#we are cooking with gas and the stove is all the way on

[ye-xiu]

I am a violent crime detective. And I'm a busy priest.

THE FIERY PRIEST / 열혈사제 (2019) dir. Lee Myung-woo, Park Bo-ram

[spacecaravan]

Short Stack

pairing: rooster x reader word count: 4.8k 🥞☕🥓

"You're driving me crazy over here, honey," Bradley said with a pout from his spot in your kitchen, whining as he stared at you, your back to his front as you stood at your spot in front of the gas stove. 

It was a picturesque Sunday morning, the air was warm and sweet-smelling as the wind floated in from the open window, dainty linen curtains blowing enchanting shapes in the breeze. You had asked Bradley if he wanted to eat breakfast outside today since, as you had put it, it would be such a waste if we didn't. 

"Hm?" you hummed in response, resting your cheek on your shoulder as you craned your neck to glance over at the pilot, your hands busy tending to pancakes sizzling away on the stovetop "what'd you say, baby?" finding it a little hard to hear him over the speaker you had playing next to you on the countertop.

"You expect me to just sit over here while you're over there looking like that?" he questioned in an incredulous tone, his legs were wide open, palms splayed over his bare thighs while he watched you, his pajama shorts riding high on the tan skin underneath. 

You raised your eyebrows, eyes glinting curiously in his direction before you bent over at the waist to check the bacon crisping up in the oven. Old sweatshirt riding up just enough to drive Bradley wild as you batted your lashes at him, stoking the flames you loved to be warmed by.

"What's that, Bradley?" you said, dimples threatening to break through the coy smile you were trying to hide, "don't you want me to take care of you like I promised?" you teased, reminding Bradley of the moments that had transpired not too long before he was sat sipping coffee in one of his favorite places in the world, your kitchen on a lazy Sunday morning.

"Sleepy girl," 

His favorite way to wake you up on Sundays was to whisper in your ear as he snuck his hand up the front of whatever soft top you happened to fall asleep in. Warm hand reaching for your breasts, but wanting you to be awake before he teased you so he could listen to you react.

"Good morning, baby," he rasped in your ear, his eager fingers ghosting over your bare nipples after he felt you stir, relishing in the pleased little sound you made in the back of your throat in response to his touch, nipples pebbling immediately under the tips of his fingers.  

The night before you promised him you'd wake up early and make him a nice breakfast: fluffy buttermilk pancakes, perfectly cooked bacon, coffee the way he likes it — the works — he deserved it, you'd said. 

You spent that night cooing in his ear about how he worked so hard on base, pressing wet kisses across his bare chest as you praised him, moaning desperately into the air as he pressed his thumb softly on your clit as you rode him—couldn't stop telling him how desperately you wanted to make him feel good.  

"You deserve to feel so fucking good all the time, Bradley Bradshaw," you said, your skin hot and flushed as you fell apart on top of him, "and I'm going to make sure you do. I'm going to treat you so, so good, baby." you moaned into his ear before you felt him filling you up in your favorite way. 

So blinking your eyes open, to see your bedroom bathed in the hazy morning glow while Bradley's hard cock pressed firmly against your ass, was not what you needed to have the productive morning you'd promised. 

"Bradley," you forced out in your rough morning tone, a warning, at least that's how you intended it to sound. 

"Mhm?" Rooster grumbled from behind you, pulling you tighter to his sleep-warmed body as he pushed his wet lips and scratchy mustache into your soft neck. "love hearing you say my name," he mumbled, "lemme hear it again, sweet girl," a tiny kiss pressed into the back of your hairline, "y'smell so good by the way, always do." he said, his tone laced with affection as he inhaled your scent, pressing tender kisses to the sensitive skin of your throat.

"Bradley," you repeated, placing your hand on top of the one he had resting on your hip, managing to flip yourself so that you were facing him, staring directly into his eyes. "good morning." 

You kissed him softly on the lips before taking both of his hands between your bodies and pressing them above your breast, inhaling deeply and letting him feel your heartbeat. Rooster was strong, there was no denying it. But, for all that strength, Bradley was also putty in your hands, made utterly helpless at the site of your eyes on his. His body went completely pliant the moment you locked eyes with him and put your hands anywhere on his body. 

"G'morning," he sighed, losing his train of thought in the way the sunlight made your skin glow. Bradley pressed a soft kiss onto your nose as he breathed you in, his chest pressing against your joined hands as he moved closer, tangling your feet beneath the soft blankets. 

"Remember what I promised?" you reminded him, taking in his dreamy expression, keenly aware of how shallow his breaths were as he gazed at you, "I gotta start cooking, honey. Wanna treat you to this."

His mouth parts, tongue coming out to wet his lips as he watches you speak. Leans in closer to listen to you whisper sweetly about how you wanted to take care of him. 

"Or," he started, mustache quirking slightly as a smirk took over his features, "you stay here," he paused for a moment, his larger hands overlapping yours to bring your knuckles up to his warm lips, "and you let me take care of you — let me make you feel good."

Hearing him say that made your heart pound, made your entire body tingle all over and tempted you to no end. But you wanted, no needed, to do this for Bradley. You had been planning this ever since the last time you cooked for him and he wouldn't shut up about how he loved watching you in the kitchen.

Went on and on about how he was ready to be a stay-at-home anything if it meant getting to watch you act out all the fantasies he held deep inside, close to his heart. Fantasies of domestic bliss, of a life with someone who cares for you, who adores you, and in return, someone to make it all worth giving a shit about. 

And as much as you loved taking care of Bradley, you could never get enough of the way he would playfully nudge you away from the sink the moment he saw you starting to wash up after a meal. He always wanted to help, wanted to be involved, wanted to fill you up with the same type of affection you poured into him. 

"Excuse me miss," he would start, his hip bumping yours as he came to stand at the sink, "what do you think you're doing over here?" his smile was always infectious at this point, his large hands coming in to pluck the sponge straight from your wet fingers, "go relax, go get comfy. I'll do the rest." and with that final word, he would kiss you into total submission and send you on your way with a tap to your bottom.

"Later," you whispered, "stay in bed. I'll bring you coffee in a bit," 

You freed your hands from his grip and gently brushed your fingers over his cheekbone. He immediately leaned into your soft touch, allowing you to rise easily, his lips forming a pout as he watched you move to exit the bedroom. 

"You're torturing me," he said, propping himself up on his palm, elbow digging into the mattress as he shifted, his other palm coming out to reach for you in a desperate final attempt to get you back under the warm sheets.

You couldn't help the grin that blossomed on your face as you basked in Bradley's warm gaze. 

"Lucky for you," you started, cheek pressed to the door frame as you watched him, "you're trained to handle tough situations like this. Aren't you, Lieutenant Bradshaw?" you slipped out before he could give you a response. 

Walking down the hall you heard him groan and flop back down onto the mattress, could clearly picture him running his hands over his face and through his sleep-mussed hair as he shook his head with a smile. 

And that's how you ended up here, sunshine coming softly through your kitchen window while Bradley sat wide-legged at your breakfast nook. His large body settled into the cushion you and your friends had DIY'd one Friday evening, after two bottles of chilled red wine sat happily in your stomachs and shared laughter lit up the room. It's how you ended up with Bradley practically white-knuckling his mug as he watches you cook and fawn over him, sweetly asking him, "Can I top off your coffee, baby?" while you stroke the back of his neck, backing away before he can get his hands on you. 

"Honey," Bradley had moved from his spot, taking a few short strides to stand behind you at the stove. His hands coming to rest on your hips as he drags you back to him, "I can't sit there anymore." 

"No?" you question, your gaze on the cast iron skillet on the burner, the final pancake was cooking away on its shiny black surface as you feigned nonchalance. "What's got you so worked up, Bradshaw?"

Once he heard his last name leave your mouth he knew you were teasing him, and god was he ready to tease you right back. 

"I don't know," he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, "maybe just a pretty little thing making me breakfast," another kiss below your ear, "my girl taking such good care of me," 

Bradley moves his right hand to take the spatula out of your grip, meeting no resistance as you melt into the heat radiating from his naked chest, getting lost in the words coming out of his mouth as you lean into his onslaught of kisses.

"I'll tell you what's got me worked up, baby." 

You feel him inhale deeply behind you, the music playing from the speaker filling up the otherwise quiet room as he deftly flips the pancake on the pan, somehow knowing it was the perfect time to turn it as its golden brown surface shows itself. Soon after his perfect pancake has been flipped, he places the tool down, and using his now free right hand, turns off the stove and the oven, signaling the end of that—kitchen closed. 

Every nerve in your body was lighting up now. You could feel the excitement building in your marrow as he stood calmly behind you. 

"Turn around, and I'll tell you," he whispers in your ear, "lemme see your pretty eyes."

There was no other option but to listen, no choice but to turn around and stare into his lust-filled eyes. 

"So, what is it, Bradshaw?" you practically sigh, turning to him as you try to calm your breathing, willing yourself to fill your lungs slowly before he pushes you over the edge with just his words. 

"It's you," his voice still low as his as he reaches his hand up to brush over your lips. The pad of his thumb swipes back and forth gently over your pouted bottom lip, "it's you in this fucking kitchen looking like a dream. It's you saying my name while you pour me coffee," he pauses briefly, "it's that I know you slept in my sweatshirt last night to drive me fucking crazy this morning." 

"Am I in trouble, Lieutenant Bradshaw?" you say coolly despite the blazing inferno ripping through your entire being, despite his finger still resting on the plush of your lip.

Bradley doesn't answer, simply pushes his thumb past your lips and onto your waiting tongue. He loves the way he can make you mush under his touch. But you never let him have the upper hand for long. He groans and squeezes his eyes shut as you gaze up at him, sucking harshly on the digit and wetting it with your eager tongue. He pulls the finger out of your mouth, hand moving to grip your cheeks in a manner that made your panties flood with wetness. Bradley was practically panting — trying so hard to keep his cool, trying so hard not to spin you around right here and fuck you against the oven.

“Breakfast is gonna have to wait, pretty girl,” he declares, “should have never let you get out of bed this morning.”

After that it's a blur of warm hands grasping for bare skin, a symphony of moaning into open-mouthed kisses and when Bradley moves his hands down your thighs, pulling in a signal you've come to know well, you jump. His capable hands immediately come to your ass as you wrap your legs around his middle. You're nose to nose with him as he walks you back to the bedroom.

"I've got you, baby," he whispers, "gonna make you feel so good."

He's dropping you onto the bed before you know it, towering his body over yours to kiss every inch of skin he can touch. He's pushing up your (his) sweatshirt to reveal the soft skin hidden underneath, stopping to bite and lick your exposed breasts, taking extra care of each nipple as he nips and pinches. 

Rooster tosses away the article of clothing, leaving you lying in the morning light in just your underwear. He takes a single step back, leaving you panting on the bed as you stare up at him. He's obviously hard, his pajama shorts tented and hands flexing at his sides as he looks down at the way your almost naked body is being illuminated by the golden light. 

"You look too fucking good," he whispers mostly to himself, "god damn." 

He drops to his knees in front of you, hands coming to wrap underneath your knees as he drags you to the end of the bed, bringing your covered cunt to his waiting mouth. Rooster immediately presses his nose and lips onto the sodden fabric of your panties, his tongue coming out to taste the wetness soaking the cotton. You could come just from this, just from Bradley Bradshaw breathing into your pussy while he presses his perfect nose against your puffy clit. 

"Want me to taste you, honey?" he whispers into your cunt, and you feel like you're burning alive, "cause I wanna taste you real fuckin' bad."

He pulls away from you again, and it really isn't fair that he looks like that right now. His skin is radiant and ethereal, he smells divine and he's looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. Before you even have a chance to answer, Rooster is gripping the fabric on your underwear tightly, increasing the friction on your clit. A little tease. Maybe a little mean—or even a little needy. 

"Talk to me, baby," he says, fingers still pulling the fabric taut against your dripping center. 

"Please, Bradley," you whisper desperately, chest heaving as you look down at him. "Need you," you add, yes because you mean it, but also because you know he loves to hear it.  

With that, he is swiftly pulling the soaked panties down your legs, flinging them somewhere to be found later while the two of you laugh and make the bed together.

His palms come back to separate your thighs and you could die. You feel like you're about to plunge into icy cold water—the shock of adrenaline as your body adjusts to the frigid temperature. Warmth overtakes every cell in your body, as you gaze down at him. Bradley is staring directly into your wet pussy with a lust-filled glaze in his pretty eyes. With every inhale and exhale you feel more obscene, more spread open.

"So wet," he observes, his voice deep and gruff "you showin' off for me? Gettin' nice and wet just for me, baby?"

He runs his thumb up and down your slit, taking one pass to tease at your aching clit. His thumb is bringing you a pleasure that is making your back arch off the mattress, it feels like he is taking you apart piece by piece. His face is still so close to your pussy you can feel his breath fanning over you. His warm breath is a sharp contrast to the wetness of your weeping hole. 

"Oh, honey," he coos, as he dips his middle finger into your soaked cunt, "bet you were wet this morning too, huh? But my good girl wanted to treat me to a picture-perfect Sunday, didn't she?"

He wants you to answer, you know this.

"Want you so bad, Bradley," you whimper into your palm, having pressed the side of it between your teeth to keep from yelling out, "want you always. Wanna take care of you all the time."

When his mouth finally comes down, it makes you weep, makes you cry out in a tone you've never heard leave your body. His supple mouth and tongue are bringing you so much comfort as they simultaneously send all-encompassing shockwaves of pleasure through you. 

You’re bucking into his mouth, unashamed in your want for him, unabashed in the way you spread your wetness over his gorgeous face. You bring your hands away from your fluttering chest and gasping mouth to pull his hair, hard. He moans loudly when you do, making your tummy do backflips as he feasts on your cunt. Breakfast be damned. 

"My perfect girl," he whispers against your clit, "tastes so good. Such a sweet pussy."

You groan at his words, reveling in his praise and storing it away to replay at a later time. No one has ever made you feel the way Rooster does, no one has ever been able to make you completely unravel in the way he can. 

"Need you, baby," you whine from your spot on the bed, "need to feel you inside me, please. Please, Bradley."

He pulls back enough for you to see his face—lips shining, mustache obscenely wet and it makes you dizzy just to look at him like this. His hands are still gripping your thighs, his touch burning the area his palms are claiming. 

"Can't wait for me to finish?" he taunts, mocking you as he smiles into your wet cunt.

That's when you move to sit up, propping yourself up on your elbows to get better leverage. Wordlessly you slip back away from him, sliding back on the soft sheets to rest your back flat against the headboard. Creating enough distance between the two of you to keep him out of arms reach, the only touch he could lay on you now is a soft graze to your ankle with his fingertips. 

"Come here, Rooster," you say, your sultry tone sounds unfamiliar to you, coated in want and lust, "come and take your pussy, Lieutenant Bradshaw."

A beat passes. You hear him curse under his breath. He's so solid when he comes to stand at the end of the bed. Doesn't take his eyes off yours as he rids himself of his soft shorts. Doesn't make a sound as he palms his erection, stroking the length once, twice, three times before he descends upon you. Once again he's flexing that Navy-earned strength of his to drag your body flush against the mattress. His arms coming to frame your head as he brings his mouth down onto yours, soft and kind, kissing you so sweetly as he leaves the taste of you behind on your tongue. 

"You're gonna be the death of me, baby." he moans into your mouth.

"What a way to go," is all you say before you reach down to rub his cock up and down your wet slit, taking extra care to rub his sensitive tip over your clit driving you both wild in the process. 

He's gripping your wrist tight, halting your movement on his length. His eyes are half-open as they peer into yours, his bottom lip lodged in between his perfect teeth as he places your hand back on the soft sheets below you. 

His plunging inside you so suddenly it pushes all the air out of your lungs. His breath hitches as he settles into the deepest, warmest parts of you—his hands coming up to keep your supple thighs snug around his waist as pleasure rocks through your core. Sometimes he moves so fast you can't keep up, can't keep up with the pillow being shoved under your ass as Bradley strokes deep inside of you. 

“Oh, honey,” he moans, “god that pussy is perfect.” 

Your skin sizzles at his praise, pleasure is working itself down to the very tips of your toes, making you shiver. You're gasping for breath as he pushes himself impossibly deeper inside of you, eyes falling shut as you chase the pleasure he is eliciting from you. Your pussy is clenching around him, he feels so thick and perfect inside you it makes you want to cry. Your hands are gripping the sheets so hard your fingers are cramping. 

"Look at me, pretty baby," he whispers, "let me see my girl."

Your eyes snap open, but your head tilts back with pleasure at his request. You feel so close. You don't know how he gets you teetering over the edge so fast. Maybe it's the husky sound of his voice as he calls you a million different lovely names. Maybe it's the way his tan arms look caging you beneath his body. Or maybe it's the way he gets lost staring in between your bodies. 

Rooster is obsessed with the way he looks sliding in and out of you while you cry out underneath him. But he can never look away too long, always needing to see the look in your eyes as he fucks you in a way that makes you whine and beg for him—makes you desperate for him in his favorite way. He never gets tired of the shock on your face when he whispers filthy words into your ear as he touches parts of you no one ever has. And you hope to god that no one but him ever will again. 

Did Bradley love seeing you act out his domestic fantasies? Of fucking course. The pilot could hardly keep his hands off you most evenings, barely getting the chance to say hello before he was winded at the sight of you floating around the kitchen. Always humming along to a tune he liked — or at least he liked the sound of it coming sweetly from you — before you noticed he was in the room. You were always stirring this, or chopping that. Asking him to taste this for salt or, like most times, you simply said "sit and relax, Rooster, let me take care of you." like you did this morning. He loved the way you took care of him. You did it without pretense or motive. Just did it because you loved to see him loved. You adored doting on Bradley Bradshaw because you knew he deserved it. You knew how he craved it. 

But, for as much as Bradley liked you sweet and delicate in the kitchen, he loved you fucked out and messy more. He went crazy over the way you'd suck his fingers into your mouth while he was fucking you, doing anything just to feel fuller. Loved the way you teased—all half-lidded eyes and parted lips, walking around half-dressed with an innocent smile on your face as you stepped in front of the TV, interrupting whatever college football game he happened to be watching with a simple Hi, Bradshaw. He lived for the chase and would do stupid, dangerous things for the reward. 

“Bradley,” you whisper, and it elicits another moan from him, one that is throaty and deep, "Make me cum, please,"

He wants to keep teasing you, wants to make you wait so badly, wants to make you yell out his name desperately as he edges you. But he can't—not this morning—not when you look so, so pretty laid out underneath him, like a fucking angel, he thinks to himself. 

"I've got you, pretty honey," he leans down to press his chest into yours, relishing in the feeling of your hard nipples pressed into his heated skin, "don't have to do a thing, sweet girl, just feel how deep that cock is inside you, okay? Can you do that for me?"

"Oh, Bradley," you whine, crying out at the feeling of his shaft hitting parts of you that hurt so goddamn good. Parts of you that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes, made your toes curl and your heart pound out of your chest. 

He's close too, he can never stop talking the closer to release he gets. "That's it, baby, tell me who's making you feel good. Tell me whose cock is gonna make you cum." his words are filthy as he chases his orgasm alongside yours. 

You would tell him anything he wanted to hear right now, confess your deepest darkest secrets if he asked. 

"It's you, Rooster" you moan. "Always you, only you. No one else can fuck me like you Rooster, please. Please." you plead desperately, you're so close to cumming and it's driving you insane, making your skin tingle all over as you stand over the edge waiting to jump. 

Bradley's mind goes blank at your words, he can't do anything but continue to fuck you deeper, soaking in your praise before it shoots straight into his pelvis and grips him tight. 

You hold on to him tightly as you cum, holding him as close as possible as you grind against him, body moving instinctually at this point to chase the most pleasure possible, to milk every last ounce of euphoria you can from him. 

Bradley's own gratification is close, he knew it was the moment he felt your pussy start pulsing around his cock as you came. He was absolutely basking in every little noise coming from as you came undone underneath him, he loved watching you come apart, loved that he was the one doing it. 

"I want it, baby," you preen underneath him, shocking him out of his reverie and snapping his attention to the fucked out expression on your face, "need to feel you cum inside me Bradley, please, baby. Need it so, so bad, honey."

He growls and you know that did it. The deep, raspy noise coming from him as he spills inside you makes you clench down on his shaft, hard. The feeling of your cum soaked pussy clenching around him makes Bradley curse into your ear. Makes him thrust hard into your sensitive hole as he groans out your name.

When you still, the two of you are slick with a fine layer of sweat, bellies moving in tandem as you fight desperately to fill your lungs and steady your heartbeats. 

If there's one thing Bradley loves, it's the afterglow. He could lie on top of you with his cock soft inside your velvet walls for hours. Wouldn't move if he didn't have the unfortunate human need for food and water. On rare occasions, Bradley would be so relaxed post-orgasm, he would doze off on your chest, his breath coming out in gentle puffs over your skin as you pet the top of his head, basking in the sight of him bare and malleable underneath you.  

"I think breakfast might be a little cold, baby," he says with a smile, gazing up at you with a look you could only describe as smitten.

"Shame," you tut, and your hand grips his hair a little tight, nothing that hurt, nothing that no one but a top naval aviator would notice, a little twitch as you considered what to say next. "can I tell you a secret?" you're grinning now too.

"Spill it," his expression is giddy as he waits for your confession. 

"I love doing this with you," you didn't mean to be earnest. You meant to say something witty, something funny. 

But you couldn't, honesty pouring out of you like a tub overflowing with water. Like someone had turned on the faucet and walked away. 

You see his expression soften before he's rolling the two of you over, his eyes never leaving yours as he brings the both of you to lay on your sides, mirroring the position you were in earlier this morning. Hands gripped tightly between each other, chests moving in tandem as you bring your faces impossibly close together. "Me too, baby," he's smiling so sweetly it's making your stomach fill with butterflies "you have no idea."

[loveinhawkins]

Steve gets the idea from Dustin and Robin, in a roundabout way: Robin insists on buying a camping stove from The War Zone, which Dustin pounces upon with glee as soon as he notices it.

“Oh, we’re cooking with gas now,” he says, which is the worst pun Steve has heard thus far.

Eddie snorts, almost but not quite hidden underneath the sound of the engine. Steve smiles.

“Y’know there’s a stove right here?” he asks in benign exasperation, gestures behind him to the little kitchen area of the RV.

“Steve,” Robin says, “that’s not as fun.”

“Yeah, come on, Steve! It’ll be like at Camp Know Where—”

“Know Nothing,” Steve mutters automatically.

“—we oft dined al fresco.”

“Oft,” Eddie parrots, and Steve can faintly feel the movement of him laughing, from where he’s pressed up against the back of the driver’s seat. “Al fresco. Henderson, what lab did they make you in?”

“Eddie, either shut up or back me up, I wanna get a culturally enriching experience outta this.”

“Oh, excuse me, didn’t realise this was a field trip.”

“You’re excused.”

“Okay,” Steve cuts in, “have fun playing at camping, Henderson, but don’t come crying to me if you, like, blow yourself up.”

Robin chuckles. “Such a happy camper.”

“Boo,” Steve says flatly.

He parks the RV a little bit away from a store just off the main road—heads in alone as it’ll draw less attention. Out loud, he says it’s so he can focus without hearing whining pleas to buy junk food, whether Dustin-approved or not, but he already knows he’ll cater to each and every one of the group’s demands.

Eddie, surprisingly, doesn’t put in a request, says he’s happy to just go along with whatever everyone else wants—a far cry from when Nancy had relayed, with more amusement than frustration, “He said he wants a six-pack.”

Steve figures that the whole being wanted for murder thing would kill anyone’s appetite, but it still makes his stomach sink, that the most substantial meal Eddie’s gotten a chance to eat has been lukewarm Spaghettios.

They set up ‘camp’ in a field, and Robin’s the first to rush outside, shortly followed by Dustin, both intent on using the stove she’s bought.

Steve leaves them all to it, kind of enjoys the temporary peace of just messing about in the RV on his own—it gives him enough time to find where some crockery is kept, anyway.

He’s heating up chicken noodle soup on the stove when Eddie comes back in and tells him, “They got it working, no explosions yet.”

“Oh, miracles can happen. Good timing, by the way.” Steve switches the burner off, pours the soup into a bowl and sets it down on the table—where he’s already laid out a spoon. “Yours is ready.”

At first he doesn’t think the silence is all that unusual. He’s not really looking either, focusing on rinsing out the pan he’d used. But when he does glance up, it’s to see Eddie just standing there, looking at the bowl of soup and blinking rapidly.

It’s almost like… almost like he’s—

“Woah, hey,” Steve says, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Eddie says, even though he’s still quite clearly tearing up. “Absolutely nothing. Jesus Christ.” He groans, presses a couple of fingers to the inner corner of his eyes. “This is fucking mortifying, just pretend you didn’t—ugh.”

In barely a blink, he shuts himself away in the bathroom.

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “Hate soup that much, huh?”

A watery laugh from behind the door. “No.”

There’s a silence. Steve dries the pan and puts it away before calling, “It’s gonna get cold!”

It won’t for a while yet; he can still see tendrils of steam rising from the bowl.

There’s a long, drawn out sigh, and then Eddie opens the door, sidles in to take a seat at the table.

For a moment, Steve thinks he isn’t going to acknowledge it, which is fine. But as Eddie picks up the spoon he says, head down, “It’s just. That was, uh. Really—really nice.”

Steve’s concern abates a little; he can’t help giving a slight smirk. “Would it help if I was mean instead?”

Eddie laughs again, no tears in it this time. He shrugs with a grin. “Do whatever you want, man.”

He’s eating slowly, his spoon dragging through the soup. His eyes seem distant.

“It’s just… I miss—” His voice threatens to break, but doesn’t quite get there. “I miss… home.”

Before Steve can think of a reasonable reply, Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes. He drops the spoon with a clatter. “God, that sounds so—”

“It doesn’t,” Steve interrupts.

“Yeah, sure.” Eddie picks up the spoon again, keeps scraping it against the bottom of the bowl.

“Dude, what did I tell you? You’ve gotta give yourself a break.”

Steve pauses, stuck on what to say next.

He can’t even relate, honestly. Home has long become something he couldn’t… Something he couldn’t really miss, exactly.

It’s ever-changing: the luxury of eating a late breakfast in History; the crunch of leaves underfoot as he walked the railroad tracks with Dustin; the chill of the freezer in Scoops Ahoy, Robin’s snorting laugh bouncing off the walls.

Now it’s his car radio playing as he gives rides on busy school mornings. A high school basketball game. A goddamn video store.

“I think you have this thing,” Steve says slowly.

“A promising start,” Eddie says, lips twitching.

He’s finished the soup. The sight spurs Steve on.

“I think you have this thing,” he repeats, more confidently, “where you think that, like, we’re seasoned monster-killers, and you’re—”

“Uh, speaking objectively, Harrington, that’s kinda what you are.”

“My point is,” Steve says, “that you don’t need to—shit, I don’t know, man. Just. You don’t need to apologise or whatever. You’re doing fine.”

Eddie blinks. He’s cupping the empty bowl with his hands, breathing a little deeper, like the residual warmth is calming.

And that Steve can relate to: in the days after Starcourt, when Robin pretty much dragged him to her house, empty thanks to her folks visiting extended family. They both pretended that they just wanted to stay up late because they could, because they were just teenagers enjoying the summer, and Robin had made shitty hot chocolate from a powder, heating up milk on the stove; when Steve complained that he could hardly enjoy it through a busted lip, she’d said, still jittery, “I just thought—it’s just nice to hold, y’know?”

She was right.

One of Eddie’s fingers starts tapping against the bowl, the underside of his ring making a series of restless clinks. Steve wants to still his hand, gently press it further into the warmth. Settle him.

Eddie stands up with the bowl.

“I can—”

“Nah, I’ve got it,” Eddie says, already at the sink. He turns on the faucet, smiles. “Thanks, by the way.”

It’s so simple, so domestic, and all of a sudden, Steve’s struck with a thought: oh, I want this.

“No problem. I’ll get you something better, after… um, everything.”

Eddie chuckles. “Oh, Jesus, I think I actually would kill for some fries.”

Steve clicks his fingers. “So we’ll make it happen.”

“We?”

“Yeah, I hate to break it to you, man, but as soon as they hear about free fries—” Steve jerks his head towards the chatter outside, “—they’re gonna demand to come with, they’re like piranhas.”

He expects Eddie to play up the joke, to groan and complain.

But while he does laugh, Eddie just sighs before saying in earnest, “That sounds fucking fantastic.”

And his eyes are warm and fond, like maybe he’s found another home in all of them, too.

[fourmoony]

Hi oh my gosh I love literally everything you write. And you're doing poly!marauders. So excited.

Would you be willing to do something like reader doesn't have a great self-esteem so she never thought she'd find someone who'd love her just the way she is but then she found them. and is just super in love and incredibly happy?

could be nsfw too if you want.

thankyou!

you are so kind, thank you so much, angel! thanks for requesting, hope you like it :) p.s. this is my first time writing poly!marauders so be gentle pls <3

poly!marauders x f!reader | 1.2k words | masterlist

cw - implied self esteem issues

You feel content in your little bubble.

The kitchen is warm and filled with love and laughter and bodies and the conversation flows freely. It's comfortable and cosy and Remus is making soup so really, your day couldn't get any better.

James is cutting vegetables under Remus' watchful gaze and Sirius is practically hanging over Remus' shoulder, as excited as you about the pot of soup on the stove. You're content to just watch them, let them just be from your place on the counter beside the stove. Remus had chastised you'd burn the side of your leg, James had made an ill timed joke about getting to kiss it better, and said burn was yet to occur. So you sit. You watch. You smile to yourself because you're happy.

It's a daily struggle to remind yourself that you're worthy of being included in this little bubble, that the boys want you here as much as you want to be here. Some days it feels impossible, some days you feel like an intruder, like a burden they're too nice to get rid of. Then Sirius does something so stupidly Sirius and Remus will lean over, kiss the shell of your ear and thank you for being the only sane person in the house. And James asks if he can sit with you while you shower. It's not about sex. Not always, at least. James just likes to listen to your day and tell you about his without the constant buzz of conversation around him, sitting on the toilet with fogged up glasses and a smile on his face. He joins you on the bad days, helps you forget. It's peaceful, and it's your ritual.

They do everything they can to remind you, every day, that they want you there, that they love you as you love them. It's a nice feeling, to be wanted, to be loved, to be understood and appreciated. It's an even lovelier feeling to be a part of someone's routine. The showers with James, pestering Remus while he cooks dinner, reading to Sirius until he falls asleep, sprawled out across the three of you on the couch, his breaths heavy and your hand in his hair. It's a nice life you have. That counts for a lot, even on the days you don't feel worthy.

Today isn't necessarily one of those days, but it's there on your face. That 'outsider looking in' type of mood you get when you think about it for too long. You've discovered you're allowed to feel both content and undeserving at the same time - or, at the very least, that it's possible. You often wonder why Remus, Sirius, and James chose you. It's not a secret, you've asked many times and received many answers, varying in seriousness to Sirius' absurd "we tossed a coin.", to which Remus chastised him relentlessly.

You'd laughed, and that was all Sirius had needed.

Now, you're watching the three of them with the same awe you always do, and Sirius seems to catch it in the split second his eyes leave the pot of soup on the stove. He's on you in a second, not a far walk considering you're sitting so close to the gas stove that you're surprised Remus' theory of your burnt thigh hasn't come true. Sirius' eyebrows furrow in that concerned sort of way they often do when he's trying to read one of the three of you, his hands gentle as they come into contact with the pudge of your hips.

"Spill," He tilts his head, lips downturned at the corners and it makes your heart ache.

They've always urged you to be open, to share your concerns and tell them what, exactly is going on in that 'big beautiful brain of yours', as James calls it. But the look of knowing, of concern, on Sirius' face hurts. You hate that after all this time you still feel this way sometimes. Even on the good days, you catch yourself asking what you did to deserve your boys.

"Hm?" You hum, hands lifting to hold the sides of your boyfriend's face in hopes of distracting him altogether.

His hair is tied back, but you curl an index finger around a strand of stark black hair thats fallen into his face and Sirius smiles, soft and lovely, "You've got that," He waves his hand in front of your face with wiggled fingers and you laugh, "look."

"What look?" You ask, leaning forwards to press a kiss to his lips.

Now Remus, if you had tried a move like that, would tsk, tell you to spill before he rewards you, and it's why you know it'll work when you try it with Sirius. He always gives you whatever you like. His lips return the favour, hands pulling you forward a little on the counter. It's a nice kiss, a sweet kiss, until James scoffs and declares Sirius is easily manipulated.

"Am not." He grumbles, shooting your two boyfriends a dirty look.

Remus rolls his eyes into the soup, sets the lid on it to simmer at the same time James drops the knife and starts putting the vegetables into a bowl.

"C'mon, Dove, what's up?" Remus asks, hip balanced against the stove, turned to face you.

He's in his comfies, the first of the four of you to arrive home from work, earlier, and he looks so soft and warm. You know he won't give in to whatever interrogation Sirius has unknowingly started so you heave a sigh and slump back against the wall cabinets.

"Sirius is being dramatic. The 'look' I had was contentedness with a little bit of 'what on earth did I do to deserve these men?'."

Remus' lips turn up at the corners and he crowds your space, pushing an annoyed Sirius to the side for the moment, "You didn't have to do a thing. We love you as is."

You hum, delighted with the appraisal, a bashful smile coming across your lips. Remus kisses it, quick and sweet, and returns to his soup. Sirius sticks his tongue out at the side of Remus' head and you laugh. James passes the vegetables off to Remus because Sirius is not to be trusted with the good kitchen knives after the Christmas Eve in A&E incident last year, and comes up behind Sirius, arms wrapped around his waist, head firmly on his chin.

You know James' back is probably breaking at the angle, but Sirius would simply be offended for the rest of the night if James used his head instead of his shoulder. He's in denial about his height, you suppose.

"It's more like what on earth we did to deserve you. I've no idea how you put up with those two." James gives you a knowing smile as he speaks.

You both wait for Sirius' outrage and Remus' offended scoff. Both come. They team up on the other side of the kitchen, Sirius hovering over Remus and likely causing more of an annoyance. James uses it as an opportunity to get you closer to him, whisk you off to the couch in the living room now his sous chef duties are complete.

You set up the usual dinner time sitcom and pause it, relaxing into your boyfriend and talking about anything and everything until Remus calls that the soup is ready.

In the kitchen as James and Sirius fight over who should get the first bowl, Sirius because he waited so patiently, or James because he actually helped, Remus slides you your own bowl with a lovely big smile reserved just for you, and you couldn't imagine yourself anywhere else in the world.

[stylesloveclub]

Pleasing (grumpy h blurb)

In which Harry's acting kinda grumpy, and y/n helps him... destress. :)

+++

Harry’s hand slams onto his phone, muting the blaring chimes of his 6 AM alarm. His head hurts and his eyes are heavy, and the thought of having to get out of bed, get dressed, and go to a business meeting when it’s still dark outside makes his feel physically ill. 

He’s tired… beyond tired. Last night had been another one of his annual “In-Chef nights.” He’d been up on his feet, cooking meal after meal from 6 PM all the way until midnight, and had then spent an additional two hours with his staff cleaning up. He’d driven home in the cold rain, and didn’t even have enough energy to change into his pajamas when he got home. He just stripped down to his briefs, and collapsed into his bed.

 Running on barely four hours of sleep, he’s feeling cranky and miserable and irritable. The sound of his alarm has been nagging at him through three snooze cycles, and he knows if he stays in bed any longer, he’s going to be running late. 

He forces himself to blink his eyes open. He feels gross and sluggish, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, and letting out a loud groan. The early morning meeting he has today isn’t even one that he’s excited for… he hates the constructors that are helping him open a new Pleasing location in New York. They’re bad communicators, and always make mistakes in the plans that they’ve made. Harry’s a very particular man, he’s picky about the way his food is cooked, a neat freak in his home, and has an organized schedule that he never strays from. So working with these incompetent people, who somehow always manage to royally fuck something up… god it really gets Harry frustrated. 

He yanks the blanket off of himself and swings his legs over the side of the bed. His feet meet the floor, and it’s ice cold. Great. 

This is just fucking great. 

+++

“Jesus fucking christ.” 

Harry takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes to calm himself. It doesn’t work. His nostrils are flaring and his eyes have turned a dark, angry shade of green. “I fuckin’ said last week that I wanted gas stoves. So why is there an order for six electric stove tops?”

Ian, the contractor, fumbles in front of Mr. Styles, cheeks turning red. “Uh-um, t-the installation of the electric stoves was cheaper.”

“What did I explicitly ask for,” Harry seethes.

“Err– t-the gas–”

“So what in your right mind made you think that I’d be okay with this?”

“I– well, sir, we just wanted to go with the option that was more affordable–”

“Do you think I give a fuck which one is cheaper?” Harry yells. “For fuck’s sake, I’m running a multi-million business!” He slams the papers he’d been holding onto the desk in front of him and stands up angrily, his chair scratching loudly against the hardwood floors. “Get this fixed, today,” he says before storming out of the conference room and slamming the door behind him. 

He locks himself into his office, and sits in his chair, rubbing his red-veined eyes. He’s too tired to have to deal with all this shit today. How hard is it for people to follow instructions? His life would be so much easier if everyone else didn’t fuck up so much. 

He sits there for a few minutes with his head in his hands, fingers still rubbing at his eyes to try and soothe away the burning feeling he feels every time he opens them. His head is starting to hurt, a pounding migraine so intense that he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, and his stomach hurts. All he had to eat today was a black coffee before he went into that horrific meeting five hours ago. 

Yes, the one hour meeting they had planned had ended up taking five hours instead. He literally had to clear his schedule to fix all the fucking mistakes that they were making. They’d chosen the wrong tiles for the floor, ordered the wrong stove tops for the kitchen, and had designed all of the countertops to be one inch too low… it literally pained him to be working with such incompetent designers. 

And now he was behind on his work. 

He lets out a tired sigh and turns on his desktop, opening his emails. The bright screen makes his eyes sting, and he has to squint to read the tiny word on the screen. He scrambles around in his drawers and finds his reading glasses, but still, the words blur together and make his head hurt. He bares with the pain, and spends an hour or so responding to emails and filling out paperwork, until there’s a knock at his door. 

“What is it?” he calls out a bit snappily, not looking up from his paperwork. 

He hears the door jiggle, trying to open but struggling against the lock. “It’s me, Mr. Styles!” 

Immediately, he puts his pen down and unlocks the door for his sweet y/n to come in. She’s holding a plate of food for him, and looks up at him with her pretty smile, cheeks warm and dimpled with kindness. 

“Hey puppy,” he murmurs, surprised. She hadn’t come in for the majority of this week because she had finals. In fact, she just had her physics final just this morning. 

“Hi!” she says enthusiastically, entering his office. “Teddy told me that you’ve been here since 8, n’that you haven’t eaten anything all day.” She looks up at him with her adorable bambi eyes, “How come you’re allowed to scold me for not eating enough at work when you’re skipping meals too?” 

He smiles lightly, “you’re right puppy, that’s hypocritical of me.” 

“Very hypocritical,” she nods resolutely. “So, I brought you some food! I had Teddy make it, ‘cos I know he’s your favorite.”

His stomach growls at the sight of the fettuccini alfredo in front of him. He’s starving but he’d been way too caught up in his work to think about getting up to get himself any food. “Thank you,” he says, taking the plate from her and picking up her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. 

“It smells yummy, so I want some too,” she says, sitting down on the chair behind his desk. “But we gotta eat it quick, ‘cos I’m supposed to get back out there in five minutes.” 

“Thought you weren’t meant to come in today?” he says, sitting down next to her. 

“I wasn’t scheduled,” she says, shoving a forkful of the pasta into her mouth, “but then Grace texted me asking if I could cover for her. She got the flu.” 

Harry hums, grabbing a tissue from his desk, and wipes off the little bit of white sauce clinging onto y/n’s lips, her mouth full of deliciously creamy and garlicky pasta. “How were your exams?”

She rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Don’t talk about it. So hard, but everyone else said it was super hard too, so hopefully there’s a fat curve.” She claps her hands excitedly, “But at least I’m done! No more school for the rest of the month!!!” 

Despite his initial grumpy mood, he can’t help the smile that graces his face. His girlfriend is literally the cutest thing in the world, especially when she gets all giddy and excited like this. She’d been really stressed out and MIA all week because of her exams, so it’s refreshing to see his lively and happy y/n again. 

“So proud of you puppy,” he says, cupping her cheek and giving her a kiss. 

She twirls a forkful of pasta for Harry and feeds it to him. “Are we gonna hang out tonight?” she asks. 

“Of course. Need t’cuddle tonight, you’ve been so busy I feel neglected.” Just sitting with y/n for a few minutes has already calmed Harry down, the stress in his body fizzling away. 

She giggles cutely. “Okay baby. We can spend alllll night together.” 

+++

The ache in his stomach fades away after finishing the pasta that y/n brought for him, and after popping an advil, he feels his headache start to slowly go away as well. He’d gotten an email that the electric stove tops had been returned and that an order for the gas ones had been put in, so he’s feeling more relaxed about that as well.

He lounges around in his office until y/n is done with her shift, and they sneak out the back exit to head home together. He’s got a one hand feel on the steering wheel, the other on her thigh, and he’s feeling much better than he was this morning when he’d been all grumpy and stressed out. 

When they get to a stop light, his phone rings. He thinks nothing of it when he picks up, not even looking at the caller id. “Hello?” he answers casually.

“Er– Hi, Mr. Styles.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. It’s Ian on the phone. “What’s going on?” he says tersely.

“Um… so we figured out the stove issue, which is great…” 

The light turns green. “Okay…?” Harry says, slightly annoyed.

“So… well– the stove company said that the shipment is gonna take a few weeks, which is gonna put the construction schedule behind since we can’t install the countertops until we put the stoves in, which means…” Harry sighs in disappointment, already knowing what’s coming. “Well, it means that the restaurant might not be ready for the opening date that we’d set.” 

“Ian,” Harry’s knuckles are turning white around the steering wheel, and he’s using every cell in his body to keep his voice steady so that he doesn’t start yelling in front of y/n. “When I signed that contract with you, didn’t we agree it would be done in three months?”

“I– yes, it’s really unfortunate–” Ian stammers, but Harry cuts him off.

“I don’t want to hear fuckin’ excuses,” Harry bites. “We signed a contract.”

“Sir, I don’t know what to tell you,” Ian says casually.

“How about we start with the fact that this issue could’ve been completely avoided had you simply followed the plan that we had agreed upon?” Harry’s voice is steadily rising, an angry fire to his tone. “Or how much money you’ve already cost me from all the mistakes you’ve made? I signed a contract and I expect the deadline to be met. It’s far too late to push back the opening of the restaurant.” 

“It’s out of my control–” Ian tries to explain, but Harry won’t hear it.

“Jesus christ, do I need to do everything for you?” Harry bursts. “Call the company and tell them the delivery is for Harry Styles! Figure it out with the investors, pay them extra! We will not be pushing the date back, not when we’ve already invested so much into it.” Harry hangs up the phone angrily and throws it into his lap. “Fucking hell,” he breathes angrily. 

Y/n sits next to him quietly, her eyes wide. “Everything okay?” she asks timidly.

“S’fine,” he bristles tersely, pulling into his parking spot. He puts the car in park and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him with such aggression that y/n winces for the car. 

Scrambling behind him like a little puppy, she follows him into his penthouse. There’s an angry furrow in his brow as they ride up the elevator, and his lips are pressed together in a frustrated line as he types out a message on his phone. He storms into the kitchen without even glancing at y/n, and pours himself a glass of ice cold water to maybe help himself calm down. 

Y/n stands shyly behind the kitchen counter, not saying anything but watching him quietly.

“Just a second, puppy,” he says, his tone impatient and clipped, pushing past her to head into his home office. He dials the number of one of his restaurant’s business partners on the phone, and spends nearly half an hour figuring out what they were going to do. 

“I want a new fuckin’ contractor,” Harry rants.

His partner. Niall, gives out a hearty laugh, “I know mate, but don’t worry. I’ll figure it out for ya. I know the guys over there, I’ll give ‘em a ring and see if they can get your appliances sent over any quicker.”

“Thank you,” he mutters gratefully. Finally, there was someone who knew how to get shit done. He hangs up the phone and runs his fingers through his hair frustratedly. His headache is back and his neck and shoulders hurt from being so tense.

Y/n knocks on his office door, and he sighs heavily. “Not now, puppy, v’got to send some emails.”

She steps in, despite the fact that he’s dismissed her, with sad eyes and a pout on her lips. “If this is how it’s gonna be all night then… I’m just gonna go home.” 

His eyes snap up. “What?” 

“You’re working and being all… grumpy,” she says quietly. “So I’m gonna get an uber.”

“Y/n, don’t be like that.” He looks at her with an exasperated look. “Something important came up, v’got to deal with it.” 

“I’m not trying to be like anything,” she shrugs. “You’re stressed out and you don’t wanna talk, so I feel like I’m just annoying you by being here.”

“Baby…” he sighs, rolling away from his desk and getting up to go stand in front of her. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest in a shy, almost protective manner, and she has her bag hanging off of her shoulder, fully prepared to leave. Standing in front of her, he can see the sadness in her eyes. “Don’t go, m’sorry.” 

“I know you’re upset…” she whispers, looking down at the floor, “but that doesn’t give you the right to be snappy with me. It hurts my feelings.” 

Oh, his precious girl, so sweet and sensitive. His heart breaks a little bit, knowing that he’d made her sad… he’d been so caught up in his own stress that he’d neglected her feelings. He knows that she was probably so excited to come over after having finished all her exams… and he knows that she’s sensitive. She gets teary eyed whenever someone uses a stern voice with her, cries for days if she ever gets yelled at. Of course it would hurt her when he pushes her aside and snaps at her to leave him alone.

He pulls her into his chest, “Sweetheart, you’re right, m’sorry. I shouldn’t be takin’ it out on you, you’ve done nothing but been sweet t’me all day.” She’d brought food for him when he was hungry, was cheerful and lovely on the car ride home, and had tried to talk to him when he was upset… only to get pushed away at the end of the night.

“I wanna stay, but not if you’re gonna be mean,” she says into his chest.

He presses a kiss to her hair, “no, m’done puppy. Not gonna be mean, promise. Please, stay?” 

She looks up at him and smiles softly. “Okay,” she puckers her lips and leans up for a quick kiss. “Thank you.” 

He smooths his hand over her hair, and rests his head atop her cheek, still hugging her close. She’s warm and smells sweet… holding her in his arms is all he wants to do for the rest of his life.

“How about I go take a shower while you send your emails, and then we can go to bed?” she suggests, pulling away.

He shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. No more emails tonight, I can send them in the morning.” It’s late at night anyways, it wouldn’t make a difference if he sent them now or tomorrow. 

“M’getting in that shower with you.”

+++

In the shower, y/n washes away all of Harry’s stress and worries. She lathers up the loofah with the rose scented body wash that she keeps in his shower, and rubbed it all over his chest and back and biceps. She even went so far as to lift his arms above his head and scrub his armpits for him, making Harry cackle at how silly she was.

Then, she took his yummy smelling shampoo and had him bend down so that she could wash his hair for him. She threaded her fingers through his hair and scratched at his scalp deliciously, scrubbing his hair as though he were getting spoiled at the salon. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as the foamy shampoo dripped down his forehead, but she always made sure to rinse the bubbles away before they got into his eyes. 

They got out and dried themselves together, standing in front of Harry’s heater in their towels for a few minutes while y/n brushed her hair. He changed himself into only a pair of boxers, while y/n opted to skip on undergarments (it’s very important to let ur pussy breathe!!!), putting on only a pair of thin sleep shorts and one of Harry’s huge t-shirts. 

“M’gonna give you a massage,” she tells Harry once they’re both changed, shoving him onto the bed. He chuckles to himself at her weak attempt to manhandle him, but complies easily, settling onto his stomach so that she could straddle his back. She squirts some lotion onto her hands and warms it up between her palms, then rubs it smoothly onto Harry’s broad and muscular back.

“Mm, thank you baby,” he groans. “So good t’me.” 

It’s all innocent at first – y/n knows that Harry was stressed out and probably super tense, so she thought giving him a nice massage to work out the knots in his shoulders would be nice. But, of course, with Harry shirtless underneath her, it’s hard for her thoughts to stay completely pure. 

Harry’s so strong and muscled… it’s so hot. He feels firm underneath her hands, her palms smoothing over the ridges and curves of the muscles in his toned back. His shoulders are broad and his biceps look huge, even without being flexed or anything. The skin of his back is warm and smooth… so soft and tan. Her mouth waters as she rubs her hands up and down his back.

Her fingers find his shoulders and she kneads them deeply, which makes Harry let out a loud groan. His shoulders are particularly tense, and her little fingers are rubbing the tight knots in them so nicely. “Harder baby,” he grunts, and she obliges. Her thumbs dig deep into the meat of his shoulders and rub in slow, painful circles.

She uses all her strength to massage him. He’s so built, every inch of his back covered with hard muscles, that it takes a lot of energy to really get in there. She has to put her entire weight into her hands and press deep onto his back. Luckily, the lotion made it easy for her to glide over his skin and knead his sore muscles. The groans that he lets out tell her which spots to focus on. 

His eyes are shut, eyebrows furrowed with pleasure. It hurts so good. His cock has started to plump up a bit, twitching every time her delicate fingers knead a particularly painful knot in his back. She keeps rubbing him, digging her fingers into his muscles, and the pressure in his cock grows unbearable. 

He flips himself around, unable to deal with it any longer. Y/n gasps at his sudden movement, then finds herself short of breath when she settles herself back down on his lap and feels how hard he is underneath her. Straddling his hips in nothing but her little, thin pair of sleep shorts, she can feel him… feels the curve of his cock, restrained in his boxers, and feels the ridge of his tip nudging against her clit. She’s sure that he can probably feel her pussy too, feel every fold and the tiny bud of her clit.

He smirks up at her when her little pussy flutters around nothing, twitching so delicately against his clothed cock. Her center feels hot, keeping him warm while she sits prettily atop him. “Keep going baby…” he says, voice low and dangerous. “M’arms hurt so much, can you rub ‘em for me?” 

He pouts up at her, but it’s a mocking pout. He knows exactly what she’s thinking about, and it’s much more filthy than his innocent request for an arm massage. 

Nonetheless, she squirts some more lotion on her hands and brings them down to his strong biceps. He’d been to the gym yesterday for arms, so he wasn’t lying when he said they were sore. But also, that means they’re particularly pumped today, firm and delicious… y/n just wants to bite them. 

His hands rest on her hips while she rubs her palms up and down his arms, his thumbs tracing soft circles onto the skin of thigh where her shorts have ridden up. She looks like she’s intently focused on rubbing his arms, but really, she can’t stop thinking about the way his cock feels underneath her. He subtly grips her hips and presses her down harder onto the hard bulge in his pants, and lets out a strained breath through his nose. Y/n similarly feels her breath catch in her throat, her hands pausing momentarily as she flutters her eyes shut.

“Feels so good baby,” he murmurs when her hands migrate up to massage his chest, rubbing circles over his swallows and tracing over his butterfly delicately. It’s a not-so subtle innuendo to fuel the fire of the sexual tension burning between the two of them right now. 

The hands on her hips start to slide upwards, under her shirt to rest on her warm tummy. He can see the soft peaks of her nipples poking through the shirt she’s wearing. “Baby… show me y’pretty tits, please?” he begs. He slides his hands even higher until his fingers graze the undersides of her breasts. “Had such a long day, I deserve a treat don’ I?”

“Y-yeah,” she agrees softly, taking her shirt off and throwing it onto the floor. She’s left topless, her perky nipple peaking in the cold air of Harry’s bedroom, and her wet pussy pressed firmly to his hard cock.

She continues rubbing his chest with her tits out, and Harry takes it upon himself to do the same to her. He plays with her tits, holds them in his palms and rubs his thumbs over her hard nipples. Still, it’s not enough. 

“Come closer, baby,” he murmurs lowly, guiding her forward. She inches forward slowly, back arching while holding herself up with her arms, until her boobs are hanging in front of Harry’s face. 

He sticks his tongue out and leans up, attaching himself to her nipple and sucking it into his mouth gently. His tongue licks the soft bud gently, and he hums happily. “Mmm, baby, so nice to me,” he mutters, switching to her other nipple, “Lettin’ daddy play with your pretty tits ‘cos I had a long day.” Hand engulfs the breast that he’d just hand in his mouth, palming it gently while his tongue plays with the other. His teeth skim her soft skin gently, and he starts sucking. Each purse of his lip and pass of his tongue sends a shock straight down to y/n’s center, and she’s absolutely, totally drenched. Her heart is beating erratically in her chest, and she can’t help herself before grinding herself down. 

Since she’s lifted herself up to align her tits with Harry’s face, she’s no longer sitting on his bulge, but instead now sitting on the butterfly painted on his abdomen. She presses herself onto his abs, soothing the dull ache that comes each time he hums around her breast.

Her boobs are so plump and plushy, dangling in front of his mouth and covered in his spit. His hands grope her chest sensually, pushing her breasts into his face and letting himself indulge like a teenage boy. He lets them bounce on his face, skimming his lips against them then pulling himself back, teasing himself. He nudges his nose against them, and they jiggle prettily right in front of his face. God, he’s making himself so hard, playing with her tits like this, having them all up in his face. All he can see is her skin, the roundness of her breasts, the soft bud of her nipples. No matter which way he turns his head, he makes contact with her, her nipples skimming his cheeks or his lips dancing against her sideboob. 

“Jus-” she gasps when he takes her boob back between his lips and sucks, tongue curling around her nipple, “Jus’ wanna make you happy daddy.” 

“Doing so good baby, taking caring of me so well,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips from her skin before reattaching to her areola. “You know what would make daddy so happy?” 

“W-what?” she whimpers, pushing her clit down against his hard abs.

“If you got on my cock and got yourself off. Could you do that for me, puppy?” 

She nods eagerly and shuffles herself down, shoving Harry’s briefs down. His cock bounces up and slaps against his stomach, the tip completely slick with his own precum and arousal. She doesn’t even bother warming herself or Harry up – the massage and his little play session had gotten both of them 100% ready.

She doesn’t take her sleep shorts off, genuinely too excited to stuff herself full of his cock. Grabbing him by the shaft, she hovers right over his hips and slowly guides him into her dripping cunt. The slide in is easy, absolutely no resistance from how wet she is, and she’s able to bottom out on the first go. 

Her hands rest on his chest to support herself, and she starts to lift her hips, up and down, skin meeting skin with every drop down. Her nails dig into his flesh, and it hurts just as good as her massage had. She’s riding him like she never has before – usually she’s a bit of a princess, mostly grinding her clit down and rubbing herself on his cock slowly until her thighs start to burn and she whines for Harry to take over. 

Now though, with the way he’d teased her all nice, she’s bouncing on his cock properly, using all her strength to pull herself all the way up, then drop back down. She sets a messy pace for herself, but it doesn’t matter. He’s hitting all the right spots in her, and that’s all she care about. 

Harry lies on his back in bliss, her pussy absolute heaven around his cock. Her messy pace and high bounces have her tits jiggling, and Harry pushes himself up onto his elbows to get a better view. “Fuck, puppy, you’re an angel.” 

He brings a hand down to rub her at her clit, fingers rubbing tight circles as she grinds herself on him. “Gonna cum baby,” he groans, “Are you close?”

She whines out, and nods messily, eyes shut as she keeps herself going. 

Harry throws his head back, and shuts his eyes, rubbing her clit faster and faster until she’s cumming, clenching around his cock and squeezing him so tightly. His vision goes white his ears start to ring, and he’s in absolute heaven.

Y/n collapses onto his chest, and he spurts out long streaks of cum into her warm pussy, balls clenching with every release and his hips twitching upwards, trying to get as deep into her as he possibly can. She lays on top of him heavily, breathing hard with rosy cheeks and a glistening forehead from how hard she’d worked to get them both to their end. 

He pulls her up for a kiss. What had he even been stressed about, again? 

+++

HOPE U GUYS ENJOYED!!! SUB TO MY PATREON FOR MORE EXCLUSIVE PLEASINGRRY CONCEPTS AND EARLY ACCESS TO ANY AND ALL FICS!!!!

[royallyprincesslilly]

Cautionary Tale on Carbon Monoxide

So, for the last 2 weeks or so my smoke alarm/carbon monoxide alarm has been beeping sporadically. I paid it no mind because there was no smoke, nothing was burning and I did not think it could be anything else. I assumed the alarm or batteries were going bad because they had been here forever ago.

So, we changed the batteries and bought a new alarm, and installed them through the house a week ago. The beeping stopped. However, a few days ago while I was cooking the beeping came back. Again, no smoke in the home and nothing was burning. We are searching trying to figure out why it keeps going off.

I constantly have my essential oil diffuser plugged in and running so some searches came back saying certain essential oils might set off the alarm if strong enough and my 16-year-old has been fear rubbing herself with Citronella essential oils(repellent for mosquitoes) because whenever the door opened these new breed mosquitos fly in and she is terrified if her face and body looking like a swollen pepperoni pizza🙄😂. (The concerns of a 16-year-old who was looking out for her upcoming first day of school face card status lmao)

Finally, after some YT videos and Google searches, we began to suspect it was beeping because of carbon monoxide. So we hurry and get out of the house, food still on the stove half cooked, and wait for the gas/electric company to come to investigate and fix the problem.

When the tech comes he walks inside the house and instantly the machine he carried to check the PPM set off a reading of 41. This level is highly dangerous and prolonged exposure can result in health risks and possibly death.😳

He continued to walk through the house and found pockets in the house where the PPM was 38-41(still dangerous). He goes into the kitchen and instantly says, I see your problem. He goes to the stove and points to my favorite, can't live without have used almost every time I cook 11" Copper Chef casserole pot and says this is the culprit.

Apparently, the size of the pot covers my entire burner so there is no ventilation happening under the pot which is bad. He then points to another favorite pot on the back burner and says this one is also bad because of the size of the pot. He turned on the fire under the Copper Chef pot and instantly his machine went up to 144 PPM😳.

I was appalled. He asked about how we all were feeling and asked who the cook in the house was and of course it was me✋🏽. I felt fine. I usually always have headaches and feel tired, he said I could be suffering from long-term carbon monoxide exposure and should go to the hospital to be sure.

To make this longer story just plain ol' long, I say all of this to caution you guys on pot sizes for your gas stove burners and to say it could be the things/ways you least expect.

Tips from the gas/electric company tech

-Make sure your pot is not bigger/wider than your burner flames.

-Turn on your overhead vent or open your kitchen windows when cooking for either or both of these: 1) If your pots are bigger than the burner flames or 2) To take an extra level of safety.

-If you are using bigger pots try to open closet doors throughout your home because the carbon monoxide can creep into the closed closet and remain there for hours.

-In your gas using ovens do not have any liners or protectors(the ones you put down to prevent spills or drips as you bake) on the bottom of the oven if they come anywhere near the two ventilation slits in the oven(where the flames/heat rises).

-If you have done all of the above and constantly feel lightheaded, dizzy, persistent headaches, fatigue, sleepiness, be safe and just get it checked out in the ER or Urgent Care.

Be safe out there y'all. Carbon Monoxide is known as a silent killer.

[glacierclear]

Can I... can I ask for some househusband Leon hcs?

alright. okay. we're gonna work with a few assumptions for these headcanons.

this all comes from the hypothetical of leon being fully retired from his line of work. he still has the same backstory, skillset, traumas, everything, it's just...now he's your loyal house husband!

cooking? this all depends on where he's at in life. mid-30s and onward? he's a chef. i don't believe he'd be terribly gourmet about it. you aren't coming home to a roasted duck served with a reduced wine glaze and a perfectly made risotto...but god. he can make some damn fine spaghetti. he'd likely shoot for simple dishes, with perhaps an added flair or two. homemade burgers. lots of steak dinners. he'd prefer anything that can be prepared with minimal mess. recipes that are made with one pot or one pan...a big hit for him. he is not a pretentious eater, and that would reflect in his cooking.

now, if we're talking early to late-20s leon? erm. well. let's just say he's learning. his transition from zombie apocalypse policeman to military meat shield didn't do much for his cooking skills. and a diet of MREs and scrounged up viper parts did even less. if post-re4 leon is your house husband you're gonna be eating a lot of questionable meals. he's not completely oblivious. he won't try and feed you absolute slop, but his abilities don't much exceed kraft mac and scrambled eggs. still! he's a domestic man now. plenty of free time to try out all sorts of new things in the kitchen! be on standby with a fire extinguisher when he decides 3am is a great time to make fried chicken from scratch!

leon's independent food preferences likely revolve around utility. protein. nutrition. careful rations. compact energy a growing boy needs to kill bioweapons. he doesn't strike me as having a particularly strong sweet tooth, but he also won't say no to a bit of dessert! but he's adaptable, of course. one must be in his line of work. your tastes and favored dishes will influence his palate a lot. he'll naturally associate flavors with you and will, over time, come to adopt a lot of your dietary choices.

cleaning? leon will do his best. you can count on him to not accidentally mix mustard gas in your bathroom, but his knack for cleanliness would be...odd. i choose to believe leon has a strict standard for bodily hygiene. his extended exposure to all manner of glop and viscera means he strives to smell nice and stay on top of dirt the best he can when he is able to...on his body. a house is different. he's never had to see it as a home, merely an empty room where he sleeps and eats. so maintaining it as a tidy space might not come naturally, and it's not as if he had a proper upbringing to teach him proper housekeeping techniques (cough, cough, he's an orphan).

man's a fast learner though. expect a lot of trial and error. him accidentally using glass cleaner on the stove. or not understanding the exact purpose of fabric softener. why do we need make our bed if we're just gonna sleep in it and mess it up again? he likely has a lot of bad habits from living on his own, but gentle guidance and persistent advice will go a long way.

of course, leon needs his private time. space for him to isolate and be alone...but, you're at work all day. the loneliness is easily accessible, and now that he has all the time and freedom to be with you...it's grating. his favorite sound is the noise your key makes when it unlocks the front door. he's careful, not incredibly overbearing, but you don't make it more than a few steps into your home before his head is poking around the corner. "how was your day? you look tired. here, let me take your coat off-" leon is a listener. he doesn't talk about himself much, if at all, so he'd prefer to just hear you ramble on about whatever you need to or want to. neck rubs. gentle squeezes on your arm. light kisses on your brow. he doesn't smother. he doesn't drown you in the touch he's so starved of. but you can tell, he misses you a lot.

the real issues will probably stem from the quiet. the absolute lack of danger. take a person out of their traumatic environment and things start crumbling real fast before they can start to heal. he's hyper-aware. paranoid. has all this pent up energy and an instinct to fight. and he has to redirect it all somewhere, right? it'd come out in bizarre ways. diy projects. you come home from work and he built you a fucking chair. you don't even need a chair, but now you have one. lots of yard work. he renovated your patio and set up a birdhouse (also handmade). you didn't really want him to rearrange your living room but he did it anyways.

and it's hard for him to relax. for him to feel truly safe. he'd insist on installing locks on all the doors. bulletproof windows. guns hidden and stashed in corners of the house, just in case. any tech that could impede on his privacy (ie, amazon echos, doorbell cameras, etc) are out of the question. he'd run you through drills and hypothetical scenarios. make sure you know what to do in any situation. he's vigilant, and honestly, you've never felt safer, but it wears him down and you aren't sure if it's truly good for him.

[nolita-fairytale]

it's perfect, chef | carmy berzatto x fem!reader | bonus smut scene from 'still into you'

summary: carmy surprises you with a ring & an engagement dinner, but you're not hungry yet. bonus scene that takes place after the last chapter of 'still into you' sunday (you'll want to read this first)

warnings: fluff, engagement smut, swearing, 18+ only

wordcount: 3.9k

a/n: here is the long-awaited bonus engagement smut that i owe @carmensberzattos. i think this is the spiciest smut scene i've written them yet. also, hypothetically, if i wrote some cute fluffy shit about them getting married/planning... would you read that? y/n?

(^^ this is NOT an amatriciana BUT this scene is 'chef' is the same energy so it felt right.)

And you think to yourself, that maybe, this was always how it was supposed to be.

You can’t stop smiling.

Your eyes flicker from the ring on your finger to where Carmy stands over the stove. He’s put his apron back on, very serious about this engagement dinner he’s got planned for you. You watch as Carmy begins pulling the sauce together, giving the pan a shake over the gas burner in your shared apartment. Carmy uses the wooden spoon to evenly distribute the onion and guanciale mixture across the bottom of the pan once more. 

It’s perfect, really, that he’s decided to make you an amatriciana for your engagement night. The man knows you love a Roman pasta, and you love that they’ve managed to play such a special part in your love story. 

You glance back down at your phone, seeing a slew of messages in your group chat with Syd and Sugar, in response to the picture of the ring you snapped earlier:

Sugar: HE DID IT!!! HE GAVE YOU THE RING!

Syd: We did good, huh?

Sugar: You’re welcome ;)

Syd: It really is a beautiful ring. We love you!!!! Go enjoy your night, but spare us the details please. 

You’re so focused on your group text with Sugar and Syd that you don’t notice how close Carmy hasn’t gotten to where you’re perched on top of the kitchen island.

“Health code violation, don’t you think?” he teases you, giving your thigh a little squeeze.

You look up from your phone, letting out a small laugh as you lock eyes with your now fiance. While grabbing the bowl of tomato passata, he maintains eye contact, the smallest smirk on his face as he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

Carmy takes a few steps away from where you sit, causing your heart to beat a hell of a lot faster. That can’t be all he came over here for you, could it?

“Good thing our place is not a restaurant then,” you reply, your gaze following him as he returns to the stove.

Even though he’s gone back to cooking, Carmy’s touch lingers on your skin. You can still feel the pads of his fingers along your inner thigh and you’re not sure if you’re ever going to get your heart rate back down. You clear your throat in an attempt to collection yourself before offering:

“Need any help?”

Your ears fill with the sound of the tomato sauce hitting the searing hot pan as Carmy responds, “I got this babe.”

He steals a glance your way, before giving the sauce a shake in the pan. You swallow, watching as his forearm muscles flex prominently as he grips the hand of the saucier. He swirls the pan a few times, creating an emulsion of the ingredients inside, and it suddenly feels five degrees hotter in the room. You’re like a moth transfixed by a flame as you hop off of the kitchen island, taking a few steps to where he stands. 

“Can I at least watch, then?” you ask, suggestively.  

A smile spreads across Carmy’s lips as he feels your hand snake around his waist, your fingertips dipping underneath the hem of his shirt. He hisses in response to your touch, as your fingertips hit the hard planes of his abdomen. 

“Baby…” he sighs out, a smirk on his face as you press your forehead against his shoulder. “What’re you up to?”

“Nothin’,” you answer innocently, even though there’s not a single innocent intention behind this. You bite down on his shoulder blade gently, earning another laugh from his lips. 

He chuckles, “Doesn’t feel like nothin’.” 

You giggle, “Just testing your focus, is all.” 

You pull away from him almost instantly, pulling off to his left side. You press your back against the counter, leaning up against it as you watch what he’s doing. As Carmy leans over the stovetop, reaching for the salt crock towards the back of the stove, you can’t help but notice the newly exposed skin the hem of his shirt has revealed. 

Did his perfect vintage jeans always sit that low on his hips? 

Down girl… you remind yourself. 

“You tell Sugar and Syd yet?” Carmy asks, changing the subject. 

“Yeah. They’re very excited that you gave me the ring,” you reply, trying to distract yourself. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We have a group text, actually.”

“Uh oh,” Carmy sounds, shooting you another look. 

You smile wickedly before reassuring him, “Nothing to worry about it. They’re happy you finally, and I quote, did it right.”

“You three in a group text? Got nothin’ to worry about. Sure,” he replies with a playful eye roll, completely unconvinced that this group text is nothing to worry about. 

“I thought maybe we could call Liz and Maya after dinner. Or maybe tomorrow depending on what we get up to tonight,” you suggest. 

“Oh yeah?” Carmy replies, a hint of amusement in his ask. 

He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows he’s winding you up, teasing you till you’re begging for him to fuck you. And you hate that you love it so much. 

Carmy leans towards you, his piercing blue eyes holding your gaze for a moment, watching you squirm. 

“I uh-, need to get a spoon,” he says, gesturing towards the drawer you’re standing in front of. His lips are inches away from yours and you forget to breathe for a second. 

His lips practically ghost over yours when you don’t move and you have to admit that you're so turned on by this little game of cat and mouse. But you’re not going to let him win. Not yet. You bite back a moan, nodding your head and stepping aside, murmuring a ‘sure.’ 

You run a hand through your hair, trying to calm yourself down. Carmy grabs a spoon, returning to where he’s planted himself in front of the stove. He dips the spoon into the sauce to taste for seasoning, and you can see the gears turning in his head. 

“A little more salt,” he murmurs to himself, before adding another pinch. 

“Can I try?” you ask, bold enough to get close to him again. 

You’re not sure if you’ll have the self-control to resist him, but you’re not sure you’ll care by then. 

He laughs dryly, dipping the spoon back into the sauce. 

“Let me know what you think, chef,” he replies, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. He holds the spoon out as you open your mouth to taste. He doesn’t look away and neither do you, until the tangy, salty tomato sauce hit your tongue. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. 

“It’s perfect, chef,” you answer, opening your eyes. 

Carmy smiles smugly in response. 

Because he knows it is. 

Because he knows he has you right where he wants you.

The only thing that could rip him away from you in this moment is the sound of the pot of water he has on the stovetop coming up to a boil. It feels near-impossible to rip his attention away from you, but he does, throwing handfuls of salt into the stock pot, with his deli container of dried rigatoni following.

He sets a timer, before stirring the pasta water a few times.

You’re hungry. Sure. But between his perfect amatriciana and this little game you’ve been playing, you’re not sure you can wait any longer. 

Dinner will just have to wait. 

“Carm?” you ask, your voice coming out breathier than you anticipated. 

“Hm?” he hums in response, completely satisfied with just how worked up he’s gotten you. 

“I… need your help with something,” you drag out, as he turns to you. 

“Yeah?” he asks, coyly. 

“Yeah,” you answer. 

Using your left hand, that left hand, you pull him towards you so that he’s dangerously close to you now. Your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips before reaching up to press your lips to his. Carmy kisses you with the confidence of a man that knows he’s got you in the palm of his hand, pulling you in towards him for more. 

“This what you need help with?” he asks, as you feel his lips twist into a smile against yours. 

“Yeah,” you answer, in between sucking on his top lip. 

“It’s just…” you start innocently, tugging his hand to follow you. “Nat and I had some snacks right before I got back. Didn’t know my very sexy chef fiance would be here making me dinner and asking me to marry him again.”

In between kisses you manage to continue backing the two of you up against the kitchen island now.

“Think I need a little help working up an appetite.”

You hear him laugh against your lips, before turning his head towards the stove. 

“But what about the pasta?” he teases, cockily. 

You pull away for a moment, and with a shake of your head you reply, “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Carmy laughs again before grabbing you back the back of your head, pulling you deeper into the kiss. In an instant he’s hoisting you up onto the kitchen island so that you’re seated there once again, nudging your legs open to make space for him. 

“You set a timer right?” you manage to ask, wrapping your legs around his waist. You run your hands down his chest as Carmy’s eyes follow, focused on the engagement ring he’s just put on your finger. 

Fuck it. 

The pasta can wait. 

“Yeah, but that means we got ten minutes,” he finally answers, looking up at you. 

You smirk, satisfied, “That’s plenty of time.”

He can’t believe this is real. 

He can’t believe he deserves this, and yet, you make him feel like he does. 

He grabs your hands to stop them, before focusing all of his attention on your left hand. He looks down, focused on your body and everything he wants to do to you. 

His fiance. 

His future wife. 

His Mrs. Carmen Berzatto. 

“This what you want, pretty girl?” Carmy rasps, kissing your ring finger. 

You watch as he bows he head to you, his mouth leaving slow kisses up your arm. He’s gentle in the way that his lips brush against the tattoo on your forearm, and then into the crevice of your elbow. You sigh as he drags his lips up your bicep and your shoulder, before burying his face into the space between your shoulder and your neck. 

“This what you need help with?” he asks you again, his voice low and sultry. 

“Yes, baby,” you whimper, as he leaves a gentle bite on your neck. His tongue snakes out, quick to soothe the sting of his teeth, and you’re leaning your head back, offering up more of yourself to him.

Carmy’s hands trace up your thighs, tugging on your hips so that they press up against his. You grind your hips against his denim clad hips, searching for any kind of friction you can get. With the movement of your hips, Carmy chuckles confidently. He knows he’s dragging this out, teasing you for distracting him and possibly ruining his flawless amatriciana with your desire for him. 

Finally, finally, he crashes his lips into yours again, letting out a groan as surrenders to his own desire. Your hands are everywhere: in his hair, wrapping around his shoulders, grasping greedily at his back as he bucks his hips between your legs. 

“Wanna move this to the bedroom?” you pant, in between kisses. 

“Nah,” Carmy smirks in response, watching your face twist into a look of confusion. But he can’t deny you for too long, his next words sending you into a frenzy. 

He grabs a handful of your hair before whispering against your lips, “I wanna take you right here.”

“Carmen,” you gasp in surprise, feeling him pull on your hair. 

“In all the kitchens we’ve worked in together,” he starts, fire in the way his voice sounds. “Can’t believe we’ve never done this.”

“Think that’d definitely be a health code violation,” you tease him, before bucking your hips against his. You can feel how hard he is, if the tent in his pants and progressively tight-feeling jeans wasn’t enough. 

“Think about that a lot, Carm? Hoisting me up over my prep station in the middle of my mise and taking me right there?”

“Fuck yes,” he groans, feeling you bite into his chest. 

He gives you a half smile, before he’s untying his apron, throwing it somewhere on the kitchen floor. He returns to you in an instant, and you’re practically ripping his t-shirt from his body along with yours. Your mouth is on his again, your tongues tangling in a dance for dominance. Carmy’s hand is in your hair, his hips pressed against yours, and he’s laying you back on the kitchen counter. 

He thanks his past-self for cleaning up earlier. He’d hate to have to break any of your favorite ceramics by shoving them off of the kitchen island, his mind completely clouded with his need to consume you. He lets himself get lost in the heated makeout. He loves the little noises you make, the way your skin tastes underneath his tongue when he kisses your neck, the way you run your fingers through his curls as you whine his name. 

“Baby,” you sigh as his mouth moves from your neck to your breasts. 

Carmy’s pulling one of the cups of your bra down, exposing your right breast. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, as you feel his tongue snake out to draw circles around your nipple, causing your to arch your back. He’s hard at work, earning moans from you with his mouth pressed against one of your nipples when the timer for the pasta goes off, interrupting you.

“Fuck!” he practically shouts. 

“Shit.”

You laugh, flattening your back against the kitchen counter before sitting up. Carmy looks so upset that it’s almost funny. He swears again before returning to the stovetop. He’s quick to use a mesh sieve to pull the rigatoni noodles out of the boiling pot of water and into the saucier. You laugh again, watching him, because of course he can’t help himself. 

“You okay, Carm?” you tease him. 

He shoots you a playful glare, shaking the pan a few times. After giving the pasta a few tosses in the pan, he’s practically slamming the stainless steel pan down on the stovetop, flicking both burners off, before returning to you. 

“Now where were we?” he asks, his voice gruff with lust. 

You’re more than happy to pick up where you left off. 

“I think somewhere around here,” you say, pulling your bra off in one swift motion. 

“Jesus,” Carmy groans again, his hands moving up to your breasts. 

“And I think… you had me on my back,” you say flirtatiously, as you lay back over the kitchen island. 

“Fuck, babe,” he hisses, his hands snaking up and down your torso. “Mine.”

“Yours,” you confirm as he glides his hands over you. 

And he’s back to work, consuming you with his mouth and tongue as you arch your back off of the kitchen island. You let out the most surprised gasp as Carmy practically yanks your shorts off, tossing them and the pair of panties you’re wearing onto the floor to join the rest of your discarded clothes. 

Carmy takes his time, leaving kisses and love bites along your inner thighs, and you know this is payback. He has you breathless, dripping wet and squeezing around nothing before he’s even put his mouth on you. He’s got you so wound up that when he finally licks a broad stripe up your core, you’re screaming his name loud enough for the neighbors to hear. He’s gotten so damn good at this over the years. It’s not that he’s ever been bad at it… but the way he’s memorized everything you like, what makes you tug at his hair when he’s between your legs like this, what makes you come undone, has you cumming faster than you ever thought you could. 

Carmy’s got one hand palming at your breasts while the other holds your opposite leg open as he eats you out. Your legs are practically shaking as you cum, and he’s not letting you go anywhere. Not letting you have a single moment of relief as his tongue works you over, his fingers buried deep inside of you. 

“Holy shit, Carm,” you sigh, trying your best to catch your breath. 

He finally looks up at you, his mouth wet with your slick as he wipes it against the back of his hand. 

“Don’t think I’m done with you,” he promises, his eyes locked in a gaze with yours. 

Before you can pull yourself together, he’s wrapped your legs around his waist, and he’s dragging you off the kitchen counter and over to the couch. You want nothing more than to ride him as he lays you down on the couch, hovering over you. You watch as he removes his jeans and briefs, stepping out of them. You swear your heart skips a beat as you see his erection standing hard against his abdomen. 

“Let me ride you,” you beg, sitting up on the couch. You reach for him, wrapping a hand around his dick, earning a hiss from him at the feel of your soft hand. 

“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” he smirks, because he has other ideas. He makes his way down to the couch with you, moving you so that you’re on top of him. “Not yet at least.”

You shoot him a look of confusion as you straddle him, before letting out a yelp as he moves you up his body. You practically have to catch yourself on the edge of the couch with his movements, as soon as you realize what he’s doing. Carmy’s got you straddling his face, wrapping an arm around your waist, so that he can taste you again. You’re so sensitive from your last orgasm that you cry out as he pulls you down against his mouth. 

“Carmy, I can’t-. I-, I’m too sensitive,” you wince, feeling his tongue move over your clit in feverish circles. 

He shakes his head, earning another moan from you as you feel the drag of his mouth against you. You try to sit up, try to pull away, but he must’ve known you’d try something like this as the arm wrapped around your waist catches you from moving any further. 

“Nuh uh,” he tuts, scolding you as he holds you in place. “You said you wanted me to help, sweet girl. So I’m helping.” 

You know it’s no use, as those are the last words you hear him say before he’s pulling you down to him again, his mouth and tongue back on you. You feel the tip of his nose bump against your clit, and you’re begging him to make you cum again, surrendering to the beautiful, pleasurable torture he insists on inflicting on you. Carmy’s hands move to your ass, keeping you pressed against him as he works you over, refusing to let up.

Two can play at this game, you decide. 

You bring your fingertips up to your mouth, sucking them for a moment to gather enough saliva, before reaching back behind you. Your wet fingertips meet his hard cock, aching to be touched. With your back arched, you use your saliva and his precum to stroke his length, earning a groan from Carmy against you. You can feel him bucking up into the hand you’ve wrapped around him, moaning against you as you continue to ride his face. The vibrations are too much as another orgasm rips through your body, as you let out another sob of pleasure. 

Satisfied, Carmy finally releases you, and you’re not sure how you manage to hold yourself up over him. Breathless, he slides you down his body, your knees straddling his hips as you kiss him. You can taste yourself on his mouth, as you drop your hips, dragging your pussy against his hard on. 

“Fuck, babe,” he groans, because you feel too fucking good. 

“You gonna let me ride you yet?” you ask, your voice low and sultry. 

“Please,” he replies, his pupils completely blown out in pure lust. 

Your knees dig into the couch as you sit tall, grabbing his thick cock before guiding him into you. You both gasp at first contact, and the way he feels inside of you sends chills down your spine. You start to move your hips slowly, grinding against him as Carmy closes his eyes in pleasure. 

He’s enjoying this too much. 

And he gets to do it forever. 

With you. 

With one hand on his chest, bracing yourself, you begin to speed up the motion of your hips. Carmy lets out another moan, bucking his hips up into you. You close your eyes, throwing your head back in pleasure when you feel the slightest pressure on your neck as a tattooed hand wraps around your throat. You moan, beginning to fuck yourself faster on your boyfriend. 

With a groan, Carmy sits up straight, both arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. The change in angle makes your eyes roll back as he begins to thrust up into you with a fervor you’ve been wanting all night. 

The room is filled with the sounds of the kitchen overhead fan, the sounds of slapping skin, and both of your moans as he pushes you closer to your third orgasm. 

“Jesus Christ, baby. You feel so good,” he murmurs, lost in pleasure. “Always feel so good. Like you were made for me.”

“I love you,” you whisper back, tangling your left hand with his right. 

Carmy glances over to your ring, then back to you, his eyes trained on yours as he explores this deeper angle. 

“I’m gonna come, pretty girl. Shit,” he swears, his thrusts becoming more and more desperate. 

“Me too, Carmy. Fuck… make me come again,” you beg him. 

You let him fuck you till you’re squeezing around him, gripping his shoulders, with your face buried in his neck as he follows suit. Carmy grunts, filling you up, pausing the motion of his hips while he’s still inside of you. You pull back with a sigh, trying to catch your breath as you brace yourself on his shoulders.

He leans in, planting one more kiss to your lips, a fucked out grin stuck on his face. 

“Hungry now?”

You laugh, “Absolutely.”

*

Carmy fills two pasta bowls with a sigh, using a microplane to grate over more cheese for garnish. 

“Doubt it’ll be al dente but…” Carmy apologizes with a shrug, though he’s not sorry that you took a much needed sex break. 

Still shirtless, you watch your boyfriend move towards you, bowl of pasta and a fork in hand. He’s slipped on a pair of sweatpants while you wear one of his old Original Chicagoland Beef t-shirts you found in the clean pile of clothes. 

He hands the bowl to you, where you sit on the kitchen island once again, a smirk on his face as he remembers what transpired here moments ago. 

You dig your fork into a rigatoni noodle, before raising it to your lips and taking a bite. Instantly, you’re met with the taste of what you swear could be the world’s most perfect amatriciana, even if the noodles are cooked past al dente. You can tell he’s watching you, searching for a reaction as you close your eyes with a groan. 

By the time you open your eyes again, a stupid smile plastered to your face, all you say to Carmy is:

“It’s perfect, chef.”

*

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[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

A Cat in the Kitchen

Part 1 (ft. Riddle and Silver) I Part 2 (ft. Trey and Kalim) I Part 3 (ft. Jade and Lilia) I Part 4 (ft. Deuce and Jamil) I Part 5 (ft. Malleus and Ruggie) | Part 6 (ft. Cater and Rook) | Part 7 (ft. Sebek and Floyd) | Part 8 (ft. Ace and Idia) | Part 9 (ft. Leona and Epel) | Part 10 (ft. Jack and Vil)

In which Gordon Ramsay-kun is isekai’d into Twisted Wonderland. Part Food Wars, part Hell’s Kitchen, all Master Chef—Night Raven College isn’t ready to take on this Michelin Star celebrity!!

Ready for a short supplementary cooking class?🌟 A day in the life of Prefect Gordon and his familiar Grim, told in three parts: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. After all, food is tastier when it's shared with friends and family~

Imagine this…

Gordon Ramsay stirred before the rats and the ghosts of Ramshackle dorm did. He was up by 5 am most days, first exercising and then rustling around in the kitchen fighting the gas stove to light (and stay that way!) and taking inventory of the dwindling ingredients in the pantry. At 7 am, the delicious smells would start up, rousing his housemates from their slumber.

This was the magic of a human incapable of spellcasting or sorcery.

"Mm... You're up super early again," Grim muttered from the doorway as he rubbed at his eyes. He yawned, still struggling to shake off the last remnants of sleep that clung to him. "I dunno how you do it."

"Not so hard once you've got the hang of it," he grunted in response. Gordon wiped his hands off on a dish towel before sliding a plate toward Grim. "Eat up now, we don't have much time before classes start."

"I dunno, I'm not too hungry."

"You? Not hungry?" Gordon's brows raised. "That's new. You feeling under the weather?"

Grim leapt, looking as though he had been caught with his entire body stuffed into a cookie jar. "N-No, I'm not! Yup, there's my hunger comin' back to me!"

He hurriedly yoinked a tuna sandwich and chowed down.

"See?! Ah'm jus' fine," Grim insisted, cheeks stuffed.

"Hmm, alright." Gordon tucked into a small bowl of oatmeal--prepared with baked bananas, almond milk, and dried cranberries.

"You got class today too or what?"

"Yup. Ashengrotto and the smaller Shroud this time."

“Think they’ll drive ya mad like the rest of them did?”

“I’ll hold my tongue until I’ve seen how they are in the kitchen for myself.”

“Keh, you’re no fun.”

The beast’s ears flattened. The blue fire that burned so brightly seemed to dim. Something weighed on his mind—of that, Gordon was certain.

“That means you'll abandon me before lunchtime again..." Between chews, Grim complained, "How come I gotta be just a student and you get to be a teacher too? The great Grim-sama oughta be showin' these newbies a thing or two!"

"I only teach what I know. I'm still a student in some ways, learning new things about food every day." Gordon shrugged, giving his friend a rough ruffle on the head. "You can be a teacher when you've mastered everything there is to master--neither of us is quite there yet."

"Why can't it be? I wanna fast forward to the part where I become an archmage already!!"

"Don't be impatient about making progress. I’ve made hundreds of dumplings in a day and still came nowhere near the level of perfection of a dim sum master.“

“Tsk, that sucks. Didja at least get to eat the bad dumplings?”

“It was all I had that day. They weren’t fit to serve to customers.” Gordon shook his head. “My point is, you’ll get there one day. Nose to the grindstone, Grim. You've got to work hard to earn it."

He spooned up the remainder of his oatmeal, then deposited his dirty bowl and spoon in the sink. Gordon plucked up Grim, who still had a mouth full of tuna, and tucked him under one arm.

“M-Myah?!“

“Right then, let’s head out. Brisk morning jog to wake up the senses—it’s a brand new day!”

“Lemme finish my breakfast first, sheesh!!”

Three classes before lunch, and they all went about as well as Gordon had expected them to. (That was to say, not well at all.)

During first period Alchemy, Grim had earned the ire of Crewel by disregarding the potion recipe. In spite of Gordon's reminders and warnings, Grim had taken one too many missteps. The wrong ingredient, the incorrect amount, the temperature too low or too high, the stirring too much or not enough.

He was then caught catnapping during Magic History and extensively told off by both Trein and Lucius. (The meowing had gotten very intense.) Gordon had apologized profusely in Grim's place.

Flying had not fared any better--Grim struggled to concentrate, his unsteady magic causing his broom to wildly buck, attempting to chuck him off. Gordon had to stop his rep of 100 push-ups to fetch his friend out from a shrub. Twigs poked at him, leaves caught in his fur.

By the time they were dismissed back to the locker rooms, Grim had melted into a furry puddle on Gordon's shoulder. "Maaan, I'm beat!! That was rough!"

"Rougher than usual." Gordon crunched on an apple. He had taken to the habit of eating small platters or snacks throughout the day over whole meals—it was more efficient for his lifestyle. “Something you want to tell me, or…?”

“N-Nothing’s up!” Grim snapped. "Quit worryin' about me. It's the boss's job to do that for their minion."

The chef rolled his eyes as he set Grim down on the floor beside him. He handed off a boxed lunch wrapped in a checkered cloth. "I'm off to teach. You'll be fine on your own, right? Find Trappola and Spade, settle down with your food, and don't cause trouble."

"I got it already!" Grim huffed. "Catch ya after...?"

"Always." His smile was strained, a bit tired but true. "Maybe I'll bring back some disastrous stories to share with you over dinner."

One last pat on the head, and then he was gone. Hustling down the hall, the white of his pristine chef’s jacket vanishing behind a corner.

Grim managed the rest of the hike to the cafeteria, balancing his lunch in his paws. He squeezed past the legs of various mob students, emerging safely on the other side. They rushed to line up for trays of food.

Suckers, Grim thought, paying in cash for food. Luckily for me, I’ve got something way better than whatever they’re serving.

“Oiiii, Grim! Over here!!” someone called to him. He looked—and there they were, the duo of troublemakers, marked by a heart and a spade upon their faces.

“Ace! Deuce!”

He scampered over to the two Heartslabyul freshmen. They had already secured their lunches, as well as an open seat for him.

“Hard night? Looks like you didn't get much sleep," Deuce commented. A fluffy omelet wobbled atop a mountain of ketchup fried rice on his plate.

“He's right, you really do look awful," Ace added cheerily--blunt as ever. He had opted for a slice of some savory pie, vegetables and meat oozing out from a buttery crust.

"Sh-Shuddap! The great Grim-sama was up all night cookin' up something big!" He slammed a paw down on the table. "Just look at your sorry lunches. They can't compare to what I have!"

"Did Prefect make your meal again? You should try to not trouble him too much.”

"’S not like I tell’m to! He does it on his own!” Grim snickered to himself. "He takes all these cheap ingredients and throws'm together to make these tasty dishes."

"Well, don't keep us waiting in suspense," Ace groaned. "Show us what you have already."

“Let’s see, let’s see!”

Grim undid the fabric knot that held his lunch in a swathe. The checkered pattern peeled back and the lid, once removed, yielded a creamy, cheesy bed of tuna bake.

Gordon had taken his beloved canned tuna and fried it down into flakes. It was then combined with a special mixture of seasonings, pasta shells, melted cheeses, onions and broccoli, and topped with bread crumbs. After a generous bake in their ancient oven, the dish had come out golden brown and bubbling.

“Whoooa, smells delish!!” all three of them drooled.

“Lucky bastard,” Ace muttered. He quickly put on a cheeky grin, his spoon prepared. “Ne, ne~ Lemme try some, Grim!“

“D-Don’t be cheeky, Ace! You can’t demand to mooch off of someone else’s lunch,” Deuce scolded his peer. “… Even if it does look really good.”

“Paws off!!” Grim shielded the box with his body. “My minion made this for me and me only!”

“Tch.” Ace’s expression dropped. “You get to eat like a king for free while the rest of us have to shell out and make do with whatever’s on the school’s menu.”

“It’s not that bad,” Deuce pointed out. “It’d be nice to be able to eat for free but I’m happy with the quality of food we get for the price.”

“This comin’ from the guy who was running low on pocket money for a snack the other day?” he smirked.

“H-Hey, I need to budget, okay?!”

While the duo bickered, Grim had started to shove his face into the box (silverware was too difficult to maneuver) and wolf down his meal. Cheese sauce painted his fur, bits of broccoli and tuna dotting his jaw.

It was heaven—or as close to heaven as he could get on the earth.

He licked his lips appreciatively, mopping up what was left on his face. Not even a little could go to waste. Grim was determined.

As he went back in for another mouthful, he felt a phantom hand cascade across his head, his back. Advice from that morning filled his mind.

“You’ll get there one day. Nose to the grindstone, Grim. You've got to work hard to earn it."

He shut his eyes, making a silent vow.

I’ll definitely… definitely pay ya back for all the hard work you’ve been puttin’ in too, partner.

Gordon bid farewell to the ghost chefs on his way out of the kitchen. The day’s leftovers and unused ingredients overflowed from his arms—a perk of the teaching gig, which helped to feed him and his feline roommate. He mentally parsed through what was available, dreaming up new dishes for the days to come.

There was a nice chunk of fresh tuna (Grim would love it) in his brown paper bag. Perhaps he’d sear it with a sesame crust, then drizzle the seafood in a yuzu-lime dressing to brighten it. He’s plate it with a microgreens salad. Chives, arugula, celery, radish, and ruby sorrel to encourage Grim to eat a variety of vegetables.

He made his way out of the school building and down the long, winding path to Ramshackle dorm. The sun was still out, warming the worn Prefect.

On the front porch, he rustled around in his pants for the keys. When he finally fished it out and inserted the teeth into the lock, Gordon swore he heard a series of suppressed giggles from beyond the door.

Odd.

The door swung open, and he was immediately accosted.

"Welcome baaack," the Ramshackle Ghosts chirped. One ushered him in from behind, another too his groceries off of his hands, and a third tugged him along by the arm.

"Come this way! Grimmy's got a treat for ya!"

"He's been working hard on it the second he got back from his last class."

"Oooh, you're gonna LOVE it!"

"What about dinner?" Gordon protested, watching his beloved ingredients sail off.

He was thrusted into their dingy kitchen--which doubled as the dining room, thanks to the table and chairs set up in one cobwebbed corner. The same old Ramshackle he woke up to every day. Rusty knobs and hinges, chipped cupboards, electricity and running water that blinked in and out.

But there, set on a table with uneven legs and splintered wood, was something extraordinary.

It was a stout cake, iced in light blue with a layer of dripping white and several lit candles stuck into the top. Black frosting formed the vague shape of a fish, TUNA piped over it in white. A single lollipop--pale blue, and in the shape of a paw--casually rested against the cake, as if it had been tossed on top for an extra flair.

A furry mass tackled and hugged Gordon's leg.

"Grim?!"

He was suited up in his own little chef's uniform. It was deep gray, verging on black, his apron tied with a striped-purple ribbon. A tiny toque--a chef's hat-- sat between his ears, a bandage over the bridge of his nose. A smear of white icing decorated his left cheek, and he carried with him a telltale piping bag squeezed thin.

Gordon blinked. "You did this?"

"Nyahahah! Were you surprised?"

"You told me you couldn't cook to save your life."

"He can't," a ghost piped up as he deposited the groceries onto a counter. "He's worse than I was when I was alive!"

"That's why Grimmy's been getting up in the dead of night lately. Been, what? Gotta be a few weeks now."

"He's been practicing his baking and then cleaning up the traces of his crime before you get up."

"What..."

"I wanted to pay ya back, yanno! For all the cookin' and cleanin' and whatever," Grim mumbled shyly, kicking at the ground. "So I figured I'd treat ya for once! I was thinking of a sticky toffee pudding at first since that's your favorite, but... it gets so sticky, it was hard to work with!"

He patted his stomach. "I couldn't put my stuff in the trash can or else you'd notice, so I had to eat up all my mistakes too! It was a lotta effort and way harder than it looked, so you'd better be grateful!!”

Grim looked away, rubbing at his bandage.

“… It helped me better understand and appreciate all the things you do on the daily.”

It clicked.

Everything suddenly made sense. Grim's tiredness, lack of focus, decreased appetite, defensiveness—it was all for this very moment.

"... I see." Gordon bent down, a smile taking shape on his mouth. A steady kindling in his chest. “This is your way of saying ‘thank you’.”

“M-Maybe! An archmage has gotta take good care of his minion,” Grim muttered.

The prefect laughed softly. “And you’re doing a great job at it. Hang tight, I'll get the stove going and whip us up some seared tuna to go with the cake."

“Myah?! Y-You’ve got tuna? Like, the real stuff?!” Grim’s eyes were wide and sparkling. A line of drool ran down his chin. "Fancy tuna...!!"

"Yeah. We can plate some for the ghosts too--so they can join us for a meal in spirit." Gordon nodded at their other roommates. Their pale faces brightened with excitement.

"Can we really?"

"It's been so long since I was last invited to a celebration like this!!"

"Oh, but we can't eat... Ghosts don't have digestive systems. The tune would pass right through us."

"... Grim, you have eat their shares. More importantly, it's being together for the occasion that matters, right?"

"Whoo-hoo!! You're the best minion an archmage could ask for!!" Grim cheered, leaping into the air, furry fist pumping.

“Let's get this dinner party started…!”

[gatzilksis-2]

My Stepfather Joe: 2023 Christmas Special Final

Last Part Here

18+

December 24, Christmas Eve

I'd fallen asleep on the couch on purpose. I was more likely to hear Joe's farts from there.

I woke to his footsteps pounding into the kitchen from their bedroom, accompanied by one long, wet walking fart. Joe grinned as I lifted my head, wearing olive green shorts with the full belly out. "Morning! Didn't know you were out here."

"Morning." I got up with a stretch and a yawn. It was half after seven. I got a cup of coffee as Joe started working on the food for the big meal. "Want help?"

"No, this time you'd just be in the way." Joe stood close to me to get his own coffee. He extended a thick finger to me. "Pull my finger."

"Really?" I hadn't heard that one in a while, but I pulled the finger.

PWRRR-wrrrrrr-rrrrr...

The fart was deep and guttural, my favorite fart sound. It stopped after a few more grumbling seconds, and Joe began to wave it to my face, taking his finger back to use both hands.

I stepped back but widened my nostrils at the same time. I was sure his farts smelled a little worse with age. I'd known that was a thing from my late grandpa. When he was alive, you couldn't even light a match around him.

"That was a good one," I admitted as Joe laughed.

"It was. Thanks." Joe slapped my back and went to get something else from the fridge.

I retreated to the living room, and Mom came out only a few minutes later. "You're leaving today, right?"

I nodded. "Bus gets to McDonald's at 5."

"Plenty of time!" Joe yelled from the stove. "Dinner should be done by noon."

"Yay!" I clapped my hands, and Mom smiled.

The food took forever, and I had only heard parts of Joe's farts as he cooked and prepped his way around the kitchen in circles. He would get mad if I went in, so I couldn't smell any of them, either.

But noon finally came, and the table was filled with all the traditional Christmas food. Joe put on a blue tie-dye T-shirt and sat down with us. He overfilled his plate as Mom and I put normal amounts on ours.

Joe leaned away from me halfway through his plate. BWRRR-RRT! He wiped his mouth and beard, glancing at me with a smirk.

"At Christmas dinner?" Mom asked him.

"I've always farted at Christmas dinner, honey," Joe countered with a chuckle. "And I'm pushing it this way, anyhow."

He waved an arm towards me, sending his new, thick fart at me. It smelled like spoiled stomach, but it had that thing, that sweet signature Joe's gas carried.

"Towards my son?"

I rolled my eyes at Mom. "It's not like it's a surprise."

BWRMP! Joe pointed it at me again. His mouth was full. "Wazzat a su'prishe?"

I laughed, and Joe did, too, after swallowing. Mom shook her head at us. "You guys are something else."

A few minutes later, Joe's plate was completely clear. He burped and then leaned a third time. PRRR-WRRrrrrp! "Ah, yeah! Honey, there may be a gas leak tonight."

"Wonderful," Mom groaned.

Joe's "gas leak" was when he couldn't stop farting. I wished I would be here for tonight's show, but I had a bus to catch. Damn.

Still, I enjoyed all of his farts accumulating into an unmoving cloud. The smell was layered, thick and rotten but so skunky and delicious in the same moment.

Joe refilled his plate as I finished my first, having had a lot less than him. Mom and I got more, too. There wasn't much talking, just a lot of quiet eating.

"Can we turn on the TV or something?" Mom got up and grabbed the remote from the couch.

"Too quiet for you." Joe lifted his entire ass, pointing a fart at the back of his chair. br-VWAAAMP!

I couldn't help cackling. "That sounded like it hurt."

"Nah, it's fine." Joe pushed another bite into his smiling mouth.

Mom came back to the table, waving a hand through the air before resuming her own meal. I was happy eating in the middle of the stink.

Joe finished his second plate and loaded it up again. "Eat up. We don't wanna have leftovers forever."

"I'm already full," I said.

"Me too," Mom agreed.

"Always down to me." Joe took his third first bite.

"I'll get the pies ready." Mom left the table with her dishes.

I checked my phone, watching Joe scarf down his food out of the corner of my eye. He rarely chewed with his mouth closed, and the extra air helped his fart production.

I stayed in my seat until he was done, pretending to be on my phone while I was actually just waiting.

Joe sat back in his chair, breathing heavily with a smile. He pushed his shirt up to rub his belly. "Can you take my shit to the sink, please?"

"Sure." I grabbed my dishes and his and put them in the sink.

VWAMP! VRRT-WORT! Joe laughed behind me, having let his fart echo off his wooden chair. "Now, that one kinda hurt."

"That's why you lean, right?" Mom joked as she placed pieces of pie on paper plates.

"Yeah, but it sounds funny with the chair," I happily replied.

"Exactly!" Joe pushed himself to his feet, his shirt falling. "We opening presents now? And then pie?"

"That works for me," said Mom.

Their tree wasn't up, so they had to go get the wrapped gifts from their bedroom. Mom came out in a Grinch nightshirt, and Joe followed in only a pair of boxers, something I'd never seen from him. The boxers were red with a big Christmas tree in the middle of his fat ass, right where the farts came out. His belly hung over the front of them, jiggling as he paced closer to throw me a box.

I caught it with no problem. "See, you do look like Santa! Those are some Santa ass boxers?"

"No, the ass is a tree." Joe turned his butt to me, over a foot away. "See?"

"I see!"

I expected him to fart, but he just stepped away, sitting in his spot on the couch. "Open your present!"

I did, kneeling on the carpet and ripping the paper off to reveal a new Keurig. "Yay! Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Santa!"

Mom covered her laugh with a hand as Joe gaped. He slowly started to laugh. "You asshole."

Joe got up from the couch. I pulled out my phone. "Let me take a picture, and I'll show you how much you look like Santa right now!"

With a sinister smile, Joe dropped to the floor and reached for my phone. I held it away from him, trying to open my camera. He grabbed it. "You're not taking a damn picture."

He shoved me and pushed himself to his feet, staying bent at the waist. The boxers were right in my face, the Christmas tree inches from my nose. gr-BWRRR-wrrrr-BRRR-RT! His normal fart scent had been greatly increased by all the Christmas food. It was so thick I could almost taste it, and that was incredible to me. It wasn't close to the worst he'd ever done, but it brought an actual tear to my eye.

Joe fell into hysterical laughter as he stepped away from me. He held up both arms in victory. "That's the one I've been waiting for!"

"Goddamn," I said, though it was Christmas Eve.

Mom fanned the air from her seat. "It's already over here!"

Joe returned to his seat, proud of himself. "That was a damn good fart."

I almost agreed, but I thought it might look weird. The only Christmas gift I really wanted was more of what had just happened.

We turned on yet another Christmas movie, and I took my seat next to Joe on the couch.

BWMMMP! Joe pushed a fart into the cushion. He glanced at me. "Could you feel that?"

"No."

A few minutes later...BRRRRMMMP-FRRRP!

I smiled, having just slightly felt it in the cushion. "Okay, I felt that one."

"Now smell it," Joe stood suddenly, causing the farts sealed between his ass and the couch to release.

It hit like a hot, smelly wave, and I resisted the urge to sniff deep. From the loveseat, Mom yelled "Go grab the spray!"

"No." Joe padded to the plated pies. "It's Christmas."

"What's that have to do with it?" Mom argued.

It didn't go any further than that. We all got pieces of pie and ate them in front of the TV. When we were done, I didn't have much time left. "Hey, Joe? Didn't you say I could pick some stuff to take with me?"

"Yeah, you wanna go look? I'll grab my robe." Joe hurried to their bedroom.

I thought it was funny how he got so excited about his new business.

"See you in an hour," Mom quipped.

Joe wrapped a dark blue robe around himself, putting on flip-flops before going outside. It was almost dark, but motion-sensing lights led us to the garage. Of course, I let Joe go in first. He flipped on the lights above the tables and boxes of crap. "Anything you're thinking about?"

"No," I answered. None of the stuff, at least. I looked around slowly. "There's so much."

"I know." Joe stepped in front of me. BWRRRT! "There's actually a couple little fart machines somewhere in here."

"Like you need that."

"Yeah, right." Joe walked around to adjust little things, leaving his awesome gas behind. "Your mom's gonna kill me if I don't start taking those pills. I just didn't wanna have a migraine while you were here. Plus, farts were like our thing."

He mentioned the past, and I still wasn't sure how much he knew. However much it was, he didn't seem to mind farting around me. I smiled and finally noticed something cute, a box with the Tree of Life carved into it, on a bottom shelf behind Joe.

"I think farts are a thing between you and anyone." I reached down behind him to grab the corner of the box. "I want this."

"Wait! I don't got a fart yet!" Joe chuckled down at me over his shoulder.

I was right behind his ass again. It wasn't really on purpose; the thing I wanted happened to be behind him. Did he actually expect me to wait for a fart to come?

I straightened up, holding the box in both hands.

"Damn!" Joe yelled, though his smile stayed. "You walked right into it, and I didn't even have one ready!"

I wanted to give him a freebie, but that would completely give me away. I headed to the door, but Joe got in front of me. He blocked the door and pushed his ass back. VWRP! FRRT! BRRRT!

They were small for a normal guy but tiny for him. I stood behind him, surprised that the smell was the same for the baby rips. "You stopped up? Don't shit yourself."

"Haven't done that in years." Joe went out the door, shutting off the light as I followed him.

We got back into the house, and I quickly got my clothes and other things together. I emerged from the guestroom to see Joe lying down on the couch, again in only his Santa boxers, his belly hanging to the side.

"Ready to go?" Mom asked, putting on her jacket by the door.

"Yeah." I took a look over Joe. "Nice to see you again. I missed you."

"Come back sooner next time!" Joe lifted one arm in a wave. "Oh, wait!" He pulled his arm down in a crank motion and raised a leg. PHWOORRT! FRRRR-RR-BLRRT! "Ahh! There it is!"

I wish I could've had it in my face, but you can't have everything. "Nice one! Bye, Joe!"

"Hey, come hug me!" Joe yelled.

I couldn't hide my smile and walked over to him, taking in the awful, amazing aroma of his long, proud blast. I bent down to hug him, and I heard some quiet gas whisper. "That really stinks."

"Isn't it great?" Joe sniffed his own gas and sighed.

I wanted to agree, but I walked to the door instead. "See ya, Joe! Love you!"

"Love you. Be safe."

I followed Mom out. Though Joe's fart remained fresh in my nostrils, I was already getting sad. My time with Joe (and Mom) was over, and I had no idea when I would be back again.

I wish he could've driven me home and farted the whole way with the windows up. I wish I could've just stayed with them. But neither of those things could happen, so I was back to just writing and reliving my wonderful moments with my stepfather Joe.

End

[krash-8]

something something i am terribly sad for my age and i think it might be a little in my head, or uncalled for, or my hand on my friends pantry doorknob as she tells me i can eat whatever i want because we’re at her house now (which warms me inside more than i want to tell her, and that fact is starting to burn) or cookie dough i made for the first time in the middle of the night because it’s easy and people like it and it’s a way to say i love you without actually telling. im glad i know my way around a kitchen but im not too sure when i learned. i’m pretty good so long as i don’t leave the stove on; i’m forgetful when it matters but i remember when it counts. i’m not too sure when i learned.

i want to cook for you, and i want you to like it, and i want my head to stay calm when i think of my body and how I could be spending this time to fix my grades and I need to do better at a lot, and most of all i want to cook for you and i want you to like it and i want so hard to believe my kitchen is any kitchen where i open the pantry and feel like that’s fine. i want to feel like that's fine.

don’t you wish milk was cheaper, and eggs, and the water bill and the price of gas so we can leave? don’t you wish it was easier for a kid who isn’t quite right to get a job around here? don’t you wish the job could pay for any of that at all, or at least be something worth my time? i think I'd like to be somewhere near you for at least forever. I wish I was always sure you loved me back and I was able to manage to drop eggs one way or another without the end of the world. i can make myself useful and bring you something I worked on to prove i love you, and I promise I'm trying, I'm not sure for what, but I know I really really want to stick around so please please let me, and do you still mean the thing you said about me being able to eat from your pantry? when do you want me home? I love you, so I can make us something nice.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for putting knob covers on the stove that my disabled dad couldn't open?

So I (26M) recently moved back in with my parents (60M and 58F) temporarily because I'm kind of between apartments right now. My dad has Parkinson's disease and has, over the years, become both clumsier and more absent-minded. An important symptom of Parkinson's that will become relevant in this story is that he also has partial anosmia (his sense of smell is impaired).

So anyway, about a year and a half ago, before I had moved out, one day I came home from work and smelled gas as soon as I entered the house. I discovered one of the burners on the stove had been left open, and gas had been seeping into the room. I turned off the main gas supply, opened all the windows, and waited outside while calling my mom about it frantically. It turns out Dad had been cleaning the oven earlier and must have bumped the burner with his head while leaning in to clean the door. Because of his anosmia, he had not smelled the gas. I kind of freaked out and threatened to remove all the knobs off the stove, because I felt my life was in danger, but my mom talked me down into believing that it was just a fluke and probably wouldn't happen again.

Anyway, fast forward to the day before yesterday. I woke up after sleeping in late (I work night shifts now) and went to go make myself some food, but for some reason the GFI circuit breaker to the stove outlet had tripped. After resetting it, I immediately noticed that the lower drawer oven was on, because the knob had been left on. That oven is a little broken because the drawer mechanism is bent, so it doesn't close fully - I'm speculating, but the only thing I can think of is that the breaker must have tripped because the drawer was open and the heating element couldn't keep it up to temperature without getting so hot it exceeded its current rating or something. There was no gas leak this time, thankfully, but I knew my dad must have left it that way since my mom never cooks in the morning, especially not with the oven, ESPECIALLY not with the broken drawer oven. The only logical conclusion was that he accidentally bumped the knob again and didn't notice again. This time, thank God it wasn't the gas again.

I basically just told my mom that I was getting knob covers for the stove, and she agreed. So I got some on Amazon with next day delivery and installed them as soon as they arrived. I then took an afternoon nap, and then spent a few hours in my room playing video games and talking with friends on Discord. I was home the entire day, though, and he has my phone number and is able to text if he thought it would be impolite to knock or something. He didn't say a word to me all day.

Apparently, though, he got furious with my mom because the knobs have safety covers on them now. He told her he can't open them (although I later walked down the stairs, and found one of them open, and I had not left it that way - he definitely can, I think he just had trouble figuring out how at first. They're child safety caps so unfortunately they're a bit tricky to get open) and that now he was unable to cook for himself. He did not ask me to help him get them open though, and I would have done so in a heartbeat. He has not said anything about this to me at all, not even anything subtle or passive-aggressive.

I discussed it with my mom, and we agreed to leave them mostly closed but unlatched - the latch is the difficult part to get open, but they stay closed enough for them to keep the knobs from being bumped even if they are not fully latched shut. My mom agreed to communicate with him better about stuff like this. But if he asks to have the caps removed completely, it's a hard, hard no - I don't want to die in a gas explosion.

AITA for doing this?

What are these acronyms?

[nightwolf14292]

Batfam Headcanons/Imagines/Rambles While I Eat

I like to imagine that when Bruce is out with Jason (or any of the kids tbh, I'm just thinking about Jason lol), he turns into my grandpa. In that he starts talking about the most random things from when he was younger.

Or like:

Just tells him random shit, and the most boring stuff he missed while he was dead like what businesses opened and closed. Then out of nowhere he hits him with something like "When I got into a car accident when I was younger-"

Bruce, parked in the grocery store parking lot: "Oh! Wait, look at these." *Reaches into his car's back seat and pulls out two mini propane tanks* "I just got these for 20$ a piece, and guess what? They're refillable. Most propane tanks I've seen aren't like that-" *Goes into a little ramble about mini gas stoves and cooking while the powers out*

Jason: *Awkwardly sitting in the passenger seat nodding along, but tbh he's actually sorta interested in the ramble*

Also, Bruce is totally an apocalypse dad, right? Like he buys ridiculous amounts of canned food and survival guides and tents and fire starters that he'll never use. This also applies to expensive stuff of course, cause he's a rich boi

Alfred: "Master Bruce, why exactly is there a boat in the Batcave?"

Bruce: "..It's the Bat-Boat. I thought it would help on aquatic missions."

*Literally never uses it ever, but refuses to let the kids use it either*

I'm all in for southern accent Bruce and wacky accent Dick, however I also propose:

•Jason who still has a Gotham street accent. Whenever he meets one of the street kids (Especially the older ones that have been out there for a while) and they have that thick street accent, he wants to pinch their cheeks. While some of the 'higher class' Gotham citizens might think of the accents as representing stupidity or filth, Jason adores the accent with his whole heart.

•Damian who mimics people he likes. We know that Damian can very accurately mimic peoples voices, but imagine if he likes being around someone he subconsciously starts to talk in their voice. It's a little creepy to people at first, hearing their voice (which depending on the person he's talking to is like, a deep, gruff, adult man voice lol) come out of this 13-14 year old kid, but you get used to it.

Damian, after talking to Jon for a few minutes: "So I wuz walkin' into tha trainin' room, and thare Tim wuz! Usin' MY katana! Can you believe that horseshit?! Absolutely ridiculus. How dare he! I wuz gonna knock sum semse inta him, but then faather came in and made me stop.."

Jon, a little concerned at Damian's lack of formal words and the way that they suddenly sound so similar, but kinda finding it cute: "Yeah, how dare he.."

(Jon has a southern accent, right? Cause he lives on a farm with Clark?)

Damian's favorite cartoon is the Wild Kratts, and Dick makes him watch Bluey because he feels like it helps Damian get out of the whole 'assassin' mindset and more into the 'child' mindset.

Also Tim never stopped the stalking, he still watches security footage and follows around people he likes. Bernard just got used to him suddenly popping up wherever he went-

Anyway I'm gonna stop rambling now lol

[bomberqueen17]

inspections

in terms of the kitchen remodel we are still waiting on like five pieces of trim and the door of one cabinet. so we're to the final details phase. which means the electrical and plumbing inspectors from the town have to come by.

the plumbing inspector came by and was super friendly and funny and was like "i guess i gotta run some water, i'll feel silly if i don't and there was a problem, but mostly i mean, if there was a problem you'd probably have noticed right?" and i was like yeah fair enough, wanna look at the gas lines they moved? and he was like oh i guess i will, sure. Super low-key.

The electrical inspector was similarly chill but he looked grimly up at the smoke detector they'd put up in not the place I'd expected them to, and said "that's. not where that goes." I said "it goes off all the time" and he was like "yeah it's way too close to the stove, I would not have put it there. But the problem is, you need there to be a carbon monoxide sensor within fifteen feet of your bedrooms, and the closer bedroom is seventeen feet that way."

Sure enough. It's the right kind of smoke detector but it's in the wrong place.

I looked up the manufacturer's instructions and they say to put it 20 feet from the main cooking appliance. Ten if that's not possible, but preferably 20. I measured, and it's eight feet from the stove. I can't get emojis to insert but this is the upside-down smiley, right here.

So the hallway location would have been completely fine for that, and in fact better. And that's where I had pointed out that they should put it, and that's where Jim had said they'd put it, and it's where I fully believed they were putting it until they finished the job.

So I'm displeased and have to psych myself up to call Jim and break the news to him, that it's not just that I could put another sensor up and be good-- the one they put in is just plain in the wrong place. I don't know if they can properly move it, they hard-wired the communication wire to the basement alarm, and I don't know if they can fish that through the ceiling that direction. (They can't, I'm one thousand percent sure the joists go the other way.)

But the alarm they installed, which cost me extra outside of the five figures of work done on the kitchen, is incorrectly located, and meets neither the manufacturer's guidelines nor town building codes. So I gotta put my big girl panties on and complain about that. I'd been preparing myself to just suck it up and set the smoke detector off every time I cooked but realizing that it's absolutely not supposed to be there has removed my last shred of putting up with that shit.

Hell fucking no. Now, how to say that nicely???? *deep breath* I can do it. Polite but firm.

On another note-- I went out of town for the weekend and got stuck there because of the snow, and finally made it back Monday morning, and when I texted the family groupchat that I'd made it home my mom was like "great!" and then literally one minute later was like "so what color are you painting your kitchen" so understand that y'all are not the only ones waiting to find out.

LOL any color would workkkkkk so I gotta pick one and do it. But probably not this week, as today's the last break in the weather and then we're supposed to get absolutely slammed with snow.

[carousel-crows]

3 please

Hi nonny! Number 3, "I didn't know you guys were together." "We're not."

btw, I tend to ignore the concept of homophobia. let my boys be happy.

———

Ice didn't understand how he had the best roommate and yet the worst co teacher.

Mav had decided to teach at TOPGUN. Ice had taken a position not long after. The previous teacher (callsign Boar) had been all too willing to go into retirement. Ice didn't blame him. Compared to this class, his class had been angels. Mav had agreed. These kids seemed to have forgotten what hygiene was. Being punctual was a foreign concept. 

They had decided it was cheaper to rent a house together than to each have their own apartment. And it worked well. They adhered to each other's boundaries, respecting the other's  property. Mav refilled the coffee machine and packed lunches, Ice opened all the curtains and made sure doors were locked before leaving. They mostly worked the same hours, and rode together often to save gas. Pete was a good roommate in general. 

He was a terrible coworker, though. 

Their teaching tactics were wildly different and often clashed. Maverick encouraged students to create their own maneuvers. Ice tended to stick to the book. Teaching with him was a test of patience. 

But he knew why Mav taught the way he did. He wanted to push these students to be better pilots than they already were. He wanted to protect them in the only way he knew how. 

It had been a particularly rough day. The car had broken down, so they had to take Mav’s bike. Ice was more than reluctant, but it was too far to walk. Ice had realized on his lunch break that he didn't have lunch. 

He'd gone to complain to Mav, or to ask for a ride back. He hadn't really known which. But he'd stepped out of his office and  walked down the hall into Maverick’s.

Now they were sharing lunch in Pete's office. He was sharing lunch with the secret love of his life.

“Who do you think is gonna be the next TOPGUN?”

“Well, Mudslide’s on top right now.”

“Ice, who do you think is going to win?”

“I just said.”

“No, you said who was winning now.”

“We aren't supposed to speculate.”

“Viper does.”

As if on cue, the man himself opens the office door. He was seemingly unaware of Ice's presence. 

“So Mav, for next week’s hop, I think you and Ice—”

Mav barely looks up from his half-sandwich. “Hmm?”

Viper is stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the pair. 

“Uh. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch date. Uh. Sorry.”

“What's up, sir? The hop next week?” Mav completely ignored the awkwardness of the situation.

Date? The word sounded in his head like an alarm.

Mav and Viper carried on the conversation. Ice wasn't listening. Date?

He snapped back to reality. 

“I didn't know you two were together.” 

“We aren't.” Ice panicked.

“Oh. My apologies for assuming.”

“It's fine.”

He looked over to see Mav blushing furiously..

Viper left soon after, tossing a wink at Mav. Ice ate quickly, avoiding any conversation. What? 

Ice avoided him until it was no longer possible. If it weren't for the death machine he was riding home, Ice wouldn't have touched him. No matter how much he wanted to.

Dinner was even more awkward. It was his turn to cook, which was usually fine. 

Except Mav wanted to help. Mav didn't know how to make a lot of dishes, so Ice had offered to teach him. And Mav liked to be involved. 

And he didn't seem to know what personal space is. They're standing almost on top of each other while Mav stirs the sauce. He crowds Ice instead of standing in front of the stove. Ice, in turn, tries to ignore the acceleration of his pulse. He can almost feel Mav smirking. 

The bastard.

“Are you gonna kiss me, Tom?”

“What?”

Mav turned around to look him in the eye. They were standing so close. Nose to nose. If he just leaned a little closer—

“Tom, you can do it. I know you want to.”

“What?” He glanced at Mav's lips, mesmerized.

Mav huffed. “Kiss me, dumbass.” 

So he did. Soft and chaste. A short one. But it was so much. He leans back ever so slightly, just to look Pete in the eyes. His eyes are almost glazed. 

A beat.

Then Mav wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him in. A desperate, hungry kiss. He would never go without Pete's love again.

When Ice went to apologize to Viper for his behavior, the man seemed surprised. “I should be the one apologizing to you, Tom. I overstepped.”

“Well, sir,” Ice rubbed the back of his neck, “We kind of … are together now?”

Viper just laughed. 

“I know, my boy. I could see the tension between you two from the beginning of your class.” He smiled. “But now Slider owes me $20.”

WHAT?

———

hope you like it! Thanks for being so patient!

[trueshellz]

Caress

Part of my Invisible Illness Series

Warnings: arthritis, sore joints, comfort, hugging, steroid side effects, body image issues

Summary: Aone hates seeing you in pain...

A/N: My arthritis knowledge comes from family and friends, obviously one size doesn't fit all.

Tagging: @dacidolly

Coming home from his shift at the construction site, Aone dropped his bag on the floor and removed his shoes. He could hear you humming in the kitchen when he came in and frowned... why were you doing housework? Picking up the hoover and placing it back in the cupboard where it usually went, the noise of the door closing making you jump and turn to him with a bright smile, he walked over and took your hands in his.

"Hi, handsome. How was work?" He nodded. "I made dinner, y'know that dish your mum usually makes? That one."

He frowned again when you pulled your hands away to stir the pot, your knuckles red and swollen, you were wearing a brace on your knee and he could see the heat patch on your back under the cropped t-shirt you were wearing. Clenching his jaw tightly, he reached over to turn the gas off and took the pan off the stove off before carefully picking you up bridal style.

"Wait! Aone- dinner! Hey! Put me- babe, put me down."

You honestly had no clue what had gotten into your husband it wasn't often that he acted like this and you were a little worried since he hadn't eaten dinner yet. Another day off work since your joints were constantly in pain today, working from home made it a little easier and the medication you were on for the inflammation helped a little but you were self conscious about their side effects. The new stretch marks everywhere, the weight gain especially on your face and the stomach, on top of the fact that your boyfriend was built like a Greek god made your thoughts all the more dark.

"Aone, put me down. You'll injure yourself for God's sake, I'm not as small as I was before."

That made him pause, his forehead in a scowl as he looked at you. You could see his eyes tracking down your body, the way his hands held you close to him and he bobbed you up and down as if he was gauging your mass before shaking his head and sitting you both on the sofa. You tried scrambling off his lap but a thick muscular arm banding around you stopped any movements.

"Stay."

"Babe, listen-"

"No."

"Look, I know I've put weight on ok? My clothes don't fit, I have these purple gashes where I've got new stretch marks and no matter what I put on them they don't go away. I'm always in pain somewhere, the amount of money we spend on my medication is insane. Sometimes I just wonder why you even married me."

You sighed loudly, while Aone was quiet usually, when he was adamant about something you had no choice but to listen and to be honest, you loved hearing him speak. But at the point, sitting like this exposed, after you had spent all day at home while he worked to provide for you made you upset. The small comments you got from people sometimes hurt too, the assumption that it's all in your head or that you were being over-dramatic with your pain.

His large hands taking yours, thumbs rubbing over your knuckles which were a little inflamed after your impromptu cooking session and his lips kissing them gently before he held your face in his hands. His intense stare as he held you close, he has noticed all the things you were talking about. And while a fickle lesser man may care, he did not. To him you were still as beautiful as you were when he met you and nothing would change that.

"Not heavy." You scoffed, shaking your head to stop the tears that were threatening to fall down. "Being ill doesn't make you less beautiful and I've never cared about what people say, why would I start now?"

"But-"

"No." His thumbs wiping away the tears that had managed to escape, arms circling you and pulling you close.

"You can't keep saying no to me."

"Watch me."