#with a whole fucking roasted chicken in one hand

[fantasticalleigh]

every time i eat rotisserie chicken i think of adam driver because of this

[sparklehoard]

Fighting for my life trying to cook in my parents kitchen last night.

Got in a fight when I blocked my mother from putting a can of corn in the butter chicken I had been cooking for 2 hours

[hitomisuzuya]

yandere!hybrid scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. porn with a little plot. breeding kink. cunnilingus. masturbation. cream pie. degradation. scara in heat. aggressive/possessive behavior.

i just wanted to write about scara as a hybrid for a bit. don't mind this high nonsense. it turned out way long, oml, i'm sorry😭

you could never have cats growing up. so when the opportunity to take one in presented itself, you naturally took it. scaramouche was very weak, and very injured when you found him laying underneath a cardboard box in an alley.

you couldn't bear to leave him out in the cold, and freezing rain. scaramouche huddled further into the cardboard box, hissing when you crouched down to reach for him. he fought you the whole time, hissing, scratching and biting until you finally managed to wrestle him into your arms, wrapping your jacket around him and cradling him to your chest so he could get warm.

the whole time you were cooing to him soothingly. "shh, kitty, it's okay. we will get you inside, and fed. i promise. and get you feeling better." scaramouche was incredibly startled finding out your voice was soothing.

a few instances on the way home, he thought he almost fell asleep listening to the sound of your heartbeat. it made him focus a little less on the pain in his very injured leg, and pain from being weak and starving. fuck it, it would be an opportunity to rest indoors out of the cold, and get something to eat before he bailed on you the next day.

and he was going to find and fuck up that alley cat he got into a fight with. maybe he would come back to your house, yowling for food before he fled entirely.

scaramouche sure didn't know what to think about you. what the fuck was up with you? any normal person would've just dropped and abandoned him after he hissed and clawed at them, but not you. you took it all with a calm, patient smile. he decided he would fiercely test that patience.

humans weren't as good as they liked to think, in his humble opinion.

scaramouche watched you with narrow eyes as you flitted about the kitchen, looking in cabinets to see what you had for him to eat. "i'm afraid you'll have to forgive me kitty, i still have to go the grocery store this week. if you don't like anything i have, i'll go back out to the store, and see if i can't find you something."

so test you he did. he turned his nose up at tuna, some cubed chicken breasts with gravy on them (even it smelled super good, he thought), some roast beef.

he thought, this is it! he was going to turn out to be right. you would undoubtedly get frustrated and put him back out on the street. or so he thought.

nope, you just made him a soft little nest on the couch with some blankets and pillows. turned on the tv for him, and told him you would be back with some other stuff. that you would find what he wanted to eat, it wasn't a problem.

you even looked happy to be taking care of him. and why the hell were you starting to smell really good every time you walked by him. he waited, curled up warm in your little hand made nest, glancing away from the tv at the door every now and then.

back you came, your scent more magnified than before to him. you brought fish, varieties of tuna, some cat treats and cat nip. you'd even stopped by the deli and picked up different things. for him. you didn't bring home any dinner for yourself.

scaramouche supposed he would feel like an asshole if he refused all of it. you'd gone back out in the freezing rain and wind to get food for him, getting nothing for yourself. he decided he was only going to be half the trouble, accepting some chicken and gravy that tasted better than he anticipated.

after that, you treated his injured leg and read to him until he fell asleep. he opened his eyes the next morning to discover you hadn't slept until he did.

scaramouche was incredibly weak from his injury. so much so that he couldn't transform into his more human form to make recovery easier. and if he had it his way, you would never know about it. a few days and he would be gone.

or so he told himself. before he knew it, one day turned into two. two days turned into a week. he got stronger everyday. oh how you smiled and clapped when he stood up without limping. your smile was beautiful, he admitted.

you'd put up with him all this time. the healing scratches and bite marks on your arms and hands proved that. what was in it for you? nothing. everything you did was for him. he couldn't find one hint of an ulterior motive. you even seemed to purely enjoy his company.

scaramouche was really starting to hate whenever you left the house, especially when you couldn't take him with you. why did you need to leave? he knew you needed to go out for food and things, but it would be so much better if you took him with you. you seemed way too nice. it probably made you really naive.

you were naive enough not to realize he was actually a hybrid with a very human form, and a name. A name you were talking about him needing eventually. a very human form with very human needs. you were smelling better and better every day. he almost couldn't stand it sometimes. it was intoxicating.

he was starting to jump on your bed with you at night to sleep, moving a little closer to you every night. one morning, you found him curled up asleep on your chest, purring softly. he avoided you for hours after that happened, darting off hissing in embarrassment.

that wasn't the worst thing for him. a few mornings later, he'd unknowingly shifted in the middle of the night into his human form, waking up very naked with a very hard cock. his arms wrapped around you, tucking you possessively against him.

to your credit (and his amazement), you didn't scream or send him away. he supposed he should've expected that. you didn't even throw him out when he scratched up your curtains, tore a hole in one of the couch pillows, and knocked what he thought looked the most valuable vase off the table, completely shattering it.

"scaramouche," he grumbled, his ears flicking as he looked away in embarrassment. "scaramouche is what you can call me," he could barely look at you that day. he spent most of his time in his cat form, hiding under the bed, or lingering from a distance, watching you suspicious eyes. undoubtedly your true nature would come out. a strange boy had woken up next to you, naked and hard from good you smelled. how warm you felt.

you, with your soft hair that looks oh so pullable. you, with your pretty lips and fragile body he was pretty sure he could break in half. now that he thought about it, you seeing his human form was really the best thing. now he could leave the house with you, and protect you from all the horrible things that would jump out from around every corner and snatch you away.

snatch you away from him. he couldn't have that, no matter what. especially not when you accepted him so completely.

as much as scaramouche tried to swallow these feelings, he was abruptly forced to accept them one day. he walked into your room while you were changing. he saw every bare dip and curve of your breakable body, caught sight of your breasts reflected in the mirror. something snapped in him after that.

of course, he hid away from you after that. only coming out to kick up an angry fuss about you running an errand. he snapped at you when you asked if he wanted to come with you, refusing out of pride and embarrassment for walking in on you earlier.

he was forced to accept two things that day. he was going into heat. and he was consumed with thoughts of breeding you. breeding you so fucking full that there would be no question who you belonged to.

what the fuck had you done to him?

while you were gone, he spent that time writhing on your bed, fisting his cock to thoughts of impaling you on it. making you cry and claw at his back to cum inside you. even better for him that you were starting to become twice as shy around him, looking at him with a blush on your cheeks.

he scented all your clothes, rubbing on them and rolling around on them in his cat form. he rolled around on your sheets and pillows. and as for you, he scented you while you slept. this is what was best. if you smelled like him, no one would so much as dare to take you away from him.

you are his, damn it.

when scaramouche is in heat, he gets twice as possessive. he was incredibly suspicious and weary of anyone that approached or even looked at you, especially another male. if he thought there were too many people around, he insisted on taking different ways home to avoid them. he can and will snap at people if he felt they got too close.

especially when you let him get handsy with you in a moment of weakness one night. he pinned underneath him on the couch, grinding his straining cock between your legs while he pawed at your clothes. his teeth nipping at your lips and skin in between angry and frustrated kisses. you just smelled so fucking good he couldn't control himself. you moaned and mewled so sweetly underneath him.

it did happen one day. he didn't want you to go into the cafe to get your hot chocolate. he insisted on doing it for you, but in the end relented and let you go inside. everything was going smoothly until the barista asked you for your number. you didn't need someone's phone number to give them a cup of hot chocolate. this asshole didn't need your number.

you already had scaramouche. was he blind? that was what went through his head. he wanted to tear the barista's head off. he bet it would pop off so easy, like a bottle cap under too much pressure. if it wasn't for your voice pleading with him to calm down, he would've gotten physical with the barista.

anybody would've gotten fed up and exhausted by now. especially since he raised a further argument when you both were banned from ever coming back. he bartered down for you to be allowed back but not him, since you didn't do anything wrong. that you really liked the whipped cream on their hot chocolate.

scaramouche is the type of hybrid that you have to isolate with when he is in heat. that much was obvious. and that was what he needed the most right now. to be with you, and hide you away from the world, making sure nothing and nobody touched you while he was in heat.

he knew you were strong, but that's exactly why you needed him to protect you.

after the incident at the cafe, scaramouche only completely calmed down when he was fucking his tongue into your cunt. "such a doting, delicate little thing, aren't you," he hissed, looking up at you from between your thighs. "it's going to be a pleasure breeding you," your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging on his ears in an intoxicating way as you pushed his mouth down onto your pussy.

his tongue swirled around your clit, groaning as you grinded on his mouth. he didn't know what was sweeter. the way you tasted or the way you moaned as he latched his lips around your clit.

how good it felt to finally sink his claw into his delicate little mate. you put up with him. cared for him. doted on and indulged him. you'd made him fall so in love, so much so that it was too late by the time he noticed.

now he was going to take care of you in the way you deserved.

and in the dizzying pleasure of cumming on his tongue, you didn't quite know what happened. but what you did know is that you were in love with him to. you didn't expect this cat you found injured to be the force of literal nature that was scaramouche. complete with cute ears. before you knew it, he'd pulled you right in, and you were happy to let him do it, in all the comforting weight of his dominance.

"i want to hear you scream it, slut," scaramouche moaned, his hands tightening on your hips possessively. he had the perfect view of his cock pumping in and out of your pussy from behind. your walls squeezed around his cock hearing him mock your moans as he bottomed out into your sweet spot over and over again. "babble about how badly you want to be bred."

your sopping cunt clutched tight and warm like a glove, your walls gummy and perfect. his eyes rolled into the back of his head how good you felt squeezing his cock.

"please, breed me. you feel so good inside me," you cried out, drool soaking the pillow under your cheek. he chuckled shakily behind you, you were always so eager to please him. even the way you shook, creaming hard on his cock was an intoxicating sight to behold.

a truly delicate gift for him to break.

the harder he made you cum, the more you begged him to fuck you full of cum. "cock drunk whore," scaramouche moaned, his thrusts turning sloppy as his cock pulsed cum inside of you. he doubted you could hear his soft whimpers of bliss over your own, which were much louder.

[tropes-and-tales]

Don't Gloat

(From the "Shut Up" kiss starter prompts, found here)

CW:  Richie being Richie, swearing, mild violence (a misunderstanding), smut (PiV, protected). 18+ only.

Word Count:  7289

AN:  Requested by an anonymous person, place, or thing!

AN2: Drabble? I don't know her, apparently.

Your first real fight is over chicken.

You squabble, pretty much from day one.  Carmy hires you to help in the kitchen, and Richie immediately takes an intense dislike to you.  Adding you upsets the delicate ecosystem of The Beef.  You are unnecessary.  Richie makes it known on your first day.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he warns an hour into service.  “Cousin doesn’t run things.”

“Seems like he does,” you shoot back.

“I’m the manager here.”

Here is where the dislike really starts.  Richie is rude and sarcastic, but you’re a chameleon.  You can shift and change your demeanor to match what someone is giving you, so when Richie is rude and sarcastic to you, you respond in kind.

You call him “Mister Manager” in a tone dripping with sarcasm, and by the end of that first shift, Richie completely hates you.

The feeling is mutual by the end of your second shift.

At first, you just squabble.  You trade barbs and insults.  When Richie throws a temper tantrum over Carmy’s organization of the spices, you pout and turn to Ibra and posit that Richie is grumpy because he needs a juice box and a nap.  Which makes Ibra cock his head at you.  He speaks English impeccably, but sometimes he misses the finer nuances of language like sarcasm. 

“I do not think we have juice boxes here,” Ibra says, and Tina swats him as she walks past.

“She’s being sarcastic, you old bitch,” she tells him.

The allusion to Richie being a toddler isn’t far off.  He acts childish all the time.  He flings cookware around when he’s having a tantrum.  He swears, he throws out middle fingers like an angry pre-teen. 

He hides your expensive Henckles knives.  He turns the heat up or down when your back is turned.  Once, he parks you in behind The Beef, and when you go to leave, he’s nowhere to be found—you end up doing a thirty-six point turn, a fraction at a time, before you can properly pull out and drive away.

But your first real fight is over chicken.

The meat delivery is wrong one day.  You’re short on beef, but there’s five whole chickens, and Carmy throws up his hands and tells you to come up with something.

So you do. 

You roast them low and slow so they stay tender, and you’re putting the finishing touches on the sauce—an adobo-based barbeque that’s the perfect blend of tangy and smoky—when Richie strolls in.  He’s in his stupid leather jacket and ridiculous blue track pants, and he announces himself with his usual grinning, “what’s up, you fucking lizards?”

Sweeps and Manny call out their hellos, but Richie ignores them.  He’s already super-focused on you…and the sauce you’re stirring over a low heat.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks.  He stands too close to you, dips his head close to the pot, and takes a loud sniff of it.  Then rears back with a grimace, like you’re simmering a pot of shit and not a finely balanced sauce for your roasting chickens.

“It’s barbeque sauce.  For the chicken.”

“What fucking chicken?”

“Meat delivery was fucked up,” Carmy calls across the kitchen. 

Richie scoffs and turns to Carmy, and he gestures at you and your sauce.  “No offence, Cousin, but the place is called ‘The Beef.’”

“No offence, Cousin, but fuck off,” Carmy replies.

“Heaven forbid we try something new,” you add.  You snap the heat off and settle a lid over the pot to allow the flavors time to mellow together.  Once the chicken is done, you’ll shred it and mix it in.  You have a red cabbage slaw planned for it, and thin slices of sharp cheddar to round it out.  You turn towards the refrigerator, but Richie blocks your path.

“Nothing Italian about whatever the fuck that is.”  He glares down at you; he’s half a head taller than you, but he has a way of puffing out his chest like a bantam rooster spoiling for a fight.

Maybe other people are cowed by his posturing, but you’re unimpressed and not scared at all.

“It’s about as Italian as ‘Jerimovich.’”

His chest puffs out more, and he takes a half step closer to you.  This close, you can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to him, the old man cologne he splashes on with a heavy hand, the subtler scent of laundry detergent. 

“People come here every day and get the same thing,” he says.  “Same order every fuckin’ day.  No one is gonna order whatever fancy Noma bullshit you’re trying to pull out of your ass.”

You take a half step up to him and puff out your chest, and it makes Richie falter for a moment.  He leans back, just a fraction, but you note the movement and smirk up at him.  You reach out and poke him in the sternum with a forefinger, driving home each point.

“One, this isn’t Noma bullshit.  It’s literally slow-roasted chicken.  Two, it’s a pretty simple sauce.  Maybe it seems fancy to you because it’s more challenging to your palate than chicken nuggets.  Three, some customers might appreciate a change in their usual lunch order.  Not everyone is so resistant to change, Cousin.”

Your use of the familiar nickname makes his nostrils flare and his eyes widen in anger.  “I’m not your fucking Cousin.”

“Sure you are, Cousin.”

“Stop it.”

“I’ll save you a sandwich, Cousin.”  The thought occurs to you that you’re being childish now, that Richie has brought out some immature part of you, and you think it’s kinda fun, being a juvenile brat at work and leaning into the fight.

“Fucking stop it.”

“Stop what, Cousin?”

He turns away from you so quick, it makes you blink in surprise.  “Fucking bitch,” he mutters to himself, but he’s striding across the kitchen towards the office, and he’s calling for Carmy, so you follow at his heels and call for Carmy too.

“Yo, Cousin, can you fucking fire her already?  Jesus fucking Christ, I—” he starts, but you cut him off, mimic his growling voice and Chicago accent.

“Yo, Carmy, when are we gonna fire Richie already?  I mean, the place is changing—”

It makes Richie go fully nuclear.  The mention of change makes him apoplectic.  He turns and crowds you against the door jamb, and he gets right in your face:  so close that you can see his eyes aren’t completely blue—they are flecked with grey, like bits of mica in pavement.  You’re startled for a moment, surprised to find that his eyes are beautiful, but you obviously don’t say anything because he’s snarling in your face.

“Fuck you!” he spits out, and he points a finger inches from your face.  “Fuck you!  Nothin’ is changin’ here!  Nothin’ needs to change!”

And then he gives you his patented Richie double-chin flick, and he mutters some Italian insult you don’t know, and he’s marching through the kitchen to leave.

Not before he sweeps your mise en place off the counter, sending thin-sliced cabbage and vinegar flying.

Carmy stares at you with a look that is purely beleaguered.  He sighs, he scrubs his face with his hands, and he runs them through his hair before he sighs again.

“Whatever you and Richie have going on?  Squash that shit, Chef.”

You nod, embarrassed at rising—or sinking—to Richie’s childishness.  “Yes, Chef,” you reply.

-----

“Squashing it” mostly means that you and Richie only fight when Carmy isn’t within earshot.

Your fighting still entails getting in each other’s faces.  It still means you insult each other, albeit more quietly.  You hiss insults at him, he grumbles them back.  You part when Carmy shows up, and you each stew in your separate corners and wait for the next round.

You start to suss out where the limits are.  You insult him as a father one single time, and the flash of hurt on his face makes you hold up your hands in a truce and apologize. 

He insults you once as a woman with daddy issues, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut.  You did grow up without a father—he died when you were six, and your only memories of him are full of pain from the stomach cancer that slowly killed him.  But you must show the hurt on your face too because Richie takes a step backwards away from you, stammers out an apology too.

All told, once you know each other’s hard limits, you actually fight pretty nicely, and if anyone notices it, no one says anything.

-----

Sunday nights are a good time to come in to The Beef and set yourself up for the week.  You work it out with Carmy because it gives him a break and gives you a few more hours.  You enjoy the time there with the restaurant being closed—you blast your music, you sing along at the top of your lungs as you rotate stock, make detailed shopping lists for Carmy, and make sure everything is clean.

If one thing infuriates you, it’s the way certain national media outlets focus on Chicago as a cesspool of violence.  But it is a large city, and violence does happen, so when you’re in the basement of The Beef and hear the beep of the alarm system as it is deactivated, you immediately feel ice cold all over.  The alarm system, Ibra told you once, is easily overcome, and The Beef has been robbed before.

You glance around and see that you’re trapped, unless you want to rush up the steps (not advisable) or shimmy out a tiny window at street level (also not advisable).  There’s nothing in the way of weapons in the basement either, so you arm yourself with a half-burnt cookie sheet and tremble as you listen to the heavy tread above you.

Maybe they’ll just trash the place and leave.  There’s nothing worth stealing, unless they want to wheel out the massive, ancient Hobart.  Maybe they’ll get into Marcus’s stash of good vanilla.  Maybe they’ll—

Maybe they’ll make their way to the top of the stairs.  Maybe they’ll pause there and start walking down to where you wait.  You try not to breathe too loud, but your heart is hammering in your chest, your pulse is in your ears, and you’re flooded with adrenaline as the shoes of your would-be assailant come into view.

You don’t hear Richie’s voice when he calls out your name.  You’re too panicked.  You don’t hear him, and you don’t even register him when he rounds the corner—he’s in his usual track pants and leather jacket—because you’re fully in fight-or-flight mode…and independent of your will, your body chooses fight.

“Fuck you!” you scream, and you swing the cookie sheet directly at his head with all the force you can muster.  Your assailant stumbles backwards with a cry of pain, and you drop the pan and try to scramble past him, but you trip over his foot in your panic and fall hard, cracking your shinbone against the lowest step.

If you ever idly wondered how you’d react in a real life-or-death scenario, here is your answer:  you scream and scream, and you clutch one hand to your throbbing shin but flail your other hand at the person reaching for you, and it’s not until you smell him—the familiar cigarette/old man cologne smell—that your panic ebbs a little.

And then you see those blue eyes flecked with grey, and even if Richie is your enemy at work, he’s never really been an enemy in the true sense of the word.  The relief that you aren’t about to be raped or murdered floods you so suddenly that you burst into tears. 

And then you hug him, your arms so tight around his middle that he breathes out a sharp oof, but then he wraps one arm around your trembling form while the other clutches his bleeding nose in an attempt to staunch the blood.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he asks.  His voice is thick and nasally, but there’s a hint of amusement to it.

“Thought you were an intruder.”  You release him from your hold, and you will yourself to stop shaking. 

“Carmy.”  He shakes his head.  “Guess Food and Wine’s Best New Asshole didn’t tell you I was coming by.”

“He did not.”

Richie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wrinkled napkin.  He presses it to his nose and winces, and your panic is replaced by shame.  You’ll never live this down, you realize.  Richie is going to tell everyone first thing tomorrow, and he’ll add his usual Richie flourishes to make your screams more shrill, your flailing more erratic in the retelling.

His nose stops bleeding, and he checks it tentatively.  He prods at the swollen skin, red that is going to bruise by morning.  He fixes you with a curious look.

“You hit harder than I would have thought.”

“I play softball.”

“Where?”

“Lincoln Park.  At the North Avenue fields.”

He huffs at that.  Clears his throat.  “Yeah, my daughter has t-ball there.”

Your panic is gone now, and you feel more like yourself.  Your leg throbs at where you banged it, and it will be bruised by morning like Richie’s face.  You limp over to the big table and gather up your coat and purse.

“Don’t do that,” you tell Richie.

“Do what?”

“Don’t…whatever.  Talk to me nice.  Tell me about your daughter.  Don’t do that.”

He snorts and says, “why the fuck not?”

“Because we’re not friends, and you scared the shit out of me, and now I’m all keyed up and just want to get home instead of having an impromptu bonding session with the one guy at The Beef who truly, honesty hates me.”

“Alright, fine.  You’re a fucking head-case to freak out the way you did, and I think you broke my fucking nose.  Better?”

It startles a laugh out of you, and your laughter makes Richie grin.  It’s shy, and he ducks his head, but you catch it all the same.

He clears his throat again, then asks if you drove there.  You tell him no—you had a premium parking spot on your street, so you took the L.  He nods at that, and he seems to be thinking through something, so you pull on your coat and sling your bag over your shoulder and wait for him to say something.

“Let me drive you home, at least, “he finally offers.  “You’re all sorts of fucked up.”

“I’m fine.”

“The hell you are.  Someone looks at you wrong on the train, gonna catch an assault charge.”

“You’d love to see me in prison,” you reply.  “Out of your way.  No one left to defiantly make a delicious chicken sandwich special and destroy the system here.”

“Asshole.”  He shakes his head, then gestures for you to take the stairs ahead of him.  “I’m driving you home.  Let’s go.”

You can’t admit that a ride sounds fantastic.  You do feel keyed up, anxious and twitchy, and even if it’s Richie, you’re grateful for the offer.

Even so, as you limp upstairs, the pain in your leg makes it easier to admit to him.  You turn as he resets the alarm, and you thank him, softly.

“Yeah, fine.  Whatever.”  He points at his car, then grumbles, “c’mon already.”

-----

Somehow, it becomes a thing.

Sunday evenings become yours and Richie’s thing.  The work should go twice as fast, but Richie doesn’t work so much as… not work.  He leans in the doorway of the walk-in as you take inventory, he perches on the counter as you make giardiniera for the next day.  He sits in the office as you write out the order list for Carmy, and he gripes about how long you’re taking, how he has better things to do.

If that were true, why does he spend every Sunday with you?  You doubt Food and Wine’s Best New Asshole told him to, yet he shows up every week and complains the entire time.  He complains the entire drive to your place, and when you thank him for the ride, he either flips you off or makes a jacking-off motion with his hand before he peels away from your curb.

“You almost done?” he asks now.  “Got shit to do.”

“You don’t have shit to do.”  You check the takings from last week, do a quick calculation in the margin of the print-out.  “If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

“Why, you afraid I might introduce a dish that isn’t entirely Italian-American approved?”

He grumbles, “nothin’ needs to change.  Menu’s fine the way it is.”

“You really don’t have to stay, Richie.  I can handle myself.”

“Bullshit you can.”  He leans forward, taps the side of his nose.  “You handle yourself so well, you dislocated my fucking nose.”

“And it gave your face some character,” you retort.

“What’s wrong with my face?”

You glance at him, roll your eyes.  “Aside from the fact it’s always in my face, glaring or stirring up shit?  Nothing.”

He leans back in his chair again and sighs.  “I don’t stir up shit.”

“You do.”

“Don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I fucking don’t.”

“You talk way too much, Richard.”

“Don’t call me fucking Richard.  You sound like my asshole mother-in-law.”  He pauses, then amends it to, “my former asshole mother-in-law.”

A long beat of silence passes.  You calculate the meat order, the vegetables, the shelf stable stuff.  You balance out the order against where there’s already overdue bills—Carmy is juggling the vendors as best he can, and you try to give him relief where you can—

“Done yet?”

“Nope.”  You cross out the one line for the produce vendor, split it between two vendors.  “What are you in such a hurry for?”

“Told you.  I got stuff to do.”

You glance over at him.  He does seem more keyed up.  His leg bounces up and down, and he wrings his hands in his lap. 

“What sort of stuff?” you ask.

He mumbles his answer, and you miss it at first.  When you arch an eyebrow at him, he repeats it.  An embarrassed, “got a date.”

You pause in your writing and turn to face him.  Fak told you once about Richie’s imploded marriage, and he had heavily implied that Richie was still pining for his ex-wife.  “A date?” 

He shrugs.  “Kind of a date.”

“What’s kind of a date?”

Another shrug, and he fixes his gaze to the dirty tile floor.  “We went out last week, and we talked about grabbing a drink tonight.  I was gonna text her after I drop you off.”

“Sounds like a regular date to me.”

He lifts his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then lets them fall again.  “I dunno.  Wasn’t really feeling it, you know?”

You turn completely to face him, your list forgotten.  “Then why agree to a second date?”

Another shrug, a sheepish lift and fall of his shoulders.  The two of you are toeing the line of near-friendship, your usual squabbling turning into an honest-to-god friendly chat, but maybe Richie doesn’t have any confidants in his life, because he sighs, then mutters about how she seemed cold, how she wasn’t charmed by his Bill Murray voicemail greeting story, but how he thought he should try anyway—

“Richie, I’m not your gal pal in a rom-com, but if you aren’t feeling it, don’t do it.  Jesus, that’s just common sense.”

He fixes you with a glare.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize you were a goddamned relationship expert.”

“It’s common sense.”

“When was the last time you went on a date?”

You bristle at the question.  Your love life is about as dead as The Beef’s commercial credit, but Richie doesn’t need to know that.  But you hesitate long enough that he can guess, and he laughs at you, and you bristle more.

“I knew it!”  He points at you, and you swat at his hand until he lowers it.  “You give off this whole ‘hasn’t been laid in a long time’ vibe.”

You turn away from him and bend your head back to your ordering list.  “Shut up,” you mumble.

“All those prissy little dishes you add to the menu.  You’re all wound up.  It makes sense.”

“My culinary excellence has nothing to do with my love life or lack thereof.”  You hope your tone is even and nonchalant, but you fear it comes out as defensive.  Which it must, because Richie holds up his hands again.

“No judgement.  It’s tough out there.  I get it.”

You groan and turn away from him, twisting yourself to get his smirking face out of your peripheral.  “You should leave.  Go get ready for your kind-of date.”

“Nah.”

“Seriously, you can go.”

“Nah.”  You hear his deep breath, then a beat later, he continues.

“If you ever want to blow off some steam, we could…”  He trails off, but his intent is clear, and you feel a prickly heat break out across your skin. 

“…shut up, Richie.”

You turn a little and he reappears in your peripherals.  He presses his hands together in a prayer position, then presses his fingertips near his mouth in an expression of thoughtfulness. 

“Shut up, Richie isn’t no, Richie.”

“It’s most certainly no, Richie.”

“Look at me.”

“I gotta finish this list and send it to Carmy—”

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You can’t.  You stare at your handwriting—the 50 pounds of cake flour Marcus needs—and you feel yourself heating up at the sudden image of you and Richie—no, you shove the mental image away, shake your head to clear it, and the man notices all of it.

“Why can’t you look at me?” he asks, and his voice is soft, low.  A graveled rumble, roughened by the cigarettes he chain-smokes when he’s not inside, and you don’t know if it really has been that long, but it’s a step-progression of reactions in your body.  The prickle of heat along your skin, the way your skin feels too tight.  The way your mouth feels too dry all of a sudden.

The strong, traitorous pulse of desire between your legs.  Fuck.

“Wouldn’t have to mean anything,” he continues with that low voice.  “No one would have to know.”

“Shut up, Richie.”

“Still not hearing a no, sweetheart.”

You breathe in deeply through your nose, then turn to face him squarely.  You look him right in his eyes—those bright blue eyes, flecked with grey, beautiful—and say, “No, Richie.”

He stares back at you, and a smile slowly unfurls across his face.  A real smile, not his usual shit-eating grin or smarmy smirk.  A real smile that, paired with his gorgeous eyes, makes his face transform into something beautiful.  It’s like he’s lifted his mask for a moment and is showing you who he really is.

“You’re tempted.”  He sounds in awe of the revelation, and he leans back against the wall.  “Holy shit, you’re really tempted by it.”

“No, I’m—”

“Bullshit,” he cuts you off.  “You are.”  His smile stays fixed on his face, and he shakes his head.  “Holy shit, sweetheart.”

You grumble out the weakest rebuttal, but he only laughs and shakes his head again, and the last half hour is passed in uncomfortable silence:  you as you email the shopping list to Carmy with hands you will into steadiness, and Richie as he grins at you and chuckles to himself.

Of course he drives you home, just as he always does.

And of course he parks his car and comes up to your apartment when you invite him up, which is a first.

*****

A therapist would have a lifetime of secure business if Richie ever decided to pursue therapy for himself.  Not that he would—feelings are bullshit, and life is tough all over—but if he did…there’d be a lot of deep shit to mine.

At the core of him, Richie is desperately insecure.  He had a dicey childhood, and he glommed on the Berzatto family to make up for his own family’s shortcomings.  He had Tiff, for a glorious while, then lost her.  He has his daughter, but only part-time.  He lost Mikey, the nearest thing to a brother, and now he’s slowly losing The Beef as it becomes something more than a sandwich shop.

No wonder he feels lost all the time.  No wonder he lashes out and hurts those closest to him.

No wonder he’s been riding your ass for months, trying to get you to quit even as his initial dislike has mellowed out to acceptance and then to…something else he won’t name.

He can’t lie to himself:  that night in the basement shifted things.  Maybe you concussed him along with the dislocated nose.  Maybe he has slight brain damage.  He can’t account for it any other way, how seeing you so terrified caused a sea-change in him.  How feeling your arms around him, clinging to him and trembling so hard, softened him towards you.

He won’t name it.  He won’t even think it.  The most he’ll admit is, “maybe I don’t completely hate her.”

Which somehow turns into this moment.  The two of you awkwardly standing in your entryway, unsure if the other is bluffing, unsure if the other is serious.  There’s too much bad blood in your shared past, and you each are expecting the other to say “sike!,” to turn it into a humiliating story to share in the morning with the crew.

You’re both wrong. 

“So, uh, nice place.”  He looks around your apartment and rubs the back of his neck.  “You got a lot of books.”

“I like to read.”

“Yeah.  Nice.”  He takes a few steps deeper into your place, and he studies the titles on the nearest bookshelf.  “Stephen King.  Clive Barker.  You like the spooky shit, huh?”

“Nothing as scary as being ambushed in the basement at night by you.”

He snorts, shakes his head.  As he’s softened towards you, your teasing has gotten gentler too.  You’ve always rose to meet his energy, and now that he’s not actively despising you (he won’t name it, he will not), you aren’t actively despising him.

“Nothing as scary as seeing a giant fucking sheet pan flying at your face—”

You cut him off.  “Okay, Richie.  Enough.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Enough words.  More action.”  You face him and lift your eyebrows challengingly.  “Unless this was all a ruse.”

He shakes his head.

“Unless this is just a prank to embarrass me later.”

He shakes his head again, and he flexes his hands along his sides.  He’s itching to reach out and touch you—he remembers the feel of you in his arms, the way you tucked so perfectly against him when you were scared.  You had been relieved to see it had been him; you had felt safe enough to reach for him, and he’s been chasing that high ever since.  A therapist would make short work of this moment, but Richie wants to feel important to you again.  He wants to feel like you need him to protect you, to shelter you.  He wants to feel like a man, needed, necessary—

You’re talking but he doesn’t register the words.  Instead, he reaches for you, pulls you to him, and when you look up at him in surprise, he dips his head and kisses you.

It’s brutal at first.  He’s out of practice.  He’s certainly never kissed someone like you—someone so infuriatingly challenging—and he mashes his lips too hard against yours, can feel your wince as you struggle to kiss him back.  So he breaks the kiss and tries again, much more carefully, and it’s so much better:  the softness of your lips, the quiet moan you give as you kiss him back.

Maybe you need it bad, but he needs it just as bad, and when he considers why he does, he pushes the thought away completely.  Because if he thinks on it too much in this moment, if he thinks on how good it feels, the way you tug at his clothes—eager but shy, your hands steady but your eyes unable to meet his—he’d have to face an uncomfortable truth.

Still, he needs to see you.  Needs to look you in the eye.  He grasps your chin and tilts your face until you’re looking at him.

“You okay with this?”  He says it softly.  He says it as kindly as he can.

“Yeah.”  You nod, then add, “no one needs to know, right?”

“Right.”

“No one needs to know.”

“Exactly.”

You offer him a smile, and it’s genuine.  It’s not your normal smart-ass smirk, the way one corner of your mouth lifts higher than the other.  It’s a real smile, and he has to push that uncomfortable truth away again because if you’re cute when you smirk, you’re beautiful when you smile, and Richie can’t dwell on the fact.

“C’mon then, Richard.  Bedroom’s this way.”

“Asshole,” he huffs out, but you push his jacket off of his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, and you tug him down your hallway. 

You alternate and he lets you strip him and yourself—a piece of his clothing, a piece of yours.  You leave a trail so that you’re both nearly naked once you’re in the bedroom.  He stands in front of you, his boxers tented, and he takes in the sight of you.  In standard, everyday lingerie—dark grey bra and panties—but the everyday shit makes his mouth run dry.  Elaborate lingerie is not really his thing, but seeing a woman in her everyday shit, the comfortable cotton shit…that feels more special, somehow.  Like you woke up that morning and put on the functional stuff, but now here you are, nearly naked for him.

You always rise to meet his energy.  He’s openly ogling you now, and you gaze back at him, openly staring back.  He has a moment of doubt—maybe he should lift more, cut back on beers after work—but your eyes are blown dark with desire, and it makes his cock twitch to see it.

You seem to want him as much as he wants you. 

“C’mere, you fucking pain in the ass,” he growls, and you roll your eyes but bridge the distance between you.  You press the length of your near-naked body against his, and the sudden touch makes him bite back a groan.  He puts his hands on your waist, and you lay your palms against his chest, and you kiss again.

The kiss grows and grows.  He bullies his way into your mouth, sweeps his tongue and licks against your mouth, and you answer in kind.  You kiss him back, and your hands stroke his chest, his shoulders, his arms.  One snakes lower and grasps him through his boxers, and he swears against your lips at the feel of your palm stoking him.

He pushes you backwards towards the bed.  He pushes you until you hit the bed, and then he pushes you down, but you reach out and grasp him golden chain and tug him down to join you. 

You always rise to meet him.  He takes charge and slots himself between your legs, but you move eagerly.  When he lowers himself onto you, still partially dressed, you lift yourself up and press against him.  Your clothed breasts against his chest, and he dips his head and tugs the cups of your bra down until you’re exposed to him.  He lowers his head and kisses you, works his mouth against you.  He sucks a mark on each curve of your breast, right where your bra will cover.  He wants you to see them and think of him, a pair of mementos to this moment.

“Fuck, Richie.”  You breathe it out, and your hand cups the back of his head.  You hold him against you, and he’s too happy to stay here for a while:  sucking against your nipples, biting lightly until you squirm.  Laving your tender buds with the flat of his tongue, pinching and tugging until you shove him away with a groan.

“Too much,” you whine, but you tangle in his chain again and tug his mouth to yours.  He kisses you, relishes how flushed your skin feels under his lips as he kisses his way across your face, down your neck, across your bare shoulders.  He pauses long enough to undo your bra in earnest, tosses it aside.  Then he kisses his way down your chest again, traces his tongue further down to your soft belly until his chin is perched right on the waistband of your panties.

“Can I?” he asks.  He traces a finger under the lace edging, and he watches your face.  You gaze back at him, your eyes still dark and pupils blown.  Your lips are swollen, and your chest rises and falls with how hard you’re breathing.

You nod.  “You can take them off.”

“Is that it?  Nothing else?”

You laugh, breathless.  “Some other time.  Really want you to fuck me instead.”

Some other time.  The thought makes Richie’s dick twitch at the idea of doing this another time.

You feel him twitch against you.  You laugh again to feel it, and you lift a leg to hook it clumsily along the waistband of his boxers.  You try to push them down, and then you’re chanting “come on, come on, come on” as he scrambles to shuck off the rest of his clothing, scrambles to hook his fingers under your panties as he draws them down your legs. 

“Condoms in the bedside stand,” you tell him, and he opens the drawer, snags one.  He notes the bright pink vibrator there but doesn’t remark on it.  He’ll tuck the image away and revisit it days later in the shower:  a rich bit of fantasy where he pictures you masturbating to the thought of him.

He tears the foil with his teeth, and he watches you as he rolls the condom on himself.  You’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, better than he ever imagined, and a galling little voice in the back of his head asks, “so you’ve been imagining her, huh, asshole?”

He ignores the voice and what it might say next.  He stands over you and asks instead, “how do you want me, sweetheart?”

Another smile.  A genuine one.  “However you want it.”

“Anal, then.”

It startles a laugh out of you, and Richie thinks he might love that—the way he surprises you into laughing.  You prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him.  You kick out a bare foot and press your toes low against his belly, centimeters away from touching the tip of his cock where it stands at attention.

“Not that,” you chide.  “That requires prep.”

“Not a no, sweetheart.”

“It’s a no for this moment.”

“Hmm.  Interesting.”  He grips your ankle and circles it with his hand, and he bends your leg.  Pushes it away from him, pushes it closer to you, and it reveals your gorgeous pussy to him:  the neat-trimmed curls, the slick arousal, the swollen bud of your clit.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he groans to see you.  “Gotta tell me how you want me, and fucking quick.”

“Missionary works for me,” you reply.  “Old reliable.”

So he climbs onto you.  He kneels between your legs, then pushes them apart obscenely wide.  You stay propped up on your elbows, watching him, but when he settles between your thighs, you fall back against your pillow.

“Good?” he asks.

“You haven’t done much,” you point out. 

“Smart-ass.”  He reaches down and grasps his cock at the base, and he drags the tip of himself through your folds.  He coats himself in your arousal, feels the heat of your pussy even through the latex, then notches himself at your entrance.  He looks down and pushes just the tip in, and the sight of it—barely inside you, the promise of burying himself inside you—makes his vision go fuzzy around the edges.

“Richie.”  You reach up with one hand to cup his face, and you peer up into his eyes.  “Fuck me, please.”

Your other hand finds the small of his back.  You can’t quite reach his ass, so you lay your palm against the small of his back and urge him forward, and he pushes into you.  He goes slow but steady, and he hears your small gasp as your tight cunt makes room for him.  He feels the stretch of it, the smooth muscles twitching at him, and he studies your face for any pain but finds none.

“Pussy’s gripping at me,” he grits out once he’s seated in you.  “Guess you needed it bad after all.”

“Don’t gloat.”  You bear down on him, squeeze him like a fist, and it makes him choke out a curse.  “You needed it bad too, I think.”

“Not complaining here, sweetheart.”

You take his chain in your hand and tug him down to you again.  You kiss him, then mumble against his mouth, “so fuck me then, Richard.  Move.”

He does as you ask.  You’re a pain in the ass, and you’re a representative of all the change occurring in his life without his permission, but he wants to make it good for you.  He remembers the way you clung to him that night in the basement, and he wants to capture that feeling again…even as he shoves the memory aside and begins to fuck you in earnest.

He doesn’t thrust in and out so much as up and down; he learned this move a long time ago and knows it feels better for his partner.  His thrusts hit every part—each reseating brushes the tip of him against the end of you, and it makes you whine each time.  The slide in and out, at this angle, draws along the firm bud of your clit.  And each time he pushes himself home, the base of him grinds along your clit too, and it makes him feel like a million bucks when you gasp out his name, warn him that you’re close—

“Fuck, fuck.  God, Richie, I’m c-close.  Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—"

And then it tears out of you:  the hard snap of your hips as you lift them to meet his most punishing thrust, the way you tremble under him, your legs shaking, your eyes rolled back in your head.  The way your cunt grips him, ripples against him until it feels like he’s being pulled into your body, and the thought takes hold of him.  He wants to crawl inside you, wants to fill you with himself, wants to merge with you, and the thoughts are so rapid-fire he feels insane for a moment before he settles.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, surprised.  “Holy shit.”

“Told you.”

“Don’t gloat.”  You lift your head and kiss the side of his neck, and he adjusts himself and keeps fucking you.

He’s hit his rhythm now; he deals you hard thrusts and you take them.  You beg for more.  His arms burn as he arches over you.  His calves burn as he drives his cock into you, and sweat beads along his hairline.  He’s covered in a sheen of it, but he doesn’t stop.  He fucks you hard, and his gold necklace swings in time to his thrusts.  It hits you in your face until you hook it with a finger and put the fucking thing in your mouth, and he doesn’t know why it's so hot—maybe it makes him think of your mouth on parts of him instead of just his necklace. 

He makes you come a second time, and it breaks around you again, leaves you trembling and incoherent, but after you recover, you push him over.  It’s easy for you to do—he’s winded as fuck from all his smoking—and Richie finds himself underneath you as you ride him.

He’s happy for the break, but he’s happy to see this side of you.  Any shyness from earlier is long gone.  You sit astride him and bounce on his cock, and it makes your tits bounce too, and he can look down at where he disappears into your tight, wet pussy.

He’s not going to last much longer, and he tells you so.

“S’fine,” you pant out.  “Want you to come too, Richie.”

Then you reach down and take his hands in yours, you place his hands on your tits, and he sort of loves how you take charge at the end.  You push your chest into his hands and ride him, and once he’s touching you there—pinching at your nipples until you arch your back—you reach down and touch yourself.  He watches, transfixed, as you rub a tight circle against your clit, and he can feel you getting close now.  Two orgasms down, he can feel the warning signs.

“Try to come with me,” you order him.  “Want to feel it.”

He’s close.  He’s been close for a while, has been forestalling his own pleasure by listing out White Sox statistics in his head.  But now he wants to come with you as you’ve asked (he wants to do everything for you, anything you ask, he wants all of it, and he struggles to push the thoughts away this time).  He breathes in time with your riding, and he feels his balls tighten as his orgasm approaches.

“I’m close,” he warns.  “Fuck, sweetheart, are you close?”

“Y-y-yes.”  You close your eyes and drop your head, focusing on whatever you’re feeling.

“Gonna come with me?”

“Mmm-hmm.”  You take a sharp breath, then moan as you come a third time, and if he doesn’t quite come with you at exactly the same time, it’s close enough:  the way your pussy grasps at him, draws him in deeper is enough to push him over the edge, and he shifts his hands to your waist.  He pulls you down onto him and stills, feels the pulse of his orgasm as he spills in the condom.

It takes him a long while to recover.  He feels weightless.  Boneless.  He feels like he’s melting into the covers of your bed.  Like he could sleep for a hundred years.  Like he could give up cigarettes and Xanax if he could just stay here and fuck  you whenever his anxiety or insomnia are too much….

You dismount on shaky legs, and you disappear.  When you return, you’re in an oversized t-shirt that skims the top of your thighs, and you hand him a warm washcloth.

“You can take your time,” you tell him.  “No rush.”

Richie reaches down and pulls the condom off.  He ties it off and looks around until he sees a waste bin.  He tosses it, then flops back down on your bed.

“Just need a minute,” he says, but his voice is already thick with sleep, and he doesn’t remember anything else until morning when he wakes up to the smell of strong coffee and sizzling bacon.

He doesn’t remember you standing over him, bemused as you watch him snore.  He doesn’t remember you lying down beside him, covering both of you with a blanket.

And he certainly doesn’t remember reaching for you in his sleep.  He doesn’t remember how you wrap your arms around him, just like that night in the basement of The Beef, and how he sighs at the feeling of you tucked against him again.

[thebearer]

the milestone menu: roasted red pepper and tomato soup for sad days

prompt: the death of mikey's anniversary is near. you make a comfort meal for carmen.

contains: mentions of death. angty with a side of fluff (at the end). anxious!carmen (i mean ofc).

INGREDIENTS

3 red bell peppers. 4 large tomatoes, peeled, seeded, chopped. An onion, chopped. 2 garlic cloves, minced

1 1/2 tsp thyme. 2 tsp paprika. A pinch of sugar. Salt & pepper. Cayenne

1/2 cup Chicken broth. 2 tbsp butter. 1 1/2 tbsp flour.

DIRECTIONS

Cover peppers in oil, broil until black, turn to get all sides. Put them in a paper bag to rest, the skin & seeds should come off easily. Chop. Heat oil on med heat in a large pot, cook garlic & onions until soft. Add tomatoes, peppers, thyme, paprika, and sugar. Cook on med-low, until most of the liquid has evaporated, about 20 minutes. Stir in 6 cups of chicken stock, salt & pepper. Bring to boil & simmer for 20 mins, until the vegetables are tender. Strain soup. Use a food processor or blender, and blend solids to your desired consistency. In your large pot, melt butter & add flour. Add soup/purée and stir, simmer for a few minutes.

“Hey, baby,” Carmen’s voice came to you before he did. A heavy sigh, tired and heavy from the day, from the looming anniversary approaching. 

Mikey’s death date was creeping closer and closer, the days darker and colder as did Carmen’s demeanor. Longer days at work, distant even when he was home with you. You worried about him, though everyone told you not to. 

“He just… he gets like this when it gets closer to the date, you know?” Richie muttered when you’d confided in him at family dinner. “We all get kinda fucked up, but Carm… That’s just how he is, y’know? Just give’im some time.” 

Anchovy purred, rubbing against Carmen’s leg. It was almost like he knew. Carmen would swear he did, that he could sense his owner’s upset, that he was trying to make it better. He’s like you, Carmen would say, giving you a half grin that always had you swooning. 

Carmen frowned when he didn’t see you lingering about. Not in the doorway smiling at them, leaning in for a kiss, wrapping him in a hug. “Babe?” Carmen called again, looking down the hall. The lights were on in the kitchen, a small clinking of bowls and silverware. 

Carmen found you in front of the stove, trying to keep quiet, stirring a pan on the burner gently. “Hey,” He frowned when you jumped, turning around with a wide eyed gaze, like you’d been caught. 

“Carm,” You chirped, body shimmying in front of the stove, too close to the flame in a too loose shirt. Carmen fought the urge to tell you to move or tuck your shirt in. 

“You’re-You weren’t supposed to be home early.” You turned to the clock blinking on the microwave. “I-I thought you weren’t going to be home for another hour.” 

“Richie told me to leave.” Carmen frowned, trying to peer around you. 

“Why?” You blocked his view with your body, a side step in front of him. 

“‘Cause he’s a fuckin’ jaggoff lately. What’re you doin’?” Carmen huffed lightly, grabbing your waist gently, holding you in place so he could see around you. A large pot on the stove, bubbling to life, steam clouding the clear lid that covered it. 

“I’m cooking.” You huffed, shoulders deflating lightly. “I-I was going to surprise you. I had this whole thing planned, and I got candles and I was going to change out of this.” You threw your hands down on your sweatshirt- Carmen’s sweatshirt. One from Copenhagen he’d picked up when it was especially cold. You’d stolen in, not that he minded, he liked you better in it anyways. 

“Was going to at least try to look a little nice.” You mutter, wiping off a small stain, a glob of tomato that had flung when the processor lid wouldn’t come off earlier. 

“You look beautiful, c’mon.” Carmen shook his head at you. “What’re you- Why’re you doin’ all this?” His heart skipped for a moment, looking at the calendar pinned on the fridge. “Did I- We didn’t have plans?” Fuck, he’d been so busy he’d forgotten. Head everywhere but where it needed to be. First he was fuckin’ up dishes left and right at work, and now he couldn’t even remember a fuckin’ date. 

“No,” You shook your head, stilling Carmen’s racing mind. “I just… I wanted to do something nice.” You looked up at him, hands grabbing him sweetly, holding them in your own. “For you.”

“For me?” Carmen whispered, swallowing around the tightness in his throat, in his chest. “What’re you talkin’ about for me? What-Why would you wanna-” 

“Because,” You shrugged lightly, hands swinging between the two of you gently. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.” 

Carmen saw the hesitation on your face, knew what was coming before you said it. He tensed in your hold. “I just… With everything-” 

“-Don’t.” Carmen shook his head, the burn in his throat strangling his voice. “You don’t have to, baby.” 

“I do.” Your eyes met his, rounding in his gaze. “I want to. I-I don’t really think it will help, but… I don’t know. Whenever I was sad my mom would make this for me.” You nod back towards the pot on the stove. “It always made me feel better.” 

Carmen thought he might cry. He willed himself, squeezing your hands, pulling you into his chest to hold you. He just needed to hold you, to feel you, pressing his nose to your scalp, inhaling your scent. 

All the emotions he’d repressed, swallowed down and tried to power through. Anytime he’d turn the corner, see Mikey’s smiling face on the fall and he’d feel like breaking down. Screaming, crying, punching the walls, pulling his hair out, ears ringing and heart hammering; instead, he’d go to the walk-in to breathe through collapsing lungs.

You felt Carmen’s shaky breath, rattle out of his chest and shake into yours. Your hand rubbed gently against his back, up his spine in a soothing way you hoped would calm him. 

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, cheeks pressed against his chest. His heart raced in your ear, a pounding thud that made your own heart squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Carm.” 

“It’s alright.” Carmen gritted, jaw clenching, willing his tears back. “It’s-it’s just a lot. I don’t even fuckin’ know why. Why-Why I even get like this when-when it’s been so long.” 

“Don’t do that.” You shook your head, frowning at him lightly. 

“No, no it’s true. I- fuck, I shouldn’t be-” 

“-Carmen,” You held his gaze firmly. His red rimmed blue eyes met yours, a little wary, vulnerable. You softened, fingers brushing through his hair. “It’s ok.” 

The finality in your voice, soft but certain, it made Carmen’s jaw shake, emotions bubbling over. He held you, rocking side by side in the kitchen, cries muffled into your shoulder. You held him back, just as tight, cooing shushes over the hums of the appliances, his tears wet on his sweatshirt- your sweatshirt. 

“Don’t expect a lot.” You gave a small, teasing smile over your shoulder. 

Carmen had settled into his usual seat at the small kitchen table. He’d sheepishly wiped his tears, letting you dote on him sweetly. Kiss his tears away, soft lips pressing to his wet cheeks, his nose, pulling him in so his lips were on yours, arms still tangled around the other. 

“It’s not, like, gourmet or anything.” You shook your head, ladling out the hot liquid into a bowl. “It is my Nana’s recipe though.” 

“Better than gourmet then?” Carmen’s voice was raspy with dried tears, though he smiled lightly. Bright enough to warm your heart, leave you smiling, plating the grilled cheese. 

“She’d love that you said that.” You grin, setting the steaming bowl and sandwich in front of him. You leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, a hand running down the back of his neck lovingly. 

He burned at the simplicity, the sweetness of it all. So loving and affectionate freely, without any strings attached. Mikey would’ve loved you, Carmen was so sure of it. 

“This is good.” Carmen nodded, swallowing his spoonful. 

“Yeah?” You grinned proudly, positively beaming. 

Of course it was good, the best fuckin’ thing he’s ever had. It came from you, so it only made sense it was. Carmen didn’t say that. Instead, he smiled, reaching over for your hand, squeezing it across the table. “Yeah. Amazing. Just what I needed.” He swallowed another wave of tears, happier this time. “Thank you for, uh, for doin’ this.” 

“I’m glad you like it.” You propped your head in your free hand, a lopsided, lovey smile that warmed Carmen from the inside out. He knew his cheeks were blushing, tingling pink under your affectionate gaze. 

“It’s really good.” Carmen took another spoonful, the warmth spilling down his throat, soothing his chest. “Sorry I came home early and didn’t call. I just… I’ve been out of my mind, y’know? I’m sorry about that too, it’s-it’s not fair to you, and-” 

“-Carm,” You squeezed his hand lightly, fingers intertwining with his. “I’m glad you like it.” You smile sweetly. 

Carmen nodded, leg still shaking under the table. He didn’t let go of your hand, held it in an iron grip like a lifeline and you let him, thumb sweeping over his inked knuckles calmly. 

If Mikey could see him now, he’d be howling in laughter, cackling at Carmen at how “whipped” he was. Mercilessly tease him for being “soft” in a way that only a big brother could. But he knew Mikey would be so proud, so fuckin’ happy that Carmen found you- that Carmen had someone like you.

[tossawary]

You know, the more I think about it, the funnier I find the concept of Monkey D. Luffy /& Boa Hancock (especially paired with Aro-Ace spectrum Luffy and Aro-Ace spectrum Hancock) just for what it must look like from an outsider's POV.

For the record, personally, my favorite Luffy ship is Zoro/Luffy - also with Aro-Ace spectrum Luffy, that's basically non-negotiable for me, I don't care whether he's sex-favorable or sex-repulsed, but he's definitely ace. It is so funny to me to think about Luffy's incredible pull with aro-ace spectrum folks. People who once thought "sucks for you fuckers obsessed with sex and/or romance, I'm built different" (Roronoa Zoro, Koby, Trafalgar Law, Boa Hancock, Bartolomeo, etc.) find themselves fascinated by this little rubber man, who regularly declares war on the government and can swallow a roast chicken whole. Some of them are happier about this than others. Some of them WISH they just wanted to fuck or marry him, that would make more sense than this shit.

But, okay, back to Luffy and Hancock (as a friendship or queerplatonic situationship, whatever, doesn't matter). Like, let's pretend this is some kind of Modern College AU (Luffy is probably not IN college, tbh, he's just there to hang out with his friends and for any food anyone makes the mistake of leaving out). You are on your way to class and you see this woman walking down the street and she is - hands down - the Most Beautiful Woman In The World.

Super tall, with incredibly long, muscular legs in shockingly high red heels, a short skirt, artful cleavage, a waterfall of sleek black hair, beautiful face, striking makeup, gorgeous jewelry. Looks too old to be an undergrad student. She looks like if a martial artist became a supermodel. Walks like that too. The phrase "please step on me" comes to mind, but not to the lips, because that's sexual harassment, and also this woman looks like she could stab you through the heart with a kick and her shoe heel, killing you instantly.

She sees someone and her entire face lights up. She runs forward (how is she running in those shoes) squealing in excitement and embraces this guy you didn't even notice before, shouting about how much she missed him, and kisses him on the lips. He is... uh... three-quarters of her height at the tallest. A real Mr. Short King.

Wow, he has a babyface. And a scar on his cheek and on his chest, which you can see because he's wearing an open button-up, in eye-searing rainbow colors and decorated with monkeys, and jorts with fur at the cuffs. And mismatched flip-flops on the wrong feet. And a straw hat on a string around his neck. It looks like he hasn't brushed his hair today. It is impossible to judge his looks because his outfit is too distracting. Now the Most Beautiful Woman in the World is blushing bright pink as she clasps one of his hands in both of hers. Mr. Short King is using his other hand to pick his nose as she talks.

They walk hand in hand together over to where an incredibly expensive-looking bright red car is parked. Mr. Short King opens the driver's door for the Most Beautiful Woman and she apparently nearly swoons at this chivalry. She climbs into the driver's seat and he gets into the passenger's side (Luffy cannot legally drive and also cannot actually drive). They drive off together. What the fuck kind of Roger-and-Jessica-Rabbit-ass Sugar Mama relationship did you just witness?

Boa Hancock keeps a photograph of Luffy as her phone background and also on her desk at work. Everyone is always like, "Is that your... son?" And Hancock is like, "No, that's my number one choice of future fiancé! Isn't he sooooo handsome?" And people can only be like, "...Okay, but why are there police lights in the background? And something is on fire? It kind of looks like he's in the process of being arrested..." And Hancock responds dreamily, "They didn't catch him! He climbed into my exercise duffel bag and I carried him out."

[pure-oddity]

Fast foodies know the deal

Ghost x reader

(not proof read, this is just fluff straight from the source

Warnings: none, ovulation mention maybe? Its brought up a single time.)

The craving hits around 3 in the morning, it's ovulation week so the idea of not getting chicken nuggets from the drive through makes you want to cry.

You turn towards the sleeping lug beside you. He's on his back, breaths deep and even. Still as a grave but at your movement he takes the arm you had been using as a pillow to drag you further into his side.

Your Simon, took you forever just to get the man to admit he did more than tolerate you. even longer to admit he cared for you. It took you almost using his toothbrush to realize that the man might actually (gasp) like you. That one you didn't push, figured he'd come to terms with it on his own.

As you look at how peaceful he seems you try to fight the urge, you really do, but as you prop yourself up on your elbows and move closer to Simon's ear you resign to begging his forgiveness later.

"Simon, my baby? You sleeping?"

You wouldn't have known he was a awake had it not been for the lone eye opening to check on you

"Was, love. I was. Whats wrong, bad dream? Y' Can turn on the telly to that duck cartoon or the robots - won't bother me none." He rubs a comforting hand up and down your back, he's being so sweet you really do start to feel bad.

"I want chicken nuggets."

Silence.

Both eyes are open now.

The silence continues.

You smile sheepishly.

Wordlessly simon extracts his arm and turns so his back is to you.

"Nnooooooo! Simon pleeeaase. Pretty please? I want chicken nuggets so bad!"

"Go ahead. keys are on the rack, tanks full."

"Nooo you have to take me! come on baby please, for me?"

"My love. Sunshine. Light of my life. If you're hungry i made a perfecly good roast last night. Heat that up and let a man rest."

"I dont want a perfectly good roast! I want chicken nuggets. And a burger. And fries - oh maybe a shake?" You lean over him, hair purposely hung over into his face. He turns quickly and you're nose to nose

"So youre gonna have me get up at 3 fucking a.m. to get you a greasey, artey clogging, cholesterol raising gastrointestinal disaster of a meal - when we have a perfectly good home made dinner in the fridge."

"....please?"

Silence.

A deep suffering sigh.

An ecstatic squee

"Just get your fuckin shoes on"

------

You lean back over into the passenger seat, simon grumpy faced as you insisted that you should be the one to order.

You pat your thighs in glee as he pulls up to the window, gives you a dirty look , and hands the cashier his card.

The second window delivers your meal and drink quickly, you dig in like a starved animal. You're mid chew when he gives a grunt. A snooty sounding eh hem.

You grin and giggle, slowly airplaning him a nugget.

"Give me the chicken or i'll take the whole box"

You squeak and shove it to his lips quickly. His jaws snap around the nugget and it's gone within a single bite - you retract your fingers, still intact but wet with spit.

You give an 'eeeech' and look for somewhere to wipe your hand.

"Any of this ends up in or on my interior and it'll be your arse."

You roll your eyes and reach in the bag for a napkin, knocking the fries over in the process.

Silence.

The car drifts slowly to the left and is parked along the side of the road.

Not a word spoken.

You try to shove as many back into the carton as possible.

He stares at you.

You smile sweetly at him before leaning over the center console and kissing him. You meet his lips, they're stretched into a dangerous grin.

"Love" kiss "did you" kiss "spill salt" kiss "in my truck?"

You might not know a lot, but you know that voice means you're in trouble, which means it's distraction time.

You continue your sweet onslaught of kisses.

"Thank you for taking me baby, I love you so much. ", another smooch

is delivered.

"Youre my person, my favorite guy, love of my life."

He bites at your lip and you barely manage to slip it from his teeth

"Wanna spend the rest of my life with you, grow old with you"

He grips the back of your head and maneuvers your ear to his mouth, in a deep rumble he asks

"Are there fries on my floor, love?"

The dangerous smile still present.

"No of course not baby! i cleaned those up."

"So my truck is fry free?"

"Well - no didn't say that. there's a, a few under the seat"

He's grappling you into his lap now, the man looks a hint deranged.

"And why, my love, are you telling me about them instead getting them?"

he presses.

"'Cause I - hehe - I can't reach!" You giggle out as his hands slink towards your sides.

He pokes and prods at you, growling not unlike a bear while you squeal and squeak out little laughs.

"Gets a man up at ass o'clock-"

"Oh please, you get up early anyway!"

"makes him drive to get congealed grease-"

"you had a nugget too!"

"Then trashes his truck."

"Oh please it's like a handful of fries, I'll get them, i'll get them!"

He frees you with a huff and you dive back over to your side of the car. You pop open your door and hop outside to get a better angle at the underside of the seat. He gets impatient as you fish around for the last few fries, giving a little hurrah as the last one is snatched.

Clambering back into the truck you grin at him, happy as can be. He hums a short laugh, and you're off to home again.

He makes a beeline for the bedroom and you trot over to the counter to finish your meal, most of it having been shared and eaten in the truck. You sit back a moment to enjoy the feeling of fullness when you see Simon emerge again.

"Bed. Now. Kept me up long enough" he's already on you before you can think of a reply, slung over his shoulder. He makes quick work of getting you both situated in your proper spots.

You're snuggled into his side for the night, full and content. He breathes in deep and exhales slowly. you draw nonsensical patterns on his bare chest, playing with the hair there. As sleep overtakes you, your palm flattens over the spot where his heart resides; and you feel him relax just a smidgen more.

[lazyscience]

So for my followers who come with a factory-installed uterus I know you're concerned about your health and autonomy. And you well should be

But here's something all of you should be thinking about and planning for no matter what your plumbing - if Trump goes through with putting RFK Jr. in a position of power as far as the Department of Health and Human Services, he could do a LOT of damage as far as vaccines. Vaccines are not super profitable for pharma companies, despite what cranks think; they take a LOT of development for only a few uses. Vaccines are driven by public health requirements and a lot of places would shrug and say "ok, bet" if there isn't a guaranteed market for them.

The professional medical community will still have recommendations about when and how to vaccinate, but they won't have the force of law, and insurance will probably smell blood in the water and start kicking up a fuss about covering vaccines when they're not required. So then when doctors recommend them there'll be suspicion and pushback that they're just doing it for "kickbacks" even though the only doctor who would have gotten paid for vaccine is ironically Andrew Wakefield, the lying fuckshit, because his whole "vaccines cause autism" lie was to push his OWN, SPECIAL proprietary vaccines that wouldn't cause his made-up syndrome, because NO vaccines were causing it. May he roast somewhere warm when the devil comes for him.

This will not happen immediately, but. Because there will no doubt be anticipatory compliance on the part of drug companies and healthcare systems. I HIGHLY advise you get the fuck out there and get your Tdap updated (tetanus, diptheria and pertussis). Whooping cough is out there, and it is horrible for babies. If you are eligible for shingles vaccine and haven't done it, get that. Get your COVID vax if you haven't, there might not BE another one, at least not that's available in the US.

If you have kids, especially make sure THEY'RE up to date because their classmates might very well not be mandated to get them any more - state regulations will undoubtedly vary, but with the current composition of the Court, it will rule in favor of every possible exemption for antivaxxers as possible because the conservatives are all "fuck the weakest of us, I got mine fuck you." And expect idiocy like "pox parties" to spread (not like the average suburban parent can tell measles from rubella from chicken pox from hand foot and mouth by fuckin' looking at it, who knows what the christ they're going to be passing around). Measles is NOT just a "bit of a rash." Rubella is the world's leading preventable cause of birth defects. Chickenpox can result in scarring, encephalitis causing blindness or even death, and the risk of shingles later in life. I have a cousin who would be 57 this year who died as a toddler from hemophilus influenzae strain B meningitis, one of those "too many" childhood vaccines that were invented in the 1990s. Tell my aunt that's too many vaccines -oh, wait, you can't, she fucking killed herself out of grief her baby died.

tweens? get them the HPV vaccine if they haven't gotten it (given its associations with sex it'll probably be one of the first to go, but it prevents CANCER. who wants their child to get cervical cancer, or penile cancer, or throat cancer, or rectal cancer? IT PREVENTS CANCER. JUST DO IT.)

Similarly, if you have a child with any kind of immune issue that precludes vaccination, I would very much look into homeschooling, because bye-bye herd immunity.

If you have teenage kids, encourage them to update their Tdap and get the meningiococcal meningitis vaccine if they haven't been mandated to already by campus policy. Tetanus and meningitis aren't common, but they are frequently permanently life-altering when they're not fatal. We're talking months in the hospital. I'm old enough that I remember people fucking dying in college, and the panic that went around campus every time one of those breakouts happened in the state wondering if it would make its way to our campus.

Stay safe out there. I have no idea what this will do to our already teetering healthcare system but I don't think it'll be pretty. Everybody pray Trump pulls his usual scam and hangs RFK Jr. out to dry, because while the plutocrats consider regulations an unnecessary burden, they don't have a stake in creating a public health state of emergency when we already have a workforce not keeping up with demand, unlike Captain Convenient Brain Worm.

[yourlocalstranger123]

Obey me! X wrath reader.

Characters; lucifer, mammon, Levi, satan, Asmodeus, beel, belphie, diavolo, Barbatos, Luke, solomon, simeon

They were in a meeting in the living room since somehow the meeting room was on fire and needed to be rebuilt.

. . .

"WHO THE **** STOLE MY **** PHONE, I SWEAR I WILL BEAT THE SOULS OUT OF YOU!"

and there was a sheep [name] standing there with pits fire in their eyes and a bleep button in their hands.

Lucifer: language!—

"SHUT YOUR PRETTY MOUTH UP, NO ONE IS INNOCENT IN HERE BESIDE Chihuahua LUKE."

*Luke with the headphones that [name] gave them*

Luke: [name]! There you are! Here, I made some cupcakes for us! :D of course I am not gonna share with those demons! Hmph.

"Aww thanks, but can you go to my bedroom for a sec. We can enjoy it there."

Luke: ok!

*shut*

Everyone:.....

"So....if someone doesn't own their actions I will bring it out."

Satan: pfft, what such scary things you can handle that can scare us demons?

*brings out a shotgun*

"Oh yeah? You still not scared?"

Satan a bit concerned: "you know I'm literally the avatar of wrath."

"Fine....I guess you choose the hard ways mother fu-"

*brings out a cat out from a magic hat*

Satan: NOOOOOO!-

"NOW FEAR ME, MOTHER *Bleep* IF YOU DONT SHOW ME WHERES MY PHONE BEFORE I *Bleep* EVERYTHING UNTIL ITS JUST DUST AND I WILL SHOVE EVERY FUCKS I GIVE FOR MY PHONE THAT YOU WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT AGAIN!"

Solomon & Simeon & Barbatos: D- dear I can try summoning your phone! Now do please put that down.

"I will count to 10. If I don't see my phone I will make everyone suffer with my wrath and Solomon cooking."

Solomon:Hey! My cooking is not bad!

"I bet I can feed someone that is immune to poison and they still die. No, EVEN AN IMMORTAL WILL DIE FROM IT."

Everyone but Solomon: "what they say is true though."

Diavolo: Let's try talking this out-

"No."

Mammon: L- LET US EXPLAIN BEFORE YOU KILL US-

Levi: Let me say goodbye to ruri - Chan and Henry before I die!

*Beel and belphie in the background since MC knows that beel would never and belphie was sleeping the whole day.*

*later*

"How does it feel to be tied up and helpless?"

Asmodeus: quite hot~

"It will be even more hotter when I roast you to death like a chicken."

*few screams later*

*creak....*

Luke: hey [name]! You left your phone.

"That's where it was! Aww, thanks. Sorry guys! Here, let me untie it for you."

*When MC left*

Luke: be grateful I was walking pass the door and heard you guys talking about hiding their phone in the closet.

Everyone: we are.

Rule number ?¿

Never make MC mad/don't hide their phone

Unless you wanna die

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Lily's Sister (Part 7)

Regulus Black AU

Summary:  You are Lily’s younger sister. Regulus never becomes a death eater but abandoned his family for the order. The two of you have a love/hate relationship that intensifies after you come back from a year abroad.

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader

Rating: M- smut

Link to Part 6

_____

“The Mckinnons are dead.”

Those words took a moment to populate in your mind before you were able to react. Your hands automatically went to cover your mouth! While you should be entirely shocked by this news (afterall, people on both sides died). It was still shocking to hear that all of the Mckinnons were dead

Oh Merlin, Marlene!

Your heart ached at the realization that one of your best friends was gone forever.

“Did you say the Mckinnons were dead? Like all of them?”

Regulus questioned. Sirius only nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to repeat it. Knowing yet another one of his childhood friends had met a grizzly fate was something Sirius didn’t want to keep repeating.

Regulus was silent for a moment. While he didn’t give two shits that Noah was dead, the news the whole family was wiped out was shocking. His gray eyes flickered in your direction. You hadn’t said anything since Sirius dropped the news.

“Fuck, now they are wiping out whole families.”

Regulus grumbled before turning his attention back to you. He wrapped a hand around yours gently squeezing.

“I’m going with Remus to set up all of the arrangements. We don’t even know who to contact now that all of them are dead.”

Sirius wasn’t surprised when Regulus didn’t appear at all interested or bothered. This was just typical Regulus Black behavior.

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

Regulus commented before turning to go find fire whiskey.

You, meanwhile, turned your attention back to Sirius.

“Marlene…did it…appear that she suffered?”

Sirius took a shaky breath. He didn’t want to tell you everything. Sure, you had every right to know but this was still one of your best friends.

“Unfortunately, yes. You know what they were up against. I’m sorry about Noah.”

Regulus’ grey eyes flickered in his brother’s direction as you pressed your lips together.

“Noah wasn’t anything special to me, Sirius but thanks. He had no issues giving me hell over dating Regulus earlier today. I suppose I feel bad that I don’t feel bad enough.”

Regulus smirked and took a sip of his drink. Something told him that he would probably have ended up killing Noah for how he talked to you had some death eater not beaten him to the job.

“Well, Noah was awfully jealous of the two of you.”

You only nodded as Lily walked into the room. Her eyes were puffy as she looked in your direction.

“I talked to mum. She’s fixing a roast chicken tonight. Would the two of you feel up to coming with us?”

Regulus instantly made a face. He DID NOT expect to meet your parents that quickly. His evening plans consisted of shoving you in a nice steamy shower and having his way. Now, he had a feeling that he was about to go give your father some cheesy line about how much he liked his daughter.

“I probably shouldn’t introduce myself as the man who makes Y/n’s legs shake.”

Regulus thought with a smirk as Lily turned in his direction. Lily’s smile faded. She was not at all happy with the lover that you decided upon. Lily would have much rather that you ended up with Sirius vs Regulus. She knew that you would have to fight Remus or join some kind of throuple but at least it would be with someone decent.

“You might as well come along too, Regulus. We should get mum and dad introduced as soon as possible.”

“You sound so excited.”

Regulus grumbled before turning back to you. He knew that you weren’t looking forward to going anywhere either. You were devastated about Marlene. Now Lily wanted you to make some kind of social call.

“Sugar, do you want to get this over with or shall we do it at another time?”

Regulus’ voice pulled you from your thoughts. He was hoping that you would say tonight wasn’t a good time but that didn’t happen.

“Lily’s right. We might as well get this over with.”

An hour later, you stood outside of your parent’s home with Regulus at your side. He hadn’t said much since arriving. James was his normal golden retriever self as he reached for the door.

“Hey Regulus, now the heat can be on you. Thank you for coming along and getting it off of my shoulders.”

Regulus gave James a cold glare as the front door opened. You had been thinking of things to say to your parents for some time. Turning up and looking devastated wouldn’t end well. Your mom had a nose like a Doberman and could detect the slightest thing being “off.”

While your parents knew about the war in the wizarding world, they hadn’t been told entirely everything.

“Let's go in here and act like everything is fine. There is no need to worry mum and dad more than necessary.”

Lily commented as her eyes met yours.

“No, there isn’t. They will never sleep at night if they knew everything.”

You replied. James grinned. He wanted nothing more than to ease the tension.

“Maybe you also shouldn’t mention that you are sleeping with Regulus already. Something tells me that won’t go over well.”

“James, I will give you money to shut up.”

Lily grumbled at her husband as your mother opened the door. You were so thankful to see your mother’s warm kind smile. With everything that had happened that day, you needed something warm.

“I’m so happy to see all of you!”

Mrs. Evan said happily before moving to kiss Lily. She quickly grabbed a hold of you next. Wrapping your arms around your mum’s shoulders, you took a moment just breathing her in.

“Hi, mum.”

You said, faking a smile. Silently, you prayed that your mum would buy it. Mrs. Evan’s cupped your face. It was always good to see her baby.

“Y/n, sweetheart, I haven’t seen you in weeks. You are looking well. Are you doing alright? Your eyes look puffy.”

You faked another smile.

“I’m fine, mum. I promise. Mum, I have a boyfriend. This is Regulus. He’s Sirius’ younger brother.”

You watched as your mother took a step back and looked Regulus over. Maybe it would be funny later but your mum reminded you of a wary motherbird.

Mrs. Evans meanwhile, was carefully taking Regulus in. She could tell he was Sirius’ brother. He shared the same perfectly handsome good looks that the boy who had become like a son to her possessed. Something about Regulus, however, was different. He didn’t seem nearly as extroverted as Sirius was.

While Mrs. Evans had her concerns she decided to push those out of her mind for now. She could always talk to you about this more in-depth later.

“Nice to meet you. How long have the two of you been together?”

You had returned back to Regulus’ side and squeezed his hand.

“Officially, yesterday but we’ve been seeing each other for a bit.”

You decided to leave screwing like bunnies as “seeing each other.”

“It's a pleasure.”

Regulus added in a quiet tone. His quiet nature was coming right back out. You hadn’t expected Regulus to chat your parents up as if he had known them for years. In fact, you had expected him to be quiet.

“Come on in, I am finishing the finishing touches on dinner. Your father is in the dining room waiting.”

Mrs. Evan commented in your direction. She decided to let you be the one to drop the whole “boyfriend” topic on your father.

James and Lily walked in as if nothing major was happening. For once, the attention would be off of them. James was looking forward to seeing Mr. Evans lay into Regulus. He didn’t foresee Mr. Evans being too thrilled with Regulus’ reserved nature.

Regulus looked around the home as he followed you down a narrow hallway. His eyes glanced at the family photos lining the hallway. He knew good and well that your family was muggles but seeing no movement in the photographs felt strange to him.

With each step, Regulus could easily point your pictures out. They went all the way from a baby photo up to a family portrait that was recently taken.

“Merlin, she’s stunning.”

Regulus thought with an internal smile as you turned to face him. He suddenly couldn’t remember why he liked to bug you so much in school. Maybe it was because he always liked you but didn’t want to admit it because of your blood status? Now none of that mattered. Regulus didn’t care that you were a muggle-born and, if the two of you had children someday, that they would be half-blooded.

“Children? What the fuck? Where did that come from?”

Regulus thought, in total confusion. The two of you had been dating officially for a day and here he was being dopey thinking about you. Regulus didn’t know how to exactly process that thought. Never before, in the history of his life, had Regulus ever been this “feeling” over. You were making him question everything about himself. Since when did Regulus even entertain the thought of having children? As far as he was concerned, Regulus hated children. Now...he wasn't so sure about that topic.

“What is this girl doing to me?”

Mr. Evans’ talking pulled Regulus from his frantic thoughts. Regulus quickly looked to the middle-aged man who had stood from his place at that table.

You had let go of Regulus’ hand to go hug your father.

“Dad, it's good to see you.”

You said as your father kissed your cheek.

“It's good to see you too, sweetpea. What’s new?”

You turned your attention back to Regulus. Had the situation not been a bit tense, you would have made a joke about how Regulus looked ready to run right back out the front door.

“Dad, this is my boyfriend, Regulus.”

You chuckled at the expression of sheer annoyance on your father’s face. Mr. Evans had the same reaction when he met James or Vernon for the first time. According to your father, no man was ever good enough for his daughters.

Mr. Evans looked Regulus over carefully. The boy in front of him looked less than pleased to be in his home. Something about the perpetually bored expression on Regulus’ face made Mr. Evans raise an eyebrow.

“Ah, what to do you know? So, Regulus, what do you do for a living?”

Regulus didn’t let his cool calm composure falter.

“I’m the muggle equivalent of a lawyer.”

You looked between Regulus and your father with a wary look.

“We went to school together.”

You added. Your father nodded before turning his attention back to James. Mr. Evans would ask his own questions later.

You edged your way to where Regulus stood as your mother called Lily into the kitchen to help with dinner. It was no secret that your mother was interrogating Lily about Regulus.

“Well, that was exciting.”

Regulus said in a soft tone. You winced.

“Want to come see my old room?”

Regulus quickly looked up at your father. The last thing that he really wanted was for Papa Bear to hear that.

“Don’t you think they will notice that we have gone missing?”

Regulus questioned. You rolled your eyes.

“It will be fine. They won’t notice anything. Dad is grilling James and mum is busy with Lily. We will have a few moments.”

With that, you turned and pulled Regulus out of the room toward the stairs. After the day that the two of you had, you had an itch that only Regulus would be able to fix.

Regulus, meanwhile, was chuckling to himself. Did he realize that you were this big of a tart? No. He expected you to be a little more tame but, as usual, you were proving to him that he was right about nothing.

You opened the door with a smirk. As Regulus walked past you, you reached out slapping him on the ass. It took Regulus all of three seconds to pull you into the room and shut the door. You were pushed against the door and had Regulus pressed against you before you were able to register what exactly happened.

“You’re going to pay for that, little girl.”

Regulus said in a stern voice. He reached down to wrap his hand around your thigh, hoisting it over his hip, You bit your bottom lip as Regulus shoved your head to the side.

“I hope that I do.”

You replied. Regulus leaned down to kiss your neck.

“And you said that I was slut.”

Regulus murmured against your neck before biting down. His breath was hot against your skin with each kiss and nibble. You took your want out, casting a silencing spell on the room before moaning. Regulus moved his hands down to cup your breasts. He squeezed and teased your nipples through your dress.

“Let's see how ready you are.”

Regulus said, in that dominating tone that made your clothes fall off. His hand slid up your thighs. You gasped feeling the coolness of his rings on your skin. The moment that Regulus made contact with your bare flesh, he froze.

“No panties and making love in your childhood bedroom…such a naughty thing.”

Regulus said as he stroked his finger over your pussy lips. They parted easily for his fingers. You were swollen and puffy. Regulus used the pad of his longest finger to tease your clit. He rubbed softy at first before rubbing harder. You cried out, your breath ragged and knees shaking"

“Come for me, sugar, Come for me now or I’ll lay over my lap and spank you. You’ll have to go downstairs and face your parents with a red little ass.”

Regulus whispered in your ear. You did exactly as Regulus told you. You came in a deep and shuddering orgasm. Regulus held you close, feeling the pleasure energy run through your body.

“I would love a blow job but we don’t have the time. We can’t let your mummy and daddy know what I’m up here doing to your little twat.”

Regulus said with an evil little smile. He slowly unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down enough to get his cock free. Regulus was half tempted to leave you like this. Make you face your parents, still wet and frustrated…but he couldn’t be that cruel. Especially not after he removed his free hand from your body and it was soaking wet. You were most definitely going to have your pussy stretched.

Regulus was hard and aching for you. It was still amazing how you were like sexual kryptonite to him. It wouldn’t make much more than a wanting look from you for Regulus to be ready for whatever could happen.

“Please, Reggie…”

You whimpered as he continued to tease your opening with the head of his cock.

“Fuck, sugar. You beg so pretty.”

Regulus groaned before pushing his hips up enough to completely sheath himself inside of you. He set up a nice steady pace, pumping in and out of you. You put a finger on your clit and strummed it in time to Regulus’ thrusts. It didn’t take Regulus long to feel your orgasm building. Each time your pussy spasmed around his cock, Regulus felt the burning need to come building within himself too.

Your eyes were closed in ecstasy with each snap of Regulus’ hips. How you would face your parents all flushed was a mystery that you weren’t ready to think of yet. Regulus whimpered your name before coming hard within you.

“You really are a little tart.”

Regulus murmured as he leaned down to kiss you once more. You giggled against his mouth.

“And you love it.”

Regulus was about to say something cheeky but froze hearing Lily calling your name…

______

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[najia-cooks]

Hey Najia! I love this blog so much! I have a question. I find cooking pretty difficult sometimes. I'm chronically ill and also the kitchen stresses me out a bit because I'm very scatterbrained and there's knives and fire and stuff. I also fuck things up in the kitchen pretty easy. Are there any recipes on here you find particularly easy to make? That you'd recommend for when you just cannot be arsed? Hope you're having a wonderful day, I know it's your birthday 😄🎉

Thank you!

I can understand your stress—cooking can involve things that are objectively dangerous and also time-sensitive. I'd recommend:

Try recipes where you don't have to come into direct contact with the blades you use. Some Indian dals, for example, cook lentils in a sauce made from blended onion, tomato, and garlic; you could process them using a food processor or blender. A lot of things (fresh salsa, guacamole, a duqqa of garlic, chilies, and spices that you can throw in to cook with some lentils) can be prepared in a mortar and pestle, too.

I've never used one, but a vegetable chopper might help in a similar way that a food processor would, by reducing the amount of knifework that you have to do. There are a lot of recipes where a chopped onion is the only knifework required.

Also try recipes that are cooked in the oven, and not on the stovetop. Something that gets thrown into the oven on low heat to cook (like a casserole or fukharat dish) takes longer, but is more hands-off, than something that's cooked on the stove.

Do all of your prep work first. Read through the recipe and see what chopping, blending &c. needs to be done, prep each ingredient, and put it in its own little bowl. This includes anything in the ingredients list that says "1 onion, diced" or similar: do that right off the bat. If the recipe says "meanwhile" or asks you to do prep for anything while anything else is cooking, you might choose to disregard that and do all the prep first, depending on how long the cook time is and how much attention it needs (e.g., soup on a low simmer for half an hour can pretty much be left alone; anything in a frying pan cannot). This way you won't be rushing to chop anything quickly while worrying that something else is going to overcook.

Look for vegetables, like broccoli / cauliflower / romanesco and green beans, that can be broken up with your hands rather than chopped. Rip up cilantro and parsley rather than chopping them.

Admittedly "simple" is not the guiding principle of this blog, but here are some recipes that I think could be easily adapted:

Fukharat l3des: just one onion to chop. Cooked on low heat in the oven.

Fried tofu sandwich: just mixing sauces and spices. You can skip coating the tofu in cornstarch and frying it. Instead try freezing the whole block, thawing it, cutting into two or four pieces, and then marinating it in a plastic bag with your sauce overnight. Then bake the tofu for 15-20 minutes, turning once, at 350 °F (180 °C).

Roasted celery and potato soup: requires only very rough chopping; the cooking methods are baking and simmering. The fried tempering could be skipped by just adding those ingredients into the simmer earlier.

Carrot salad or chickpea salad or tapenade: you could throw all of the ingredients in a food processor.

Moroccan lentils: just an onion and tomato to grate or process.

Kashmiri lal chaman: the only thing you need to cut is tofu; the gravy is just water and spices. You could bake the tofu instead of frying it.

Black bean burgers: no chopping or frying if you omit the onion and carrot and elect to bake the finished patties.

'Chicken' and olive tajine: the marinade is blended or pounded, and there is no other prepwork to do other than chopping one onion. Everything can be simmered on low heat until cooked, so it's pretty hands-off.

Chana pulao: mostly rice, chickpeas, and spices. Some aromatic prep, but you could crush instead of chopping those.

Romanesco quiche: no knifework at all if you omit the aromatics and break aprt the romanesco with your hands.

Spanish garlic mushrooms: just crush garlic instead of slicing and buy pre-sliced mushrooms. There is frying, though.

Eggplant cooked salad: the eggplant is broiled and then spooned out. No knifework required if you use tomato puree.

Butternut squash soup: just roasting and simmering. No knifework required if you omit the aromatics and buy pre-cubed squash.

Dishes with a base of lentils, chickpeas, beans, rice, and/or noodles are great because there's no knifework that needs to be done to prepare the beans &c. themselves.

[vamprlestat]

crazy what happens when you get inspired. expanding further on the whole messy eater vampire iii and inspired by these (here and here) amazing sketches by @simpleapparition, have a little fic about the first time vampire III fed on someone!

i also posted it on ao3!

The rich and warm taste of pure life filled III’s mouth overpowering his senses at the first bite. He clutched the pliant body closer in his embrace sucking the thick liquid with vigor, feeling the once strong heartbeat go fainter and fainter at the tip of his tongue the more he drank.

Euphoria soon followed as blood filled his stomach. Energy like no other he ever felt before spread through his whole body and for a few moments nothing else mattered except getting more of the precious blood into his mouth. III’s recently deceased heart jumped frenetic in his chest pumping all the new blood in his veins. Amongst everything, III was almost surprised to notice the strong pleasure coiling in his gut.

III opened his eyes briefly to look at Vessel and II. The first one did nothing to hide how much he enjoyed watching III feeding, pupils so dilated his eyes looked black, either from the sight in front of him or the smell of blood heavy in the air. II fondly rolled his eyes.

He knew he was making a mess, could feel the blood dripping past his lips into his chin and neck, soiling his clothes. In the back of his mind, he felt II’s slight disapproval. You’re wasting precious food. III couldn’t care less. He welcomed another mouthful of blood, purposefully more than he could drink, and revelled in the feeling of more of the warm sticky fluid staining his skin.

Too soon, he noticed that the heartbeat that previously thundered in his ears had now gone very quiet, the flow of blood not quite as strong as before. 

Savoring the last few sips of blood he could suck, III slowly lowered the body to the ground and finally unclasped his sharp teeth from the cold and deathly pale neck. His stomach was full and he felt warm and fuzzy, his limbs heavy. Kneeling there, he looked up.

“So… How did I do?”

There was blood everywhere, he noticed, even on the ground. III was absolutely covered in it as he stared at the other two expectantly, hazy eyes glowing in the dimly lit room. He brought his fingers to his mouth, lazily licking the crimson stains, savoring the taste in his tongue.

Vessel went down on his knees and took his mouth in a hungry kiss, eager to feel III’s taste mixed with blood. III gave in to the kiss easily, welcoming Vessel enthusiastically, that pleasant feeling still all over his body. He eventually broke the kiss and looked at II, remembering the early disapproval.

II simply shook his head. “You lack some… finesse.”

“Nonsense, don’t listen to him. That was so hot.” Vessel kissed a trail down III’s neck, lapping on the blood there.

“Fine! It was. Very hot. How do you feel, III?”

“Amazing. Really fucking full. Like I just ate an entire roasted chicken.” He laughed delightedly as Vessel chuckled and sucked a mark in the flesh between his neck and shoulder.

“Impressive, since you wasted at least half of it. Such a messy vampire.”

“Hey!”

II laughed and joined the other two on the floor. He grabbed III’s chin in his hand, turning his face slowly to analyze the mess of blood on his skin. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

[soulofapatrick]

Instant Attraction - Tommy Miller x reader

Summary: Upon meeting Tommy with Joel and Ellie you find the pair of you have immediate attraction for each other

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: none 

Notes: Part one of the Instant Attraction series

Y/N’s POV

“What!” Ellie snaps at the girl who’s been watching us from afar, she’s been hiding behind one of the support beams with her. Tommy, Maria and Joel all turn to where the girl is now running off, Ellie having scared her. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Joel elbows Ellie lightly, his southern heart probably so embarrassed my Ellie’s wild behaviour and I try to stifle a laugh at the embarrassment in his voice as this is a very different side of Joel. 

“What about her manners?” Ellie looks at Joel then me. 

“She’s just curious,” Maria speaks up, “Kids around here don’t usually look or talk like you.” 

“Right,” Ellie’s voice dripping with sarcasm as she rolls her eyes, “Well, maybe I’ll teach them. I want my gun back.”

“Eleanor!” I use her full name, tone as stern as I can make it at the surprise on Maria’s face while Joel looks mortified and there’s an amused smile playing on Tommy’s lips. I can’t help but feel relaxed despite how tense it feels between Joel and Tommy. Ellie grimaces at the use of her full name and just goes back to stuffing her face, this being the first real meal she’s ever had. 

It’s fucking amazing compared to the beef jerky that Joel keeps on him at all times. It’s like a full Sunday roast, gravy and chicken and all and my mouth was salivating so much at the sight of it being placed in front of me. Ellie and Joel dug into it like they hadn’t eaten in months which is somewhat true and I wanted to do the same but every time Tommy’s intense gaze landed on me I felt myself flush because he’s good looking. 

Ellie picks up on it as she’s wiggling her eyes suggestively which has me kicking her under the table and she lets out a slew of swear words in pain that has Joel fixing me with a stern look like the one I gave Ellie a few minutes ago. I mumble out a sorry before going back to demolishing my meal, a snort coming from Ellie. 

“Thank you ma’am,” I mumble under my breath, mocking Joel’s tone and it has Ellie snorting and Joel’s head turning our way again with a defeated sigh. 

“My apologies about them ma’am,” Joel says to Maria, defeat in his tone, “You know how kids are.” 

“I am 20 thank you.” I speak up and Joel doesn’t even bat an eyelid, keeping his head turned away from me as his whole body gives Maria a see kinda look. 

“Child.” 

“Asshole.” 

“Manners.” 

“I like her, she’s fiery.” Tommy drawls, amusement still playing with the corner of his lips as his eyes flick from Joel to me. I think my heart stops when his dark eyes shift from my own to my lips and then away because I definitely imagine that, proven by the elbow in my side from Ellie. 

“Pain in my ass, is what she is.” Ellie put on her own Joel voice and the man just drops his head when Tommy and Maria actually laugh. The tension in Tommy’s shoulders seems to fade as he throws his head back in an unstrained laugh and I think this is when I really fall for the man. Something tells me not to get my hopes up despite his eyes following my lips every so ofter because of the way Maria seems to stick by his side like glue. 

“Should have left you at Bill’s.” Joel grumbles, grabbing all three of our plates and getting up to follow Maria to do his part in cleaning up. It leaves me and Ellie at the table with Tommy but of course Ellie doesn’t even try and be a wingwoman. Instead she’s jumping up, kicking her chair back and heads in the direction Joel and Maria disappeared off too with a call of “I’m not sitting in that bubble of sexual tension.” 

“Ellie!” I call after her, my face burning at the way Tommy raises an eyebrow at me while I just keep my eyes on Ellie’s retreating figure until she disappears and then my hands seems the most interesting thing around. 

“Sexual tension, huh?” There’s movement and then the chair Ellie was previously  sitting on is moving until a calloused hands reach for mine, stopping me from picking at the skin around my nails, “Hey darlin’, don’t do that, you’ll make yourself bleed.” 

I keep my head down, knowing my face is the colour of a tomato, and I drop one of his hands so I can turn the other hand over so I can lightly trace the lines on his palm. I usually do this with Joel when I’m feeling anxious but this feels different because Tommy’s scooting his chair closer so his hand settles in my lap while I continue to trail my fingers over the lines and the other arm is thrown over the back of my chair so he can lean in closer. 

“You got any family?” Tommy asks, voice quiet as if not to scare me.

“Joel and Ellie are the closest left. I had a younger brother who I lost before Joel and Ellie found me.” I tell him, finally daring to glance up and my breath hitches at how close his face is to mine, our noses almost able to bump and it has my cheeks flaring up again. 

I can’t look away despite how much I would like to. I’m usually loud and boisterous, Joel is always telling me that, but when it comes to guy I like I find myself getting flustered and forgetting how to breathe let alone formulate sentences. It’s what’s happening right now, my eyes are stuck searching Tommy’s face and taking him in. He and Joel look enough alike to be brothers: it’s mainly in the nose and mannerisms. Unlike Joel his skin is sun kissed and his freckles are visible from a distance and he’s sporting a moustache that makes me wonder what it would feel like in a kiss. I find myself acting on autopilot, one of my hands is running through the ends of his naturally slicked back hair as I find myself enthralled with the way it curls, curling strands around my fingers. His eyes are such a deep brown they’re almost black, reminding me of the night sky reflecting on water in the quietest hours of the night. His eyes hold so much passion and optimism I envy his way of seeing the world. 

A clearing of the throat has me snapping my head away from Tommy to find Joel standing there with Ellie and Maria, all three of them watching us. Ellie and Maria have proud looks on their faces while Joel just looks like a father who’s caught his kid sneaking out. It makes me shrink into my seat but Tommy doesn’t even flinch, if anything he acts bolder by moving his arm from behind me to fall onto my shoulders, thumb rubbing soothingly. 

“I want to stay here.” Ellie speaks up and I meet Joel’s eyes, seeing the same shock and hope reflected in them. We had talked about what happens after we hand Ellie over the fireflies and find Tommy but this… we never had a plan for this, “Fireflies were never my family, I’ve never had a family until now.” She turns to Joel because she knows she’s already got me sold. I have always seen Ellie as a daughter figure despite her being only six years older than her. 

“Joel?” I ask quietly as he just stares at Ellie, chest heaving as if he’s having a panic attack. Before I can move Ellie’s wrapped her arms around him and I see the glazed look in his eyes: he’s fighting guilt and want but it seems the want wins because he’s giving in and hugging Ellie back. It makes me relax and I realise I’ve been gripping Tommy’s thigh with nails digging in so I quickly withdraw my hand with an apology but he just squeezes my shoulder, looking at Maria. 

“There’s that house by the strawberry plot they can have. It’s two bedroom though and…” She’s trailing off, eyes flicking between me, Joel, Ellie and then Tommy. 

“I’ve got a spare room in mine,” Tommy answers her unasked question before Joel can open his mouth to say anything. He just gives Tommy a pointed look that Tommy seems to understand by the small nod Tommy sends back. Maria then tells Ellie and Joel to grab their packs and she’ll show the way to the house while Tommy finally takes his hand from mine and also stands. 

I copy and suddenly arms are wrapping around me and Ellie’s mumbling against my shirt, “You better not fucking disappear on us.” I laugh softy, pressing a kiss to there hair and hug her back until Maria’s calling for her. 

I’m being guided back against the door when it closes behind me, Tommy caging me in with arms either side of my head. He doesn’t make any moves other than that, just watching my expression for any signs of discomfort or fear but despite having only knowing this man for less that eight hours I feel completely safe. I feel like I know everything about him from all the stories Joel told me. 

“This is crazy,” He murmurs, testing the waters and closing the gap a little more, “We’ve only just met.” 

“Crazy,” I breathe, a small smile on my lips because yeah, he feels it too. He definitely feels it too when wind-chapped lip land on mine and steal all the air in my lungs. I’m grabbing the collar of his blue fleece jacket and pulling his body flush against mine as I melt into the kiss, body already wanting more. I feel alive for the first time in ages and want whatever Tommy is offering me despite the speed of all this. 

It seems he wants the same with the way his hand tangles in my hair and pulls, drawing a gasp from me before he pulls his body away from me enough to take me in before he’s groaning, “Can’t, I promised Joel I’d behave.” 

“I want this.” 

“So do I,” He whispers, “but I promised Joel we’d be sensible. Let me show you the town and it’s people first, take you on a date first and let you settle in.” 

“But-“ 

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop kissing you.” 

“Thank fuck.”

------------

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five

[popjunkie42]

Painted Blind: Chapter Four

Read on AO3

Chapter Four: As admiration and worship for the hero of the human lands grows, Feyre chafes under the attention. At an unexpected announcement, she watches her future spiral out of her control.

Thank you to @witch-and-her-witcher and @rosanna-writer for beta reading!

Chapter Four under the cut.

Nesta slapped at my skirts for the third time since the speeches had begun. I was tugging at the lace collar on this fucking dress…

I dropped my hand and scowled.

The itch of the wool, the tightness of the collar that choked back every swallow…it was oppressive.

The afternoon sun was pale, as if sensing its power had fully waned on this, the longest night of the year. Standing uncomfortably on a wooden stage, my sisters on one hand, my father standing with the mayor and his family behind a podium, I did my best to ignore the crowd.

They stretched out before us, three times the number of people in our little village, most of them in fine hats and suits and rich winter dresses. All of them staring up at us. My skin was hot, even in the cold of the early evening.

The mayor had started droning on a while back, something I couldn’t pay much attention to. A jolly bustle of a man, he looked fat and happy with his wealth, his cheeks ruddy in the winter cold. He smiled easily, and the fit of his suit was immaculate. I wondered if what his family was wearing today cost more than my entire reward.

The speeches had begun after lunch, a picnic where my sisters and I had tried hard to pretend we weren’t hungry, that we saw this sort of lavish spread on the regular. Roasted chicken and small pheasants dressed with winter vegetables, glimmering slices of ham, golden rolls with pats of butter that glistened, spiced wine and candied winter berries for dessert. I watched Nesta swallow thickly as she spooned a moderate, polite amount of food on her plate. Next to me, Elain was licking the greasy chicken fat off of her dainty fingers and trying hard to hide it. Despite all our mother’s hissed lessons about small, dainty bites and demure ladylike appetites, we all ate until we groaned.

The entire town had gathered around, now staring rapt at me and the garrulous mayor, the breath of them all rising up in the cold like steam above their heads.

“Wipe that look off of your face,” Nesta hissed.

We had been taken to the town last night. Given rooms at the mayor’s house, each bedroom finer than our whole cottage. In the morning, I had been bathed and scrubbed and plucked until my skin burned. The maids tutted at my cracked nails and the dirt underneath they couldn’t quite scrub clean.

Afterwards, they had shoved me into a frilled woolen dress. A monstrous thing. Stockings and corsets and lace trim and shoes with heels so high my arches ached. I stumbled around the room like a newborn fawn, clasping and flexing my good hand into anxious fists. I had the overwhelming urge to rip the entire outfit off and run into the woods.

I swallowed the desire to tug at my collar again, the lace itching against my dry skin. It choked me, like a snare around my neck.

Clothing like this hadn’t been in our closets since I was a child. But the feeling was still familiar, my clumsy small hands ripping away my skirts and sleeves, rushing outside to climb the willow beside the manor, mother furious with me after all the dirt and ruin.

And now Nesta was here to take her place.

My sister wore the slightest of confident smiles, looking regally over her upturned nose at the crowd below. Elain beamed, her face full of joy and sunlight even in the pale wintery afternoon. Both of them looked aggravatingly at home in their new finery, warm in their spotless coats and scarves and soft leather gloves.

A terrible itch creeped up my neck, down my spine.

Standing there, I felt a nagging sensation, like I was in the woods and hadn’t yet spotted something that had spotted me.

Looking across the stage, I saw the Mayor’s son, glaring. As soon as my eyes met his, I swore he looked away with distaste.

He was young, probably about my age or just a year younger. Brown hair, pale skin, soft hands. His eyes were dark and his mouth was locked into a sullen pout.

I had no doubt he was the type to stay far from the forest. Probably had never skinned a rabbit, or felt hunger in his belly.

Apparently, I had offended him personally.

With a wistful smile, the mayor turned to me, and I wished I had been paying better attention. My heart thundered as all eyes in the crowd focused on me.

“We have lived in fear,” the mayor said, turning back to the gathered crowd. The people of Innisville, our old village, the ones that forgot me and my family so easily when the money slipped away. “Even though we live in freedom from faekind, even after five hundred years, we are still controlled by the wall and the terrible things that breach it. We have let ourselves be splintered by disagreements and differences, while the real enemy threatens us from beyond. Our true enemy takes advantage of the discord among us. It is only if we join together that we can push back the dangerous creatures waiting to descend upon us in the dark of night.”

A hearty cheer rose up, mist in the cold.

No wonder he was mayor.

But his words fell flat on my ears. I had suffered more under the hands of my fellow man than any fae or beast, the monster in the cave included.

“Sometimes,” he boomed, his magnanimous smile back on me like the sun, “it takes a great act of bravery and sacrifice to bring us together. It takes an extraordinary person to remind us that we are one. That we are powerful together.” Cheers and murmurs of ascent were bubbling up from the crowd, an echoing call.

I hated every moment of it.

I wasn’t brave, or selfless. I hated the grand sentiments, when all I had ever wanted was a full stomach and safety for my family. I hated the eyes on me, eyes that weeks ago would’ve scorned us. Fine boots that would have kicked at us, teeth that would have gnashed.

But Nesta’s hand was on my back, warm but unyielding, and she pushed me just a few steps forward towards the crowd, my feet stumbling.

“Our entire land has been blessed by this fearless and exceptional girl. Feyre Archeron, the hero of the human lands!” More cheers, and my name ringing across the crowd, from mouths that would have spit on me only weeks before. “Her talents were born out of hardship, but her undaunted spirit belongs to all of us living below the wall and the land of the fae. Although we will always remember those that we lost, we thank the girl who went out into the forest alone, and did what no one thought possible.”

The crowd erupted into applause. I balanced on the edge of the wooden stage, feeling like I might topple into the sea of bodies.

It was too much, too many adoring faces, people I had never met. They didn’t know me. My own story was being told in front of me, like I wasn’t even there to tell it myself. I was a hunter, and I needed those gold coins simply to gain a breath of air. These people in the crowd had been the ones to laugh and sneer at my misery, to ignore our hunger.

I hadn’t done it for a single one of them. Maybe that made me cruel, and heartless, but I knew it was the plain truth even as it hid in the dark shadows of my heart.

But the mayor wasn’t done. Once the cheers and applause had died down, his smile grew even wider, and he looked to my father.

“And, in a gesture we hope will inspire the land, my son Charles,” he motioned to the scowling boy, his face fierce and fixed on the ground in front of him, “is to be wed to our hero, Feyre Archeron. Our families will join together, uniting our villages. To remind us that heroes are among us, and we are stronger together. Feyre,” his eyes twinkling, “welcome to our family.”

The roar of the crowd was deafening, pounding in my skull and shaking my bones. Shock kept me frozen, and despite Nesta’s pinch at my hips, I knew my face was contorted in horror and shock.

My eyes found my father.

He had draped himself with the beast’s fur, like a cloak. Dressed in a dark, layered suit, he continued to smile blandly and ignore me completely.

No wonder Charles had looked murderous. I felt the same.

He was glowering on the edge of the stage, his mother whispering something into his ear with intensity. But he refused to smile.

The celebrating crowd in front of me was a mass of teeth and red cheeks. On the rising of their cheers, I felt my future slip out from under me completely.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Stumbling out of the mayor’s manor, I realized I was well and truly drunk.

It wasn’t for the first time in my short life, but it wasn’t exactly a state I was accustomed to.

Certainly not with such high quality wine, strong and dry slipping down my throat.

There’d been that one time when Isaac swiped a bottle being unloaded behind the tavern, and another when Elain shyly revealed a bottle of wine after we had gone to bed, refusing to share which of her admirers had gifted it to her. We had shared the bottle, taking indelicate swigs straight from the mouth until we giggled with mirth. Until the headaches and hunger hit and we had kicked each other in bed until my shins were bruised.

It hadn’t been like this, though.

The earth swayed under me. Warm light spilled from the side door of the manor, the party in full, brazen swing behind me. My skull felt like it was wobbling on my neck. My feet wouldn’t go where I wanted to put them. Swaying and stumbling, I braced myself still on a leafless tree in the garden.

Forcing my eyes to focus, I examined the bark, the bandaged hand splayed there, my middle finger still bent and unable to fully extend. A mangled claw, I thought. A promise of death and hunger to come.

Or, it had been. Now there was Charles. And a mayor’s manor, and a lifetime of servitude and lace dresses that would choke the life from me.

The thoughts rattled in my head, building and building, turning into something that felt like too much.

My hand grasped the collar of my dress, pulling the insufferable lace away with a loud rip.

Lace fell into dirty snow.

The tree was my lifeline, my body still swaying like I was nothing more than a branch in a heavy breeze. My thoughts went to the hard bark, to the deep roots beneath the frozen earth. I wished for roots to keep me steady. I wished to dig my toes into the ground and sprout branches and leaves. To transform into a peaceful and thoughtless tree, never hungry, never promised to anyone, only drinking rainwater and soaking up the sun.

But it was no good. Something acidic turned in my stomach, and I fell to my knees and retched onto the ground. It burned my throat as it came, wine as dark and red as it was going down. My sick steamed in the snow in front of my quivering arms, the smell bringing up more and more until only dark bile was left.

Behind me, a crunch of snow, a deep sigh. I tried to wipe my mouth clean.

“I see you took my advice to behave yourself very seriously.”

Nesta didn’t seem too shocked by my predicament.

It was hard to focus on her disapproval when my head pounded, and my throat was burning.

“Go fuck yourself,” I rasped, hoarse and slurring.

I expected her to leave. But in a moment, firm hands were on me, pulling me up from my own mess, shoving me back against the bark of my tree.

Tears were leaking out of the side of my eyes, and I groaned as my muscles shook, falling in between the roots. A knob dug into my back.

When I could lift my neck and my eyes finally focused, I saw Nesta perched on a rock in front of my feet. Her skirts were folded neatly in one gloved hand, keeping them smooth and straight from wrinkling or falling into the snow, her feet pressed rigidly together.

I wanted to laugh. I lay in front of her, sprawled on the ground, snow melting and seeping into my dress. My lips stained, the lace at my neck torn, my own sick beside me.

Perhaps Nesta wasn’t wrong, when she called me a feral beast.

We sat in silence for a moment as my breathing calmed, and the biting cold woke up some of my sleeping senses.

“At least he’s a mayor’s son,” Nesta finally said into the quiet, the din of the party seeming far away. “You’ll have a soft bed. Someone else will always chop your firewood. You’ll never be hungry again, Feyre.”

My sister’s coldness gave way slightly. She seemed almost wistful. Even in my drunken state, I could tell some of her fire had been tempered.

But I had none of this calm acceptance. Thinking of Charles again, of that childish pout…fire bloomed on my skin, acid dripped in my mouth.

I spit onto the dirty snow.

“I’d rather be dead,” I hissed out, my throat still burning. “I’d rather starve in the forest. I’d rather the wolves take me.”

Nesta only blinked. “You can’t mean that.”

I locked her with a gaze and hoped I was steadier than I felt.

Nesta didn’t balk at my anger, or my words. By now I should have known better than to try to fight her iciness with my fire. Instead, she watched me with head tilted, a look of pitying curiosity on her face.

“Daughters are to be wed, Feyre. Even ones who hunt in the forest. It was always our fate.” Her eyes shifted to the snow, kicking a toe of her new boot into the hard powder.

Even as I sat on the sopping snow, my skin was burning. I felt an unquenchable fire ignite within me, full of my rage.

“How could he do this to me?” I was angry, and I hated the sullen whine of the voice that came out of me. “I fed him. For five years I fed him. Put food on his own table. I sold my pelts to get his medicine. I rubbed his shoulders when his back seized up.” The words felt like ash in my mouth. Not even the cold of this solstice night could freeze them, stop them from spilling out. “And he…gave me away. Like it was his decision to make. He didn’t even tell me. He didn’t even ask.”

A shrug of Nesta’s shoulders. Infuriating, calculating. “At least Charles is young,” she said into the cold air. “Father just introduced me to Lord Rochester. He must be sixty if he’s a day. A widower, with bad breath and fat fingers and three children older than me.”

I regarded my sister. She had never told me anything like this before, with her voice sad and clear.

“I know it’s vain,” Nesta said, fisting her skirts tighter in her hand, “but I always wanted a handsome husband.” Her eyes seemed very far away. “Someone strong. Someone…worthy of me. Who could match me. That’s what mother used to say.”

I realized that as much as I had wanted peace and a family for both of my sisters, I had never really asked them what they wanted. And here was Nesta, raised to entice royal and rich men alike, now hoping for nothing more than some bare comforts and the dream of a dashing young husband she might never have.

She shrugged. “Maybe you’ll find some peace here, Feyre. Be safe, taken care of. Maybe even happy, some day.” I knew that Nesta spoke of her wishes for herself.

“And,” she said with another careless shrug, “if not, you can lure him out into the woods. Push him off a cliff. Just be smart, and make it look like an accident.”

A laugh punched out of me, quick and unexpected, Nesta raising an eyebrow at the sound.

Deep down, I knew my sister wasn’t joking.

Read on AO3

[rosiethedragongeek]

Because it is officially the same month as the first day of Fall happens,,, it's OFICIALLY Halloween so here are some Fall/Halloween headcanons for the gang <3

okay it got a little long so I'm gonna put a keep reading thing so that it doesn't take up too much space lol

Snotlout is one of those people who REFUSES to admit that he is cold even when he is like, violently shivering

The twins are giving out Thorston sandwiches left and right they cannot be stopped, you WILL find yourself in the middle of a Thorston Sandwich at LEAST once or twice a week

Tuffnut knits sweaters for Chicken, Rooster, and ALL of the chicks

They all cuddle their dragons at night to stay warm <3

When they're all hanging out together, Hooky will flame up and they'll all sit close to him

They toast food on him all the time when they're hanging out like this

They go to carve pumpkins but they get SUPER competetive about it (idk if they realistically could get their hands on pumpkins and idk if they would even be exposed to that tradition but for the sake of this they can and they have lol)

They're all trying to carve pumpkins of their dragons

Hiccup gets super creative about it he calculates things, he's got a ruler, he's got a pencil to make markings beforehand, the whole deal

Fishlegs' is very artistic (he also makes a model meatlug out of like four pumpkins instead of just carving her into one)

The twins actively try to cut each other's fingers off while carving theirs

The twins try to fill hollow pumpkins with zippleback gas and use them like bombs lol

Which leads to them eating a lot of roasted pumpkins

Hiccup always has long sleeves but he is SO cold ALL the time, he gets a thicker tunic and some furs to keep warm

Snotlout makes fun of him for giving into the cold

Astrid does too but it's okay because she is ACTUALLY impervious to the cold

P sure that Fall in Berk comes with a mix of heavy rain and light snow so there's a lot of muddy slush all over

Berk is all decorated with candles and dragons cut out of colored papers and stuff

They have a bonfire in the center of the village that they light at night around this time of year

The twins insist on cooking for the gang using *fall flavors* which goes about as well as expected (there is SO much cinnamon) (once again idk if they have cinnamon on Berk or wtv but it's fun to imagine they do so they do)

The twins knit the LONGEST scarves for Barf and Belch

Fishlegs has a criminal amount of candles in his hut, and has made Meatlug SO many blankets and his hut is so cozy and warm

Fishlegs made them all scarves in their colors

Astrid still does her morning flights with Stormfly even though it's fucking cold she loves it

She's like no you guys you don't get it it keeps you alert

It's good for you

Snotlout absolutely gets sick trying to prove that he is unbothered by the cold and how he actually can swim in the ocean for an hour without getting so cold he has to come out

That's the twins' fault for sure

They honestly all probably get sick flying around in the sky and the clouds and stuff especially during storms and stuff bc despite what the movies and shows show you Berk is notoriously super wet and cold so

Fishlegs is the one to call everyone getting sick EVERY TIME

He also brings them all warm Yak milk with cinnamon at night time

[toomuchracket]

someone sent me the loveliest ask about bday party matty following girly around after tour ends that i accidentally deleted because i saved to drafts and couldn't edit on mobile SO i shall discuss it here. yes, you're right, he is without question in groupie mode (well, more so than usual lol) - after some, um, morning bedroom activities, he'll hover over you and kiss your nose like "so, my sweet girl, what's on your agenda today?", and when you tell him you've got an interview or a radio appearance or a signing he's like "that sounds fun. can i tag along, darling? i'll hold your handbag for you" lol bless him. and he's determined that everything is about you; he makes it so clear to the interviewers or presenters that "i'm only here in bf mode! it's my girl's moment! please don't mention me", but he caves a little when you pout and say "but i want to talk about you. half of these essays are about you", gives you a little nose kiss and says "well, alright, if you insist lol", which in turn makes you roll your eyes and say "bloody narcissist. but i love you!" lmao it's all very cute and fun. throughout the interview, he looks at you like you hung the moon, his eyes never leaving your face and his smile never leaving his - an audio clip from your radio interview goes viral because the host says "no wonder you're writing all these wonderful essays about being in love and being loved - the way your other half (matty tears up at this btw lol) looks at you, and has done the whole time we've been talking, i don't think anyone has ever been so loved as you are by him", and you get all blushy and bashful and giggly before you say "well, he has, by me", and the world seems to really love this little insight moment. and when you get home at the end of the day, matty's insistent on being the one to make dinner because "you've been working, darling, relax"; you sit in the kitchen while he cooks, mayhem at your feet and a glass of wine in your hand, and nothing has ever been so domestic and perfect. speaking of domesticity, actually - on your days off, the two of you have been rearranging the house somewhat. partially in prep for christmas decorations, but also partially because even though you moved in ages and ages ago you haven't really had the time to find the right places for all your things. matty had the kinda cute, kinda egotistical (thus, extremely him) idea of putting all your awards and most cherished writing bits in the same room as his music equivalents, so you've had to source appropriately nice bookcases for that to happen; the room looks so cool once it's finished, books interspersed with music scores and brits surrounding the booker nomination, and matty's like "you know, this is really fitting, given that we inspire each other so much. and it's also cool as fuck. like we really are the coolest couple on the planet" lol. he puts a desk in there under the guise of that being the best room to do video interviews from, but really it's so he has something to bend you over; of course thinking about the two of you being so hot and cool and accomplished gets him going, it's matty we're talking about lmfao. but really, at his core, he's a sweetheart completely in love with you - once you both got the christmas tree up and decorated, you tugged him into the kitchen like "ok, it's time. you said we were having chicken for dinner, yeah?", and matty nods in confusion and then gasps when he sees the potatoes and the baking tray and your seasoning mix on the counter like "wait, is this what i think it is? you're-" and you nod like "teaching you the roast potato recipe. this is it, healy, you're stuck with me forever now". and matty - crying, obv - just grabs your face and kisses you deeply, murmuring "can't fucking wait for that. i love you". cute as hell <3