Shoutout to Matt and DemonRaider. Much love to both of you.
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I took the back street past the bodega. A few guys were tossing dice near a trash bin. One of them had a busted sneaker and a cigarette hanging from his mouth like he was still debating lighting it. I nodded at them. They nodded back. Unspoken agreement, I didn't see anything. He didn't ask me for change.
It was early for May to arrive from whatever she was doing with neighbor aunts, so I just rolled my sleeves to prepare a feast. I threw the bag on the counter. Unwrapped the saffron, measured it down to the last red strand and dropped it in warm water. Let it bloom while I fired up the stovetop. Lamb hit the pan with a sizzle that could make a vegan flinch. Garlic paste, rosemary, pinch of salt.
[System]: Mmm~ Daddy Chef unlocked. Level 1 Domestic Rizz activated. I am moist with seasoning.
"Shut up. This is a sacred ritual. Don't moan over lamb."
[System]: I will moan where I want. Especially when you massage that meat like it is foreplay.
I cut the paneer into cubes, threw it in a pan with butter, seared it golden. Pulled out some peas and tossed them in with cream, let it all simmer. Rice went into the cooker. As if. Since I was cooking a feast, cooker rice would be an insult. I measured out basmati, rinsed it twice, then dropped it into a fresh pot with saffron water and a clove.
Kitchen smelled like a food channel got horny in an Indian auntie's spice rack.
[System]: Mmm~ this scent could solve war. If you fed this to Tony, he might stop inventing suits and start adopting orphans.
"Timer?"
[System]: You have six minutes before the rice becomes guilt mush. Paneer is safe for five. Want me to set a fart-alarm?
"Use the fridge beeper tone. The one that makes you sound like a disappointed toaster."
[System]: Beep registered. Mood: Culinary disapproval. I am judging your garlic-to-cream ratio already.
I walked to the sink, rinsed my hands, dried them on the kitchen towel that had a tomato stain from last week's sandwich murder. May kept that towel like it was family. Said it was her version of war paint.
Front door creaked open.
Keys hit the bowl. Shoes landed in their box. Jacket dropped onto the hook. "Something smells illegal," she said from the hall.
I cracked the lid on the rice, checked, then sealed it again. "Only if flavor is a crime."
She walked in, dropped her bag onto the counter, and sniffed. "That is lamb. Garlic. Cream. Did someone die?"
"Yeah. My faith in frozen food."
[System]: Mmm~ smooth. She just hit a silent orgasm from the smell.
May opened the fridge, pulled out the soda I hid behind the leftover pickle jar, and poured herself half a glass. She leaned against the counter.
"Did someone give you a bonus?"
"No. I figured out how to multiply a dollar without working retail."
"Did you sell drugs?"
"No."
"Do porn?"
"No."
"Sell feet pics?"
"Not mine," I said innocently.
Her toes curled like they were trying to unscrew themselves from her sandals. That mental image hit too fast. She glared like I just posted her entire Amazon wishlist to a foot fetish forum. I raised both hands.
"Joking, joking. I am too jealous to post your toes to a bunch of disgusting internet people."
Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
"You better be," she said. "I wear these sandals because they are comfortable. Not because I want every creeper online rating my ankles."
I tossed the spoon into the sink. "If I ever post anything of yours, it will be your lasagna. That thing deserves a cult."
"Don't butter me up with compliments," she said, squinting. "Last time you did that, you used my Netflix account to stream something called 'Tentacle Kitchen.'"
"I thought it was food content."
"You watched eight episodes."
"I was waiting for a recipe."
She laughed. Then checked the rice. "You overcooked this by twenty seconds."
"I was busy defending your feet."
"Excuses are the side dish. You serve me mush, I will slap you with it."
[System]: Mmm~ culinary violence. I love her already. Can I call her Mommy 2.0?
'No!'
She stirred the paneer, gave a nod, then leaned back. Arms crossed. "So where exactly are you working that pays well enough to buy saffron and fresh lamb, huh?"
"Some tech stuff. Couple freelance gigs. Some crypto management."
She raised an eyebrow. "Crypto. That thing with imaginary coins and real bankrupt?"
"Yes. Except I am winning."
"That scares me more than it comforts me."
She grabbed a plate, started serving. I followed suit. Lamb went down first, rice beside it, paneer on the edge.
"This isn't going to be one of those cases where you get rich for two weeks, then end up selling socks to pay off Bitcoin debt, right?"
I nodded, "No, but it is crazy people buy used socks and underwear from any source without even knowing if they were really worn by real women. I know three dudes walking in women underwear to soak them in filthy sweat to sell them. It is actually a great side hustle. Though, I would not look good in laced."
May stopped mid-bite. Her fork hovered like it had just heard blasphemy. "Peter."
"What?"
She blinked at me like she wanted to rewind the last sentence and scrub it with bleach. "That isn't something you say while serving lamb."
"Well, it is a job market. Supply, demand, scented hosiery."
She pointed her fork at me. "If I catch your laundry hanging with pink lace panties, we are having a different conversation. And not with words."
"Relax. I don't even shave my legs. No one's buying my hairy ass thongs."
[System]: Mmm~ but imagine the scent, sugar. Bold. Masculine. Arousing..
"How is the crypto market treating you then?" she asked.
"Green. Mostly. Some altcoins are still trash, but I made a few smart flips. Buying into some side tech companies before they get big."
She raised an eyebrow again. "Which ones?"
"Legal ones."
After dinner, I picked a good movie and we settled before the TV. I lay my head on May's thighs. Damn them thighs. Lullabied me to sleep last week, and tonight, same goddamn effect. Firm. Warm. Comfort laced with subtle threat, like she could stroke my hair or slap me into next Monday, depending on the weather.
Her hand moved. Fingers slid through my hair slowlt. Just enough to make the back of my skull melt a little.
"You used extra butter in that paneer," she said, still stroking. "Thought I would not notice?"
"Used love," I muttered. "Love with high cholesterol."
She hummed. Her nails scratched behind my ear.
I sighed like a cat getting paid in purrs.
[System]: Mmm~ thighs of power. Maternal domination. I am aroused in ten dimensions.
The movie played. Something about a hitman turned chef. Probably based on a fanfic. The kitchen scenes were unrealistic. Nobody sweats that much while slicing onions unless they are on Molly or have a gland issue.
May shifted slightly. Adjusted her leg. I got a fresh angle of comfort. The TV flickered. My eyes tried to keep up. Then gave up. Sleep crawled in like a slow drug.
Her hand paused for a second. Then resumed. "How is it going with that cheerleader?"
I tilted my face into her thigh. She smelled like milf and home. That faint lavender, detergent, and the warning aura of a woman who once made a loan officer cry with just her credit history.
"Which one?"
May gave a soft snort. More like a mom-scoff. "Don't play dumb. Cassie."
I tried to shrug, but her thighs had me hostage. "Same. We aren't a thing, but we do stuff."
She hummed. Nothing judgmental. Just… humming like someone filing mental notes for later cross-examination.
"Stuff," she repeated, like the word came with footnotes.
"Nothing crazy. No meet-the-parents, no matching lock screens. Just... stuff."
"Is it safe?"
"She doesn't have knives. I checked."
"I mean safe for you. Not physically. Emotionally. Or whatever passes for your emotional stability."
"It isn't a relationship. Just regular extracurriculars. Keeps the hormones from committing war crimes."
"Yeah, you have not made a mess for a week."
As soon as she said it, she froze. I froze. The whole goddamn cosmos hit pause like someone yanked reality's HDMI cable out the back.
That was the line we never crossed. The Event. The Incident. The Bed Disaster.
We agreed to not speak of it. Not verbally, but spiritually. Ever since the first Dream Sex, and I woke up drenched in cum like a bukkake pinata exploded. It soaked everything. Blanket, sheet, even my damn pillow, and May walked in on me standing there, half-dazed, dick wilted, looking like I just fucked a ghost or lost a bet to a horny demon she assumed I had sex with the pillow. No words were exchanged. Just a silent pact made in soul trauma.
Until now.
She blinked. Realized. Shut her mouth like her tongue committed a war crime. I stared up at her thighs. They flexed slightly. Her hand stopped scratching.
[System]: Mmm~ flashbang of embarrassment. That is the PTSD stroke, sugar.
"I thought we were never mentioning that," I said, eyes still locked on the TV like I was trying to will my consciousness into the screen.
"I was talking about... your general messiness," she tried.
"Don't." I raised a finger, half warning, half middle school panic reflex.
She cleared her throat. "I mean, boys your age. Sometimes the plumbing just..."
"No."
"...acts on its own."
"Nope."
"Like those water heaters that burst without warning."
"Stop."
"Sometimes it gets too hot and..."
"Aunt May!"
She broke. Laughed so hard her thighs shook. My face bounced off them like an anime character getting yeeted by emotion. I sat up fast, legs folded, eyes wide. She covered her mouth.
"I am sorry! I am sorry!" she gasped. "It was just… a little funny."
"You found my haunted cum blanket funny."
"You humped a pillow, Peter!"
"I didn't! It was Dream Sex!"
She gave me the look.
"I am not saying you actively humped your pillow. I am just saying, while in your dream you were imagining a beautiful girl..."
[System]: Thank you.
"...in the living world your body might have mistaken the pillow for something else."
I stared. She gave the softest mom-shrug ever committed to emotional crime. The kind where they act like they are making a scientific observation instead of launching a mental grenade directly into your trauma stash.
"You think I was sleep-humping a pillow because I had a sexy dream?"
"I think your pillow filed for a restraining order."
"You are sick."
"I raised you."
"That makes you sicker."
[System]: Mmm~ incest banter. Peak suburban foreplay.
I flopped back onto her lap. Her hand landed back in my hair. Not as gentle. More like she was trying to scrub the shame out with every stroke.
"You done judging my unconscious crimes?"
"I have to keep you grounded. If I don't, you will end up marrying your mattress."
I groaned, "You accuse me of changing, but look at you. I don't remember you talking so badass."
She shrugged. "I've been young once too. I just hid it because I thought you were too innocent for this level of badassery. Clearly not."
[System]: Mmm~ Aunt May, the OG baddie. I see where you get the thighs, sugar.
I rolled my eyes. 'Are you seriously flirting with my aunt?'
[System]: I flirt with excellence. She just happens to be excellence with a spatula and trauma tolerance.
May tapped my forehead. "You keep looking at the ceiling like you are talking to God...
[System]: Thank you.
"...That isn't a normal teenage thing."
"It is meditation. Helps me process how weirdly open our late-night conversations are."
Well, the movie sucked harder than a black hole on bath salts, so we killed it before it murdered more brain cells. May yawned like her age finally caught up to her, kissed my forehead, and tossed one last jab.
"Try not to hump any more pillows tonight."
"Ugh."
She smacked my arm on the way out. I went to my room, waited for her bedroom light to turn off. Then waited another ten.
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You can read up to Chapter 85...
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