#we are not doing the mashing in this house

[xoxo-stellea]

𝙍𝙖𝙜𝙚.

𝖡𝖿!𝖢𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝗑 𝗀𝖿!𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ☘︎

It’s been a rather stressful day…well week or even month. Me and Chris just moved in together and it’s been nothing but a disaster.

The furniture didn’t arrive in time so the apartment still looks nothings like the cozy home I imagined it to be.

The wall in our bedroom is still plain white, even though we had picked out this beautiful light green color together.

But still here I am at one o'clock in the morning baking a cake that Chris needs for the next day for some birthday party for some friend.

Why am I the one baking the cake? I don’t know I agreed to do it cus I thought he’d help but he’s still gone, filming with his brothers.

So here I am baking a fucking cake for his fucking friends. But I love him. That’s what I do, I love him.

I slam the cupboard doors a little harder than necessary as I grab the flour, sugar, and baking powder. The eggs almost hit the counter too fast, but I catch myself…barely.

I mutter under my breath while tossing ingredients onto the counter like a passive-aggressive cooking show host.

The oven dings to life at 350°F. Great. Just what I wanted- more heat.

Butter goes into the bowl, soft but not softened enough because why would anything cooperate tonight? I mash it around with the spoon, annoyed at how stubborn it is.

Sugar gets dumped in next, and I mix them together with the kind of energy that probably qualifies as aggressive whisking. The spoon scrapes the bowl, loud and grating, just like my mood.

Eggs. Crack. Plop. Shell in the bowl? Of course. Because this cake is cursed.

By the time I’m adding vanilla extract, I’m not even measuring. Just pouring and hoping for the best. He won’t notice anyway.

He’ll just show up, cake in hand, take all the credit, and I’ll be the one who lost sleep over something I don’t even get a slice of.

I pour the batter into the pan, shove it in the oven, and lean against the counter.

And just as as I let out a deep sigh I hear the door open and Chris stepping into the kitchen.

„Hey babe, god I love you thanks so much“

He says while walking over to me and placing a kiss on my forehead.

„Yeah yeah that’s what they say, right“

I answer rather jokingly but deep down I’m just tired from beging up so late.

He grins and leans against the counter, watching me start to clean up the mess. I gather all the dishes that are scattered around the kitchen.

But just as I bend over to put a bowl into the dishwasher, I feel a slap on my ass. Not hard or painful, just enough to completely send me over the edge… or rather, drop-kick me over it.

I whip around and glare at him, and before I can stop myself, the words just start pouring out.

„That’s what I get?“

In a disbelieving voice.

„That’s what I fucking get?!“

„I‘m up all fucking night, cleaning, painting walls and baking shitty fucking cakes for YOUR friends and this is what I fucking get?!“

I yell, throwing my hands in the air in complete exasperation.

He just stands there, eyes wide and a little taking aback by my sudden outburst.

„Sorry- jeez“

He apologizes.

„Don’t you fucking dare ‘jeez me“

I yell back at him.

He raises his hands like I’m some wild animal he doesn’t want to spook.

“Okay, okay- chill. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I laugh. Loud. Pissed.

“Oh chill? You want me to chill? After I’ve been scrubbing the paint off my arms, sweating over your stupid vanilla cake, and picking up your mess? Sure, babe, let me just go light a candle and zen the fuck out.”

He takes a step closer, cautiously.

“I didn’t ask you to do all that—”

“No, you didn’t,”

I cut him off, eyes narrowing.

“You never ask. You just leave and magically expect it to be done when you get back. Like this house runs on fucking fairy dust and my constant mental breakdowns.”

He looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. Good. I’m on a roll now.

“You didn’t even text me to check in! I could’ve died in a flour explosion and you wouldn’t know until you stepped over my dead body on your way to grab fucking a slice.”

He opens his mouth again.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

I glare.

“You’re sorry? Cool. Maybe your friends can put that on top of the cake.”

I look at him before turning my head away trying to hide the grin on my face.

A small laugh escapes me, and before I can stop it, I completely crack up. My shoulders shake, and I double over, laughing so hard I can barely breathe.

All the tension, all the frustration- it just bursts out of me in one ridiculous, uncontrollable fit of laughter.

„You seriously laughing now? I thought you were mad at me“

He looks at me a little confused.

„Yeah nah I totally am“

I again cannot hold back a laugh before taking a deep breath and putting my hands on my waist looking a bit more serious now.

„You‘re gonna clean the rest here and wait for the cake and when you’re don’t with that you can come into bedroom and apologize“

He looks a bit disappointed as I walk away before suddenly turning around a now understanding look on his face

„Ohhh apologize“

„Yes Chris, apologize“

I grin as I walk into our bedroom and close the door…

A/n// guys idk what do write (that’s a lie I’m just too tired) but yeah I do like ts so enjoy ☘︎

[sashayed]

Praise House: The New Economy

        -- after and for Ross Gay The rosemary bush blooming its unabashed blue. Also dumplings filled with steam and soup  so my mouth fills and I bubble over with laughter. Little things. People kissing on bicycles. Being able to walk up the stairs and run back down. Joanna’s garden after the long flight to Tel Aviv. Not being detained like everyone thought I would. The man with dreadlocks and a perfect green shirt walking home from work. One cold beer  before I drink it and get sick. How peaches mold into compost in a single day: orange to gray to darkness into dirt. Her ankle’s taste. The skin right under the knob, delicate as a tomatillo’s shroud. All the animals that talk to me. That I finally let them talk to me. The blessing of waking early enough to watch the fox bathe itself. The suction of a man’s hands  meeting another’s on the street.  Every single person looking up  to see them. Bros, yes. But lovely  in the golden light with brims swung to the back. I want shoulders like  they have. Want my waist to taper  to an ass built like the David’s. I admit it: this body’s not enough for me. Still I love it. Al B Sure blasting out a Nissan Sentra’s windows. Bowties. Ridiculous blues. My mother’s seizures- specifically that I don’t have them. That I can answer Ross’ call or not because we live Harmonious and are always talking somehow.  Tapestries with their gluttony of deer. Fig perfume and also cypress. Boxer briefs and packing socks in jockey shorts. Strap ons. Soft and hard. Welcome in her hand and in mine as I greet the real me. The little shop in Provincetown. And the speckled dog that licks itself in that fresco of the crucifixion. Mary Oliver. I love her. I really do. The baseball she gave me that says, “Go Sox!” Though, I love the Orioles. Old Bay on all my shrimp. And justice. And cities burning if people need to burn them to get free. My grandmother gardening  in the late light. Sun Ra. The first time. Paris, even though I’ve never been there. Natal plums. Tattoos everlasting: Clouds. Orion’s belt. Pushing inside her with both hands holding myself  up. My weight. Her grabbing and saying, “God.” “Fuck.” The neighbors. Casablanca. Not knowing anything.  Angels. Mashed potatoes. Good red wine.

Gabrielle Calvocoressi in American Poetry Review, November/December 2015

[bella5wan]

now what do i change renesmees name to,,,

[snowcoming]

the shock i felt when i saw the 'dick grayson & roy harper' tag on ao3 had like half the number of fics as 'jason todd and roy harper' lmao like i just want some og titans fics at this point 😭😭😭

[t00thpasteface]

your grandma’s house looks like it would be nice to watch M*A*S*H in

you will never BELIEVE what i'm doing right now, while i'm currently at my grandma's house

[redwinesupercvnt]

petition to change the wlw marauders ship names because what the fuck is dorlene? pandalily?? marylily??? c'mon we can do so much better

[thedawningofthehour]

Finally back to working on the fic again and I just want you all to know that the entire time period the next two chapters encompass, Bella is face-down on her mattress hungover af and completely passed out the entire time.

[iwanttobepersephone]

How do I make bacon

[supercantaloupe]

favorite ways of eating potatoes (i want potatoes)

hard to pick a single favorite but my usual go to when i'm cooking potatoes for myself is to cut em into wedges (or just big chunks if the potatoes are small), douse them in olive oil, salt, and whatever herbs or spices i feel like, and then roast them hot in the oven until they're soft and golden. usually takes like 20-30 minutes at 425f flipping them over once or twice, i find. any potato would work but gold potatoes are usually what's in my pantry. although if i can get purple potatoes at the farmers market i use those bc they're fun. it's a dirt simple way to prepare potatoes but they're super good, the tastiness to effort ratio is super high, and you can cook something else on the other half of the sheet pan at the same time too so you get a whole dinner with only one dirty pan

[ask meme]

[adamkdexter]

Guess who just got an INPRNT shop!? If y'all have any specific stuff you'd be interested in seeing ( and, yk, BUYING ) feel free to drop 'em in my inbox!

[justasentientstickofbutter]

that feeling when

you have this fic idea right and it's amazing right and you're in the zone, you're neglecting your other fics BUT ITS OK cuz this next one is G O L D and you're still adding to your tbr list... And you find a new fic and it literally is a decade old and literally the exact plot, theme, timeline, trope set, &, charas.

[screamingay]

must've thought just a little too long and hard abt one of those "dykes fucking fags" posts i saw yesterday bc it happened in my dream just now and it fucking sucked lmaooo

[ink-n-shadow]

currently having thoughts about the 141 having a team dinner at john’s house during one of their breaks, forgetting that he hasn’t really told them that he was married.

so imagine their shock when the door swings open and you’re standing there, apron around your waist and flour sprinkled across your cheeks and clothes. “c’mon in, boys! you can leave your boots at the door by john’s. i’m just finishing up the mash” and just as their brains begin firing and the questions begin forming on their tongues, you’re disappearing down the hall and presumably toward the kitchen, leaving the three of them dumbfounded and toeing off their boots obediently.

kyle’s finally the first one to ask the meek question of “so, how’d ya meet the missus, cap’n?” while all of you are halfway through dinner, plates half full and drinks half empty. none of them miss the giggle you let out or the way one of your eyebrows raises as your hand reaches to pinch at john’s cheek.

“y’ never told ‘em how we met? do they even know how i was your captain first? where else did you learn all you know now, baby?”

[slapmeshigaraki]

౨ৎ "Are you scared, sweetheart?" ౨ৎ

♡ warnings: meanie!sylus x reader, spit, gunplay, daddy, condescension, improper evol use lmao, actually pretty tame ngl the dirty talk is kinda gross though, sylus is out of character in this in case that bothers you

♡ a/n: okay i lied and said i wasn't posting this until later in the week, but i finished editing it early so... idk happy valentine's day i guess. another old fic that i just edited. enjoy pretties !!

♡ Sylus doesn't ask you for much other than to leave him alone for a few hours on Sundays so he can clean his gun collection, but after a few interruptions too many, he decides that you can stick around just this once. Afterall, maybe you can help? ♡

“What is it?” he said after letting out a deep sigh, not bothering to look up at you through the lenses of his glasses. They sat loosely against the bridge of his nose as he looked down at his lap, softly polishing one of his most prized possessions: a gun. You weren’t sure whose death he’d pictured on the other end of it, but he treated it like the last bite of dessert, savoring it, keeping it hidden away for a special occasion. No one could touch it, look at it, breathe on it, except him. When Luke and Kieran gave you your first tour of the house, they wouldn’t even walk you down the hallway of the safe, scared that ‘Boss would smell your scents when he returned.’ It wasn’t until months later when he’d decided that your firearm wasn’t up to par any longer that he’d invited you in to 'shop' for a new one. That’s when you saw it, hung up on the wall in a glass case so high that only he could reach. It was wrapped in a fine silk fabric, a pristine black cherry gun whose make or model was so far beyond your pay grade that you’d never heard of it before.

Every Sunday he disappears into the safe for hours before dinner. He was not to be disturbed. It was the only thing that he was really particular about, but he needed it just to clear his head—some solace after a long week. So, the fact that you were interrupting him for the third time with a knock on the door was grating, to say the least.

“Nothing I just-“

“Is something on fire, darling?”

“No, Sylus.”

“Has someone managed to break into the house?”

“No.”

“Has Mephisto spontaneously combusted, leaving a feather lodged into one of your eyes?”

“No.”

“So, you can clearly see that I’m busy? Then I’ll ask again, what is it that you need?” His eyes still wouldn’t meet yours, eyebrows furrowing as he spoke, his tone strained.

“I just wanted to know if you wanted rice or mashed potatoes for dinner, but since you’re so caught up in tending to an inanimate object, I’ll decide for you.” He was snippier than usual, the darkening of his voice making it obvious he was not in the mood for witty banter.

“Be careful there, sweetheart. I’d hate for that pretty mouth to get you into trouble.”

“Or what? Will you get trigger happy and let that precious gun go off? No, of course not because we must keep it clean for a hypothetical threat that doesn’t fucking exist.”

“Kneel.” It wasn’t a question or a suggestion. It was a command, an order barked at an underling.

“Go fuck yourself,” You said, venom in your voice as you made a move back towards the door, hand clenched around the golden handle.

“If you make me get up to come catch you sweetheart, you’ll be sorry.” His eyes met yours for the first time, a fiery crimson illuminating your line of vision. His gaze was dark, challenging you to disobey him. When Sylus told someone to do something, they did it and you were no exception. You might bite back once in a while, but he always knew that you’d do what he told you to at the end of the day.

So, you kneeled, perhaps too slowly because it wasn’t before long that your knees were forced to buckle beneath you, Sylus making good use of his evol to bind your ankles together. The cool marble tile flooring chilled your flesh as your heartbeat ran wild, your mouth getting wetter with each second, practically drooling as if you were waiting to sink your teeth into your favorite meal. In the same breath, your hands were bound as well, moved behind your back against your will and stuck together like glue.

“Go on, crawl to me.” There was amusement staining his expression, a sinister smirk plastered across his face.

“What’s wrong, pretty girl? Can’t you get to me? A big strong girl like you with such a dirty mouth, surely you can move just a few feet on your own.” You relaxed your legs, letting your knees spread apart to rest them.

“I can’t…” You mumbled under your breath, unable to meet his glare any longer.

“Speak up, pet. You were so loud a few moments ago. Speak to me with that same tough voice now that you can't run away from me.” His slender fingers kept moving, cleaning the trophy with such grace. It was rhythmic, methodical, and calculated. It made you wet just to watch him, reminding you of how easily those same fingers could make you fall apart in his arms.

“I can’t move.”

“You can’t move?” he whined, pouting, mocking you without remorse.

“Well, I want you kneeling in front of me. So how do you suggest you get over here, sweetie?”

“Sylus…” You pled, which was slightly better than flat out begging.

“Tsk tsk, where are our manners?” The same red mist that bound your wrists and ankles now curled around your throat, not hesitating to squeeze abruptly, threatening to rob you of all of your air altogether.

“Please sir, help me.” Without letting another second pass, you were pulled into the air and inched over to him by the mist, roughly thrown back to the ground before him. His legs were spread in his seated position, gun resting on one, the other resting between your thighs.

“Thank you,” You said, hanging your head to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Aw, so polite. See what happens when you ask nicely? See how sweet I can be when you aren't a fucking brat?” With that, his foot adjusted, the tip of his perfectly polished leather shoe gently pressed against your core. You struggled not to writhe against him, desperately needing some form of friction to soothe the ache between your legs.

“Look at me, darling.” You did. The fervent desire in your eyes obvious, bottom lip bloody from biting it so hard, restraining yourself from any more unnecessary commentary.

“You look so needy like this, my foot pressed against your cunt, pouting underneath me. You look like you want to ask me for something? What is it, baby? Do you need something from your daddy, hm?” A whine fell from between your lips against your control as you tensed your legs, begging them not to move without permission.

“Please can I- can you fuck me please?”

“Can I fuck you? Do you think that I should dirty myself--” the hold on your neck tightened once more, “by fucking someone so pathetic that they’re getting off at the thought of grinding on my leg? Someone who can’t go a few hours without my attention shouldn’t get my cock inside of them. Someone like that shouldn’t get to feel my cum filling them up and spilling out of their tight little holes. They shouldn’t get to feel daddy’s tongue cleaning them up, kissing and sucking every inch on their pretty little pussy, should they?” You couldn’t get yourself to say no, but you knew yes wasn’t what he wanted to hear, so you stayed quiet. The cool sensation of metal burned your skin in an instant, tilting your jaw up, forcing your vision toward to ceiling, your eyes getting lost in the gold detailing of the mural above. Silence filled the space between you two, the only sound to be heard was the quickening of your heartbeat and the flip of the gun’s safety that was pressed against your flesh. A lump grew in your throat at the noise. You could feel the sole of his shoe pressing into you even more, gently moving back and forth as you bit your lip again.

“Let me hear you, baby. Tell daddy how good it feels, go on.”

“Th- Thank you daddy. That feels so good.”

“Say ‘thank you daddy for making my cunnie feel good.” You whined at the request, embarrassment causing tears to prick and sting at the corners of your eyes.

“You don’t want to use your words? How ungrateful.” It wasn’t long before the coolness against your jaw was gone. You dropped your gaze to look at him once again. The man before you was starved, his face void any sign of amusement. You wondered if this is what his prey felt when he looked at them, a lamb waiting to be eaten by the lion, forced to let him play with his food before he could be thoroughly satiated. He put the barrel of the gun against your lips now, his thumb languidly dancing on the trigger.

“Open up for me. Let me see that pretty tongue.” You hesitantly stuck your tongue out, the spit that had been building up in your mouth finally free to drip onto the metal as he pushed the barrel against the back of your throat. Your eyes widened at the sensation, the realization that his prized possession was being soiled by your drool far too humiliating. The tears flowed freely now. Your cheeks grew damp as you cried out against the obstruction in your mouth.

“Aw sweetheart, are you crying? Do you want to push your hips against me? Will that make your cunnie feel better?” You nodded, sniffling softly as you shifted uncomfortably, the realization that you couldn’t move at all finally catching up with you.

“Go ahead, hump my leg. You have permission. Make yourself feel good for daddy.” You tried to do as he asked, moving your hips slowly back and forth, the ache only growing in between your legs, but all you could think about was how dirty that gun was getting your mouth. Sobs fell from your lips now. His face contorted slightly at your cries.

“M-s-sorry daddy,” You struggled out, words muffled by the metal. He slowly pulled the gun out of your mouth,

“Are you scared, sweetheart? Is that why you’re dirtying this pretty face with tears, hm?” You felt his skin for the first time against yours, his free hand gently caressing your cheek, thumb making small circles on your flesh.

“No I just… I hate that I’m getting your gun dirty. I know how much you care about it. I’m sorry I just can’t stop drooling on it.” His fingers softly pressed under your eyes, catching the tears.

“Your spit is the sweetest thing I could use to clean this gun. It’s just an inanimate object, huh?" he said, being sure to use your choice of words exactly.

"Don’t cry pretty girl.” As he spoke, your wrists and ankles fell freely, the stress on your throat lifting as the red mist fell away.

“Come up here,” he said, fingers beckoning for you to stand and sit in his lap, your back pressed against his warm and muscular chest. Hooking his arm under your knee, he spread your legs apart, resting your ankle over the arm of the chair. His fingers wasted no time finding their way beneath your skirt, softly pulling the satin fabric of your panties to the side as he slipped a finger inside of you without warning.

“Oh my god,” You moaned out desperately as he hummed in amusement.

“I’m jealous. Your god is getting all of the praise, but I’m the one that's making this pussy leak all over my fingers. That doesn’t seem very fair now, does it?”

“Fuck, daddy thank you.” His pace quickened, every inch of his long and slender fingers making you gasp and writhe beneath his touch as you bucked against his palm.

“You are very welcome sweet girl. Next time you want daddy’s attention, you can just ask and we can skip all the theatrics, hm?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Aw, ‘yes, daddy. Thank you, daddy.'” Such pretty words from such a dirty mouth. The same mouth that stained my gun, isn’t that right?” he said. You threw your head back, squeezing your eyes shut as his thumb rubbed small circles on your clit, your wetness forming a spot on the fine fabric of his pants as you felt his cock growing beneath you. It only made you squirm more at the thought of its thickness filling you up after being empty throughout this whole ordeal.

“Relax for me.” This was the only warning you got before you felt that same cool metal slide between your folds, the ridges of the firearm serving as a new source of friction to grind on before Sylus slid his finger out of your walls, replacing it with the tip of the gun against your entrance. He felt you tense up immediately in his grasp.

“No no no,” he said, thumb gently caressing your inner thigh, his touch burning you with ease.

“Relax baby. Let daddy’s pussy open up for him, hm? I just want that sweet little hole’s juices to cleanse my gun thoroughly.” Your mouth hung open, moans escaping as he spoke. Your head rested against his shoulder, hair messily rubbing against his shirt. He pressed his soft lips against your forehead.

“That’s it, puppy. Gooood fucking girl, you're taking it so well for me, huh sweetheart?” his fingers found your clit once more, melting away any tension. Slowly, the tip of the gun pushed its way between your tender walls, your flesh clenching around it tightly, making it hard for him to slide it in and out of you.

“That’s a greedy pussy, isn’t it— holding onto anything that it can, my fingers, my cock, my tongue, my gun. She just wants to be filled, hm? She just loves daddy so much that anything he puts inside, she doesn’t want to let go of?”

“Y-yes daddy, she loves you. Please please please keep touching her.” So, he did. Slowly but surely, he pushed the metal in and out, salivating as he watched the way your flesh gripped on to the tip before he’d shove it back inside.

“Fuck--you wanna cum for me? Gonna make a big mess all over daddy’s gun, sweetheart? How fucking filthy,” You nodded as Sylus’s rough hands gripped your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. Without warning, his spit filled your open mouth, slowly dripping from between your lips, coating your chest.

“Don’t swallow it. Keep my spit in your mouth when you cum for me. Stick your tongue out and cum all over me like a good little puppy,” He sped up even more now, the tip of the gun pushing against that spot inside of you that made your body heat up like white lightning that was trapped in a bottle and begging to be let out. He hit that spot over and over again, making your head fuzzy as he held your gaze captive with his scarlet eyes.

“Daddy—fuck—please, I don’t think I can take it.” You panicked, your hand desperately reaching for his wrist, hoping for some freedom from the incessant pleasure only for the mist to trap you once again, binding your hands up above your head and around Sylus’s neck, pressing your bodies even closer together.

��Shit—you’re so wet, you’re making a puddle in my lap. Are you gonna squirt around my gun, baby?” He said, emphasizing his point with a sharp push of the metal against you g-spot.

“No I- I can’t. It’s too embarrassing please don’t make me.”

“Come on, listen to your daddy and let go all over me. Squirt, cum, cry, I don’t care, but I’m gonna pull it all out of you either way. So, give it to me, it’s mine. I worked so hard for it,” he said, fingers finding their way into your open mouth, but you didn’t dare close your lips around them, just letting the spit drip down onto yourself and he bullied your pussy over and over again until you just couldn’t take it anymore. Tears streamed from your eyes once more as you let go. Your wetness spilled all over his lap, pulling guttural screams from your throat that were muffled by his hands.

“Good girl, that’s it. Come on, let go for daddy, baby. Poor baby, so pent up. It must feel so good to let go now, huh?” Streams of ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls as you squirmed against his grasp. He pressed his full lips to your face again as he pulled his finger and his firearm from your holes slowly. You watched him with tired eyes, as you were covered in your own wetness. The gun dripped with your juices, but he wasted no time putting the metal to his own mouth this time, flattening his tongue against the barrel of the gun and licking it clean.

“You are the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, sweetheart. Maybe you should let you help me clean my guns more often.” Dazed, and far too exhausted to protest, you closed your eyes, resting your head against him once again, your hands finally free. He pressed small kisses against your sweaty face, gently brushing any hair from your skin before you spoke up again.

“T-thank you, Sylus.”

“The pleasure is all mine, pretty girl.”

[bi-writes]

What if 👀 what if we see when john proposes to the missus (is it too soon 😭) 🤩 they also live in my mind 24/7 you’re 🫵🏻 gonna be drowning in my asks

the key turns in the lock, nice and smooth this time. john oiled it before he left—he wanted this when he came, some sort of reminder that his hand has been here, in this house, so branded into its integrity that even the hinges no longer creak because he's made his nest here. (18+)

when he swings open the door, he doesn't recognize the sight.

you're sitting at the kitchen table with a sour expression on your face. there's a candle lit in the center, only one since the other has melted, so much so the wax is pooled underneath it next to the roast that's long since cold on its serving platter. there's glass of wine in front of you that's nearly empty, and a bottle within reach just as light.

john sucks on teeth a little as he drops his duffel bag by the door. the sound makes you flinch, and when he drops heavily into the seat across from you, he doesn't even react at the velvet box that sits on the table.

instead, he picks up his fork and starts to serve himself.

your eyes flick up to look at him, but he's too busy piling up meat and potatoes onto his plate. he takes off his hat and tosses it onto the table, and you scowl at the sight—you complain over and over again about that filthy fucking hat, and he has the nerve to set it down on the table like he's the one that's been working all day on a roast, molten chocolate lava cake, and tender mashed potatoes.

"you're late," you say. your voice croaks, hitching with your swallowed-down emotion. john takes his gloves off, tossing them beside the hat, and when he starts to undo the latches on his tact vest, you pick up your steak knife and pierce it right through the oak table. "don't you dare put that shit on my table."

"our table."

"oh, now you wanna chime in?"

john runs a few hands over his face. he looks tired. his beard is scruffy, more than usual, and the darkness under his eyes is heavy. his eyes aren't as bright as they normally are around you, and you find the tension in his shoulders to be especially wound. you don't care what he's gone through to get back to this table. maybe he fell out of a helicopter. maybe a bullet whizzed past his head and nearly splattered his brains. you don't fucking care—john price is sitting in front of you and eating the food you made and pretending like everything is just fine.

he laughs. it's humorless, but it angers you anyway. he's condescending; it's in his nature. when you question the way of things, when you try to put your foot down—you would punch him, but he'd ease out of the way, effortless, and it would annoy you greatly. then he'd probably take your wrists and pin them behind your back with one hand, and he'd smile doing it, because he's so much bigger than you, so much stronger. he kills people for less, it takes no effort to stifle the woman that shares his bed. everything is funny to him—everything is cute.

asshole.

"where'd you find tha'?" john asks. he doesn't look at it, but you know what he's talking about. you pick up the velvet box and pop it open. the ring blinds you. it must be at least three carats, a gorgeous thing, surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds around the band. it glitters, stunning, and if you were a stupider woman, you would've been wearing it already, but you're not.

"i found it when i was going through your shit," you spit at him. you tip your glass back and swallow down the rest of your wine. it goes down hot. "packing it for you."

"we goin' on a trip?"

"you certainly are."

john clicks his tongue and tilts his head to the side. he finally brings his eyes up to meet yours, and he brings a hand up to scratch at his beard.

"not leaving."

you laugh, too, smiling, bitter.

"i wasn't asking, john. but if you don't want your stuff, whatever. i'm sure it'll burn just fine."

john shoves his plate away from him, scooting his chair back. you expect him to get up, to come towards you. you expect him to grip you by the throat and bend you over the table so he can fuck you next to the extravagant meal you've made, but instead he huffs as you hear his belt buckle clink.

"what the fuck are you doing?" you scoff. john hums, grunting low, and then you watch with parted lips as he spits into the palm of his hand and lowers it. it's only a moment before he sighs deeply, a wet slick, slick, slick following the movement of his arm. "are you fucking serious?"

"mmm..." john clenches his jaw. "'s been awhile, love." he cracks his neck as he moves it from side to side, fixing his eyes on you as he moves his arm a little quicker. your lips tremble angrily, but you can't help the way you shift in your seat. your free hand plays with the hem of your skirt, and he rolls his shoulders back, licking his lips. "show me."

"fuck you."

"in a minute, love. show me."

you're shaking with anger. it's hot in your chest, making you buzz, but it doesn't stop your hands. it doesn't stop them from feeling over the collar of your blouse before you carefully undo the top buttons. john relaxes as he watches the fabric fall loose, and he hums knowingly when you drop the blouse and unclasp your bra.

your tits fall with a bounce. you're ashamed at how easy it is, to fall right back into the place you swore you would never go again. john groans, moving his chair back further, and you squeeze your thighs together as you watch his thick hand tug at his rigid cock with more and more of a chaotic rhythm.

"come 'ere."

"no."

"come here," john mutters. he says it in that way—that way you know that he won't ask again. he won't have to.

you stand on doe legs. they wobble, and you use the table as leverage, and when you make it in front of him, john pushes you until you're sitting on the edge of the table, right next to his half-eaten plate and his dirty gear. you flinch as he stands, stepping between your thighs, and you kiss as the tip of him presses against your drooling cunt. your legs rise, knees hooking around his hips, and john licks over his teeth as he keeps stroking himself.

"we've been over this," john growls. "haven't we, sweetheart?"

"i hate you."

"this is mine," john says into your ear. "your cunt. this house. this food—it's mine, and you know tha'. you love puttin' up a bloody brawl, i know tha', love, so i take it, but you won't be rid of me until i'm dead, y'hear tha'?"

"fuck you—"

"ugh—" john hisses. "gonna make me fuckin' come, love—"

john laughs through breathy moans when he feels you're wearing no knickers. sopping, pretty pussy just waiting for him—in his house, with his girl, the one that's about to have his name.

"john—"

his grip on your thighs is bruising as he pushes into you. just the tip, just enough to drive you insane, just in time for him to spill inside of you and fill you with a dizzying amount of cum. hot, sticky, messy—john's never been very good at cleaning up his messes. he seems to like it that way. he seems to like it ruined and overstimulated and begging.

he presses his forehead to yours, grunting as he pushes further inside of you. you'll ruin the wood underneath you being so wet, but john will fix it.

"when are y'gonna learn?" john murmurs. "hmm?"

"john..."

there is no john without you. you could run, but he'd find you. you could change the locks, but it wouldn't stop him from coming home. you could throw all of his things out, burn them, shred them, bury them, but he has no real ties to anything as trivial as things. john is a fixture in the air here. he lives in the wood that makes up the house. he's in your breaths that taste like cigar smoke. he's inside of you, hot, in the bruises that line your collarbone and your thighs and your hips. john is a rigid, immutable hook that is dug so far into your fleshy insides that it would be suicide to remove him from yourself.

he's a weed you cannot rid yourself of. you pick him out by the root, but he always comes back.

he kisses you like that—tits out, cunt drooling, engagement ring tossed aside just out of reach. you think he meant for you to find it. either as a result of your morbid curiosity or your temper tantrums—john probably figured whichever came first would be good enough.

he would never propose to you. you know this.

why the fuck would he ask you about something that's already a given?

in the morning, you're alone with your thoughts, watching the ring sparkle in the early sunlight. your hand is rested on his chest, moving with the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. you turn your hand over and stare at the thing—you aren't someone who's into material things so much. you appreciate them, but something about this new reality of yours makes you stare a little harder at the diamond, question the clarity just a little. you hope it made a huge dent in that wallet of his; you hope he gritted his teeth a little when he handed over his card.

you'll make his bank account weep. you're mrs. john fucking price.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Instant Family｡⋆.

Bucky Barnes x plus size reader

+ platonic Peter Parker 

Somehow, you and Bucky have found yourselves parents to a rowdy teenager without you ever having been pregnant

Warnings: reader and Bucky are pretty much Peter’s parents, little bit of horny at the beginning, fluff, domesticity, talks of family planning, adoption WC: 1.2k A/N: The Hotch x reader x Joel fic is being worked on but it’s taking longer than I thought so hopefully this will hold you over till then 💚 Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Soft lips pressed against your neck as two strong arms wound around your plump waist, pulling you back from the stove and into the hard body behind you. Your lead lolled to the side, unable to resist the tender loving of your boyfriend.

“James.” You protested as his hand began to wander.

“Doll.” He responded against your skin, pushing his hips into your ass, letting you feel exactly what he wanted.

“I’m cooking dinner.” 

“Yeah and I’m looking to have a little snack.” His cold metal hand skirted up your plush belly to cup one of your tits over the thin fabric of your bralette. His teeth sank into your pulse, quickly presenting a very compelling argument as to why you should abandon the stew you had already spent hours on and join him in the bedroom.

“You’ll spoil your appetite.” You rocked back, making Bucky hiss through his teeth as you pressed against the hardness between his legs. His grip on you tightened and just as you were about to cave, with his fingers skillfully strumming at your pert nipple, the sound of the front door slamming open tore you apart.

“You will not believe the day I had!” A series of several heavy thumps had Bucky groaning in frustration.

“How many times have I told that kid to take off his shoes when he comes in?” He grumbled as he readjusted himself and leaned against the counter across from you.

“Obviously not nearly enough times.” 

“Did you hear me? Crazy day!” Peter’s overgrown curls were the first thing you saw as he bounced into the living room, dropping his backpack onto the couch, despite the hook by the front door that was designated for him. Bucky raised an eyebrow at you but you just smiled and walked to the fridge. 

“What kind of crazy are we talking about here, bugs?” You handed the teenager a cold bottle of water which he immediately chugged, just like you knew he would.

“Thanks.” He gasped after he was done. “Every one of my classes had a pop quiz, which I aced by the way, and then there was a burglary at the sandwich shop and MJ actually smiled at me today! Not like a ‘I’m grinning at you so you leave me alone’ smile but a real, genuine ‘I think you’re funny and/or cute’ one!” 

“I’m happy for you, kid.” Bucky’s hand clapped his shoulder, giving it a paternal squeeze and making Peter’s smile grow even wider.

“What’s for dinner?” He rose to his tiptoes to try and get a look at the pot from his place on the far end of the counter. Even a month ago, he would’ve tentatively asked if he could stay for dinner with the largest puppy eyes you had ever seen to support his case, but now, he knew you could never say no to him.

“Beef stew and mashed potatoes, Bucky’s favourite.” You answered, uncovering the second pot on the stove that currently housed the un-mashed potatoes. Peter’s nose scrunched just for a second, but Bucky still caught it.

“And what’s wrong with beef stew, young man?” 

“Nothing! Nothing! It’s just friday and we usually do pizza on fridays.” You would have laughed at the petrified expression on his face but thought better not to.

“You’re going to be with Tony all weekend, we need to get some actual food in you before he supplies you with too much caffeine and all the pizza you could ever want. Plus, Bucky is going on a mission tomorrow morning. I always cook your favourite before you go on yours.” You pointed out, replacing the lid in favour of cracking the oven door and letting the smell of baking brownies fill the small kitchen. “But it is your favourite dessert.”

“Thank-“ You quickly raised a hand, stopping him before he could start his excited tirade.

“But you have to get your homework done now and then after dinner, you can spar with Bucky.” That made the teen light up even more.

“Sweet! I’ll go do that now. Can I use your office?” He called over his shoulder, already gunning for the small room at the end of the hall where you worked, yanking his bag from the couch as he passed.

“I’ll be double checking your English homework tonight!” You called after him, getting a distant ‘okay!’ in return. You shook your head and made to turn back to the stove but you were stopped by Bucky’s arms wrapping around you again. You half-expected his lips to return to your neck or even fit against your own, but instead he gently kissed the top of your head.

“You’re so good with him.” He muttered, sighing happily as you snuggled into his arms. You pecked his throat, your palms spreading over his lower back.

“He makes it easy, he’s a great kid.” You stood there for a few moments, soaking in the warmth of your shared home as Peter’s music floated from the office. You would’ve never thought that this was your life, dating your soulmate, who happened to be an Avenger and caring for another one who had somehow become your sort-of kid after his aunt had to pick up a job that kept her away from home for long periods of time.

“How the hell did we end up with a teenager?” Bucky groaned into your hair as he finally let you go.

“You’re the one that offered to tutor him with history in the first place.” You reminded him. 

He scoffed and opened the fridge. “And you were the one that fed him.” His brows furrowed, blue eyes scanning over the contents of the shelves in front of him “We’ll need to pick up some more of those snack packs he likes, we’re running low.”

You popped your hip out and raised a brow at him. “Oh shut up, I’m keeping us stocked up for your sake, you know how whiny he gets when he’s hungry.” 

“I’ll take him shopping when I pick him up from school on Monday so he can pick up some stuff he likes.” Bucky fished a beer and a soda from the fridge before firmly shutting it while you stirred the stew, making sure the bottom didn’t burn. 

He popped the cap off the glass bottle, taking a small sip. “Have you thought about having some kids of our own?” 

“Yeah, I have.” You felt his eyes glue themselves to you. “I think you’d be a great dad James, you already are. Peter adores you, I adore you.”

You finally looked up to him. “Whenever you’re ready for them, then so am I.” A weight lifted from his broad shoulders, making him stand taller. You beamed at him before he kissed you gently.

“We do have that empty room upstairs next to Peter’s that’s waiting to be used.” 

You rolled your eyes and gave him a little shove towards the office. “Go help your boy with his homework and then we can talk, daddy.” He smirked and shot you a wink before strutting off to most-lilkely distract Peter with yet another story about Steve doing something stupid before they would inevitably find the adoption forms you had left out on your desk. 

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