#Tin Chef

[ashuneko]

tfc!

rip tfc, he was a good man and a true hermit

tfc for hermit a day may day 23!

[insomniaruler]

More headcanons because yes

- food, food in the worlds of Minecraft is generally strange but there are key tenants to help you understand.

- Stuff that can be quickly crafted, cooked or made from base ingredients (such as wheat instead of flour) is filling in a sense but won’t sustain a players body.

- Stuff that is made with more time, usually made later on in a game, speedrunners actually need to eat more of this type of food because they don’t eat it in their runs.

- there are three types of death, death, perma death and The Endless Sleep. Regular death is simple, the player dies and wakes up where they last slept. Perma death is slightly trickier, a code mechanic that sends players back to the world hub and destroys their world, thus creating hardcore mode. And then There’s The Endless Sleep which is incredibly uncommon and under researched, it’s when a player disappears one day and won’t be found again.

- all the members of Hermitcraft are either looking for something or running from something. For some it’s obvious, Joel looking for a challenge and Grian running from the Watchers. But for others they’re both running and looking for something, like StressMonster who was both looking for a place to live in peace and running from faerie hunters.

On that note:

- StressMonster was a half Fae noble in the spring court, thankfully she was out of the castle visiting family when the first attack came. She fought at first but when one of her wings was cut off with an iron blade she fled the Fae Lands. she learned about the player side of her heritage.

- Jimmy remembers the games in stark detail but thinks no one (not even the victors) remember so he’s just kind of holding onto the fear from the games with nowhere to put it.

- a lot of people can be influenced by the lore magic of smp’s after they’ve concluded, usually it’s small such as Lizzie drinking more water after esmp s1, or Cleo being a little more intrested in history after the wc smp to Kristen gaining the magic and status as a fully fledged death goddess after the dsmp

- the birds™️ of Hermitcraft (False, Grian, Pearl) like to annoy Zedaph because he’s (definitely not) worm man

- pearl doesn’t sleep a lot, she still has the watchers in her head, trying to influence her, she’s weaker when asleep and she’s scared that if they break through they’ll terrorize Hermitcraft

- most players have a ‘chat’ that follows them around, Philza’s crowd, Technoblades voices, etc. etc. Zedaphs is a horde of sentient & autonomous worms on strings that follow him around, almost daily he gets packages from other hermits giving him back his worms because they’re just Everywhere

- Joe’s chat are ghosts that he pulled along with himself by accident, Quinn is a poltergeist who decided that yes. That one is good.

- there’s world simulations where players can go to experience the real world, such as the Japan where YHS was held

- A lot of hermits tend to over work themselves, TFC set up one night a week where he expects the hermits to either be in bed asleep or at his base eating a full dinner together. This tradition started in season 2 when he joined and goes on to this day but now without TFC the hermits rotate hosting weekly. There’s always a candle lit in TFC’s honour at these dinners.

[inkynovawoo]

Tin Master aka the best barista ~☕️

Am honestly loving the more unique character designs in ZZZ rn. Tin Master is my favorite- next to Billy, of course!

Here's it without the bright colours:

[bad-traffic-smp-ideas]

A Life Series played with the TerraFirmaCraft mod. No other mods.

The TFC mod.......

[eery-lir]

Damn I got it bad for Zeff again.

Being a cute little waitress and he gets mad when customers flirt with you and tip you well.

Zeff also hates when you show off your cleavage or wear a skirt that's just a little too short. Spanks you in his office later for being such a slut.

[hermitcraft-fairytale-au]

Tin Foil Chef - The shoe maker.

A steady presence up until his passing, an expert at leather crafts.

[daffodil-echo]

i love that TFC is there in the hermitcraft banner, its so sweet to see <3

[evilrat-sabre]

I am not crying you are.

God I miss TFC, may he break a lot of pickaxes wherever he is.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Ok so I fixed a pair of patchwork hippie pants that ripped at one of the seams way too early imo. Just did a ladder stitch… I’m gonna darn it later for extra stability because it kind of is in the crotch area, which rubs. I have my gray cargo pants with a complete crotch blowout which is harder to fix so I’m researching how to do that.

Also, cottage cheese/yogurt/sour cream containers are the BEST ADHD storage tool ever. Just wash out your plastic after you eat the food and put whatever you want in it. Label it. Make a system.

[kooldewd123]

watching history channel is a lot of fun because they're always either way too serious about their subject or not serious enough and it leads to some of the funniest out-of-context moments.

how the states got their shapes: *jaunty upbeat music* the word "cracker" comes from the crack of the whip when slaveowners would whip their slaves! :3 the first known usage of the word is from shakespeare, but it rose to prominence in 1700s florida plantations! XD isn't that neat?

the food that built america: *deathly serious* although he was forced to compromise his ideals and americanize his name, things were looking up for chef boyardee. but then, japan bombed the american port of pearl harbor, plunging the united states into world war ii -

[insomniaruler]

Hermit-tober day 1: memory

Stress sat against the birch planks with a sigh. She felt sad, terribly terribly sad. It had been a year and a month since they lost TFC. She missed him. A tear tracked down her cheek slowly as she buried her head in her knees. A sob bubbled in her throat as she fumbled with fresh candles to relight at his window sill.

“I miss you friend.” Stress muttered. As she wiped her eyes looking up at the ugly-as-sin starter house she swore she heard his rasping chuckle. “Don’t forget about me yet kid. I’m still here in your heart and memory.” A hand hugged her shoulder close. Stress swore she smelt the smell of the mines and pine trees.

“I miss you. I miss you so much-“ “I’m okay kid, I’ve made a friend over here- real rambunctious kid, he challenged god to a duel and won.” TFC’s voice chuckled. “Do you think you’ll come visit again?” Stress asked as she looked at the small dust filled house. “I don’t think so. But don’t worry I’m here still just where it counts.” And the ghostly touch left her shoulder.

Finally looking over her shoulder Stress saw his smile fade from view. “I still miss you. But memories help, stay safe over there friend.”

Going to be honest I made this at 3 am two days late but I felt really sad and was missing TFC so I wrote this bullshit. o7 TFC you absolute legend

[uthri]

Hermit a day may! Day 23!

TFC o7

[void-the-bear]

oh man I'm about to cry

I’m beyond ecstatic to reveal my contribution to the Hermitcraft TCG, the Collector’s Edition card for TinFoilChef! I’m honoured to have been trusted to create such a meaningful illustration.

The Collector’s Edition cards go on sale on July 1st. All profit from the sale of this card will be sent to TFC’s family. ❤️❤️❤️

[strsnctry]

impossible things before breakfast

snarkymuch

Summary:

Soulmates can relieve their own pain by sending it to their other half, something Hydra had utilized with the Winter Soldier. So the day Clint made a remark that had him pulling on a thread he'd always ignored, Bucky was faced with the knowledge he'd been unknowingly making some innocent person suffer all this time. And Steve, a YouTuber with a cooking channel, just trying to get by with his myriad of health problems and the constant assault from his asshole soulmate, had just got hired by Pepper Potts to be the new live-in chef at Avenger's tower.  Lip curling, Steve met his pale eyes, hating that he’d ever found them attractive. “You don’t know shit about me, dick head. So why don’t you go fuck yourself with that enormous shitbag personality of yours?”  The asshole just huffed, flexing his arm, clearly trying to intimidate. “Your work ethic says plenty, but hey, I’m not the one paying you, though don’t think I won’t be sharing what a fucking great fella you are—sleeping on the job and backtalking to the people you’re supposed to be working for.” For Square B2-Enemies to Lovers-for Steve Rogers Bingo 2022

[shy-writer-999]

Summary: Luffy gets into an alluring tin of mysterious cookies. One thing leads to another, and he ends up in your room, disoriented and distressed. What will it take to help him feel better? ~5k words.

CW: Smut with a bit of plot. Afab reader, gendered language (“princess���), overstimulation, dry humping, begging, aphrodisiacs, penetrative sex.

MINORS DNI. NSFW CONTENT.

Luffy stumbles into your cabin late at night. The door is wide open and it seems like no one else on the Sunny is awake. You’re messing around on your phone, doom scrolling to pass the time and entertain yourself. You wish that you could fall sleep, but it won’t come any time soon. It’s a restless sort of night.

He almost trips over his feet as he crashes onto the chair by your desk.

“Luffy, what’s up? It’s late.”

A closer look at him reveals that he’s sweating and bright red. His eyes look off and he looks sick.

“Are you okay?” You’re worried—he looks seriously unwell.

“I feel funny. I think I ate something bad, my tummy hurts.” Luffy’s brows are bent in the middle and he’s grimacing.

You’ve seen Luffy when he has food poisoning before. He literally turns green and complains non-stop. It’s his own fault, he’s like a racoon. He’ll eat anything, regardless of how questionable it is. Old leftovers wherever he can find them, almost-rotting fruit, poisonous fish, none of it matters for Luffy. If it looks edible, he’s taking it to the neck. He frequently suffers the consequences.

But right now, he’s not green, like he usually is when he’s eaten something spoiled. He looks different.

You get up and walk over to him, placing your hand on his forehead. When your skin touches his, he lets out what initially sounds like some sort of moan, but you shrug it off—that must have been a wail of pain, right? He’s concerningly feverish and sweating bullets.

Does he have the flu? Should you wake up Chopper?

“Luffy, you’re burning up. Like, you have a really bad fever. I’m going to get Chopper.”

“Wait, I feel—I feel weird inside,” Luffy’s voice strains and he sounds like he’s in pain He’s visibly shivering. “It’s like my stomach is on fire, but I feel cold.” He continues almost babbling, so obviously in distress and discomfort, feverish nonsense falling from his lips impulsively.

You don’t realize it yet, but his hand wanders to his crotch and starts to fidget.

“Your stomach is on fire but you’re freezing cold? Did you eat something that went bad again? What did you eat?” You raise an eyebrow at him, vaguely annoyed. He sure doesn’t look like he has food poisoning. Also, there isn’t usually much spoiled food on the ship. Sanji keeps the fridge nice, tidy, and clean.

Why did Luffy come to you, instead of Chopper? He’s distracted, eyes zoning out somewhere and his face wrinkled up. He must not have heard you.

“I said, what did you eat? Luffy!”

“I ate—fuck,” Luffy’s brows furrow and he closes his eyes in anguish. “Ate Sanji’s cookies.”

“You did what? Sanji’s cookies? The ones with the huge note that says ‘do not eat’ on the tin?”

Luffy lets out another wail of pain and shifts in his seat. His fingers squeeze his crotch again. He’s hard, rubbing his massive erection, sliding his fingers over it, squeezing it and playing with himself.

“Luffy, what are you doing?!” You’re incredulous when you realize he’s touching himself. You’ve never seen anything like this before. He’s your captain, for fuck’s sake. What was he doing touching himself in your room, with a raging fever and chattering teeth?

Putting the pieces together, you remember that Sanji had devilish smirk as he brought his special souvenir onto the ship. It was a pretty box, made of metal, covered in some sort of light blue paint, filigreed with gold accents and illustrations of pretty pink ribbons. The chef put an obnoxious “DO NOT EAT SANJI’S COOKIES” sign on the box and slid them to the top shelf of the pantry, almost out of reach. It was, admittedly, extremely naïve of Sanji to expect Luffy to pay any heed to that sign.

You put two and two together. The cookies must have had something in them.

As a response to your indignance, Luffy squeezes his erection harder and gasps quietly. Sweat drips from his temples and down his cheeks. His mouth hangs open, and his pupils are huge. He’s a fucking mess, and you have no clue what to do in this situation.

“’m so cold,” he whines and shakes. “Too c-c-cold.”

This is wildly inappropriate, but… you are kind of turned on, just because he’s touching himself. You have some sort of repressed crush on your captain—how could you not? You usually push it to the back of your mind, though. Pining over him is a waste of time when nothing would ever come of it.

“Fuck,” Luffy’s voice is gravelly and his hand moves of its own accord. “Feels like it’s helping. Feels warm.”

Your heart does a flip. Luffy is palming his cock in front of you, panting with arousal, head thrown back. He can’t help but touch himself. It’s the only thing that’s relieving his discomfort, evidently. You feel awkward, but it’s almost starting to get you going. You feel heat creep up your neck and you're frozen still.

Luffy’s eyes wander to your chest—he’s staring at your breasts, drinking in the shape of them and the outline of your nipples though your shirt. You start to turn red, matching his color rapidly.

“Luffy, what the fuck? Stop! You’re a wreck.” You divert the awkwardness for a second. “No wonder the sign says do not eat! I’m going to get Chopper. You need to rest. Go do that in your room.”

Luffy grinds his palm down his erection and a stifled sound of pleasure gets caught in his throat. You pause, against your better judgment. That sound—the sound of Luffy in pleasure—makes you feel some sort of way. You start to warm up between the legs.

“I want you to do it.” Luffy’s voice gets lower each time he talks. He’s still shaking, freezing, sweating, and unwell. But he’s touching himself, and you had imagined this before. It’s hard to look away.

“What?” You respond reflexively, caught completely off guard. Did you hear him right?

“Want you to touch me,” he whines and continues to rub himself. The friction feels electric. “I think it’ll h-help.”

Luffy’s eyes are half open and glossy, still riveted on your tits. His pupils are really dilated. His fingers grasp and stroke his hard cock through his shorts, and each sound that leaves his mouth goes straight between your thighs.

“You want me to touch you? Are you… Are you sure, Luffy?”

“Need it,” he scrunches his face up. “’m going crazy.”

You bite your lip and pause for a second. If your captain was asking you for help, you might as well assist him… Also, this didn’t feel like that crazy of a request for help, considering the fact that he’d literally die for you (and has gotten close to that on multiple occasions). And you could tell he wasn’t being malicious or predatory about his request—he was just being Luffy, asking plainly for something. If you said no, he would be fine. He may whine a bit, but he’d never genuinely pressure you to do something you were uncomfortable with.

But fuck, was he in his right mind? You shake your head. You want to touch him. But you are genuinely worried about him. It must be 2:00AM, so you need to wake up Chopper. You might want to touch Luffy, but you have to do your due diligence. You care about Luffy. If he’s sick or in danger, you have to make sure he’s okay.

“Luffy, no. I’m going to get Chopper. Just wait here.”

You speed-walk down the hallway, heart racing. What a bizarre turn of events. You didn’t expect that to happen when Luffy initially walked in your room. When you reach the door to Chopper’s cabin, you knock.

No answer. He’s obviously asleep.

You knock again. “Chopper? It’s me. Please get up. Luffy’s sick.”

Another knock. Rustling blankets. You can hear Chopper hobble to the door. He opens it and pokes his little head out, squinting. He’s wearing one of those sleeping gowns and a cute hat. “Mhm? What’s wrong with him?”

“Uh... He has a fever. He’s burning up and he’s shaking. He’s sweating a lot, too.” You figured you’d save the ‘and he’s masturbating’ part for later. Maybe you didn’t have to say it at all?

“Does he have food poisoning? Did he eat anything out of the ordinary?”

“Well, I don’t think he has food poisoning... But he ate some of Sanji’s cookies.”

“What’s in the cookies?” Chopper is shading his eyes from the dim hallway light. He’s half asleep and you feel bad for waking him up.

“I-I don’t know. Maybe there was something weird in them?”

Chopper yawns. Fuck. He looks like he’s falling asleep again. You can’t blame him, really, it’s way past his bedtime.

“Chopper, can you please come look at him?”

He yawns again. “I’m sleepy. Can you ask Sanji what’s in the cookies and get back to me? I just want to go to bed a little bit longer.”

You huff and frown as Chopper shuts his door. So now you were supposed to play telephone? If it was anyone else you would have chewed them out, but you couldn’t do that to Chopper.

Extremely aggravated, you storm down the hallway to Sanji’s cabin and knock on the door, loudly. It’s an angry knock. A fuck-you knock.

“Sanji. Get up.” Silence for a moment while the blonde jolts awake. “I said get up.”

His door opens just a tad until he realizes it’s you. Then he opens it wider. His hair is all rustled up and he’s shirtless, in boxers. If he wasn’t half-asleep, he’d be blushing and acting ridiculous because you’re seeing him half-naked.

“Oh, hello beautiful.” His voice is scratchy and he’s blinking. “How may I help you? Are you finally going to crawl into bed with me?” He flashes a cheeky grin and you almost slap him.

“No, Sanji. Luffy ate your cookies. He’s a mess.”

The cook’s half-asleep composure immediately drops. “He did what?”

You can tell he’s fully awake now.

“I said, he ate your fucking cookies, Sanji. What is in those things!?”

“FUCK. How many did he eat?”

“How many? How should I know?! He’s in my room with a fever right now. It’s Luffy, we can assume he probably ate the whole box.”

Sanji smirks and laughs out loud. “Well, there’s only one way to fix that. Good night, princess.” He winks and shuts the door in your face.

“Sanji, what the fuck!?”

You knock on his door again, but you can hear him get back in bed. You’re beyond pissed. You’re ready to kick the door down and wring his neck. But… you have a sinking feeling that you know what the cook is getting at. Fuck. The cookies have some sort of aphrodisiac in them.

You trudge back to your room, flabbergasted and defeated. Luffy is still in your chair, letting out wails of “pain” which you are now realizing are just fucking moans. Not to say that he isn’t in pain but… if the placement of his hand is any evidence right now, he’s feeling pretty good.

“Y-you’re back,” Luffy gasps as he grinds his palm on his erection for what is probably the 50th time.

“Fuck, Luffy. What did you get yourself into tonight? You can be such a bonehead. Goddamn.” Your hands are on your hips and you’re looking at him, weighing your options. You could kick him back to his room and tell him to masturbate.

He looks downright pathetic. His face is twisted up in agony and his hand is putting in work. “T-touch me,” he whines. “P-please.”

“Luffy, are you sure?” You walk over to him and place a hand on his cheek in pity.

He opens his eyes and weakly croaks out, “Not there. Lower.”

You tut and frown. “Ohhh Luffy. What am I going to do with you?”

He tries to give you puppy dog eyes and fails. Another erotic sound escapes his lips as his palm grinds on his cock particularly hard. He whispers, one last beg before he’ll do all the work himself. “Please.”

You cautiously reach your hand down and place it on his erection. Luffy throws his head back, hissing in air through his teeth, and fidgets under you.

“Fuck, that feels weird. Feels tingly, like—like it’s on fire,” he whines.

He grasps your wrist and makes you rub his cock harder, widening his thighs. His grip is so tight that it hurts. He’s forcing your palm down on his cock so hard that you can’t believe it isn’t hurting him.

Luffy’s eyes are closed and he’s actually drooling. He’s still shivering, and his cheeks are crimson. Sweat plasters his hair down on his forehead and temples.

The obscene sounds leaving his lips make you hotter between your legs—you squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to mitigate the rising heat, but Luffy’s desperation is making it worse. He’s starting to rut his cock up into your hand.

“Ah, that feels—feels so hot and—fuck—feels funny, like it, it feels good.” You can feel his cock twitching under your fingers. He’s writhing around and whimpering, and fuck, he looks good. “Need more.”

“Y-you need more?” You ask hesitantly.

“C’mere.” Luffy grabs you by your waist and effortlessly lifts you up, guiding you to straddle his lap. You freeze up. There’s no way this is really happening.

“Mmmmmm, fuck.” He murmurs in your ear and his hips buck up, cock craving friction through the layer of his pants and yours.

“W-want you to rub on me,” his voice is wretched and depraved. “Feels good.” When you lock eyes, you can see animalistic desire plainly. You’ve never seen him look like this—it’s like he’s a different person; lust is completely driving his movements. It’s like primal instincts took over the second the aphrodisiac cookies went to his stomach.

Luffy dry humps you and it’s starting to feel good. His hands are gripping your hips and he’s doing all the work, dragging you over his cock, pushing you down on it and making your hips roll while needy noises trickle from his parted lips.

As friction builds on your clit, you stifle a moan that threatens to jump out of your mouth. Luffy’s so aroused that he’s panting and slobbering down his chin.

It’s like he’s in heat, the way he humps and grinds on you. Seeing him like this is making you wetter. Your panties must be saturated by now—the friction is already making you buzz, and he hasn’t done much other than rub you on his cock a bit.

“It’s helping,” the words fall carelessly from Luffy’s mouth. He has no clue what’s going on. He’s on autopilot right now, lost in lust and barely cognizant. “Wanna be warmer, ‘m still so—so cold.” His teeth are chattering amidst his moans. Considering how hot his cheek was, he must really be freezing.

Luffy’s hands wander to grip your chest through your tank top so hard you let out a yelp. He pulls it down and starts to greedily squeeze and knead your breasts. Your breath hitches when his fingerpads move back and forth on your already stiff and sensitive nipples.

When he leans forward and wraps his lips around one, you let out a gasp. His tongue swirls around your bundle of nerves and he starts to suck on it hungrily. Luffy is making you wet beyond belief—the suction on your nipple is feeling dangerously good. You’re on the verge of losing it, totally giving in to the nagging animalistic voice in your head that’s telling you to fuck him like crazy.

His erection is huge and hard as it grinds on your core. It feels good—no, he feels good. The noises he’s letting out add to the effect. Your core is throbbing and sopping wet.

“L-luffy,” you moan, finally, as he grazes your clit and sucks your nipple particularly hard. He lets out a muffled hum in response, vibrating your nipple. “Luffy, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna cum.”

He goes faster. He thinks that if he sees your face contort in bliss and hears you moan some more, it’ll fix him. He’s starting to feel better already with each hump. Maybe if he sees you cum, he’ll stop pulsing and his body will stop screaming at him. Maybe if you cum from his dry humps, he’ll be satiated. Maybe his fever will go away.

Luffy can hardly form cognizant, coherent thoughts like this, though. His mind can only focus on two things. First: you. Your pleasure. Your cunt. Your tits. Your smell. He wants to devour you. Second: he’s freezing cold. He needs warmth—twenty blankets, a cup of hot tea, a heating pad, something. He feels like he’s in a vat of ice water.

“Can’t stop,” he chokes his words out with effort, somehow picking up the pace of his cock humping your cunt through your pants. “Need more.”

He grinds your clit just right and it sends you over the edge of orgasm. As you spasm over his clothed cock and soak your panties in ecstasy, he never once lets up the pace. He pushes you back and forth on his erection and doesn’t pay attention to your whimpers from overstimulation.

You collapse forward into him, resting your head in the crook of his neck while he uses his grip on your hips for leverage to rut harder into you.

“Wanna put it in,” Luffy groans and his voice is deeper than usual. “L-lemme put it in. Wanna feel you. Need it. N-need you to—to help me feel better.”

You whisper a hum of affirmation in his ear and he picks you up. Fuck it. He already made you cum. He’s begging for it. You decide to let him ravage you.

Luffy basically throws you on the bed and rips your clothes off. You realize that the door to your cabin is wide open—anyone could walk by and see this. You don’t have the willpower to care right now.

You’re lying on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. Luffy grabs your wrists and holds them over your head with one hand, pinning you down on the bed. His other hand steadies his cock flat on your inflamed, wet folds. He starts to thrust forward a bit, rubbing himself on your cunt, teasing himself before he finally fucks away the ice-cold blood in his veins and stokes that roaring heat his belly.

His cock gliding over your clit feels too good. If he keeps it up, you’ll cum a second time. “Luffy, fuck,” your whimper makes his heart pound. Reality fogs up more and he can’t think straight. He rubs his cock flat on your lips until you’re arching your back, then lines his tip up with your weeping entrance.

When Luffy pushes his cock into your slit slowly, he groans the whole time. “So fuckin’ tight, ‘s like you’re swallowing me whole, fuck. Y-you’re so warm, feels good.”

He’s shaking and shivering still. After a moment of being bottomed out, he starts to fuck you at a measured pace. He’s entranced by the way your tits bounce. He’s still drooling shamelessly, his pupils are blown with lust and he’s sweating. His free hand gropes up for your tits and plays with your nipples. Every time you moan his name, he feels like he’s an animal.

“Nnnnggghhhh, fuck, fuck, you’re—you feel so slippery,” Luffy feverishly grinds his hips into yours, hitting your deep and sensitive spots just right. “Feels weird and hot in my stomach, like s-something’s gonna happen.”

“Luffy, it feels too good,” you keen his name and squirm. “’m gonna cum soon.”

“W-wanna see,” he chokes out an answer between breathless thrusts.

He brushes your hot and soft spot, and you once again are drowning in pleasure, toe-curling and delicious. You cum, squeezing his shaft and milking out as much precum as possible.

He sounds like he’s hyperventilating. He’s truly going crazy. He keeps fucking you through your orgasm and you start to squirm. The sight goads him on.

“More,” he groans. “Please, more.”

Luffy rocks his pelvis into yours. His abs and arms are muscly and defined, his hair is sweaty, his eyes are totally dilated, and he’s looking at you like he’s going to fuck you for hours.

When he feels your walls clench down on him, he starts to cum. He seizes up and his cock plunges into your cunt. “F-fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m cumming, it—feels too good, feels so good, fuck.”

His thrusts are erratic while he pumps ropes of cum into you. He pauses and looks down at your cock-crazed face, closed eyes, and slack jaw. His cum is currently seeping out of your slit, coating the base of his shaft.

But even though he just came, his cock is already starting to pulse again. That one orgasm? It isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

He feels better than he did before, but still not back to normal. The fire and ice in his veins still runs strong, he feels like he's buzzing, like he’s an animal looking for a mate.

You think that he’s had his fill until he starts thrusting again, just as hard as before. After a minute, he shifts you. Luffy pulls out and picks you up again, maneuvering you so you’re laying on your bed with your stomach touching the covers. He gets on top of you and—fuck, he’s heavy. And his skin is boiling hot. You can feel the sheen of sweat on his chest when it presses on your back.

He has you in prone bone now, spreading your thighs wide with one of his hands. When he finally presses his cock into you, your back arches. It feels much deeper than before—is he using his devil fruit powers, or is his cock just this big?

“Fuck,” he’s rasping in your ear. His husky voice goes straight to your throbbing core—god, he sounds hot right now. You can feel his hot breath. One of his hands is braced next to your head as his cock rolls into you. He’s hitting the perfect spot and it’s starting to feel so good that you’re seeing stars. “Your pussy—feels so, so warm and good, I think it’s working.”

You lose track of time while his cock caresses your sweet spots. Before you know it, you’re cumming again. You hardly have the energy to let him know what’s happening. Is it the aphrodisiacs making his performance this good, or does Luffy just know how to fuck? How is he this good in bed?

When you squirm and cream on Luffy’s cock for the second time, he reaches a hand under you and thumbs your clit. He draws circles on it and presses it like a button. It feels like an electric shock—he has neglected it until now but still managed to coax three orgasms out of you. And while you are mildly overstimulated, when his fingers start dancing over your clit it turns up the notch of pleasure inside of you.

“Luffy, fuck that feels good,” a sort of guttural moan escapes your lips and you can’t help but buck your hips up and back onto his cock. “Don’t stop. Fuck.”

You’re keening through the waves of pleasure that he’s pulling out from you while he rams you with his cock. His heavy grunts are like music in your ears—feral, low, and ravenous. Your captain is absolutely railing you right now, and you like it. He more than likes it.

“So tight and, ah, so warm inside, like—aaghhhh fuck—like you’re made for me.” He groans and his thighs shudder. Is he cumming again? How many times is this? Second? Third?

Your mind is in a haze. He’s devouring you like a rabid animal. How many orgasms will it take to fend off his fever? How many hours until the aphrodisiac cookies wear off?

In your haze, filth starts to slip out of your mouth.

“F-fuck me harder, captain—please,” you mewl, and you can feel just the slightest pause in Luffy’s thrusts, barely noticeable. “Your cock feels so fucking good.”

After his pause, he starts pressing his weight harder on top of you, moving his hips at an angle so his cock is literally ramming into your cervix. The sensation is overwhelming, to say the least—painful but so, so good. You’re gasping for air and it’s hard to breathe because he’s on top of you. He’s literally fucking you like he’s in heat.

“Say that again,” he grunts and thrusts with each word but he’s struggling to get them out because he’s barely breathing. “Say it.”

“Captain, fuck, y-your cock feels so good. Fuck, captain.”

He’s somehow going faster, bringing you to another cliff, another ledge of euphoria from which to free fall. His cock bullies your bundles of nerves and your cunt squelches with each pass.

“C-captain, Luffy, please, fuck.” You’re spasming under him again, cumming on his cock for, what was that, the fourth time? Maybe it was the fifth. You’ve lost count. You didn’t know it was possible to cum this many times. You’ve also lost track of what words are coming out of your mouth. “Cumming, I’m cumming, y-your cock ‘s too good, captain, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He’s right after you, jerking his hips deep into yours and cumming inside again. There’s so much cum leaking out of you that Luffy’s shaft is obscured by milky white goop. There’s a sizable puddle of it underneath of you. It’s going to leave an unfortunate-colored stain on your bedsheets. You’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.

His hips are still bucking though. His cum just keeps… coming. It’s a visceral orgasm. It’s the final orgasm (for a brief refractory period). When he’s done shooting seed into you, he collapses on top of you.

It’s like you’re under a weighted blanket except its Luffy, he’s heavy as fuck, and his cock is in you. And damn, he’s sweaty.

But somehow this is the best sex you’ve ever had. And you have a sneaking suspicion that the night isn’t over yet.

When you protest and Luffy rolls off your back, you use all your strength to open your eyes and check on him. His chest rises and falls at a rapid pace, his eyes are closed, he’s still drooling but he looks decidedly better.

You bring a hand to touch his forehead again and he lets out another quiet whimper. He must be so sensitive still. Poor thing. But his fever is considerably better.

Sanji must have been right when he said there’s only one way to fix this aphrodisiac frenzy. You wonder what Sanji was saving those cookies for. The day you finally crawled into bed with him?

Pfffft. No, thank you. After round six or seven with Luffy, you’ll never look back. You truly didn’t expect your captain to fuck like this. Or to like being called captain when his cock is in you.

“Luffy, are you doing ok?”

He hums in response.

“Use your words. Luffy, are you doing okay?”

“Yeah. Feels a lot better.”

When his chest slows, he starts to sleep. You’re left on your bed with a puddle of cum under (and inside) of you, and your captain sound asleep like a rock next to you. And fuck, the door is still open.

Hopefully no one heard that. Even if they had heard, oh well. Too late now to stress over it.

You close the door and turn off the light. Then, you get cleaned up and put your pajamas back on.

Luffy may be sound asleep, but you shove him around so he’s at a decent angle. You fall asleep together on your bed, cuddling, and sticky with sweat (and cum).

Of course, no more than two hours later, Luffy is awake and his cock is throbbing again. He tries to touch himself and make the heat go away but it isn’t working. So… he wakes you up. And that’s how rounds eight, nine, and ten go.

When his fever finally goes away, he’s left with a long-lasting craving that he can only satiate one way: you.

It should go without saying, but the next day you literally cannot walk. You hobble around, trying to play it off like you slept weird or something. Sanji rubs the whole thing in your face.

“How was last night, angel?” His smirk is sly and smug, teasing and suggestive.

“Sanji. Please. Not right now.”

“Do you want me to get more of those cookies sometime? Maybe we can eat them next?” He winks and you balk.

“Fuck off, Sanji.”

The chef chuckles and saunters away. He’s never going to let you live that down.

thank you for reading!!! ive been feeling a certain way about luffy recently. its just his fucking muscles in wano that have me in a chokehold. muscle make brain go brrrrrrrrr.

here's my masterlist and my posting schedule for october!

i'm posting every day from now until halloween!

finally, trick or treat? (tumblr links)

[always-just-red]

Multi headcanon request please. The LIs touch their s/os' breast for the first time, but it's an accident. However, instead of getting mad, she gently scolds them "save that behavior for when we're alone".

You always give me such great requests tehe, I had the absolute time of my life with this one. Did mini fics again! Featuring this time: a baking class with Xavier 🍰, a check-up with Zayne 🩺, pottery-making with Rafayel 🏺, casino night with Sylus 🎲, and a VERY serious study session with Caleb 📚

Innocent Little Mistakes

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: In which the boys are all menaces, surprising literally no-one 🥰

Genre: Humour

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, inappropriate touching (but make it ✨COMEDY✨), PDA, slight suggestiveness, established relationships

| Word count: 600-750 words each! | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

One more strike and you’re out.

You furiously mix the bowl of cake batter under your arm, all too aware of the chef watching you from across the room. You don’t know why he’s looking at you— you’re not the problem. The problem is beside you, measuring out an ingredient you don’t actually need.

“What’re you up to, Xavi?” you ask with a nervous chuckle, trying not to sound suspicious.

He looks up at you, blue eyes as warm as the oven that’s making everything feel too hot. “Measuring,” he declares with a smile.

“That’s great, sweetie.”

Don’t ask. Just leave it.

Every other couple in the class look sickeningly in love— trading ingredients, utensils, and lingering gazes— all in perfect harmony. Meanwhile, you have a ticking time bomb for a partner. First there was the egg incident: a rogue egg from your table had somehow ended up under the foot of the man one counter down from you, slipping him over and twisting his ankle. Then the man from the couple behind you slipped too: on a butter wrap Xavier had sworn he’d thrown away.

Funny how so many of the things from your counter are going on little, deadly adventures.

You shoot Xavier another wary look. He glances up. Smiles. You smile back. When the cake batter’s done, tipped into the tin and tucked into the oven, you move onto the icing. You whip it up in a minute, lifting a spoon from the bowl and dragging a finger through to taste it.

“Xavier,” you say, nudging the bowl across to him, “mind putting a little more sugar in this? I need to start tidying up.”

“Sure,” he beams.

He can’t mess that up, right? You don’t want to exclude him. With a soft sigh, you start to reorganise your work station: making space for the cake you’re going to decorate. Xavier’s voice interrupts you, sweet like the sugar flowers you’re sorting through:

“How’s this?”

You turn, and the moment you do, something cool scrapes your collarbone. Xavier was holding out a spoon— too close— and it tips at your contact, spilling sticky white icing down past the neckline of your apron and shirt. You feel it, inching down your skin, between your breasts.

You’ve been stunned into silence. Xavier is staring down too, lips parted, spoon still mid-air.

“Don’t just stare!” you find it in you to scold, glancing about for something that’ll help you clean up. “Help me—”

That’s when you feel it: something warm on your skin. Your gaze shoots down and Xavier is wiping his thumb through the mess on your chest. He lifts the icing to his mouth. Pops it past his lips.

“Xavier!” you exclaim on a whisper.

His eyes had fluttered closed, but they open again. His lips are still on his thumb as he looks back at you. “Mmm?” he hums around it, like he has no idea what you’re talking about.

That face is so devastatingly innocent, but you’re not falling for it. You cross your arms and glare.

“You want some too?” Xavier translates.

Before you can stop him, his thumb is on your skin again. “Xavi—!” you protest, but then that thumb is in your mouth, overwhelming you with sweetness. Except… it’s not all sweet. You frown as Xavier’s hand moves away, your nose wrinkling with disgust. “Wha— why is it salty?!”

“Wasn’t it salty already?”

“No! Xavier, what did you…? You can’t just—!”

“Are you okay?” Xavier laughs so lightly it’s almost a giggle. “You look… warm. What are you thinking about?”

He’s leaning against the counter now, cheek settled in his hand. He has the countenance of an angel and he knows what you’re thinking about. His free hand plays with a salt shaker on the counter; it doesn’t look anything like the sugar.

Behind you, someone clears their throat.

…

You walk home from the bakery class a lot earlier than planned, having— and you’re quoting verbatim, here— ‘crossed a line’. Xavier’s at your side, a bowl of icing in his hands that no-one dared take from him, and he hums pleasantly to himself as he lifts a fingerful to his lips.

“You did that on purpose,” you grumble, and it’s the first words you’ve said in a while.

He smiles like butter icing wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Zayne ❄️

“Zayne, c’mon… it’s not that bad.”

Lower half cocooned by the blankets of a hospital bed, you give your doctor a lopsided smile. He doesn’t grace your statement with a response— at least, not an intelligible one. There’s a tiny hum, to let you know you’ve been heard. There’s an even tinier frown, to let you know he was not amused.

So you got a little scraped up by a Wanderer— it happens! With your own frown, you regard the pulse oximeter that’s biting the end of your forefinger. You wiggle it, even though Zayne had instructed you to keep still. The tiny screen flashes and flickers. He writes… something down on his clipboard, and it feels needlessly dramatic.

“How would you rate the pain you’re currently experiencing?” he asks.

“Zero. Zilch. Nada. I feel great, actually.”

More scribbles for the clipboard, which means absolutely nothing good.

“I mean it, Zayne. I’m fine, really. I don’t even know why Xavier brought me here. Like, what’s the point of first-aid training if you’re just gonna dump someone in the hospi—”

“Please be still.”

You’d started gesturing, and Zayne stares across at the monitor on your finger. He sighs, which you don’t think is professional, then reaches to press a button on it, restarting its progress. You’re obedient this time: sitting still as he goes back to his beloved clipboard. That sigh sounded tired.

The oximeter bleeps. Zayne glances up. Makes another note.

“There,” he says, his eyes still trained downwards as he reaches across you to retrieve the device, “was that really so—?”

The words stop in his throat when his hand brushes your chest.

Just a graze, but his fingers hover guiltily for a moment before correcting their course: homing in on the oximeter, pinching it open. Zayne doesn’t meet your eyes as he returns to his writing. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks that definitely isn’t professional.

This is amazing. “Did you just—?”

He gives an adorably slight shake of his head.

You gasp anyway, utterly scandalised: “Doctor Zayne! You took an oath.”

“Stop.”

“Here I am, weak from blood loss! Vulnerable!”

“Stop.”

“What sort of an establishment is this, hmm? What other twisted, sordid things go on behind the—” and it’s at this moment you catch a glimpse of a familiar figure— “ah, Doctor Greyson! Doctor Greyson! In here, please!”

The man had been passing through the ward, though he stops at the sound of your voice. “Oh, hello!” he greets, peering around your privacy curtain, “Zayne mentioned you were in! It’s good to see you. Well, not good to see you here, but— you know what I mean! How are you?”

“I’m shocked,” you witter on, because you’ve no time for pleasantries, “shocked, I say! Just now, this man here had the audacity to—”

A cold hand clamps over your mouth.

You are— actually— shocked. You blink at Greyson, eyes wide; even he looks like he’s seen a Wanderer riding a bicycle through the hospital. After a moment of tense, awkward silence, he does that face you know so well. His ‘nope, I’m not going anywhere near whatever this is!’ face.

It’s not a surprise when he backs out, leaving you and Zayne alone once more. Your doctor’s hand is still over your mouth, breaching all kinds of ethics, and oh, how the mighty have fallen. This feels like victory. When Zayne’s hand finally drops, you’re grinning.

“Had your fun?” he asks quietly, looking back to his notes.

“Have you? Or do you wanna have another...?” You waggle a finger at your breasts.

Zayne’s mouth is a tight line, and he doesn’t dare look up. Something is scrawled on the clipboard and you get the feeling it’s a distraction. Your very important doctor is writing very important things. Definitely isn’t scribbling nonsense. He clears his throat, then stands rigidly, his face sombre.

Did you take your joke too far? Your heart starts to have some kind of episode as he walks away, and the stupid machine you’re hooked up to says nothing about it, which is typical.

But Zayne still stops at the curtain. Glances over his shoulder.

“Ask me later,” he says with a gentle smirk.

Rafayel 🎨

“This is just like that old movie.”

Rafayel hums a familiar, vintage tune as his hands cradle yours, guiding them up and down, up and down, as a wet clay vase spins beneath your touch. Everything about your partner is relaxed: his fingers, lazy and precise, and his head, settled comfortably on your shoulder. The song is so close to your ear that it tickles.

How the hell is he so calm? Your eyes are fixed downwards, brow furrowed with the sort of concentration you’d usually save for disarming a bomb. Your fingers feel clumsy and dangerous. Your head hurts. It doesn’t help that every other couple in the pottery class are stealing less-than-subtle glances your way: isn’t that—?

Yep! The Rafayel. Creative genius, ‘Da Vinci of our time’ Rafayel, and here you are, ever a moment away from destroying his latest masterpiece.

“Raf, stop…” you mutter, because he’s still humming away, distracting you.

“Okay!”

The song stops. You don’t think Rafayel has ever co-operated so quickly. Which means…

“Woahhh,” he sings quietly, privately, and right on cue, “my love… my darling… I’ve hungered for your—”

“Stop!” you hiss under your breath, untangling a hand from your project so you can swat at his face.

“A long... lonely— ah! — tiiiime!”

The vase is already folding over on itself, collapsing into a sad, soggy heap as Rafayel half sings, half chuckles, catching your hand so he can launch a counterstrike. A wet finger brushes your nose and you gasp, wrinkling your face in indignance. Then you wriggle your hand free, going in for another swat. The artist’s head has left your shoulder. The arms around you are suddenly attacking.

There’s a kerfuffle of hands, slick and sticky with clay. Slapping each-other. Trying to outmanoeuvre each-other. One lands on your chest with a thwap!

You both go deathly still.

Rafayel has stopped laughing, his body a marble statue behind you; you think his breath has actually gone. When his hand lifts away from you, it’s like a delusional cat slinking away from a crime: if I move slowly enough, I’m completely invisible.

What isn’t invisible, however, is the crude clay handprint he leaves behind. You stare down at it, mortified. “Raf!” you scold, and oh gods you hope nobody saw what just happened.

“I didn’t—” he begins, and he’s staring down over your shoulder, too. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t just sit there!” You shoo him away, one hand hovering in front of your chest like you’re not wearing anything at all. “I need something to—”

“On it!”

He can fix this. He can fix this. He practically falls off the seat you’d been sharing as he unwraps himself from you, stumbling up onto his feet. His hands are on his hips as he catches his breath; it had taken a lot of effort not to end up on the floor.

With a glance about, the artist spies a nearby cloth. You see the ‘aha!’ moment— the relief in his eyes as he turns towards it, on a mission. Your hero.

There’s a soft smack!

Rafayel freezes, pink creeping into his cheeks.

By the time he looks down over his shoulder, eyes widening at the bright, wet handprint on his ass, you’re already salvaging your clay vase— moulding it back into a workable blob as you hum an old song, completely innocent.

Sylus 🩸

“So… what are we spending our winnings on, sweetie?”

“A diamond as big as me,” you whisper.

“Is that it?”

Hmm. “A diamond as big as you.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Sylus chuckles, as rich and intoxicating as the alcohol he swirls in a glass as he stalls before his next throw. No-one would dare rush him. His other hand toys with a pair of dice, turning them over each-other, making them waltz about his fingers. The ministrations are practiced, experienced, and— glancing around the craps table— you’re not the only one who’s noticed.

One woman is utterly mesmerised. She takes a sip of her drink, swallowing thickly, and you like to think (delusionally) that you’ve never quite stared at Sylus as shamelessly as that. It isn’t her fault, though. Every person at the table is fixated on the man beside you, and it’s not just because they’ve got stakes in whatever he rolls next.

Sylus doesn’t own this casino— as far as you know— but he acts like he does. He places his bets. Smiles when he wins and smiles wider when he loses, as though in on a private joke. Everyone wants to know what it is. You inch closer to Sylus. Ask loud enough for them all to hear: “What do we need again?”

We.

“A nine,” he answers.

There’s a soft clack as the dice go still in his palm. He’s staring down the forest-green battleground you both stand at the head of. “Here,” he says, lifting his hand towards you, “blow on—”

He’s misjudged the distance, because his fingers collide with your chest. One of the dice rolls from his palm, tumbling down past the neckline of your dress and into your cleavage. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch. You look down in slow disbelief. Then you look at Sylus.

His crimson eyes are fixed on where the die disappeared. He glances up with a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

Oops? Your gaze is a knife at his throat and he thinks if he’s cute enough, you might not use it. You narrow your eyes and purse your lips. Wanna try that again?

Sylus’s laugh is awkward, but he isn’t a coward. “May I just—?”

His hand comes towards you, and though those fingers were never actually going to commit to that little suicide mission, you still slap them away. “No!”

He pouts, splaying the same hand expectantly. With a sigh, your fingers delve beneath your neckline, fishing around for a second. You present the die with an uninspired flourish, and it’s warm when you drop it into Sylus’s open palm. His fingers close around it. He’s smirking to himself as he turns back to the table.

“Lucky die,” he muses under his breath.  

“What did you just say?!”

Louder: “I said ‘lucky—”

“You’re a dead man, Sylus Qin. D-E-A-D. Dead. You hear me? The moment we get home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sylus nods dutifully; he’s not going to argue with that particular judge, jury, and executioner. He tosses the dice across the table and they clatter as they roll— the same, indifferent timbre as the chuckle in his throat. Everyone goes silent when they judder to a stop. Everyone leans in, fractionally.

A six and a three. Nine.

The gathering around you give a tentative applause. No-one really knows what just happened, least of all you and Sylus. You both stare at the dice, eyes wide, as a casino employee slides stacks of chips in your direction. Neither of you move when the dice are passed back, too.

It’s your turn, but Sylus has been throwing for you. He reaches forwards to collect the dice— starts to toy with them idly again, but it’s more pensive than last time. They clack, clack, but his mind is far away from them. Ever so slowly, his gaze inches towards you, pondering a silent question.

He’s not looking at your eyes.

Your arms cross. “Don’t even think about it.”

Caleb 🍎

“A Gelidus Dentis.”

Caleb’s voice makes you jump so much you almost drop your pen. “Huh?”

He’s stood behind where you’re sat, peering downwards. “It’s a Wanderer.”

“Yeah, I know it’s a Wanderer, Colonel Obvious. I meant why’re you talking about it?”

“Because it’s the answer? Duh.” He nods at the open textbook in front of you, and your gaze drops.

You’d practically been falling asleep reading through the practice question: some hypothetical about the aftermath of a Wanderer attack. Somewhere with a cold climate. Victims with ice burns. Multiple lacerations. Blah blah blah— you’ve got the idea.

“Please,” you dismiss as Caleb returns to his seat next to you. “It’s a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord. Easy.”  

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen one of those guys. That’s not it.”

“Oh you’ve seen one? Big whoop. I’ve killed one. Try, like, twenty.”

He tuts sympathetically as he goes back to his own work: some reports that’re definitely way too confidential for a public library. “Then it’s gonna be really embarrassing when you find out that I’m right and you’re wrong, pips.”

You scoff, making a point of writing out ‘Hoarfrost Wyrmlord’ as confidently as you can.

“Gelidus Dentis,” Caleb lilts in a sing-song voice as you flick to the back of your textbook.

You’re gonna shove your correct answer right in his face, you just need to find it. It should be right… here! Section Three. Question Twenty-Two. The Wanderer responsible is most likely a—

Fuck.

“I told you,” Caleb sings quietly again, signing his name on the bottom of a page, then turning it over.

“It was a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord.”

“It really wasn’t, but it’s cute you still hide your mouth when you’re lying.”

Your hand had lifted subconsciously in front of your lips, and you throw it back down on the textbook. “Oh, shush!”

“You shush!” The measureless galaxies of his eyes are back on you.

You slap his arm gently. He slaps your arm gently. You try to slap at his face, which means he tries to slap at your face. Soon enough, you’re both flailing your hands like two cats determined to bop the other.

Caleb’s paw lands on one of your breasts, and he doesn’t have time to regret it. With an indignant gasp, you give his chest a firm smack!

He stares at you in disbelief. You clear your throat, brushing down the fabric of your shirt as if the matter has been settled. Then you pick up your dropped pen. Okay! Question Twenty-Three: You’re called out to answer a distress signal from deep within a tropical rainforest...

“What was that?” Caleb asks.

You sniff. Say under your breath: “Tit for tit.”

“Come again?”

“Tit for tit,” you shrug. “That’s the saying. That’s how it goes.”

From the smile on his face, Caleb’s delighted. “Uh… I don’t think that is how it goes, pipsqueak.”

“Oh yeah? Hope you’re ready to look like an idiot, then.”

With a hmph, you reach for a spare piece of paper. Fold it in half. Write something brief on the outside, then on the inside. Caleb watches your pen move, quietly enamoured. There’s a click as it retracts. You hand the paper over.

Caleb’s face wrinkles, but he still handles it like it’s sacred. “Totally official dictionary!” he reads from the front. Then he opens it, continuing: “Tit for tit. Noun. If Caleb cops a feel in the library, then I get to… hey now—” he frowns— “this doesn’t seem very legitimate.”

“You dare question the authority of the Hunter’s Association?”

“I do,” he nods. “I do dare. Yeah, you see… look at this.”

He scribbles something down in your dictionary, then passes it back to you. You raise an eyebrow but relent, reading the new addition out loud: “Deepspace Fleet. Proper (awesome) noun. Has absolutely every right to question the authority of the Hunter’s Association.” You toss the paper down. “Whatever.”

Caleb sniggers victoriously as you try to get back to your work. When he doesn’t stop, you give his chest another slap. The sniggering dies out. The space between you goes quiet.

Then he reaches— smacks one of your breasts back. You look up, eyes huge.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I think I’m gonna like this little arrangement.”