#undercooked-ice

[undercooked-icicle]

New genders just dropped.

[vimbry]

oh man the 2nd demo of don't let's start is like Really great, that might actually rival the final album version

[miss-floral-thief]

Oh a lot of whipped cream

[vengeancemoths]

they opened a mochi donut/korean hotdog place down the street from where i work and it is going to take all my willpower not to blow all my money there constantly. me shaped wallet trap

[seaslugfanclub]

Kool-aid Isn’t the Only Thing I’m Thirsty For

Happy 4th of July everyone!

————————————————————————

“Y’know my great grandfather was stationed in France?”

“No shit? My nephew was deployed there.”

“Yeah— Cant remember for the life of me what division he was in, but he was sent back to the states after he blew off most of his fingers.”

“Yeesh.. Makes me mighty glad I missed out on all o’ that! hey- make sure to keep flippin’! These need to be grilled correctly.”

“Don’t tell a man how to use his own grill…”

Sykes, Rourke, and Alameda hovered over the grill, Sykes in charge of the burgers as he shot the shit with the old commander and cow wrangler, a half-smoked cigar hanging from each of their mouths and a chilled beer bottle in hand.

It had been a while since Sykes had celebrated the 4th, but he had subtly dominated the command of the grill. And Rourke was more than happy to piss away time, puffing on his cigar as he talked about old war battles with the two other men.

The sun beat down on the men, who had stationed themselves in the old lot behind the main studio building, both Rourke and Sykes had exchanged their usually stiff outfits for their old wife-beaters. While Alameda wore a simple plaid button up. An old radio played classic yacht rock, sitting atop a splintering picnic table. And a cooler filled with drinks was placed beside the grill, a few spare wasps hovering around the yellowed plastic of the cooler.

“(Y/N)!!!” Sykes hollered, Rourke and Alameda flinching at the noise,

“How're you doing with the Kool-aid!?”

(Y/n) opened the door to the backyard, calling back, “Almost done!!!”

Closing the door, (Y/n) turned towards Medusa, who was finishing mixing the disgustingly sweet drink, limp cigarette between her lips

“Hey, don’t get any cigarette ash in it!” They whined.

“Oh please, I won't! At least the ash would cut back the sugar.” Medusa muttered, sweeping back her dangling American flag earrings.

(Y/n) nodded, pulling on the hem of their denim shorts that stuck to their sweaty skin. “Cool, Imma bring out the ketchup and shit, Facilier, do you wanna join us?”

Facilier, who was draped on the counter across from Medusa, top hat off and slightly fanning himself shrugged,

“Eh, I’m not too big on burgers Chére. And I’m pretty sure drinking even a small glass of that red monstrosity will put me in an early grave.”

“You sure? I brought some illegal fireworks that we’ll be setting off later? You could do the honors of lighting them?”

Facilier paused his fanning, “…Illegal you say? What kind?”

“Oh I’ve got; Snakes, sparklers, firecrackers, M80, black cats, Roman candles, screamin’ Mimi’s, ladyfingers, fuzz buttles, snicker bombs, church burners, finger blasters, gut busters, crap flappers, whistling bungholes, spleen splitters, whisker biscuits, honkey lighters, hoosker do’s, hoosker don’ts, cherry bombs, nipsa daisers with scooter stick, and whistling kitty chasers.” (Y/n) listed off with their fingers.

…

“….Well, I could never pass up a good ol’ Roman candle… sure. Just let me know when you bring ‘em out.”

(Y/n) laughed, nodding excitedly as they carried out all the condiments, paper plates, and napkins to the backyard, Medusa bustling beside them with the large pitcher of iced Kool-aid.

“I haven’t had a proper July 4th cookout since I was a girl! I still remember my ol’ mother and father screaming over the undercooked hot dogs… Oh, back when this country had proper domestic violence~” Medusa cooed, a nostalgic smile making her eyes squint.

The park attendant gave Medusa the side eye, brows furrowed before shaking their head, (Y/n)’s attention quickly turned towards the large men outside.

They tried not to blatantly stare at how tight Sykes beater was stretched around his chest, or how all of the men’s chest and arm hair were slicked with sweat, OR how an old anchor tattoo made itself known on Rourkes back whenever he flexed, OR OR how good Alameda looked taking a long puff his cigar.

…

“…Meat's back on the menu tonight…” (Y/n) thought to themselves, hoping that the heat could excuse their flushed face.

To break out of there thoughts, (Y/n) shouted to the group,

“Alright! Who’s ready to party!?”

———————————————————————

“What in god's name are they doing?” Hook muttered, watching through the window in morbid fascination as (Y/n) fanatically cheered on Facilier, who had begun to laugh maniacally as he shot off three Roman candles at once.

“Oh it’s that silly American holiday, today. The one where they dress up is garish clothing and raise their cholesterol.” Cruella hisses, already feeling a headache coming on. “I tell you those Americans eat like they have free healthcare..”

“Ugh, a wretched holiday for a wretched country, the traitors..” Governor Ratcliffe sneered.

“Oh, now look at that—” Hook pointed out,

From the backyard, Rourke hands (Y/n) what seems to be a small, multicolored bazooka, a wicked grin on his face as he helps them light the rocket's fuse.

Rourke ruffled their hair, stepping back a few paces to join Sykes and Slim’s side, watching proudly as (Y/n) braces and aimed the rocket towards the sky, shooting a fiery ball high up into the night air, which promptly exploded into a burning flower of sparkles. The firework joking one of many across the dark sky.

“USA! USA! USA! USA!”

…

“…I bet 30 dollars one of them is losing a finger tonight.” Clayton speaks up amongst the crowd of villains watching from inside.

“Aye, make that 50.”

————————————————————————

Just wanted to write a little blurb celebrating the 4th of July! I realized just how little American villains the Disney cannon has, and I wanted an excuse to thirst over Rourke and Sykes in old wife- beaters grilling me a burger🤤.

(ALSO DISCLAIMER!! This was merely written for fun. I love America and I love the beautiful nature it has, but I don’t love the American government.

This was not written with any political intention, only thirst for old men and Kool—aid.)

[lxvvie]

Simon writes THE best negative yelp/google reviews😂

“Came for a left wheel panel replacement, left with bondo stuck in my car. The 2nd fix was no better. If i wanted sloppy seconds I woulda went to my missus you fucking donkey🖕🏻. 0/5”

“The rice was undercooked and harder than my dick while takin a fucking wank. 1/5”

“Bad infrastructure and car park. Wouldn’t even use this in modern warfare . 1/5”

“Garry the barista, you made my wife uncomfortable AND you gave me ICED sweet tea. Count. Your. Days. 0/5”

“VERY inaccurate website description. A rookie shooting bullets out of his ass would be more accurate than you bloody cunt. 2/5”

“Bloody hell. The food looked like its was drooped, kicked, and shat on by a fucking cow. 0/5”

Y'all leave my Missus™ alone, he wouldn't do this. He probably would and tell you just like he wrote the review lmao.

[boop-le-snoot]

masterlist

untitled

I just had this vivid scene play out in my brain. Dropped to my knees in a local chain grocery store, had to pretend I was grabbin the bootleg brand chips from the bottom shelf. I'm definitely normal about this. Yea, I'm so abso-fucking-lutely normal about this.

So what if I'm ovulatin'? It ain't me sittin' here clenching my fuckin' thighs, no ma'am, nu-uh. Even my predictive text talks like Daryl now- okay, I may have a tiny little problem. I hope I never, never ever get the chance to look Norman Reedus in the eye.

4.5k words. VERY VERY NSFW. Just sweet and a little rough monkey lovin' where Daryl enjoys something for the simple sake of it feeling good. A little undercooked plot-wise but the smut has been grilled to a perfect medium-rare, slightly juicy, collard greens and mashed potatoes on the side with the mushroom sauce. Two packs of cigarettes later (he owes my lungs an apology),

Imagine you and Daryl going out on a - run, scouting mission, whatever - and hunkering down in a secure cabin for the night. It's summer, it's hot and stuffy inside, but luckily, the cabin has running water, even if it's ice-cold. So you wash up and apply some of the essential-oils-homemade-perfume-thing that someone at the community made for you.

You change into your PJs and come downstairs to amuse yourself til the sun sets completely.

He's smoking next to a crack in the boarded up windows and you, being on friendly terms, banter a bit and bum a cigarette off him. He doesn't mind when you use one of his knees to sit down. As you two joke, you ruffle his hair slightly, not missing the way his eyes narrow in pleasure.

That sparks a conversation about letting oneself to feel good things.

You say that it's different for women because they get judged for wanting to experience pleasure just for the sake of it and Daryl says he always thought it to be stupid. You say that he's not exactly the resident expert on that, which briefly makes his natural competitiveness overshadow his shyness and self-loathing.

Petulantly, he places your hand back in his hair and stresses the purring growl of pleasure as your scratch his scalp and let his moist tresses glide through tour fingers.

You laugh and say you're gonna braid his hair one day, in jest, and he growls back "yer pushin' yer luck, pretty girl," but his smile is hidden rather badly.

In revenge, you stomp out the cigarette and straddle his lap fully, attacking his head with a massage worthy of a spa parlour professional.

He grips your waist as his head hangs forward, a low rumble coming from his mouth as his nose comes that much closer to your neck.

Daryl takes a deep breath, and sensing you unbothered by it, says "ya smell good. like apple pie."

"Oh," he doesn't miss the slight hitch in your breath, "'member when I fixed up the 'lectric in number twelve? they paid me in some essential oil perfume they made. feels nice to... not smell death all day, every day. 's a nice change."

He nods, agreeing, remembering your strong feelings about doing some things just because they feel good. Not because it's useful or to survive, but just for a surge of happy hormones in your bloodstream.

Despite his best efforts to distract his body, one wiggle from you is all it takes for his excitement to be obvious. He freezes, but you adjust simply, politely, keeping your weight off his boner. Confused by your chill attitude, he lifts his head, forcing you to brush all of his hair out of his face.

Daryl feels vulnerable and exposed.

Your eyes slide down to his lips, once, twice, but you - just as stubborn as him - pick them back up. As he parts them to run the tip of his tongue over them in hopes of finding something to say, he notices it fully.

He notices the flush of your skin. His hands move on your waist, provoking another blink-and-youll-miss-it twitch of your fingertips and toes.

Gathering his ducks in a row, Daryl leans into you - your neck, not your lips, not yet - softly running the tip of his nose along your collarbone and up to your jaw.

"That feel good?" Voice gravelly low, it sends reverb through your chest.

"Yeah," you breathe quietly, your fingers in his hair shaking slightly. You lean more into him and that is all the encouragement he needs for the time being.

"Wanna make ya feel good," he admits, dry lips and scratchy stubble gliding along the length of your jaw. His breath is hot on the shell of your ear. "Can I do that, suga'-pie?"

"Mhm," you respond, his cheek now against yours - you rub into him gently, like a cat. The affectionate headbutt makes him chuckle quietly in his throat.

He continues nosing around your neck, feeling the muscles in your back and your thighs unclench one by one. You're practically on top of him, almost right there, over the throbbing erection in his pants, and he feels your control slip away bit by bit.

The flimsy wooden chair you two are sitting on creaks; Daryl doesn't place much trust in it. Planting his feet wide, securing his position, he inadvertently lands your cunt right over his cock. Both of you shudder and hiss at the contact.

The damn chair creaks again.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding down to your ass, hoisting you up and urging you to wrap your legs around his waist as he stands up, sending the raggedy chair clattering to the floor.

Your breath catches in your throat, your hands grab at his shoulders, kneading into the meat there. A few steps later, both of you land on the couch heavily; it creaks, too, but your legs have room and your body can finally relax against Daryl as you stabilise yourself on the surface.

He's panting, open-mouthed, looking at you with those stormy blue eyes, searching for something in your earnest, open face.

The corners of your mouth tug up.

He runs his palm over your back, settling on your nape to pull you into him. Your mouths connect; the kiss is slow and unhurried as you take the time to explore each other's mouths. There is no need to rush, no risk of being caught or ambushed; it really feels good. Following someone's advice for once, Daryl lets himself become utterly lost in the sweet kiss.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging softly every now and then, tipping the cup of him ever-so-slightly for short groans to spill into the kiss. Sometimes, you let your hands traverse the hills of his shoulders, the plains of his chest, fingertips poking around the collar of it.

It's overstimulating but at the same time, it's not enough. To give you a hint, Daryl timidly strokes the single bare inch of skin between your shirt and your pants, feeling the goosebumps even through the thick, calloused skin of his working hands.

The way your hips respond: restless and fluid, pressing into him just that much closer, prompts him to slide his hands further under your shirt, mapping the bony ridges of your spine. The skin along it is sensitive on any mammal, that much he knows, so he expects the twitch, expects the breathy moan leaving your lips; he revels in it, the kiss growing humid and sloppy.

Your hands slip into his shirt, finally, your warm palms on his hot skin. He's burning up inside out and you're- you're diligently adding fuel and accelerant to the fire. Blunt nails scratching over his uneven skin, you snag his bottom lip on your teeth as moisture gathers in the corners of your mouths.

The need for oxygen is strong.

Daryl inhales deep as he rests his forehead against yours.

Both of you are panting. Necking like horny teenagers, not a care in the world, no worry for tomorrow; it's near impossible to focus on anything else but the pulsating need at the spots where your bodies are pressed together.

It's all too much but neither of you want it to stop.

"Holy shit," your awed mumble causes Daryl to smirk lightly; as you shift in place, he swears he can smell how wet you are. His jeans must've gotten ruined by now, if not by you then by the weeping of his own cock.

It feels almost regretful to proceed. This exact feeling, if someone could figure out how to bottle it, would have people sellin' their soul for it, Daryl is damn sure.

It's the moment before lightning spears open the stuffy air of a muggy, stormy day. The millisecond before a heavily pregnant cloud gives birth to a solid wall of ice-cold rain; the blink of skies as they generously cool the overheated earth, filling up its parched cracks with invigorating liquid.

"Fuck," Daryl groans, tossing his head back onto the backrest of the couch, watching you through lidded eyes, "whatchu doin' to me, girl?"

You offer him a shaky, sheepish grin before your lust takes over your senses, pushing you back up to him. Your mouth connects with his neck, suckling, licking, nipping at the caramel skin there.

Daryl tastes of cheap soap and clear sweat, that musky scent of gasoline and leather unfurling into notes of pinewood and smoke as you nose deeper; right next to his ear, tickled by his hair, he smells and tastes like the best dessert at the carnival inside the town fair.

A little greasy and drenched in spices. You can't get enough of him. Opening your mouth, you stick your tongue out flat and lick.

Daryl groans. It's open-mouthed and loud. His hands grab your hips firmly, dragging you over the tent in his pants.

Both of you hiss at the friction.

Your knees wobble as your stance widens in an attempt to cover more surface are, to bring the feeling closer to your clit. There's at least four layers of fabric between your skin and his and it is something that is so sweetly, arduously annoying.

He pushes down again, harder this time, offering another delicious groan that you can't help but swirl in your mouth and recreate. The noise attracts his attention; Daryl watches you, watches your face, the flush on your chest, your heaving breasts. Like many men, he licks his lips utterly unintentionally when his eyes settle on your hard nipples.

Inwardly, you find enough clarity of mind to chuckle. Men and breasts nevel fail to amuse you when placed in close proximity. You push them outwards and his mouth is immediately right there, shirt and all, rolling a stiff nipple gently between his teeth.

The soft, damp cotton adds an edge to it; you feel your underwear slide over your cunt, the fabric absolutely saturated with your arousal.

Daryl's hands knead your ass as he takes in his fill of your breasts.

"That's, fuck," you pant, needing him to know, "that's really fuckin' good."

"Yeah?" He groans wetly before taking in as much of your breast as he can fit in your mouth; there's no finesse to it, just raw, unadulterated need.

"Uh-uh," you nod: his eagerness is what takes the cake.

Daryl tugs your shirt up; up and over your head and fuck knows where it flies, forgotten the moment his lips are back on one nipple, his fingers on the other. He rolls, he bites, he sucks.

Your breasts are wet with spit and sweat.

His breath ghosts over the damp areas, pebbling the tender bud to a state almost frigid.

You moan, loudly, wetly and openly. You gasp, you squirm, anything to quell the restlessness. It's like an army of fire ants trotting their primal, tribal dance under your skin, reducing you to a disoriented mess with a one-track mind. Your fingertips are pale where you hold onto Daryl in a feeble attempt to ground yourself.

He's smirking when he surfaces up. There's spit glistening on his chin, his lips are puffy, the deepest, most delicious shade of maroon. It's obvious the state of your undress and the intensity of your want is echoed by him.

"Feel good?" He has the audacity! to ask.

"Yeah," your response is lackluster in words but the tone and the pleading expression on your face conveys it all: your desire, your desperation.

With you on top of him, the only relief to your aching cunt so far has been provided by his bulge rubbing against your clothed slit. It's not enough, it's not even nearly enough.

Daryl's biceps bulge as he effortlessly lifts you up, "c'mere," placing you back-to-his-chest.

Your legs fall open on your own accord, hanging limply over his muscular thighs. The meat of his cock digs into the cheeks of your ass; you feel it twitch along with you when Daryl's thick palm cups the mound of your pussy in a gesture both tender and possessive.

"Fuckin' shit," his low mumble travels down the shell of your ear, "this all fr'me, sugar?"

"Yes," you breathe out as he slides his middle and ring fingers up and down your slit. There is no hiding it: your cunt had soaked right through your panties and the cotton of your pajama pants.

With some more maneouvering that comes unfairly easy to him (in your opinion), your pants join your t-shirt somewhere in the deepest pits of hell (a far corner of the room). The panties stay on and for that, you're grateful - a little - as the simplest, straightest of touches on the sensitive meat of your cunt feels like clear honey being poured over a-

Daryl taps two fingers at the top of your slit, right where you outer lips part to reveal your swollen clit.

"Fuck!" You yelp.

"So responsive," he mumbles. He sounds fascinated as he spreads his fingers, the rough tips gliding along the skin and the thick meat sliding over the soaked fabric. You quiver and he can't resist running his mouth, "that feel good?" His smirk is a little mocking, a little breathless.

Your resolve hops between strangling Daryl and begging him, the rabbit of your heart leaping in your chest, doing a binky when your lover shows you mercy by moving aside the sticky fabric covering your crotch. It immediately cools and you wince as it touches the hot flesh of your thigh.

Daryl's inhale is sharp, deep and loud as he dips the same two thick fingers inside your slit.

You're swollen and so wet, its practically dripping. Your clit twtiches under his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," he exhales his disbelief, "you like that, huh? This all for me?" The question proves to be rhetoric when the arm that holds you by your waist tightens on you and Daryl grinds his hips up into the small of your back.

The pitch of his voice drops impossibly low, "bet you taste sweet," as he scoops up some of the fluid, fingers snagging on the snug ring of your entrance, before bringing them up to his lips. He noisily sucks your cunt off his fingers, slurping, "fuck yes!"

Your eyes flutter shut as you cunt pitifully clenches around nothing, no doubt making an ever bigger mess between your legs and on his jeans. Your soft whine is an earnest compliment to the man doing his best to clean up your mess.

Daryl repeats the motion several times, scooping up the sticky droplets of your cunt juice, immediately sticking his fingers in his mouth.

You feel a little sad you can't see it, but your imagination supplements that which is lacking. You imagine his brow, furrowed; his eyes, closed; the tight 'o' of his lips around his fingers. Your cunt flexes again, spasming.

Daryl's reward for it is to circle your clit with a featherlight touch of a single finger. His breath is heavy as he reaches lower, same finger sliding to your entrance: not breaching it, just circling, like a predator circles its prey. He must have the patience of a saint.

You, however, do not. Your hips have a mind of their own as they arch into him, your cunt so empty, it practically hurts.

"Tell me whatcha need," Daryl orders, the low of his voice seasoned with a pinch of pride and a pinch of desperation, "tell me, sugar."

"Inside," you keen, out of your mind, "I want you. Inside." There's drool gathering in the corners of your mouth.

Daryl obliges, but not before lubricating the entirety of his thick finger by sliding it over the outside of your cunt, causing another loud keen to fall from your lips.

When he pushes in, you swear you could cry from the sheer relief of finally getting something for your hungry cunt to wrap around.

Experimentally, he drags his finger in and out, slowly, tense as he watches your reaction, before adding in another. To say they're big would be an understatement: long and thick and textured, it's everything your cunt has craved for the past some minutes. Daryl pumps them in and out as you pant through the new sensation, acutely aware of the loud squelches coming from your hole with every plunge.

Your swollen lips and throbbing walls attempt to keep him hostage with every pull.

Daryl curses, something completely unintelligible, his rough voice completely lost to lust. "Gonna cum for me, eh?" He breathes as the contractions of your cunt become quicker, more rhythmic.

Your neglected clit pulses, your nipples are stiff as rocks, your breathing is uneven and shallow. You couldn't find your voice even if you tried; you don't try at all, letting your body do the talking. You fuck back onto his fingers to the best of your limited ability to move as short, loud, primal noises choke their way up your throat.

The throb of his cock against the small of your back is what sends you over the edge.

Daryl's panting, whimpering himself at the unabashed state of your being; you don't think he realises it, even, his eyes set on your cunt gripping onto his fingers.

When it clenches for one last time, you arch, you paint the walls of the room with curses and whimpers that would make even a prostitute blush as more sweet slick drips out your spasming hole and onto his fingers. Your legs tremble as your entire body goes limp in Daryl's hold.

Soft lips rest on the crown of your head, hot, uneven puffs of air frizz your damp hair.

As your brain does a factory reset, you become hyperaware of the hard, thick flesh pressing into you; a stark realization comes over your being, washing your body in a new layer of shivers. Your cunt still tingles, still aches for more.

"Daryl," you mumble, feeling him go stiff and hot, his name like the sweetest honey on your lips, "I want you inside me."

He shudders, he pants, his cock twitches pitifully once again in his pants. The tight denim had provided some relief, enough to focus on you, enough to stretch the time a little bit more. But now, with your body warm and lax and fucked out of your skull, how could he resist?

He didn't want to resist. He wanted to feel good.

In your dazed state, it was easy for him to pick you up, bridal-style, and carry you towards the singular bedroom in the cabin. He grinned at the clumsy way you immediately reached out to him, tangling your fingers in his hair, placing sloppy kisses on the nearest inches of skin you could reach.

The whine you let out when dropped onto the cool comforter?

Daryl's cock twitched demandingly.

The man stood at the foot of the bed, admiring the view: you, blinking up at him, breasts moving with each shallow breath, feet on the comforer and legs bent at the knee, a hint of flushed, swollen pussy peeking out from the crooked gusset of your underwear.

This may not be heaven but it was as close to it as he'll ever get.

The buckle of his belt clinked, denim shuffled as it was left somewhere behind him- Daryl wasted no time dropping to his knees, using two strong hands to bring your cunt up and into his face. The force of his inhale made your sensitive pussy quiver, it was something that made him smile against the fabric of your panties as moved it aside once more - this time with his teeth.

"Oh, fuck!" You yelped as the broad, wide, flat expanse of Daryl's tongue licked messily up your cunt, hole-to-clit.

"Mmm," he groaned, "fuckin' candy apple pussy," taking another taste. And then another, and another until your skin was raw from the stubble of his beard and you were left in a shaking, whimpering, wet mess of a human. His face was drenched. "Messy girl," he chided in a soft mock as your cunt provided him with another gush of arousal, "ya like bein' messy for me, don't cha?"

"Uh-uh," you arched, your usually concise vernacular reduced to whimpers, groans and two-syllable words that barely made any sense to your own ears, much less anyone else's.

Daryl was like a wild animal, lapping up the liquid, uncaring of the mess he made of you and of his own face.

"Please," you fought with your tongue and finally, finally won, "I wanna- uhh," well, maybe not quite.

Momentarily, he withdrew, wiping the side of his face on the inside of your thigh, "you want what? Tell me."

In your state, he could have touched you anywhere and it would have reduced you to a mindless, blabbering mess. So you settled on the next best thing. Your hand, the one that was in his hair, tugged him up - or tried to.

Daryl's responding growl, the shift of his shoulders, the absence of a single hand on your thigh - you knew the tug had him palming himself through his boxers. Another, purposeful tug was given, another growl followed as he stood up.

You weakly pushed yourself up higher on the large bed.

In the dim twilight of the bedroom, Daryl stood, shirt soaked through and through with sweat; his chest heaved as damp strands of hair fell over his face. They were unable to conceal the glistening layer of you on his chin, neither they could hide the blown pupils of his stare. There was almost no blue visible in his eyes.

You licked your dry lips, forcing them to cooperate, "c'mere," your hands stretched out towards him.

Daryl crawled on the bed and over you, sitting between your spread legs. Obedient, he leaned into you, placing sloppy, damp kisses over your face as you wound your arms around his neck. The tent in his boxers hovered less than an inch away from your bare cunt.

"I need ya'," you breathed, tasting yourself as you licked into his mouth, hoping to convey with you body what you couldn't with your words.

"Ya sure, sugar?" Ever the gentleman, Daryl pressed his clothed cock over your bare cunt, ruining his underwear even further; his muscles flexed under your palms.

"Uh-uh," the heat, the feel of his thick cock backtracked any progress you'd made on getting your vocal cords and your brain cooperate. There was nothing but lust and saliva gathered in your mouth now, something that both of you shared during another slow, wet kiss. Your teeth clashed, your tongues ran over each other, all graceless and sloppy.

With one swift, ragged motion of his hand, Daryl shoved his boxers down and over his cock, freeing it from the tight confines; that action alone was enough for him to let out a grunt as the cool air hit his leaking, flushed tip.

The same tip that slapped against your clit, jerking your body and his.

"F-f-fuck," Daryl wheezed, fisting his cock at the base, running the tip slowly over your lips, your clit and down to your hole, "m'not gunna last for shit like this."

Just get inside me!!! You wanted to scream. Instead, you wiggled your hips, you squeezed his shoulders.

The fat head of his cock slipped in, slowly, steadily. More wet, sticky noises got lost in the growl coming from Daryl's gritted teeth.

Your cunt was sucking him in, all wet and hot and snug and constantly flexing, rippling as it adjusted to his size. The roll of your hips that followed was utterly unintentional, driven by the most primitive of instincts.

"Oh, sugar," Daryl grasped your hip tightly, holding it in place, "fuckin' shit. What're you doin' to me, woman?" His speech slurred.

All you could reply was a series of small breaths, 'ah-ah-ah's' with every inch of his cock sliding into you, until you felt his heavy balls pressed against your ass.

If your eyes weren't clenched shut, you would have seen the wild look in Daryl's eyes, the way they darted between the blissed-out look on your face and the root of his cock secured against the entrance of your cunt.

Slowly, he withdrew, hissing at the smooth pleasure of your wet pussy sliding over his cock, and then he slammed back in.

Your body curled, arched; a shriek left your lips at the sudden realization. You held onto him tightly, his shoulders, his arms; the sweet feel of his skin, slick with sweat, bombarded your senses, drowning you in that natural, masculine smell of him.

You babbled some nonsense, something about how good he felt, how he fit just right and so nicely, how he was so good to you-

"You're so good to me," Daryl objected, Daryl stated, "s'fuckin' sweet. My sweet, messy girl."

The words alone brought you closer to the edge as he hammered away inside your oversensitive cunt. In fairness, he could have flicked your clit just once, or even taken his mouth to one of your hard, throbbing nipples-

Daryl's need to feel you come, to clench and gush around his rock-hard cock was at the forefront of his mind, followed closely by awe at the way your body molded perfectly against his. The way your thighs quivered as they attempted to wrap themselves around his hips, the desperation in your grip on his shoulders.

"Fuck!" He cursed, teethering at the very edge of his orgasm, "come for me, pretty girl, c'mon," he urged, swallowing his own moans and gasps.

"I- uh," you, too were almost right there. The coil in your stomach at its most tense, it sent small tremors inside your cunt, shocks of pure, hot, liquid ecstasy-

That traveled down Daryl's cock. Like damn rings during a heated game of muckers, the spasms of your cunt collected at the root of his shaft, one on top of the other, until he could do nothing else but rut roughly, sloppily into the equally sloppy mess of your cunt.

He felt it. It began somewhere at the deepest part of you, squeezin' the head of his cock firmly and traveling all the way down his shaft, until each ring of pleasure popped, releasing his seed into you-

Throbbing, your cunt pushed and gushed, a flash of lightning zapping your clit as Daryl's pubic bone ground into it with force. A hoarse scream tore from your throat, your body curling inward with the force of your orgasm. Strong, heavy spasms of his cock shooting hot ropes into you lulled you into the aftershocks.

It made both of your bodies limp with exhaustion. The cord had snapped and tension finally leaked out, dissolving like smoke and fog into the open air.

Sweaty, sticky and hot, the two of you panted your relief onto each other's cheeks.

Your lips connected with the rough stubble on Daryl's. Hair hung over his face, obscuring your smile.

"Whatchu grinnin' at?"

Boy, did he sound fucked-out. All smoke and gravel and spice and everything nice.

"Feels good."

"Heh," he chuckled, the noise coming from somewhere deep within his chest, "sure does."

[kondensaduhhh]

TF2 Mercs: Cooking HCs

all the mercs can cook, theyre all grown men ffs, but they're just better at certain things than the rest of them

this long as hell😭😭 good god, didnt expect it to be this long

first of all; Scout. Scout can absolutely cook, i personally think that a single mother who raised 7 sons is, first of all, a badass, and secondly, will not tolerate any of that "Women belong in the kitchen" bullshit, she taught her sons how to do basic life skills.

while, yeah, Scout can cook, he cooks breakfast foods best. sure, hes a little flinchy when the bacon starts poppin' but nothing he cant handle. He makes the best pancakes, toast, french toast, bacon, eggs, hell, the mercs don't get it but somehow even the way Scout makes cereal and milk in a bowl was better.

he doesnt measure either, he just eyeballs everything, which was one if the reasons he could bake for the life of him, no matter how many times his Ma and bros taught him. he makes killer milkshakes though.

Pyro!! idc idc hes a grown adult, hes not gonna burn anything, least of all the kitchen, he's too experienced with fire for such an imbecilic notion. Pyro's the best at making desserts, not really baking, he knows the basics, but not really his forte. Pyro made everyone's opinion on jell-o turn positive, theyre just that good. he can make flans, hard candy, ice cream, if its a dessert he can probably make it. everyone's favorite of his tho is caramel popcorn

Soldier usually either burns food or undercooks it but for some reason only when it's a shallow fry, he's great at deep frying and grilling, like hes super serious abt it, like he never lets whatever it is hes cooking out of his sight, he doesn't set up a timer or thermometer, its like he just knows when the food is fully cooked, he almost looks catatonic as he just stands there completely still watching the food cook but immediately starts yelling at his usual full volume when some tries to sneak in a bite of the food that IS finished cooking.

the demoman. most of Demo's food will usually have a very vague taste of alcohol in it, barely noticeable, the other mercs only realise it when they find out who cooked it. Demo's food always tastes great, unfortunately he can only make it once and he won't be able to recreate it, they're almost always just random ingredients that he somehow turns into a masterpiece.

although, there is one recipe he can make completely the same without fail, and it's his mum's favourite soup.

the engineer is the best at baking, with countless family recipes memorised and tweaked by his engineering prowess, it really is no competition. hes on par with Soldier in the grilling department, used to be a problem whenever they wanted to grill, and the two would butt heads, Heavy always put a stop to it before shit got too out of hand. at the end, it was Soldier who was the main griller, and Engie settled on making the casseroles and biscuits.

when it starts to get cold, everybody (ahemscoutahem) begs Heavy to make soup. While being in the mountains for 20ish years, Heavy found a lot of ways to make soup, from thin, brothy soups, to creamy, sticks-to-your lips soups. Fortunately, they dont have to beg for long since Heavy is always happy to cook his comfort foods for his friends, and while yes he does have to substitute most of the protein, the mercs dont see a problem with any of it, even though Heavy says it's not the same because it's not bear meat.

Medic can cook, it just so happens the only foods he can make without the aid of a written recipe are German dishes. He doesn't have much of a relationship with food, but can cook, but he does like to experiment which often gets tested out by either Pyro (bc he can stomach pretty much anything somehow), Sniper (bc Medic still wants to know if the food is edible and Pyro kinda doesn't count, and Sniper is the least picky with food), and Scout (this is mostly bc Sniper called him a pussy when he commented on the food)

Spy barely, very rarely will make food for the team, but if his ego was stroked enough he just might make a French dessert where he would pretty much blockade the kitchen bc French desserts are 'extremely fragile' hes exaggerating ofc, he just wants the kitchen to himself. while he does appear to be quite cold to the team, he does care for them and will, occasionally, not always, make them smth to eat when he notices smth amiss, he wont let them know its him (but they know, bc who else would elegantly plate smth as simple as frozen waffles?)

and finally Sniper. Sniper, if alone, would only eat what is necessary, not very picky either, has and will eat scorpions again if necessary. but whenever its his turn to cook for the team he always cooks family recipes, he has a box filled with index cards with his mum's handwriting, ranging from bread recipes, to a 3-day marinated beef stew. he usually just cooks the pasta soup and rice soups tho for stretchability of the dish

[valarie-is-lovely]

ADAM REQUEST. i've been thinking about what it would be like to spend holiday's with him. could you write about that ? like watching christmas movies , baking food , eating halloween treats together. stuff like that :)

Adam Stanheight — Holiday Headcannons

(Please don't steal my writing! Takes place before the bathroom trap. Reblogs and likes are encouraged ♡)

Warnings: romantic gestures - gore mention - cursing - Slight vomit mention - slight NSFW mention - Alcohol mention

SFW, GN romantic headcannons

HALLOWEEN

• Has always preferred Halloween over any holiday. Enjoys the scares and the stupid horror movies with the main characters that seem to have an IQ less than 10.

• Drags you to every thrift store in town to try and find anything Halloween related. A shirt with Ghostface on it? Bought. A tiny chain that says 'Childs Play?' Bought. A hat, one he knows he'll never wear, that has Micheal Myers with a knife? Bought. And he only acts like this in October.

• Likes snuggling up under the blankets with you just so you guys can watch horror movies, no matter how bad or good. He commentates on the stupidity of the characters in the movie you guys chose.

• Favorite horror villain is Michael Myers. He gets angry when people say that he's 'overrated.'

• Definitely perfers slasher films over others. Can't really do gore. Those movies make him pretty ill to the stomach. Just doesn't like seeing someone get sawed in half while their intestines fall out.

• Tries his best to decorate the apartment for Halloween, but can't do much since money is tight. He perfers when you make different cut out banners to hang on the walls or shit like that.

• Makes obnoxious comments during the movies you guys watch. Can't keep his mouth shut for a moment.

• At least once he'll have a nightmare during the month and then literally won't sleep for the rest of the night like a child. He gets angry when you try to comfort him, claiming that he 'doesn't need that bullshit.'

• On Halloween night, you two obviously dress up. He takes photoshoots of you guys in your outfits, you two are always matching, and then hangs them up in his darkroom every year. That night, you two eat a ton of Halloween candy, meaning one of you two end up vomiting from the amout of sugar you consumed.

CHRISTMAS

• Depsite trying his hardest, will never ever be able to bake Christmas cookies without your help. They'll always end up being some sort of burnt, black blob or so undercooked you can taste each raw ingredient.

• Favorite Christmas movie is The Santa Clause.

• Absolutely despises the cold. Yet, if you beg hard enough, he will go out in the snow with you and throw snowballs. After a snowball fight, he likes to tackle you to the ground and kiss you all over in a way to warm you up.

• Really likes hot chocolate. Will do anything you ask as long as he gets a mug full of hot chocolate after.

• Goes to the mall with you, if money isn't tight, and buys you two ugly Christmas sweaters to wear on Christmas morning.

• Not too good at gift giving. Maybe he'll throw some perfume / cologne into a box along with a cute little glass trinket of your favorite animal. Something small and stupid that means a lot.

• All he wants for Christmas is a box of cigarettes ♡

• Will watch Christmas movies with you, but probably won't pay much attention. As figured, he'd probably talk through the whole thing.

• Christmas morning, he wakes up around 9-10 A.M. and opens the gifts you two got each other. There's not a lot, but it's still special to him, even if he's not the gift kind of guy.

• If having a bad day, he'd perfer to stay inside with you. Maybe have a nice, hot bath with you with a little Christmas bath bomb. Something corny like that.

• After building gingerbread houses with you, he will slam his fist into his in order to break it so he can just lick the icing off of the gingerbread pieces.

EASTER

• Used to be utterly terrified of the Easter bunny when he wa younger.

• He honestly doesn't do much for this holiday other than hide little plastic eggs around the apartment for you to find.

(Sorry for the shortness of this one 😭)

VALENTINES DAY

• Showers you with affection all day.

• When you wake up in the morning, he's not in bed. A note lies on the bedside table that reads, 'Went out to get some groceries for us today. Your coffee is already made for you.' The note makes you aware that he will be the most loving guy he can be all day today.

• Leaves kisses all over your cheeks, neck, collarbone, etc. All day.

• Asks to shower alongside you. Nothing happens behind the shower curtain besides soft kisses and hugs as you two wash each other's bodies and hair.

• At around dinnertime, you guys sit in his living room, talking and cuddling while watching some dumb romance movie. He hands you a small book. Inside lies a bunch of photo collages between you two, thus being your Valentines gift.

• Takes you out to your favorite bar after dinner and gets you two drunk off your favorite alcohol.

• Once home, he brings you to bed, lathering you in kisses and soft love bites.

• (NSFW) Asks you if you two can have sex that night. If so, he makes sure it's all slow and sensual, unless suggested otherwise. Still, marking you as his with tiny kisses and hickies.

• Aftercare includes him holding your head against his chest and whispering how much he is in love with you. Gently plays with your hair, peppering kisses over your jaw and lips.

———

Hope this was good! Sorry for it not being too long. My first ever headcannon / fic on tumblr so I hope I did well. More requests would be appreciated. Ty for reading ♡

[featherandferns]

It’s my birthday today!!!

Literally can not decide how jj would act about birthdays, what do you think?

-🍓

first of all - HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I hope you have had, or are having, the best day! <3

(everyone wish 🍓 anon happy birthday right now or else no more JJ fics)

hmmm. I think JJ would definitely try his best with birthdays. Even if he doesn't quite hit the mark, he'd get brownie points for giving it his best shot.

His dad didn't ever care about his birthday. At the most, he'd get a rough pat on the shoulder and a grunted happy birthday, kid, or even a can of larger if his dad was feeling extra affectionate and perky. At the least, it would go unnoticed. Thankfully, the Pogues made up for the lack. They'd supply him with drinks and weed and cake, and would spend the day doing JJ-approved things. Those typically involved starting the day with a blunt and a beer, surfing at the break, fishing in the evening and wrestling around the campfire. Money being tight and all, gifts were few and far between. Instead it was more company. That was plenty for JJ. Just the acknowledgement that he was turning another year older was enough.

Besides, his birthday brought a looming sense of dread. He'd try and push it down, distracting himself with festivities, but every year that passed, he wondered what his future might look like. A prison cell like his dad, or casual alcoholism? A scrimping-and-scraping lifestyle, alone and isolated? Or a simple but cheerful life with his friends, perhaps even rich with gold gathered from John B and Pope's countless adventures?

That final premonition became stronger after JJ met you. Once you were around, the festivities altered slightly. Instead of a blunt first-thing, it was sleepy morning sex, with you doting on JJ like he were the first born king, and then a sedated smoke straight after. The joys didn't end at the bonfire: instead, it extended into the night, with you practically worshipping JJ in the bedroom. You also splurged out to get him a gift. Usually it was something handy, like a lighter or pocketknife, but JJ treasured every bargain buy like it was a Rolex.

Because JJ knew what it felt like to go without on birthdays, whenever it was yours, he tried his best to make it special. He woke you up with his head between your thighs. He attempted to bake you breakfast in bed (often consisting of burnt pancakes and luke-warm coffee). He'd be the first in line to offer to take photos of you for your Instagram, working overtime to get the perfect angles and lighting. Had to at least try and push his luck, sneaking a shot up your skirt, earning him a smack upside the head. Same as you, he scraped together enough money to get you a gift. Some jewellery or make-up that you'd been eyeing, unable to justify the price tag. If money was too tight, he fell back on his acts of service. Fixed the creaky door. Pimped out your board. Cleaned your busted-up car. You fucking loved it.

Whilst some things became birthday traditions, one very quickly did not. The first time you celebrated a birthday with JJ, he tried to bake you a cake. Note the word 'tried'. It was undercooked, to start. When he took it out of the cake-pan, raw batter leaked everywhere. He salvaged the baked sponge and made some horrendous contemporary art out of it. The icing was just as bad. Isn't it strange how similar salt looks to sugar? In wonky, wobbling hand-writing, JJ piped happy bithday, joyfully oblivious to the spelling mistake. And whilst the cake was completely inedible (like truly diabolical), you marked that as the moment you fell in love with JJ. Hell, when a guy bakes you a cake, you sort of don't have a choice.

So, JJ tried his best with birthdays, and you appreciated every tiny effort :)

[faggot-vampire-dies-epicly]

Celebrate

Summary: It’s your birthday, and Vanessa wants to make something special. She decides to bake you a cake even if she has never baked anything before. What could go wrong? | Words: 759.

Warnings: Cursing, fluff, kissing, a little hurt/comfort??? Established relationship. Fem!Reader.

A/N: Hey! This is super short. Honestly this is just self-indulgent. A gift for myself since today is my birthday! I hope you enjoy. Also the title is a reference to that one FNAF 1 poster that says "Celebrate."

Main Masterlist | Vanessa Masterlist | AO3

When she first found the recipe online, Vanessa was sure she would be able to pull it off perfectly.

But she was wrong.

At first it seemed easy enough.

She bought all the ingredients after you left for work. When she arrived home, she prepared her work area, and soon enough she was ready to begin.

“Preheat the oven,” she read on the recipe. Vanessa raised her eyebrows slightly. “Exactly how much time do I have to preheat it?” She thought, but did it nevertheless.

Vanessa also realized you two didn’t own an electric mixer, so she had to make the cake's icing by hand. She scratched her head, sighing and decided that the best thing to do was to start as soon as possible.

She followed the instructions for the icing adding the eggs on at a time when she realized that the mix looked off. She realized that the recipe said “only the egg yolks” while she had used the whole eggs. Vanessa contemplated it for a moment, before deciding that a little mistake was not worth scrapping the whole thing, so she kept mixing, hoping that that would fix it.

It ended up looking thinner than the website showed, but she shrugged it off.

Next up was the cake mix. She added all the ingredients at once, and started mixing.

An impressive number of lumps formed in the mixture, and Vanessa had to whisk until her arm grew tired to try and break them apart. In an attempt to ease it, she added more milk than needed, and now it had a texture that was too watery. So she added more flour, but when inserting the measuring spoon into the bag, it became unstable and ended up falling off the table, spilling half of its content onto the kitchen floor.

She groaned, staring at the mess. Vanessa was starting to get frustrated. This was supposed to be something easy for her. She wanted it to be perfect for you. Because you deserved it.

Vanessa did her best to fix the disaster, and then she continued working on the cake.

This was not going the way she expected. She ended up with a cake with a burnt bottom, an undercooked top and the icing was thin and too liquidy.

She felt like crying, and looked at the watch on her wrist. It was almost time for you to come home, there was no way she could fix the cake in time.

The sudden jingle of your keys snapped her out of her desperate trance. You were home.

She sighed, looking at her “masterpiece.”

“Darling, I’m home,” she heard you say from the living room. Her heartbeat quickened, she felt the need to hide or run away but she resisted it.

Vanessa tried to calm her nerves as she took off her apron, and at that moment, you entered the kitchen. “Hey, Ness, what–”

You stopped in the middle of your sentence, staring at the mess in the kitchen. Dirty dishes, eggshells on the counter, some spilled cake mix and finally, the cake itself in all its messy glory. Your eyes widened.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said with a wry smile. “I tried to make something special for you.” She pointed to the sad cake on the kitchen counter.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out of it, and for her that was the last straw. Vanessa let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and sobbed.

You broke out of your astonishment. Quickly approaching her, you asked, “Oh, no. Darling, are you okay?”

She sobbed again, “I tried to do something nice for you. But I failed.” Vanessa tried to wipe the tears out of her face. “It didn’t matter how hard I tried, I kept messing up. You deserve better than this.”

You let out a shaky breath, and pulled her into an embrace. You stroked her back, drawing circles to help her calm down.

“Ness, you don’t need to do everything perfectly. Just the fact that you try is enough.” You reassured her. “Not everything is achieved on the first try, and to me, your intentions are what mean the most. We’re here to support each other in every step of the way, right?”

She pulled away slightly, her face was tear stained but there was a small smile on her lips. “Right,” she whispered.

“Thank you for the cake, love.” You murmured, looking down at her lips.

She smiled more broadly and leaned in to kiss you softly.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

A/N: Reblogs are appreciated!

[undercooked-icicle]

I feel like too many people are concerned over the casting of Haymish or Snow and not enough people are talking about who should play 40 year old Ceaser Flickerman. Who is matching Stanley Tucci? Who will take on the impossible.

[its-in-the-woods]

Coyote Head - Part 4 - Dinner with Family

master list

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Pairing: Cooper Howard x Lucy Maclean 

Alternative Universe where I make things up cause I can

Synopsis: Sit down at a family dinner, and sleeping in are good for Lucy for now

MINOR GET OUT. Rating/Warning:  Animal/people death, blOod/G0re, nightmares, Alternative Universe, Slow Burn, Death, Aging, Family Feuding, Eventually: Older Man/Younger Woman, Horror themes, long form fic,

Note: that I will not be spoiling any of the reading. So you have been warned. I will keep my tags relevant without spoiling what is happening in the story.

The gravel crunches under the tires as they all pull in, kids in the back jumping over seats as Lucy and Cooper open the doors. Old trucks parked in the drive, besides Margie’s new SUV. One thing about Harris: he always made sure Margie had exactly what she wanted.

The sprawling log home stands proudly among a mix of pine, poplar, and spruce trees. The home had been built from the trees on the property, a red tin roof on top. Big wrap-around porch that had equally as large windows on each side. The place was a carefully crafted piece of art that the Maclean’s had built many years ago. Long before the land was farmed, logged, and changed to what it currently was. The Maclean was an old family, and many of the log homes in the area were built by the family. It made Lucy miss the log home she had grown up in. 

Inside the home, a smell of fresh bread, and chatter of laughter echoed in the living room. Margie standing in the kitchen popping bread onto metal racks. Two large dishes of lasagna sat out, a big caesar salad in the middle. Lucy’s second cousins Tracy and Bert were over with their spouses Reg and Stephanie respectively. Their six kids hang out in the big living room with Cooper’s two. Some elaborate game of cards was going on, what the rules were was anyone’s guess. Seeing the kids laugh and giggle at their made-up game made Lucy’s heart swell. She had never thought of herself as a Mom, life and whatnot;  but something about being around the littles always made her wonder about the ‘what if’s’. 

“How can I help, Aunty,” Lucy asked as Cooper went and started putting plates out on the dining table. She watched the man move, he was both graceful and room-filling. 

“Well don’t touch any of the cooking, 'cause we want it to be edible,” Margie jokes, Lucy smiles. She’d never been much of a cook. Lucy, Norm, and their Grandparents had lived off many frozen meals during planting and harvesting. Shirley could cook fine, but her cooking took time and a whole lot of cutting. In the winter it was stew, roast squash, baked potatoes, and local corn. Lucy had never had much time to learn to cook. 

“Well now that I am round more, maybe you can teach me a few things,” Lucy smiles at her Aunt helping her to place each dish on the big dining table. 

“Better make sure I got the ‘tinguisher on hand, maybe a few extra blankets,” Margie jokes some more, winking at Lucy. She meant no harm, Lucy had burnt just as much food as she had undercooked it in her time.  

Lucy chuckled, grabbing glasses and a few pitchers of juice. The place was set up, some budded willows graced the center of the table. Getting the kids to sit was another matter, but the promise of haskap pie and ice cream had them in their places. Harris said grace as was a custom, Lucy noticed that Cooper, who had sat beside her, didn’t repeat the words. She didn’t have much thoughts on religion, Grandpa Tim had always read the bible before bed, usually sitting at his dining table flipping through the rice paper thin pages, while he jotted down notes in a big notebook. You’d never see him at church. Nor would you see him preaching to anyone. He never even really talked about it with her either. She couldn’t remember Grandma Shirley mentioning it either. On bad days she would sit with a rosary, light a candle or two. Lucy had never really thought it odd till now. Their whole family had always gone to church, but not them. 

The wooden house was full of loud voices, laughter, and the click of knives and forks. It was the most lively Lucy had felt in a long time. Even despite the little to no sleep she had gotten.  Cooper was telling stories of wrangling cattle and bison in the south. Harris was talking about fighting fires in the north, running machinery right into blazes to save houses. The large meal of lasagne and fresh bread was mostly picked over. Some vanilla ice cream and fresh pie are being served now. Tracy was bugging Margie about getting the recipe from her. Her Mom teased about how it was nothing but store-bought. Everyone at the table knew that was a whole load of scabbie potatoes.

“So what did you all see along the forest line,” Harris asked, wringing his hand, as coffee and tea were placed on the table. 

Cooper and Lucy had scooted down the table to sit closer to Harris. Lucy’s cousin doing the same so that all the adults were more huddled for any story. 

“Ahh well we saw a few things out there,” Cooper says, voice strained, looking back at Lucy for input. 

Lucy put her spoon down a little louder than she intended, the adults turning to look at her. She felt like a bird caught in a cage, trying to find its way out. 

“Sorry,” Lucy said, “We only got about half of the place looked at before we came.” Lucy wondered how she could explain what they had seen. “There was a stump stripped of all its barks and -” She looked to make sure the kids couldn’t hear,” There was a fresh coyote head sitting on top of it.”

Silence fell at the last words, the others exchanging looks. Lucy’s stomach-turning, the image of the poor critter’s head on a slab was not a favorite. Her mind wandering back to the shadows she had seen less than twenty-four hours ago. Was it all connected somehow? 

“We didn’t get close to it. So we kept walking to where the ATV trails are and, umm, we saw some tracks or maybe an animal digging” Lucy looks over at Cooper, hoping he could maybe explain what they had seen a bit better than she did. 

Cooper digs his phone out, “Yeah these,” He flips open his camera and pulls up the photos. The phone is passed around to each person. Uncle Harris pulls out his reading glasses zooming in on the picture. 

“How big are these tracks?” Harris asks, looking up over his glasses. Concern filling everyone in the room as they looked back at the two. 

Cooper looks at the man, furrowing his brow as he thinks, “Maybe a foot and a bit? Maybe less”

Lucy nods, “Center is probably twice the size of my fist, and at least as long as my forearm and hand. Maybe a little wider where the three points are.”

Stephanie looks it over, her eyebrows raised. “Can you send me this Cooper? I know a few folks in fish and wildlife that can take a look. Maybe come out and look at the head?”

“Yeah, I can send the photos,” Cooper replies, turning his phone off and putting it in front of him. 

“If y’all want to come over that’s fine, the place is a little bit of a mess.” Lucy sighed, fiddling with her fingers, “But, if you think you might have an idea what it is, I am all ears.”

Stephanie looked over at Bert, who had gone to pick up a very sleepy-looking toddler, “What do you think honey?”

Bert smiles, clearly not having heard much of what has been said, “I am sure we can figure something out, maybe we should talk to–” He ponders for a moment, looking for the name, “ Betty, right?”

“Yes, Betty would know. She’s been around her longer than the dirt,” Stephanie grins back at Bert grabbing the little one out of his arms. “Unfortunately I think we got to get our kiddlets back home. Lisa here is exhausted, and Thomas has school in the morning.” 

Margie is up out of her chair, “Let me grab a pie for tomorrow,”

Tracy has come back from putting on some cartoons for the kids, some ridiculous jingle now covering up their conversation. Reg rubs her back as she sits down, 

Bert comes out of the living room with another sleeping child, an older boy who has drool and snot running down his face. “Lucy, make sure to get our numbers from Harris. So we can keep in touch.” 

Lucy nods, “Yeah that’s a great idea, I will keep you updated if anything pops up.” 

Bert and Stephanie wave goodbye as they make their way to the front door with a large bag of various foods from Margie. Margie coming back into the kitchen, she goes into a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whisky along with several glasses.

Tracey clears her throat, “Do you think it could have been a person? Maybe? Trying to scare you off the land or some such thing?”

Sighing Lucy happily accepts the glass of whisky from her Aunt, “Besides those tracks, and the coyote head. Everything is pointing that way.” 

“Maybe there is a reason Uncle Tim didn’t want the forest around his land messed with,” Tracy added her hand covering Reg’s hand, as she looks at Lucy, an unreadable expression on her face. 

Harris coughing at the head of the table, everyone turning to look at him.“I doubt Lucy would mess with anything Tim had.”

“Nope, haven’t really ventured into the forest much at all. But that might have to change. Make sure no one has been coming onto the land without my knowledge.” Lucy spoke, it was always in the back of her mind that someone could be hiding in the woods without her knowledge. The place was mostly fenced, but would only stop honest people. 

“Do you think someone is camping on the land?” Tracy asks, looking at her relatives. Taking her glass from Margie and sipping on it. 

“Don’t know about that, didn’t see any signs of anyone walking around.” Lucy sighs, looking over at Coop when his thigh touches her. She pushes back against it, letting a small amount of comfort in.”Know that Henry was not happy about me getting the land. None of them were happy actually.”

“Henry has the money. Probably hiring someone to scare you off,” Margie added, her brows knitted together, as she brought some tea to her lips. 

“Well he can do what he likes, not much is gonna stop me stayin’ there,” Lucy says, her fingers rubbing over the rim of the glass. If someone had asked her that question several hours ago, she may have had a different answer; but right now, in the safety of her Uncle’s home, she felt confident she could say. 

“Besides you got us, we'll make sure that no one will mess with ya,” Cooper adds, rubbing one hand over her shoulder. Lucy really wishes he would keep his hand on her.  

Lucy nods her head, it was reassuring to know that she had all of them on her side. The table going silent for a moment as they sip their drinks. The sun was nearly down, bathing the room in a soft golden light. Lucy trying her best not to let her mind run over the whole day again. She could feel her own exhaustion tugging at her mind. 

Reg let out a yawn, Tracy rubbing his arm. “We should probably get our own rugrats, go to school, and all that.”

Tracy nodded, “Have Sunday dinner this weekend? You both should come over too,” She nods to Cooper and Lucy. 

Lucy, put her cup down, nodding her head, “Yeah, I would like that, be nice to have regular get-togethers.” 

“That would be wonderful,” Reg says, scooping one of his kids up. “Maybe once things have calmed down we can come by. The kids always loved Uncle Tim’s farm.”

“Uncle Tim’s dead,” Reg's son spoke from behind his leg. The little guy peering up at Lucy. The kid had silver blue eyes, and nearly white-blonde hair, standing just below his Dad’s hips in height. His eyes were wide as he blinked a few times, tears forming. 

Cooper ducks down beside him, “Hey, Kiddo. It’s okay.” The little man let out a muffled sob as Cooper scoops him up, the little kid hanging off the adult. 

“Oh sweet Freddy. Got all the big emotions and nowhere to put him.” Tracey coes, before offering to take him out of Cooper’s arms. “Time for sleep.”

Lucy felt her stomach turn as she watches the family of six walk towards the front door. It was hard to see the little guy upset over the loss. It made her uncomfortable not knowing how to help him.  Little Freddy was still crying against his Mom’s hair, the three older girls filing behind. They all had brown hair, and brown eyes, all looking to be a few years apart. The older two could have almost been twins. Hugs were traded and promises of Sunday dinner were planned before the clan took off into the night. 

Coop comes over, covering his two kiddos with a blanket and turning down the cartoon jingling away. He came back, his hand running over Lucy’s shoulder before sitting down. 

“Probably should be going soon too,” Cooper sighs, having another sip of his drink, “Make sure Mom and Dad are okay.”

“How are your folks doing?” Margie asks, adding a bit more to his glass and Lucy’s. 

“Dad’s rough, Mom-” Cooper shifts in his seat, looking down at his glass, the dark look crossing his face again. “She’s doing the best she can considering. Doctor says maybe a year or two.”

Harris rubs at his eyes a little, Lucy watching him compose himself before speaking, “Whatever you need, you let us know." His voice shook a bit as he spoke, "I know your family is tight, but we all need to look after each other. We are all family here, okay?”

Cooper nods a tight smile on his face, “Thank you, Sir. I really appreciate it. We can use all the help we can get.”

Lucy reaches over and squeezes his hand, “ Like you said we are just a phone call away.”

***

Waking up soaked in sweat was the last thing that Lucy wanted to do. She was bolt upright in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, with the fading nightmare of headless corpses hanging from trees dancing in her vision. Deep ragging breaths echoed in the small space, and the familiar sound of frogs and crickets echoed outside the open window.   

“You are in your Aunt and Uncle's house,” Lucy breathed out, closing her eyes and taking a sharp inhale. “It was just a dream, there is nothing coming to get you.”

Flipping a layer off the bed Lucy felt around for her phone, it was four-thirty in the morning. In a few more hours the sun would be up, and the world would have light again. She grabbed a sip of water, turning off her phone, and trying to get comfortable. As her eyes closed the visions of the bodies danced into her mind again, like some kind of horror dance party. Groaning, she rolled over, willing the images out of her mind. 

“Happy thoughts, Lucy. We cannot lose any more sleep over this,” Lucy murmured, trying to come up with something more soothing. An image of Cooper staring at her, popping into Lucy’s head. Her eyes shot open, her face going pink. "How old are you, Lucy." 

She thought about it for a moment, was it really the worst thing that she could think of? Yes, the man was older than her, had kids, and had lost his wife. Lucy cringed at the last thought, she rubbed her forehead. What was she doing, lying here thinking about a man she barely knew? Who had flown to her aid, and stood beside her despite the dead animal head in her backyard. 

Rubbing her eyes Lucy debates getting up or letting her half-asleep ass dream about someone who wasn’t interested in her. Remembering how he had leaned his knee against her, rubbed her shoulder, and let her hold his hand as he talked about his father. 

“Ugh, stop. No more death. At least for this instant,” Lucy mumbles quietly into the empty room, trying not to let her thoughts spiral out of control. 

Closing her eyes she decides to indulge herself a little, after the mess she had gone through what was a little fantasy. Letting herself think about them walking through a not haunted forest, maybe holding hands, going camping with the kids. She didn't hold back the smile as she let herself drift, after all, it was only a dream.

***

A knock on the door awoke Lucy out of a dead sleep, she blinked at the light shining around the window. Her fuzzy brain trying to put two and two together, remembering where she was. How she’d gotten there and why someone would be waking her up. 

“Lucy, sorry to wake you,” Aunt Margie calls, her voice just loud enough to hear through the wooden door. 

Grabbing her phone she realized it was past ten in the morning. She cussed, upset that she hadn't set an alarm last night. Normally she would have been up at the latest eight, groaning as she sat up, swinging herself onto the edge of the bed. 

“I will be out in a few Aunt Margie!” Lucy calls out, grabbing her clothes. Once again shaking her head at forgetting something fresh. Oh well, she'd have to change at home, and a good shower too. The thought of hot water spurred her on, as she groaned, body stiff from the long sleep. Setting the bed, she grabs her phone and races out the door. Margie stands at the counter, a fresh pot of coffee in hand.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” The woman smiles at her, handing her a cup of hot coffee. Before going over to the stove.  “I got coffee and put on a couple eggs for you.”

“You are too kind to me, Aunt Margie,” Lucy replies, eagerly grabbing the hot cup of coffee. “I am so sorry that I slept in. Usually, my alarm goes off automatically.”

Her Aunt waves a hand, scooping eggs and toast onto a plate for her. “Nonsense, I am so glad you were able to sleep in.” She hands Lucy the plate. Going around the counter with her cup of coffee to sit at the makeshift bar. “I have a feeling you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Lucy sat down using her toast to break the egg yolk and dip it in. “Oh boy, that would be an understatement. I don't really know why, but, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night.”

Margie sat down beside her, eating her own toast with jam. “Nightmares?”

Lucy nods as she works on swallowing her food, “Yes, actually, how’d you know?”

Margie hums for a moment taking a sip of her tea, looking out towards the tree line outside. “Oh you know, new house, moving back from the city. Can take a little getting used to is all.”

Something twinging in Lucy, as she watches her Aunt. She sips on more of her coffee, trying to will the feeling away, why would her Aunt not be honest with her? 

“Yeah, I am sure that’s it,” Lucy says with a fake smile, as she finishes up her food. “I should probably be on my way-” The realization that she didn’t have a vehicle hitting her. “Oh, I didn’t bring my own car.”

“Oh, Cooper said he’d come by and pick you up,” Margie says, somehow the tension is leaving between the two of them. 

Lucy blinks a few times, wondering if she could possibly walk back home. “Oh, he didn’t need to do that.”

“I think he was looking forward to it if I am honest Lucy.” Margie winks at her, “The man has been alone, with his kids and dying Father for six years. I am sure he enjoys getting to spend some time with another adult that isn't family.”

Trying to choke down some more coffee to hide her face, it is most certainly bright pink. “Yeah, I don’t mind the company.”

Margie gives Lucy a knowing look, raised eyebrows and all. She goes to speak when a knock on the door stops her. She squeezes Lucy’s shoulder as she goes to get it. Lucy sitting a little straighter in her chair as she hears Cooper’s voice. 

“Hey,” Cooper says, he almost looks nervous, fiddling with his hat in his hand. “Was wondering, if you’d be okay if we went to check on the cows this morning before I bring yah home of course.” 

Lucy smiles back, she can’t help herself. Getting him all flustered was going to be a new favorite pastime of hers. “Yah, pretty sure I owe you on that one.”

Part 5

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

** If you enjoyed the fic let me know! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated.

** Want to be on the tag list let me know

** Most of my fics will be updated once a weekish possibly more often depending on how much writing I can get done! Want to keep the quality and make sure I am putting out my best work.

[saltofmercury]

Oh you König domestic works are absolute bliss, hun <3

Might I request some more domesticity with König x reader perhaps baking together? I could see this being absolutely adorable.

Cheers,

"Chocolate crepes"

You searched for anything throughout his pantry, mouth watering, stomach grumbling, and patience thinning. It had started as a small craving, small bits of chocolate that you wanted to indulge in. It was around eleven at night, your body was in desperate need of chocolate —something. Chocolate ice cream, chocolate cake, even a brownie would suffice right now but there was nothing remotely close.

“Shit” you mumbled to yourself. Seeing the pile of dirty dishes he had left in the sink, then a rattle in the background. 

You heard the footsteps down the hall, thumping their way over. His face still swollen with sleep, his eyes barely opening up. He wore black sweats, his red-blonde hair sticking everywhere. One eye was rubbing sleep out of his eye, as the other rubbed his stomach. 

“Are you alright? I can hear you slamming cabinets and drawers from the room. Could’ve sworn it was another burglar.”

There was a sheepish smile, growing at the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m fine, I just need a midnight snack”

“A midnight snack? Well there’s plenty of cheese and salami from that board you made..”

The two of you had ordered multiple cheeses, salami, pepperoni, and prosciutto, to make a fancy board for dinner. The two of you laughed at the board being devoured before you could even make it to the dinner table. 

“Not that kind of snack, like… a treat.”

His eyes perked up. 

Treat was the “secret” word you two used to describe sweets. It was the funniest thing when you heard it from his mouth. A 6 foot 7 man calling a slice of cherry pie a treat.

His eyes widened, he had a special rule. Dedicated to the gym 6 out of the 7 days of the week, he had no sugar after 12pm, only on special occasions such as birthdays or anniversaries. You were tempting him, he had gone almost two weeks without sugar to really try and make his goal.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Chocolate”

“Oooooof you know you’re a bad influence.” Though it was enough to get the gears in his head moving.

He picked you up and set you on the island of the kitchen. Settling both hands around you, he asked,

“What kind of chocolate treat?”

You made eye contact with him, knowing that for sure if he wanted some sort of dessert, he was going to make it happen. 

“I don’t know, I couldn’t find anything.”

“I was even hoping for some brownies?” 

You had wanted anything. Oreos at this point would maybe make you feel better too.  

He turned to you, playfully said in disgust

“a brownie? For a chocolate treat?”

He had turned around to get things out of the pantry. Flour, eggs, cornstarch, cocoa powder, butter, and milk. He brought out silver bowls, mixing together ingredients, and heating up a pan.

You stared at him, unsure of what he was making. It wasn’t chocolate, except for the cocoa powder so it threw you off guard. Sensing how confused you were he began talking.

“You know who taught me how to make crepes? My mom.”

“Really? Is that an Austrian thing?”

“No it’s French…” he smirked at you, sometimes you could be so clueless. As he began to pour the batter into the pan, he swirled it around, covering every surface of the pan, then flipped it immediately. The crepe had a few light brown spots on it, but for the most part was plain, almost undercooked. Though you didn’t want to nag, you just kept observing him listening to what he was saying.

“Mom used to make crepes for breakfast or sometimes as a small treat after dinner. My god, she used to add things like berries, chocolate, vanilla, caramel sauce, but my favorite was always chocolate.”

He continued adding the batter into the pan, flipping, then placing it on top of the other.

“So my mom, I think because my dad was very insecure about her weight/looks, she really limited herself to treats. She loved sweets. So she would trick herself into having a crep with as much powdered sugar, strawberries, and blueberries, then saying it was a small dessert.”

He looked at you, smiling, the memories of his mom were the best. He always smiled when he talked about his mom. Even when he told you about when they had a small fight, he would laugh about how stupid it was saying that they could only tiptoe around each other for 30 minutes until one of them apologized.

He finished making enough crepes making the stack of at least three pancakes. It took you by surprise when you noticed how many he actually made. He went into the fridge and got out heavy cream.

“This one birthday, for some reason my dad didn’t want to buy a cake saying that 12 years old is too old to celebrate birthdays. So she scrambled up this chocolate crepe cake.”

He turned around and grabbed out the sugar, heavy cream, and cocoa powder. He placed it all inside a bowl, grabbed a whisk and began to whisk away the ingredients. It soon formed a thick, chocolate paste. 

He could see you about to ask the question –

“Lots of practice, my mom broke her hand mixer so we took turns beating this mixture together.”

He then went over to the drawer, grabbed a spoon out, scooping some of the mixture out for you to taste. 

“What do you think?”

“Tastes great.”

He smiled, then turned to the small stack of crepes he made, and began to evenly spread a thin layer of the chocolate cream on each one. He proceeded to do this with each one, until you saw what he was doing. He had formed a small cake, with thin layers of chocolate cream. He spread the remaining bit on the top of the last crepe, then sprinkled cocoa powder on the rest. 

He grabbed a knife, cut a big piece, then handed it to you. He leaned on the counter, watching you taste it. 

It was something so simple, that had felt so familiar and satisfied your craving.

“Wow” you said as you watched how he completed a small chocolate cake right before your eyes. “Holy shit this is so good!”

He laughed, finishing up his last bite, then offering you another slice.

“No thanks, I’m pretty much stuffed.” 

“Good.” he smiled at you, then wiped the chocolate powder on the bottom of your lip. He eyed the pile of dishes he forgot, trying to sneak out of them.

“Well since I did cook, I think it’s best you get the dishes.”

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading roundup: May 2024

you guyssssss you guys you guys you guys I've been reading so much this month :)

sometimes my brain gets the itch to just DEVOUR books and it's really been on me, probably thanks to the burst of energy + free time that comes with the semester ending and summer getting started! the days are longer, the last of my season depression has been kicked to the curb, and I can spend hours reading on the porch every evening. the ideal!

right now, as the month ends, I'm feeling a particular hankering towards nonfiction and juicy new summer novels; I reblogged a Lit Hub roundup of new books the other day that got my brain buzzinggggg with excitement for the coming months. we'll see if that ends up manifesting in the June roundup, but for now, here's what kept me busy in May:

Paris Daillencourt is About to Crumble (Alexis Hall, 2022) - this month I read two romance novels picked by my beautiful patreonites; I did a compare/contrast between the two over on Patreon and I'll leave the majority of my thoughts there, but suffice to say that I am not a fan of Paris. definitely the weakest of the three Alexis Hall novels, and a real disappointment since I found the other two delightful. the story is straightforward enough and has some potential for sure, but Paris as a protagonist is a sodden mess who I found just insufferable. thumbs down from me, gang.

Chef's Kiss (TJ Alexander, 2022) - hi, it's the other romance novel. this one is a lot goofier than Paris Daillencourt, which is fitting since it's BA Test Kitchen rpf starring a bisexual Claire Saffitz and a nonbinary Brad Leone. it's frustrating because the story is definitely stronger than the one in Paris but the romance is piteously undercooked, although I was at least fine with the protag and her love interest getting together - they were boring but unobjectionable, unlike Paris and his love interest who I really thought would have been better off as friends. now that I'm thinking about it, you might get a perfect queer cooking show romance novel if you somehow mashed the two of them together. they're both, like, so close to working, but ultimately fall flat.

Delicious in Dungeon Vol. 4-6 (Ryoko Kui, 2018) - I don't even know what to say except that I'm still loving everything about Dungeon Meshi. the craft and thought that Kui puts into every facet of the world, from the big picture politics between fantasy races to the individual thoughts and feelings of each character, shows so much love for the world without ever being overbearing; it never feels like exposition is being hammered down my throat so much as little details are being tastefully arranged to be enjoyed at whatever speed and to whatever extent the reader likes. the world is getting bigger with each chapter and I'm looking forward to exploring more, especially now that Falin's hottie monster form and that good good catgirl have entered the chat.

Earthdivers Vol. 2: Ice Age (Stephen Graham Jones, Riccardo Burchielli, Patricio Depeche, Emily Schnall, Joana Lafuente, 2024) - once again I've done the worst thing that you can do as a comics fan, which is get invested in a series that's just starting out and is still releasing individual issues. the third trade paperback won't be out until December, so I guess I'm either going to have to go on hiatus with Earthdivers or start chasing down new releases on comic pirating sites, which feels shitty - that's how I read Batman comics that are the same age as me, not new stuff from authors I actually want to support! but Earthdivers might just be worth it. the second installment takes us to a wildly different setting than the first, Columbus-killing collection, dropping fearsome mother Tawny in a prehistoric North America. but while the setting changes, the series is still grappling with the question of what its protagonists are willing to sacrifice and who they're willing to become to change the past and save the world. we're starting to see bigger hints about how much history can be altered and catching some clues about the series' antagonist (???); I gotta know what happens next.

Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder (Caroline Fraser, 2017) - here it is, the book that got nonfic so powerfully on the brain! this is a riveting history whether you grew up on Little House on the Prairie or not (I didn't), tracking Laura Ingalls Wilder from an impoverished girl constantly imperiled by life on the prairie to a beloved icon of American propaganda. for me, personally, this hefty book really picks up when it gets to the endlessly complicated and frequently nasty relationship that Wilder had with her daughter when said daughter was grown; Rose Wilder Lane is a FASCINATING figure in her own right and I'm kind of obsessed with what a shithead grifter girlboss she was. fascinating stuff all around.

The Brides of High Hill (Nghi Vo, 2024) - Vo's series of Singing Hills novellas has always woven from one genre to another, exploring new types of stories just as our protagonist, the cleric Chih, explores new lands. this installation takes us straight into a gothic horror that pulls out all the stops: an isolated manor, an enigmatic madman roaming the grounds, the strangling snares of social conventions, and a blushing bride who isn't exactly what she seems. I read it in one sitting, it's delicious.

Superfreaks: Kink, Pleasure, and the Pursuit of Happiness (Arielle Greenberg, 2023) - a poppin' primer for anybody who wants to learn more about the world of kink and what the fuck is going on out there. at one point I did catch myself thinking that I was a little underwhelmed and that Greenberg wasn't really putting forth anything that radical, but then I realized that speaking extremely candidly about and validating interest in basically any kink or fetish imaginable, and yes I do mean straight up any of them, is actually A Lot for many people to handle. so, yeah, good book, check it out for a friendly and enthusiastic intro to the wide world of kink.

Sex Criminals Vol. 2: Two Worlds, One Cop (Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky, 2015) - the first volume of Sex Criminals left me feeling a little meh, but I decided to keep going because Matt Fraction's Hawkeye run was lifechanging and I know this series is pretty widely acclaimed, so I want to see where we're going with this. (plus it's free via the library, so what do I have to lose?) this volume really sold me on the series and particularly on Jon, who I was pretty lukewarm on initially. he really stole the spotlight in this one, and I like the way that the story is ratcheting up the stakes.

The Stone Sky (N.K. Jemisin, 2017) - GOOOOOOOOOD what a book! what a trilogy! in a series shaped by empires and natural disasters, the story ultimately ends with a quit confrontation of clashing ideologies, a young daughter determined to end the world and a mother equally determined that one of her children should live. and that shit hurts! I read the series a couple of times when I was younger but I was never before able to fully appreciate the work Jemisin does in crafting Essun and Nassun, showing us the way cruelty and fear have shaped both of them into the people they ultimately are and the choices they make. absolutely masterful, a legend.

From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World in Search of the Good Death (Caitlin Doughty, 2017) - this was another reread, and while N.K. Jemisin was blowing my mind, Caitlin Doughty was giving me a warm hug. I don't know what to tell you, reading about the ways that people all over the world care for their dead and take comfort in their memories makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. death can be really beautiful and comforting, if you're not a coward.

The Big Reveal: An Illustrated Manifesto of Drag (Sasha Velour, 2023) - listen, I'm not really a Drag Race girlie. I first heard about this book when Velour was a guest on Nicole Byers' podcast, and while I was very charmed by her I was not expecting to be blown away by her book. it's just a little cash-in for a Ru girl, right? all she needs to do is slap together some cool pictures of her in drag and a few platitudes about being yourself and boom bang, that's a book. but readers, I owe Sasha Velour an apology: this book was so much cooler and smarter than it needed to be! Velour brings an impressive eye to forces of colonialism and capitalism that shape art and conceptions of queerness, and keeps this framework firmly in place while keeping the tone of the book bubbly and lighthearted. she also goes out of her way to spotlight a huge variety of drag performers and gender nonconforming figures throughout history, celebrating all the different means of expression that make up the tapestry of contemporary queerness. a great read, and one that I've already shelled out for. a friend and I are working on a documentary exploring the nuances of queer style, and I know I'm gonna want to pull heavily from Velour's thoughts and the history she's curated.

[pettypiastri]

my boyfriend's boyfriend

jamie drysdale x fem reader ft. trevor zegras

requested by @corneliaskates: "okay in light of these photos… I’m making you write jamie for me what about like moving in with him but like moving in with him also means moving in with trevor and… chaos ensues"

wc: 2.3k

warnings: blood in the context of undercooked food and also minor injury, reference to Jamie's shoulder injury and doctors offices, swearing, mention of drugs in a medical context, chaos, buffoonary

a/n: just some fun casual writing for a collection of scenes that i think you’d likely see upon moving into the zegras/drysdale household, pls enjoy the chaos! lots of this unhinged behavior we already knew about the 2 of them but a few details came from the recent "The Players Lounge" podcast episodes with jamie and trevor so go listen! (also would the homies wanna see me write for mason mctavish cause i really would love to do so)

Jamie stares blankly at the doctor as he continues to come to. He doesn’t hear the inquisition the doctor made. The first thought on his mind is the only thought he's had since he skated off the ice, his left shoulder in a dead hang: his season is over, there’s no way around it. 

“Mr. Drysdale?” The physician tries to get Jamie’s attention. 

“Yes, umm I’ll be there to help him. I’ve taken time off work.” Jamie turns his head slowly to look at you. He barely registers what you’ve said. He almost wants to ask you to repeat it but he knows he heard you right. The doctor shifts toward you, flipping through the aftercare instructions and various medications Jamie will have to take. You’re collected, attentive, and receptive all the while Jamie’s eyes bore into your profile, trying to understand. He’s still drowning in self-wallowing and frustration and now is trying to parse through the funny sort of feeling in his heart watching you prepare yourself to be a part time caretaker for him. Not only are you here right now, you’ve just admitted out loud, without any previous discussion between the two of you that you are not just willing but going to help him during his recovery?? He feels an intensity to communicate his love and appreciation for you that he’s not used to but ends up manifesting as,

“Will you move in with me?” The door to the exam room has just barely clicked shut from the doctor’s exit. Your spine is rod straight now from where you were previously collecting your purse and coat. Jamie’s always been a fiddler, twitching and messing with loose skin on his finger or the belt loop of your jeans, but now he sits perfectly still as he stares at you. 

“Where’s the big red button, I think they gave you too much of something bud.” Humor always serves as a great deflection tactic for you but Jamie won’t let you off the hook.

“No no, I’m serious. Do you want to move in with me?” Your expression remains slightly standoffish as you draw closer to the bed. As you prop yourself on the hospital bed, you notice his eyes are inviting, stoic: a safe place to land. Lazy fingers reach to soothe Jamie’s uninjured arm. 

“Would you have asked me if you hadn’t torn your shoulder?” Jamie’s nod is emphatic. 

“Yes, it probably just would’ve taken me a bit longer to ask. You still make me nervous-- but like in a good way, in a good way.” Jamie stumbling over his words endears you like nothing else. “I kind of hate being without you, not in a weird codependent way, I just really like who I am when you’re around.” 

Your mind is already made up after Jamie’s unbridled honesty but you still have to ask,

“Shouldn’t you run this by Trev first maybe?” He is a member of the household, though not much of a contributing one. To sell his conviction, Jamie’s eyes don’t leave yours as he reaches for his phone in the back pocket of the jeans he thinks he’s wearing. He gets an awful fright meeting bare skin under the hospital gown. Creasing at the waist with laughter doesn’t hinder you too much as you dig for his phone in your purse. He takes it sheepishly from your grasp. As he dials Trevor’s number, you urge him to put it on speaker phone.

“Jimmy! How high are you, man??”

“Z, Y/N’s gonna move in with us.”

“I thought she already lived here?”

—

Since the moment of Jamie’s injury you’ve been practically inseparable. Surgeon consultations, post op, helping him dress, cooking for him, you’ve truly been there for it all for Jamie. Now that he’s several months post op and regained most all of his range of motion, he’s been eager to pick up some slack. 

“Are they closed?” 

“Jamie my love, yes. I’ve literally had them closed every time you’ve asked in the last 15 minutes.” You sigh, patience thinning at both the frequent reminders and… well… how goddamn slow Jamie’s being. To pass the time, you’ve taken to concocting a game with the yellow spots on the inside of your closed eyelids.

“Dude it’s been fucking hours would you hurry up already?” 

“Trevor, no one asked you.” Jamie snips at his childish best friend. It’s date night tonight and Jamie wanted to cook for you. Trevor decided, because he is cripplingly codependent, that he just had to sit on the living room couch to scroll Instagram. You’ve mentally taken the under on Trevor stealing some of your bread with olive oil within the first five minutes of it being in front of you because ‘Jimmy why didn’t you make any for me too?’

“Okay it's ready, you can open!” Slowly doing as you’re told to readjust to the well lit dining room, you catch Jamie scurrying around to his side of the table. His face holds an adorably pleased expression, you can tell he’s very proud of himself. The spread in front of you is barbequed steak, bread with olive oil, and a green salad; a shockingly balanced meal. A normally restless boy, Jamie vibrates with excitement even more now as he waits for your appraisal. 

“Jamie baby, it looks amazing! Thank you!” Crows' feet emerge to compensate for his smile becoming impossibly wider, yet he’s still a bit shy, bashful after your praise.

“I’d hope so, it took you long enough Jimbo,” the peanut gallery croons again. You don’t even acknowledge Trevor as you begin to saw through your steak… until red liquid begins to pour out… Stunned and surprised, your mouth gapes for a moment, finding the gentlest way to put things.

“Jamie,” drawing out the final vowel, your eyes flick to his. His expression is eager with eyebrows raised in question.

“How long was this steak on the barbeque for?” 

“Like 10 minutes I think? Why?” Jamie pales slightly at your question.

“I think the heat was too high babe.” Jamie observes his steak with a close eye and then oggles yours from across the table before reaching for his knife. 

“What do you mean? You said it looks amazing, I mean look at those char marks!” 

“Jamie baby, it's practically still moo’ing…” Trevor bursts out laughing, his stupid wheeze accompanying Jamie’s panic. As his knife breaches the admittedly lovely crust, bloody liquid pours out of Jamie’s steak as well. The color of his cheeks grows to match that of what's on his plate. Jamie starts to say something but it’s Trevor’s voice you both hear instead.

“Just put it in the microwave.” 

—

The team returned last night from the East coast road trip. You and Jamie have been in denial about Trevor’s return, trying to stretch out the silence with a lazy day on the couch. Trevor however has had other plans.

“Why do I have the least blanket right now? I’m literally the tallest of us three.” 

“Because no one invited you to join?” You shove at Trevor’s toes that are digging into your thigh from how you’re sardine-d on the couch. He whines as you do so, pushing at you back. Harder. “Ow Trevor stop!” 

“What I’m not fucking doing anything!” 

“Guys! I can’t hear what they’re saying!” Jamie bursts, effectively shutting you both up. Trevor glares at you as you snuggle further into Jamie’s chest, Jamie's arm visibly tightening around you. The face you give Trevor is smug. 

“Fine, I’ll just go somewhere else then.” As he stands from the couch he makes an equally childish display of flipping the blanket up and over your head, messing up your hair and covering your eyes.

Jamie coos quietly at you not to say anything or react so you remain calm and settle in to watch the rest of the current episode of Yellowstone with your boyfriend.

A few minutes later when there is a distinct cacophony of falling caps, banging metal doors, and at least a liter container of liquid (hopefully closed) hitting the floor, it’s not hard to tell Trevor has decided to do his laundry. He comes back upstairs acting as if nothing was afoot. 

It’s not until an hour later when Trevor has made the switch to the dryer that you notice something actually might be off. Wafting up from downstairs is a distinct smell of burning. You pause to be sure your nose isn’t confusing something else before voicing your worry.

“Do you smell that?” Jamie sniffs violently enough to be audible. 

“What are you– oh shit!” Jamie moves from behind your back leaving you flopping onto yours from his quickness. “Trevor!!” He shouts while bounding down the stairs. “I told you, you have to clean the lint trap every single time you use the dryer!” His voice grows inaudible the farther downstairs he gets. Trevor peeks his head out from his room. 

“Was he talking to me?” You can’t help but laugh, hands covering your face in disbelief.

“Why are we friends with you?” 

“I’m fucking awesome, duh.”

—

“Okay don’t panic–” Is all you hear before you start to panic. “But umm Z might’ve slipped on the roof…” 

“Tell me you’re joking. Why are you calling me? Oh my god Jamie, call the trainer or something! Is he hurt?” It’s brisk in the shade where you stepped out of your office to answer the incessant calls from your boyfriend. You’re still not off for another hour. 

“I think he’s okay. Definitely tore open his leg but we put some stuff on it. He’s still complaining about it but you know him, he’s always complaining about something so I think he’s okay.” As Jamie finishes, your phone vibrates with a text. “I sent you a picture of it.” The picture reveals a shallow cut about 6 inches long down the front of Trevor’s calf. There’s still remnants of blood around the cut itself and more notably about 12 normal sized bandaids placed like a patchwork quilt over the area of interest. Idiots. “We didn’t wanna get in trouble with the team…” Jamie says softly, decidedly embarrassed.

“I see. Okay well great job with the band aids you guys. I’ll pick some more up on the way home and some other supplies. Why were you up there?” 

“I was playing guitar and Trevor came up to tell me he could do it better and then promptly took it from me.” There’s a pouty lilt to Jamie’s voice that makes you wonder if Trevor’s really the one that got hurt. 

“Did he damage your guitar Jim Jam?” A shiver rakes your body as you’re desperate to get back inside the office.

“No, thank god.” He’s quiet, waiting for your reply. 

“You’re doing great Jamie, it’s really coming along baby.” He chirps a thank you, easily excited by your dismissal of Trevor’s insult. The two of you say your goodbye’s over Trevor’s whining in the background. 

On your way home, as promised, you stop at a drugstore to grab some gauze and larger wraps for Trevor’s ‘injury.’ You send a snarky picture of two contending boxes of Band Aids side by side to Trevor. Your caption ‘Mandalorian or Tangled?’ Something tells you Trevor’s reply is completely serious when your phone lights up with ‘Flynn Rider.’

—

Jamie slips into your shared bathroom as you’re fanning gently at your face. He smiles kindly but doesn’t start a conversation. Instead he reaches for his toothbrush and sets to brushing his teeth. The two of you don’t normally get ready for bed together at the exact same time. Typically one of you is asleep on the couch and being prodded at by the other to come to bed. Well, you normally prod at Jamie while he normally gallantly carries you to bed without disturbing your sleep. As he brushes his teeth, Jamie observes you as his entertainment. He steadies himself with a hip popped against the counter and one foot crossed in front of the other. 

Jamie’s attention does not bother you. Being the type not to speak until prompted, Jamie’s stays silent, his watchful gaze comforting if anything. That is until his lips form a small smile around his toothbrush that begins to grow. Finally you flick your eyes over to him in the mirror and notice toothpaste beginning to trickle down his chin. A drop that was lingering ominously begins to fall so you lurch forward to catch it in the palm of your hand, not wanting to risk the white carpet square Jamie’s standing on. 

“If you keep smiling like that you’re gonna get toothpaste on yourself Jamie. Be careful.” The toothpaste in your palm is flicked into the sink before you promptly rinse your hand. Jamie heeds your warning, deciding it's time for him to rinse as well. After his hands are towel dried he moves to hug you from behind. The smile is still on his face.

“Seriously, what are you smiling about, mister?” A giggle escapes your chest. You feel Jamie’s shrug against your back as you dig for another product in the drawer next to you. 

“Dunno, I’m just so happy you’re here.” Around you, Jamie’s never shied away from honesty and it’s something you’ve always appreciated. The last few months living with Jamie and Trevor has been chaos, hell at times, and insanely stressful but you’ve still found joy in every moment. So you meet Jamie’s honesty with some of your own when you say,

“There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

Later, when the two of you find yourselves curled around each other in bed, under an excessive number of blankets, it’s like Trevor has ESP for when he’s being left out of affections. A knock on the conjoining wall confirms this theory. His voice is muffled but you can still make it out.

“I love you guys.” Jamie chuckles and kisses your forehead, shaking with laughter of your own.

“We love you too Trevor.”