#A Guide to Modern Cooking

[cooking-pol-martin]

Methods to Madness: Shrimp-Stuffed Eggs

While I have long declared that my goal in this ill-advised Cooking Pol Martin project is not to pick recipes that will obviously fail so I can dunk on them, I will admit I do sometimes pick recipes because of a high level of WTF. So it was with "Shrimp-Stuffed Eggs," a dish which seemed like deviled eggs, except for the inclusion of tiny potted shrimp. Like I didn't know if I could find potted shrimp in an American grocery store in the year of our Lord 2025. After the fiasco with trying to find a loaf of un-sliced bread, I'm not taking anything for granted.

Choosing a recipe that is deviled eggs adjacent is potentially unfair for another reason: I made fucking excellent deviled eggs. I have no less than three plates made specifically for deviled eggs -- an Easter themed one, a yellow melamine one, and one made out of fancy china with a gold rim -- in addition to several dedicated Tupperware-style carriers for eggs of the devil. I could make literally dozens of deviled eggs and have something deviled egg specific to house them.

Which reminds me, while my kid and I were driving around getting ingredients, I wondered why they're called deviled eggs. My kid looked it up, and the reason ended up being so much funnier than I expected. Quothe Wikipedia:

The English word "devil", in reference to highly seasoned food, was in use in the 18th century, with the first known print reference appearing in 1786. In the 19th century, the adjective "deviled" came to be used most often with spicy or zesty food, including eggs prepared with mustard, pepper, or other ingredients stuffed in the yolk cavity.

So first off, I never want to see the term "yolk cavity" ever again. Ever. That disquiet aside, I think it is so unbelievably funny that the English thought something made with pepper or mustard was spicy or zesty. Like the British more or less conquered the world to capitalize on the spice trade, and then never fucking used them. Colonialism is stupid.

Potential unfairness aside, I'm beginning to trust that Pol knows what he's doing -- barring horrifying microwave-themed disasters -- and I can learn from his expertise. It's not like I have any training in the kitchen; all of my knowledge comes from trial and error. The rhubarb pie I made this weekend from a Pol Martin recipe, for example, definitely taught me a trick or two for a dish I've made dozens of times. Maybe I could learn some tricks to make my deviled eggs better.

Turns out, 100% true. I didn't boil the eggs to his specifications because I do not believe that 10 minutes is nearly enough to result in a hard-boiled, or even a soft-boiled egg. I have this useless theory that everyone has a slightly different way of hard-boiling eggs that works for them, but if you try someone else's method, it'll go to hell even if you follow their instructions exactly.

But I did follow his instructions to mash the eggs yolks through a sieve. This is an instruction I'd seen before in one of Pol's pasta salads. While I thought this was madness, it worked a treat. I've always had trouble getting the yolks to mash completely, without lumps, and pressing them through a sieve makes the filling smooth and uniform. The sieve does look super gross though.

After the egg yolks got sieved, I was to puree a can of potted shrimp. Now, the only context I'd ever seen canned shrimp in is the Bad Sex in Fiction Award given out by the literary magazine Literary Review for the "most outstandingly awful scene of sexual description in an otherwise good novel." The prize for this ignominy is a year's supply of potted shrimp, which I assume is no more than a single can. Past winners include such luminaries as Stephen King, Morrissey, and Haruki Murakami. But we ended up finding potted shrimp easily in the local Cub Foods, right next to the canned tuna like you'd expect. Hilariously, the can was labeled "tiny shrimp."

What we did not find easily was a jar of caviar, which Pol recommends as a garnish. Now, I know that caviar is more or less a metaphor for rich asshole stuff, but that's kind of unfair. There are so many kinds of fish roe. While you can absolutely drop bank on beluga caviar -- like thousands of dollars -- other fish roes are much more reasonably priced, plus it's not like you're using much anyway. I found a jar for $7 at the grocery store by my house, which is a lot of money for an ounce of anything, but not so ridiculous I couldn't cough it up. I did not buy the salmon roe for $25, just to be clear.

After sieving the eggs and pureeing the shrimp, I was to mash in a couple tablespoons of butter, and then more than a couple tablespoons of mayonnaise. The butter legitimately seems nuts to me, because I cannot understand how that makes any sense in a filling for eggs. But whatever, this is Pol's rodeo. But as a Mayo-American, I really took issue with how little mayo I was to include in the egg filling. I solidly doubled the mayonnaise because that makes the filling light and creamy. Pol had me finish with dashes of paprika, lemon juice, and Worcestershire sauce. I approve of all of that.

Here's where the real goofiness ensued: Pol directs the reader to spoon the shrimp filling into a pastry bag with a star nozzle in order to fill the egg white halves. I went into the basement to try to find a box of kitchen shit I know ended up down there in the move, but that was not a success. So the kid and I got those plastic nozzles you can find in the cake aisle. I was going to use that and a Ziplock bag with the corner cut off to pipe the filling into the egg halves -- despite knowing that was going to go to shit fast -- but then my husband somehow magicked a Spritz cookie press out of the basement instead.

I don't think anyone much makes them anymore, but I remember making Spritz cookies during Christmas as a kid. You put cookie dough into what is basically a caulk gun with different shape-holes, and then extrude said dough onto a cookie sheet. (I apologize for using the word extrude.) The one I have currently -- which I found at a thrift store, natch -- has like a dozen possible shape plates, everything from stars to gingerbread men to camels. I found a star one and got to it.

Once I got the hang of it, the Spritz cookie press actually worked really great. Maybe a real pastry bag would be better, but then I've also never had a pastry bag do anything but break halfway through whatever I was doing, so maybe this was the best possible timeline. I topped everything with a small spoonful of caviar. Because this is not my first rodeo, I had an extra two egg halves that I'd ripped when shelling the eggs, so my kid and I ate those after filling the fancy china deviled egg dish.

Reader, that shit was sublime. I am not fucking around: these were so stupid good.

That said, I don't think that Pol's "Shrimp-Stuffed Eggs" are better than my own deviled eggs, though I do believe that my deviled eggs will get better as a consequence. Sieving the eggs is brilliant; no lumps. And I really love the caviar garnish because it's the right kind of salty and fishy to work with the filling. I've always used capers as a garnish on deviled eggs -- which I will continue to do because they have an almost citrusy saltiness which works with the fattiness of the eggs -- but I'm going to use fish roe too. It's super pretty, plus it's delicious.

I began this essay talking about how I'm not trying to pick terrible recipes and then dunk on Pol for them. But that's the kind of double negative that often turns out to be passive-aggressive bullshit. (And I'm a Midwesterner; we learn passive-aggressiveness at the knee.) So I want to say again, full-voiced and without innuendo: Pol Martin knows what he's doing. His cookbooks include carefully laid out and illustrated techniques, and there's joy to his experimentation and exploration. Sure, the Pol's recipes can be dated and regional in ways that make them ... not successful, but, as I've said before, I believe Pol Martin is a mensch.

Which is why it's so ironic that the Cooking Pol Martin project started with some videos detailing deeply unholy microwaved nonsense perpetrated by our titular French-Canadian chef. I did not have "learn grudging but honest respect for the dude who microwave-seered chicken livers" on my bingo card. While drinking. (Both him and me.) Honest to god, this project has been a journey. Who knows what'll happen next?

[rxttenfish]

HEARTBREAKING! i finally realize that not everyone else has the "shitsucking rapist" as their favorite way to write vampires.

[megathoughtfulcollectorpeace]

Informative Guide to Informative Guide to Top Notch Coveted Modern Bathroom Design Point Cook VIC

Renovation Experts is a family-operated company based in Melbourne, Australia, specializing in kitchen, bathroom, and laundry renovations. They focus on delivering superior and cost-effective renovation projects, treating clients like family to ensure a positive and customized experience for every project. Their approach involves a three-step process: initial consultation, conceptualization and planning, and construction, which helps streamline projects and ensures minimal disturbance to clients’ day-to-day activities. The firm delivers a full range of solutions, which includes custom kitchen creations and setups, bathroom remodeling, laundry renovations, cabinetry and countertop installation, plumbing, electrical services, tile installations, floor setups, appliance and fixture installations, painting, finishing work, and project coordination. This extensive list of services guarantees that all parts of a renovation task are taken care of, providing a one-stop solution for clients’ demands. Best Revered Bathroom Remodeling Services Point Cook VIC Renovation Pros prides itself on its team of expert design experts and skilled tradespeople who work closely with clients to bring their renovation visions to life. The designers are passionate about their work and seek to create elegant and functional spaces tailored to clients’ preferences and budgets. The firm also utilizes relationships with local suppliers to offer great deals on materials, which are passed on to clients, adding to the cost-effectiveness of their projects. The business’s focus on quality and customer happiness is evident in the rave reviews they receive. Clients value the careful attention to detail, timely completion of projects, and the overall expertise of the Renovation Pros team. Their collection of projects displays a diversity of completed remodels, demonstrating their ability to take on both small and large projects across homes and businesses. In addition to their main services, Renovation Pros delivers informative home renovation tips and advice through their website, aiming to guide and support homeowners in making informed decisions about their renovation projects. This commitment to client education, together with their excellent services and family-oriented approach, makes Renovation Pros a well-known brand in the Melbourne renovation market. Check out our new post: Top Notch Coveted Modern Bathroom Design Point Cook VIC Top Notch Coveted Modern Bathroom Design Point Cook VIC Informative Guide to Top Notch Coveted Modern Bathroom Design Point Cook VIC Informative Guide to Informative Guide to Top Notch Coveted Modern Bathroom Design Point Cook VIC

[femmeroll]

older!sevika x younger!reader is currently occupying all my thoughts…(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

sevika x fem reader

cw: sfw and nsfw, age gap (everything is legal!), modern universe, fingering. if u don’t like it then don’t read it

older!sevika who has a hard time expressing her feelings for you through words. she feels awkward and out of character doting on you verbally.

she shows her love by acts of service and gifts. if she sees you eyeing up a dress while out shopping, she’ll buy it for you without a second thought. if you mention a craving for a certain meal, she’ll buy the ingredients and have it cooked for you the next day.

older!sevika watches youtube shorts at full volume everywhere. you get a little embarrassed when she plays them out loud in public, but you know she doesn’t mean to.

she also sends you like…fifteen instagram reels a day. most of the time you just heart them or send a laughing emoji.

the first time you use the crying emoji as laughing, she asks you why the video upset you.

older!sevika listens to a lot of classic rock. she’s not opposed to listening to whatever you’re into, though. she’ll listen to you ramble about your favorite artists for hours if you so chose.

a bit self indulgent…but if you’re into kpop, she’ll stay up trying to remember all the members names. you find one of those ‘guide to [insert group]’ videos on her youtube history one day.

older!sevika loves having you on her lap! whether it’s in public or private, the feeling on you perched on her lap makes her so happy. she likes showing you off.

she’ll absolutely pull you onto her lap in public if someone is flirting with you. it’s her way of saying ‘she’s mine, back the fuck off’ without actually having to say it.

older!sevika answers all of your questions. even if they have obvious answers. her favorite thing to tell you about it sports. she feels so affirmed when she gets to explain football terms to her pretty gf!!

“sevi? what’s a first down?”

“it’s the number of attempts a team has to move the ball ten yards, sweetheart. if it’s the first attempt…”

older!sevika gets so incredibly turned on by you. she’s in her forties, she’s had experience. but no one has ever got her going the way you do. a single brush of your hand against her bicep makes her want to flip you over and fuck you into next week.

sevika’s thick fingers are buried inside of your cunt. your face is nuzzled into the crook of her neck to hopefully drown out your moans and whimpers.

“my gorgeous baby girl. need to make you feel good…so perfect, and you’re all mine.”

she could do this for 10 days straight if she could. she lives to pleasure you. nothing does it for her like seeing you cum. on her fingers, on her strap, on her cunt, on her face. she doesn’t care. your pleasure is her pleasure.

older!sevika who loves her girl with all her heart, and is loyal to you until the very end of time <3

[undeadmagick]

Broke Boy Guide to Altar Offerings

Hey! Are you broke but still wanna offer something up to the gods? Don't worry! (So am i) So here's a guide of things that are either free, low cost or that you probably already own to slap onto those altars. Mind you: These are mainly modern offerings that I attribute to these different classification of gods. I'll likely update as time goes on with other classifications :)

General Offerings to Deities:

random flowers from outside

random sticks from outside

hand written letters/prayers

plushies of the animals they're connected to

raw/cooked meats as "sacrifices"

drawn symbols

Art/Creative Deities:

symbol painted bottle caps

pens/pencils/markers

old sketchbooks

stickers/prints

origami

comic books

figurines

Death Deities:

bones or meat from your meals

dirt from a dead plant

dying flowers

skull imagery

coins or other gifts for those passing

photo/belongings of your late loved ones

Familial/Household/Protector of Children Deities:

photobooth photos

jewelry gifted from family

baby teeth from your children

breast milk

old baby shoes

framed photo of family

cookies/bread

homecooked meals

Fire Deities:

birthday candles

charcoal discs

burnt herbs

alcohol

incense

tobacco

matchbox/lighter

Healing Deities:

your current medications

bandaids

water

skincare

vitamin gummies

spell jar in an empty pill bottle

Knowledge/Wisdom Deities:

old books & textbooks

pens/pencils

mini chess pieces

written down philosophical quotes

good test scores/report cards/degrees

Love/Lust Deities:

origami 3D hearts

chapsticks

unused makeup

love letters to deities

love letters about S/O or crush

current perfume/cologne

current lotions

apples

Nature Deities:

plants dedicated to them

herbal tea packets

feathers

milk

fruits/vegetables

spells using recycled materials (toilet paper rolls, etc.)

bread

acorns

Sea Deities:

beach sand

shells

sea water

tiny sea animal figurines

shared fish dinners

makeshift spell jar using a shell

Trickster Deities:

laffy taffy joke wrappers

cards against humanity packs

other comedy card games

[theangeltopaz]

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY.”

SYNOPSIS. A little self-indulgent drabble-something I wrote for my birthday. :)

CONTENT. SubBot!Male Character x DomTop!Male Reader (first) & DomTop!Male Character x SubBot!Male Reader (second) (separate), anal, bath sex, pillow princess attempts to ride without any help (and fails miserably so you have to teach him), morning sex

AUTHOR’S NOTE. Written without specific characters but I was thinking about modern AU!Mydei for dom!reader and Nanami for sub!reader. imagine whoever you want though. Two different perspectives because I’m a vers and cause I wanted to.

       Working on your birthday was not ideal, especially not when you had to deal with one of your most frustrating clients. However, coming home to your husband always made up for that. He had somehow managed to cook something without burning the house down. Even more of a miracle, it was delicious. Whilst eating, you laughed and discussed how your day had gone. Seeing you frustrated, your husband knew the perfect way to calm you down. 

       He led you to your shared bathroom, where he had set up a warm bath in the large spa tub, complete with lit candles and rose petals and two glasses of your favorite wine. He refused to let you do anything, slipping off your clothing and his own in a teasingly slow manner. He let his hands purposefully graze any zone he knew would get you riled up. 

       He then led you into the tub, sitting on your lap once you had sat down. Your beloved, once again, insisted on taking care of you. He scrubbed your body down with some peony scented body wash, which he must have just bought because you had never seen it before. He wasn’t sly with his end goal, though. He subtly grinded against you as he cleansed himself, disguising it as just “readjusting his position”. 

       He admitted to his motives once he finally finished washing the both of you, when he pressed his hips hard against yours. However, your husband suggested he be the one to take charge tonight, seeing that it was your birthday and he wanted to pleasure you. You smirked, amused by his little show of dominance and eager to see how your pillow princess would fare in an atypical position.

       Not well, apparently. He was struggling to ride you steadily at a pace even close to the speed you’d normally fuck him with. Everytime you attempted to guide him, he denied and pushed your hands off his hips, saying he “could handle it”. He clearly couldn’t, but you entertained his desires a little longer.

       Once you decided you were tired of him unintentionally edging you, you placed your hands on his hips. Firmly, this time, so your husband couldn’t remove them himself. You guided him in slow, languid movements, gently bouncing him up and down your dick. He squirmed in your hands, but he couldn’t deny that this felt so much better. Once you got him to a steady rhythm, you began to thrust up into him to meet each bounce of his hips.

       By then, your husband was gone, mind solely focused on the feeling of your dick in him. His tits and hair bounced with each thrust. He came without warning, clearly already too fucked out to pay attention. However, when prompted with continuing, he eagerly nodded yes. “H-happy birthday, babe,” your beloved mumbled as you resumed fucking into him.

       The bright sun peeked through your blinds as you woke up. The first thing you noticed was the smell of something in the air, then you immediately recognized it: it was your favorite breakfast, specifically made by your boyfriend. You glanced at the alarm clock beside you, which read 8:32. Did he seriously wake up early to cook for you? 

       Apparently he did, seeing as he walked into the room whilst holding a breakfast tray just as you were about to get out of bed. He ushered you back into sitting down and set the tray on your lap. He took the utensil from you, insistent on feeding you himself, saying something about it being your birthday so you shouldn’t have to do anything.

       However, that quickly became heated kisses once you had finished your food. Your beloved moved the tray out of the way and made you lie down on the bed again. His hands move up and down your body, slipping off your sleepwear with whispered words of praise.

       His hips gently rocked against yours as his mouth roamed your body, muttering compliments in between kisses. He folded your body in half without effort, a clearly shameless show of strength on his part. He prepped you slowly, since he wanted to take his time with you today.

       Your boyfriend pushed into you, causing you to gasp in pleasure. Your nails dug into his back as he thrusted into. The soft caressing of his hands contrasted his rough thrusts that nailed your prostate each time. You couldn’t help but moan and scream his name, begging for more or less, you weren’t sure.

       He came deep inside you, as your own cum splattered against your stomach. Your beloved pulled out, gently massaging your now sore thighs and ass with his rough hands. He mumbled soft words of love adoration as he attempted to soothe you.

       He smoothed out the hair that now stuck to your forehead with sweat and pressed a chaste kiss there. Your boyfriend then proceeded to press small kisses all over you, causing you both to break out in a fit of laughter. “Happy birthday, baby,” he whispered against your skin.

[brownsugarcoffy]

The Vine Between Us

Summary

Annie left the Mississippi Delta with a broken heart and a full-ride scholarship, determined never to look back. Now a celebrated professor in Chicago, she’s called home to care for her mother—and the last thing she expects is to run straight into him.

Elijah "Smoke". Her first love. Her first everything.

He disappeared the summer after graduation, leaving only unanswered calls and a goodbye she never got. Now he's back in town, running a moody, magnetic blues lounge with his twin brother, playing late into the humid Southern nights like he’s pouring his soul out just for her.

Annie wants to hate him. She wants to forget the way he made her feel. But one look from those stormy eyes, and she’s seventeen again. Burning, aching, and lost in the man he’s become.

He left without a word. But now? He wants to finish the story they never got to end.

Characters: Annie x Elijah " Smoke" Moore (Modern AU)

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART (2) , PART (3), PART (4), PART (5)

Annie guided the rental car slowly down the winding gravel road, watching as the wild, familiar landscape unfolded around her like an old love letter—creased at the corners, worn with time, but still humming with truth. After years of Chicago’s sharp wind and steel-gray skies, Mississippi felt like a fever dream she’d been trying to forget.

She rolled the window down. The air was thick with magnolia, turned soil, and the faintest burn of distant woodsmoke. Summer here always carried the weight of something sacred and forgotten. Cicadas buzzed a low lullaby through the trees, and Spanish moss hung like secrets from the branches.

The past was stitched into everything. The way the breeze moved through the fields, the angle of the sunlight as it dipped behind the old church steeple in the distance. This place didn’t change. It waited.

Her mother’s house stood stubbornly on the edge of the fields. Its porch sagging, paint peeling, the garden unruly and overgrown. Honeysuckle and jasmine curled up the columns like offerings, scenting the air with wild sweetness.

And just beyond the clothesline and the crooked birdbath sat the old greenhouse—her grandmother’s pride, her mother’s joy, and Annie’s first taste of magic. Once, it had been a wonderland of heirloom tomatoes, hot peppers, and lemon verbena, the windows fogged with life and labor. Now, it was a glass skeleton swallowed by ivy and time. One panel was cracked, another missing, and vines crept through the seams like nature reclaiming what was hers.

Even in its ruin, it stood like a memory refusing to be forgotten.

She hadn’t been home in nearly nine years.

Annie stepped out of the car, adjusting her wrap blouse and brushing the travel from her thighs. She was tall, solid, striking—a woman who took up space with quiet grace. Her brown skin glistened in the heat, and her dark curls, loosened by the humidity, tumbled freely around her shoulders.

The screen door creaked open.

“Annie?”

Her mother’s voice carried out like a memory. She stood in the doorway, frail but radiant in her own way—wrapped in a floral housecoat and a pink scarf tied neatly at her nape.

Annie swallowed the sudden emotion rising in her chest. “Hey, Mama.”

They held each other on the porch for a long moment, their bodies pressed together in the kind of embrace that says everything words can’t. Her mother smelled like lavender, cooking oil, and love.

“You smell like city,” her mother murmured, pulling back with a soft smile. “But your heart still beats Delta.”

Annie laughed, eyes misty. “Something like that.”

Inside, the house hadn’t changed. The wood floors creaked the same way, the photos on the walls—sun-faded and reverent—watched her pass like quiet witnesses. A fan turned lazily in the corner, and gospel music played faintly from the old radio.

Her mother moved slower now. “I’m fixin’ your favorite tonight,” she said, reaching into the fridge with a frown. “But I forgot the buttermilk. You mind runnin’ into town?”

“Of course not Mama.”

Her mother smiled. “I want this meal to welcome you proper. Cornbread and catfish, greens and all.”

She lingered, her eyes drifting through the kitchen window toward the back of the property. Beyond the tangle of overgrown grass and wilting wildflowers stood the greenhouse—leaning slightly now, but still there. Stubborn. Waiting.

She stepped out onto the porch, the boards groaning under her weight. Heat shimmered across the yard. And with it came the pull of memory.

She remembered the way the crickets hushed as they crept through the backyard, their bodies close, movements careful, the house behind them dark and still. Her parents were fast asleep, the old box fan in their window humming loud enough to cover the sound of the creaking porch.

“Elijah,” she had whispered, pausing in the dew-kissed grass.

“You sure they won’t wake up?” he whispered back.

Annie turned, grinning, barefoot. “Not unless you knock over Mama’s canning jars again.”

“I was thirteen,” he muttered, mock offended.

“You were clumsy.”

“You were bossy.”

She rolled her eyes, and he followed her like he always did.

The greenhouse door had groaned on its hinges when she pulled it open. Inside, the air turned warm and wet, filled with the sharp green scent of tomato vines and damp soil. Moonlight spilled through the foggy panels, casting a ghostly glow across the rows of plants. The place was overgrown, wild with summer—grapevines tangled overhead, basil thick at their ankles.

“Feels like a jungle,” he murmured.

“It is,” she’d said, tugging him deeper inside. “A jungle we built.”

They had spent whole summers in that greenhouse, helping her grandmother weed and plant, falling asleep on burlap sacks, eating strawberries straight from the vine. It had been their hideout. Their secret. Their sanctuary.

Annie had sat down on an overturned crate, the hem of her nightgown catching on a nail. Elijah sat beside her, knees touching. Close—too close. His scent mingled with the smell of night: soap, soil, and something citrus just beneath it.

“I still think about that day,” he’d said, voice low. “When you kissed me in here.”

Her breath caught. She had been fifteen. He, just a few months older. It was midsummer, sticky, and loud with cicadas. She had leaned in, sunburned and barefoot, pressing her mouth to his before either of them really knew how to do it. He tasted like watermelon and nerves.

They had laughed. And kissed again.

“I remember,” she whispered now, alone in the yard.

The greenhouse stood still, a skeleton of memory wrapped in ivy. Annie swallowed thickly, fingers brushing the wooden frame. She didn’t open the door. Some things were too sacred—or too dangerous—to disturb just yet.

With one last look, she turned back toward the car. The keys jingled in her hand. She had buttermilk to buy. And no idea that Bo Chow’s Market held more than groceries. It held the beginning of everything she thought she’d left behind.

Bo Chow’s smelled like hot grease, bleach, and forgotten secrets. The kind of scent that clung to linoleum floors and lived in the cracks of old ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a yellowish tint over jars of pickled okra, canned peaches, and family-sized boxes of instant grits. The air was cool, but not fresh—more like recycled and reheated across decades.

Annie pushed open the front door, greeted by the metallic chime of a bell that rang like an old church warning. She stepped inside and was instantly swallowed by the hush of small-town routine. A red plastic basket swung from her arm as she walked, heels clicking softly across tile floors worn smooth by generations of tired feet.

She moved quickly, head down, aiming for the dairy case.

Milk. Eggs. Out.

She didn’t want to linger. Not here. Not now.

But then she heard it.

That voice.

Low. Warm. Smooth like molasses poured over whiskey.“Bo, you barely can handle this place since Grace went to visit her people. She only been gone three days.”

Annie stopped mid-step. The chill from the freezer case crawled up her spine and wrapped around her neck like cold hands.

Every muscle in her body tensed.

Elijah.

Smoke.

Time folded in on itself. Her fingers gripped the basket like it was an anchor. Her breath caught in her throat—shallow, sharp, and instinctive.

She didn’t need to see him to know it was him.

The way he dragged out vowels like he had all the time in the world. That same sleepy southern rhythm that used to whisper down her skin at midnight.

She ducked into the cereal aisle, heart hammering. A box of Honey Smacks nearly toppled from the shelf as she backed up too fast.

And slammed into someone.

“Damn! Girl, you always been clumsy.”

Annie spun around. “Pearline?”

Pearline stood there with one hand on her hip and the other gripping a can of green beans, her face a perfect mix of amusement and mild judgment. “I knew I was gon’ run into somebody today, but I ain’t think it’d be you.”

“I—I'm sorry, I just—”

Pearline leaned in, eyes narrowing playfully. “Don’t even bother lyin’. You heard him, didn’t you?”

Annie nodded, barely breathing. “Yeah.”

“Well, sugar, you too late now. Look.”

Pearline tilted her chin toward the counter.

Annie followed her gaze—and the breath left her lungs.

Elijah stood at the register, framed by the buzz of the lights above and the dusty glass doors behind him. He looked older. Sharper. Not the boy who used to sneak through her bedroom window smelling like night rain and bourbon. No, this was a man now. Solid. Weathered. Still dangerous.

He wore a black tee that clung to his chest and forearms like a second skin. Faded jeans hung low on his hips, and his boots were scuffed and worn, like they’d seen too many miles of regret. His dark brown skin caught the fluorescent glare, highlighting the strength in his jawline, the fullness of his beard. That mustache he used to trim with a razor’s edge was thicker now—more defiant.

But it was the eyes that undid her.

Still deep. Still unreadable. Still pulling at something under her ribs.

Her skin flushed under the weight of his stare. The blouse she wore suddenly felt too thin, her denim skirt too snug. She was exposed. Unraveled. Every part of her remembered him. And she could feel it—he remembered too.

She whispered, “Elijah.”

Her voice cracked like old wood.

His eyes softened for a breath. “Annie.”

Her name sounded different in his mouth. Like something sacred. Or maybe something buried.

She didn’t move toward him. Didn’t dare. The floor between them was heavy with everything they never said.

Then the front door blew open with a gust of hot Delta wind.

“There he is!” Stack burst in like a Sunday sermon—loud, smiling, and just a little too proud. “Come on, man, liquor drop comin’ in hot!”

He stopped dead when he saw her. His grin widened.

“Well hot damn. Look what the Delta blew in.”

Annie was bracing herself when his arms swept her up into a quick hug. “Stack,” she murmured, a half-laugh catching in her throat. The kind that masked the shake in her hands.

“You look like a cool drink on a hard day,” Stack said, eyes twinkling. “Where you been hidin’ that smile?”

“Trying to stay outta trouble.”

“Well, you came to the wrong place for that, baby girl.”

Her eyes flicked past him, to Elijah. Still watching. Still quiet.

Still burning.

“You oughta come by the lounge tonight,” Stack said, still holding her hand. “Me and Smoke got The Cypress lookin’ right. New lights, cold drinks, and our cousin Sammie singin’ like he just got kissed by God himself.”

“Lil Sammie sings now?”

“Sure do. Boy done grew outta his onesie and into a voice that’ll make your knees buckle.”

Pearline laughed behind her. “He ain’t lyin’. That boy good.”

“You should come see,” Stack said, brushing a thumb gently across Annie’s wrist. “Come for the music. Or the hush puppies. Or… you know—unfinished business.”

Annie stiffened. Her gaze flicked to Elijah. He didn’t look away.

“I promised my mama dinner tonight,” she said finally, her voice cool again. Measured. “Can’t break a promise.”

The air between her and Elijah changed.

Thickened.

His jaw ticked once. Hands slid into his pockets like he was holding himself back.

“Then we’ll let you be,” Stacks said, throwing a look at his brother. “We don’t want Mama Jean mad at us.”

Elijah nodded slowly. “Good to see you, Annie.”But the way he said it wasn’t polite. It was personal. Intimate. Like he meant it all the way down.

She held his gaze. “You too.”

And then they were gone.The bell over the door jingled once, then nothing.

Silence wrapped around her again, pressing heavy on her chest.

Pearline stepped close, resting a hand on her elbow. “You okay?”

“Hell no.”

Annie’s eyes lingered on the door like it might open again. Maybe it wasn’t too late for all the things they never said, but was Annie ready to unpack her resentment.

TAGLIST:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @brattyfics @chaneajoyyy

[diz-eaze]

oughhhh... could you pretty pretty please write a little bit about yan wanderer's reaction to realizing his darling is slowly but surely falling for him as well... a good spoonful fluff would also be appreciated if you're able to make it work!!! i lauve hardcore yanderes who are at the same time caring and soft partners </3

; soft yandere, drabble, modern au, college au, roommates, not proofread. i'm sorry anon i really didn't manage to capture his reaction in detail, i fear.

when sharing a living space with someone else, care is obligatory. it's unspoken, only verbalized through the harmonious split between chores, the shared duties of cooking, and the quiet humming of moving around the apartment. though, the word 'split' is much too generous of a word, with the way your roommate constantly insists on doing more than half of the chores all the time. in the beginning, you had suspected that the roommate you had gotten from the facebook group was a clean freak, obsessed with all things meticulous and proper.

you had been wrong.

his movements when cleaning are clumsy, his cooking leans toward being charred oftentimes, and he always mixes up the colored fabrics with the white ones. for quite some time, this disparity left you perplexed. why bother insisting when he can't even execute the chores properly in the first place?

you decided you had had enough when your favorite white t-shirt ended up being a mix of pink and red.

you trudge towards his elusive room, standing in front of his locked door. you only got to knock once before the door swings open with a loud bang, scaramouche stares at you with a look you can't quite place as he asks the purpose of your visit. with a sigh, you mindlessly reach out to wrap your arm around his slender wrist - the physical contact leaves him flinching.

"come with me," you urge, not thinking much of his reaction. you guide him outside his room and into the hallway that leads to the washroom.

"wah- why?" he sputters, gaze burning holes into your fingers.

"if you're so insistent on doing the laundry each and every time, then at least let me teach you how to do it properly," you sigh out, voice exasperated yet tinged with an undeniable softness. perhaps you should have been more annoyed at him for ruining some of your clothes because of his inadequacy, yet you can't deny that you appreciate the fact that he cares.

care is obligatory. but to care to this extent... is not.

you spent the entire evening drilling into his stubborn, indigo-head the rundown of doing the laundry. amidst the strange flush in his cheeks and the sudden, shy behavior he sometimes exhibits, you come to learn more about your roommate. you even delve into letting him allow you to create breakfast - charred toast and overcooked rice can only last you so long, after all.

still, he insists on cleaning and laundry duty no matter how much you bargained.

as you finish putting in the last batch of dirty laundry into the washing machine, you realize that there are many things you wonder about scaramouche. for one, why bother living with someone else when his life, that you've seen through cracks and glimpses, is of him coming from a wealthy background?

you truly don't understand him at times. well, most times.

the two of you retire to your respective rooms. scaramouche lingers around the entrance of his room, and when you send him an inquisitive glance, he utters out a hasty 'goodnight!' before slamming the door shut in your face.

you blink in disbelief before walking back to your own room. when you shut the door close is only then did you realize something. without your knowledge, it seems that a smile had long bloomed upon your face. you don't know when it got here, but suspect it had long been present.

the following morning, scaramouche wakes up to the smell of freshly cooked rice and perfectly browned chicken thighs. he nearly bashes his head into the wall in elation when he sees you waiting patiently for him. In between passing each other chopsticks and plates of food, scaramouche doesn't miss the way you now view him with a profound softness that differs from the day before.

he excuses himself into the bathroom to jump around in utmost joy once it sinks into his mind. while he may not be the best helper around the apartment, he certainly knows how to capture his beloved's heart in the most boyfailure way possible.

[cooking-pol-martin]

The Art of Food Photography: Kebab It!

I started this ill-considered Cooking Pol Martin project because of some videos where Pol does unholy nonsense with a microwave. Most of his cookbooks have a microwave section -- tellingly, Chef Pol Martin's Favourite Recipes does not -- and he also has a whole ass cookbook devoted to microwave recipes. The microwave is his thing, for better or for worse. That said, he also has a pretty serious thing for kebabs. At least three of his cookbooks have "Kebab It!" sections, and I just now discovered he has a whole cookbook of kebab recipes -- also called Kebab It! -- that seems so utterly out of print that I despair of ever getting my mitts on it. Long story long, I decided I should attempt some of his kebab recipes.

The two recipes I decided to try were "Cocktail Sausages on Skewers" -- which consist of bacon, cocktail sausages, and mandarin orange sections -- and "Pineapple Chunks and Water Chestnuts" -- which are made up of pineapple, bacon again, and water chestnuts. The former was basted with barbecue sauce, and the latter lemon and maple syrup. Everything about these recipes is so delightfully dated, from the cocktail weenies to the water chestnuts, and I love that about them. I can absolutely see my Grandpa Ed making something like this for fancy. Both ended up tasting okay, but were so infuriating to make that I will never make them again. Especially the one with water chestnuts.

I don't know if you can tell from the photo, but most of those water chestnuts are split in half. Trying to skewer something as inflexible as a water chestnut with a decently large blade ends in significantly more broken water chestnuts than skewered ones. The mandarin oranges were also annoying, but more because they were too soft and ripped instead of too brittle and snapped. I could sort of shove the orange sections in place though, unlike the water chestnuts. I honestly liked the lemon-maple marinade, and can see using that as a sauce for less infuriating ingredients.

But also, I'm going to be real here: the main reason I decided to do some kebab recipes is because Pol has these fucking sick sword-shaped skewers that I became utterly obsessed with. Observe:

[image description: sausage chunks and shrimp skewered on a sick sword-shaped skewer sits on a plate with pink and green lines on the rim]

I immediately jumped onto Ebay and tried to find something like this, and I was completely shut out. I did find tons of very cool skewers -- just stupid sweet antique Turkish stuff -- but the single sword-shaped offering was some antique French skewers that were $150 for four. Absolutely not. What is wrong with the world?? I cannot be the only person who thinks that sword-shaped skewers are dope as shit; why aren't there any made in this century? I did find some pretty brass ones for my attempt to kebab it(!), but they are not nearly as badass as I would prefer.

So here is where I would like to spend some time talking about Pol's food photography. This didn't occur to me until very recently -- like yesterday -- but it is notable how many photographs are in Pol's cookbooks. I have several cookbooks of this vintage, and exactly none of them have photographs of the included dishes. Sometimes there are line drawings -- like for tricky techniques or table settings -- but no photography. Some of my contemporary ones do, but even then, they tend to be more sparse, coming at chapter headings or for signature dishes. Pol not only uses photographs for almost every dish, but he also includes dozens of photographs with step-by-step instructions, so you can know exactly what the recipes look like. Here's one for making crêpe batter:

[image description: a series of six photos with the heading "Technique: Basic Crêpe Batter" which shows step by step instructions for making said batter.]

I've always said Pol is kind of a mensch, and this sort of thing is exhibit A: so often when I'm making a dish, I'll get freaked out because I don't understand how things are supposed to look or work, and this careful documentation is really helpful to me. Cookbook writers not detailing the steps properly is a huge annoyance for me, so I like this. Amusingly, Pol often isn't as careful with specifying ingredients -- the fuck is pepper cream cheese? what do you mean wine vinegar? Literally all vinegar is made from wine -- but we'll take what we can get.

I also really appreciate how egalitarian Pol's photos can be. Both my kid and I would swear on a stack of bibles that there was a photo in one of these cookbooks -- I have seven Pol Martin cookbooks; no, I don't have a problem -- that included a bag of Doritos, but I was unable to find it for this missive.

[image description: tomato and rice dish on a black-rimmed white plate sits in a yellow mesh tray with a can of Coke in the background.]

I was able to find many examples of food photography that included chips, cans of Coke, or other everyday foodstuffs that are not considered fancy enough for your average cookbook. Say what you will about Pol Martin, but the man is not a snob. I mean, can you imagine an Ina Garten photo spread with a Redbull in the background? ATK knocking back a can of Diet Coke? Gordon Ramsay garnishing a recipe with some Hot Cheetos?

[image description: brown earthenware plate with a burger, sliced tomatoes, and a handful of ruffled chips.]

That said, I know from my own inexpert food-blogging how tricky food photography can be. It's super easy to make food look gross, and if the food is gross, it's doubly hard to make it look good. I've dinged Pol many times for how wet and moist his recipes turn out. That wetness is in evidence in so many of his photographs.

[Image description: tomatoes and pineapple in some sort of kebab situation, glistening.]

I have already spilled enough ink on how sopping Pol's recipes can be, so I will refrain. But this is not an appetizing photo of food. I do kinda love the random plastic-looking forks in the background, potentially for scale? I can see the photographer zooming in, thinking this needs something so the red background doesn't merge with the tomatoes, and then Pol digging through the utensil drawer for something and coming up with that. Be happy it wasn't corn holders, I guess? Corn holders would be hilarious though.

[Image description: artfully arranged triangles of sweaty pastrami dotted with god knows what all rosettes of maybe also pastrami? And also a pickle on a skewer. On top of a bed of lettuce, of course.]

I didn't make note of what the recipe this photo illustrates, sadly, because what the actual fuck is that? Oh and this next photo doesn't really work for the category of moist that I'm trying to illustrate, but it's so weird you should check it out.

[image description: one inch sections of crêpe rolls affixed all over two oranges with toothpicks.]

The instructions on this recipe for crêpe rolls finishes with: "Use oranges for creative presentation, if desired," which lol. I'm trying to imagine my family's response if I plunked down something this weird on the dinner table. And they've even been broken in on Pol's particular weirdness. (Though I do have to say I take uncharitable delight whenever the younger kid -- who is not part of the Cooking Pol Martin project -- tremulously asks me, this isn't a Pol Martin recipe, is it? when I make something new.)

After you look past the glistening, you start noticing auxiliary materials, like the dishes, cutlery, and arrangements. I've already mentioned the sick fucking skewers. There are also dozens of strange plates.

[Image description: beef and eggplant on a dish with line drawings of birds -- which appear to be some sort of heron or crane -- with text that reads "The Falconer" in a chinoiserie style.]

I wish I could see what is pictured in the middle of the plate, because I do not understand this crockery at all. I don't think those are falcons painted on the rim; they don't have the hooked bill that all raptors have. Is the food covering a drawing of a falconer? Who is going to ...what, sic his falcons on the cranes? Because I don't think falcons are big enough to fuck up a heron. The script is also strange, like something I'd expect from a circa 1970s playbill for The Mikado or something equally culturally sus. I find this plate confusing.

[Image description: Some sort of egg and mushroom canapés on a plate which appears to have a line drawing of a cow sectioned into a butcher's cut chart. Two wine bottles and a cork are in the background.]

I legitimately think dishes that have ostensibly living animals apportioned into the chunks of them you eat is fucking serial killer-y. I've said this before: I live with the cognitive dissonance of eating meat when so much of meat production is unethical -- both to the animals and the people who raise and slaughter the animals -- but I don't need to see a happy cow with dotted cut lines on its body like yay! eat me! This is probably also a dated thing, because while I have the vague sense I encountered such a thing in my youth *cough cough* years ago, I don't think I've seen anything like this recently.

You'll also notice that there are two wine bottles and a cork in the background. This brings us to the third layer of Pol's photography: the items around and behind the plated food. A big sub-category is booze, as one would expect from Pol Martin.

[Image description: the very edge of a dish of unknown meat and scallions. In the background and taking up most of the photo is a wicker-wrapped bottle of Chianti. I did not crop this photo for effect.]

The wicker-wrapped Chianti bottle is another super 70s thing: that kind of bottle used as a candle-holder was the height of fancy at a certain kind of Italian restaurant. (The one I went to as a kid was Casalenda's in Minneapolis. That place was dope.) Like unsliced bread, I don't think you can find this sort of bottle produced in the last 30 years. I don't even like Chianti, but all the bottles I run across in the liquor store are just regular bottles of wine.

[Image description: some sort of green olive pasta on a shell-shaped dish in the foreground. In the background -- which is 2/3 of the photo -- are not one but two glasses of Chardonnay, in addition to a full bottle of wine and a bottle opener.]

This picture has all the elements of a classic Pol photo: super moist looking food, massive amounts of booze, and a weird plate, in this case a shell-shaped dish. I've previously freaked out about the shell-shaped dish because it, like sword-shaped skewers, seems very hard to find in the year of our Lord 2025. Pol refers to these dishes -- both the plate and recipe -- as coquilles, which means shell in French, natch. You can find vintage ones on Etsy or Ebay, but I don't think they're produced anymore.

[Image description: stuffed mushrooms on a white china dish, behind which are no less than four glasses of red wine.]

I think this is the ne plus ultra of Pol Martin food photography: booze, booze, booze, booze, sketchy canapés, strange garnishes, a china plate on a silver charger, and really trashy looking napkins. It's such an odd mix of fancy and a little trashy, which is a decent description of the 70s in general and of Pol's whole oeuvre in specific. He's a French chef trained in France, but he's also unafraid to microwave a trout.

Once you journey beyond the alcohol, you find stranger things. Some are whimsical; some are cursed.

[Image description: stuffed tomatoes in a white dish with a prone nutcracker in the background.]

Why does this photo have a nutcracker in it? How did he get here? Why is he lying down? Are you prepared for the answers to his position and existence? I'm decently sure I'm not. I also don't understand what that ... tin? with ... potpourri? is doing in the background. Like, who looks at a dish of pretty decent looking stuffed tomatoes and thinks what this needs is a haunted doll and dried plants?

[Image description: some sort of baked fish with mushrooms and artfully arranged snow peas. In the background there's a cane with a brass handle shaped like a duck, and a newspaper.]

Is this Pol's cane? I feel like this whole photo is a writing prompt: what kind of lunatic enjoys their supper with a newspaper and a cane? Like the previous picture, I don't understand the thought process behind the collection of objects assembled here. Ok, what can I do with this? I've got my duck cane? and ... uh, a newspaper? and a lemon and some snow peas. Obviously, I'm going to use my fake Zen-looking plates. Let's fucking gooooooo... (Only Pol probably wouldn't cuss in English. Tabarnak!)

[Image description: two very normal looking half-sandwiches with a pickle and some potato chips, as well as a glass of beer. Behind which hulks a black mask with red nostrils, lips, and eye outlines.]

what the actual fuck

But seriously, I don't even know a) what the fuck that is b) what minstrel show nonsense ended in that being a good thing to put in the background of a pastrami sandwich on rye. I can't put my finger on why, but I feel like this is vaguely racist; maybe it's the oversized red lips and gaunt cheeks? It feels like a caricature. All I know is I don't want anything that freaky sitting on my table while I eat. Why does Pol own this? Where do you get something that cursed? Whhyyyyyyy?

So, here we are, at the end of another exploration of It's Pol's World, We're Just Living in It. I think the amount of food photography in any given Pol Martin cookbook is notable. He even uses it as a selling point: Over 620 photographs in full color! the cover to A Guide to Modern Cooking announces. Full color photography is not cheap even now, but it would have become much more approachably priced in the 70s and 80s than previous decades. In terms of production, that many color photos is an indicator of quality, if not in the culinary sense, then in the lithographic.

I suspect that Pol's use of that many full-color photos is an outlier the way that his embrace of the microwave is: other cookbook writers at the time -- and even now -- didn't embrace new technology. He's trailblazing in a way, trying out new things. Obviously, not everything new can be a success, she said, gormlessly. It's getting increasingly hard to find a good recipe on the Internet as LLMs regurgitate half-chewed slop as fast as they can hoover up our data.

I've developed a grudging respect for Pol for many reasons -- his willingness to try new things, his populism, his attention to detail, and, yes, even his fucking weird shit. But in a world where humanity's greatest repository of information is being degraded by the day by bullshit capitalist plagiarism machines, having an honest to god paper cookbook written by a person with quirks and personality feels like a bastion against the tide of enshittification.

[rhaeheartzsquirrelz]

Peaceful as it Comes

Wife Sevika x Female Wife Reader (Fluff)

Domestic moments with Sevikidiki. More than one scenario with head cannons at the very end. :))

Content: Sevika has both arms. Modern Setting. Lots of being in Sevika’s lap and having her hug you from behind. Minor age gap.

Proofread || Note: DAY DREAMING ABOUT THESEE!! Ignore any spelling/grammar mistakes 🙂‍↔️

Breakfast with Distractions

You lived in out in the country with a small, satisfying, house that came with a lot of land. You had your own garden in the backyard, fueled by the river than ran through it. Early in the mornings you’d find yourself sat on a wooden chair, that your wife had built you, with a cup of coffee in hand. The sounds of the birds chirping, breeze blowing the trees, and the soft clinking from the backdoor opening would make the moment further more peaceful. It was your wife.

Sevika approached, standing behind you and staring down at your figure. You had on the dress she’d gifted on your anniversary. A red and white long, flowly dress which you matched with a pair of brown boots. Your wife said it was her favourite outfit, so you wore it often. The smell of her cologne filled your nose and she smiled at your cozied position. Legs pulled up to your chest, cup on your knees, with your hair flowing with the wind that flew by.

Everything was peaceful.

“Morning, you’re already out here?” Sevika broke the silence, brushing a hair from your lips. “Thought I’d finish planting the flowers, I’ve only got a few left.” You answered, watching as she leaned down to press a kiss on your forehead. “Y’have breakfast yet?” At her question, you flash a sheepish smile and raise your cup. Coffee was the only thing you’d had.

“Pancakes?”

“Yeah, pancakes sound good.”

Entering inside, you tie on your apron and pull out a pan from the cabinet. Your shared house wasn’t fancy, wasn’t fleshy built, but it was enough to satisfy your quiet life. Cracks were common, so were stains, and especially creaks. But it, honestly, only made it feel more like a home. Like you were actually living there.

“In my defence, I was waiting for you to wake up.” You muttered, mixing the milk and pancake batter. “And, you couldn’t of done that yourself?” Was Sevika’s sly response, with her hands on your hips she began swaying them. Guiding them alongside with her all the while peppering your shoulder with kisses. “Your wife’s a little busy.” Though you couldn’t resist it when she was so affectionate. “Oh? Is swaying your hips a distraction? Wouldn’t o’guessed.“ Sevika’s voice low and soft as her hands ran up and down your sides. “Did I say that?”

With the batter finally mixed, you pour some onto the heated pan and spread it into a circle. As the pancakes cooked, your wife turned you around and gave your hips a squeeze. “Still busy?” Forehead pressed against yours, back leaning against the counter with your hands now cupping her cheeks. You smiled. “Not as much as before, no.”

Your eyes met her pretty grey ones and you didn’t stop yourself from being pulled into a kiss. It was slow, just staring into eachother all the while sharing your breaths. Beautiful was what you called it. And when Sevika’s dark lips finally pressed against yours, your mind went blank for a moment. The pancakes didn’t matter. The flowers you had to plant could wait another hour. And, your grumbling stomach could kiss some ass. All you could really focus on was the soft taps your wife left on your lips. The way the warmth of her hands seeped through your dress and heated your skin. The way her breath felt against your face. And the way her lips tasted.

With a lingering peck on your lips, your girlfriend pulled back. “Love my days off.” She whispered, half her attention on flipping the pancake. “If it had burned I would’ve kicked your ass.” You joked, kissing her cheek one last time before going back to preparing breakfast.

“You’re a real distraction, babe.”

“And, you love me for it.”

Take a Break, Don’t ya?

Chores. Chores. Chores. And, some more chores. You’d made dinner, vacuumed the house, and even cleared out some of Sevika’s old papers from her office desk. Now, the last few things you needed to do were: clean the kitchen and sweep the floors. Those were easy tasks, and you were prepared to get them done.

Wiping the marble counters with a wet towel, you made sure everything was squeaky-clean. Made sure the ingredients were arranged perfectly, the sink was empty, and the dishes were where they were supposed to be. It took you about an hour, and in that time frame your wife had returned home and was freshening up.

A damp towel wrapped around her neck, she made her way to you. Wearing a tanktop and a pair of shorts, she looked exhausted. Sevika worked in construction, and that meant constant stress, sore muscles, and injuries. Though they were only minor, scratches and bruises were something you could handle. Not to mention how much muscle she’d put up, it was attractive. Made you horny even on your period.

“Haven’t seen you all day.” Her muscular arms tapping your backside to her front as she breathed down your neck. “How was work? Tiring as usual?” You, settling the pans and pots into the cupboard neatly, asked. Everyday was just as busy as the last, except for weekends; that’s when you and your wife could do whatever you wanted to.

“Y’guessed it,” pressing a heavy kiss on your cheek and pulling away to sit herself down onto the couch. “Hey, dinner’s ready. Grab a plate.” You’d already ate with content and now were waiting for your wife to. Afterwards, the two of you were free to talk and huddle up next to one another. “I will, just come here for a second.”

“You’re not the only busy woman in this relationship.” You flash her a look, tossing the towel into the washer before hanging your apron on a chair. There was more to do, and Sevika wanted you to relax with her? Well, you couldn’t really say no. Not when her legs were perfectly spread and her voice sounded so welcoming.

Plopping down onto your natural seat, your wife’s lap, you take a deep, long breath. It’d been a hot minute since you’d let your sore back slouch. Let your legs relax. “Take a break, alright? I know you’ve been at it for hours.” Sevika shifted on the couch, legs spreading further as she settled you inbetween them. It was like that everyday.

She’d come home, freshen up, and just sit with you for a few. It took your mind off of things, made your tense muscles loose. You appreciated how easily she could get. Also, because she said you’d have more wrinkles if you worked too hard. It was supposed to scare you.

Your cozy little home had one bedroom, one bathroom, and.. well, one everything. The two of you weren’t planning on having kids, not so soon anyways. Sevika knew she’d struggle with providing for them and you knew it’d only be a hassle. Considering you were in your early thirties and she was in her mid forties, she worried about you a lot. You were young and, sometimes, she even felt guilty for “taking away” your freedom. Which was a bit dramatic in your opinion. You chose marrying her, and you never regretted it.

“How was your day? ‘Nd don’t just say good, I know there’s more to it.” Your wife’s arm wrapped around your waist and she burried her face into your shoulder, inhaling your scent and savouring the closeness. Sevika was the kind of wife to call you every few hours when she was away, text you whenever she was on break, and even send you random pictures. Her selfies consisted her biceps, her coworkers, and silly faces. All taken for you to save and enjoy.

“My day? Well, don’t get me started on that creeky little door. I swear, everytime I open it it sounds like I’m in one of those horror movies. And, Sev, you promised you’d fix it and, again! You didn’t!” Your finger pointing to the storage room door that Sevika, somehow, broke by accident. She said she tripped and the whole door fell down. “I put some vegetable oil on the.. screw thingies. I saw it on youtube and, my god, it worked! At first I thought it was click bait but, to my surprise, it was the real deal.”

Your wife’s response to all of that? The occasional humm, a few chuckles, and an abundance of nods. She loved listening to you complain, even talk about the silliest things that happened throughout your eventful day. The thing she most adored was the fact that you’d tell her tiny details rather than the big ones. She remembered this one time where you were rambling on about something that had to do with the TV and had completely forgotten to bring up the fact that you’d cut your finger. You ended up getting a pink, princess bandage wrapped around your thumb.

“Alright, aright. I’ll fix it this saturday.” Her tone unbothered yet full of fondness. “Promise, love. Y’know I’ve been busy.” A laugh left her lips as she squeezed you with affection. It was like everything you did made Sevika completely and utterly happy. Be it wearing her favourite outfit, making her favourite food, or even walking around the kitchen, your wife found you pulling.

“Dinner’s gonna get cold, Sev. I worked hard on that thing.” Your hands giving her thighs a pat, you push off her lap and stand up— only to find yourself pulled back. “Where do you think you’re going? Few more minutes, we can always reheat?” She placed you sideways on her lap all the while nipping at your neck and causing you to giggle. “Vika! Eek!”

“Y’think you can escape me? Now I’ll have to eat you whole!” Her voice a playful gruff as her large hands began to tickle your sides.

“Hey! Hey! Not the—.. not the sides!”

Awsome-Sauce

The two of you decided to settle in an apartment, it was spacious and pretty damn expensive. And, Sevika being a business woman, she provided everything. From the rent to the groceries, it was her money you spent.

In return, the best you could give her was keeping the apartment clean and.. well, a home. Though, Sevika never asked anything from you— only your love and presence. That’s all she needed, and she’d told you that a million times. Whenever she was home, she wouldn’t let you lay a finger on anything that had to do with work. You wanna wash the dishes? Sevika’s alright got it covered. You need to fold the laundry? Your wife’s two steps ahead and even organized all the clothes. The kitchen’s a mess? She’ll be ready to scrub it clean. You never had to worry about a thing.

“Come on, it’s just sweeping. I do it every week day. When you’re not here? Y’know?” The least you could do was help the muscular woman who was cooking dinner, her hands busy with cutting the vegetables. “Nope, you’re gonna sit your pretty ass back on the couch, babe.” Her head turned to you, eyes narrowing at the sight of you holding a broom. “Babe.. seriously?—“ “Yes, seriously. You do s’much all week, take a break.” She motioned towards the couch before turning back to the cutting board.

“And you don’t? I mean, you’re at the office all week. Let me help.” Leaning the broom against the counter, you rest your head against her back and fiddle with her apron. Sevika’s response was a light chuckle, one that made you smile. “True that. But, I still don’t like it when you’re all.. occupied.” She placed the knife down and turned to you, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Sweeping is all you’re doing, okay?” Her voice was so sweet that it convinced you to do what she said, sweep and sit your ass down onto the couch. “Got it. Just holler at me if you need help, do not hesitate.” You pointed a finger before you reach for the broom again.

A solid thirty minutes later, your girlfriend nudged you. “Dinner’s ready, hope you’re hungry!” Her lips curled into a bright smile, your wife went back to cooking and went all out. Cutting the vegetables, choosing the spices, to adding other ingredients. From the back, she looked smoking hot. Her shoulders toned from her tight black shirt and her muscles clear as day. You wanted her to rip off her clothes and focus on you.

But that could wait.

“Alright, c’mon. Let’s eat.” Sevika’s hand guided you towards the dinner table where you sat down beside her. Yes, she preferred you being right by her side. “The usual. Rice. Hope you like it, baby.” Arm around your hip before she pulled your chair closer.

The dinner table was set perfectly, and you were almost jealous at how easily she’d made the food infront of you. It looked good, as usual, and you dug right in. You were a big fan of Sevika’s cooking, it was like a five-star chef had made it specially for you. You’d never get used to her iconic rice, it was always so flavourful. She’d never share her recipe, though.

Dinner was a blast, and now your stomach was too full. Spread across the couch, head on the arm rest as Sevika sat under your legs, she gave you a smile. “Ate too much?” Her large, calloused fingers massaging your feet. “Wayy to much. But, it was worth it. You make the best damn rice.” You were sure it was the brand of rice, there was no way she could get the consistency so.. perfect. “Good to know you’re satisfied.”

Oh, you were more than satisfied.

“It’s late, y’wanna head to bed?” Her mother-like tone causing you to lazily groan. You were exhausted, but sleep wasn’t exactly what you needed. “Not until you..” a grunt escaped your lips as you sat up. “Tell me your recipe.” Your back cracked like an old lady’s, and you straighten at the sound.

“Recipe for what? The rice?” Sevika pulled you into her lap, you inbetween her spread legs as she brushed back your hair. “There’s no recipe. I wing it.” You snorted at that. “Wing it? You? A business woman? Are you kidding?” No, she wasn’t.

Matter of fact, she was being completely honest. After watching tutorials online, Sevika had picked up on certain aspects of the amount spices she need and what temperature the stove should be on. It was all practice, in her opinion.

“I’m serious.” She gave your back a few rubs, hoping your stomach felt better by now, all the while her opposite hand gave yours a squeeze. “But, if you really wanna know? I use this sause from the store downtown, it’s pretty good.” Her lips curled into a playful smile as she gave your back a pat

“It’s called awsome-sause. Have you heard of it?”

You roll your eyes, shoving her in the side.

“You’re an asshole.”

Kisses

Throughout your marriage, Sevika had grown softer, gentler as you changed and opened further up to her. Like, your new favourite things, new interests, she loved every bit of it.

One change you’d noticed about her was the way she kissed you.

From rough, desperate make out sessions to light taps on your lips. Her tongue would feel the curve of your skin before she’d ask for entrance, compared to before when she’d demand for it.

Don’t get it wrong. You loved when your wife man handled you, took charge and dominated you. But sometimes, all you could really want was her loving side. The side of her where she felt that too much pressure would break you. Where she was so gentle with you that it felt unreal.

Her preferred position was with you sat on the dinner table, legs dangling down and inbetween her own. She’d hold onto your hips, squeeze and rub your skin there before making her way to the back of your head. One hand palming it as the other rested on the small of your back.

Before the kiss would start, she’d just stare into you and whisper a few sweet nothings. A good example being; “I’m the luckiest woman alive.” She had said that almost every day.

Your wife would then pull you into the most beautiful kiss you’d ever experienced. She was nothing like the rough and tough exterior she showed off, she was careful.

She’d often let escape soft, bare audible, grunts. A humm of enjoyment, aswell. She wasn’t embarrassed, just a little self conscious that it made you feel icky— which, it didn’t. And to show so, you’d cup her face and make sure she didn’t pull back. The gesture always made her melt.

Sevika’s breath smelled like cigars and whiskey, the occasional sugar cookie that you’d bake for her. She couldn’t keep herself from loading up on those, that woman would take ‘em everywhere she went.

The few things you’d feel were the way her tongue moved so perfectly against yours, always leaving you squirming. It was something about the way Sevika would groan everytime you did so. Another thing being her lips. She’d used your lip balm and, at first, she didn’t think anything would happen. But, after a few more uses her lips looked plump and shiny. You couldn’t resist giving them a few rubs with your thumb and even a peck of a kiss.

[acid-ixx]

✮ — 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍 : in which control is your only friend . . . (concept idea)

guys let me cook on this one but i suddenly want to post about an isekai trope au with modern! reader being transported into the world of dc comics. of course you're sentient, but sentience doesn't mean autonomy, because you're forced to don a new identity as a vigilante; guided by a malicious system only you can perceive.

a superhero, a new canon to the world, whose body is still adjusting to its given powers. you are not omnipotent, you are not a deity, and you most certainly could not adapt at such a timely rate; but you were once omniscient to the multiple plots and universes of the world you now live in. that is the only advantage you have amongst the unease you feel at the knowledge that eyes are now plastered all over your existence; a twisted game toying with you, with the price being your very life.

turns out, your existence is controlled by the very viewers (you guys, the commentors, the voters) who determine whichever fate you land on, a rule told by the system from when you were once transported into the world. whether it'd be mere yes or no answers to awkward questions, or even something as major as choosing to save others, or yourself in a life or death situation, and even as far as your love interests— only they can choose, and you'd be left to commit upon such acts, with or without your consent.

imagine, not only your presence is bared naked to the entire world, but every word you say are remembered, are criticized weekly. each and every action of yours that aren't determined by your cruel fans will gain both equal and opposite reactions.

your superhero name is chosen by whoever is the sick mastermind of this entire game. and you! for now, silly you would enjoy the momentary lapses of excitement meeting your favorite characters, but happiness in such a world does not exist. the longer you stay, where every week, your own destiny dictated by phone calls, comments, likes, reactions, and polls; the more you wish you never once set out to abide within the rules of this... game.

it is only your emotions, your thoughts that you can control, but never certain actions at major events. there is no such thing as discontinuity, or changing plotlines once you're able to catch a moment on what you truly wish to say.

as your story is published amongst thousands of people, it is up to your viewers, your deities, to decide whether or not you should live, die, or give you a chance to try to survive without them.

and it is up to you whether to fight back, or to allow their choices to destroy your very life.

either way, your tale is set to capture the hearts of many. and the only destiny nobody, not even your fanbase, nor you, could change, are the multiple set of characters within your world to eventually set their eyes on you.

and my, oh my, it is never once mentioned within these lines of texts that these characters are controlled by anybody, no?

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ are you interested to join your journey ?

♛ —⠀YES !⠀ yes, i'd love to see where this goes.

♚ —⠀NO !⠀⠀i'd rather not endanger myself, no thank you.

[r3starttt]

PAIRING: Caitlyn x younger reader

CW: heacanons. toxic|mean caitlyn. modern au. slightly NSFW: spit. sexting. masturbation.

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @nosferatuv

Caitlyn, who spoils you endlessly, though not always in obvious ways. It’s not about extravagant shopping every day. Instead, she hands you her card when you’re heading out with your friends or family. She plans weekends away to escape the monotony of home—maybe a cozy cabin.

Caitlyn, who's making sure you receive gifts with no occasion attached: a book you casually mentioned you wanted, your favorite perfume, or a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

Caitlyn, who ensures you always have the best—well-fitted clothes, styled hair, manicured nails, and shoes that you want. She makes it her mission to provide for you, sometimes before you even realize you need something.

Caitlyn, who fills your day when she takes you out. It starts with a delicious breakfast she ordered (she wouldn’t dare attempt cooking and ruin it for you). Then a massage, a spa session, or perhaps a museum visit if you’re in the mood for it. She drives you everywhere, her hand steady on the wheel, ensuring you don’t lift a finger to worry about a single thing.

Caitlyn who insists on carrying your purse if she isn’t already toting her own. And her bag? It’s spacious enough for both your essentials and hers.

After paying for yet another round of shopping, she stops you. “I’ve told you not to do that,” she murmurs, gesturing at your fingers, taking your shirt to clean the smudges on your lenses. Her fingers gently push your wrist down as she guides you outside, the weight of her hand steady on your back. On a nearby bench, she places the shopping bags and carefully cleans your glasses with a cloth she always carries, her gaze meeting yours with a mix of sternness and affection. “I’ll buy you all the glasses you want, but you need to take care of them,” she says, the seriousness in her voice softening the moment her lips curl into a faint smile.

Her perceptiveness is unmatched. She notices the subtle shift in your posture before you speak. “What is it?” she asks, her eyes flicking from the road to your face, encouraging you to open up. You ramble about work stress, people not pulling their weight, and your longing to spend more time with her. Every now and then, she interjects with an advice or an opinion. When you pause, her hand tightens on your thigh, and she leans closer. “I love you,” she whispers, sealing her words with a kiss.

Caitlyn who loves date nights. She listens attentively as you recount your day, her hand resting securely on your thigh when the car comes to a stop at a red light on your way to a fancy restaurant. Sometimes she brushes your hair from your face, her touch tender, or holds your hand across the table while you wait for your food to arrive. She doesn’t quite understand Instagram or your obsession with aesthetic pictures, but she loves watching you light up while arranging the perfect shot of your meal.

Caitlyn, who texts you without fail. Good morning and good night messages, check-ins about your meals, and reminders to stay hydrated. She sends you small affirmations of her love throughout the day, peppered with bits of her own routine—a rare vulnerability she reserves only for you. She watches every TikTok video you send, even if she doesn’t quite grasp the humor or the drama behind them. She sends you cute memes in return, reels or something she knows will make you laugh.

Caitlyn, who adores your TikTok nights together, scrolling through videos with you, laughing until one of you falls asleep. She remembers the little things you mention—like trending items or snack—and surprises you with them later.

Caitlyn whose attentiveness extends to music too: she has a playlist of all your favorite songs and plays it even when you’re not with her. If an artist you love is performing nearby, she’s already bought front-row tickets for the two of you.

Caitlyn who shows up for everything you do. Whether it’s a hobby, or a sport, she’s your biggest cheerleader, funding anything you need to succeed. She picks you up from practice, drives you to competitions, and sits in the front row, clapping louder than anyone else. She even makes an effort to engage with your family. When she greets your parents, her handshake is firm, her tone polite but warm. “May I treat everyone to dinner?”

Caitlyn, who adores physical closeness. Her hand is a constant presence on your lower back or resting against your hip. She holds your hand whenever she can, letting you fiddle with her rings if it eases your anxiety. She kisses your knuckles, your forehead, your cheek. She lets you rest your head on her lap or her shoulder, her fingers idly stroking your hair. Caitlyn just loves having you near.

She was in the middle of one of her many tedious meetings when her phone buzzed on the table. At first, she ignored it, assuming it could wait. But the persistent vibration made her glance down, panic creeping in at the thought that you might need her. She unlocked her phone, opening your chat—and froze, her lips twitching into a smirk.

Caitlyn, who insists on buying matching everything, especially lingerie. It’s not just about the aesthetic; she loves how it highlights your skin, the way it teases her with just enough touch but not quite. She takes care to pick colors and fabrics that complement you, from silk pajamas to delicate lace, always luxurious and soft. You light up when you arrive at her house, eager to show her what she’s picked out this time. She adores the little runway shows you put on just for her. But nothing compares to the sight of you stepping out of her bathroom, wrapped in the sheerest fabric. The way it clings to your body makes her breath catch. You straddle her lap, your skin warm against hers, and she can’t resist trailing her hands over the material, brushing it aside to kiss every inch of you.

There you were, still tangled in the bed she left you in that morning. The pajamas she had just bought hugged your figure perfectly, the thin fabric barely concealing the lingerie beneath. The second photo stole her breath—a shot of your chest, your nipples visible through the soft material, and your hips peeking out from beneath the hem.

She cleared her throat and excused herself, her colleagues giving her puzzled glances as she walked out. The moment she was alone, she called you, her voice low and steady. “Take it off,” She could already hear the smile in your voice as you replied, knowing exactly what you were doing to her. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

You had spent the evening out with some of Caitlyn’s friends, sitting at a table surrounded by conversations and food thar were far too upscaled for you. Before you’d even glanced at the menu, Caitlyn had ordered for you. She had talked for you, too. She’s always quick to tell you how proud she is to have you by her side, but moments like these leave you feeling the opposite. It was as if, in public, you became part of her curated image—someone to admire but not to hear.

Caitlyn who's accidentally- or so she claims- condescending. But only gets worse during sex.

This time, though, you weren’t going to let her narrate your life as if you weren’t capable of speaking for yourself. So, when one of her friends asked a question, you answered on your own, cutting off Caitlyn mid-sentence.

Caitlyn wasn’t one to lose control of a situation, she was testing just how far you were willing to go.

Which turned into your naked body sitting over one of her heels, rubbing your clit against the edge of it while she held your hair. Your mouth wide open for her to spit on it. "You're going to handle it yourself, since you're clearly the only one who knows what's best for you." Her tone dripped with mockery as she tightened her grip. “I wouldn’t want to risk doing anything else that might upset you,” her voice laced with mocking sweetness.

[megathoughtfulcollectorpeace]

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[pellucid-constellations]

Last updated May 31st, 2025

Drabble masterlist here (fics under 1k words) <3

⁂ Azriel ⁂

→ Multi-Part Series

∙ Of Oblivious Minds (Part I) - completed 🤍

You're positive Azriel is in love with Elain. It seems so obvious. But Cassian is laughing at you and suddenly nothing makes quite so much sense anymore.

Part II, Part III, Part IV

∙ If It All Fell (Series Masterlist) updating next!!

If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

∙ Trial and Error (Series Masterlist) updated last!

You came to Velaris under duress five years ago—pregnant, alone, and in hiding from something, or someone, too dangerous to even speak aloud. When your daughter begged you to go to school years after settling down in the apartment above a worn-down apothecary, you obliged her. But things still didn't feel safe. Azriel was going to do everything in his power to give you that safety. At least, he would try. 

∙ Fable (Series Masterlist)

Watching in silence was all you had ever done. And silence was fine, it was safe. But with silence came consequences, and with consequences came hard truths.

→ Multi-Part Oneshots

∙ If You Cared to Ask

Azriel hasn't been listening. You got hurt. Sometimes, an argument can't be boiled down to just one instance.

Part II

∙ Liminality (Azriel x Rhysand's Sister!Reader) updated recently

Feyre has learned something about Rhysand's late sister. She decides to speak to Azriel about it—to learn more about the small flecks of grief painted on Azriel's face. She's left with far more than she can cope with.

∙ Erstwhile (prequel) You've fallen ill. No one knows what's wrong. No one knows what's to come.

∙ Compliments to the Line Cook

Azriel never goes for any of the girls on staff. Cassian can't figure out why—and it's pissing him off. (Modern AU, Line Cook!Azriel)

∙ Favoritism Azriel always seems to be working. Well, not always. Sometimes he's on the phone outside the restaurant with a massive smile on his face. (Modern AU, Line Cook!Azriel) ∙ Lessons in Care Azriel loves you so much. Even though you can't cook. You're trying though. (Modern AU, Line Cook!Azriel) ∙ Colds and Retold Confessions Azriel would never be one to not take care of his girl when she's sick. That doesn't mean he won't make her blush. (Modern AU, Line Cook!Azriel) ∙ Across Town A coffee date with Azriel. It's snowing. He doesn't seem to mind. (Modern AU, Line Cook!Azriel) ∙ Short AU Drabble

∙ Flightless Bird (Azriel x Human!Reader)

Azriel was not supposed to be in the mortal lands. Azriel was not supposed to love a mortal. He couldn't find it in him to care.

∙ The Occurrence Based on the ask: "okay period fics are my guilty pleasure but az finding out mortal women get them every month would make him spiral LMAOO" ∙ Against the World Azriel learns that loving a human means loving the uncoordinated and the injury-prone and the acceptance that he can't save you from it all.

→ Standalone Oneshots

∙ Only in Dreams

In his dreams, Azriel recounts how he got to his mate.

∙ Reversal

When protecting your mate brings out a side you swore to keep hidden, you have to deal with the consequences.

∙ Set in Stone

The Court of Nightmares is an evil place. Secret agendas, forced marriages, malicious intent; there’s nothing good or pure. But then Azriel finds you.

∙All Over Again

You're drunk. Your mate is trying to get you home. Only problem is—you're really, really drunk.

∙ By the Book

Azriel is struggling to catch the attention of his mate. Cassian offers him some advice, but "putting the moves on you" is harder than it seems, especially since he's not a character in one of Nesta's novels.

∙ To Feel At Home

Winnowing out from Under the Mountain, you know you need to find him—it doesn't seem real, to feel so at home.

∙ A Promise

As war inches closer on the horizon, Azriel reminds you of a promise you made to him—one you aren't sure you can keep.

∙ Creature Fear

And if had been clean, if there had been no strings between you, this would have been easy. But, with Azriel, you had never expected the strings to disappear. They would always be there—at least, they would for you.

∙ I Have A Feeling You Got Everything You Wanted

Falling in love with Azriel had never been in the cards. Falling in love with anyone other than the husband your father appointed to you had always been a far-fetched notion. And that was a truth you had lived by. 10 years ago.

⁂ Cassian ⁂

∙ R&R

Cassian was tired and you were taking forever to get your ass back home.

∙ The Construct of Loyalty

After months of "disobedience," your father calls upon Cassian to be your personal guard. That leaves Cassian, a soldier in the Night Court army, your childhood friend, and a man deeply in love with you, to protect you from all fronts—including the arranged marriage you were born into.

[thewriterg]

love my life wife

a/n: in honor of —a very late— father’s day. i wrote this on my phone half asleep

warning(s): nanami is down bad, modern day (no sorcery), eventual nsfw, pregnancy, black coded reader, borderline yandere nanami… & reader, idk your both bat shit crazy leave me alone

down bad husband nanami who! quite literally worships the ground —you— his wife walks on and he shows it in more ways than one.

from materialism; clothes, bags, shoes, flowers, fancy restaurants, anything you could want to complete acts of domestication; helping you wash or take care of your hair, removing your makeup/doing your skincare when you didn’t have the energy, taking care and cleaning the house, cooking, anything you could want he gives it no complaints

the bare minimum he claims

down bad husband nanami who! was overjoyed when two lines came up —a positive— on the plastic stick —not that it was much surprise to him, having switched out your birth control for sugar pills—

pregnancy was a breeze other than the chaos your son was hellbent on giving you and your blonde businessman made sure of it

“honey, i really think you should take your leave of absence.” nanami hums sorting through pieces of beige wood and bags of screws, ready to assemble the crib he gently guided you away from putting together yourself

“ken… i’m barely four months.”

down bad husband nanami who! starts to work from home more to offer greater support and assistance when you enter you third trimester refusing business opportunities that weren’t able to be processed within the comfort of his home as soon as you were 27 weeks

it has nothing to do with the fact he loves to see you begin to nest more intensely; urging him to come do whatever you want in the nursery that he didn’t allow you to do yourself -which was anything to do with a ladder, tools, lifting, carrying, or straining— and kento didn’t dare move with less purpose to see you get huffy and snappy

and he sure as hell didn’t act like he didn’t hear you calling his name so he could see you waddle to the doorway of his office with a pout and angry brows

no of course not.

down bad husband nanami who! walked around the house shirtless for easy skin to skin contact when your son arrived, a spitting image of you he was more than proud to say.

kento didn’t hesitate to do anything you asked or give you anything you needed

it was your turn to get up and change the baby but you had just found yourself in a deep rest as the baby monitor crackled to life?

kento is turning down the monitor before you could wake up gently slipping out of bed and down the haul to the nursery —that the baby slept in for all of two days when you determined you weren’t he wasn’t ready and kento more than willingly built a bedside bassinet for him to sleep in—.

you internally crashing out when a select few members of both of your families come visit you all and someone keeps getting to close kissing your son?

kento is gently reminding everyone that while you both appreciate them loving your baby as much as you both did he would appreciate it if they only used mouths for talking

you need to take a shower but being away from the newborn gives you anxiety?

kento is more than happy to hold him in the door way of the bathroom allowing you to peak your head out of the tub and lay eyes on him with no complaints

down bad husband nanami who! grows more possessive protective of you during your postpartum stage

god forbid the mail man lingers outside on the lawn for too long conversing with you as you plant a couple of new flowers for the front garden Nanami is outside in a flash baby wrapped securely to his chest an arm snaking around your widened hips pulling you close to his muscular frame

down bad husband nanami who! lives to please in more ways than one

you comment on how his ass has been looking ever so lovely lately? —showing him your money was indeed where your mouth was by the slaps, pinches, and bites you’d been giving more frequently— he’s focusing on nothing but glutes and legs for the rest of the week despite the soreness

and when your hormones are all over the place who is he to stop you from sliding on his cock in the middle of the night?

“f-fuck im sorryyyy, ken. i’ve been a mess.” your whining rolling your hips against the firm muscle of your husbands pelvis

“honey, h-how many times do i —shit, sweetheart r-right there— tell you, you can take whatever you fucking want from m-me?” kento keeps his hips still letting you set the pace placing warm calloused hands against your hips his composure beginning to crack when he feels his tip nudging against the sponge of your walls making you grip him like a vice

“everyday, ken! every fucking day- oh my g-goddd!” The blonde could care less about the scratches your leaving down his bare chest or the fact he will inevitably have to change the sheets for the 4th time in a week (it only being tuesday) since you didn’t have time

“exactly, sweetheart. you take whatever. you. need. want me fill you up again? you feeling empty? missing the baby?” Nanami finally begins to buck his hips into you while you’re loosing your mind over his words almost as if he’d been reading your exact thoughts

you hadn’t been using condoms but even if you did… the package of a magnum was no match to the end of a thumbtack and the adoration of you and your husbands genes mixing to make a beautiful child. not that he needed to know that…

and neither did you need to know about the prime delivery of more sugar pills sitting on your door step…

“Barbie has a great day everyday but Ken only has a great day if Barbie looks at him!”

[vibewithma]

Man of God

Modern Sinners Au!

Preacher Boy/Sammie x Black Church Girl!Reader

Friday rolled in slow and warm, sun slipping through the trees like it had nowhere in particular to be. You had your music low and your windows cracked as you drove Pops into the city. He gave directions the whole time like you ain’t been driving him.

“Take this left here nah, this one,” he muttered, hand waving out the window like it was guiding the car itself.

You smiled, biting your tongue. “Yes sir.”

You let him out at his old friend’s house, watched him do that slow shuffle up the walkway before turning to Doris in the passenger seat. She had her handbag clutched like it held secrets and prayers, lips pursed in anticipation.

“You ready, Granny?”

She smirked. “I was born ready.”

Next stop: the shop.

Y’all strolled through the aisles like it was a military operation Doris on a mission, you just trying to keep up. Into the cart went elbow macaroni, blocks of sharp cheddar, buttermilk, bags of flour, pounds of catfish, whole chickens, pork chops, sage, celery, sweet potatoes, marshmallows and more.

You blinked at the growing mountain. “Granny…you feeding the church or hosting a revival?”

Doris didn’t miss a beat. “It’s called preparation, baby.”

“Granny, everybody knows you can cook. You don’t have to compete with Sister Lorraine—”

Doris stopped dead in the spice aisle, turned to you like she just heard blasphemy. “You think David wanted to fight Goliath?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

She tilted her head. “Sometimes God gives you the stones to prove the fool wrong.”

You stared and she tossed Old Bay in the cart like it was one of those stones.

What she didn’t say and what you didn’t notice was that somewhere between the yams and the sugar aisle, she’d slipped red food colouring and cream cheese frosting ingredients into the cart. You clocked it at the checkout too late.

“Granny…” you sighed, watching the cashier bag the cocoa powder. “You really brought cake stuff?”

Doris grinned, all teeth. “Your red velvet could raise the dead. I just want folks to remember it before that Lorraine woman’s banana pudding clouds their judgment.”

You groaned but smiled. Deep down, you kinda liked being part of her legacy mission.

As you loaded up the trunk, a familiar low laugh rolled across the lot.

“Miss Doris?”

You both turned. There stood two tall, broad shouldered young men in faded hoodies and gold chains Elijah and Elias Moore. Smoke and Stack.

Doris waved them over like they were kin.

“Well if it ain’t the troubled twins!” she called, grinning ear to ear.

They laughed, walking up like they’d been summoned by heaven and gossip.

“You still callin’ us that, Miss Doris?” Smoke asked, leaning in for a quick side hug.

“You ain’t grown outta it yet,” she quipped back, patting his back. “This is my granddaughter, Y/N.”

Stack gave you a glance over and smiled, dimples showing. “Heard a lot ‘bout you.”

“From who?” you asked, lifting a brow.

They both looked at each other and smirked.

“Our little cousin,” Smoke said.

“Talkin’ ‘bout you like you got wings,” Stack added.

Your stomach flipped. You already knew who they meant.

Sammie.

“Lord have mercy,” you mumbled under your breath, grabbing the last bag and shoving it in the trunk.

Doris chuckled. “Mmhm. Y’all behave now. I got food to beat people with love this Sunday.”

“That’s a holy competition,” Stack said, tipping his chin at you.

You laughed, shook your head and slid into the driver’s seat while Doris said her goodbyes.

As you pulled off, you glanced in the rearview to see them still grinning and waving.

“You think they really troubled?” you asked.

Doris just said, “Baby, everybody troubled. Question is what are they doing with it?”

Back at home, the whole house buzzed like a beehive on sugar water.

Doris wasted no time putting everybody on assignment like it was the Last Supper and she was personally feeding Jesus and his disciples.

“Lenny!” she hollered from her recliner. “You head back to the city and get them fancy cutlery sets from the Dollar General the gold trim ones. Not the silver. Silver look cheap.”

Your dad sighed but grabbed his keys. “Yes ma’am…”

Your mama was already at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled, head tied, muttering ingredients like scripture.

“If I cut the onions now and leave the greens soaking overnight, we can be cookin’ by 2 a.m. sharp…”

Dawn was on the living room floor, wrangling Doris’s bob wig like it was trying to escape. “Granny, why it got so many pins in it?”

Doris peeked over her glasses. “That’s security, baby. That wig ain’t movin’ through praise and sweat.”

Dawn held it up to show you. “It’s been through war.”

You just laughed and kept bagging the groceries.

Then Dawn pulled out the aprons, fresh from her sewing machine, each with big bold letters on the front in gold glitter vinyl: Miss Doris Made It.

One for Granny. One for your mama. One for you. One for Dawn.

“Now we uniformed,” Doris said, nodding like this was an army.

Your job?

“Go pick up your Pops. And make sure he don’t stay out late talkin’ to them old fools.”

“Got it.”

Except… it didn’t go exactly like that.

You pulled up to the house and sure enough, there he was. Pops in a lawn chair with five other men, all in matching button downs and dad hats, drinks in hand, playing some version of dominoes meets poker you ain’t never seen before. They were yelling, laughing, slapping the table like kids who just got recess back.

You stepped up to him, hands on your hips. “Pops. Time to go.”

He looked up and smiled like he hadn’t heard a thing. “One more round.”

“Pops…”

“You can wait. Go sit in the car. We’ll be done soon.”

You narrowed your eyes but turned on your heel. “You better not be here past midnight or I’m tellin’ Granny you was out here drinkin’ ‘apple juice’.”

You slid into your car and leaned back with a sigh, phone in hand. You hit FaceTime and Dawn picked up immediately.

On screen, she was modeling Granny’s wig like it was couture.

“Girl,” you cackled, “why you look like you about to direct a funeral and star in the BET biopic about it?”

“Shut up,” she grinned, flipping the camera to show the apron. “But tell me this ain’t cute. Granny said she wanna debut it during offering.”

You were mid laugh when knock knock came soft on your window.

You screamed. Dawn screamed on FaceTime.

You turned.

And there he was.

Grinning like sin in sneakers Sammie, standing outside your car like he’d just strolled outta a dream and into your Friday night.

You unlocked the door with a sigh. “What in the left behind sequel are you doin’ here?”

He slid into the passenger seat smooth, settling in like he belonged there.

“You always this jumpy?” he asked, kicking his feet up just a little.

“You always sneakin’ up on girls like a villain in a Lifetime movie?”

He chuckled low, rubbing his palms together. “Nah. Only when they owe me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Owe you?”

“Mmhmm.” He leaned closer, eyes glintin’. “I still ain’t got my gas money kiss.”

You rolled your eyes but your smile gave you away. “You really gon’ keep bringin’ that up?”

He shrugged, relaxed and grinning. “If the Lord bring it to remembrance…”

You shook your head. “You play too much.”

“And you like it.”

Silence settled for a moment, soft and comfortable. The street was quiet, the cicadas hummin’, his cologne floating easy between you.

“You look real cute when you bossin’ folks around, by the way,” he added. “Saw you earlier, hand on your hip like a deacon’s wife.”

“You stalkin’ me now?”

“More like… admirin’ from afar.” His voice dropped a note lower. “A very appreciative afar.”

Your cheeks burned and you looked out the window, but you were smiling.

“Mmhm. You want a kiss that bad, Sammie?”

He bit his lip, leaned closer, voice warm as butter on cornbread. “I want whatever you feel like givin’ me.”

Right then, your phone buzzed again. Dawn still on FaceTime, mouth open and shooketh.

“I’m still here!!!” she whisper yelled. “I heard everything!”

Sammie just laughed and leaned back, stretching out like he had all the time in the world.

Sammie leaned back in the seat, arms crossed behind his head like he had nowhere to be but right there, teasing you into sin.

On FaceTime, Dawn was staring at him like she was seeing a ghost in sneakers.

He raised a brow and smirked at the screen. “Hey Dawn. Heard you got yourself on house arrest”

“…Hey.” She blinked. “Boy. Not me.”

“I heard Miss Doris said you got one more ‘practice’ lie in you before she drag you by the ear to confession.”

Dawn sucked her teeth. “It was one time.”

“One too many.” He chuckled. “I’m prayin’ for your freedom, though.”

“You do that,” she snapped, but even she was trying not to laugh.

You cleared your throat and hit the end button real quick. “Bye, Dawn.”

“Wait, wait, wa—” click.

You turned and Sammie was watching you with a look that made your stomach do a backflip.

“What?” you asked, trying to act casual.

“You jealous?” he grinned, voice dipping low and mischievous.

You arched your brows. “Boy, what?”

“Got rid of her real fast.”

You rolled your eyes, arms crossed. “She was bein’ loud. And rude.”

“Mmhmm.”

You shot him a look but he was already smirking again, turning the air into tension thick enough to cut.

It went quiet for a beat, but not awkward. Just slow, warm… charged.

“Can’t believe you still want that gas money kiss,” you murmured, shaking your head.

“Oh, I want it.” His voice was velvet. “But not ‘cause of the gas.”

“Oh?”

“I just like seein’ you flustered.”

“Flustered?” you scoffed, even as heat crept up your neck.

He leaned in, close enough to catch your breath.

“Yeah… right about now,” he murmured, and you realized he was only inches from your face.

Then his fingers gently touched your chin, tilting your head up not rough, not demanding. Just steady. Sure.

You blinked, breath hitching. He was so close now you could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the curve of that smug little smile.

You leaned in, just a little, barely.

And he grinned.

“Ain’t gon’ kiss you without consent,” he whispered, playful but sincere, voice dipped in reverence. “I’m still a man of God, baby.”

You froze, lips parted, caught somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

He pulled back like nothing happened.

“Be right back,” he said, already opening the door. “Gotta go fetch my uncle before y’all call search and rescue.”

And just like that he was gone, leaving the door swinging open behind him and your heart tap dancing like a gospel drummer.

You sat there in the driver’s seat, jaw dropped, breath stuck in your throat, heat creeping up your chest.

Man of God, huh?

Lord have mercy…

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