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almostfoxglove · 2 months

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SIT BACK, BABY

written for @joelmillerisapunk's #PPCUBodyWorshipChallenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Frankie Morales x f!Reader BODY PART: Thighs | WORD COUNT: 4.1k CW: Smut (m!oral), pwp, drinking (not during smut), sorta sub!Frankie.

SUMMARY: You've got a crush on your neighbor across the hall and finally get the chance to show him you care.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Your alarm clock reads 2:02 A.M. when you stir from a sweat-stained dream.

Someone is breaking into your apartment.

Or sounds like they're trying to break in, at least. The awkward stabbing and metal scrape of disobedient picks and keys. A sudden fear cleaves through you, skull to stomach, and just like that you’re wide awake. Then you hear a familiar voice mutter, “Fucking please—”

And you sigh. You’re not in any danger.

Yellow light leaks into your apartment from the hall where you find your mountain of a neighbor slumped on his knees at your feet, one hand raised at the level of your lock, a silver key pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

He tilts his chin up, letting you glimpse beneath the brim of his navy ball cap the glassiness of his warm eyes, the flush of his cheeks. His lips part, bewildered or lost. The man looks hopelessly drunk.

“Haanng on,” Frankie grins, squinting up at you. “You’re in my apartment?”

He drops his hand and his apartment key slips from his grasp onto the floor, unnoticed by him. You’ve lived across the hall from him for two years, steadfast in your belief that fucking anyone who lives in your building—or frankly, within a three block radius—is a hideous mistake. Has that made your hopeless crush on him any less… crushing?

Absolutely fucking not.

Now, seeing Frankie on his knees is doing something terrible to your brain. Giving it all sorts of ideas. You blame his jeans, the brawn of his thighs—how badly you’d like to sink your teeth into them surprises you.

“My apartment, actually,” you correct, lifting one finger to point over his shoulder, across the hall. Frankie turns and, sure enough, recognizes his apartment number gleaming on the door.

“Shit,” he says. You make a point of staring him dead in the eye even when you’d usually look away, just so you don’t look at his legs. The spread of his knees on the carpeted floor.

Doe-eyed, Frankie blinks up at you—helpless as a pup—as need stirs in your stomach. The urge to hold him. To take care of him for a while.

“I’m a lil’ drunk,” he admits in a whisper, like it’s a secret, like you wouldn’t have known.

Scoffing, you shake your head. “You don’t say.”

He buries his face in his palms and groans quietly, embarrassed. “Hermosa,” he muffles, making your mouth go dry. When his hands drop, his gaze lands at your feet, rising slowly to your legs—he turns, you think, the color of a berry. Something that bursts red against your fingertips in summer.

“You’re not wearing pants,” Frankie says plainly, his eyebrows high on his head.

Shit.

You cross your arms over your chest as if that’ll hide your legs, bare beneath the t-shirt you sleep in. You can’t remember what underwear you have on, if it’s a cute pair or a laundry day pair, and pray quietly that he can’t glimpse them from where he’s sitting, though he probably can. What’s worse, though, is that you can tell Frankie’s not trying to peek. He’s looking you in the eye—respectful, it seems, even on the verge of a blackout.

“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, trying not to blush. “Y’woke me up.”

Poor, drunk Frankie’s face just folds. Devastated to have bothered you—he huffs softly, lets his eyes stutter closed, dark lashes shivering on his cheeks. It really isn’t fair, how cute he is like this. Grown, drunk men are idiots. Nuisances, at best. And yet here he is—this broad mass of a man, solid in his calm, easy way—managing to be both out of his mind and entirely endearing at the same time. It’s almost annoying, how not annoyed you are to be disturbed from a fit of slumber. You’re sort of glad.

“M’sorry,” Frankie mumbles, staring at the floor. He lifts one finger and with your breath held you watch it move slowly toward your foot until his fingertip meets your bare ankle. Softly, so softly. You hardly feel it, this small touch, his fragile apology.

It’s like he’s trying to kill you. It’s like he knows you’ve had some stupid crush on him for two years.

“Come on,” you say, as you crouch down to retrieve his forgotten key, then his arm, warm and solid in your grasp. “Think you better get into bed.”

He giggles as he lurches to his feet, thankfully able to stand after you steady him and release the weight of his arm. Cheeks warm, you walk his key across the hall, unlock the door, and step aside for him to go in with a sweep of your hand.

“How embarrassed should I be tomorrow?” Frankie asks, coming to stand at your side to stare down the tunnel of darkness formed by his entryway.

You shrug. “Willing to bet you won’t remember this in the morning,” you say, smirk nagging at your lips as you nudge his key back into his hand.

At the contact, he turns, face shadowed by his hat and curls licking playfully beneath the brim, and though you expect him to laugh or smile there’s not a drop of humor in his expression—he looks, you think, disappointed. Like maybe he doesn’t want to forget. Squinting, you tilt your head in the direction of his apartment, but Frankie doesn’t move. He blinks drowsily at you, bottom lip pouting again.

This is probably the most you’ve ever spoken in one go.

The closest you’ve ever stood.

“Pope’s never gonna le’me live this down,” he mumbles.

You huff a short chuckle under your breath and set one hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, to urge him inside—clearly the man’s never going to go in on his own.

“That one of your broad shouldered friends?” you tease.

Frankie only budges a step closer to the doorway, frowning as he rolls his shoulders, standing up a little straighter as if to make a point. “Yes,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry, honey,” you tease, then drop your hand from his back. “You’re very broad, too.”

“I feel bad I woke you up,” Frankie says softly.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, and you feel it again—that impulse to hold him, make it better. Rub his shoulders or something, just to help him relax.

“It is,” Frankie mumbles sorrily.

“Did you mean to wake me up?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Were you trying to break in, or did you get mixed up?”

“Got mixed up,” he admits quietly.

You catch his gaze and offer him a small smile. “Then I forgive you,” you say. “No harm done, seriously. You’re not the worst person to find at my door.”

This seems to settle him, at least a little, because with one final, frowning huff Frankie surrenders his guilt and nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, and time stands briefly still as he moves toward you—leaning in to graze his lips against your cheek, his stubble brushing your skin.

You stand, statued by your surprise, unable even to breathe.

“G’night, nena.”

“Goodnight,” you choke out, grateful that in his state he doesn’t seem to register your shock or the tremble in your voice. If he weren’t drunk, you’re pretty sure that would’ve snapped you. You’d have told him right now and right here that you’ll take care of him, help him unwind a little—that you’ve wanted to touch him for two years and it hasn’t gotten any easier, orbiting him without the guts to swing yourself closer to his gravity.

But he is drunk. Three quarters out of his mind, if you had to guess, based on the clumsy muddle of his footsteps as he at last sways into his apartment, shutting the door behind him. Leaving you breathless in the hallway, alone.

In the morning, you wake to a band of sunlight searing through your curtains. You’ve slept through your alarm all the way till ten, and lift your phone to find a text waiting on your lock screen, sent two hours ago.

Think I owe you an apology, neighbor.

Groggy, you frown at the string of digits you don’t recognize until the night comes back to you, piece by piece. Your heart stutters as you sit up in bed, letting your bedsheets pool in your lap as you type out a reply.

How did you get my number?

Also, you got up at 8am?? Are you even alive?

You get a reply only minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth.

Told the building manager that I was getting your mail and wanted to return it. Little scary how few questions they asked.

You scoff, only to have your phone ding again immediately.

Sure hope I’m alive. I have a very thoughtful neighbor to thank for getting me home safe.

You spit into the sink, then rinse your mouth, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

Thoughtful, huh?

Pretty, too. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned that yet.

Still feel bad about last night. Let me make it up to you.

No more than six hours later, you’re pulled from whatever TV show’s been rotting your brain all afternoon by a steady knock on your front door. Your skin twinkles with nerves.

You’re fully clothed this time—showered too, thankfully—and when you open the door Frankie isn’t on his knees. He’s standing, curls squashed beneath his hat, t-shirt stretched across his chest, in black athletic shorts baring him below the knee, as he holds up two plastic bags that fill the hallway with a smell you know all too well: takeout from the Chinese place you love down the road. When your eyes round at the sight, Frankie grins, letting you glimpse the dimple that winks from his cheek.

You see, too, his exhaustion. The navy shadows bruised beneath his glassy eyes. He may be alive, but it’s painfully obvious that he must, beneath that smile, be suffering a brutal hangover. And he’s bringing you food—too generous a gesture, you think, for such a small crime.

“Hoped you might like this place,” he says.

“You really didn’t have to—” you start to say, but Frankie shakes his head before squeezing past you in the doorway to come inside.

“Only fair,” he insists, and you shut the door while he toes out of his shoes, thoughtful enough not to drag dirt into your apartment as he breezes into your kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times before. Opening the bags, cracking each container, fishing through drawers until he finds your cutlery. Domestic and entirely alien: this man you’ve known for two years who’s never entered your space, making himself at home. Trying to serve you.

Dumbstruck, you watch him, unsure what to say and the longer you do, the more the ache of him seems to radiate. You swear you see him wince when a drawer slams too hard, when he looks up accidentally into the ceiling light. With one hand, you reach out and turn the dimmer switch to soften the lights over his head, and Frankie looks up from the styrofoam containers to catch your eye.

The grin drops from his face. “Shit—is this too much? It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Frankie wipes his hands on his thighs as he rounds the kitchen island to stand before you, dark lashes batting worriedly over his freckled cheeks as he lowers his head to meet your eye. “If you want, I can just leave you with the food. Don't wanna be here if you don't want me to be.”

A soft scoff leaves your lips, the first breath of disbelief disguised as laughter. “Frankie,” you breathe, and his chest puffs at the way you say his name. “You look like you feel like shit. Your head must be killing you. And you brought me food.”

His jaw ticks, and you wonder if he’s been looking for an excuse to talk to you, too.

“No more fussing over me,” you say, lifting your hands slowly to rest on his shoulders.

Frankie flinches but doesn’t pull away, his warm eyes flickering between yours like he’s trying to unpuzzle you.

“Let me help,” you say.

“Hermosa,” he murmurs, sounding winded. Desperate. He shakes his head.

With a soft grin you slip your hands down his arms—firm and hot beneath your palms—to guide him toward your couch, warmed by a box of sunlight cast through the windows. Frankie sits with a gentle sigh, biceps tensing beneath your grasp, not yet sure what to make of you. You give his arms a light squeeze, flash him a grin you hope might ease his nerves, and sink to the carpet between his knees.

Frankie’s eyes go black.

The air simmers, woozy as the space above molten tarmac in the dead of summer. It’s a kind of spell, you think. His sharpened breath. Your hands slipping easily over his bare knees. And it’s obvious: the riot of guilt surging behind his lust-blown eyes, his instinct to politely turn you down as you rub his joints softly with your thumbs.

“Don’t have to,” you tell him, careful to hold his eye so he’ll see you mean them. “But I’d like to, if you want. Could take care of you for a while.”

Frankie lets out a ragged breath, and his eyes slam shut before he drops his head on the back of your couch. “Shit—are you—shit.” He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, groans quietly, and from the floor you watch the way his whole body shudders as he struggles for air.

“That a yes or a no, let’s eat Chinese food?” you ask softly, hands frozen on his knees until he answers. “Either is good.”

“Shit—yes, that’s a yes,” Frankie pants, still hiding behind his hands with his head tipped back.

You lift one hand from his knee to reach for him, curling your fingertips around his forearm, pulling it away from his eyes. “Mírame,” you say, and it’s possible Frankie comes undone right then and there—chest deflating, arms slumping limp into his lap, head lolling to look down at you in disbelief.

Lips parted, his tongue slips across his bottom lip, sending a thrill through your body and a sudden stutter to your heart. But this isn’t about you; it’s about him, so you squeeze your thighs together as Frankie shifts his hips on the couch and nods shakily.

Oh, this is dangerous. How he already looks ready to fall apart beneath your hands. You might never get enough of it.

Testing the waters, you slide your hands slowly up his thighs just far enough to brush your fingertips to the hem of his shorts, the roped muscles in his legs tensing beneath your caress. “If you want me to stop, just say, okay?”

Frankie shakes his head, licks his lip again, and your eyes follow the glide of his tongue. “Not gonna want you to stop,” he breathes, as his cheek dimples with the flash of a sheepish grin.

You hum softly, shuffle closer to the couch, encouraging him to spread his legs wider with a press of your hands. “Just sit back, baby,” you murmur.

So he does. Frankie grunts as you patiently knead the mesa of his thighs—the hills of muscle bound tight beneath golden skin, so hot to the touch—and lower your lips to lay a kiss on his knee, glancing up through your lashes to gauge his reaction.

He rewards you with a needy groan that goes straight to your cunt.

You smile against his skin, let your hands wander, thumbs digging into his thighs as you work loose their knotted web. Humming, your hands slipping beneath the black curtain of his shorts to stray higher as you work, you slide the flat of your tongue up his inner thigh and Frankie’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck—nena, shit,” he pants, just before one hand bolts out to cover the crown of your head, stilling your movements.

You take your mouth off him and look up, basking in the abyss of his dark eyes and the red of his neck. “Want me to stop?” you ask.

Immediately, Frankie’s head shakes nonono as he gathers your hair in his fist, holding it back from your face. “Que cosa mas linda. So fuckin’ pretty.”

It’s easy, but you knew it would be, watching his body twitch and melt beneath your ministrations, the caress of your attentive hands. The wet suckle of your lips and tongue rising towards his hips. Slowly, you unwind him. Let him dissolve into your couch, always with some sweet nothing on his lips that could ruin you if you let it—mierda, feels so—so fucking good, perfect hands, holy shit, tan suave.

The taste of his skin is a balm in itself, heady, a little sweat-kissed, addictive. With his shorts shoved high on his hips, you latch at the supple flesh of his inner thigh and suck, drawing a tortured whimper from Frankie as he shivers, his chest rising faster with every breath.

“Shit—por favor, please,” he begs, as the hand in your hair gently scratches your scalp. It’s so gentle you almost believe he doesn’t know he’s doing it—that touching you like this, so tenderly, so ruinously, is to Frankie instinct alone.

“So sweet to me,” you murmur against his thigh, licking the pink mark you’ve left on his skin. “So strong, so warm. Just wanna take care of you, Frankie. Wanna make you feel good.”

“Hermosa,” he groans, desperate now, his cock twitching beneath the black of his shorts.

The square of sunlight glows over you both, warming you just as much as his body. Beyond the cracked window you can hear the chirp of birds finding their way to each other, the squeal of distant traffic, the churn of wind through the alley. All of it—all that raucous city noise that used to keep you up all night—feels tranquil now. A serene soundtrack whispering below the rasps of Frankie’s pleasure.

“Wanted to for a long time,” you tell him, before latching again at the top of his other thigh, marking satin skin with a matching brand. “Wanted to touch you so bad.”

He’s gasping now, lungs desperate for air like he’s been running, and his other hand grabs hold of your shoulder to pull you closer. “Would’a—” he wheezes, and lets his head drop back against the couch again like it’s too much to look right at you. “Would’ve let you if I’d—fuck—if I’d known.”

You hum against his leg, reach both hands high enough to dig your thumbs in the crevice of his hips, and Frankie jolts, hissing a strangled fuck before settling again, more liquid than before.

Higher, your mouth climbs, desperate for more of him. Electric with the feeling of his need, the way his hands keep you near to him—thumb sweet on your shoulder, fingertips drawing little circles on your scalp. It’s possible you’ve never liked pleasuring someone so much, and you’ve liked it before. But Frankie responds to your every movement and breath, every change in pressure or place, strung taut as a bow that’s fighting not to snap.

With a final glance up at Frankie, his head hung back to unveil the gold of his throat, the stubble scattered along his jaw, you nuzzle your nose gently against his crotch and feel his cock throb, hitting your cheek.

“Baby,” he whines, hand tightening in your hair.

“I’ve got you,” you coo, and draw your own out of his shorts to hook into the waistband. “Gonna take you out now, is that okay?”

“Fuck—yes—fucking yes it’s okay,” he begs, and the light sting of his hand pulling your hair tighter paints a smile on your face.

Slowly, you peel down his shorts and find no boxers beneath them, only the heavy length of him which bobs up against his t-shirt, thick and swollen and aching. “No underwear? Frankie,” you tease, and he chuckles hoarsely as you cast his shorts aside.

“Laundry day,” he wheezes, and you click your tongue before scooting forward until your chest presses against the cushions, framed by his legs.

He’s beautiful like this, destroyed but in the good way—dragged out of his head for a while by your dutiful hands, your thumbs digging into the meat of his thighs. His cock leaking and twitching every time the warmth of your breath fans over his soft skin.

With one hand, you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, and the whimper that leaves Frankie’s lips in reply might be the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. You wet your tongue along his length, tasting the earth of him before wrapping your lips around his tip, trading off between suckling and licking.

The hand in your hair locks up suddenly, not moving your head but clamping down hard. You moan softly and he twitches on your tongue. Grows harder, somehow, when a moment ago you’d have thought it impossible.

“Ay,” he croaks. “Fuck—your fucking mouth, baby.”

Perhaps this is what emboldens you, makes you sloppy—just as needy as him. Drool slicking to his length as you bob, drinking in his every moan and babble. Your fist pumping what you can’t take, jaw aching around his girth. Frankie might come apart at the molecules, you think. Evanesce cell by cell, held in the heat of your mouth as you swallow around his length, forcing the head of his cock to the back of your throat.

When you gag, eyes watering, heart a hummingbird in your chest, he makes a desperate whine and his hand tenses on your shoulder.

You’d stay here the rest of the night, if he’d let you, but he doesn’t.

Frankie thighs twitch, breaths coming faster now, shorter. Close.

“Necesito sentirte,” he says as he squeezes your shoulder again. “Please—shit, gonna come if you don’t stop—fuck, nena, please let me feel you. Wanna feel you so fucking bad. Wanted you—fuckfuck—wanted you the day you moved in.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you see his hat has tumbled off, leaving the crown of his head a mess of flattened down curls broken up by the occasional stray, and something about how he looks in this moment, fuckedout and gone and desperate, makes you want to stay right where you are.

Still, you hollow your cheeks as you ease off him with a wet pop, one hand pumping his thick cock while the other rubs his muscled thigh. You shake your head, bottom lip bitten. “Next time,” you promise, with a smirk rich on your lips. Then you’re on him again, throat open and accepting as he teeters on the edge of falling apart.

“Mmmph, shit—nena, so good, oh my god,” Frankie gasps, hands back in your hair to hold it out of your way. “Gonna make me—fuck, where do I—where do you—”

He doesn’t get the rest out; the moment you slip your hand beneath his balls and sink your lips to the base of his heavy length, taking him to the hilt, Frankie comes with a sudden cry. Warmth pumps down your aching throat as he pants, fingers tangled in your hair, and you swallow it all hungrily while you moan.

He whimpers when you lift off his spent cock to look up at him with a satisfied grin. If you thought he looked ruined before, you were wrong. This is what he looks like when you’ve wrecked him.

“Come here,” he croaks, then with a grunt Frankie yanks you off the floor and onto his lap to envelope you in his arms. You settle on his thighs, try not to swoon at his strength, and when he kisses you it isn’t at all what you’re expecting—there’s no roar, no taking, not a drop of desperation left in him at all. No, Frankie kisses you wholly, gently, all lithe tongue and sweetness and gratitude, and the longer it goes on the more you both smile, struggling to kiss around laughter and teeth.

When he pulls back, his pupils are still blown but warm too, so warm. His face and beard gilded with late afternoon light. He strokes a thumb across your cheek, then bumps his nose against yours, and you sink against his chest to chase his mouth. Before you can, Frankie's arms lock around your waist; he throws you down onto the couch, pinning you beneath him with a smug little smile.

“This time I get to taste you, hermosa,” he promises, then seals it with a kiss.

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3

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@littlemisspascal @perotovar @goodwithcheese @joelalorian

#triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal #francisco catfish morales fanfic #PPCUBodyWorshipChallenge #myfics #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #almostfoxglove #fic: sitbackbaby #smut #fluff #guys i got this down to 4k do i get a gold star???

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defmaybe · 14 days

Text

Party Police

ITZY's Shin Yuna x Male Reader

1.4k words

Sequel to Sticky

A/N: Let’s do a sequel!!! Again, I really love writing Yuna dominant lol, thanks for reading!!! Also, this one doesn't have the "definitely, maybe" line lol.

—

The plane croaks and cries as its wheels touch the runway. It slows down and turns a few times to park. Then, the seatbelt light above is gone.

—

Narita

As far as a company trip goes, this one should give you bragging rights over your friends until death. A spring trip to Tokyo–where every street and building is photogenic. The air is perfect (a bit cold, really, but it’s definitely better than your home).

Of course, it’s a reward from your generous boss, who fought the higher-ups to death for this trip. Your team’s productivity has soared under her reign, as she always brings snacks for your co-workers every single day. And with her bubbly, optimistic attitude, and such a level of competency you don’t dare to compete, they just had to approve this one-week trip at the price of a car.

The secret sessions between you two remain, well, a secret. Though, there has been a running rumor of your boss having a booty call with an employee, but you’re smart enough to play along with the wave, pulling out the ‘yeah, who could that be’ along with a few chuckles.

—

Shibuya, not so far from the crosswalk

The exit of the station has always been so busy, oh, so bustling in its nature. The chill air welcomes you to the afternoon of Shibuya. In front of you is the crosswalk—that goddamn crosswalk. You follow the wave of the people to the landmark, waiting to reach your sanctuary again.

The red stop signal flickers

1 2 3

You stride through the crowd—some holding their phones to capture the moment, some are just trying to reach their destinations as soon as possible.

You walk on the same path that you did years ago, just walking up north to your terminus, and there it is.

You open the glass door, and you feel another breeze from the air conditioners from inside blowing your face. It looks a bit cramped, but it’s definitely well-planned enough for you to see all the new albums. The first floor is mostly decorated with yellow and red–same as the big sign outside.

—

Tower Records

“Hmm, Alvvays, huh?”

Yuna suddenly appears by your right shoulder, staring at their debut LP you’re holding.

Into your ears, she whispers, “You have a great taste, baby boy.” Her voice is breathy–hints of depth under it.

“You don’t have to leave. You could just stay here with me~” Yuna sings. Her hands are perching on your shoulder as she performs her little swaying with the hips.

“Forget all the party police. We can find comfort in debauchery~.”

With debauchery, her right hand trails down your lithe frame, down the sides, as you’re trying your best to stifle your own moan. The Alvvays disc in your hand is trembling.

“Oh, baby boy, I just wanna eat you right here, among these CDs,”—she continues—“I just wanna have you squirm, one hand holding on Antisocialites, another holding on Blue Rev.”

“M–Miss Shin, what are you s–saying? I d–don’t think it’s appropriate–”

“Shhh, baby boy, it’s not ‘Miss Shin’ here. You know the word, remember?” Yuna giggles at her own words, as you’re sweating at the fear of getting caught inside your own sanctuary. And she doesn’t let your body find its footing so firmly in the section either. She presses you forward, and you step back in response.

A B

“Say it, baby boy. Don’t keep me waiting~,” she teases. She presses you past Carly Rae Jepsen. Emotion runs high on you.

D E F G

“I–I can’t, Miss Shin. This is n–not the place.” You two are on Hatchie; she’s still without a blush. You must be fucking red as a tomato now, judging from how your whole body feels so damn hot.

I J K

Lorde. “Oh, baby boy, I know you wanna say it so, so bad. You just love being under my domination, don’t you?”

But you can’t just give her a green light that easily, despite how much you just want her to pump your cock right here and now, in Tower Records Shibuya. There’s a matter of shame in play here. Your breaths are out of rhythm, unlike the music out of speaker right now.

M N O

“Ooh, look who it is here,”—Yuna picks up the Brand New Eyes box with both of her hands, pouting—“It’s Paramore! You… are… the only exception~. Am I your exception too?”

Fuck, why is she so irresistible?

Q R S

Taylor Swift appears in your sight on the left, along the steps back. “Y–Yes, M–M–” The thought sprouts in your head now, but you just can’t form the words. You’re, again, enchanted under her spell.

U V

Wolf Alice. “No hard feelings if you can’t say it, baby boy. I’ll just take the subway to Harajuku or somewhere else if that’s what you want, alone, without you~.”

X Y

“Y–Yes.”

“Yes… what, baby boy?”

“Yes, m–m–mommy. Y–You are my exception.” And on Z, you surrender to her.

“Good boy.” Yuna holds your hand, waking up a few butterflies inside you, before guiding you towards….

—

Tower Records’ Bathroom

“Umm, mmph, I’ve been dying to taste this cock for so long, baby boy.” And Yuna supports her point by dragging her filthy tongue along the underside of your length, glistening you with her saliva. And how can you not shudder with that? “I’d say… it’s worth the wait.”

“M–Mommy~,” you groan, eyes fluttering on top of the toilet.

What a sight. Yuna is kneeling on the floor for you in this stall, aiming to please you with her mouth. You can see her cleavage from the above, with her nipples still covered with the black bra. To ramp up the experience, she starts with taking in your whole mushroom tip with no struggle. God, she’s so good.

Her oral expertise continues to astound you, as she twirls her tongue around your tip, gathering any pre-cum leaking out.

“Hmm, I think I should do a bit more before you cum~,” she says, before diving onto the base of your throbbing length with ease.

“F–Fuck! You’re so t–tight, mommy,” you moan, and your hands are holding on to the lid with your dear life, not wanting to fall. Your head is basically leaning on the wall behind you now.

Yuna says nothing, but you can see her smiling on your shaft despite the cheeks being hollowed out to create such otherworldly suction. Fuck. She bobs her head up and down to bring you to the edge. Her gag reflex starts to make her tears welling up, but that doesn’t stop her from pleasuring her favorite employee with her mouth to his hilt.

Every movement of hers is considered, aiming to milk your cock just like she did that time with her right hand, the other grabbing you by your slutty waist—when you were nothing but a toy for her to play with. She hollows her cheeks, as said, to create such otherworldly suction. And that dreamy eye contact while she blows on your hardness, god, who wouldn’t cum within a heartbeat.

“M–Mommy, I’m gonna cum,” you say, as your hips buck into her with her frenetic movements.

Yuna doesn’t relent her attempts, still gagging profusely on her baby boy’s needy cock. She makes this little whiny sound with every of your thrust, as the end of your digit reaches as far back as it can. Yet, she’s still determined—so fucking determined to please her number one employee. But now, you want just a bit more.

“M–Mommy, y–your tits, p–please.”

She gives in to your plea too easily, but it’s like you’d complain. She quickly discards layers of fabric until her bra is left. And after a few magic tricks of her hands, her last barrier falls off just for you. You savor in the moment of her bare breasts and the stiff nipples under your impending orgasm. Oh, what a sight.

And it’s there, your seed releasing into her throat.

“M–Mommy~,” you whimper.

Your length twitches inside her tight cavern, wanting to squeeze every drop out of you. She doesn’t let any drop leak out of her mouth either, swallowing any residue down to her stomach.

And as you finish, she has to open her mouth and stick out her tongue to show her clean cavern.

“F–Fuck, mommy, w–why, why are you so good?”

“Just for my favorite employee, baby boy.”

—

#yuna #yuna smut #itzy #itzy smut #itzy yuna #itzy yuna smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader #male reader smut

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sleepy-writes-stuff · 5 months

Text

DP X DC PROMPT #28

(#) = Notes at the end of post

✦

Chartreuse

Due to the high levels of ambient ectoplasm, all the citizens of Amity Park gained a permanent change in eye color. They don't glow or flare in response to rampant emotions like true ghosts or the halfas though. They're just an unnaturally bright yellow-green.

The thing is, nobody else on Earth has this eye color, and it's never been seen in the human race until the recently graduated Amity Parkers started branching out to other cities to find jobs.

Nobody paid this any mind at first, though. Many just thought the individuals liked strangely colored contacts or it was a trick of the light. It's not until Danny and Tucker are both hired for positions in Wayne Enterprises that questions start popping up.

At first, the other employees thought the two might be related. It could happen, it's not that strange. However, when both of them said they're nowhere near related, just childhood best friends, it left everyone confused. If they aren't related and they aren't wearing colored contacts, then what are the odds of too completely unrelated people having the exact same strange and unseen eye color?

After a while, everyone just stops asking questions. After all, both men are easy to get along with and are excellent at their jobs, so a strange eye color isn't really something to complain about. Their stares were just a bit more intense than most people, and honestly, they've seen stranger things.

It helps that they've started seeing other people with the same eye color popping up in celebrity, sports, and activist circles. (1)

However, It's not until the power goes out during a late meeting/presentation, and Tim Drake accidentally turns on and shines his cell phone light into Tuckers eyes, that he starts seriously digging.

Needless to say, the animal-like green shine of his pupils scared the shit out of him and got him wondering if two of his new employees were part of a previously unknown alien race that'd recently settled on Earth without anyone noticing. When he looks into the middle of nowhere town they came from, this idea is even further cemented when he sees every person he finds a photo of have the exact same shade of chartreuse eyes. Ignoring the ghost rumors and "sightings" as just a strange tourist trap for the strange little town to make extra income, he brings the info he found to the other bats and birds.

They aren't exactly welcomed when they go snooping around Amity Park, unfortunately... (2 & 3)

✦

Now. To make this a bit more cracky, when confronted, do Danny and Tucker just come clean or do they milk the idea of them being aliens for all it's worth? (4) Add in a few strange, but perfectly normal for them, things they do that have people scratching their heads and make the assumption even worse/more irrefutable. This includes the unexplainable eye shine Tim discovered.

✦

(1) Paulina became a supermodel and is coveted for her striking eye color and beautiful complexion. Dash became a coach for a well known college in Metropolis, while Kwan became a fitness trainer and sponsor for health related items that actually work, also partnered with the college Dash coaches at. Sam became a notorious environmental activist and is the enemy of many companys who are determined to turn the world into a toxic wasteland. With the help of Danny's parents, she's found many eco-friendly chemical compounds that dissolve many of the toxic substances damaging ecosystems around the world. Etc, etc.

(2) Ectoplasm exposure has made everyone a bit more territorial over the town, including their protectors. They don't need outside heroes/organizations interfering with their work and don't/won't take kindly to the sudden interest hero organizations gain over them and their strange little town. That hasn't worked out too well with other government sanctioned organizations in the past and they don't want a repeat, thank you.

(3) Maybe Team Phantom even established themselves right around the same time or even before the Justice League was formed and they just flew under the radar until now. Maybe Amity Parkers feel a bit superior due to their seniority in having an excellent team in the know about the supernatural/non-human side of the world/universe? Who knows? You pick! Amity Park has been through a lot by themselves, so it's no shocker if they have an extreme amount of solidarity towards those they call their own.

(3 cont'd) Also! Since Amity Park has become so rich and saturated in ectoplasm over the years, they were eventually annexed/became an outside part of the Ghost Zone. Jack and Maddy are border patrol and any ghosts coming through need a passport now. Amity Park is basically a vacation hub for ghosts? Ghosts can freely roam the streets, they just don't wreak havoc anymore. That'd basically be terrorizing their fellow citizens at this point anyway and that's a no no. That means jail time with Walker. Amity Parkers also aren't afraid anymore and in fact CAN hit back now. This does not stop the Bat Clan and eventually the Justice League from thinking they're a town full of aliens tho. Some are just more human looking than others. Or they've been on Earth and procreating long enough with humans that their hybrid offspring have also started looking more human, is the ongoing conclusion.

(4) The Anti-Ecto Acts are not an issue here! Team Phantom already dismantled and annihilated the GIW years before they even thought of leaving Amity Park on its own. Before graduating highschool even. Yes, Team Phantom is perfectly self-sufficient and able to handle their own problems and have kept the city-wide ghost infestation pretty isolated outside a few events that were handled quickly and with the world none the wiser. So the world is still pretty ignorant of the existence of ghosts/the Ghost Zone. Would Team Phantom and Amity Park prefer to keep it that way though?

#dp x dc #dc x dp #everyone in amity park's eye color changed to chartreuse/yellow-green #the rest of the world finds this strange but it's whatever #weird things happen all the time in the dcu #tim thinks danny and tucker are part of an alien race #amity parkers are territorial over amity park because of radioactive green juice in the air #amity park is now part of the ghost zone just an outside part #competent team phantom #retired team phantom sorta #they're still on call if a new ghost shows up and gets any ideas but other than that they hung up the capes and ghost hunter gear #amity parkers are also feral enough to handle their own problems now #team phantom might as well be retired heroes turned annual trainers for new ghost hunters/liminal police recruits #danny phantom is NOT ghost king #danny phantom crossover #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #dpxdc #writing prompt #prompt

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seiwas · 9 months

Text

₊˚⊹｡ keep this drive to just us two | fushiguro megumi

wc: 2.7k

summary: megumi is a liar, but there’s a reason for all this.

contains: f!reader in mind but can be read as gn!, college!megumi, pre-relationship stuff, feelings, some swear words

a/n: happy birthday to our boy ♡ set in the same universe as this megumi fic (so a ~kind of part 2); some songs that inspired this & ones i imagine playing in the car: the shining by the neighbourhood, paradise by chase atlantic, & over the moon by the marías

part: 1 | 2 | 3 series m.list: by your passenger seat

It’s just you and Megumi on a late night drive—a quarter past 11 p.m.

The passenger seat has long since been adjusted to you, his car a somewhat second home. There’s that characteristic reverb accompanying the deep bass of the music he listens to, and his knee is bobbing to the beat of it, like it always does when the music is good.

Megumi’s car always smells of mint, a fresh, crisp scent that cuts through—an accurate depiction of the man: level-headed, cool. A sharp honesty exists in every word he speaks; it’s the only way he knows how to be.

Except, maybe, lately. Like this moment.

Megumi’s a liar right now.

He feels a little guilty for it, tricking you into coming out tonight. But how bad can it be to invite you under the guise of it being from Yuuji?

“Yuuji said he’ll meet us there?” you settle into your seat, dragging the seatbelt across your body before locking it into place.

Megumi shifts the gear to drive, nodding as he turns the wheel to get out of the parking lane. He can’t trust himself to speak.

The ride is quiet save for the music, a comfortable silence he seems to only have with you. Nobara and Yuuji like to talk, to fill in the empty pockets of air he never feels the need to. You—you adjust, read the room; you become what the situation calls for all on your own.

That’s what he likes about you, among many other things—he’s stopped lying to himself about that, at least.

The streets whiz past you in a blur, both vaguely familiar and unrecognizable. There’s a fast food joint your group of four frequents as a post-party drive-thru, and the holiday lights are strung up on lampposts lining the sidewalks.

Yellows, reds, and greens melt into one another as the backdrop of your window. But all Megumi sees is gray—

When he dislodges his phone from the stand clipped to the AC vents at the center console, handing it over so you can control the music. His eyes stay locked on the road until he feels it, the slightest brush of your fingers against his.

He turns to you, a quick glance; you’d shrugged off your puffer jacket some time during the drive and tossed it to the backseat, leaving you in this right now.

—the gray sweater that he knows all too well; that you haven’t returned but you wear like it’s yours, as if this piece of him is something you’ve chosen to keep.

It looks better on you, anyway, he thinks.

He turns back to the road, breathing a little quicker, grip tighter and knuckles a bit whiter.

If he listens carefully, the comfortable silence between you hasn’t actually been all that silent lately. A constant beat’s been drumming in his ears, exacerbated only every time you’re near. You’ve locked eyes far too often for two people sitting in a car, driving from point A to point B, and this isn’t the first time your fingers have brushed, nor is it the second, or third (or even fourth if he’s thinking about the technicalities).

He finds himself smiling too easily when you speak, the corners of his lips aching by the time he’s dropped you off on the way home. You’ve looked at him fondly too, a handful of times, when you think he won’t notice; but it’s impossible not to when he’s paying just as much attention—from the corner of his eye, in his periphery. A responsible side-glance that inconspicuously catches everything.

There’s something between you two, and he’s grown more confident of that the more he’s accepted his fate:

He likes you.

It’s why he called you tonight, out of all nights, in the first place.

Aimless driving can only be so convincing up to a certain point, and that point comes fast approaching as Megumi is about to pass the same street for the third time. You don’t notice because you’re queueing songs on his phone, but he has to think of a diversion—just something to tide him over past midnight.

“I’ll get us some snacks,” he signals to the left, pulling over to a 7-Eleven.

“Oh!” you look up from his phone, swapping it for yours, “I’ll ask Yuuji if he wants anything. Did he mention if Nobara’s coming?”

Megumi freezes, panic setting in—if you message Yuuji now, you’ll realize that he’s been lying. He holds his breath, shifting the gear to park before pulling at the edges of his sleeves.

Think.

“He’ll eat anything, it’s fine. Nobara probably won’t come too. Wouldn’t pick up when he called.”

For someone who always puts things bluntly, he’s surprisingly good at coming up with lies right now.

You hum, nodding, “Okay. Do you want me to go down?”

“I’ll be quick,” he shakes his head, fishing around the center console for his wallet, “you want anything?”

Then he looks at you, your head tilted to the side as you think. A little pout causes your lips to jut out and he can’t help it, how his eyes fall to them, shiny in the way only your lip balm can make them.

“Maybe something warm?”

Your voice snaps him out of it, but the moment is frozen—like he’s been caught red-handed. He’s so sure you saw him staring, your eyebrows shooting up, flustered while watching his gaze shift from your lips to your eyes.

He doesn’t expect it when you do the same thing.

It’s freezing outside and his lips feel chapped; he wonders if they’re cracked, if you’re studying the grooves of split skin—if he should buy lip balm by the counter, on the way out.

He looks away, clearing his throat, one hand to the door handle.

“Okay,” he opens it, “turn up the heat if you’re–”

You nod.

“Yeah, okay.”

He steps out.

The cold is biting as he tucks his hands inside his pockets, rushing to get into the convenience store.

(You watch his back retreat from the window of his carseat, and the influx of cool air should make you shiver, but you feel warm, heat rushing to your cheeks.

This whole night has been confusing; the subtle touches and lingering gazes—ones like just moments ago, especially. Being alone with Megumi lately has been both comfortable and nerve-wracking; you have feelings that you aren’t quite sure are reciprocated, no matter how much Nobara teases the both of you already.

You can’t take it; you need a buffer—where is Yuuji?

11:41 p.m.

< are you otw already? we just went to grab some snacks

You wait, fingers tapping on the back of your phone.

11:42 p.m.

yuuji 🍡

> huh?

> otw where?

> who’s we?

> i’m outside fushiguro’s rn! with gojo-sensei!! apparently he surprises him every bday…

> you should come! you live near right?

You scrunch your eyebrows, confused. There are too many thoughts in your head right now—has Megumi been lying?

11:43 p.m.

< oh ok, i probs misunderstood!!

< and i’m out tonight, idt i can make it but lmk how it goes!!

You’ve never known Megumi to be a liar, but he’s definitely in it right now for some questioning.)

The 7-Eleven doors swing open, revealing Megumi with his shoulders shrugged up to his ears, hands deep inside his pockets as a plastic bag hangs around his wrist. He opens the car door, immediately settling in his seat before shutting it.

He still won’t meet your eyes, fishing through the random snacks he bought instead. It’s awkward, the air in the car tense; and it takes the biggest guts in him to look up as he hands over the warm bottle of tea he got you, just like you wanted.

It’s even worse when you’re staring right back, expecting—almost like you’re about to confront him.

“Be honest,” you start, eyes squinting.

Shit. Sweat forms at his palms as he blinks, the beat drumming in his ears intensifying.

“Did you bring me out here to murder me?”

He raises an eyebrow, expecting you to convict him for lying, “The fu–”

Which you do, bringing your phone up so he can read. Your text chain with Yuuji casts a white light over his face, his eyes darting from side-to-side as he scans each message.

(You aren’t mad or anything, just even more confused than you already are; some clarity would be nice, once and for all.

Embarrassment is painted on his face the more he reads through your phone screen, lashes entirely too long as it bats against the tip of his cheeks; a faint pink blooms on his skin, like winter peonies.)

There’s a reason for all this.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath; he’s dreading having to open them—do you think he’s weird now? That he had some ulterior motive bringing you out? His jaw clenches at the thought—

But then you laugh, a soft chuckle that accompanies the ‘click’ of your phone turning off. And when he takes a peek, squints one eye to catch a glimpse, you’re smiling; your lips are pressed together with the corners curled up slightly, as if you find this entire thing funny.

The tension dissipates, but he frowns, eyebrows scrunching as he considers whether he wants to be the reason for whatever it is you’re thinking.

“Stop it. Don’t make fun of me.” his head turns to the side.

You chuckle again, biting your bottom lip, “You’re just too cute.”

A beat.

(It slips out before you can catch yourself, heat rising to your cheeks. Megumi isn’t doing any better; his ears are flushed red, crawling down to the sides of his neck as he swallows.)

The plastic bag crinkles on his lap, cutting through the silence.

How can you just… say that?

You clear your throat, “So, uh, did you know about the surprise?”

(Your eyes shift to the corner of the infotainment system, 11:52 p.m. in white.)

He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he leans back on his seat.

“Gojo-sensei tries to surprise me every year, I didn’t think he’d call Itadori this time.”

“You sound like that’s a bad thing…” you tilt your head, curious.

He pauses, staring ahead as he considers his response, “Not bad… just,” his fingers fiddle with the plastic bag, “too loud, sometimes.”

(Megumi’s mentioned a bit about this ‘Gojo-sensei’ guy, his kind-of-mentor slash benefactor since being orphaned with his step-sister at age 6. You’ve never met him, but Yuuji never stops talking about how fun he is, how cool.

It makes sense why Megumi finds him a bit much, if anything.)

“And you think I’m any better?” you snort offhandedly, joking as you turn to the side, facing him.

He tilts his head towards you, leaning back on the headrest; your eyes lock for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting subtly before he looks away, straight ahead again.

If he had the courage, he’d tell you that you’re the only company he wants to spend this birthday with—

That there are songs in his playlist he’d otherwise never listen to, but repeats and repeats and repeats because it reminds him of you;

That he looks forward to doing deep cleans on his car every weekend, but has started to dread it once he noticed that it washes away your scent from the Fridays that he drops you home;

That he’s a liar because he really likes you, but can’t find the words to tell you.

So he doesn’t say anything, shrugging.

The silence is telling.

(You feel too warm, whether from the heating system or from the implications of this moment. The 11:58 p.m. on the clock adds a pressure that it shouldn’t, an almost taunting presence that tells you if you act now, tomorrow could be very different.

Are you reading the signs right?

Should you just say it?

Each second drags on twice as long, and you think—

Fuck it.)

“Megumi?” your voice breaks through softly.

The plastic crinkles on his lap as he turns to you.

He could be any other place right now.

But he’s chosen to be here, with you, parked outside a 7-Eleven, minutes before midnight.

“If I tell you something, will you be honest with me?”

He blinks before humming, nodding. This is the least he can do after today’s blatant lying.

There’s an intensity to your gaze that makes him nervous; your fingers tug at the edges of his (your) gray sweater, a piece of him you’ve taken with you. Then you speak—

“I like you,” you say it plainly, unblinking, “and I need you to tell me if you don’t feel the same.”

—and you take the rest of him too.

12:01 a.m.

He stares at you, turning the confession over and over in his head. He’s always had a feeling but it’s different when it’s out in the open, when it’s from you and isn’t based on some gut-feeling.

There are so many things he can say, but you did ask him to be honest—to tell you if he didn’t feel the same.

“Do I stay quiet if I do?” he mumbles, cheeks deepening into red.

There’s a smile he’s trying to hide, one he won’t allow himself to let out until he gets one from you too.

You visibly relax, releasing the breath you were holding. Your lips curl up instinctively, wide and infectious—that feeling of your heart bursting.

“Smartass,” you scrunch your nose before glancing at the time, “happy birthday.”

When you look at him this fondly, there’s not much else he can ask for, really.

You eat the snacks in his car (an exception—whether it’s because of you or his birthday, you’re not sure) and tell him that your actual gift is back home, sitting in dog-patterned wrapping paper by your entryway.

The drive back is, for the most part, the same—lingering gazes when the stoplight permits, a brush of your fingers when you hand him his phone after queueing songs. You’re wearing his sweater and his car still smells like mint.

But you both can’t stop smiling.

And when he drops you off, he’s tempted to tell you to stay longer for just one more song, but he figures there’s lots of time for that now. So instead, he grabs your puffer from the back, gets down and rushes over to open your door, helping you out.

He holds up your jacket as you slip your arms into it, zipping it up so you stay warm and toasty. Cute, he thinks, when your grin reaches your cheeks; he could pinch them, would you complain if his fingers are too chilly?

Your hesitance is evident in the way you bite your lip, but you go for it anyway, diving in to land a soft kiss to his cheek. It happens so quickly, it barely registers to him—the touch of your lips to his skin. When you pull away, you look shy.

He doesn’t say anything, heat rushing to the place you’d kissed. You take this as a sign to go ahead, so you move, but he can’t—

—can’t let you go just like this.

Not when he’s been thinking about those lips since he last laid his eyes on it.

It’s reflex, the way he grabs your wrist, pulling you back to him. He lets go immediately, hovering, but his eyes drop dangerously, down to your lips—shiny and plump from the lip balm he knows you carry.

His breathing quickens and he asks so softly, “Can…”, he gulps, nervous, “Can I?”

You nod, humming.

(When Megumi leans in, long lashes fluttering over your eyelids, you think, this can’t possibly be real. But then his lips slide over yours, cold but not cracked, and you move yours against them, gentle in the same way he is.

His fingers slot themselves at the edge of your jaw, palm pressed to your cheek; it makes you shiver, how cool it is, but it warms up quickly.)

The kiss is over far too soon (you think so, too), and when you part, you’re beaming, a twinkle in your eyes that makes him want to kiss you again, if only to keep them shining the way they do.

It’s the end of the night, but the beginning of something new and Megumi’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the noise; this constant beat drumming in his ear is all he can hear now, swiping his tongue over his lips to taste mint—your lip balm of choice.

thank you note: to everyone who was just as excited abt this as i was—@soumies @mysugu @augustinewrites @mididoodles @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat @selarina @pastelle-rabbit @mymegumi @kagelun @irisintheafterglow & @shidouryusm for making me see that paradise is so megumi 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

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chaoticconstellation · 2 years

Text

Crumbl Cookies Actual Chocolate Chip Recipe from a former employee who is no longer bound by their NDA:

to make approximately 35 cookies (or 140 minis!):

ingredients:

2 pounds of SALTED butter

1 pound of white sugar

1.5 pounds of brown sugar

8 whole eggs

4 pounds of flour

*half an ingredient pack* Crumbl has an ingredient packet that goes into their cookies to make sure that no one but corporate officially knows their recipes. however based on what is missing from a standard chocolate chip cookie recipe and what happens to the cookies if you forget the packet I have come up with this solution

5 tablespoons baking soda

5 tablespoons baking powder

2.75 pounds milk chocolate chips *** Crumbl originally used Ghirardelli but switched to their own brand in the summer of 2021.

Instructions:

preheat your oven to 290 degrees F or 143 C

soften your butters in your microwave, this step is crucial. you want them NOT at all melted, but soft enough to mold with your hands easily

put your butters and sugars into a large bowl, it’s easiest if this is a stand mixer, but if not an electric hand mixer is fine. you *may* attempt this by hand but i would recommend you don’t.

if you have levels choose your most medium level and beat your butter and sugar for 10 minutes. seriously. and it’s probably not done. scrape the sides, if there is any resistance it’s not done. the texture you’re going for is like passing your spatula through a cloud. you should feel no resistance, the mixture will be light, fluffy and if you feel it between your fingers it will be silky with *slight* sugary texture. imagine applying it to your face, it’s a daily cleanser not a weekly exfoliant.

when you’re pretty sure you got it to the right texture go for 1 more minute just to be safe.

now that’s over with turn your mixer down to 1, and add half of your eggs. let them mostly incorporate. all yolks should be broken and you should only see slight streaks of yellow. then add your second half of the eggs and look for the same consistency.

scrape the bottom of the bowl to make sure no yolks are hiding down there!

now add your flour all once! yup! mix it on low *just* until you see a dough start to form. There should still be plenty of unincorporated flour!!!

then add your chocolate chips.

mix until you have a smooth and consistent mixture.

crumbl cookies weighs each chocolate chip cookie at 5.5 ounces.

my best approximation is that you’ll be making about 35 cookies so go for that if you don’t have a scale.

the shape of the crumbl cookie can be achieved by making a large ball of dough then tearing off the top to leave a ripped top. those cracks and spikes are part of the signature. so you can skip this step if you just want a good cookie recipe.

*if you want to make the minis like Crumbl does for catering the weight is 1.3 ounces and the bake time is 10 minutes*

place on a parchment lined baking sheet leaving 2 inches between each cookie and the edges of the baking sheet. You can fit 9 on a standard cookie sheet.

bake your cookies for 16 minutes, rotating the pan 11 minutes in! (Crumbl has ovens the rotate while baking constantly so this will help even cooking times)

*important* i know the temptation to eat the cookies directly out of the oven is great. BUT. the cookies actually are not done baking fresh out of the oven! they bake outside of the oven in their own heat for 5 minutes while they cool! so wait at least 5 minutes or 10 if you have self control!

enjoy!!!

#crumbl cookies #chocolate chip cookie recipe #recipes #spite

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kayhi808 · 2 months

Text

First Crush - 2

I was stuck in such a writers slump but you all inspired me with all your sweet comments for this story. 😘 Thank you so much!!

You were called into work on your day off. You just started working at the Avenger's Tower and trying to make a good impression. This was an amazing job & you didn't want to lose it. They paid you very well, so there was no problem paying for childcare. As any single mother knows, that is a major concern. But when they call you into work on a scheduled day off, it isn't the easiest thing to whip up, an immediate babysitter. And this is how Abby ended up at the Tower with you. Abby is usually a very sweet, well-behaved child but she just ran off in the lunch room to flirt with the Winter Soldier.

With her hand firmly held in yours, you walk her back to your table. "Don't you ever EVER run away from Mama like that." You lift her onto her chair beside you & set up her chicken nugget lunch in front of her. "We could have gotten into very big trouble."

Abby's shoulders slump and she looks up at you remorsefully, "I'm sorry, Mama."

Brushing her hair off her forehead and dropping a kiss on her brow, "Ok, baby. Thank you." You give her a smile and add some strawberries to her plate. She does a little happy wiggle in her chair and starts to eat her lunch.

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Did you see the gold sparkles on the man's arm? It was so pretty."

You laugh & so does she. "I did. Sargent Barnes has a very nice arm." And nice blue eyes. And nice muscles. And a nice face. And a nice dimple in his chin.

Abby looks down and examines the other stickers on her shirt. Worried, "Did I give him the best sticker?"

"Yes. I think you made a good choice. He didn't have any other stickers on his arm." Abby giggles and does another little happy wiggle in her chair. "Enough about Sargent Barnes' arm." Tapping her plate, "Eat your lunch."

*****

The two of you walk back to your office after lunch. You brought out her crayons and gave her some paper to draw on. Not surprising, her muse this afternoon was Bucky Barnes. All her drawings consist of a stick figure guy with an arm twice the size of his whole body with yellow woven through the black.

Agents drop by throughout the day to pick up or sign for new mission assignments and Abby has been so well behaved. She doesn't interrupt & quietly watches her videos or draws. She even took a quick nap after lunch so for a treat you go back to the cafeteria to get her some soft serve.

Returning to your office, Abby let's out a squeak. Standing there is Sargent Barnes looking over all of Abby's drawings taped to your desk.

"Sargent." You lower Abby to her blanket and give her, her cup of ice cream. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting."

Shaking his head, "It's fine." You unlock your desk to retrieve his mission packet. Bucky looks over at Abby, "Hello Abigail Rose. What do you have there?"

"Ice feem. Yous want?" She offers him her spoon.

Rubbing his stomach, "No thanks. I'm full from lunch. You enjoy it."

You clear your throat to get his attention, sliding his packet across your desk waiting for him to sign for it.

Abby let's out a gasp and walks over to Bucky. She touches his arm, devoid of her sticker. "You didn't like my sticker? Oh no, Mama, I did gives the wrong one."

"Oh Abby..."

Crouching down to get on Abby's level, "Hold on. Hold on." He pulls out his ID badge for the Tower and flips it over. There is Abby's sticker. She reaches out to touch it. "I couldn't have it falling off my arm and losing it." She covers her mouth with both hands and giggles.

"Baby, your ice cream is melting. You should finish it." Abby hops back to her blanket, clearly thrilled. You whisper to Bucky, "Thank you. That was kind of you." He gives you a shy smile and signs for his docs.

"I'll see you later Abby." She waves with her spoon. "I really like your drawings. You're going to be a talented artist."

Her eyes become round like saucers as she scurries up to take a paper off your desk and runs after Bucky. "Wait Mr. S'gent!" Crashing into his leg with her drawing. "You can has this one."

Bucky laughs and smiles. Never have you seen him smile. It transforms him completely and melts your heart at the kindness he showed your daughter. "What?? Are you sure?" She nods.

"You can puts it on your desk too. Like Mama."

"I sure can. Thank you, Abby."

She giggles and goes back to her ice cream. You mouth the words "thank you", and he gives you a wink before leaving.

Next chapter

@waywardhunter95 @buckysdoll85 @marvel-wifey-86 @roofwitty779 @angelsoftbear

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x abigail rose #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff

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freshstitches · 6 months

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I finally published the project for my dice roll scarf that went viral last month. If you love dice games, you'll enjoy knitting this pattern.

The color work in this project is determined by an algorithm, a set of rules that determine the final outcome. There isn't an exact set of instructions for this project. Instead, the knitter uses four 10-sided dice or a random number generator to pick the length of the colorwork in each row.

The result is a staggered stripe sequence along the edge of the shawl. There are trillions of unique outcomes, so no two projects turn out exactly alike. The pattern uses about 500 yards of yarn in total, but the amount of each color that you'll need is randomly determined. Before publishing, I wanted to find out the minimum and maximum amount of each color required to make the project and the probability of each outcome.

The knowledge needed to calculate the yardage was a bit beyond my skill level, but my friend Mary W. Martin helped me gather this info. I used an online probability calculator to find out the probability of each unique stitch count. The results are slightly different depending on whether you use four 10-sided dice (blue) or pick a random number (yellow), but 99% of all possible results fall within a very small range.

It was an interesting little tangent, but not hugely important to the actual knitting pattern. I can, however, confidently say there is a >99.9% chance that you'll need a 2nd skein of the main color. If you want to know more about the math, you should check out my project notes on Ravelry.

The thick and thin striped colorwork is created with a super simple "long stitch" technique. The pattern looks great in fluffy mohair or contrasting colors of basic wool and the instructions include some basic tips for substituting yarns or changing the gauge.

Finished Size: 18 x 68” (46 x 172 cm) rectangular wrap.

Yarn: Approx. 315 yards (288 m) of MC and approx. 264 yards (241 m) of CC. Yardage may vary, see notes on yardage below and yardage chart in photos.

• Main Color (2 skeins) - JMR Studio Worsted Weight Mohair, 245 yards (225 m) per 4 oz; 78% Mohair, 13% Wool, 9% Nylon.

• Contrast Color (1 skein each, both yarns held together) - JMR Studio Fingering Weight Mohair, 320 yards (293 m) per 100g; 63% Silk, 23% Kid Mohair, 11% Nylon, 3% Polyester Held with Lavender Lune Yarn Co. Suri Alpaca, 328 yards (300 m) per 50g; 74% Suri Alpaca, 26% Silk.

Yardage: The amount of each color used for this pattern fluctuates based on the random numbers used to determine the stitch pattern. MC uses approx. 233 to 315 yards (213 to 288m) and CC uses approx. 182 to 264 yards (166 to 241m). 99% of possible results fall within a much smaller range. The Yardage Chart shows the distribution of all potential yardage outcomes.

Needles: Size 8 (5 mm) straight needles, or size needed to obtain gauge. NOTE: Straight needles work best with long stitches. Circular needles with a thin cord allow the long stitches to tighten and stretch, making them harder to manipulate.

Gauge: 12 sts x 14 rows = 4 x 4” (10 x 10 cm) square in pattern.

Other Materials: 10 sided die or random number generator, stitch marker, scale, tapestry needle.

Generating numbers: In my sample, I used four ten-sided dice (D10) to choose a number between 4 and 40 sts. If you don't have dice, you can use an online app like RANDOM.org to generate your numbers. If you follow this link, you'll get a list of 63 integers between 4 and 40. NOTE: Each time you visit the link or refresh the page, the list changes. You can also just choose numbers as you knit.

Pattern is available on my website and on Ravelry.

#knitting #textile #crafts #algorithmic knitting #knit boldly #mohair #glow #knitting pattern #ravelry

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hello-eden · 4 months

Text

Missing

Tim was missing

Tim has been missing for over 5 months now. This wouldn't be a usual concern for them if he had said he was going. After the whole going off the rails searching for Bruce when everyone thought he was dead and ending up blowing up League of assassin bases thing, Everyone decided it was best that there was a check-in. Gotham Vigilantes used the same system for the missions as the Justice League but after everything went on they decided to make their own.

They had a log on the bat computer for longer missions so people know where they're going. The check-in is usually once every 2 weeks if it's a deep cover Mission with trackers on at all times, but there has been nothing from Tim.

Everyone didn't really notice at first Tim left at a very busy time. Tim texted regularly in the first week and kept up with everything that was going on, that most of them thought he was still in Gotham.

When everyone noticed he wasn't there they thought it was just a regular mission, but when Babs needed him to double check something on a case file and realized he wasn't on the roster for no contact missions she started to get worried.

Apparently the last time anyone had seen him was when he was in the bat cave for a drug screening after a very bad scarecrow attack. His trackers were offline. All of his emergency buttons and trackers were sending a signal even if it was not trackable.

The most worrying part was the silence. usually they would hear some whisper if they'd been captured or God forbid if he was dead but there was nothing. Everyone tried to use every contact that they could think of but no one could find anything.

until now

Every single tracker on Tim lit up like a Christmas tree. It took barely a minute for everyone to start dispatching themselves to find him. Jason and Cass were the ones that were chosen to go. Tim ended up in an abandoned Laboratory. Everything they could find on the building in the paperwork was said to be abandoned just before building was finished. the second they saw the building in person you could tell that was wrong. it was definitely abandoned now but it looked like the people left in a rush. the people working there probably left a day or two ago. The dust barely just started to form.

When they looked on the trackers he looked to be in the basement level. As they walked through the building it was like every floor looked like it had been copy and pasted. Every room had white walls so it was easy to see the splatters of blood in the hallway leading to the room they were looking for. They were very concerned. The blood had specs of green that seemed to be luminescent even though the blood was dried. they feared for the worst.

Jason opened the door and looked inside with Cass not far behind. The room had white walls like the rest of the building but instead of the normal White/ yellow headlights from the rest of the rooms they were bright Blue. There was blood just like the hallway even down to the luminescing green specs. The room had two chairs on the side farthest from the door and a bed in the furthest corner. Tim was laying on the bed and looked to be staring at the ceiling. He had made no move to interact with them even as they got closer.

“Replacement” Jason whispered to Tim once he was by the bed. When Tim didn't respond he grabbed his rest to feel a pulse.

Even though it looked like he was breathing it could be his mind playing a trick on him. Jason needed to feel his pulse.

Jason felt the pulse, it was slow but it was there. Jason looked over to Cass and said ”he's alive all right”.

Relief very clearly in his tone. Cass's shoulders relaxed only a little after hearing that.

They looked him over trying to figure out why he wasn't responding. His heartbeat was slow like he was asleep but Tim was a light sleeper unless he was knocked out or drugged he usually woke up the second someone touched him.

he didn't look to be hooked up to any machinery and the place had been abandoned for at least the day before they arrived. he wasn't even wearing his vigilante outfit, he was in civilians clothes.

Once they realized they were getting nowhere with this they looked around the room as it was becoming clear they couldn't wake him up nor was he an immediate Danger. They decided to look around only the rooms near the one that Tim was contained in to make sure that there weren't other people there as that floor seemed to be a containment unit.

Jason decided to look in the other rooms while the Cass stayed in Tim's in case he woke up. As Jason left to search, he looked around the room. she ended up finding Tim's bag underneath the bed pushed to the furthest corner away from the door.

Cass sat down on the floor with her back leaning on the side of the chair. She searched through the bag. The more she looked through the more confused she got.

She couldn't find Tim's phone neither civilian nor hero. She couldn't find his laptop but she did find a tablet that she knew Tim hadn't had before. she would question if this was Tim's bag if not for the wallet and ID she found in the front pocket.

She found small things like a package of tissues, a water bottle, chapstick and some of Stephanie's hair ties. Cass could tell that they were Stephanie's due to the fact they were all purple.

She found a hidden Pocket as she was looking through the lining of the bag. It looked to be a syringe filled with glowing green liquid. The same green that seems to be in the blood from the hallway. In the same pocket there seems to be a folded file with medical scans stuffed in between. As Cass went through the bag there was one question that had been on her mind since the beginning.

Why was Tim here?

#dc x dp #danny phantom #dcxdp #dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp crossover #batfam #batfamily #please add on #will i finish it? who knows #do i have plot? yes #will i explain the plot? no #i what see what people think the plot is

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