#yes i love the farmers market

[postwarlevi]

Every day's a good day for self-shipping!!! 💜

Jean says he's bringing you to the farmer's market during the weekend!! What are you going to wear, what are you two going to buy, and how does the day end?

(In all honesty I have no concept about how farmer's markets work and if they open during autumn so. Hopefully I get this right XD)

- Rei <3 @levi-supreme

Rei! Hello! You guys know me so well LOL

Farmers Markets are very fun! As long as it's cool enough. I don't go in summer cause I don't do well in the heat. But I just went to my favorite one that opened recently for the season last weekend. It was nice weather.

Mine sells lots of fresh produce and plants, dried fruits and ready made foods like pizza, popcorn, waffles, ice cream, lots of things! There's bakers and cheese vendors, and other things like dried pasta and honey and specialty items like sauces or jams. AND homemade items like straw hats and artwork and jewelry, and dresses! I'm not sure Farmers Markets usually have all the extras but I imagine so!

Okay here we go! Something like this with a large brim sunhat!

We go when it opens and bring a few tote bags. We need to invest in a cart! We'll see who has what before we buy because sometimes multiple people are selling the same thing but the quality and price will be different!

We want to get the best produce so hit that first! From one vendor we get zucchini and tomatoes, apples and bananas, from other, pineapple and lemons, peppers and carrots. This is our normal gatherings! If the season is offering fresh strawberries he gets cartons (yes, many!) of them and we have to bring the produce to the car before continuing on haha. We gets greens, winter squash and other berries as well. We need a cart I said! We have a mini spat about all the strawberries but I let him have his way and honestly we'll get through most of them and freeze some.

Okay we're back from the car again, and this guy is ready to eat like he didn't just make us breakfast a little while ago. It's brunch so we take a few minutes to sit down with waffles, muffins and fruit water/smoothies. He gets strawberry, no surprise there, and I like nut milk smoothies.

We like sitting and talking under the shade of the umbrella and people watch. We keep talking about taking Murphy our pup since there's so many other dogs, but want to train him more before throwing him into the middle of all these people and their dogs, and want him trained more to stay with us. As of now he still is very excitable. But we'll bring him some fancy homemade treats home!

We generally stay together, or at least in the same area, maybe wandering to the stall next door if the other is taking their time.

We are bad about dried fruit and get pineapple and mango, and if we are splurging, pears and cherries. I don't know who is supposed to be keeping track of finances here but today it's neither of us apparently LOL.

We like fresh bread and agree to get one two loaves. One rye and one wheat. They smell delicious! Maybe a couple other small pastry items to take home. Who can pass up a pumpkin muffin or blueberry lemon bar!?

We look at things like homemade jams, it's easier to buy then to make so sometimes get them. Also honey and maple syrups. Sometimes we'll look at dairy but usually skip. If there's a good deal on eggs we'll get them.

We are all about the food but do look at other things. We'd like more plants but need something simple. While I get a basil plant he's buying me a sunflower and lilac bouquet :D We get a hanging plant as well for the kitchen window area.

And look, it's time to eat...again! This time we share a small woodfire pizza and get vegan ice cream as well! Though Jean eats meat which is cool with me, he is open to vegetarian or vegan options. He raves about the vanilla and says it's better than the dairy version. He's very considerate when he does have meat and has cut way down on it. He says it's better for him anyway.

Okay back to the market! We've been through the fresh food and ready to eat, and the plant area. Oh and didn't forget the dog treats for Murphy. So we look at the straw hats though we both have. Also the recycled totes which, again, we have. But we look just incase.

Neither of us wear much jewelry so skip it, but look at the handmade wooden cutting boards and coasters. We have so many kitchen things but these are so nice that we get a couple of bowls. We also think about coasters for gifts.

There's some stalls with dresses, handbags and sunglasses (this is where we split up haha). I get a dress and Jean gets another pair of sunglasses, neither of which we need haha. (A version of my dress :) )

Other stalls have soaps and candles which we look at but don't usually buy, same which more handcrafted items and artwork. Again, maybe as gifts. But there is a papercraft vendor who has things like bookmarks and greeting cards and wall prints, and also magnets and keychains. The stuff is so cute we usually get a few things. They do customization too so it's a great gift for most events!

So, now we have run out of money HAHA so, it's time to call it a day.

Here's a picture of one of our produce haul. Note this man already grabbed most the strawberries...

HAHA well that was more about the market then Jean and my relationship but, that's what we usually buy! Which maybe says something about us :)

[themoonunderstoodmydadjokes]

Chat, is this a fit?? ✨✨✨

[dogscircle]

"sorry i know it sounds like 2 crickets are having sex but its not" my housemates were pumping air into a massive pillow

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: February 17

“DYWTYLM” by Sleep Token

[errantgoat]

innocent patch of grass in my town: *exists*

city planning: but what if it was - and hear me out here...a parking lot?

[harrylights]

like get outta here that is a whole ass dyke boygirlfriend!!!!!

[wedefyauguryy]

economics is the worst subject to have as a leftist

[pucksandpower]

So Good to Me

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: Charles Leclerc is the perfect man for you … getting stopped on the street for a random TikTok challenge just serves to prove that even further

The warm Monaco sun beats down on you as you stroll leisurely along the bustling sidewalk, a canvas tote bag filled with fresh produce and flowers from the local farmer’s market hanging from your shoulder. The salty sea breeze wafts across your face, carrying with it the excited chatter and laughter of tourists admiring the luxurious yachts bobbing in Port Hercules.

You smile to yourself, relishing this perfect Mediterranean afternoon. Just a quick stop at home to drop off your purchases, and then maybe you’ll take a dip in the infinity pool on the terrace to cool off before Charles is done with-

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!” A young man’s voice breaks through your daydreaming. You glance over to see a twenty-something guy with a neatly trimmed beard, expensive-looking sunglasses, and a black t-shirt emblazoned with HUSTLE in white block letters. He’s holding a mini microphone and has his iPhone pointed at you, clearly filming.

A TikToker.

You sigh internally but force a polite smile.

“Oui, puis-je vous aider?” You reply in French.

“Ah sorry, I don’t speak much French! Do you speak English?” The TikToker asks eagerly in a British accent.

“Yes, I do. Can I help you with something?” You say, switching to English yourself. You just want to get home but you know these influencer types can be annoyingly persistent.

The TikToker grins. “Brilliant! I’m doing a social experiment for my followers. I was wondering — do you have a significant other? A boyfriend or husband perhaps?”

You raise an eyebrow questioningly but decide to humor him. “Um, yes, I have a boyfriend,” you answer simply.

His eyes light up. “Fantastic! And would you say your boyfriend loves you very much?”

You can’t help but chuckle at the boldness of this stranger’s line of questioning. “Yes, I would definitely say that. He loves me a lot,” you confirm, a soft smile playing on your lips as you think of Charles.

“Perfect! Okay, here’s the challenge,” the TikToker announces dramatically, staring intensely into his camera. “I want you to call up your boyfriend right now and ask him to send you some money. Doesn’t matter how much. But for every €100 he sends, I’ll give you €20 to keep for yourself. Let’s see how much he really loves you, shall we?”

You stare at this guy incredulously for a moment before bursting out laughing. Is he serious? He clearly has no idea who your boyfriend is. An amused smirk spreads across your face as you fish your iPhone out of your designer purse.

“Alright, you’re on,” you say confidently, already unlocking your phone and tapping on Charles’ contact. The TikToker looks surprised but excited that you actually agreed to his silly challenge.

“Put it on speaker phone,” he instructs, zooming his camera in on your phone screen which is now dialing Charles.

After a few rings, the warm, honey-smooth voice you adore comes through. “Allô mon amour, what’s up?” Charles greets you sweetly. “I’m just finishing up some simulator runs but I should be done soon to help with dinner.”

“Hey baby,” you reply, your voice automatically softening. “Sorry to bother you, I know you’re busy. But I’m out right now and I just passed by that little boutique near the casino, you know the one? And I saw the most incredible pair of shoes in the window. I swear they were calling my name.”

Charles laughs affectionately, the sound like music to your ears even through the cell phone speaker. “Oh yeah? The ones that were calling your name last week turned out to be, what was it, €900?” He teases.

You roll your eyes playfully even though he can’t see. “Okay, fair, but you know I hardly ever splurge on myself. I’m usually so frugal!”

“Mmhmm, whatever you need to tell yourself, chérie,” Charles says wryly and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Let me guess, you need to go get these dream shoes right now? Or else they’ll haunt you forever?”

“You know me so well,” you gush dramatically. “I promise I’ll pay you back though! I get paid next week and-”

“Hey, hey, stop,” Charles cuts you off gently. “Mon cœur, you never have to pay me back, you know that. I love being able to treat you and spoil you. You deserve the world. Never forget that.”

You feel yourself melt at his earnest words, momentarily forgetting you have an audience. “I love you so much,” you murmur. “Thank you for always being so good to me.”

“Right back at you, ma belle. Je t’aime,” Charles says tenderly. “There, check your banking app. Let me know if you need any more. And have fun shopping! I’ll see you at home in a bit, okay? À bientôt!”

You glance down at your phone as a notification from your bank pops up on the screen. Your eyes widen slightly when you see the amount Charles sent over, but you recover quickly.

“Thank you, baby. See you soon!” You reply before hanging up. You turn back to the TikToker who is gaping at you in disbelief. Casually, you turn your phone screen towards him and his camera so he can clearly see the notification that €10,000 has just been deposited into your account.

The poor guy looks like he’s about to pass out from shock. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, rendered speechless. You just laugh good-naturedly.

“Well, guess I won your little challenge, huh?” You remark, slipping your phone back into your purse. “Tell you what, why don’t you donate whatever money you were going to give me to a local animal shelter instead? I think it’ll be put to much better use there.”

The TikToker finally manages to pick his jaw up off the floor. He laughs shakily and nods. “Yeah ... yeah I can do that. Wow. Um, thanks for being such a good sport about this. And congrats on, uh, winning, I guess?”

You give him a friendly wink. “Anytime. Have a nice rest of your day!” With that, you turn gracefully on your heel and continue on your way back home, feeling rather smug and deeply appreciative of your wonderfully generous boyfriend.

“Wait!” The TikToker calls out after you. You glance back over your shoulder curiously. He hesitates before asking in an awed voice, “If you don’t mind me asking ... who the hell is your boyfriend?”

An enigmatic smile plays on your lips. “No one special really,” you reply breezily. “Just a guy who loves driving fast cars.”

You leave the gaping TikToker in your wake as you saunter off, already daydreaming about showing your appreciation to Charles later for being the most incredible boyfriend imaginable.

Maybe you really will splurge on those designer shoes after all … and pick up a little something special from the lingerie boutique next door while you’re at it.

Your smile widens. Just as a little thank you to your man, of course. Life is good when you’re in love with Charles Leclerc.

[gutsby]

Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: Stepdad!Joel x Reader

Summary: You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Deadbeat-Perv-Peepaw LOVES corny porn tropes and women over half his age. Stepcest & dubcon technically bc Reader’s locked inside an appliance, but she’s into it (getting fucked, not stuck). One (1) kick in the dick. Spanking. Brat-taming. Choking. Daddy issues. Size kink. Praise kink. Infidelity. Creampie.

Note: Saw this post by @ovaryacted and started BARKING. For my Old Man lovers/daddy issues crew, this one’s for you.

Word count: 8.3k

It was the closest thing to porn you’d ever done before.

Still, you weren’t quite ready to call it that.

And why should you? Financial straits were no anomaly to a girl your age, especially in this economy, and almost everyone you knew had a side gig of some kind. It just so happened that your job required slightly skimpier attire. And a webcam. And some very special…accessories that would likely send your grandmother into cardiac arrest if she ever took a peek inside your bottom dresser drawer.

Okay, it was definitely porn.

But you never showed your face, so it didn’t really count as the same kind of stuff that your family condemned.

You scampered out of your room the second you heard the front door to the house slam closed all the same. Arms laden with G-strings, stockings, satin bralettes, lace and tulle bodysuits of almost every style imaginable, you ran a quick, perilous path to the living room window and made sure to keep your head ducked low as you did. You peered out through the gap in the curtains and had to squint hard to see anything in the midafternoon sun.

Then you saw it and felt instant relief—they were leaving.

Your grandma for one, your mother for second, and wherever the latter was headed, you knew her shadow would be soon to follow. You saw a thick plume of smoke outside and surmised that Joel was somewhere around the other side of the SUV, smoking and droning on about how he was perfectly fi-i-i-ne to drive, don’t be like that.

By ‘like that’ he meant sensible. And by ‘perfectly fine’ he meant two Miller Lites shy of completely shitfaced. You could already imagine the wry smile on your mother’s lips as she tried prying the keys from his hands. Your stepdad would probably plant a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek to win a ‘yes’ in return—and when she shyly reminded him that he couldn’t afford to get another DUI, he’d get pissed and yank them out of her fist anyway.

Fucking loser.

Fucking triple-the-legal-limit dumbass motherfucker.

It didn’t bother you as much today because you knew they were only driving a couple blocks away to get to the farmer’s market, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t hope he’d get caught. Again. Maybe blow a 0.25 this time and land his old, ungrateful, law-breaking ass in Travis County Jail, where his little brother Tommy was likely keeping a cell bench warm for him, per usual.

At any rate, you didn’t have time to be fantasizing now. It was your turn to embody some guy’s grossest wet dreams for the next two to three hours. Stripping away layer after layer of your latest, tightest ‘costume’ while catering to whatever requests happened to float in your inbox, you knew you’d be up to your eyeballs in work. Though almost routine by now, you had to hurry up.

If you could just get the rest of this ridiculous gunk out of your clothing, you’d be all good to go for the job.

TRMAN22: Pour honey on your tits in the next vid???

TRMAN22: Milk too. All over you.

Looking back, you probably shouldn’t have obliged that request. Now you were facing the consequences—forced to throw all your clothes in the washing machine because the milk and honey you’d dumped on yourself for that video had gotten everywhere, and then swiftly congealed while wasting away in a pile of laundry for over a week.

The whole heap smelled rancid. Still felt sticky, too. Presently, you chucked each one inside the washing machine while holding your breath, and as soon as the last was discarded, you sniffed the shirt you had on.

Tolerable. With the rest of your stuff in the wash, you hoped to get at least one request off the checklist:

TRMAN22: Bet you’d look sexy in a schoolgirl outfit!!

TRMAN22: Why don’t you try one on for me?

It was gag-worthy and gross. Slightly alarming for a man who was more than likely twice your age and old enough to remember Watergate, but you agreed to play along. Your old school uniform was, after all, the only clean clothes you had left, and ‘TRMAN22’ was, unfortunately, your top subscriber. He’d paid $300 for this video alone.

TRMAN22: Wear some NEON pink panties for me too ;)

You squatted in front of the washing machine and stuck a hand inside. You sifted around, furrowing your brows.

The brightest undies you owned were in there, soiled, but you figured you could get away with one gross article of clothing, all things considered. You reached a little further and continued to dig. When you couldn’t find it by feel alone, you peered inside the circular, metallic cavern of the washing machine and craned your neck.

Not here…not here…not—

You tilted forward, venturing a closer look with your head, then shoulders, pushing into the machine.

—here, not here, not—

“EW!” you shrieked.

In your search, you’d inadvertently brushed up against a mildewed piece of clothing that had gotten wedged between the grooves of the washing machine’s interior.

A pair of boxers, it seemed.

You recoiled as soon as your fingers grazed the wet and smelly thing. Your skull went crack against the low-sloped ceiling of the appliance, and a jolt of pain was quick to course through you at the contact. You groaned.

Of course Joel had forgotten some old, cum-stained scrap of fabric out of his last load. Always leaving his shit around for you or your mom to pick up like he owned the place. And here you went, again, angrily plugging your nose and pulling as hard as you could on the shorts to get them free from the washing machine. You hardly thought twice, just made a face and then yanked on it.

The boxers wouldn’t budge.

You tugged even harder. The fabric stayed put.

Something akin to a grunt and a whimper, only far more pathetic, slipped out of your mouth, and you slapped the half-hollow steel wall in frustration. Surrounded as you were—fully encased in metal—the sound just echoed.

“Fucking…CUNT.”

You weren’t sure if you were talking to the shorts, the machine, or Joel Miller in the abstract. Or maybe all three. You just hated the thought of washing your lingerie with your stepdad’s skivvies, and no amount of rational thought or practical reasoning could hold you back now.

The tip of your index finger sank deep beneath the same ridge of the wall where the boxers had gotten stuck. You curled it inward, trying to loosen the material up a little. You wriggled your knuckle even further. And just when you managed to get a hold of the cusp of the tangled fabric—just when it seemed the green plaid cluster was about to give way—you heard a low pop. You felt it, too.

Shortly, your finger was pinched inside the deep, blunt valley of steel that had similarly snagged Joel’s boxers. It seemed you’d pushed the tip of your finger so far that you were caught straight down to the second knuckle—trapped between two grooves of unforgiving alloy inside the washing machine tub with no clear means of escape.

You jerked your arm back, panicked. When the metal sank its teeth even deeper, you didn’t stop. Completely heedless of the pain, you operated on impulse and by the feeling of needing to get the fuck out of that little space, quickly, and instead yanked your hand back even harder.

To your horror, your finger was stuck.

“FUCK!”

You stared down at the poor digit, only half-visible inside the wall at this point, then glanced down at the heap of sweaty, sticky, slutty pieces of clothing that were presently strewn about you, and felt an even deeper stab of dread. Stuck inside your family’s washing machine with every bit of damning evidence one could hope to have—and wearing your old school uniform to boot—you realized at once you were fucked if you didn’t get out.

You slammed your palm against the nearest wall once more, shaking your other wrist like an unruly child.

“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!”

You weren’t good at solving problems. In point of fact, you sucked at all things prudent resolution-related and regularly made it a habit to capitulate whenever you sensed loss inevitable. You were a little like your mother in that way, quick to give in to life’s uglier challenges. The only way you could conceivably claim to be stronger, the only place you always had the strength to say ‘no’ was—

“Aw, shit.”

—Joel.

Your throat tightened as soon as you heard the voice. Your eyes went wide, and the rest of you went numb.

Bent at the waist and kneeling with half your body inside the washing machine, you remained there, motionless. Back arched and ass out. Thanks to the way you’d rolled your old plaid skirt, the fabric covered almost zero cheek.

Someone behind you cleared their throat. Then coughed.

And coughed again, again, and again. Evidently trying to clear the smoke out of his lungs and the surprise from his eyes as he drank in your sight from the doorway.

“What in the—wh—th—” You could hear Joel wheeze, beating his chest with his fist, “What— in— the hell?!”

“Help me,” you hissed.

You weren’t sure why you chose that as your go-to. It just sounded like the right thing to say, and frankly, you weren’t sure how else to distract from the fact Joel was probably gawking at your ass as he coughed up a lung.

“The fuck do you mean ‘help’?! What are you doing?”

The coughing subsided, if only momentarily. You tried pulling back on your finger again to get out, but couldn’t.

“I-I’m…I was just…” you stammered, heart racing.

You heard the tread of heavy footfalls. You felt them.

“Just—trying…” you ventured again, suddenly at a loss for words and breath alike as you felt a presence draw in.

You could smell him.

That realization alone made you want to stop taking in air altogether. It happened out of instinct, really—feeling the shift of two huge boots settle behind your feet and then flinching inward, further inside the metal tub for…safety? A pang of abject humiliation? You were far past the point of civility with the man, caring what he thought, or fearing for your modesty in a position like this, but something about the proximity now just made you itch.

You wished your finger wasn’t jammed inside this appliance so you could give that feeling relief, somehow.

At length, Joel’s voice dragged you back:

“What’s stuck?”

Too calm. A second passed. Then he added, more stern,

“This some fuckin’ joke’a yours or somethin’?”

“No!”

“Then what—”

“My finger. My finger’s stuck.”

You tried to crane your neck to see behind you, but all your eyes had to feast upon was denim. Bluish-grey stonewashed denim, faded with years of use. Joel stood back for a second, as if considering what to do, and then you saw two hands descend to brace themselves against his knees. He bent at the waist to get a better look below.

When his eyes locked with yours, you got the same twist in your gut as you’d felt before, only sharper. Shameful.

The look on Joel’s face was abnormally bright.

“And how on earth did that happen, dumbass?”

Your shame morphed into chagrin in a blink, seeing the ghost of a smile bleed into your stepdad’s features.

“‘Cause of you, leaving your shit in here!” you snapped. Your chin jerked toward the green fabric, “I was just trying to get your boxers unstuck—and my finger…”

Your finger was kind of fucked.

Joel cast a look inside at the source of your frustration. He extended his left arm and reached over your torso, and as he did, you felt the slightest, albeit solid, sort of warmth press in. The man let out a low groan of exertion—likely at the strain the movements placed on his joints.

The warmth got worse. You weren’t sure where it started.

Vaguely, you were aware of Joel’s thumb pressing into your hand. Gliding down your finger, stroking across the spot where your knuckle had gotten caught, he circled over it, slowly, and made another sound in his throat.

“Well that ain’t…good.” Not one to mince words.

By now, your whole body was on fire. You barely had the strength to keep kneeling, much less speak to the man thumbing your hand and pressing his heat so close—

“Just get me out!” you shrieked.

You heard your mother’s voice in that. A shrill, impatient lilt in her speech that came out, invariably, around Joel. Normally, he would have done something to deserve it. But today, with his hand splayed over yours and his breaths as calm and even-keeled as he could hope to have them while he tried to help, he was blameless.

Evidently, he heard a trace of your mother too, because you heard him laugh. You felt the reverberations of his amusement travel up from his belly all the way to his lips.

“Cool your pits, kid.”

For that, you would’ve loved nothing more than to reach back with your free hand and hit him in the balls. But, as it was, this man was your only hope for escape, and he was being tolerably polite, anyway. He pinched your finger between the tips of two of his and gave it a tug.

“Okay, lemme just—” Joel started.

“Why are you home, anyway?”

The question came out more clipped than you meant it.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Joel countered evenly.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

You reckoned he could probably feel you roll your eyes, even if he wasn’t able to see you do it right now. He waited another moment, then leaned back on his haunches and withdrew his arm from the tub.

“Mama don’t like me drinkin’ and drivin’, you know that.”

With that, the warmth was gone. Joel retreated.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

You heard him exhale a little harder through his nose. When he’d steadied himself against the washing machine, gave his knees another second to prepare for getting up again, you could feel his eyes back on you. Maybe he lingered longer than his legs really needed.

Maybe if he hadn’t stayed crouched like that, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to give your surroundings a second look. He wouldn’t have stopped to watch the rate of your breaths pick up or the way your skin startle to bristle with some strange, unknown sensation. He certainly wouldn’t have felt for himself the fever leaking out from the base of your spine right then.

Today just wasn’t the day for keeping secrets, it seemed.

“And what’s this?” You could feel Joel lean back in.

He was looking again. Peering inside. Steadying his weight with the edge of the washing machine gripped in one hand, while the other snaked its way back inside.

You’d already squeezed your eyes shut by the time Joel got a hold of something. You didn’t know what it was.

But it became painfully clear that it wasn’t just one ‘thing’ that had grabbed his attention at all, but rather a series of items that his hands were just now getting to explore. You didn’t have to see his broad and tan, callus-streaked fingers to feel them roaming over your clothes.

Gross.

Gross.

“Gross,” Joel agreed, as if he’d read your mind. Grinning.

If you thought the embarrassment was bad before, you really only knew a fraction of what humiliation could be. Your finger throbbed along with the pulse in your skull.

Your mother’s husband whistled and lifted something.

“Darlin’, this is just…disgusting.”

You winced. You tried not to pry an eye open, to steal a covert look through the frame of your lashes in that dim and crowded spot, but the inducement was too great—Joel was dangling one of your lime green G-strings like it was a fish he’d just caught out on the lake. Boasting it.

Doting, almost.

“Well I’ll be—”

“Will you quit?!” you snapped.

You grabbed the thing out of his hand and threw it aside.

“Can you be serious? For one fucking secon—”

“Oh, I’m bein’ serious, sweetie,” Joel cut in. Cool as ever, “Serious as the business end of a .45, I swear.”

He paused. Then he reached for a white nylon bustier, drenched in a layer of honey that was as hard as a rock.

“Do you always keep your little…skank tanks so filthy?”

That was it. You kicked your heel back—and up—and made a pass to hit your stepdad square in the balls.

Your aim wasn’t the best it’s ever been, seeing that half your body was trapped inside a home appliance at the moment, but what your jab lacked in accuracy, it made up for in force: your foot plunged into the seam of Joel’s jeans full throttle. From the way the back of your heel plowed into his crotch, and the sound that clawed out of his throat the same instant, you reckoned you did okay.

What you weren’t expecting was a smack in return.

An answer in kind—delivered by the palm of Joel’s hand.

A taut, thoughtless THWACK on the swell of your ass.

Your mouth fell open. Your body barely had the chance to recoil when, shortly, another blow landed on your cheek.

Joel spanked you.

Spanked you.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he spat. His palm had slid up with the weight of his last slap, and now his fingers were clenched in a fist in the back of your skirt. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel him gripping fabric. It was firm.

He was firm—unrelenting in his hold.

Kneeling behind you, yanking back a handful of tartan skirt like it was nothing, then sidling up behind you.

And just when your attention was drawn to some other firm thing, it was shortly diverted by another sensation.

“JOEL!” you shrieked as he gave you another spanking.

The bare skin of your cheeks was on fire. Joel hit hard. Just when you feared you might legitimately whimper with the sting of that last blow, and while the imprint of his palm was still fresh, you felt it move again. Lower.

“Joel.”

That came out more like a whine than a cry of protest. And how could you, now, when he was soothing the raw bite of his hand with a touch that was kneading the skin?

Working the soft, supple flesh of your ass in his hand like he’d never dream of being anything else but gentle to it.

“Good?” Joel said.

Your head flinched to nod, but your brain thought better.

It did feel good. So good, in fact, that your eyelids were starting to droop just a bit and your back was subtly arching into the touch, but those were only instincts. Stupid, useless, brain-rotted reflexes born of years of paternal neglect and replete indifference, the likes of which could bring a grown man to his knees, begging—

“Please.”

But the entreaty was your own, and the voice that spoke it was hoarse. Your belly sank into the circular aperture of the washing machine, and you could feel your ribs scraping close to metal. Nevertheless, you didn’t mind. That ditzy lizard brain of yours was starved for physical touch, and who were you to deny her at a time like this?

No, not when Joel was squeezing like that.

Groping was the more appropriate word for it, really. Notwithstanding the decades of sexual experience that no doubt preceded the man that was standing before you—behind you—today, Joel was unduly coarse. His broad, weathered hand made as if to cool its former sting, but the motions themselves were jerky. Desperate.

He needed this worse than you, the fucking pervert.

Just when the realization had begun to settle over your mind and your legs were getting to feel a little less like jelly, knowing you weren’t the only weak one here, Joel’s palm slowed down. He pressed the heel of it into your flesh as if to force himself to stop, then he took a breath.

“Now use your words.”

“But—” you sputtered.

“I said,” Joel resumed, and you could sense it was through gritted teeth. His movements came to a halt.

“We use our words when we want somethin’, hear?”

It was the first you’d heard Joel attempt to enforce anything close to discipline with you in your life.

That had to warrant a little defiance, no doubt.

Under your breath, quiet: “So ‘we’ includes ‘you,’ too?”

Beneath that one, seemingly innocuous question was lurking another, and both of you knew it: Remember that time you put a fist through the kitchen wall? Was that a good example of what it means to ‘use words,’ Joel? Whether it was adequate provocation or not, you could sense what was coming next before you’d even finished. When the spank landed on your right cheek so loud that it echoed, you didn’t flinch. You did snag your lip between your teeth to keep a sound from spilling out.

“A dad makes rules. Ain’t his to follow,” Joel growled.

You blinked and bit down harder. Watched the broad, amorphous shape of the man’s reflection shift along the back metallic wall in hues of grey and blue and wished you had the strength to turn around and face him then.

“You aren’t my dad.”

“Said ‘a’ dad, didn’t I?”

“You’re not that either.”

Heat was rising to your cheeks again, this time for different reasons. For a cause you were far better acquainted with to date—annoyance at Joel.

“So that means I’m—”

“Nothing. You’re nothing to me,” you finished, tone wry.

Nothing to anyone, you wanted to add. Not with a shiny gold band latched onto your left hand to tell the world that you’re married to my mother, a pack of smokes tucked away in the jeans she washes every week, or a couple years spent under the same roof as me. Nothing.

Your teeth clamped back down—and almost sank clean through your lower lip this time—when next you felt a touch at the plush, covered mound that was normally shielded between your legs. The spot that was hardly ever tilted up in a position like this, exposed to the air and a man’s hungry gaze, now invaded by the press of a single thing: a warm and soft middle finger at your core.

Joel brushed the tip of it against your entrance, through your panties, and sucked a breath through his teeth when both of you felt a tiny squelch at the pressure.

He pressed harder, and the wetness only spread.

You didn’t have to be in Joel’s position to know what he was seeing, but the feeling from his finger overpowered any better sense to speak—or tell him to stop. He traced his slow, cruel circles against your warmth and moved it up to where he knew he’d find your bud, and when you whimpered, he simply added his index to the mix. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind you were leaking heat at that point. You could feel it seeping beneath his touch.

“Nothin’, huh?” Joel breathed, voice low. Your arousal made a sickening hiss beneath his fingers as he rubbed you even harder, “This feel like nothin’ to you, honey?”

You couldn’t speak. He knew you weren’t capable of it.

“‘Cause this sure don’t feel like nothin’ to me.”

Wet and tacky beneath his touch, your warmth supplied the answer that your mouth couldn’t form. It came out in more of a tap, tap, tap, punctuated by breaths that were toiling in earnest not to turn into moans too soon. But, as hulking and clumsy as his hands had once shown themselves to be, the old man knew where to put them, at least. He made circles on your clit with practiced ease.

“You can try lyin’ to me, but she can’t.”

He was right. ‘She’ was a traitor.

You could deny it all you wanted, but the proof was there.

Indeed, she was crying. Aching. Bleeding with desire. Throbbing beneath the pads of Joel’s fingertips and growing only more desperate as he increased the speed of his touch. When he notched the drenched cotton to the side, you had to grit your teeth to keep in a whimper.

Joel whistled.

“See? Seems like she likes me just fine right here.”

Your jaw stayed wired shut with the weight of your own humiliation. Instead of answering aloud, you hummed. Made a sound low and soft in your throat like, ‘Uh-hmm’ and tilted your hips, as if you didn’t know how else to ask. Joel couldn’t see inside the washing machine, but he must’ve felt the gesture, because he greeted it with a motion of his own: he chuckled, and he puckered his lips.

And when you felt the warmth of his spit hit you between your folds, your shame should’ve tripled. Should’ve made you flinch away from his touch and tell him that was so fucking gross, Joel, stop, but then he smeared it up your slit. He pressed in and mixed it with the rest of your arousal; any reproach died on your tongue in an instant.

A part of him was on you now. Trickling in, sticking to the most sensitive part of you, and settling into your skin like a glaze. With his other hand, he found your skirt again.

“Who’re ya wearin’ this for, sweet pea?” Joel murmured.

“No one.”

Another glob of spit landed between your cheeks. Now, the man used the lubrication to sink two fingers inside you—pushing them in until the rim of your cunt met his knuckles. You whined at the stretch, felt him coax your walls open with a consciousness and a carefulness that felt almost mean, but then he stroked down the base of your spine with the hand that still held onto your skirt. He soothed your startled cry with a curl of his fingers.

And he found the soft, spongy patch of flesh inside that made your eyes roll straight to the back of your skull, quickly. Working his fingers in and out, flattening the base of his free hand over the skin exposed by your flipped-up skirt, and watching your body give way to the force of his fingers, he was uncharacteristically patient. Exacting in the way he worked your body open to him.

“What do you care?” you groaned. You winced when you felt a squelch signal that he’d stretched you even wider.

“‘Cause,” Joel started, slow. Pumping his fingers through your folds and likely wondering when he’d add a third, “You got your hand stuck in a fuckin’ washing machine, a treasure trove of this slut stuff piled in a heap…I mean…”

“They’re just clothes!”

“Just clothes?”

In the wake of those terse, incredulous words, you tried your best to match his tone—call his bluff—but the only sound that came out of your mouth was punctured by a pitiful whine. He tried another finger but couldn’t fit it in. As wet as you were, and as strong as he was, your cunt wasn’t quite ready to accept all three of Joel’s thick, probing digits inside. You’d fit more than a thing or two with a girth even greater than that in the past, but you figured your nerves might have something to do with the way you were tightening around the man’s fingers now.

Why you couldn’t take more of him in, as much as you wanted him there, felt, at present, like something of a shortcoming, and a pathetic one at that. You let out a breath, and a second later, Joel slowed his motions.

You didn’t expect him to stop. Didn’t hold out a hope he might curtail his pace and talk you through a quiet, gentle arrangement for fitting a third finger inside you—that just wasn’t him. You didn’t have to share a paper-thin bedroom wall with your mother and her husband for the last however many years to know that Joel Miller was not a tender lover. It simply wasn’t in his nature to care.

So when you heard the clink of a belt coming undone a moment later, your senses strangely flooded with relief. He wouldn’t care, wouldn’t inquire, wouldn’t coddle with false, romantic ideals of how a woman should be treated.

In that way, Joel shared something in common with your father after all: he set standards as low as they could go.

“Just clothes?” he repeated, snapping your underwear against your ass and jerking the fabric further aside.

Then somehow send those expectations even lower.

There was a hand splayed out across the small of your back. Another fiddling with the front of his pants, wrestling the button and zip of his jeans in little more than one, two, three careless seconds, before he drew in closer to your rear. Your slit was messy, wet, and exposed to his eyes once again. For a second, you almost took comfort in the fact that your hand was still wedged inside a groove of steel and you couldn’t meet his gaze.

That was, until Joel slid his bare length along the seam of your cunt. When the inability to see him made it so you had no other choice but to be surprised when he finally touched you was unnerving, to say the least.

And when the head of his cock blended seamlessly between your folds, was drenched in less than a blink and nearly notched straight into the place you needed him most—well, that had an effect on him, too. Joel moved his flat and sweaty palm up your back, found purchase in the hem of your blouse, and gripped it. Tugged it down a little more and let a low groan billow out of his throat while he rocked his hips back and forth.

Desperate, clumsy, pussydrunk Joel was back before you’d even realized he’d left. Only now he was keen to put the disquiet and hesitations to rest; he needed to fuck you before either one of you wisened up just then.

Your parts and his commingled again. First, with the lethally warm trail of precum leaking out from his tip. Then the intrusion that followed, inevitably, glossed with self-indulgence and desperation—soiling any semblance of platonic affection or parental attention—as he fed you the first inch of him. Barely half the head got fitted inside and your grip on that was like a vice. Joel’s was bruising.

Suddenly firm on your hips, carving crescents in the skin:

“When’s the last time you got fucked, baby?”

You reckoned Joel had a guess—and it wasn’t correct.

“Last…week,” you whimpered, words punctuated with a sigh as his cock tried to make room for more of him.

Joel sucked in a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. He’d barely gotten an inch past his tip, facing more resistance than he’d felt in a long, long time, and you were wet, but so tight. He was big but not so massive as that. He couldn’t fathom what you were saying was true.

“That…fratboy fuckstick you went out on a date with?”

“Didn’t think you even saw me leave.”

Joel withdrew, gripped your hips even tighter, then drove his cock to nestle three solid inches inside your cunt. It was extra snug, but he made sure to try to loosen you up with a couple short, shallow thrusts and a hand gradually drifting down between your legs. Of course he saw you.

The circles on your clit and slow-growing movements may as well have been kerosene in your veins. With what limited range of motion you had in that grey, compact space, you let out a sigh and dug the fingers of your free hand into the closest scrap of fabric beside you. Joel’s own touch gradually moved from your hip to drag your hand behind your back, clasping his. He fucked in deeper

“So that’s who this is for?” Thumbing your skirt.

“Y-Yeah,” you lied.

“Wanted to send naughty pics in the schoolgirl getup?”

“Yes,” you lied again. You closed your eyes when Joel sank his cock even deeper and made you stretch inside.

“‘Atta girl,” he praised.

It might’ve been the first he’d validated you in your life.

“Grippin’ this cock extra tight, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

Never in a million years would you have imagined it’d come this late—or leave Joel’s mouth in a way like that.

‘Elastic’ wasn’t a word you’d ever used to describe your body, either. Frankly, there was no need for it to be; every one of your partners before had been average-sized, and every other object that went inside you, too, had almost always been a comfortable squeeze between your walls. Outside of maybe your first time and a once-off awkward hookup now and again, you were never forced to feel a stretch to this degree. Joel felt huge moving inside you.

He was nearing your cervix and still nowhere close to the base of his cock. Meanwhile, you were stuffed to the brim, saturated with arousal and his spit, and practically keening at every stab of his hips. You couldn’t reach back because Joel’s fingers were still enmeshed with yours, gripping them hard behind your back. As wore down, fucked out, and desperate as you already were, you were less than only a second away from asking him to ease up.

And then he stopped.

Joel pulled out, let go, and pressed onto the old washing machine, where you heard his touch echo through metal.

He was leaning against it. You were about to turn around. Before you could, though, you felt his form mold into yours—this time not in it, but on it, as he drew closer and once more reached into the space where you were stuck.

“Can you be brave for me, baby?” Joel murmured.

“Wh—” you started, soft, only to feel the words plucked straight from your lungs as Joel leaned his body inside. Carefully, and with concerted effort, it seemed, he was trying to squeeze his way into the O-shaped hole of the washing machine, snaking his arm around your torso.

Pinching your finger again. Breathing just gently enough for his exhales to tickle at your shoulders and your neck.

“Can you be brave?” he repeated, and you weren’t sure you’d ever heard him so soft-spoken, or felt him so close.

You nodded, not knowing why.

Without another word, your stepdad pinched the digit even tighter and yanked it out from where it was stuck.

It all happened so fast. Joel freeing your finger, squeezing it tight, helping you out of that hot and crowded space while your legs gave way like mush beneath your weight—and your hand throbbing in pain. You’d never thought a single finger could cause a feeling as strong as that, but it stung like hell. You almost raked your nails through the man’s arm when he tried to hold you back, holding you up just as well as you stood.

“Joel!” you screeched, like the whole thing was his fault.

You flexed your hand and wanted to sob. You could feel the streaks of pain start to claw up your wrist, were just about to shove Joel aside and wallow in agony, when at length, he did something strange and unexpected again.

This time, he lifted your index to his mouth and kissed it.

It wasn’t a sensual kiss. Coming from Joel, it hardly even seemed affectionate. His lips were so warm and firm and decidedly unacquainted with anything approaching a threat of tenderness that his act read almost aggressive. He let your finger rest loosely against his mouth, and he kissed it again, while his eyes burned holes into yours.

‘You’re okay’ came out muffled against your hand.

“You’re okay—hey—baby, you’re good. Don’t cry.”

You hadn’t even noticed the tears had started to form. You blinked and felt one trickle down your cheek. With the hand that wasn’t holding your wrist, Joel brushed his thumb against that lone trail of moisture. He didn’t cup your face, hold you close, or stroke your cheek in the seconds that followed, though he did keep kissing you.

Or, rather, it—your finger.

Joel didn’t have to care for you at all. He just feared he might’ve pulled on your hand too hard in getting you out.

‘You’re okay’ was being mumbled away like a fractured refrain, touch descending gently to your hip, and his eyes grew softer by the second, surely he had to be thinking it.

Sinking inside you, again. He was standing; your hips were tilted to his, and your ass was pressing flat against the front of the washing machine. All it took was an inch or two off the ground and your limbs hanging limply around his hips for Joel to fuck back into you. He sucked on your finger so hard you feared the skin might actually bruise—a hand hickey, of all fucking things—and when his grip tightened on your side, you knew he felt it too.

His teeth succeeded his lips in an instant, and he was biting, gnawing pathetically as a groan shuddered through his chest. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said the sound was veering perilously close to a whimper.

Fully sheathed inside you, Joel Miller didn’t seem to care. His lids fell like lead across the upper half of his brown, glossy eyes, and the expression behind them was blank.

Safe.

“‘S’alright, baby,” he grunted. Maybe he’d just seen you wince, as he cradled your hand and withdrew another inch, “Keep squeezin’ me, it feels real good. Right here.”

Out of instinct, your gaze drifted down to the spot where his body joined with yours. The sight was hardly a shock, but the feelings it evoked were not—he had you split along two-thirds of his dick, a pretty shelf of belly protruding beneath and gleaming with the arousal he’d drawn out from your body. Tufts of silver and grey littered his skin in every direction, aged muscles tensed with the weight of each thrust, and the warm weathered hand that hadn’t dared touch you once before today was now cupping your chin. Tilting your head closer to him.

“Right here, baby. Look at daddy.”

Wild, unbridled heat flooded your brain in a second. The thing seared the insides of your skull with all the force of a fire and stole the air from your lungs just the same—still, you couldn’t refrain from making a face in disgust.

“What the fuck, Joel?” You shouldn’t have liked it.

His hand ascended your throat in a blink.

“Ain’t that what you want, sweet pea?”

“I—”

Just as you started to answer, though, his cock took a dizzying plunge, hitting exactly the right spot inside you. Like clockwork, your mouth fell open, a whine tumbled out, and Joel took that as his chance to grip your neck even tighter and push your hips against the washing machine, where his height afforded him an easy hold.

“What you want—”

He squeezed harder.

“—what you need—”

You gasped, starved for air. It wasn’t every day a man took your breath away. Not like Joel could, anyway.

“—is me, ain’t it?”

The gaze fixed on your face was alight with desire.

“Bet you miss him somethin’ awful, huh? Been needin’ a man to fill that spot ever since he left, haven’t ya, baby?”

‘He’ required no further clarification. The words stung. You communicated as much by wriggling your hips back and pressing your hand against Joel’s chest, just quit it.

Keep fucking me, but shut the fuck up about my father.

“I don’t miss shit,” you sniffed. Felt the head of Joel’s cock carve a shape somewhere deep inside your body and couldn’t pretend it wasn’t filling a metaphorical void someplace else. You hadn’t got this much attention from a man as many years your senior since…well, ever, really.

You preened beneath his touch. Wanting to feel. Wanting to please. Wanting, more than anything, to be needed.

Joel sated each craving with a simple hand smoothed over your face. His palm moved from your throat to your chin to the hinge of your jaw before coming to rest at the nape of your neck. This time squeezing lightly, bringing your face in close while he fucked you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and your stomach tightened inside you.

“That’s alright,” he said, words hardly above a whisper, “No need to miss that man at all, ‘cause I’m right here.”

For once the assurance came as somewhat of a comfort. You suspected it had something to do with the fact he was balls deep inside you and pushing you closer and closer to the brink of release with each painstaking stab of his cock. You fisted his flannel, holding him there. Spreading your legs, accepting his thrusts, taking each movement with ragged, shallow breaths and moans that blended with his own, you felt your body grow warmer.

Almost febrile beneath him as he tilted your head again.

“Who’s your daddy now?”

You winced, shaking your head. You hated that word.

“Who’s your daddy?”

Joel lowered his hand and began to thumb at your clit. Hot pleasure coursed through you, made you whine at the contact and dig your heels even deeper in his back.

“Who’s your daddy, baby? It ain’t that hard to say.”

But it was. Joel stroking your clit, stuffing you full, ghosting his lips against yours without ever furnishing a kiss, just goading you on with: ‘I know you wanna say it.’ Tough grey stubble teased your mouth with each word.

“I know she needs to cum, sweet girl. Know that poor little pussy’s taken a beating—and she’s done so good for me—but she needs to let it out now. All over me.”

His gaze held yours. You couldn’t turn away.

An unmistakable tenderness pervaded that look, and it didn’t seem keen to depart. No matter how tightly you pursed your lips, made fists in his shirt, or choked his cock between your walls in fluttering, desperate pleas, the man remained calm. Attentive. The eyes didn’t stray.

“It’s okay to say it.”

“C-Can’t—”

“Sure can. Be the easiest thing you ever do—D-A-D-D—”

“Please. Please.”

You hardly even knew what you were asking for at this point, only beholden to that big, swollen something in your tummy starting to give way beneath the push of Joel’s cock. Tightening up, leaking out, practically drooling down the length of this man who seemed relentless in his current pursuit. Two more circles on your clit and you were keening, whimpering pathetic as ever:

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

“Say it now. Who’s it for?”

Above you, Joel’s teeth gleamed in a smile—or a snarl, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the pleasure, the concomitant pain of having to contain this desperation while his thrusts sped up. You were bouncing on him, getting fucked against the washing machine in the raw and terrible central Texas heat wearing a sheen of sweat and a set of clothes that no longer fit your body, but that was just fine. You were okay. Joel was here, and he was holding your head, lips hovering less than an inch away.

“Who’s. Your. Daddy?” His words were slow. Coarse. Spilling into your mouth with every short puff of breath.

You couldn’t take it. You felt a band of pressure come to a head in your belly and the brush of Joel’s cock making its rounds in and out of your swollen cunt, pushing hard, and you knew that you’d had enough. He knew it, too.

“Y-You.”

“Who?”

“Joel.”

“Who?”

Your wet, pearly slick rang a deafening pitch. Enough.

“You, daddy! Daddy—please, fuck—I-I-I’m gonna cum.”

“Gonna cum for me? Make a mess of your old man?”

“Make a m-mess— yes, daddy, yes—” you slurred.

Joel drove his cock, fully coated in you, down to the hilt. He captured your lips in a kiss and didn’t even mind your mouth was whining, hissing, whimpering its filthy pleas for him to fuck a nice, big orgasm out from your body.

“—want yours inside,” you added, without realizing it.

“Sweet girl…” Joel groaned.

You didn’t know what you were asking him for. How badly he wanted it, too. His cock dragged in and out of your precious cunt and was barely more safe from the threat of its grip when you spasmed, at the last. Joel should’ve expected no less, after all the time he’d spent teasing and edging, then begging you gently, in grunts, ‘Cum for daddy, baby. Let me have it, that’s it, good girl.’ Still, somehow, he wasn’t prepared in the slightest.

When you squeezed your eyes shut and kissed him back—that was all it took. When you clenched on his cock, gave the front of his shirt a tug, locked your ankles about his hips so you could more properly increase that friction by fucking him back, grinding in place, he feared he might fairly make an irreparable, unforgivable mistake.

And when the whites of your eyes appeared again—eyelids fluttering open while your lips were glossed with his spit and a lazy smile—and said what you said next, he sensed that his fate was sealed. The old man was fucked.

“Cum inside me, daddy. Please.”

Joel couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. He shuddered, then flooded your insides with rope after rope after rope of his spend, burying his face in your neck and taking your hips in his hands like a looser grip might lose you to him forever. He fucked his cum deep, deeper, darlin’ don’t move, can’t lose a drop, baby, please, he let out a whimper that made your walls pulse again. You felt him fill you to the brim and keep rutting his hips. Your body and his were shaking by the last of it.

And when he was finished, Joel dropped a kiss along your limp, glistening lips. He slid you back on the metal. By the expression on his face, it was plain to see he was loath to withdraw, but he had to. That tender little hiss and the sounds of your shared fluids trickling out were all the impetus he needed to act quick. As soon as he’d pulled out, Joel was back leaning against the washing machine—tilting your hips back a little, then lowering his sweaty, handsome head to the spot between your legs.

The wrinkles to the sides of his eyes grew more pronounced when he smiled. A happy grin, plastered across his lips, would have struck you as almost smug, were it not for the look of sheer adulation that followed it.

Joel was enthralled, watching his cum leak out of you. He kissed your thighs, flickered his gaze to your own, briefly, then damn near sank his nose inside the place he was watching before your fingers stopped him cold.

It was your body, after all. He had already had his fill.

Hardly knowing what came over you in that moment, you sank two fingers inside your wet, drooling hole and watched the eyes of the man beneath you go wide. He soaked in that sight completely: you pushing his cum back in, drawing it out, using the viscous white liquid as a lubricant of sorts before releasing a pleased little sigh.

Joel closed his mouth reluctantly. It took him more than a second to tear his eyes from that place, but when he did, the motions were quick to grow assured, by turns.

As if remembering something.

In a second, the innocent smile you’d seen before was being infiltrated, slowly, by a look you couldn’t place. Joel’s grin morphed from gentle to contented to plainly enthused and beaming ear-to-ear with a conceited glint. With his finger, he tugged your panties back into place.

“Baby—” he started, only to be cut off lightning-quick.

“What? What is it?”

His smile stretched even wider. By that act alone, you were half-tempted to forget the events of the last hour and set your jaw in a scowl. You looked down, unamused.

“What?”

“It’s just…” The man trailed off, and as he did, his gaze descended with it—straight down to your bare pantyline.

You cast a look there too—“What the fuck is it, Joel?!”

At that, two brown eyes flitted back up to you.

“I thought I asked for neon pink underwear, baby.”

Your breaths slowed. His gaze didn’t waver. Your heart came to a standstill in your chest, and you were amazed you had even half your present willpower then to speak.

“Wait, Joel, wh—”

“Shame you couldn’t get around to filmin’ today. Had me hard as a fuckin’ rock with all that milk and honey stuff.”

You nearly choked on your spit. Joel kept grinning.

“You’re—”

The guy. That fucking subscriber. The one who’d paid almost $500 in commissions in the last month alone.

You stared at Joel with eyes as wide as saucers, and were about to press on, when you heard the front door to the house shriek back on its hinges. Two sets of footsteps followed it, and their entry inside was loud.

Immediately, Joel rose to his feet. It seemed that grin wasn’t meant to stay long on his lips, because the next thing you knew, he was dropping a kiss somewhere soft and sweaty on your face and flipping your skirt back into place, holding his index up to his lips and stepping away. Your mouth twisted into a frown but stayed zipped out of sheer necessity. Seeing this, and likely unable to help himself, your gross, depraved, grinning old man leaned back in and planted his hands on either side of your hips on the washing machine. His nose nudged into your own.

“Between us—” he began, slowly.

“Get fucked,” you finished for him.

Joel nodded his assent, smirk faint. He cast a look over his shoulder, and, hearing what sounded like your mother’s footsteps drawing closer, lowered his voice.

Rubbing his thumb under your chin, making you tip your head back to meet his for one final look—then a kiss:

“You keep my secret, I keep yours, alright?”

—

Note: I’ve never done a real writing challenge before, but hopefully this fic will work for #hotdilfsummerchallenge !!! @hellishjoel this is such a fun ass idea & i hope you enjoy❣️

[turtlesandfrogs]

You know what I'd like to see more of? People romanticizing making your life good in the cities and suburbs (as opposed to moving to the a rural area and having a farmstead).

Like, how cool is it that I can walk to the grocery store? That a library, a farmer's market, and a plant store are all a short bus ride away? How wonderful that I can engage with a community of gardeners, foragers, circus folk and more without having to drive half an hour or more each way? That should I need it, a hospital is less than 10 minutes away?

I think we could stand more imaginating about changing zoning codes so that more neighborhoods are mixed use, so we no longer have vast spreads of suburban houses with nary a grocery store or library. I would love to see more posts about how people are working to actively build community in their neighborhoods, building mutual support networks, and engaging in what's already there.

Are there down sides to living inside of city limits? Yes, of course. But there's downsides to rural living that get washed over, and more than half the population lives in suburbs or cities. So maybe we can do some daydreaming about how to make life here good?

[hairmetal666]

Wayne's used to worrying about Eddie. He should be; he's been doing it since the kid was twelve. First it was Eddie's silence, his permanent frown, the way the bones stood out too prominent on his small wrists. Then it was the kids at school, taunting him and calling him names, the fights and calls from the principal's office. Next came the late nights, the drinking, the dealing, failing his senior year twice. But all of those times, every single one, Wayne had known what to do. Maybe it wasn't perfect, maybe it took a little time, but he'd always figured out exactly what his boy needed.

And now--now Wayne doesn't know if he can help; knows it's not in his power to fix it. 

So, he sits for the second week in a row, watching his nephew--his whole heart--sitting in front of the window, looking out at the forest, nursing the same cup of coffee that he poured six hours ago, and wonders how in the world he can help.

They're cleaning up from dinner, Eddie quiet at his side, when he says, "Gonna need some help with the mugs tomorrow."

After moving to Oregon once Eddie graduated and he retired, he found an affinity for pottery. Never woulda thought it, but he loves it and tourists love his booth at the farmers market.

He can't think of a better way to get his nephew out of the house, but wonders if he doesn't know his boy as well as he thinks after a decade in Los Angeles, that Eddie'll refuse. He just nods, though, goes back to drying the plate in his hands.

And next morning, right at 6:45, Eddie is in the living room in black jeans that are so worn they're nearly grey in places, and the threadbare Metallica tee Wayne thrifted for him nearly a decade back. It's a win. Small, yes--Eddie doesn't even complain once about the country-western station Wayne plays in the truck--but still a step forward.

Wayne wastes no time parking and handing Eddie a box of carefully packed merchandise. He leads the way, trusts that Eddie is right on his heels until he hears Jim Hopper's voice say, "You better keep an eye on those mugs, son. Your uncle will tan your hide."

He turns to see Hopper balancing one end of Eddie's box, Eddie's cheeks flushed pink. "Sorry, I--uh, I've got it now." Hopper lets go and for the briefest instant Eddie's eyes dart to the side and the pink in his cheeks grows deeper.

Wayne tracks the path Eddie's eyes took and finds--he swallows back a chuckle--Steve Harrington just setting one of his Adirondack chairs into place, his t-shirt lifted to show of a stretch of stomach.

Well. Eddie did always like the pretty ones.

They setup the booth in companionable silence, and Hopper pops back over for a proper introduction. Before he departs again, he says to Eddie, "I got some kids who really love that dnd game and your show. They're going to be crazy to meet you. That okay?"

And Eddie, he's a good boy, he smiles and nods but as soon as Hopper is out of earshot, Wayne's saying, "Hop's kids and their friends are big fans and I know you're heartsore about the cancellation, but you better be polite."

Eddie glares. "What do you think, old man, that I'll be mean to children?"

"Well, with how you've been moping around the cabin these last few weeks, hard to know."

He scoffs. "Yeah, well. Netflix putting your hit show on indefinite hiatus without warning or explanation will do that to a guy."

Wayne knows there's nothing he can say to soften this hurt, so he gives Eddie's shoulder a tight squeeze. "I'm proud of you no matter what, son."

His nephew nods, eyes down, but Wayne doesn't miss the small, pleased, lift at the corner of his lips.

The morning passes smoothly and Wayne pretends he doesn't notice every time he finds Eddie's gaze straying to Steve's booth.

The kids come by around noon, Dustin Henderson breaking away from the pack to shriek, "You're Eddie Munson!"

Eddie smiles, stands. "That I am, young adventurer." He bows low, exaggerated and the kids giggle. "Pray tell, what are your names?"

The chatter is fast and easy, Eddie the happiest he's been in weeks, and Wayne relaxes back in his chair, lets out a long, slow breath of relief at the breaking storm. He stretches back in his chair, eyes catching on Steve Harrington across the way. Steve who is watching Eddie and the kids with an expression Wayne can only think of as fond.

Wayne isn't one to play matchmaker, but--he thinks, just maybe, just this once he could nudge.

It happens late in the afternoon, when business has well-slowed, Eddie asking, "Um--that guy over there, who is--what's his deal?"

Wayne thinks he manages to keep all traces of amusement from his face and voice as he answers, "Who? Ohh, Steve Harrington. He's the guidance counselor down at the middle school. Does a bit of carpentry in his free time. Best friends with the woman who owns that little bookstore."

He watches as Eddie processes, as his eyes widen, probably in remembrance of the pride flags and Protect Trans Kids shirts, how the woman in question wore a lesbian flag pin on her apron. "Guidance counselor?" He says eventually. "Kind of a drag."

"You would think, but the kids love him. The ones you met earlier today? He babysat them for years; imprinted on him, Jim and I say."

"Hmm," is the only response he gets, Eddie's attention back on the man in question.

---

The day after the market, Wayne walks into the living room to find Eddie's laptop tucked into the cushions of the window seat. He hasn't seen the thing since Eddie came home, never used to see him without it, and this--well.

He says, "need to run into town for a few things. You up for a trip? You might could stop at that bookstore."

Eddie nods, takes a sip of his coffee--he's actually drinking it-- says, "Yeah. Yeah, I think that'd be cool."

The store isn't busy when they arrive, and Wayne drifts towards the magazines to leave Eddie to his own devices.

Wayne loses himself to quiet browsing, wanting to give Eddie space, to maybe chat with Robin Buckley, strike up the beginnings of a friendship. Enough time passes, though, that Wayne is wondering where his boisterous, noticeable nephew could've disappeared to so silently.

He winds around a shelf and sees Eddie and Steve Harrington in deep conversation. He can't hear it, not really, but they're standing close, with pink in their cheeks. As he watches, Steve says something that makes Eddie laugh and pull a few strands of hair over his mouth.

They're almost inseparable after that. Eddie, Steve, Robin, and all those kids. They play dnd, have movie nights, spend hours at the diner. And Eddie, he's writing, sketching, gets down Wayne's acoustic guitar and plays around for a while.

When he asks how things are with "that Harrington boy," Eddie flushes red and says, "none of your business, old man" before giving Wayne a quick, affectionate squeeze. 

---

Two and a half months after Eddie came to stay, Wayne's walking back from the river, the sky the light navy of new dusk. His fishing rod is draped over one shoulder, tackle box held easily in his fist, the walk home pleasant, a perfect end to a good day.

The light from the front porch seeps through the trees, and he's thinking about a cold beer, a warm pizza, if Eddie's found his way home yet, when figures standing on the porch stop him in his tracks.

It takes a second, longer, for his eyes to adjust from the dark of the woods, and the glow of the bulb, but then he sees--

Eddie and Steve locked in a fierce embrace, desperate and very much private.

He turns right back towards the river, doesn't mind giving the boys some time.

He waits a good half hour, just enjoying the forest, before heading back. Steve's car is gone, the porch vacant, but the cabin is lit up, bright and warm and inviting.

Wayne steps inside, and his nephew is there, laptop open, but he isn't working, just smiling to himself, chin resting on his fist.

"Okay?" Wayne asks.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Eddie's smile doesn't fall from his face.

He doesn't want to interfere, ask too much, not when he's sure things are still young. Instead, he asks, "What'd you say to ordering a pizza?"

And Eddie, heedless of Wayne's question, says,"you know. I've been thinking about maybe staying here for a little longer."

And Wayne, his smile grows, and he claps a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "You're welcome here for as long as you want. Already consider it your home anyway."

[ham1lton]

WET DREAMZ.

pairings: sebastian vettel x reader. lewis hamilton x reader. jenson button x reader. nico rosberg x reader. fernando alonso x reader.

summary: when you move next door to a hot single dad, you take it upon yourself to seduce him. too bad for you that he uncovers your plan. you’re not exactly subtle.

warnings: sexual content. like most of this is straight up smut. mdni. explicit mentions of f!reader’s body parts. charles cameo in nico’s! implied cheating in fernando’s.

author’s note: i woke up in a fugue and wrote this as i ignored all of my adult responsibilities. show it some love <3 also no beta. we die like men.

— taglist | tip jar | feedback and requests | masterlist | ♡

SEBASTIAN VETTEL ✿

when your company allowed you to work remotely, you moved into a smaller village on the outskirts of germany. your family and friends weren’t too happy with your decision to move but with the current economic state of your country at the moment, it was great for your bank account.

your house was a modest affair, with three bedrooms but a gorgeous kitchen that gave you direct visual access into your neighbour’s backyard. the same neighbour who knocked on your door when you first moved in, with a jar of honey and some eggs as a housewarming gift. he was covered with a light sheen of sweat that would have seemed disgusting on anyone else. he introduced himself in german and switched to lightly accented english when he saw your confusion.

he’d sometimes pass you when he was walking his dog, or cycling to the farmer’s market. he’d make his kids wave hello as he’d pick them up and drop them off at their mother’s. he’d take your cakes when you’d exhausted your baking hobbies and would burst if you’d have another slice. he’d grin and smile bashfully when you told him you’d made one just the way he’d liked it.

as you watch him, he turns around and waves at you. a big grin splitting his face as you wave back. you’re so fucked. you spent an hour on facetime last night with your best friends as you went through the pros and cons of fucking your hot neighbour.

the cons outweighed the pros mostly, if it went badly you could lose access to the free gifts he’d bring by occasionally or his help when he would have a look at your car when it started spluttering when you needed to buy groceries. it would be weird too. aren’t adults supposed to be on good terms with their neighbours?

it didn’t stop you from you asking him if you could wait out the storm in his house instead of yours as all the lights had gone out and when he kissed you, you were shocked. you hadn’t needed to come up with a plan to seduce him into wanting you, because he already did.

he had you spread over his lap, his ring finger and his middle finger already in your centre. the sounds of your arousal filling the room as you fucked yourself against his digits. he smiled into the crook of your neck before kissing it.

“i knew you were this desperate for it,” he hums, his german accent thicker as he pressed his thumb lightly against your clit. he’s teasing you, and normally you’d be okay with it. playing this mutual game of cat and mouse but not when you’re this desperate to get off. “it’s okay. because i was desperate for it too.”

your eyes roll back as you reach your peak.

LEWIS HAMILTON ᯽

after your promotion, you decide to treat yourself to a summer home in monaco. it’s a flat in an expensive complex, with a pool, a gym and even a spa. you’d spend many days relaxing and enjoying the amenities or shopping with the bonus money that your boss had bestowed upon you for sealing a contract with one of the biggest businesses in your country. this was your time to relax.

yet, you couldn’t relax. as you finished your daily workout - yes you now had the time - you saw the hottest man in your entire life walk past you in a loose gym set. embarrassingly, you were filling up your water bottle which overflowed and covered you with the excess. thank god he didn’t see.

you hadn’t been much of a femme fatale, you were more of a business woman in your head. your sister told you that there wasn’t much difference between the two, just that the femme fatale chose a different line of business. it was that comment that encouraged you to start your plan of seduction.

it wasn’t working, even when you wore your best gym outfit, the one that made your ass look incredible, or when you attempted to bump into him at the complex’s coffee shop in the cute two piece that exposed your best assets. it seemed like he disappeared.

until he knocked at your door at the middle of the day, you opened it to see him dressed in a suit. for a selfish second, your thoughts drifted to him wearing this for you.

“do you mind watching my dog? roscoe is in a mood today and my usual dogsitter is busy. i have a meeting that is impossible for me to get out of. you’ll be doing me a big favour.” oh. he was british.

you smile at him, as graciously as you can. thanking god that you had just come back from brunch with the girls, so your hair and makeup were still done. you told him all about how much you love dogs and you wouldn’t mind at all watching his fur baby! you were a lovely neighbour after all.

he repaid the favour later anyways, on his knees and in between your legs. he pulls down your underwear, you had shaved in anxious preparation for this moment, your arousal leaving a stain against the fabric. he pressed his thumb against your folds before licking a stripe between them. his tongue flicking against you, as you pressed down harder on his face.

your moans were loud and unapologetic. you had a gorgeous man between your thighs, eating you out like this was his calling. he grinned at you, his face drenched in your juices. you groaned and put your hands on his braids.

now this was a holiday.

JENSON BUTTON ☆

moving to the big city was supposed to be a shock, but you took to it gracefully like a duck to water. london wasn’t the nicest to everyone but it took a liking to you. you bought a house with your best friend in a family neighbourhood with low crime rates and a high chance of getting more money when you’d both inevitably sell it in the future.

it was walkable which you loved. you could walk less then ten minutes to go shopping. you had come back with a few shopping bags when you accidentally bumped into your neighbour who was coming back from picking up his daughters. he laughs at the action as he apologises and gives a hand out for you to shake.

“i’m jenson. sorry about that, these two usually have me run off my feet!” he points at his two daughters who have already ran insider the house. “it’s like they’re my parents.”

after shaking your hand, he takes his cap off and runs a hand through his slightly greying hair. he’s wearing a pair of shorts with a loose t-shirt. it is almost summertime but the weather in london had a mind of its own. sunny one day, rainy the next and freezing for both. but jenson didn’t seem to mind the cold.

you introduce yourself and he listens intently until you realise that you have to go. there is frozen food in the bags and jenson’s daughters are calling for their post-school snack. but after that meeting, you always time your post shopping trip for when jenson comes back with the girls. your roommate/best friend doesn’t protest when you insist on the shopping being your chore but she does give you a sideways glance when she sees you chatting with jenson again on the step.

one night, you’ve come back from a date. it went awfully as per usual, although london seemed to love you and want you, the men didn’t seem to. you’re home late, when you rummage in your purse and swear loudly. you brought the wrong purse! you could call your roommate but she sleeps like the dead and probably wouldn’t answer. you’re thinking of breaking through the window when a voice calls at you.

“y/n?” jenson grins at you. “are you alright?”

after a moment, and a few minutes of arguing that you’re fine to sleep in the bushes, you’re inside jenson’s home. dressed in a pair of his old clothes. he hands you a cup of tea and puts down a packet of biscuits next to it.

“so, are you going to tell me why i caught you dressed to the nines and attempting to break through a window?” he’s trying to sound stern but he’s smiling as he says it.

“bad date,” you start and smile ruefully, taking a sip of tea. “forgot my keys and well, at least you caught me before i did any damage.”

he laughs. you laugh too but not before realising that there are probably kids sleeping in the house. you bring this up to jenson who waves off your concern.

“the girls are at their mum’s. it’s just us. don’t worry. you can be as loud as you’d like.”

you end up being very loud as you lay on his very comfortable bed. he’s tapping himself again the hood of your clit as you squirm breathless from the earlier orgasm he gave you. he smiles at you, leaning up to kiss you as he slides in, swallowing your gasps as he kisses you firmer.

“you know how long i’ve dreamt of having you like this?” he asks. you shake your head, moaning again as he fucks you harder. “since the first day you bumped into me, in that little fucking skirt. dreamt of bending you over and having you like this. anyway you’d let me. would you?”

you nod, voice locked in your throat as he mouths at your tits. he smiles at your willingness.

“good. we have the entire weekend to ourselves. let’s see how many times i can get you to cum. hmm?” you squeeze yourself around him as you have your first orgasm. your cunt spasming as he gently pulls out. he lets you rest against him for a moment, taking a deep breath as he runs a hand down your back.

“now that’s number one. keep count for me darling, okay?”

NICO ROSBERG 𑁍

you weren’t a yacht person. when your university friend had begged you to come home with her for the holidays, you hadn’t expected the family party to be held on a yacht. this was out of your tax bracket.

it seemed like everyone in monaco was right. the casual displays of wealth and decadence made you sick at times. thinking about how the money that went to buying that birkin bag could have made a change in someone’s life. then you think about how you’re wearing a custom gown on a friend’s yacht and realise that you’re now part of the problem.

a bonus about being in monaco, was that the men were gorgeous. your friend’s older brother charles was handsome with dimples and a gorgeous accent. if he hadn’t been in a relationship with a supermodel, you would have been all over that. thankfully, there was more eye candy in the city. your friend’s father had a business partner that was in their house more often then not.

he was blond, blunt and pretty in all the ways an older man could be. when he looked at you, you felt like the world could burn at your feet. he had also been on the yacht at the same time as you. drinking champagne, mingling with family and investors as you ate canapés and watched the sky.

“is it boring you?” he asks, as you turn around. he was dressed in a loose linen shirt, light coloured trousers with his shirt open just enough to see the smooth skin underneath. “can’t believe she brought you to a work event.”

“it’s fine. there are worse places to be.” you respond. you take a sip of champagne and you both ignore the fact he watches the sip go down. he takes note of the way that you’re still looking in the direction of charles and his girlfriend, the two still wrapped around each other.

“you’ve fallen for the charles charm?” he says, smiling as he sits across from you. he puts his ankles up on the table like he owns it, which he probably does. you can tell a lot from a person’s body language, and his is telling you that he’s used to getting what he wants. “it’s a shame. another pretty girl lost in his eyes. want another drink?”

“pretty girl?”

he nods, blue eyes darkening as he looks at you over the rim of his drink.

“would you want me to show you how pretty i think you are?”

so that’s how you find yourself bent over the sink in the bathroom at a yacht party, your pretty dress bunched up at the waist as he presses his fingers inside you. scissoring them to stretch you wider.

“is this what you imagined he’d do to you?” he asks, voice curious. “that he’d go down on you in one of the bedrooms? he’d let you go down on him? that he’d split you open with his cock as we all walked around upstairs?”

you sob as he talks you through it, mascara running down your cheeks. how are you going to explain to your best friend that you fucked her dear precious uncle nico while talking about her brother. he grinds his palm against your clit as he stands up and gags your mouth with his fingers.

“can’t be too loud honey, don’t want them to hear you.”

FERNANDO ALONSO ꩜

spain was a big adventure for you and your boyfriend. the two of you made the decision to move for a few months to his grandfather’s home to help redesign the place. it was slightly run down but nothing that you couldn’t fix. the goal was to rebuild it in order to sell it off.

however, you hadn’t foreseen that this would effectively destroy what relationship you had with your boyfriend. he insisted on not signing the place under your name despite you also funnelling funds into the rebuilding of the house. after another argument, you decide to take a break. wearing a bikini, and armed with nothing besides water, sunscreen and a good book, you make your way into the backyard. sunning yourself to at least gain something from all the money you’ve put in, even if its just a tan and a relaxing afternoon.

“you’re the new neighbour?” a voice calls out, as he leans against the fence that separates your property. you knew the next door neighbour had kids, you could hear them playing occasionally in the summer sun as you painted. you didn’t know they had a hot dad. that’s new information. he smiles at you. “it’s been a while since there has been a young person. the old man who lived here has been here since before i was even born. you’re his kid?”

“no,” you laugh. “he’s my boyfriend’s grandfather. i’m just here as a cash cow apparently.”

your voice turns a little bitter but why wouldn’t you be? you have put in the same amount of time and effort as he has onto this place and now you’re not getting anything back. court is an option but it’ll drain even more of your bank account.

“why is that?” he asks, head tilted as he looks at you.

you end up spilling everything to him. about the house, the money, the contract that has your name redacted. in return, he tells you that his name is fernando and the kids you always hear playing in his back garden aren’t his but rather his nieces and nephews. it’s nice listening to him speak, with the heavy spanish lilt to his accent. he is the first person in a while who has just listened to your grievances so when he asks you inside for a drink, you don’t hesitate. grabbing your wraparound skirt, you follow him inside.

less then ten minutes later, you’re on his lap, as he presses his mouth against your tits. enveloping one nipple in his mouth while his fingers move to play with your other one. you grind down harder against him, feeling your clit brush against the hard muscle of his thigh. your bottoms are soaked with your arousal as you lean closer and bite his shoulder to stay quiet. he leans away from you for a moment, as your eyes widen worried that you’ve done something wrong.

“don’t be quiet hermosa, let him hear it,” he grins up at you then leans in for a kiss. “isn’t that most of the fun?”

author’s note: sorry y’all idk what came over me.

[vivwritesfics]

Mrsvettelsgarden

Seb's wife has a garden, and doesn't quite understand instagram

mrsvettelsgarden

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username1 hands up if you didn't know this was sebs wife

username2 i'm so in love with their garden

username3 remember when she invited all of the drivers over and cooked for them?

username4 omg yes, she rly is the best wag

username5 mrs vettel pls teach us to garden

mrsvettelsgarden

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username6 omg guys seb built her a greenhouse

username7 mrs vettel what're you growing?

username8 get yourself a man who loves you enough to build you a green house

username9 it's so cute omg

mrsvettelsgarden

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username10 omg they look so good

username11 does anybody know why mrs vettel never writes a caption

username12 lmao she doesn't know how to write a caption

username13 seb pls teach your wife to write captions we want to know about her garden

username14 who is ur favourite wag and why is it mrs vettel?

mrsvettelsgarden

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username15 the garden looks so good girlie

username16 i want her to sell produce at a farmers market so i can buy it

username17 omg and if seb gets bees they can sell honey

mrsvettelsgarden caption: brought seb to the garden and he took some lovely pictures

username18 omg her attempts at a caption is so cute

username19 mrs vettel let me teach you instagram

[tame-the-lion-writes]

fae(?) bunny shifter reader x konig

I love it when konig calls reader haschen (and forgive me for not using accents on letters--I don't know how to add them on my computer). Hence why I love the idea of reader being a literal bunny (and yes--this is inspired by that one manwha I forgot the name of, but disregard that!)

There's really no sane explanation as to how Konig ended up with you in his bed. And I don't mean in a sexual way though it is hard to keep his eyes off you considering the fact that you're stark naked. As far as he knows, Konig hadn't drunk that night. Definitely didn't take any drugs. All he did was scoop up that rabbit that's been begging for food on his back porch, after he'd made friends through edible offerings. (Otherwise, the tiny rascal would be digging up his garden again.) Let it--her?--snuggle close into his side on a particularly cold night, when the first snow began to fall.

Then he blinks, and the girl is gone--replaced once again by that fluffy little thing.

Konig panics for a half second, wrenches the blankets from his bed. As if a whole human being could hide under already-flattened sheets. Once he realizes you're not there, though, he once again takes the bunny in his ginormous hands and continues to stare. Because what the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Over the next few days, he doesn't dare keep the rabbit in a cage, or kick it out again. He just observes it intently like one would waiting for water to boil. But nothing ever happens when he's ready for it--the girl appears only when his back is turned, when he's exhausted. When he's blinking away sleep in the morning light. There in a flash, and gone again. He genuinely thinks he's going crazy, especially when food starts piling up in random places. The closet. Between the couch cushions. Food too big and too much for a mere bunny to move. But surely that's impossible. He's never taken to folklore or spells or--

Then he installs a camera.

"She is magic!" he once yelled, shoving the bunny in a visiting soldier's face. Meanwhile the rabbit's nose just twitches, innocent and seemingly oblivious. All he gets is a weird stare.

"Sir, I think you need to see a doctor--"

"Magic!!!"

_

Bonus Thoughts:

You're not even a stray. Not even wild. You have a cottage a little further into the woods, but your human neighbor's been awfully generous despite having caught you stealing a few times. Whatever. Free food is great. Free anything is great. Not to mention the TV and microwave, and other gadgets you've never seen before. Hence not realizing what the hell a camera does, and why he's now extra manic after he installed one in his room.

Speaking of benefits, you also no longer have to get your steps in. He carries you around in his pocket wherever he goes. So now you get to see the world, too--the farmer's market, the gas station, etc. And when you seem particularly interested in something, he buys it right away. Now you've got a little corner of trinkets from your mini-travels, all for you.

Oh, and lots of chin scratches. Pat pats. Naps in his lap because you fit there so perfectly.

Will he ever see you--live--in your human form for more than .5 seconds? Maybe. Maybe it happens in the middle of the night, when he wakes up to a weight on his chest, and your hair sprawled across his shirt. Maybe it happens, and you just give him a slow, sleepy blink, and nuzzle into the crook of his neck. Maybe he's yours now, and he hasn't realized it.

His bunny. Your man.

[writeaboutit]

Donation Boot

How firefighter Abby and Reader met

Hello hello it’s been a bit so sorry but I had this idea for a series of sorts following firefighter Abby x Reader through life. I have ideas for a couple more stories but if you have any suggestions leave them in my inbox for sure 🤍

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: none just fluff

You heard her key jingle in the lock from the kitchen. The metal on metal scratching noise was like music to your ears despite it being like nails on a chalkboard to others.

That noise meant your wife was finally home. All day you had been waiting for her to come home, missing her warm cuddles. She left for the station before you had even woken up.

Usually you stirred awake for the briefest of moments in those early hours when you heard the shower start, you made it a point to stay awake just long enough to say an I love you as you sent her off to do her work. You never knew when it might be your last so you didn’t chance it.

But last night the melatonin must have hit you extra hard because you didn’t even register Abby’s movements when she leaned down and pressed a warm kiss to your brow bone before clunking out of the room in her steel toed boots.

You regretted not waking up; no more melatonin for you.

The front door creaked open and you heard your dog’s collar jingle as she ran to greet your wife.

Abby must have been following the dogs lead to your presence in the kitchen because you heard her mutter, “Come on, where’s your momma?”

Your heart was instantly a mushy puddle on the tile floor following the comment. Just as you finished drying your hands the love of your life rounded the corner.

She was wearing her normal uniform. Not the big, bulky, fireproof suit but the fitted jeans and the navy blue t-shirt with the station’s logo over her breast.

You were such a sucker for a woman in uniform, it’s how she caught your attention in the first place. But what kept you around was that blinding smile she had plastered across her face that first day.

You and your friends decided to visit your local farmers market during second year of college. It was a fluke really, you weren’t even planning to go with them but after days of them whining that you could spare a couple of hours away from the text books and come have fun you agreed.

The local fire station had a booth set up collecting donations and the truck open for kids to climb in and take pictures.

One of your friends thought a fire fighter was hot and insisted on getting a picture with him by the truck (her very obvious way of flirting). You couldn’t blame her though because you had your eye on one of the younger trainees.

She was working the booth, tracking donation levels and you knew you would hate yourself for the rest of your life if you ignored your gut.

So, despite you being 19 and a broke college student you approached. They were collecting cash donations in one of the big fire suit boots.

You slipped the only cash you had on you into the dark depths of the boot, ten dollars, and were planning to make your way back to your friends, chickening out of talking to her, when all of the sudden you heard, “Hey, wait!”

You turned around and there she was. She had gotten up from her perch and made her way around the table. It was a bit jarring at first. She was tall, muscular, that tight ponytail made her look very sever, and here she was leaning over you with an expectant look.

“Yes?” you asked hesitantly.

“Don’t you want your coupons?” she asked suddenly realizing that she was close and backing up a step.

“Sorry?”

The confusion must have been written on your face because she immediately explained in a sort of rambily but very cute way, “When you donate you get a coupon to the local grocery store… and some other stores but honestly there all the old lady stores in the mall. The grocery ones the only one worth it.”

You just smiled softly at her over explanation. You expected her to be this over confident, maybe slightly douchy character from the way she approached before but really you could see her nerves peaking through now.

It only made you more attracted to her in all honesty.

“Oh right, yeah thanks.” you took the coupon sheet from her and after a moment of tense silence between the pair of you, you both went your separate ways.

It wasn’t until later that night when you went to cut out the grocery coupon and throw out the rest that you realized she had messily scribbled her name and number onto the think colorful price of paper.

You squealed, your roommate asked what was wrong and then you both quickly plotted on what you should text her.

It was simple really just a quick hey this is so n’ so, how are you?

Your phone only sat face down for a total of three minutes before you heard the chime of her reply and the rest is history.

Now seven years later your wife, the nervous fire fighter with the tight ponytail, was coming home to you. You would share a meal, a shower, a bed. It was the life you always wanted and all because you went to a farmers market on a random Sunday seven years ago.

That blinding smile that caught your attention all those years ago was plastered across her face now in the small kitchen of your small house.

Her setting her bag down on the island brings you out of your memory.

“Hey honey,” you greet, making your way to her.

“Hi baby, what were you thinking about just now?” she wraps her arms loosely around your waist.

“Hmm nothing much just your pretty smile,” she rolls her eyes, never one to take a compliment, “Speaking of which, that smile usually means you’re plotting something. What is it?”

She looks down at you and smiles, “You know me too well. I was plotting on what we are going to do over the next three days that I have off of work.”

That gets you excited. It’s not often that she gets time off of work. Sometimes you don’t even see her for days at a time when she has to sleep at the station. Three days off in a row is practically unheard of.

“Really?”

“Swear,” she kisses your forehead.

“Eek, so what were you planning?”

She chuckles and belts her arms just under your thighs, lifting you into the air, “Oh I think you know exactly what i have planned.”

Her voice turned seductive and husky. You squealed as you became level with her face. You both laughed into a soft kiss, one that was definitely going to lead to a forgotten dinner on the stove and a closed bedroom door.

[jinwoosbabyboo]

"Will You Marry Me?"

How I imagine LADS Men would propose. This is part 1 of 2. I tried to do the sweet elegant writing, but that ain't me so here you go....

Zayne

Zayne definitely shows his love through his actions.

He's the type to be nervous the weeks leading up to his proposal. He won't show it though his coping mechanism would just be to work more hours to avoid thinking about all the reasons you'd say no. So you'd barely see him for weeks.

Don't worry though trust he's planned everything down to the last minute. He even tried to plan how the conversation would go. He quickly scraps that idea when he remembers he can never predict your response considering the way you always surprise him with your antics.

He's private about your relationship (Private not a secret read that again twice). He wouldn't want a crowd or prying eyes he'd want a cozy afternoon at home with you. The PERFECT cozy afternoon. He'd have you sit down on the couch as he'd bend a knee and give you the most Shakespearian speech you've every heard in your life before ending it with a......

Zayne: I know I've told you before nothing last forever but I'd like to be your nothing and last forever .... Will you marry me? MC: You're my everything Zayne Zayne: Is that a yes? MC: Yes yes of course

How could you even think of saying no? He would also turn you every which way but loose to celebrate. The aftercare would consist of a hot jasmine scented bath with you to relax your muscles. That nap would hit different after that cozy afternoon. ;)

Rafayel

Rafayel is so silly he'd stumble and drop the ring down a drain or something. I bet you thought thats what I'd say huh? Wrong number babes.

He can be serious when he wants to and he'd want his proposal to be perfect as well however he would want to have fun prior to asking just to calm his nerves. He'd take you to a festival or a farmers market or the arcade anything to take his mind off his racing heartbeat for his plans later.

When the time comes he would take you to a quiet gorgeous beach at sunset (A place where he feels the most calm) and right when nightfalls. Fireworks. Perfect timing huh? Coincidence? I think not!

He always finds you beautiful no matter what. He could stare at you for hours and never get tired of looking at you. There was something about you in the moonlight mixed with the awe on your face while watching the fireworks. You were unreal.

He'd wait until you're completely enamored by the fireworks before subtly mentioning something further down the beach. You'd turn quickly seeing beautiful candle light set up complete with a heart shaped flower archway covered in Flame Lillies. It was ethereal.

MC: Oh my gosh someones getting proposed to Rafayel: Lets get a closer look MC: No we might ruin it let's stay here Rafayel: It'll be fine I know the person proposing they haven't got there yet we can go look MC: Fine but quickly

Rafayel would lead you over directly in front of the archway where you would pull at his sleeve to try and leave. Because why does this man got you in the middle of someone else’s proposal set up??

MC: Your friend could be here any minute we should leave Rafayel: He's here MC: *Looks around frantically* Where?!? Rafayel: It's me MC: *Turns to see Rafayel on one knee*

His speech is an absolute tear jerker. He'd promise to love you endlessly and passionately. "I promise to chase you to the ends of the earth even in death I'd find you in the next life"

Rafayel: So ... will you be my beloved bride? MC: YES!

Me personally I'm tackling his fine ass in the sand after he slips that ring on

Xavier & Sylus here...