it yourself — unscrewed something under the sink with righteous fury and zero plumbing knowledge, planning to just shake out the remains like a normal person with a death wish.

But you picked the wrong pipe.

A rush of foul water hissed up, something metallic clattered loose, and you ended up holding a piece of the sink’s undercarriage like a war trophy.

You didn’t know what it was called. But it looked important.

You called the twins.

By the time Kieran and Luke arrived, you were ankle-deep in soapy panic, drying your hands on a decorative towel that now reeked of soy sauce and grief.

Kieran didn’t laugh — not out loud. He crouched beside the sink, yanked open the cabinet, and muttered, “You clogged a full industrial drain with a whole animal.”

“It was already dead,” you hissed.

Kieran shook his head, flashlight clenched between his teeth, legs braced awkwardly around the open cupboard while his gloved hands vanished into the under-sink abyss.

Luke had wandered off to inspect the rest of the kitchen, humming faintly. You’d made the mistake of leaving the duck's replacement marinating on the counter.

"Is this attempt two?" he asked, peering into the tray. “Bold.”

“I can still save this,” you said, mostly to yourself.

“Sure,” he said. “You got another fire extinguisher?”

Then he noticed the helium balloons — still in their unopened package — and lit up like he’d just spotted a new toy in the sandbox.

“Cute. You gonna blow these up?”

“Later,” you said, swiping a streak of marinade from your cheek. “Romance.”

Ten minutes later, Luke was inflating one of the balloons — not for romance — and narrating in falsetto:

“Quack-quack, darling. Look at me, I’m your third duck. I’m full of air and disappointment.”

You rolled your eyes.

He let go of the balloon. It zoomed across the kitchen with a high-pitched pppbbbt-tap! and smacked the refrigerator. Then he found another. Filled it. This time, sucked in the helium.

“Yoooourrrr hiiiighnessssss,” he squeaked, hopping around behind you. “The kitchen begs for mercy!”

You were up on the bottom shelf of the tall cabinet by then — perched on tiptoes, trying to reach a bottle you knew Sylus kept up there. You weren’t even sure what it was, but it had a gold seal, and Kieran had told you it would “caramelize skin like a dream.”

The cabinet creaked. Your toes curled over the edge of a jar of lentils. Your hand closed around cold glass just as —

POP.

Behind you. Loud. Sudden.

A burst of helium balloon, punctured by Luke's metal straw.

You shrieked. Flinched. And fell.

Flour rained down like snow. A box of penne exploded. The lentils hit the tile like a thousand tiny bullets. Except the tile was underwater — and everything sank, scattered, and swirled into what could only be described as soup. You hit the ground tangled in a tablecloth that had been drying over a chair, splashing like a capsized ship in a sea of your own making. A saucepan bounced once, then rolled.

Luke’s voice piped up from somewhere behind the island: “…she flies through the air, the Boss’s beautiful wife, wings of glory, pasta in her wake…”

“I am not his wife yet!” you howled.

“Nope,” Kieran noted. “But keep this up and you’ll be the reason Boss stays single forever.”

You were covered head to toe in culinary wreckage. Rice in your bra. Penne stuck to your thigh. A tablecloth twisted around your waist like a toga of shame. And standing just past the island, smug as a soap opera villain, was Luke — the one who’d turned a leaky sink into an ecological disaster.

He was grinning. Still holding a half-deflated pink heart balloon.

You locked eyes. He blinked. You lunged.

“NOPE—!” he yelped, and bolted, scattering flour behind him like smoke from a cartoon getaway.

You grabbed the nearest saucepan and charged.

“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!”

“I think it’s historic!” Luke squeaked, helium still warping his voice into chipmunk-on-caffeine levels of absurdity.

“You almost killed me!”

“You bounced!” he chirped, skittering backward as you raised the saucepan like a medieval war hammer.

“You popped the balloon on purpose!”

“Science demanded answers!”

“You turned the kitchen into Venice!”

“You’re the one who shoved a duck down the sink!” he squealed, practically wheezing now.

“IT WAS A DELICATE OPERATION—”

“IT WAS A BIOHAZARD,” he shrieked, voice cracking into full cartoon chaos.

You chased him around the kitchen island — water sloshing underfoot, socks soaked, jeans heavy and clinging to your calves. You slipped once in the flood, caught yourself on the counter with a growl, then hurled a wooden spoon like a warning shot. It pinged off his shoulder with a sharp thwack — just enough to make him yelp and speed up.

He skidded around the corner of the prep table, laughing in pure helium-high chaos. “You’re so mad! You’re so cute when you’re mad!”

“I’m gonna crown you with this pan like it’s Excalibur, you little plague.”

He ducked behind a chair.

You faked right, doubled back, and body-checked him as he turned — sending you both crashing into the flood-slicked floor in a splatter of lentils and shame. Water went everywhere. You landed half on top of him, half in a puddle, soaked to the waist and swearing through your teeth as your knee skidded into a floating onion peel.

He wheezed dramatically. “Mercy! I’m just the court jester!”

You raised the saucepan.

“No,” you said sweetly. “You’re the sacrificial goose.”

And with all the dignity of a woman pushed to her limit, you jammed the pot onto his head.

Hard.

BONK.

He squawked inside the metal. “Quack—!”

You gave the edges an extra push, crimping it with both palms like a pastry crust until it wedged on tight.

He flailed. “I CAN’T SEE!”

“You weren’t using your eyes anyway!”

“IT’S DARK IN HERE!”

“GOOD.”

Kieran, still under the sink, gagged on the swampy reek of the drain and muttered, “This is the most effective leadership I’ve seen all week.”

Luke staggered upright, tripped over a bag of dried beans, and stumbled headfirst into the pantry, still yelling “Quack-Quack!” like a demonic toddler trapped in a trash can.

You stood there panting, soaked, hair a mess, one sock gone. The marinade bowl had capsized, the countertop looked like a battlefield, and the floor sloshed with every breath. A spoon floated past like a tiny, defeated boat.

Kieran groaned from under the sink. “I’m disabling the line. If anything explodes, I was never here.”

“Go,” you grunted, waving Kieran off as you turned toward the duck. It was still sitting in its tray on the counter — damp, marinated, mildly accusatory. You grabbed it with all the solemnity of a general sending troops to war, shoved it into the oven, slammed the door, and muttered, “Redemption arc starts now.”

Luke let out a squeak from somewhere behind the pantry, the saucepan still echoing on his head like a helmet of shame. You didn’t even look this time — you just marched toward him, grabbed the sides of the pot, and wrenched it off with the fury of a woman betrayed by every possible element in her own kitchen.

“Put this under the sink,” you snapped, thrusting the pot into his arms. “Catch the fountain. And then scoop.”

“I am not a—” he started.

“—scoop,” you repeated, with full executioner energy.

He obeyed, waddling toward the sink with the pot held like a sacred relic, muttering under his breath in cartoonish despair. You reached for the once-white tablecloth — now steeped in soy, shame, and poor life choices — and dropped to your knees in the puddle. Not to clean. There was no cleaning this. Just to wring it out. One sockless foot sloshed audibly as you shifted. The tablecloth squelched between your hands like it was laughing at you. You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl into the oven with the duck and call it a day.

Kieran, looking like a man who’d just won a duel with Poseidon, finally shut off the main. The next hour and a half passed in soggy penance — you and Luke taking turns scooping floodwater with pots, pans, and whatever wasn’t bolted down. Bit by bit, the tide receded, leaving behind a battlefield of soy trails, bloated pasta, and condiment carnage.

Kieran dragged in a barrel from the garden (“emergency pickling project,” he said, like that explained anything), and everything — soup, sludge, and the last of your dignity — got dumped there. You considered changing into the dress. A real one. With buttons. But one glance at the twins, the oven, and the duck now sizzling like it had ambitions — and you thought better of it. No way were you leaving the boys alone with poultry and fire. Your stomach growled in agreement.

Kieran side-eyed the sink with deep suspicion. “I think I fixed it,” he said, then pointed a cautious finger. “I’m turning the water back on. If this explodes, I’m telling the Boss it was divine intervention."

That’s when the duck started to… smell.

Not burning. Not yet. But that turning point — when fat starts to push too hard against heat, and the sugar in the glaze threatens to go bitter. The scent went from rich to ominous in seconds.

“Kieran!” you called. “Duck’s turning!”

His voice floated faintly from the back hallway: “WATER’S BACK ON!”

You barely glanced up, busy pulling the duck out of the oven with the reverence of a starving survivor discovering civilization. It glistened. It hissed. It smelled like victory. Your stomach responded with a growl loud enough to echo off the tile.

Behind you, Luke poured the last potful of murky disaster-water into the barrel with a theatrical sigh of relief.

You straightened, turned to Kieran — who was already shaking his boots dry in the hallway.

“Great,” you said, nodding at the swamp you all still technically lived in. “Now bring something to finish the job.”

A vague gesture at the floor. “Anything. Everything. Make it shine. I want to see my sins reflected in it.”

He gave you a dry salute, walked toward the nearest cabinet, and yanked it open like a man on a mission. Thirty seconds in, he straightened up with a glint in his eye and a bottle in his hand.

It was dark glass, sealed in gold, labeled in some faded print that was definitely not English.

“What is that?” you asked suspiciously.

Kieran grinned. “Back-cabinet treasure. Might be Boss’s old flambé stash.”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’re not lighting anything—”

"Chill. Science time," he said, thunking the bottle onto the counter and grabbing a plate.

You hovered as he drizzled a bit of the syrupy liquid onto the plate, struck a lighter, and—

FOOMPH.

A perfect, beautiful curl of flame.

You blinked. “…Okay, that’s — actually good.”

“Told you.”

You took the bottle. Lifted it over the duck. Poured — slowly, carefully — just a little.

The skin went golden. Sizzled. Glazed to glossy perfection.

You smiled. “Oh my god. It’s working — Kieran, it’s —”

At that exact moment — as if the chaos gods had been bored for a whole thirty seconds — Luke decided it was the perfect time to haul the sloshing barrel of filthy kitchen swamp water back into the garden.

He lifted it. He tilted it. He tipped it.

And the moment it lurched, so did Kieran — who lunged to help like some tragic grease-soaked hero. One foot hit a patch of duck-slick water, and the rest was gravity and shame. He crashed straight into the open cupboard under the sink, which took the betrayal personally and collapsed like a Victorian lady. The freshly "fixed" pipe let out a wet pop, and a new geyser of very enthusiastic water erupted with all the joy of plumbing vengeance.

Your eyebrows climbed to your hairline, and every fine hair on the back of your neck stood to attention. You watched in mute horror as the kitchen — once bravely salvaged — began to flood all over again, murky water rising with gleeful malice.

Luke yelped, pointing toward the stove.

You turned — just in time to see the duck, which had previously been golden and glorious, now engulfed in a column of flame tall enough to make the ceiling nervous.

You lunged forward.

The flambé bottle tipped with a mocking wobble, spilling straight into the swamp forming beneath your feet. The pan followed a heartbeat later, flipping end over end before bellyflopping into the puddle like it wanted to die dramatically.

The water caught fire.

You and Luke screamed in unison and scrambled onto the nearest countertops like startled gremlins avoiding divine punishment.

Kieran, ever the survivalist, dove into the open cabinet under the sink and slammed the door shut behind him like a soldier bracing for impact.

And just when it felt like it couldn’t possibly get worse — the fire alarm shrieked. Two seconds later, the ceiling sprinklers erupted, dousing everything in a cold, unforgiving cascade of water.

You didn’t scream. You groaned — a low, guttural, end-of-rope kind of sound.

“It’s water,” you whispered, eyes wide, voice cracking like a dying prayer. “It’s supposed to go out...”

From above, Luke peered down from the top of the kitchen cabinet, hair frizzed out like he’d licked a socket.

“…That might’ve been the exterior use blend,” he offered helpfully.

And then—

The front doors creaked open.

A gust of cooler air swept into the kitchen, briefly disturbing the rising steam, the smell of scorched poultry, and whatever part of your soul had already fled your body.

He appeared in the doorway like a punctuation mark at the end of the world.

Sylus.

Black coat half open. Shirt crisp. Expression unreadable. Rain still clung to the cuffs of his sleeves, like even the weather knew better than to interrupt him.

He stepped into what had once been his kitchen — a space once worthy of a museum of culinary art — and paused.

You didn’t breathe.

He took in:

The flames skimming across the floor like demons doing synchronized swimming in Hell's spa day.

The shattered flambé bottle oozing fire like it was auditioning for a disaster movie.

Luke, crouched on top of the cabinet like a gremlin, clutching the salad spinner like it might absolve him.

Kieran, inside the under-sink cupboard with the door pulled shut, as if drywall could shield him from divine judgment.

And you — perched on the countertop like a feral kitchen goddess mid-sacrifice, hair wild, one sock clinging to dignity, staring at him like you'd just burned down Versailles and wanted notes on your form.

He said absolutely nothing. He just stood there. Then, finally, Sylus inhaled.

“Kitten…” he said, with the exhausted breath of a man too tired to be angry and too furious not to speak. “Was this dinner... or did the Four Horsemen stop by for takeout?”

You swallowed. “I wanted to surprise you.”

He blinked once.

“I am very, very surprised.”

You tried to smile. It came out crooked. “It started off romantic.”

Sylus’s gaze dragged across the battlefield. “And then?”

“…There were developments.”

“I can see that.”

He stepped forward. Slowly. As if expecting the floor to betray him. It squelched.

You flinched. “Okay — don’t be mad—”

He raised a brow, expression blank. “Oh, I’m not mad. I’m just trying to calculate whether Linkon Crisis Council covers emotional trauma caused by fiancées attempting to recreate the Trojan War using poultry.”

“Technically,” you said, shrinking slightly, “only one duck was involved.”

He looked at you. Deadpan.

“Just one,” he repeated.

You nodded.

There was a pause. Just long enough to remember the first duck — the one you’d sent to an early, crispy grave. You nodded again, a touch too firmly this time, as if doing it faster might somehow salvage your dignity.

Then his eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”

“…Floating,” Luke offered helpfully. “Somewhere near the cabinet of lost hope.”

Sylus exhaled through his nose like a man deciding whether spontaneous combustion was a valid coping strategy.

Then he looked back at you. Steady. Quiet.

“You realize,” he said slowly, “I’m going to have to salt the kitchen. Like a cursed site. Maybe call a priest.”

“Noted.”

“And you,” he added, stepping close enough that you had to tilt your chin up, “are never cooking in here again.”

You tried to pout. “Even toast?”

He didn’t blink. “Especially toast.”

“So you’re not mad.”

“I’m livid,” he said calmly, lifting you off the counter like you weighed nothing. “But I’m not letting you walk barefoot through your own war crime.”

You gasped. “I’m fine!”

He raised a brow. “Kitten, remember that time we tracked an SSR-class Wanderer into a no-hunt zone, and you ended up covered in cave dust, ripped your sleeve scaling a comm tower, and dislocated your shoulder punching it in the optic?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

He nodded. “You looked more put-together then.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and carried you — wet, guilty, and still somehow grinning — straight out of the kitchen, past the still-sputtering pipe, tossing a sharp “Kieran, shut it down” over his shoulder like a grenade on a timer.

He carried you out through the garden door in silence. Past the scorched threshold, past the scent of smoked soy and betrayal.

For a second, you blinked against the sudden breeze, mind scrambling.

Wait. Was he... evicting you? Was this how it ended — dumped in the herb patch like a misbehaving housecat?

But before you could ask what in the horticultural hell was happening, he crossed the lawn with the grim purpose of a man about to hose down a crime scene.

And then — he set you down. Gently. In the grass. Like some tragic harvest offering.

“SYLUS!” you gasped, still clinging to his shirt.

He ignored you. Walked over to the side of the tool shed. Turned on the outdoor hose. Lifted the nozzle with terrifying precision —

And blasted you from ankle to scalp in a cold, high-pressure arc of righteous vengeance.

“GAHH—!”

You squealed, spinning in place like a soaked kitten who’d just been baptized in heresy. Your hair flopped into your eyes. Water ran down your back. You flailed. You slipped.

“Stop — stop it—!”

You tried to dodge. He followed. Calm. Efficient. Not even smiling.

“You wanted fire,” he said, voice maddeningly even. “This is balance.”

You lunged for the hose in protest, indignant and dripping. He dodged, of course. Effortlessly. With the reflexes of someone who clearly wrestled war criminals for fun. Then — just as you swore vengeance — he looped the hose around your waist once, then twice, and pulled.

You went stumbling straight into him with a wet thump, every nerve in your body shrieking indignation. He caught you like you were nothing at all. Warm. Steady. Unbothered.

Behind you, what was left of the kitchen flood trickled into the rose bushes. And, as your soaked shirt clung to his chest, it occurred to you that for the first time in hours…

…his house didn’t have a single drop of water left in it. Except, apparently, in the garden. And you.

“When I leave,” he murmured into your ear, breath warm and infuriating, “I clearly need to tie you up. For public safety.”

You were shaking now — not from rage, but from the cold. Your teeth chattered. Your fingers clenched in his shirt.

He paused. And just like that, the heat in him changed.

He dropped the hose. Silence.

Then — gentle. Quick. Fluid — he peeled his shirt off over his head, wrapped it around your shoulders, and lifted you back into his arms, this time with no protest, no force.

You curled into him instinctively.

He didn’t speak again until you passed through the back doors and he was carrying you upstairs. Not a word. Just the steady rhythm of his breath and your heartbeat thudding against his shoulder. You didn’t know if he was furious or resigned or about to call the national emergency hotline and declare a domestic code red.

Instead, he set you down in the hallway, dripping, barefoot, and blinking at the sudden warmth.

“Go change,” he said simply, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Before I hand you over to the fire department as evidence.”

He turned, disappeared down the stairs.

You changed quickly — dry clothes, clean skin, wrapped in one of his soft cotton pullovers that still smelled like expensive cologne and accidental forgiveness. When you padded back down barefoot, the scent of smoke had faded. Mostly.

The kitchen... looked almost normal. A bit too shiny in places. A few new scorch marks on the far wall.

Kieran and Luke stood elbow-deep in soap bubbles, suspiciously well-behaved. Kieran glanced up and winced. Luke saw you, gave you a sheepish wave —

Then broke into a huge grin and threw you a thumbs-up. You squinted.

“Why is he smiling?”

“Don’t ask,” Kieran muttered.

Before you could press, Sylus appeared at your side, as if conjured by dry wit and exhaustion. He took your hand — gently, like you might try to make another kitchen combust — and led you out to the waiting car.

You looked back once. Luke blew you a kiss. Kieran mouthed, run while you still can.

Sylus helped you into the passenger seat with a soft sigh, shut the door, and climbed in beside you. He didn’t say anything for the first few streets. The city blurred past in late-afternoon gold. Then:

“I was gone for six hours.”

You glanced at him.

He looked ahead, face unreadable. “Six. Hours.”

“Technically, it started fine,” you said.

“No. No, it didn’t.”

“There was a plan.”

“There was a flood.”

“Only because the sink didn’t have a disposal.”

“Because you shoved an entire duck down it.”

You scowled. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You roasted a duck in a flaming puddle of floor soup.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re not gonna marry me now, are you? Just because I can’t cook.”

Sylus’s mouth twitched. “That’s not the worst of your flaws.”

You gasped. “Excuse me—!”

He reached over, casually laced his fingers with yours.

“You don’t just not cook. You destroy infrastructure. You violate the Geneva Conventions of domestic appliances. But…” he looked at you, side-glance soft now, voice quiet, “you did it because you wanted to surprise me.”

You deflated. Just a little.

“I wanted it to be romantic.”

He parked in front of the hotel — a high-end private tower you’d never even noticed before. The doorman opened your door. Sylus ignored him.

“You’re going to shower,” he said, voice slipping into command again. “A long, hot one. While I figure out how to rebuild a kitchen from ashes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are we staying here?”

He looked at the sky. “Unless you’d like to sleep on a countertop covered in caramelized soy glue.”

You were still grumbling when the suite door clicked shut behind you. The shower steamed the mirrors. The robe was comically plush — full hotel luxury. You padded out barefoot, towel around your hair, haloed in warmth.

And stopped dead. On the table: dinner.

Steam curled from a silver cloche. A bottle of wine rested in an ice bath. And in the center — carved, plated, perfect: Peking. Duck.

You narrowed your eyes. “You — you ordered this.”

Sylus was by the window, immaculate as ever — hair flawless, suit crisp, a wineglass poised in one hand. He looked like a luxury ad for danger and disapproval. And next to him, you felt like a half-drowned feral kitten someone had hosed off just enough to be allowed indoors.

You scowled. “I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He crossed the room, took your hand again, and pulled you into his lap as he sat. The robe slipped open slightly. His fingers skimmed under the hem, along the back of your thigh, warm against your clean skin.

“You had my card,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “You could’ve ordered it. From anywhere. Best in the city.”

“I wanted to do it myself.”

“I know.” His lips brushed your jaw. “And I’d still burn the house again if it meant getting here.”

You turned to kiss him — deep, slow, shameless. He tasted like red wine and something even older. His hand wrapped in your hair. Your legs shifted around him.

Somewhere across the room, the duck sighed.

Forgotten. Cooling.

Probably grateful it didn’t end up as test subject number three.

1K notes · View notes

roanofarcc · 30 days ago

Text

DREAMWALKER

pairing: bob reynolds x enhanced!reader

summary: you use your dreamwalking abilities to try to soothe the storm in bob’s head.

warnings: mentions of nightmares, trouble sleeping, childhood abuse, and themes of despression. very soft with bob getting some more much needed comfort. gen!reader.

word count. 2.3k | masterlist

The Watchtower was bathed in silence as most of its inhabitants slept. You were among them for a while, free-floating through their dreams as your abilities overtook your sleeping form as they did every night. Your body needed the rest, but dreamwalkers’ minds never could, as when their eyes fluttered closed, their minds roamed from dream to dream of whoever was near.

Before you moved in with your newfound team, you simply observed dreams as a passerby when you slept. But since living in the Watchtower, you learned quickly that your tough-skinned roommates suffered from an endless brigade of nightmares, whether they remembered them when the morning sun rose or not.

You felt their fear, their regrets, the cold submergence of dread that flooded the depths of their subconscious. It was invasive, your abilities, something you could not turn off. Instead of watching their nightmares, you busied your wondering mind by re-painting the dark scenes of their minds. Shadow-filled rooms and unforgiving hands, you spun into warm homes and gentle caresses. You spent your nights scrubbing their minds of bloodstained missions and unhealed wounds, replacing them with scenes drenched in hope and reminders of the goodness that resided inside them.

It was your secret, your silent mission to remind your friends both when they slept and when they were awake that they were not too broken that they could not be put back together. You drenched their dreams in lightness, in goodness, hoping that it would bleed into their waking form.

That night, however, as you floated from dream to dream, one was missing. You forced yourself to wake, following your instincts to where the only mind you could not find may be hiding, avoiding the scenes of his mind that were the most complicated you had ever witnessed.

You had never encountered a dream you struggled to fix. Even the darkest, most horrible nightmares you could reshape with ease. Memories of torture, of gut-wrenching deaths, you could soothe and redirect to soft touches and pull the sweetest memories of those lost loved ones to the forefront of that person's mind.

Bob’s mind was the only one you had met that was so resistant.

“You’re up late,” you said, softly approaching the hunched figure at the kitchen counter. Bob’s hands were wrapped around a mug of half-drunk tea, and his eyes looked heavy with each slow blink.

He did offer you a small smile, but he tensed as you caught him awake at such an hour. “Oh, y-yeah.”

You leaned on your elbows across from him at the counter, taking him in. His figure was swallowed in a sweater and hair askew, which told that he had attempted to sleep.

“Trouble sleeping?” you asked.

Bob nodded as his eyes slipped onto his mug. “You too?”

“Not exactly.” His brows furrowed, confusion melting with the clear exhaustion that shaded his face.

You hadn’t told the others of your unavoidable venturing into their minds because you knew how vulnerable dreams and nightmares were. They were personal, uncontrollable by most. While you had no judgment in any of what you had seen, the good, bad, and ugly, you didn’t want them to feel any shame. Perhaps it was wrong, but there was no controlling or preventing stepping inside their dreams unless you gave up on sleeping entirely. You only touched their nightmares, lingering just long enough to reshape the scene to something nice that would not leave them reeling in the morning. The deep, soul-boring personal things you did your best to block out and erase from your mind come morning. You would only tell when it could be helpful.

“I was looking for you, for your dreams, but I couldn’t find them.”

“My dreams?” Bob repeated, his fingers fidgeting with the paper on the end of his tea bag.

You nodded. “I can only control my abilities when I’m awake,” you explained. “When I sleep, I end up in everyone’s head. Since I started living here, I make sure you guys are having nice dreams and I get rid of your nightmares.”

Bob blinked, surprised and still confused, rightfully so. Your abilities were complicated, but he knew what that was like better than most. “You’ve seen inside my head?” he asked quietly, eyes cast downward, and lips drawn in a frown.

“Sometimes, you're a bit trickier than the others.” He closed his eyes briefly at your words, his body leaning forward like it was too heavy for him to carry. “Their nightmares are easy to change. Yours are…are stubborn.”

“Sorry,” Bob apologized like a reflex. It was your turn to frown.

“It’s not your fault. If anything, I’m sorry. I just want to use what I can do for good instead of just peering into people’s heads without them really wanting me there. If I can help, it makes me feel less bad about it.”

Glancing upwards, Bob hesitantly met your eyes that hadn’t left him. “But you can’t control it,” he said, too understanding for you but not for himself.

“I can’t,” you said. “Just like you can’t help that void inside of you. These things are a part of us, Bob. They don’t go away, so we have to do what we can with what we’ve got.”

He seemed to soak in your words, going quiet for a few moments before he shook himself out. “At least you can do good with yours,” he sighed. “I still don’t know how to be Sentry without…the other part taking over.”

You reached out across the counter, gently brushing your fingers over the back of his hand, allowing him the time and space to pull back if he wanted to. Instead, he slowly flipped his hand over, and you grasped it with a comforting squeeze.

“One day you will,” you assured him. “One day you’ll learn how to balance both. But it’s not going to work if you don’t get some sleep.”

He squeezed your hand back. “Yeah, I don’t know if I can do that. I mean some nights are fine, but others are…uh, bad. Really bad,” he said. “I think it’s better if I don’t sleep sometimes, you know?”

“What if I could help you?”

Bob slowly let go of your hand. He never liked to touch someone for too long, too scared he’d pull them back into a shameful, tragic, or agonizing memory. He was working on little touches: hugs from Yelena, pats on the shoulder from John, or holding your hands to calm himself down when everything was too overwhelming.

“You said my mind was stubborn; that you had a hard time figuring it out?” he questioned.

“When I’m free floating through everyone, it is. I don’t have direction really, or an anchor when I’m alone. But if I had a tether, I think I could chase away the nightmares.”

Bob looked hesitant, but curious too. “How would you do that?”

You smiled softly. “Do you trust me?”

Without thinking about it, Bob answered, “Yes,” almost automatically.

With his answer, his trust in you, you led him from the kitchen and into his bedroom. It was an organized mess, a reason for everything's placement in Bob’s eyes but no one else's. Books were stacked all around, and Yelena had bought little plants for everyone’s room as housewarming gifts. Bob had clothes strewn in piles, but the sweaters he wore more often were carefully placed over the back of his desk chair.

You rounded his bed to the side he didn’t look to sleep on, by the way the pillows and blankets were settled. He watched you, lingering and fidgeting in the middle of his room. As you sat on the edge of the mattress, you patted the comforter, beckoning him to join you.

“I-I don’t know about this,” he said. “What if I bump you in the middle of the night, I send you into a nightmare? I don’t know if I can stop that from happening when I sleep, and you could-”

“Bob,” you said his name with such gentleness. It caused the worry on his face to start to melt just slightly. He looked exhausted, too. “You said you trust me. And I trust you. While we sleep, it’s my mind that’ll be in control, not yours, I promise.”

He dragged his feet across the floor, pausing at the edge of his bed before climbing in. His body was stiff as he lay down beside you. You rolled onto your side, studying him. If you also hadn’t been so tired, you could have gazed at him for hours, remembering every curve of his face and curl of his hair. In your eyes, he was intriguing and impossibly handsome.

You brushed some hair away from his face, allowing you to see him better in the low glow of moonlight and the city lights that snuck in through a crack in the curtains. Bob’s eyes fluttered before he forced them open, peering at you with a tense jaw. Dragging your fingers down the side of his face, you rested your hand on his jaw.

“Just relax,” you whispered. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to keep fighting sleep, but as your fingers ghosted against his jaw, his eyes closed.

You did the same, resting your hand on his shoulder as a way to tether yourself to him. It only took a simple touch for you to gain more control over the person whose mind you wanted in. For so long, you had used that ability to manipulate and hurt people, hurting yourself in the process. But you wanted to do good, to be more than a weapon. Instead of causing nightmares, you turned to easing them back into lighter dreams.

You weren’t going to let Bob’s complicated mind fight you when he also deserved beautiful dreams instead of being tormented by the one thing no one would escape.

Falling into someone’s head had become more graceful for you over time as you grew stronger and more sure of your abilities. There was a ghost of resistance that met you, but your sleeping form lightly curled their fingers around Bob’s shoulder and surged on, bypassing the darkness that snaked out from the corners of his mind, determined to remind him that they were still there.

The nightmare that Bob found himself in was similar to the one you recalled occurring through a cracked floorboard in the attic he hid out in when the Void spread across the city streets.

When you were tethered to a person, your person appeared in their head, rather than watching the scene from above in your free-floating state, unable to be perceived by whose mind you were in. You stood in what looked like a little boy’s bedroom, fit with science posters on the wall and toys scattered across a plush rug in the middle of the room.

The toys were abandoned, and there was a coldness that drenched the room. In the corner stood a little boy, a young Bob with unruly hair and matching pajamas. He sat on the ground, holding the side of his face with trembling fingers as a shadowy figure loomed over him. A man three times the little boy’s size screamed, waving his hands around, which elicited a flinch each time from little Bob.

Tears fell down the kid’s face, and a growing, angry redness showed on the skin half-hidden under his hand.

You felt hot with anger and cold with sadness at the same time, the two emotions bleeding into one. You were there to change the scene, but for a moment, you stepped forward, wanting nothing more than to place yourself between the little boy and the angry man screaming how much of a burden he was. You wanted to hold the little boy, tell him how wrong his father was. But instead, you heard your name whispered from behind you.

Spinning around, you came face to face with the grown-up version of Bob, wet eyes and something between embarrassment and heartbreak written on his face. You let out a breath, unraveling the feelings of the nightmare from around you, allowing something else to take hold.

You let Bob’s mind to the talking, telling you the things he associated with goodness, hopefulness. Piece by piece, the nightmare fractured before it was replaced entirely.

When you opened your eyes, a sun-soaked scene took hold. It was warm, smelled like cut grass and a distant barbecue. An empty swing set sat in a bed of mulch, which was soft under your feet.

Young, peaceful, safe. Those words echoed in your mind as you observed the scene.

“I remember this place,” Bob said, wearing a small smile that fit him so beautifully in the sunlight. He approached the swing set, running his hands over the dark green posts that looked freshly painted. “I used to come here when I was little, when my parents would fight. I’d sneak out and wait here until the sunset.”

He grasped the chain of the swing, tension falling from his shoulders as he then took a seat. You joined him at the second swing, lowly pushing yourself back and forth as the chains squeaked.

“Thank you,” Bob rushed out after a beat.

You smiled softly at him. “You deserve more dreams, Bob. Less nightmares.”

“More dreams,” he repeated, chewing on the words in deep thought. Then, he gazed at you, his eyes sparking and cheeks flushed as if he were a young boy who spent the day outside playing. “I-I think I have a few in mind, now.”

Back in his bedroom, you slept with your hand falling down onto his chest, resting over his heart and head comfortably on his shoulder.

The darkness stayed put, cast out for the night as he dreamed of you seated behind him in the one place he found solace in as a child. And as an adult, he started to find solace in you, in his dreams, and when he was wide awake.

#bob reynolds x you #robert reynolds x you #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #robert reynolds #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#marvel #mcu #marvel fanfiction

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malsmind · 4 months ago

Text

favorite pillow

chris sturniolo x reader

summary: chris uses your ass as a pillow

warnings: swearing, biting

author's note: i feel like i write too much smut... also have way too much of chris being obsessed with ass sitting in my drafts so

wc: 576

english is not my first language!

soft mumbles came from the TV, making it the only sound audible in chris's room other than the sound of either of you watching a tiktok or instagram reel on your phones. you were laying on your stomach, propped up on your elbows, mindlessly scrolling trough your phone with chris's head rested on your buttcheek, doing the same thing. you could feel his breath fanning over the bare skin of your ass, your shorts barely covering the smooth flesh of your backside.

whenever you shifted in your position, laying your head on the matress to help the ache in your elbows from holding yourself up on his bed, chris would groan out, complaining over you disturbing his peacful scrolling while he used your ass as a pillow, his favorite pillow. it was only a matter of time until chris would grow bored of holding his phone up and scrolling trough the same apps over and over again, but you? you could do it all day long, most of the time at least, now was one of those times.

chris put his phone down with a sigh, his head still comfortably resting on your buttcheek, one of his arms sprawled out over the back of your thighs, the other one next to your body on the matress. chris shifted, moving his hand up to your other asscheek, tracing patterns on it with his fingertips, making you giggle a little, turning your head back to look at him over your shoulder. "don't let me disturb you, m' just enjoying my favorite time of the day." he mumbled, meeting your eyes.

you shake your head at him with a smile, turning your attention back to your phone. chris continued to trace soft circles on your skin, tilting his head slightly, placing soft kisses, his stubble tickling your skin, making you giggle again. his lips continued to press kisses to your smooth skin, fingers fiddling with the lace of your shorts innocently. "we can do something if you want chris, i don't have to be on my phone" you let him know, but he hummed, declining. you continued to scroll trough your phone, letting him do his thing, you never minded it. he was smiling to himself, happy in the place he was in, using his favorite pillow during your guy's favorite time of the day.

his kisses faded, replaced by a sudden sharp sting on the skin of your buttcheek, not sharp enough to really bother you though. however, when the small, gentle bites turned into more forceful ones, aching with the aftermath of chris's teeth sinking into your flesh, your head snapped to look at him again. "ow, chris! seriously?"

"what? you're just biteable, not my fault!" you shook your head in disbelief at the exaggerated pout on his lips, feigning sadness at your protest to him showing his love for you and your ass. you turned your head back to your phone, continuing to watch whatever tiktok you'd paused. when chris sunk his teeth into you again, you put your phone down, pushing him off fo you with your legs and laying on your back. "enough of that, yeah?" you warned, raising your eyebrows at him.

he groaned, crawling up on the bed to lay between your legs, his head resting on your chest. you laid back, wrapping your arms around his body, cuddling him back.

"you're so fuckin' mean, y'know that?" he mumbled into your chest.

dividers by @issysh3ll !

@middlepartmatt @emely9274 @impossiblecollectorcat @staargazr @sllutty-sturniolo @shadowthesim237 @sturns-mermaid @courta13 @grace-sturnz @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @ncm9696 @rcklessheavn

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lovegasmic · 1 year ago

Text

⋆ SHARING IS CARING (CUCKOLDING)

ft. Sukuna x reader x husband Satoru

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 cw. f!reader, voyeurism, modern au, company rivals, Satoru has a degradation kink lmaooo, doggy, mentions of oral sx, mentions of creampiė

request from @alainatranquility ‹3

this request got so long I decided to format it as a fic.

NAVI ⁞ EVENT MASTERLIST

Sukuna’s attraction to you was not a secret.

having to find him at every high end party concerning your husband and the pink haired man’s companies, the latter didn’t wait any second to grab a glass of champagne, put on his characteristic smirk and blatantly flirt with you in front of Satoru.

and although as jealous as your husband was, it also made his cock hard, solely from imagining how beautiful you’d look moaning and whining under the other man, he loves you, he knows you’re his, but can you blame a man for having fantasies?

the party is the usual, boring and snobbish people kissing each other’s asses in an attempt to make their own business grow, being the little corner next to the bar where you, Satoru and Sukuna stand a small escape to everyone else.

“have you finally decided to ditch your husband and marry me instead, gorgeous?” is what Sukuna says, a smile on his face while his and Satoru’s chests caged you in.

Satoru shouldn’t be getting hard, but he does and you’re well aware, the bulge in his pants pressing on your lower back is much larger than usual and the usual sexual tension much stronger.

you have spoken about it, about the lingering and very palpable tension between the three of you, but your husband would never admit it in front of his eternal rival, opting to squeeze your hip and push you closer to the —most likely, warmth of his twitching cock.

now it’s in your hands to subtly slide a single piece of paper into Sukuna’s suit jacket pocket, one with your hotel room number before Satoru is dragging you away.

a threesome was what Sukuna expected upon entering the fancy suite, having found you pinned against a wall with Satoru’s hand under your dress and tongue deep down your throat, and you a flustered mess with saliva coated lips and a single strand of it connecting yours and Satoru’s lips.

“you look stunning like that, darling, I like that expression on you” Sukuna offers you one of his characteristic smirks, stepping deeper into the dark room, being the city lights your only form of illumination where you stand. mind reeling with the possibilities, perhaps you’ll suck him off while Satoru fucks you, or you’ll rub that pretty pussy of yours all over his face while your soft lips wrap around your husband’s cock, all scenarios sexier than the last.

yet Satoru remains awkwardly silent, long legs moving in a backwards motion until he’s sitting on a plush couch, eyes locked on you and the way Sukuna is palming his erection.

“don’t hurt her” is all the white haired says, and enough for the other man to understand your real intentions.

the squelch of Satoru’s hand moving up and down his own cock is disgustingly loud, dripping like never before down his wrist and staining the dark fabric of his way too expensive trousers, head back against the wall and eyes locked on your rolled out ones.

a pervert is what he is, twitching whenever Sukuna forces a specially hard thrust into your cunt, drooling whenever Sukuna mutters a praising to you and a mocking snark comment to you.

“beautiful, beautiful girl” each word accentuated by a heavy smack of his full balls against your clit, “that stupid you have as husband doesn’t deserve you” and you sob, back arched and nipples rubbing against the sheets, “i can treat you better, fuck you better...”

merciless is what he is, years of pent up frustration, of having to watch your stunning self being so close yet so far of his reach, now transmitted to his cock pounding your sloppy hole, greedily squeezing the flesh of your ass to spread you wider, to pull you closer and repeatedly smack into the deepest point of your pussy.

although Sukuna’s focus was on you, he couldn’t help but steal a few glances at Satoru with a cocky smirk, especially when you creamed his cock, and this time addressing him as well, “hey, is she always this wet when you fuck her?” and Satoru groans, squeezing the base of his cock, refusing to reply to a question he knows is solely to rile him up.

“that’s what I thought” he murmurs, leaning to press his whole body weight on your back with his hips loudly slamming into your ass with slow but deep thrusts, making you squeak and drool all over the sheets, “you’re so fucking gorgeous, darling, creaming my cock, tightening so much, fuck...”

“—Kuna...!”

and that’s all Sukuna needs, having you whimper your husband’s name through the whole night, but somehow your brain fried forgot about that detail, too stimulated, too fucked stupid to remember, now squeaking and whining Sukuna’s name, like you fuckin’ need him.

“that’s a good fucking girl, oh yeah, suck my cock, baby, i’ll fill you up nice and good” he won’t of course, having a condom wrapped around his throbbing erection ruined the whole fun, but he could dream right? dream of giving you a nice and sloppy creampie that would drip down your thighs, that filled you to the brim enough to ooze and make red faced Satoru cum embarrassingly hard

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astroyongie · 2 months ago

Text

⏦ﾟ♡︎ Who Is Your Next Partner? ⏦ﾟ♡︎

Note: Hello everyone! I am back with another general reading to discover more about who your next partner is going to be! This is a softer version of my last reading, yet there's still a small +18 part so please, be aware. Have fun and take it with a grain of salt <33 for any personal readings please contact my email (on my profile) and ask for the brochure/catalogue

-> Take a deep breath before choosing one of the bouquets. Have fun!

❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱

ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕆𝕟𝕖: ℍ𝕚𝕓𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕦𝕤

.☘︎ ݁˖ What Do They Look Like?

⋆☀︎. When it comes to their physical appearance your next partner seems to have a medium height. From what I am able to catch up on, we have here someone who has black hair, rather on the longer side than on the short side. Long legs, they have a more reserved aesthetic to them (for some this is someone who likes to dress on black a lot or can have an alternative style to them). They are a fire sign aries, leo or sagittarius in Sun or Rising

.☘︎ ݁˖ Their Personality

⋆☀︎. Seems like your future partner is someone with some type of anxiety attached to them, they move alone very fast, they don’t have time to wait around. instead they like fast paced dynamics and energies

⋆☀︎. They are super brave, they are someone who are full of courage and they don’t back down on things. will stand up for you and for those in needs too, they hate injustices

⋆☀︎. They have this profile of being a leader. Meaning they are a little bossy, they like things their way, they like to be in control of the situation and on the relationship as well

⋆☀︎. Very bright energy, they are truly fire dominant. They are humorous, funny, with a good spirit overall. they aren’t boring or gloomy, no despite their aesthetic, they truly have a strong and bright personality

⋆☀︎. They have a curious personality by nature, they always have new ideas and new ambitions to do in life

.☘︎ ݁˖ Meeting

⋆☀︎. For most of you, this is someone you will find through social media or someone you will talk with through social media a lot (or through text). There’s a lot of telecommunications, exchanging numbers, sending each other reels or messages on a daily basis. Can also be for many, from a dating app depending on what you are more comfortable/what resonated with you. Seems like for some of you, this person is already in your life and for others, it might come soon

.☘︎ ݁˖ Relationship Dynamics

⋆☀︎. It feels like the beginning of the relationship is a little complicated because they might not want to commit with you or you might not want to commit with them and they will think leaving is better so they don't waste their time). They are someone who often tend to isolate themselves when something isn’t right

⋆☀︎. Writing texts to you daily, leaving cute little notes, looking out for you, writing you poems or confessions might be something that will happen a lot in the relationship

⋆☀︎. They are someone you truly are going to create good memories with them. In a way that when you look back in your past, this isn't a story you will regret of living

.☘︎ ݁˖ Smash Dynamics

⋆☀︎. They have an oral fixation, so this is someone who probably loves oral in a intimate context and any thing related to the voice and the mouth: (oral sex giving and receiving, kissing, spitting kink, licking and biting, accent or voice fetish, being very loud in the bedroom or gaging depending on the people). They might also have a thing for hair pulling play and denial play. They are more on the dominant side it seems

.☘︎ ݁˖ Adicional Info

⋆☀︎. For a minority of you, this can be someone who has a past with justice (used to be a troublemaker, prison, isolation, ect) and for others they are someone who have had quite a rough childhood

⋆☀︎. Because of this, it might be the reason why your future partner is someone that gets overwhelmed easily and doesn't deal well with certain feelings. they can often feel paranoid about a few things in their life which can make you and him struggle in the relationship

⋆☀︎. This might not be the person who you end up marrying (if you plan to marry)since there’s a lot of lack of long term success in the cards provided. Yet they are part of your beautiful story

⋆☀︎. For some of you, this person is a childhood friend

⋆☀︎. They truly have that avoidant type of attachment which can make it hard at the beginning because you can feel like they don't care or aren't interested when they are. they just suck at expressing it

⋆☀︎. The recovery from this relationship will be long and probably painful

⋆☀︎. A few dates that can be important: 50 weeks, 24 (your age or their, months, week or days), 2 (months, week or days)

ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕋𝕨𝕠: ℍ𝕪𝕕𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕒𝕤

.☘︎ ݁˖ What Do They Look Like?

⋆☀︎. Okay so it seems like your partner is someone so hypnotic, their energy truly is something interesting here. They are most likely to be an earth sign taurus, virgo or capricorn in their sun, rising or stellium. This is someone for the majority that will have blond or light brown hair. Physically, they are tall for their gender, they have a very nice build, a perfect middle and their energy is super captivating. big eyes although i am unable to check for colors.

.☘︎ ݁˖ Their Personality

⋆☀︎. They are sooo ambitious, like the main energy they have around them, is truly to be all about their success and their ambition. They are definitely someone who are very career oriented

⋆☀︎. Despite being goal oriented they also have that child-like self to them. meaning that they aren't all work and they are able to be on the light and childish side as well when with comfortable people

⋆☀︎. They are super vigilant with people, meaning they don't allow everyone to get close to them and they don't trust everyone either. They have some trust issues but that's because they know the world can be a harsh place

⋆☀︎. But other than that, they truly are someone who enjoys life and enjoy to be able to travel, to spend their money as they wish without stopping themselves for monetary reasons

⋆☀︎. For some of you, this is also someone who has a true belief of their spiritual self (meaning that depending on the people this can be someone linked to their relation, believer of the spiritual world or even someone who has some spiritual gifts)

.☘︎ ݁˖ Meeting

⋆☀︎. Depending on you, there’s three possibilities of how you can meet this person but one thing is in common: this person will revolutionize your life because they will happen when you least expect it and when you least feel prepared which can be destabilizing for some. i will now list the three possibilities

⋆☀︎. 1 -> it happens after the end of your current relationships or it will happen while you are still processing a past breakup that was extremely harsh and hard to deal with

⋆☀︎. 2 -> you will meet them through work related spaces, or it can be someone older that is acting like a boss/a mentor/a teacher that will present them to you

⋆☀︎. 3 -> you will meet them during a travel, or like outside of your current residency

.☘︎ ݁˖ Relationship Dynamics

⋆☀︎. I didn’t get much on the dynamic of the relationship other than that you or them are probably going to try and run away from these feelings because they are just so intense. you or them could be afraid of feeling all of that, taking in account of your past life and your experiences. love can be quite scary due to the fear of disappointment

⋆☀︎. I believe this is a relationship that will truly change a few things in your brain. it’s mentally stimulating but also deeply healing in an emotional aspect

.☘︎ ݁˖ Smash Dynamics

⋆☀︎. Oh they can have a huge thing for exhibitionism or voyeurism (watching you touch yourself or making you watch them, having someone else watching, doing it in semi public places or when there’s people around you or in the next room). I feel like they are a people pleaser in the bedroom, your pleasure comes before their own. also for the ones who are getting male partners, they are quite huge in size. they also love the romantic aspect to sex and fucking you while you wear stuff from them (can be a sweat, jersey, uniform or even just a collar or a necklace)

.☘︎ ݁˖ Adicional Info

⋆☀︎. They used to be spoon fed financially. so this is someone who comes from a rather good and established family. Financially they are secure and money has their value and importance on their morals

⋆☀︎. This person is, depending on the people, either your twin flame, a romantic soulmate, a karmic relationship or a spiritual soulmate. the connection between you two is almost instantly and strong

⋆☀︎. This is a relationship that will make you both work a lot to make it work. mostly because of goals and careers that need to be decided and t be worked on. but the more you spend time working on this relationship, the better it will be

⋆☀︎. They are someone who have probably suffered depression before in their life, and that has left wounds in them. For some there’s still symptoms of anxiety, depression, fear, and inner turmoil. feelings they are still processing

⋆☀︎. Also i feel like in the beginning you will have to really release burdens if you want to make it work with this person

⋆☀︎. Finally, they are someone who will treat you right and they will try to cover for you financially, or at least the best they can. they are practical, they are financially productive and you have to get on their level to make it work. They don't mind spending all the pennies on you if you are also ready to work on goals and be there for them. They won’t act like a sugar daddy/mommy

⋆☀︎. A few dates that can be important: 1 months and half, 12 (months, week or days), 4 (months, week or days) and 3 (months, week or days)

ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖: ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤

.☘︎ ݁˖ What Do They Look Like?

⋆☀︎. I believe that for most this is someone who is rather tall and has a heavy feel to it (depending on the people they can be on the curvier side, have some weight to them or like have that bear built to them). their hair is rather short, they have whiter skin as well or at least most of them are caucasian. brown eyes, smaller eyes as well. They have a water sign, cancer, scorpio, pisces sun, rising or stellium.

.☘︎ ݁˖ Their Personality

⋆☀︎. They love children and probably want to have their own family, the sooner the better. They are good with the kids too which can be a reason why they want to have their own family

⋆☀︎. They might look intimidating but they are truly someone sweet. They are always nice to people, they have that joy with them and they never say no to helping others. peopçle often take them for granted

⋆☀︎. Also i wanted to add that there’s sagittarius and virgo in their chart sun, rising or stellium for some of you beside the water signs indicated above

⋆☀︎. The theme of the family is really present. They are someone close to their family, which is important to them and probably one of their priorities. they want to build and construct their own home and family, this is someone who truly wants to be parent one day

⋆☀︎. Finally, this is someone who is rather stable in their life in general. career, family, self, financially. they are someone who have things figured out and need someone who can be added in that stability

.☘︎ ݁˖ Meeting

⋆☀︎. Similar to pile 2, there are case scenarios on how you might meet this person but again, the common point with everyone is that its probably going to happen during mercury retrograde for many of you. for some it will happen during a time of revindication, a time where you believe that your life is upside down and that nothing makes sense anyone

⋆☀︎. 1-> some of you will find this person after a breakup. meaning either you broken up with a current partner, either you are dealing with a breakup or after they break up with their partner

⋆☀︎. 2-> you guys will meet through work related stuff. maybe this person or yourself will have an opportunity to be in the same space as you and that's how you both get to meet each other. it was also all from a deeper manifestation

.☘︎ ݁˖ Relationship Dynamics

⋆☀︎. There's a lot to say about this relationship which is really exciting. first thing, take into account that this person is a boss of themselves and they will treat you with respect and with the honor you deserve. probably want to take care of you and give you the typical “princess treatment” or at least to really treat you like royalty

⋆☀︎. However the beginning of the relationship can feel a little boring for some because the new boundaries and rules are instored. there’s also a lot of expectations and perfectionism

⋆☀︎. They are the type of person that love to make surprises, so expect them to spoil you as much as they can. flower, presents, oh this little thing you were looking at or mentioned to like having. they truly enjoy to show their affection by giving you presents

⋆☀︎. If I can give you any advice, this is a relationship that you both really need to work on, especially because there will be people on both sides that don't like what you have. don't listen to others and live your own romance with them

⋆☀︎. This relationship will feel like “saved-saving”. meaning that you both entered the life of the other to bring peace and stability. to heal each other and save each other from a fate that feels gloomy and lonely

.☘︎ ݁˖ Smash Dynamics

⋆☀︎. This is quite interesting but their kinks are quite vast but they are mainly related to consumption in a way (feeding you, making you swallow their cum, substance use such as alcohol or weed). i also feel they have a thing for chest, boob play and releasing all over their partners chest. Mirror sex can also be something they are into, fucking their partner from behind either in doggy style or straight up standing up can also be something they love.

.☘︎ ݁˖ Adicional Info

⋆☀︎. This might be the person who you end up having children with as the pregnancy card is coming our a lot throughout this reading

⋆☀︎. They are someone who loves to overspend on stuff, they have very little notion of money as in a way that they like to please themselves. they can be greedy with it sometimes

⋆☀︎. They are someone really brave based on what they went through in their past. they are stable and firm in their ideas, and have the right amount of social battery and friends in their circle

⋆☀︎. They might have the bad tendency to often be self limiting with themselves, like they self neglect a lot and they are highly self critical of themselves as well. this comes from mostly their past trauma and life experience

⋆☀︎. It feels like you both have met in previous lives. the sensation of having deja vus with them will probably be high

⋆☀︎. Be careful. Sometimes they act and behave in a way that isn't in line with what they tell you. just communicate and it will make things easier. don't give them the silent treatment, their mind can play tricks

⋆☀︎. Well. you and them are designed to meet. This is super interesting and exciting !

⋆☀︎. A few dates that can be important: 2 months, during the full moon or the new moon, 6 months, 4 (months, week or days)

ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝔽𝕠𝕦𝕣: 𝔻𝕒𝕙𝕝𝕚𝕒𝕤

.☘︎ ݁˖ What Do They Look Like?

⋆☀︎. When it comes to their height they are average height by their gender/cultural context. They are someone on the darker skin, tan, or just darker skinned than you. For most of you, this is someone with brown hair, in darker shades as well. They are not conventional beauty but they have such a magnetic energy and a beauty that is particular. They have a strong water energy, especially scorpio. In any case they can be either scorpio, cancer, pisces but also taurus sun, rising or stellium.

.☘︎ ݁˖ Their Personality

⋆☀︎. They are someone with quite an impulsive personality not gonna lie, they feel quite straightforward with their personality and with their ideals. its either everything or nothing with them

⋆☀︎. Your future partner is someone who does a lot of introspection which is probably to help them deal with the more impulsive side of themselves, they always reflect a lot on themselves, on others and the actions done

⋆☀︎. They are someone who drips with self worth and self confidence. it’s quite sexy i must admit. when you look at them, you know that they know what they are worth and what is their value

⋆☀︎. They can be quite altruist with the people they are close with. they are known to be generous and that mostly with people who deserve it

⋆☀︎. Yet they are also someone who are very cunning. be aware because they can have the tendency to lie often or like have a past with cheating in their previous relationship

.☘︎ ݁˖ Meeting

⋆☀︎. This is someone that you currently don't know, they will be someone new introduced in your life which can be quite exciting

⋆☀︎. When it comes to where you will meet them. all the cards here speak of the exact same thing they are someone you will probably meet when you get overseas or traveling although this travel in specific can get quite delayed in your current life

⋆☀︎. For some of you this is someone you will meet after you have moved out from your current spot. This can be moving out of cities, countries, dorms, apartments, and houses. they come with a change of your environment

.☘︎ ݁˖ Relationship Dynamics

⋆☀︎. Like I have stated before, this can be someone you will meet that has a history of cheating on their partner. although there's also a feel, that for some of us this can be someone whom you can cheat with (so cheating on your current partner for this new one, or they will cheat on their partner with you)

⋆☀︎. I feel like your dynamic will be quite a mix of being content, and pour enjoy and a love harmony and dynamic with a disconnecting feeling and a few struggles in the relationship

⋆☀︎. This is a relationship that will be kept secret from the public for a few times for your own personal reasons. the dynamic is rather secretive, mysterious and discrete compared to couple who often try to expose their relationship online for example

⋆☀︎. I also feel like there’s a lot of communication between the two of you. there’s something that just clicks. they compliment you a lot, they listen to you, they understand you they communicate and truly provide you a stimulation that you will get addicted on

.☘︎ ݁˖ Smash Dynamics

⋆☀︎. The kinks are quite booty related. Depending on the person this can indicate the following: spanking play, punishment play, booty groping and worship, loving when their partner’s but wiggles and jiggles, anal, rimming. they are also someone who loves riding positions, reserve cowgirl, you on top of them in a general sitting. calling you cute pet names too (bunny, dove) but also the dirty talking and names

.☘︎ ݁˖ Adicional Info

⋆☀︎. They are for sure someone who is older than you. they have a little bit more maturity in certain things and also they are way more experienced than you in the dating game. it can also be younger, but in any case, there’s age gaps between you and them

⋆☀︎. Your future partner is someone whom you will be able to progress as a person. you will learn a lot by being in a relationship with them

⋆☀︎. I think it’s also a relationship where you will be able to develop yourself more as a person and really learn about self development when it comes to your career and love, because they will push forward to it

⋆☀︎. I believe that you won't feel ready to get in a serious relationship with them due to fear of being hurt but things will be okay

⋆☀︎. There’s the possibility of some of you, that the old cycles from both parties will repeat themselves

⋆☀︎. A few dates that can be important: 3 weeks, during the spring, 10 (months, week or days), 14 (months, week or days)

ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝔽𝕚𝕧𝕖: 𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 ℙ𝕖𝕠𝕟𝕪

.☘︎ ݁˖ What Do They Look Like?

⋆☀︎. Your future partner is someone rather short in their height when it comes to their gender and cultural background. they are someone with a random normal and average looking body. depending on the people they are either super blond or have really dark hair. their energy is giving air sign, so gemini, libra, aquarius but also capricorn in sun, rising or stellium.

.☘︎ ݁˖ Their Personality

⋆☀︎. I didn’t get much about them personally other than that they are really career and goal oriented. Money is a huge priority for them and they try to really work on their wealth. yet they are also super generous and they love to help those in need

⋆☀︎. I also feel like they truly have their priorities in check. They are someone who knows what they want, who is able to manage their time based on what needs to be done. they will b e able to adapt to you and your lifestyle rather well and quickly

.☘︎ ݁˖ Meeting

⋆☀︎. You might meet them quite late in your life tho, or at least there’s quite a few delays so it might not be for this year. but when you do it truly will feel like the best luck you ever had

⋆☀︎. Your future partner and you might find after you have spent so much time manifesting them. you might meet them in a career/study context depending on your situation

⋆☀︎. For some of you, you will only encounter this person the moment you let go of your current unhealthy habits (can be addictions, a past relationship you are hung up on, mental illnesses issues, ect, something holding you back)

⋆☀︎. And finally for some of you, you might encounter them in a more natural setting. when you are going out, you might meet them in a park, on the beach, during a walk in the forest or in the mountains. there’s a natural context here

.☘︎ ݁˖ Relationship Dynamics

⋆☀︎. I believe that this relationship will start as a relationship that is rather discreet and for some even secret (probably because for some of you it can be same sex relationships) and for others its simple to keep secret the beginning of the relationship

⋆☀︎. I also believe that in this case, they are the one who will have a hard time committing to you, mostly because of their own past and they are probably afraid to get hurt r just not ready whenever you are, which can also be linked to why the relationship is kept secret or discreet in the beginning

⋆☀︎. Depending on you and your preferences, there’s one person here who will be sub to the other. so one of you truly have a more submissive side and will allow the other to take control of the whole relationship

⋆☀︎. There’s a lot of sexual tension in your relationship dynamic, and for some of you this can start as a situationship, a one night stand or just a friends with benefits situationship

⋆☀︎. It's a relationship that will be based on truth and on honesty. you both will trust each other enough to be completely transparent and honest with each other

⋆☀︎. There might be times where one of you feel like leaving the relationship. there’s some commitment issues from one of you that an disturb the harmony of what you both have

.☘︎ ݁˖ Smash Dynamics

⋆☀︎. This is a little similar to pile 3 i believe, but basically they are someone who has kinks around consumption (alcohol, weed, intoxication sex, feeding, eating or including food in the bedroom). They are also someone who has a huge fixation of the chest of their partner so boob play is definitely something they would go for. rough and make up sex whenever there's feelings. the typical “no feelings attached” feeling to it. smash on the couch or around the balcony might be something they really like

.☘︎ ݁˖ Adicional Info

⋆☀︎. This is a relationship that will go through highs and lows in a very confusing way. there’s times where you will feel like there’s so much love to give and receive, and some times where one of you might feel lacing in some part of the relationship

⋆☀︎. Be careful with lies. you both will try to built this relationship out of mutual trust, so it’s important that lies aren't said and if you discover a lie, try to figure out why it was said

⋆☀︎. You both are destined to meet nonetheless, so this is quite exciting to see. it feels like a karmic relationship which probably you both cant avid

⋆☀︎. I feel like your relationship will bring conflict with others. probably because they do not approve of your relationship or because they are jealous there.

⋆☀︎. It can b e a relationship where you and your partner sometimes feel very overwhelmed by the feelings and the events around you. there’s of course challenges and it might make you both exhausted, but if you push forward, you will be reward greatly

⋆☀︎. A few dates that can be important: 4 months, july, may,, 29 (their age or yours, months, week or days), 16 (months, week or days), 8 (months, week or days)

ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕊𝕚𝕩: 𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪’𝕤 𝔹𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙

.☘︎ ݁˖ What Do They Look Like?

⋆☀︎. Your future partner is someone average with their height baked on their gender and their cultural background. they are someone with a rather delicate body, so they might be more thin looking or even lean in some cases. Most of you will have a partner with blue eyes, while others with more ginger/red hair shades. their energy is giving air sign, so gemini, libra, aquarius in sun, rising or stellium.

.☘︎ ݁˖ Their Personality

⋆☀︎. Okay there’s so much to say about their personality. for starting they are someone really unbiased with life, they believe in what they see. They are someone who are very independent and don't need others to function. They are intelligent, super smart even. they are clear with their speech and even have that pin of authority to them on the way they carry themselves

⋆☀︎. They are someone who knows how to take care of business, they aren't scared to get their hands into the work, dirty or clean, they will get things done. they don't beat around the bush

⋆☀︎. Your future partner is also someone more mature than you in their personality and perception in life, so in some cases they might be some age gap between you and the,

⋆☀︎. They are also very patient with themselves and with the people around them. they don't los their calm often as they are controlled

⋆☀︎. Your future partner is someone who helps others (maybe also for some of you they are working in health or social care). they find themselves the most useful when they are there for people

⋆☀︎. Yet they also have quite a rebellious personality to their own, they probably are engaged in some causes they care for and love, probably very engaged in politics as well depending on the cases

.☘︎ ݁˖ Meeting

⋆☀︎. I believe that your meeting with your future partner will happen under unfortunate events. this is too vast to properly explained but for some of you they will appear in your life or you will meet them through a moment where you will be going through a really bad luck (could be anything, disease, a sickness, an attack, an accident, a passing, ect)

⋆☀︎. For some of you, you will meet this person in totally different circumstances. it will be where finally everything in your life seems to be finally working out. when you have made amends with yourself and like, and where a new cycle is starting

.☘︎ ݁˖ Relationship Dynamics

⋆☀︎. I think this is someone who truly will make you their wife/husband. They have what it takes to make this relationship a loving family. it's a rooted relationship, your dynamic really is based on a married couple, with your own habits and their own working in a perfect harmony. they might be the parent of your children as well if that is something you want

⋆☀︎. I also feel like your dynamic is super creative. meaning there’s not really a routine, there’s always novelty in the relationship to keep it interesting. they are super creative, and i believe they would bring a lot of romanticism an adventures into the dynamic

.☘︎ ݁˖ Smash Dynamics

⋆☀︎. Like stated prior, this dynamic is all about romanticism it’s really making love more than just fucking. kinks are variable but they are focused on the softer side. on the connection made with the partner. they probably love missionaries, to look into your eyes. kissing, biting, hickeys, licking is something that would turn them on as well. morning sex, tangled under the sheets, where you both can feel each other close. an y position where they can hold you is what they seek

.☘︎ ݁˖ Adicional Info

⋆☀︎. I don't think they are related to you on a soul level. meaning this isn’t a soulmate, this isn’t a twin flame or even a karmic relationship. i think this is a new soul you shall connect through in this lifetime and who you will meet in your next lives as karmic relationships

⋆☀︎. I think I said it earlier but this person is the person whom you will be able to build all of your life with. a house, a kid, a financial or business project, a pet. anything you wish you will be able to realize it with this person by your side

⋆☀︎. I feel like this is a relationship where there’s only blessings. they will be the light i your tunnel, the person that shows you that life can be happy, that life can be joyful and worth living

⋆☀︎. A few dates that can be important: next month, April, 40 (their age or yours, months, week or days), 27 (their age or yours, months, week or days), 8 (months, week or days)

#tarot #tarot readings #tarot deck #tarot cards #tarot reading #tarotcommunity #tarotblr #tarot reader #cartomancy #pick a card #tarot pick a card #pac reading #pick a card reading #pick a pile #pick a photo

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augiewrites · 1 year ago

Text

"valley reverie" - sebastian

summary: the timeline of sebastian and the farmer’s relationship based on canon dialogue

pairing: sdv sebastian x farmer

word count: 2.5K

a/n: this may be my magnum opus

The sun was beginning its descent behind the mountains when Sebastian emerged from the house for the first—and only—time that day.

He shot a glance to his mother and Demetrius, who were standing at the edge of their property, looking over the valley bathed in golden light. His mother sent a small smile back, followed by a pointed disappointed look at the carton of cigarettes held loosely in his hand. Demetruis didn’t acknowledge his existence.

Sebastian knew it was a nasty habit, but he spent most of his life with not much thought to the future—he was surprised he made it this far. Maybe his life would have been different if he had planned better; if he had considered for a moment that there was such a thing as life past sixteen, then eighteen, then twenty-one. He supposed he should start to consider a life past twenty-four, but quickly dropped the thought as he placed the cigarette between his lips and continued his stroll to the lake.

He saw it then, as his lighter sparked to life and helped the cigarette take eleven minutes off his.

Someone was sitting in his spot. A humanoid blob of denim focused intently on the bobber floating in the water.

He hesitated, then decided to keep moving—his trajectory now locked in past the stranger and across the rickety planks of wood to the smaller islands in the middle of the lake. His mother had been saying for years that she needed to build something more structurally sound, but had yet to get around to it.

As he got closer, he took in more of the scene. There was a muddy bucket next to the stranger, and he noticed a couple slimy carp flopping around inside. Whoever this was, they clearly didn’t have enough experience to catch the tricker creatures in the lake.

Just as he was about to slip past toward solitude, he locked eyes with the stranger. Their bored expression quickly turned to worry.

“Sorry, am I in your spot? Robin said it was okay for me to fish here.”

Recognition sparked in his brain—his mother had told him about the new resident of Pelican Town. The words she had used to describe them flashed behind his eyes: sweet, a little lost, cute. That last one was sent his way with an exaggerated wink and met with a scoff from him.

“Oh. You just moved in, right? Cool.”

The farmer didn’t respond, just looked on waiting for an answer to their question. Sebastian didn’t gratify them with a response, instead looking across the lake at the tree line and abandoned quarry.

“Out of all the places you could live, you chose Pelican Town?”

The farmer scrunched up their mouth slightly, beginning to reel in their line. There was nothing but a limp worm dangling from the hook. Sebastian took note of the grieving look flashing on their face before it was gone in a blink.

“Better than where I was.”

Sebastian didn’t bother responding as the farmer heaved up the bucket—they were a lot stronger than they looked—and walked away without another word.

Robin smiled at the farmer with a wave and shouted goodnight before sending another disapproving look to her son.

_________________________________________

Sebastian heaved open the door of the house, exhausted from band practice. Sam was his best friend, and he enjoyed spending time with him more than he would admit, but the newest addition to the band was definitely a hindrance.

He didn’t dislike Abigail, and he couldn’t deny that she was a talented drummer, but he had been hoping for years that her little crush on him would fade away. He could only take so much of puppy dog eyes and over exaggerated laughter at his quips that definitely aren’t that funny.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts on how to shake off the purple-haired girl—more importantly, how to shake her off without actual confrontation—that he didn’t notice the farmer leaning against the shop counter until their voice pierced through. His mother was nowhere to be seen, so they had to have been talking to him.

“What? I didn't hear you...I'm busy thinking about something. What do you want?”

The farmer narrowed their eyes at him, leveling him with a glare. “You know, I get that you’d rather be listening to My Chemical Romance and jerking off to Nietzsche than interacting with a human being, but you really need to work on your people skills.”

Well, he hadn’t been expecting that.

He expected avoidance from the farmer, based on their first meeting and subsequent run-ins where they gave him a nod of acknowledgement before going back to acting like he didn’t exist.

He realized that the farmer wasn’t as timid and one-dimensional as he let himself think.

The moment was saved by Robin entering the shop room and dropping a workbench on the floor with a heavy thud. “You’ll make better use of this than I have lately—it’s pretty old,” she looked up from the dusty bench, noticing her son frozen in the doorway, “oh, hi Sebby.”

“Sebby?” the farmer questioned with a smirk.

Sebastian rolled his eyes, brushing past his mother to get to his lair.

“Sorry about him,” he heard his mother as he descended the stairs.

“It’s fine,” the farmer laughed, “he’s cool.”

He couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. _________________________________________

Sebastian looked down at the frozen tear in his hand with a neutral expression on his face, though his heart was quickening its pace.

“Gunther told me it’s fabled to be the frozen tears of a yeti.”

He met the farmer’s grin with one of his own, “I really love this. How did you know?”

They shrugged, “Seemed like some emo shit you’d be into.”

A breathy laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “Well…thanks.”

“No prob. I’ll keep an eye out for more when I’m in the mines.”

“The mines?,” his brow furrowed, “how far down did you go?”

“Not super deep, I think I stopped at sixty since it was getting late.”

Sebastian gaped at the farmer—who he now realized he really misjudged—as they shouldered their backpack and turned toward the door.

“Oh,” they stopped just shy of the threshold, “your code is wrong, by the way. Third line down.”

He looked to the screen, baffled, seeing that there was, in fact, a mistake in his code.

He began to ask the farmer how they knew that, but they were gone. _________________________________________

The sun was setting on the valley, and Sebastian found himself sitting by the lake’s edge with the farmer, who was reeling in sturgeon and bass with ease.

“I’m sure the city’s different for other people, but it was corporate hell for me,” the farmer spoke softly as they baited their hook—it was different than any bait he had ever seen, and the farmer had informed him that the wild man living behind their house had taught them the recipe.

Sebastian hummed, “I guess that makes sense.”

“You guess?” the farmer teased him, flicking water at his face.

He blew a puff of smoke in their face.

The farmer coughed, then began to laugh as they fanned the smoke out of their face, “asshole.”

Sebastian grinned, leaning back on the palms of his hands and gazing across the water.

They sat in comfortable silence as the farmer cast out their line and half-heartedly focused on the bobber—they didn’t really need it anymore, but liked the safety net.

“You and Sam are probably my only friends in this town.” Sebastian broke the silence, but continued looking straight ahead.

“Well I am very likable.”

Sebastian knocked their shoulders together with a scoff.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” _________________________________________

Sebastian was indifferent—and sometimes loathful—toward most events held in their little town, but tonight was an exception. It was hard to not be in awe of the midnight jellies, and he was excited for the farmer to see them for the first time.

They were perched at the edge of the dock, along with Sam and Abigail, their feet dangling inches above the water.

It was a lot colder than expected, and the farmer was bundled in his black jacket. He couldn’t help but feel bad about the sad glances Abigail was sending their way.

The farmer looked content, and Sebastian recalled something they told him at the beginning of the season—the used to be terrified of the ocean before moving to the valley.

He nudged their shoulder with his own. It didn’t take much effort—they were sitting a lot closer than he realized. A light blush dusted his cheekbones.

“I thought I saw something moving in there…” he pointed to the void of the ocean and leaned closer to their ear, whispering, “something big, something dark.”

The farmer’s eyes widened as they looked across the vast darkness before they narrowed and turned to him.

“Just trying to scare you...” Sebastian laughed.

The farmer smiled, knocking their knee against his, muttering an all too familiar “asshole.”

It wasn’t too long before Lewis sent out the first lantern, and the water surrounding the docks was filled with glowing jellyfish.

“It’s beautiful,” the farmer breathed out as their head landed on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” his eyes landed on a glowing green jelly before looking down at the farmer, “it is.” _________________________________________

Sebastian never saw the farm in its full glory—before the farmer’s grandfather grew old and passed away—but he had been there plenty of times when it was overgrown and abandoned.

He had told the farmer this as they sat on the newly installed swinging bench on their porch. They joked that they would be suing him for trespassing, since it was technically their property at the time, even if they hadn’t known it.

It was a chilly fall day, but the farmer had made a pot of coffee to keep them warm.

“I thought this was your busy season,” Sebastian lit up a cigarette and moved the ashtray closer to where he sat. It was a newer addition to the farmer’s decor. He thought about the prideful look on their face as they held it up and told him that Leah let them use her pottery wheel. It was painted with little creatures that looked like the much happier cousins of the slimes living in the caves.

The farmer hummed, holding their mug close to their face, but not taking a sip, “Yeah…a lot busier than I thought it would be, actually.”

He grinned at them, “so, you’re slacking today, huh?”

The farmer laughed.

“I’d rather hang out with your sorry ass than work.” Despite the insult, the farmer’s tone was soft and earnest. Sebastian felt his cheeks heat up.

“Could you picture me living on a farm? It seems ridiculous, but I have been thinking about it lately.”

“If I could do it, then so could you,” the farmer linked their pinky with his, “it’s a lot more freeing than you’d think.” _________________________________________

Boxes filled with Sebastian’s things lined the walls of the farmhouse, but Sebastian and the farmer lay in bed, choosing to ignore them.

They had all the time in the world.

The farmer was twirling the pendant dangling from Sebastian’s neck, “there’s steam coming out of your ears, Seb,” the farmer giggled and smoothed out the wrinkle between his brows with their finger.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Sebastian turned his attention from the ceiling to the farmer, “The older I get, the less I'm drawn to the city. It had a certain mystique to it, once. But it turns out that was just a romantic fantasy. The city's so busy, so full of people... I don't belong there. I'm a loner.”

A beat.

“Present company excluded, of course.”

The farmer laughed, “Well I would hope so,” they tugged gently on the pendant, pulling him closer, “because you’re stuck with me.” _________________________________________

Sebastian and the farmer had joined his family for dinner, and his mother had shooed them away with one hand as she cooed at the bundle held tightly in her other arm.

The valley was coming to life, but the ghost of a winter chill was in the air. They settled down by the lake despite the cold. It was no longer his spot, but theirs.

The farmer was skipping stones across the lake when he grumbled about how being in that spot made him want a smoke.

“No one’s stopping you,” the farmer laughed.

“I am.”

The farmer still held a loose smile as they raised their eyebrows at him, “oh?”

“I'm trying my best to quit smoking now that we're married…” He avoided their gaze and brushed some mud on the palm of his hand onto his jeans, “I don't wanna die on you. It's a bad habit. I want to have a future together.”

A baby cried in the distance. Sebastian and the farmer smiled at each other. _________________________________________

The farmer was surprised to find Sebastian’s side of the bed empty when they woke up. It wasn’t a rare occasion, as they usually found Sebastian in the kitchen after a restless sleep, but he was nowhere to be found.

They couldn’t help but worry a little bit as they pulled on their boots and opened the screen door. They paused out of instinct to let the dog run out before them only to realize that the dog wasn’t hot on their heels like usual.

They had only gotten two steps onto the porch before a mass of fur and slobber crashed into their legs.

“Oh hello baby,” they cooed down at the dog as it rolled onto its back, breathing heavily out of excitement, “good morning stink.”

“Good morning to you too.”

The farmer was so caught up in giving the dog attention that they hadn’t noticed Sebastian leaning against the porch railing.

They straightened from their crouch, smiling at him as the dog whined from the loss of affection.

“I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went ahead and fed the animals,” he pushed off the railing and took a few steps forward to fix a rogue piece of the farmer’s hair, “one less thing for you to do.”

“Thanks, Seb,” the farmer said softly, suddenly bashful, “I’m going to check on the pumpkins. Thought I could make some soup tonight if any of them are ripe.”

They took a few steps off the porch, “feel like being a country boy today? Or did you get your fix?”

He smiled, leaning his forearms against the railing, “I'll just watch you from here. I enjoy watching you.” _________________________________________

Sebastian and the farmer found themselves sitting on the porch swing once again. It was a mild summer evening, and he was looking on as a toddler played with the dog in the yard.

He tore his attention away from the rowdy scene in front of him to look at the farmer, who was curled up at his side reading a book. He felt his heart swell.

“This is so different from my old life, but I'm really starting to like it. I feel like I really belong here.”

The farmer looked up from the book in their lap, smiling.

“I don't often show it, but I'm really happy that I'm your husband. Marrying you was the best decision I ever made.”

#stardew sebastian #sdv sebastian #stardew valley #stardew farmer #sebastian x farmer #sebastian x reader #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley fic #sdv sebastian x reader #sdv sebastian x farmer #sdv sebastian fic #farmer x sebastian

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invincibledc · 3 months ago

Note

MORE JACKKKKKKKK

⋆˚࿔ 𝑯𝑬’𝑺 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑬 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

────୨ৎ────

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐁𝐑𝐎!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

── .✦ Synopsis: At a gala, that Jack had snuck into, he sees a girl trying to throw herself all over what’s his. And that’s his man.

── .✦ Genre: oneshot

── .✦ Info: this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. I got bored. Reader is the twin brother of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome.

── .✦ Word count: 1,356

Classical music rang through the air, and you stood there not impressed by the usual gala setting your father has made. The same goes for your brother as he just left you to do your own thing as he does his own. Damian and you are the same but in different ways.

You can handle most of the interactions with the people, he can't. Due to the people who had pinched his cheeks and crowded him and you.

He took the most pinching as he pushed you behind him, older brother things of course. Despite all that, it seems that as years went on, and you got older, you saw that most of the adults brought their offspring here. The waiters gave off drinks and even some appetizers.

Okay so maybe the only thing you like about the gala is the food, what? You’re a growing boy. You walked through the talking people, ignoring the slight comments of you being “rude” for interrupting such a nice conversation between adults. But you knew they were just here to gloat about their richness and show up to at least get a little amount of clout of being here.

Either way, you flagged down a waiter, smiling wide as the waiter smiled. The waiter strutted over, “Yes Mr. Wayne?” you pointed to the shrimp, the shrimp was nicely air-fried, just perfect for you.

“Could I have that please?” the waiter nodded, moving their arm towards you for you to grab it. You grabbed it off the plate, your eyes lighting up at the sure crisp texture of the shrimp. And you were so gonna devour this, and maybe get more as the time passes on.

You took the shrimp in your mouth whilst the waiter went off to another person who had flagged them down. While you chewed on the delicious shrimp, you felt a finger tap your shoulder.

Turning your body around, there you see some random girl. She was attractive, sure. But her aura just set you off, you couldn't help but scrunch your nose at the fact of her strong perfume. It wasn't even a good strong but the kind of strong that makes your head spin.

“Hey handsome, what's your name?” she says with a flirty tone, her hand grazing your arm. You reeled your arm back and even took a step back.

Yeah, this may not go well.

—JACK’S POV—

He hummed, strolling through the gala he had certainly snuck into. He isn't stupid to not take off his green hair-sprayed hair, showing off his blonde locks. His blue eyes scanned the room of the gala. He heard, no, he knew you were gonna be here. So why not meet his adorable obsession, his beloved boyfriend?

So here he is, moving slickly through the bodies of people. He saw a tray of delicious small biscuits and snagged a few, grinning like a child, he plopped one into his mouth.

But it seems that it wasn't that good to eat anyway. Coughing at the dry biscuits that tasted like cardboard. He forgot how bland rich people's food can get. He grabbed water off a tray and gulped it down. After that, he dumped the other biscuits into the trash. Yeah never again was he eating any more rich people's food. He moves through the people again.

If there was one person, or at least two he didn't want to see. It would be Jason and Damian. Mostly Jason, Jason just hates him and he hates him back.

Through the crowded people, he couldn't help but have a mischievous grin when he took off a ladies’ diamond watch. It was so quick that the elegant woman didn't notice her 20-grand watch.

“Hehe, suckers,” he says under his breath. He stuffed the watch into his black suit. He continues to stride through the ballroom, and there he finally sees you, his eyes widening with excitement. But that seemed to falter as his eyes darkened, his normal blue eyes seemed to look dark ocean blue.

There he sees a girl touching up on you, you look uncomfortable, trying to move back subtly. But it seems she wasn't taking the hint that she isn't as beautiful as she seems.

—NO ONE POV—

Trying to move back, the girl finally had enough. “Why don't you just touch me? Am I not that beautiful for you?!” she exclaimed.

“Not just that, but disgustingly over touchy.” a raspy voice said, you turned around to meet the boy joker out of his alter-ego. His neat blond hair, his dark expression and his eyes glaring at the girl.

“Ja-jacklyn?” you said shocked to see him here. Before you could further ask how he could even be here, he pulls you to his body. Your back making a complete puzzle to his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, his eyes trained on the girl who looked more shocked than you.

“What the..” she says, seeing his jack’s hands pressed neatly on your hips, his arms making an X due to how he was holding you around your waist with both arms.

“As you can see, he’s mine, sweetheart. Not something your prissy little hands can try and touch.” Jack had a smile on him, but it didn't dare reach his face. A dark look stayed on his face as he squeezed your body tighter to him.

“So back off,” he says lowly, sending chills to the girl who seemed a little scared at how the boy seemed. Whilst you had chills due to his warmth his breath hit your ear.

The girl scoffed, walking off, her heels clicking as she pushed a waiter out of the way. The girl gained weird looks, but that didn't matter as Jack let you go. Dragging you by your arm and pulling you to a quiet place from the ballroom.

“Jack! Slow down, you’re walking so fast.” Jack ignored your protests, he threw you into a room and closed the door from behind without looking.

Stumbling into the room, you glared at him as you turned to stare at him. However, that glare soon disappeared as you saw how Jack looked. His hair is now messy and his eyes hovered over you like a predator.

“Puddin`, as much as I hate rich people,” struts towards you, chuckling darkly, he reaches over and grabs you to him. Having his warm hand behind your neck as his breath fanned over your lips. “I hate the kind that think they can touch you as if they own you,” he says darkly, his already raspy voice making it seem more low.

You couldn't help but breathe slowly, your body warming up as Jack’s eyes scanned over your face. His dark eyes started to light up a bit, “damn you do look good in that suit.” Jack then kisses your lips gently.

His hands smoothly place themselves onto your hips, and you relax into the kiss. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your bodies pressed together like an enigma. Jack licks the bottom of your lip, smirking as he feels you open your mouth a bit.

“Good boy,” he says before he fully picks you up effortlessly.

“HANDS OFF THE BOY!” yelled a booming voice. You yelped, moving from Jack as Jack himself groaned annoyed. Turning his head to see Jason with Dick by his side. And then there’s Damian with a fork.

“I may not have a knife, but a fork will do.”

“Well shucks,” Jack places you down, running his fingers through his hair before shrugging. “Guess fun’s over,” he smirks before throwing a king’s card down.

Smoke disgorges from the card, covering the room. The boys coughed whilst Jack grabbed your arm, “C'mon! Let's hit the road babe!” he exclaimed with a goofy expression.

After the smoke cleared up, Jason and Damian were after you whilst Dick was still coughing, leaving the room as Tim walked over to him.

“Yeah. I'm done.” Dick says as Tim gave him a glass of water.

“Good to know. I stopped months ago.”

And this was the most entertaining gala night of your life ever.

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sa1ntn3k0 · 2 months ago

Text

Snow Leopard Gojo - part 2 (∩˃o˂∩) ♡ nsfw!

Shoving a six-foot-something hybrid into a closet was… not your finest moment.

“Get in,” you hissed, palms pressed uselessly against Satoru’s bare chest, a chest that felt more like marble than flesh, all hard planes and warmth. He loomed over you, grinning like a cat who’d not only found the cream but also knocked it over for fun.

“Aw, but it’s cozy in here,” he purred, peering past you at the mountain of laundry and half-empty shoeboxes cluttering your closet. His tail swished lazily, brushing your ankle. “Smells like you, too. Cute.”

“Satoru-”

“Shh, your mom’s gonna hear~,” he sing-songed, bending down until his breath ghosted your ear. “Unless you want her to find us like this?”

Your face flamed. “Don’t be dumb.”

With a theatrical, yet awfully bratty sigh, he finally stepped backward, folding himself onto the floor like a contortionist. The Hello Kitty towel around his hips rode up dangerously, and you swore he did it on purpose. “Don’t miss me too much,” he whispered, wiggling his big, calloused fingers in a mocking wave.

You slammed the door, heart thundering.

The next thirty minutes were agony. Your mother, bless her, had arrived with tupperwares of veggie gyoza and white chocolate chip cookies, her smile soft as she fussed over your “tired eyes” and “skinny arms.” But every creak of the floorboards made you twitch. Your gaze kept darting to the bedroom door, half-expecting Satoru to waltz out, towel dropped, declaring, “Surprise! I’m her new roommate!”

Somehow, he stayed put.

Once your mom left, you flung the closet open, only to freeze.

Satoru sat cross-legged amidst your soft sweaters, his snow-white hair mussed adorably. The towel remained (thank heavens), but clutched in his hands was…

“Are those my-SATORU!”

He blinked up at you, your cotton, strawberry-print panties dangling from his teeth like a hunter’s prize. “Mmrf?”

His pupils were blown wide, blue barely peeking from black. Your heart dropped to your bum as you saw that those were the panties you wore yesterday… As in, not washed, dried, faint slick still clung to the middle.

What?!

“You-you pervert!” You lunged, snatching the fabric away. His plush lips quirked into a smirk, and you knew he’d been waiting for this. “Why would you- how even- ?!”

“They smell like you,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. Before you could die, he leaned forward and licked a stripe up your tiny neck. His pink, rough tongue scraping your pulse point.

“Eep!” You reeled back, clutching your throat. “Warn a girl!”

“But where’s the fun in that?” He unfolded himself, tail curling around your waist to steady you. “C’mon, I’m starving… Especially after smelling you. Feed me!”

You didn’t acknowledge the “smelling you” part, merely walking to the kitchen with your tummy in swirls, heart beating faster than a spooked bunny’s.

Dinner was a spectacle. You’d cooked the lamb chops thoroughly, plating them with rice and veggies, a meal fit for, well, a person. Satoru took one look at the knife and fork, snorted, and dug in with his hands, tearing into the meat like it owed him fresh ibex.

“You’re supposed to chew, not inhale,” you muttered, nibbling one of the cookies your mom brought. Your dinner was… weird most of the time. You had warm milk with chocolate in your miffy cup, getting curious side eyes from Satoru.

He paused, a glob of sauce on his cheek. “Want me to lick the plate next?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.” Still, he let you drag him to the sink afterward, pouting as you scrubbed his hands with citrus-scented soap. “Y’know, my tongue’s self-cleaning.”

“And I’m self-respecting. Keep your icky germs to yourself.”

As night fell, Satoru’s true origin spilled out between stolen bites of your cookies. The Himalayas. Poachers. A wealthy owner who’d treated him like a trophy. “Boring lady,” he grumbled, tail thumping the couch. “All she did was take pics for her shitty Instagram. No belly rubs or cuddles. No fun.”

Your chest ached. “So you… ran?”

“Duh.” He flicked your nose. “Best decision ever. Led me to you.”

You busied yourself with dishes to hide your blush. Satoru saw it, though. His tail swished in quiet victory, more like self-satisfaction.

Bedtime brought a fresh battle.

You had just finished a relaxing shower, your room smelled of lavender, the lingering scent of your body wash. Changing was meh. You changed in your tiny closet, worried Satoru might walk in and see you naked, but once done, and in your small, soft, very lacy nightgown, you felt more than ready to sleep.

But just as you lay down, you saw Satoru peeking through your cracked open door, his expression beyond cute, just as annoying. It was obvious where his eyes were, trailing your pert body. You felt his pretty blue’s burn harshly on your perky breasts, on your hips, put on display by your little nightgown.

“Bad kitty,” you said, tossing a miffy plushie at Satoru’s smug face. Your cheeks turned rosy, bothered that a mere look from the man could make you so… shy. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

He’d changed into your brother’s old sweatpants (too short, clinging to his calves) and a Hello Kitty tee that stretched obscenely over his pecs, the hem riding up to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. “But it’s cold,” he whined, flopping onto your pink bed like an overpowered little prince with the caught plush in hand, well, not little. “And lonely. And scary.”

“You’re a snow leopard. You are scary.”

“Please?” He rolled onto his back, paws (hands? Hands.) clasped under his chin. Moonlight gilded his white, thick lashes, his eyes shimmering like twin lagoons. “I’ll be a good boy. Promise.”

You lasted ten seconds.

“Fine. But no funny business.”

He celebrated by rolling himself into a burrito with your Hello Kitty quilts, wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth with his ridiculously strong arms. His purr rumbled through you, low and steady, his nose nuzzling your hair.

“Hey,” you whispered, fingers brushing the collar still snug around his throat. “Why don’t you take this off?”

He stiffened, then sighed. “…It’s a reminder. That I’m mine now. Not hers.”

Your heart squeezed. “You are.”

“Yours too, maybe,” he murmured, so quietly you almost missed it.

You fell asleep like that, his tail draped over your hip, his breath soft in your ear, his strong heartbeat like a gentle lullaby, and the strangest, sweetest sense that this jerk wasn’t that much of a jerk.

The rhythm you’d carved out with Satoru was… peculiar, but precious. Mornings began with him sprawled across your chest like a living weighted blanket, his tail flicking your chin until you groaned awake, just like how he was in his cub form. He’d trail you to the kitchen, stealing bites of your buttered, honeyed toast (despite his carnivorous hate for carbs) and sipping your orange juice straight from the carton, just to watch you squawk. Afternoons were for sunbeams, he’d claim the best patches of light, melting into a puddle of purrs near the TV, while you tackled textbooks at the table. Evenings? Those belonged to his obsession with your bathtub. He’d soak for far too long, clouding the water with lavender bubbles, his ears peeking over the rim like misbehaving marshmallows.

When you’d come in to scold him, he’d pout and dry off, mumbling about how “mean” his owner is.

But today, something was off.

You’d returned from class bone-tired, your brain still buzzing with equations, only to freeze in the genkan. The air hummed with a sticky sweetness, honey drizzled over sea salt, floral but feral. Your stomach flipped. “Satoru…?”

No answer.

The apartment was eerily tidy. No half-eaten steak abandoned on the counter, no trail of shed fur leading to the couch. No Digimon reruns on TV… Just silence, thick and syrupy. Your pulse spiked as you crept toward the bedroom.

There, curled in a shivering heap on your rumpled sheets, was Satoru.

“Oh my god-” You rushed to him, knees hitting the mattress. He clutched your pillow to his face, his knuckles white, breath ragged. His usual alabaster skin was flushed rose-pink, sweat glistening at his temples. The scent intensified here, heady, intoxicating, like orchids dipped in musk.

“Satoru, look at me,” you pleaded, cupping his jaw. His eyes cracked open, pupils blown so wide his irises were mere slivers of Arctic blue. They glowed faintly, fever-bright. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Do you need-?”

“Heat,” he rasped, voice shredded. His claws snagged the pillowcase, threads snapping. “It’s- hah- not… not your problem. Just… go.”

“Go? You’re burning up!” You pressed a cold, tiny palm to his forehead; he whimpered, nuzzling into your touch like a starved kitten. “Why didn’t you tell me this could happen?!”

“‘Cause it’s embarrassing,” he hissed, though the effect was ruined by how he arched into your hand, chasing your fingers as you brushed his hair back. “Snow leopards don’t- nngh- don’t do this every year. Just… when we…” His throat bobbed. “…find a mate.”

Your breath hitched. “Oh.”

“Not that I’m- ah- proposing,” he gritted out, tail lashing. “Just… biology being a dick. I’ll be fine. Go.”

But his body betrayed him. He shuddered violently, a broken whine escaping as he rutted against the mattress, hips stuttering. You saw the way his stiff cock pushed against the cotton of his pajamas, the way there was a tiny patch of wetness… pre cum staining the fabric. The motion sent a bolt of heat straight to your cheeks, but not more than the way the bed shook faintly, just a mere glimpse of how strong he is.

“Stop being stubborn,” you whispered, climbing onto the bed. Your pink sundress rode up to your pretty thighs as you settled against the headboard, legs folded. “C’mere.”

Satoru stared at you, conflicted, pride warring with desperation. Then, with a tiny wounded noise, he crawled into your lap, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He was trembling, his skin scorching through your clothes.

“Shh, it’s okay,” you murmured, cradling his head. His ears flattened, velvety against your palms. “You’re okay.”

“Not okay,” he choked out, fingers clawing the sheets instead of your hips- oh, never mind, his fingers started to knead your hips, like dough. “You’re too… soft. Smell too good. Hate this.”

“I know,” you soothed, rocking gently. “Just breathe.” Funny thing is, your heart was racing, you should breathe too, but the way Satoru touched you went straight to your core, making you sticky, your panties clinging to the fluid.

You traced idle patterns over his back, avoiding the dip of his spine where his tail met skin, yet that didn’t change a thing. He jerked, a guttural purr rattling his chest. You felt his lips on your neck, his fangs grazing your skin, begging to sink in, bite you as he fucked you senseless. “Fuck, baby- don’t- please- ”

“Does this help?” you asked softly, skimming your nails up his nape. Your cheeks burned as you saw the damp spot on his pajamas grow, like he was a leaking faucet of need.

“Yes. No. Stop.” He gasped, hips rolling helplessly, uselessly. “Don’t… don’t tease me.”

You weren’t, but hell, it felt like it. Your free hand rested on his tummy, shifting him a little to be comfier. Eyes trying to not stray to his weeping, cotton covered cock, the way it twitched, the way your core oozed more warm slick.

Satoru obviously caught on, having a sharp nose, but he just whined, feeling frustrated. He didn’t want to hurt you, in any way, so he tried to avoid the thought of rutting into you, feeling your tight, warm, gummy insides hug his thick length tight, how he’d fill you with his warm, salty release, maybe watch it flow out as he fingered it back in…

Fuck, this wasn’t helping.

“I’m not,” you promised, heart aching. His anguish was palpable, a storm of need and restraint. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” he keened, the word raw. “But I can’t- won’t- hngh- ”

“Shh.” You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, tasting salt. “I’ve got you.”

Slowly, so slowly, you palmed his tummy, the muscles quivering beneath your touch. His breath hitched, a broken sound, but he didn’t pull away. You mapped the planes of his abdomen, going lower despite your heart beating too fast, your body feeling warm, gentling him like a spooked kitten. His purr stuttered, deepened, until the bed vibrated with it.

Satoru’s breath hitched when your tiny hand brushed the very bottom of his tummy, near his pubic bone. His eyes widened, up on yours as his hands clung to your dress, unintentionally pulling it down, revealing your baby-pink lace-covered, pert breasts.

Your hand hesitantly ran over his stiff cock, lips parting at the sheer size of him, how girthy and long- was his dick curved? You almost fainted, but Satoru’s whine, paired with his puffy lips clinging to your now released nipple, brought you back.

What?

Your panties flooded, and you mewled softly, palming his aching cock as you watched him suckle on your nipple like a hungry baby. His eyes shut a little, and his ears- oh, his cute ears twitched with each suck. His hips jerked up desperately, whimpering nonsense onto your breasts. His sharp little fangs brush the sensitive skin, leaving you a mess.

You couldn’t say no to him anymore. But you hadn’t a clue how to please a man… Sure, you saw a few videos before, a girl jerking her hand up and down the length, the man groaning before he came, but was it the same to every man? You saw the way Satoru was almost crying as he suckled, basking in your palming, but far too needy, far too eager for more.

Who were you to deny him?

You gently pulled his pajamas down, eliciting a whimper from his pink lips, still stubbornly latched onto your nipple. His other hand now kneads your other breast, eyes up on you, looking far too innocent for the situation.

“Shh, I got you, kitty. Let me take care of you.” Once his throbbing, girthy, long cock bobbed out from his pajamas, your eyes widened, pupils shifting to phantom hearts.

Holy shit.

Satoru was pure fantasy. His weeping dick, and swollen balls aching. His pinkish-red tip dribbled small amounts of milky release, his length covered in faint veins, curved faintly upwards, like a hook. Aroused was an understatement; you had the urge to sink down on him, despite your shy self, to feel his fat tip kiss your soft cervix…

Satoru suckled harder, nipping on your nipple, massaging the other until pliant. You glanced down at him, softly whimpering along to him as you began to follow pure instinct, jerking him off.

“There you go, kitty,” you whispered. “Just let go.”

He went boneless against you, limbs heavy, face barely hidden, his saliva bathing your now puffy nipple. His tail coiled around your ankle, an anchor.

Sweet thing hadn’t uttered a coherent word the entire time; that’s how gone he was. Your fingers grazed his swollen tip, adding more pressure to the length as you went up and down. Satoru’s whimper, alongside the jerk of his hips, with the hard nibble of your nipple, told you he was close.

So when his release fell like a waterfall, sticky white fluid spurting from his tip to his clenching tummy, all over your tiny hand, he trembled, ears twitching, tail shaking faintly. His lips didn’t leave your nipple, though, saliva strand staying intact as he looked up to you half lidded, whining softly.

“That’s it, baby… Such a good boy, hm?” You cooed softly, cheeks rosy, matching his. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, hands trembling softly. But when your sticky hand left his relaxed cock, he suckled more, almost begging to have some kind of physicality with you. Your hand cradling his head to your chest allowed him to, feeling your own arousal grow tenfold worse.

After a quick wipe of your sticky hand on his already messy pajamas, you let your hand rub his chest, noticing his sensitive spots far too easily. He whimpered quietly when your fingers lightly ran over his pink nipples, and when your nails brushed his collarbones.

By the time his breathing evened out, the room smelled of nothing but lavender, sticky release, and sleep.

His sleep.

Poor baby was worn out, overwhelmed from the pleasure, rightfully exhausted.

You didn’t move until moonlight spilled through the curtains. Slipping away only to first get a warm, wet cloth to clean his tummy, then you changed into your coziest Miffy pajamas, pulling a new pair out for him too. You returned to find him sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. The collar glinted in the dark, like his release.

You gently cleaned his saliva-ridden lips and chin, then his tummy, making sure to get his snowy happy trail clean from release. After removing his dirty pajamas and pulling his new ones up, you threw the cloth and pants in the laundry hamper, settling beside him with burning cheeks and a full heart.

“Stay,” he mumbled, hoarse but lucid, as you slid under the covers.

“Where else would I go? Silly kitty.” You curled into his side, head on his chest. His heartbeat soothed you, a steady drum beneath your ear.

Pleasuring him was scary at first, but… Now in bed, all comfy and warm with him, you felt far more confident, less shy about it. Sure, your panties were slick, messy with what he caused, but you’d deal with it later; now it was all about Satoru, your baby.

He hesitated, then wrapped around you, his nose in your hair. “…Thanks… ‘M sorry for-”

“Be quiet, ‘Toru, don’t say dumb stuff,” you teased.

He huffed a laugh, his ears burning pink, feeling surprisingly shy about being jerked off by his cute little owner. “Shut up.”

But his big, warm arms tightened, his purr resuming, softer now, a lullaby. You kissed the hollow of his strong throat, just above the collar.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t suffer alone. Please.”

He didn’t answer. Just nuzzled closer, his tail swathing your legs like the world’s fluffiest blanket.

But when you slept and felt his cheek nuzzle into your breasts, you knew the answer already.

Silly kitty.

End.

Whoa! That was a lot, but I hope you truly enjoyed :) I wrote 90% of this half awake, since that's when my brain just locks in and spills the best writing I could ever pull out. I absolutely adore this little munchkin, so I will be making silly little drabbles, both sfw and nsfw, when I have the time. Btw, all my nsfw content is NOT for minors, and please do note I have this written in my intro, which is pinned. Take care of yourselves, lovelies :P

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