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rubyreduji · 5 months

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ice cream(ed) — kmg

summary: mingyu really does try to be respectful, but it's hard when you keep teasing him with his two favorite things: food and you

tags: smut (minors dni!), chubby big boob!reader warnings: explicit unprotected sex, food play, creampie, pussy drunk mingyu, oral (m. rec), mingyu is obsessed with your tiddies wc: 1.8k an: technically a part two to beach boobs but can totally be read as a stand alone. happy thanksgiving if you celebrate, i was in the giving mood so here is a gift from me to you

Mingyu swears you’re trying to kill him.

It’s been three weeks since you and Mingyu have started hooking up and everyday you push Mingyu closer and closer to the brink of death, but he thinks you might actually push him over today. It’s another hot Korean summer day so you two are lounging around your apartment, eating ice cream.

The problem is Mingyu can’t stop staring at you. You’re in nothing but a pair of cut off jeans that squeeze your thighs tight and a thin spaghetti strap top (sans a bra). Your tits hang heavy in the tank top, revealing your ample cleavage, and Mingyu can see the pebbling of your nipples through the fabric.

Mingyu spoons another bite of chocolate ice cream into his mouth, doing his best to distract himself from all of your soft, tempting curves on display right in front of him. While he’s savoring the sweet flavor, his eyes trail up your figure, focusing on the way your tongue runs across the ice cream cone you’re eating. The creamy treat sticks to your tongue before you lap it back into your mouth, humming wantonly at the taste. Mingyu feels his shorts tighten.

“Are you sure you don’t want a lick of this?” You hold your cone out to him. The flavor is mint chocolate, his favorite.

“N-no,” Mingyu stutters out, “I think I’m good with this.” He holds up his own dish, doing his best to look you in the eyes.

“If you say so,” you respond, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in your eyes.

Mingyu watches you cautiously as you go back to eating your ice cream. Slowly, your ice cream starts to melt and his eyes follow the trail of the drop running down your hand. You bring the ice cream to your mouth, licking at the scoop once more, letting the melted cream cover your mouth and drip down your chin. Mingyu knows how this is going to go next, but he can’t pull his eyes away as the ice cream slides down your chest, disappearing in between your breasts.

You don’t bother wiping it up, just letting yourself get even messier. It isn’t until a few moments later that you even acknowledge the ice cream running down your chest. “Mingyu,” you coo innocently, “can you help clean me up?”

There’s a stack of napkins right next to you, but Mingyu knows that’s not what you want from him. Slowly Mingyu moves over to where you’re sitting on the couch and kneels in front of you. His head is already starting to fog up as his cock twitches.

Mingyu’s large hands rest on your soft waist as he leans forward and allows his tongue to press up against your chest, licking a thick stripe up to your clavicle. Despite the cool treat, your skin is warm and enticing. As Mingyu licks up your chest the sweet taste of his favorite ice cream flavor coats his taste buds and he’s now satisfied for two reasons.

“What a good boy,” you praise Mingyu. “I might need more help than that though.”

Mingyu just nods as you let even more ice cream drip onto your cleavage. Mingyu can only be patient for so long though, and he balls the fabric of your shirt up in his fists before tugging the shirt over your head. With your round tits and stomach now exposed to the room, Mingyu dives in once again, shoving his face straight into the valley between your boobs.

His loud moans are muffled by your skin as he mouths at your chest. His own mouth is now sticky with the ice cream as he laps at your skin. As soon as Mingyu licks up all of the cream from your chest, he pops up for air. As he does so, he grabs your ice cream from your hand and starts to spread the treat along your torso himself. A shudder runs through your body as you feel the cold cover your nipples. It doesn’t last long though, because soon Mingyu’s warm mouth is sucking up the ice cream, making your cunt clench. Mingyu repeats this process until you’re both fuzzy minded with lust and there’s no ice cream left.

Mingyu’s eyes are droopy with lust as he stares up at you, mesmerized at the sight.

“Well you can’t stop there Gyu,” you say, the innocent look on your face not matching your seductive tone at all. “Help a girl out?”

“Uh huh,” Mingyu answers dumbly. His cock is painfully hard now from sucking at your tits and he can’t stop thinking about being inside of your soaking cunt.

Mingyu is quick to tug at your shorts and underwear, shimmying you out of them. When you’re fully naked Mingyu takes a moment to admire you in all your beauty. Your stomach pudge droops down above your mound and Mingyu wants to trail his fingers over each of your stretch marks, but you’re both a bit too impatient for that.

Mingyu stands up, shucking off his own clothes, before pressing you up against the back of the couch. His knee pushes into the sofa next to you, your warm thigh brushing up against his. Mingyu’s lips are ruthless against your neck as he sucks the skin into his mouth.

You can feel his cock dribbling precum onto your thigh and you desperately need him inside of you. You reach down and stroke him a few times, whimpering into his ear as you do so.

“Fuck, want you so bad,” Mingyu whines.

“Take me. Please. Fuck my pussy, Gyu.”

That’s all the permission Mingyu needs to line himself up and slide into your pussy. You’re so wet he just slides right in, and he nearly cums on the spot. His hands run over your skin, relishing in the feel of your soft body under his palms. His fingers dig into your hips as he kneads the fat there.

Mingyu whimpers as he buries his face in your neck. Mingyu isn’t sure how he lived without fucking you, because you feel like heaven around his aching cock. His hips rock into yours, slowly building pace. Your walls give no resistance, yet you still feel so tight around him.

“Holy shit,” Mingyu mumbles as he reaches down to grab one of your thick thighs. He wraps it around his waist and he can feel the warmth radiating off your skin.

His hips snap into you over and over again, fucking himself deeper into you. Your fingers grasp his biceps tightly, your head thrown back. Your tits and stomach jiggle with each thrust and the sight is hypnotizing. Mingyu truly believes he’s not sane anymore, there’s no way this is real life for him.

“Baby,” Mingyu rambles on, “baby, baby. You feel so good. Fuck, I love your tight little sloppy cunt. You look so fucking pretty.”

You’re not too far off, only letting out mewls as Mingyu pounds into you harder. Mingyu reaches between your bodies and grasps your tits, massaging them in his hands. God, you’re perfect.

Mingyu’s hips keep rutting up into you, trying to draw his orgasm out as long as he can. You seem to have other plans for him though, as you squeeze your walls around him as tight as you can.

“C’mon Gyu. I know you want to cum. Give it to me.” You cup the sides of his neck, grinding down on him and meeting his thrusts.

“D-don’t want to stop, w-wanna last l-long-ger” Mingyu grits out.

“Don’t have to baby,” you tell him. “We can go again.”

Mingyu doesn’t think he’s heard words so beautiful in his life. Mingyu leans down and connects his mouth with yours, the taste of ice cream still staining your lips, as he empties his cum right into your cunt. He can feel the tension in his balls release as he pumps more and more into you. You just deepen the kiss, pressing yourself further up against him.

Your breasts are squished between your bodies and though Mingyu knows he just came, he can’t help but get aroused at the feeling. His cock twitches to life, and his hips rut forward slightly, grinding up against your stomach.

You laugh. “Okay, okay, I get it. I know what you need.”

Despite your words, you do the exact opposite of what Mingyu wants and you shove him away from you. Mingyu whines but shuts up quickly as you stand up and push him down to where you were just sitting. It’s now your turn to kneel down in front of Mingyu, smirking before you part your lips and wrap them around Mingyu’s tip.

Mingyu lets out a strangled moan, still sensitive from just cumming. You don’t let up though, just running your hand down his abs to sooth him. Your other hand holds onto the base of Mingyu’s cock, holding it steady as you bob your head up and down the length.

The room is filled with the wet noise of your mouth and your slight gag as you do your best to take his large cock, and it makes Mingyu’s cock twitch as he pants above you. Your darts out, licking at his slit before circling around his tip.

“Fuck, such a good boy,” you mumble as you pop off his cock, your hand pumping him in place of your mouth. Your lips are already starting to swell and they’re covered in a sheen of spit, a trail of it connecting from your mouth to his shaft. “Gonna fuck my mouth, big boy?”

“F-fuck, yes.”

You waste no time dipping down again, opening your mouth and allowing Mingyu to thrust up into the warm, wet cavity. Mingyu’s hands reach down and grab onto your head, pushing you down to take him further. Your hands grasp onto his thighs to steady yourself as you choke on his cock.

“Feels s’good,” Mingyu slurs out.

Mingyu can feel his tip hitting the back of your throat as your tongue presses up against the underside of his cock. He stares down at you and the way your eyes are starting to water and all he can do is let out a cry as a warning before he’s spilling his seed straight down your throat. Mingyu pulls out of your mouth and whimpers at the way his cum dribbles out of your mouth and onto your tits.

“Fuck,” you mumble, your voice a bit raw. “Your cum is leaking out of me and onto the floor.”

Mingyu groans. Fuck, he can’t get enough of you. You look so pretty like this like, mouth fucked silly, leaking, covered in his cum, full body on display. Mingyu desperately wants to take a photo of you, but he’ll commit to memory instead, storing it in his brain for jack off material later.

“Feel better baby?” All Mingyu can do is nod. You just smirk. “I guess I should make you lick food off of me more often.”

Mingyu just nods even harder, his mind already filled with images of you covered in whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Yeah, Mingyu would enjoy that a lot.

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join my taglist: here!

#kim mingyu #mingyu #mingyu smut #mingyu fanfic #mingyu x reader #svt mingyu #mingyu scenarios #mingyu imagines #seventeen #seventeen smut #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #rru.writes #rru.fics #★ mdni

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togrowoldinv · 5 months

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Hot Chocolate

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

The family plus Yelena spends time decorating for the holidays

Note: Very soft stuff here y’all. Enjoy it!

Natasha Masterlist 1, Natasha Masterlist 2, Natasha Masterlist 3, Main Masterlist

Soft music fills the room as Natasha watches the scene before her.

You’re at the coffee table putting toppings on everyone’s hot chocolate. Belle is right by your side, telling you how many marshmallows she wants.

Ali and Ivan are standing by the tree, arguing about what tree topper will look best. Taylor and Jack sit by the fireplace in their cozy winter clothes.

Yelena and Fanny are on the couch chilling. She only offers her input to poke fun at Natasha or if one of the kids sweettalk her into helping with the tree. Belle’s sweet words and eyes usually do the trick.

Later on, the team will be over for a late Thanksgiving and early holiday celebration.

Natasha has no idea how she ended up this lucky. She catches your eye, and you share a soft smile with her.

“Belle, can you ask Mama how many marshmallows she wants?” You ask the little girl.

She stands from beside you and waltzes over to Natasha, undoubtedly her favorite mom. Belle reaches her arms up and Nat lifts her up to settle on her hips.

“Hi printsessa,” Natasha greets her.

“Hi Mama,” Belle replies. “How many mallows do you want?”

“Hm,” Natasha pretends to think hard. “What about 100?”

“100?!” Belle asks, her mouth dropping. She turns her head to you. “Mommy, do we have enough room for 100?”

“No, we do not,” you say, a chuckle following her reaction. “Ask Mama to give you a reasonable number please.”

“You’re no fun,” Natasha pouts.

“It’s okay, Mama. I’ll get you as many as I can,” Belle says before squirming out of Nat’s arms.

Natasha grins and walks around the couch. She places a soft hand on Ali and Ivan’s shoulders as she makes her way around the room. Taylor reaches for her, and she easily brings the girl into her arms. She drops a kiss to Jack’s head before she walks to sit next to Yelena.

“What no motherly hug or kiss for me?” Yelena jokes.

“Oh, my bad,” Natasha says. She grins mischievously.

Yelena gets up from the couch quickly and Natasha follows her, leaving Taylor on the couch. The two women chase each other with no regard for the furniture or the tree.

“Hey! Both of you stop right now,” you turn on your mom voice. All of the kids’ ears perk up. Natasha halts immediately. She looks at you to see a serious face. “No horseplay in the house.”

“Sorry, detka,” Natasha says. She nudges Yelena’s shoulder.

“Oh, yes. Sorry, y/n,” Yelena says.

“It’s okay,” you say. “It’s hot chocolate time.”

“Yay!” Taylor cheers from the couch. Yelena reaches over and lifts the girl up, throwing her in the air and catching her a few times until Taylor is giggling too much to continue.

Natasha makes her way to help you pass out the drinks. She then settles next to you on the recliner. You’re practically sitting in her lap, but she isn’t complaining.

“What does everyone want to make sure we do this year for the holidays?” Natasha asks.

The kids think while Yelena speaks up first.

“Can we have a big holiday party?” Yelena asks.

“We’re literally doing that in two hours,” Nat replies.

“What? I’m not dressed!” Yelena panics. She runs upstairs and you all laugh at her.

Natasha keeps the conversation going, “Al, what about you?”

“A Christmas movie marathon,” Ali says.

“Great answer,” you reply. “Ivan?”

“A cookie decorating contest,” he says.

“Everything is a contest for you,” Ali says, huffing with annoyance.

“That’s because I’m talented as hell,” Ivan says.

“Language!” Natasha scolds him.

You can’t help but laugh as she realizes she’s turning into Steve. Belle raises her hand like she’s in school. Nat calls on her.

“I want to read Christmas bedtime stories every night,” Belle says.

“Now that’s an idea,” you say.

“Yeah, we can do that baby,” Natasha agrees. Belle grins from ear to ear. “Jack attack, what about you?”

“Um, I don’t know. Maybe go see some lights,” Jack says.

“There’s some displays in town. We could definitely go,” you say. “And that leaves Miss Taylor.”

“Yeah, what do you want to do for Christmas, Taylor?” Jack asks. The little girl shrugs.

“What about making gingerbread houses?” Ali pitches.

“Okay,” Taylor says simply. “I’ll need help.”

“We’ll do it together as a team,” Natasha says.

You kiss her cheek and listen in as the kids talk to each other about anything and everything. You need to get up and cook for the party, but being here with your family is more fun.

Natasha feels the same way. She holds you close and thinks about her wonderful family. It will be a happy holiday season, and she can’t wait.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #soft natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff comfort #yelena belova

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stararch4ngelqueen · 5 months

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Self indulgent but … thanksgiving w a gf who loves the holidays but doesn’t have family or friends to spend them with ?

This is really small and super quick, I hope you enjoy it! I do hope you have a wonderful day! (Also went ahead and incorporated two things I made today just because my mind is too lazy to think of anything else. If you don’t like them, womp womp/jk Pretend Gotham War dosent exist)

—

Time written - 8:09 p.m

—

“You sure I’m not invading in on their celebration?” You vocalize your concern for about the fiftieth time after smoothing out your final layer of fluffy, whipped concoction for your dessert dish.

“If anything, Alfred will appreciate one less dessert to make.” Jason responds, casually leaning across the countertop across from you, watching you work your magic on making one of your miracle dishes. While you didn’t necessarily have to bring a dessert, you insisted as a show of good faith.

“It’ll give the old man a reason to sit down for once,” Jason adds, referring to Alfred’s insistence upon waiting by everyone until they got full plates and thoroughly enjoyed a majority of their meals.

You kept asking the same question, just with different rephrasing of words. You were nervous, Jason could see that by the way you smoothed the silicone spatula over the top of your dessert for the tenth time, insisting perfection on something that already tasted heavenly.

Jason would know. He’s always your designated taste tester.

You went above and beyond with everything you did; Making your own whipped cream, using Madagascar vanilla beans, making your own pudding base from scratch.

“Babe.”

“Hm?” You respond with a concentrated stare on your dish.

“Look at me real quick.”

You spare a short glance up at him, putting up a sweet front of a smile. “What? I’m almost done, Jay.”

“I know,” Jason curts. “I’m sure they’ll love it.”

You nod, swallowing before focusing again on the top of your dish. You picked up the recipe from an online blog article about three years ago; an upgrade on a traditional banana pudding using heavy cream and expensive flavoring, the dessert reeking of pure holiday that had to be shared with the rest of the world.

“Are you sure this looks okay?” You ask, feeling like the top of the dessert needed a lot more than wafer cookies and bananas. Nuts? Caramel drizzle?

“It looks great,” Jason insists, approaching your side of the counter, settling his hand along your hip. “Scratch that. It looks delicious, incredible, mouthwatering. All the good words, sweetheart.”

You can’t help but smile, your cheeks warming with his compliments. Raising your whipped cream spoon to his mouth, you tap his bottom lip before giving him a kiss, hearing his muffled chuckle shortly after.

“Decadent,” He adds, licking his bottom lip of any remaining, perfectly sweet cream. “Perfect. Believe me, Dick and Alfred will never see any banana pudding the same way again.”

You could only hope so, giving him another smile. You liked making this dish, bringing it to your work during little dinner parties. The loudest compliment was a dish scraped empty, yet no one ever asked for the recipe. No one wondered who made it, no one really asked.

“You sure it looks perfect?” Again, your doubts can’t help but have you repeat your broken vinyl record. “I want it to be perfect.”

“It is perfect,” Jason gently reassures with firm sentiment, giving your cheek a soft squeeze. You set your mind to something, you keep at it until you’re perfectly satisfied. As stubborn as it makes you, you always try above your best.

This was your first official gathering with the entirety of Jason’s family. It wasn’t your first, as you’ve been over a few times before for pizza and burgers for movie nights, but never with every single Bat related member at a large, ornately decorated table in an extravagant dining room.

Especially, never with Bruce. Not until tonight, where they’d have a little private event to themselves at the manor. A rare occasion where masks and secret identities weren’t needed. Sometimes, criminal behaviors didn’t allow them a break, so this was truly a treat.

Dick could be himself, fussing over preferences of pumpkin and sweet potato to an annoyed Tim. Babs would scoff her amusement while recording them to show off during Christmas, and the rest would gawk or scoff, chatting amongst themselves or listening in on such a boisterous conversation.

This time, the special guest would be you; the girl Red Hood was sweet on long before you knew his name, becoming the sole guardian of every important identity of the Wayne family.

“Trust me. They invited you, it’ll just be us. It was a big vote with no one opposing.”

Those words brought a more comforting, genuine smile to your face, one Jason could tell was more truthful. Holidays were joyfully dreadful to spend alone in an empty home, the promise of a manor full of friendly faces happy to see you, happy to spend time with you and incorporate you into a tradition you desperately craved was a godsend. It felt too good to be true.

The best part of it all was how much Jason understood. He didn’t celebrate these kinds of holidays when he was a child. No foster family, or even his own mother, could spare enough money to provide grand meals and hours of spending time with people you care for.

It took him a long time to get used to it, he wanted that for you as well. You deserved it after all, they all liked you in their own unique way.

“I’m sure a solid nine out of ten attendants will enjoy those sugar cookie martinis,” Jason murmurs while adjusting a few strands of your hair, reminding you of the one underage family member that ‘tolerated’ your presence.

“Do they got a full stock of vanilla vodka?”

“Course they do. Personally know Bruce has a ton of amaretto.”

“‘Personally?’”

“All those bottles for our dates, babe. Grabbed them all from somewhere.”

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader #dc jason todd #jason todd x y/n #jason todd dc

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writerdream22 · 1 year

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requested by: anonymous, I really hope you like this ✨🌻💛

pairing: Chandler Bing x reader, Joey Tribbiani x reader (platonic), Monica Geller x reader (platonic), Rachel Green x reader (platonic), etc.

prompts used: “Have you ever seen anything prettier than this?” “Yeah, you”

warnings: mentions of smoking. English is not my first language so there might be some grammatical errors

feedbacks are always appreciated!

REQUESTS ARE CURRENTLY OPEN!

You did not like parties. At all.

It just was not your thing, and everyone knew that. That was the main reason why you had decided to stay home and relax rather than attend a Thanksgiving party with your best friends.

You did not understand why they were so attached to the tradition, anyways. The fact that you didn't grow up in an American household didn't help with that. Nonetheless, you weren't the only one who didn't always celebrate the festivity

“Do you have them?” Chandler Bing barged into your apartment. He held a couple of beers in one hand, and a bag in the other where there seemed to be some food.

“Yes.” you responded, sitting up from your sofa “I only had one quilted blanket, because Monica somehow couldn't tell me where she'd put the others. As for the pillows— well, I have two”. Chandler shrugged, then motioned for you to get going. You exited your apartment closing the door behind you, while silently hoping that none of your roommates came back while you weren't home.

───────────────────────────

There was a full moon. The city was still buzzing, it was amazing how its lights were never turned off. You loved it. And the company just added to your enjoyment of the night.

You'd laughed at Chandler's never-ending jokes for so long that your cheeks hurt, and you'd eaten so much that you swore you would never open a packet of chips again.

“Have you ever seen something prettier than this?” you questioned, looking up at the sky in awe .

Chandler stayed silent for a few, awkward moments, before responding. “Yeah” he said “you”.

What the hell?

“Are you... are you drunk? I can make you that strange smoothie that we always had in college, if you want—”

“— no, y/n” he interrupted you, rolling his eyes.

You were more confused than ever, so you asked Chandler what he meant by that. “I'll cut to the chase” he began “I love you, y/n. Everything makes me think about you: even when I just stare at the wall or drink a coffee, you're what's on my mind. And look, if you don't reciprocate my feelings, I totally get it.”

You couldn't find the words to answer coherently. Those damned feelings.

“Are you for real?” you questioned, to which Chandler responded “Yes. I know it's shocking, but I'm being serious this time”. He took a deep breath before adding that he was going to pass out if you didn't say anything.

“Oh, I'm sorry!” you exclaimed “Well, uhm... I love you too, Chandler. I have loved you since we first met... Since Ross and Monica introduced the two of us”.

He was clearly trying to hold back a smile, but he failed miserably at doing so when you nudged him and remarked that you had to throw out those “best friends” mugs that you'd bought as a joke a few years prior.

“Yeah... We should.”

You didn't think you could be happier on Thanksgiving Day.

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munson-blurbs · 2 months

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Eddie lowered his guard during a late night conversation, revealing crucial details about his past. But was it enough for you to reciprocate? (4.3k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, homelessness, brief mention of neglect, brief mention of sex work, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter four: show me yours, i'll show you mine

If convincing Eddie to take the job wasn’t enough of a struggle, you still had to explain the situation to your parents.

Hi Mom and Dad, I invited a guest to help fix up the motel. The same one who stole a blanket–but don’t worry, I got it back. Oh, and he’ll be staying here for free.

They were understandably taken aback by your decision, especially without consulting them first, but you’d mustered up a strong argument: Eddie was young, he was easy to get along with, and he showed a basic sense of personal responsibility. Not to mention that the place could certainly use the repairs; peeling wallpaper was just the tip of the iceberg. Lightbulbs needed to be replaced, carpets needed to be scrubbed, and the outside of the building desperately needed to be power washed.

“Plus, summer break doesn’t start for another few weeks,” you hastily added. “We won’t need to worry about renting out Eddie’s room until then.”

Mom arched an eyebrow at the newfound ascription—not room four, but Eddie’s room—but said nothing, only looking at your father for his seal of approval.

He breathed out, long and low, trying to do the calculations in his head. Your heart flip-flopped when his gaze dropped to the ground, his signature move when he was about to tell you no.

“If he doesn’t help out, he can’t afford to stay here anyway. It’s not like we’re losing money if he keeps the room for a bit.” You winced at the slight whine in your voice, the opposite of the infallible exterior you’d wanted to present.

Dad laughed, not unkindly, but belittlement panged in your chest nonetheless. “Except for the water, air conditioning, and electricity he uses,” he pointed out, ticking off each item on his fingers. “Unless he plans to only sit in the dark, sweat, and never shower.” He sighed as unmistakable disappointment weaved into your eyes and filled them with tears.

Now you’d have to tell Eddie that the offer was off the table, that he was shit out of luck, that you’d let him down. You never should’ve opened your big mouth in the first place. Captain Save-the-World, except you only ever made things worse. If you wore a cape, it would get snagged on tree branches each time you tried to fly.

“You have a good heart,” Mom spoke up, trying to nurse your wounded feelings, “but kindness doesn’t pay the bills.” She glanced at Dad again, her mouth set in a straight line. “Maybe we can discuss this further.”

You fought to ignore the hope that bloomed from her words, but the corners of your mouth turned upwards before you could rein it in. “Thank you,” you murmured, offering them both a grateful smile.

People called you a ‘bleeding heart,’ teasing you about your constant attempts to solve problems beyond a reasonable scope. At last year’s Thanksgiving dinner, your uncle had informed you—unprompted—that he would never vote for you for President because “you’d just give all my money to the poor.”

While your parents were more realistic with their goals than you were, they did their best to encourage your compassionate spirit; there was no doubt that you got your sense of morality from them. After deliberating on Eddie’s fate for a few hours, they had finally relented—with one stipulation.

“Your mother and I are not going to supervise him, so he’ll have to work night shifts with you,” Dad had said sternly.

“Really?” You clapped your hands in celebration. “Thank you! I mean, um, Eddie thanks you.”

Dad gave your shoulders a quick squeeze; it was his version of you’re welcome. “Yeah, well.” He played it cool, keeping his tone breezy. “It’ll be good practice for when you take over the place.”

You’d nodded in response, your insides twisting in a clashing mix of excitement and shame. Eddie wouldn’t have to live on the street, but it required you to continue lying to your parents.

I’ll tell them the truth once Eddie finds a real job and gets his own place. I can only handle one crisis at a time.

That was how you’d found yourself spending your Tuesday evening with Eddie Munson. The motel was otherwise empty, save for your parents, a middle-aged trucker in room 7, and Phyllis in her usual digs.

You and Dad had spent the end of his shift covering the floor with giant flimsy drop cloths. They hadn’t been used in years, evidenced by the thin layer of dust that coated them when you’d dug them out from the back of the supply closet. You’d tried your best to shake it all off but instead sent yourself into a sneezing fit.

Eddie sauntered into the lobby at a quarter after ten. Gray sweatpants sagged at his waist, the drawstring noticeably missing from the elastic band, and his white cotton undershirt had a tan stain that spread across his left pec.

“Coffee,” he explained with a shrug, rolling a hair tie off of his wrist and pulling his curls into a messy bun at the nape of his neck. He looked at you blankly and waited for you to instruct him, but you had already dove into your schoolwork. “Um, is there a ladder? Tools?” He pursed his lips and scanned the room with indifference.

“Oh! Right, yeah.” You could have smacked yourself for not having everything set up for him. “We don’t have a ladder per se, but this step stool should work fine.” You pulled it out from behind the desk along with a scoring tool, a spray bottle filled with a vinegar and water solution, and a putty knife. “I also grabbed the clock radio from my room if you wanted to listen to some music. Might help pass the time.”

Eddie nodded, watching carefully as you switched the radio on and tuned the dial to a Top 40 station. He shook his head the moment the electric beat of Haddaway’s “What is Love” played through the tinny speakers.

“Absolutely not,” he said with a scoff, dropping the supplies right where he stood, footsteps heavy even with the cloth underneath him. Without another word, he spun the knob past the static until the sound of an electric guitar crackled through. He bobbed his head a few times, finding the rhythm. “This’ll do.”

“Not a Eurodance fan?”

His back was turned to you as he returned to the task at hand which left him unable to see the sarcastic smirk you sported. “Fuck no.” He stepped up on the tool and began cutting into the old wallpaper, puffing out an irritated laugh. “I can’t believe—scratch—you voluntarily—scratch—listen to that–scratch–shit.” His biceps flexed with each flick of the blade in a consistent rhythm.

Drumming your fingernails on the desk, you twirled your pen in your free hand as you reread your own handwriting. You’d stayed at the library and filled notebook pages with bullet points about early childhood development until a squirrely librarian kicked you out at closing time. The choppy sentence fragments begged to be fleshed out into a fully-formed essay, but you couldn’t bring yourself to focus.

Write words. Make edits. Add a comma. Do something, anything, dammit.

Almost an hour passed without you making an iota of progress on your paper. The words swam on the page until they just looked like inky squiggles with no real meaning, your brain blank as if you’d never written anything in your life. Cool air tickled your nose as you exhaled through your lips. Why couldn’t you just concentrate?

“It’s this music,” you muttered to yourself, too low for your company to hear. Your temples throbbed with frustration, and you reached over and snapped back to the previous station.

Eddie’s head whipped around at the sudden change, frowning when he heard pop music instead of the metal that had just been playing. “Seriously?” He leaned one hand on the wall and threw the other up in exasperation.

“Yes, seriously,” you bit back, teeth clenched in annoyance. “I can’t focus on my writing with that on.”

Eddie grumbled something unintelligible but went back to work, the scratching serving as a strange backdrop to the song.

Janet Jackson faded out to a too-chipper deejay. “You folks know what time it is!” His voice reminded you of old-school toothpaste commercials, over-exaggerated and unnaturally polished. “That’s right; it’s time for Rad or Retch—where I play a song from a new artist, and you call in and let me know whether you think it’s rad or if it makes you wanna retch!”

Eddie rolled his eyes, adding an exasperated “Jesus H. Christ,” under his breath.

“This one’s called ��Watch Me Leave’ by Death’s Echo, a grunge group from—”

The announcement came to an abrupt end as Eddie nearly leaped from the stool to the desk and yanked the plug out of its socket. The two-pronged head hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Hey!” Your eyes widened in confusion and then disbelief, flickering over to where he stood. You expected him to wear a scowl that matched your own; instead, he looked like he’d just taken a knife to the gut, and you took a step back. “Whoa, you okay?”

Eddie tensed the moment he detected your sympathetic tone, shoulders pinched and jaw rigid. “‘M fine.” He pressed the heel of his left hand atop his right knuckles until they cracked. “Sorry.” He bent down and gently plugged the cord back into the wall, but you immediately flicked the power button to the off-position.

It was silent for a full minute, save for the scorer against the wall and the scratch of pen on paper. When Eddie finally spoke, his voice was so soft that you barely heard it.

“That was my band.”

Confusion creased your brows. You set down your pen and stole a glance at him. His body remained facing the wall, but he was no longer working, hands lamely at his sides. “What?”

“Death’s Echo was, uh,” he shook a rogue curl from his eyes, “that was my band.”

“Oh.” Awkwardness seeped into the room and filled every crevice as you wracked your brain for a suitable response. “But…not anymore?”

Eddie clicked his tongue. “Nope.” The p sound popped softly as though signaling the discussion’s end, but there was a pregnant pause before he started removing the wallpaper again.

“Why not?” The question sprang from your tongue, curiosity getting the best of you.

A hesitant chuckle accompanied his sigh. “I thought you didn't make small talk with strangers.” He climbed back on the step stool and ripped off a strip of paper.

“I thought we weren’t strangers anymore,” you quipped back, not missing the smile that ghosted his lips.

“Fair enough.” Eddie conceded easily, not at all angry to be proven wrong. He bit the inside of his cheek and stared up at the yellow-tinged lighting overhead before slicing into the wallpaper. “Sometimes you think you want something, but it turns out to be a steaming pile of horseshit.” The last word was punctuated by a grunt, and the last panel of wallpaper fluttered to the ground. “That’s the music industry in a nutshell.”

You nodded in agreement despite an obvious lack of knowledge.

“They sign your band,” he continued, aiming the spray bottle nozzle at the wall and pulling the trigger, “and you think it’s because they like you. Or at least your music, your sound, whatever.” He wrinkled his nose as he got an unexpected whiff of the vinegar solution’s pungency. “But you’re really just a front for whatever they want to sell. Which, apparently, is grunge.”

You had too many questions. They probably referred to record producers or agents or some other bigwigs, you surmised, but what did they do that made Eddie so cynical?

That was far too loaded to ask, at least in that moment, so you opted for a more humorous follow-up. “You mean it wasn’t all sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll?” you joked, but Eddie didn’t share in your lightheartedness.

“At the beginning, when we first got signed, yeah.” His brown eyes exuded wistfulness, remembrance of better times. He blinked twice and snapped himself out of it. “We put out a few albums that didn’t completely flop, I guess. And we were the opening act on a couple of tours. Got a good chunk of money in the bank.”

That explained the Calvin Klein underwear he was wearing on that first night. You capped your pen and leaned in, trying not to be overly inquisitive but unable to contain yourself. “So…what happened?” What led you here?

“We get called into a meeting, and we’re all thinking that the label’s gonna tell us we’re headlining, right? Maybe not, like, The Garden, but bigger venues than we usually played. But, uh…” he trailed off and rubbed the tip of his nose with an open palm, “it was an ultimatum: shift from metal to grunge, or get dropped.”

You listened intently as Eddie relayed the ordeal. The label executives had cited the increasing popularity of Nirvana and Pearl Jam along with decreasing interest in heavy metal bands. “Cobain’s selling; Ozzy isn’t,” they’d explained. If Death’s Echo wanted to play to packed arenas and have their music on mainstream radio, they had to adapt to the times.

“I told them we weren’t sellouts and to kiss my ass,” Eddie said to you, huffing out an annoyed breath. “But the rest of the band didn’t give a shit about that; if those suits told them to jump, they’d say ‘how high.’ So, I quit and waited for them to come crawling back.”

He didn’t elaborate after that. He didn’t need to. Because if they’d done as Eddie had hoped, he wouldn’t be performing manual labor just to live in a struggling motel, basking in the gloominess that he wore like a second skin.

“If you could go back and do it differently, would you?” You grimaced at your own intrusiveness. “Sorry, that was—”

“It’s fine.” Eddie didn’t give an answer right away, his teeth grating against his lower lip. “Y’know, I’d like to say no, but losing your record deal, your apartment, your girlfriend, your so-called ‘friends,’ and every nice thing you own can make a guy kinda cynical.”

Girlfriend?

It was far from the most dire item on that list, but it needled at you. Maybe it was the mental image of Eddie watching everything get taken from him and then adding heartbreak on top of it all.

“How about you?”

His voice yanked you from your thoughts and had your heart in your throat. “Huh?”

“You. Your whole deal.” He gestured at you with the scraper. “Why you’re always doing homework like a little nerd.” You couldn't detect a note of taunting in his teasing, only playfulness, just as it had been that very first night.

You scowled for only a second before a smile broke through. “Don’t you have wallpaper to remove?”

Eddie snorted out a laugh. “I see how it is: when it’s my shit, I’m free to talk. But when it’s your shit, I’m a lowly employee.” He held up both hands in mock surrender. “My deepest apologies, Heiress.”

You didn’t bother to argue, choosing instead to pivot to a new subject altogether. “How long does this take, anyway?” Walking out from behind the desk to inspect his work, you ran your finger down the wall. Once you got past the stench of vinegar, he was actually doing a pretty good job.

“You think you could do better?” He saw your gentle ribbing and upped the ante, holding out the putty scraper as if saying, be my guest.

Plucking it from his grasp, you smirked and chose a spot right at eye level. Challenge accepted.

Though the glue had softened considerably, removing it still required decent muscle. You put your bodyweight into it and pushed through the resistance, but you only managed to pull off a little bit.

You heard Eddie laugh through his nose as he stood behind you, watching you struggle. “Harder than it looks, huh?” He ignored your middle finger and stepped a half-inch closer. “Let me help.”

One calloused hand dwarfed yours, his fingers wrapping around where your fist held the scraper. The other found purchase on the bicep of your free arm where your T-shirt’s cuff met skin, stabilizing without entrapping you. You could easily get out of his grasp if you wanted.

You stayed there.

He tightened his grip around yours and made short, downward strokes, admittedly taking off far more glue than you had. “There ya go,” he murmured. His breath was warm on your neck, gooseflesh rising when he spoke. You hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Just like that.”

Butterflies beat their wings in your stomach, a result of the unexpected proximity compounded by an unmet need for connection that starkly contrasted the night shift’s normal solitude. A loose tendril of his hair tickled against your ear, and the realization of how close your bodies actually were shattered whatever spell had been cast.

Eddie pulled away quickly, the air cooling where his hand once rested. Did he also feel that sudden loss of contact, or was it all in your head?

With a shaky breath, you stepped aside and silently returned the tool to him. “Should probably leave this to the expert,” you muttered, forcing nervous laughter. “I have to get back to writing anyway.”

His eyes bored into you as you walked back to the desk, but neither of you said another word. You glanced over at him every so often, noting the perspiration dampening his collar and under his arms as he toiled away at the glue and wished you had a water bottle to offer him.

Maybe next time.

You got halfway through the first body paragraph when Eddie spoke again.

“You’re really not gonna talk?”

You looked up to see him swipe his forearm along his brows as he shot you a tired grin.

“We just had a whole conversation,” you pointed out, returning your attention to your essay.

“About me,” he said. He wiped his palms on his pants, leaving behind a sweaty print, and traipsed over to you. “I mean, every time I see you, you’re either going to school or coming back from school or doing work for school…”

You shrugged, no big deal. “Okay, yeah, I go to school.”

“For what?”

Shit. “Hospitality and hotel management.”

“Really.” Eddie leaned over and snatched up your paper. You reached out to grab it back, but it was too late. The bridge of his nose scrunched as he read the opening paragraph to himself. “Doesn’t look like hospitality to me.” Amusement raised his brows. “Care to explain?”

It was the last thing you wanted to do, but you felt strangely obligated. He’d confided in you, so you should at least moderately indulge him.

“Fine,” you relented, “I’m studying psychology.” That might have been the first time you’d ever said those words aloud in the motel lobby; it was oddly freeing.

Eddie nodded and continued to scan the paper. “You wanna be a shrink?”

“Social worker.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s a tough gig. Especially if you’re working with kids.” He shook the essay pages for emphasis.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Right.” He shoved one hand in his pants pocket. “What made you decide to be a social worker?”

You breathed out a laugh. “You want the easy answer or the real one?”

He didn’t hesitate before answering. “Real one. Always.” He returned your essay and rested his un-pocketed hand on the desk. Inquiring eyes beckoned you to continue.

With less trepidation than you’d anticipated, you tell him the story of that fateful day in the summer of 1987, just two years after you’d graduated from high school.

You were still working the afternoon shift, and summer break brought its usual influx of guests. People came and went in blurs of luggage, but there was one particular patron who had made her presence known.

“Hi!”

You peered over the desk to find the source of the lively greeting. A young girl, no older than five, stared back at you, syrupy grape stickiness surrounding her lips. The cause was most likely a popsicle, as evidenced by the purple stained stick clenched in her right hand.

“Um, hi,” you said with a smile that was, for the first time in a long while, not encased in customer service insincerity. “What’s your name?” And where did you come from?

Unfazed by your bewilderment, she introduced herself as Izzy and asked you if you wanted to play. “We just have to stay here, or else my mommy will get mad,” she explained with urgency.

You nodded slowly, sorting through the information without raising any alarm. “And where is your mommy?”

Izzy’s hazel eyes darted back towards the hallway. “In our room. She’s with a friend so I can’t go in.” She dropped her voice to what she considered a whisper, but it was still clear as day. “Her friend is a boy.”

Your stomach turned. Of course. Instead of watching her child, this mother was probably shooting up with her boyfriend of the week.

“I can’t play right now, but you can sit here with me until your mommy and her friend come back out,” you said. “I have paper and pens if you wanna draw.”

This satisfied her, and she plopped down on the floor and patted the spot next to her. That day hadn’t been particularly hectic, so you obliged and sat.

“What’re you gonna draw?” Izzy asked, reaching for a blue pen. You didn’t have time to answer before she proudly announced, “I’m gonna draw a flower. Do you like flowers?”

“Mhm.”

Izzy smiled as she surrounded a circle with swirling loops. “You can draw a flower, too. Maybe a rose. Or a sunflower!”

Her excitement at the latter option was all you needed. “Sunflower it is, Miss Izzy.” You drew a circle of your own and filled it with a cross-hatched pattern, curating pointed-tipped petals around it.

“D’you have crayons?” she asked, not looking up from her own flower.

You put down your pen and offered a pitying frown. “No, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. You should get some, though. ‘Cause you can draw prettier flowers with crayons.”

The two of you stayed on the floor for ten minutes. All the while, she quizzed you on your favorite color, animal, food, and TV show. She was halfway through a heated explanation of why Friend Bear was superior to Share Bear when a frantic voice called out her name.

“Mommy!” Izzy practically flew into her mother’s arms. You watched as the woman’s entire body sagged in relief, pulling her daughter in close. A man trailed behind her, discreetly zipping up his fly and walking out the front door.

“Izzy, I told you to sit in the hall and eat your ice pop,” her mom gently scolded, words muffled by her lips being pressed to Izzy’s scalp.

Izzy scrunched her nose in confusion. “But I finished it.” She pointed at the empty stick, now on the ground where she’d been sitting, as proof. In true childlike fashion, she jumped to a new topic without waiting for the first conversation to conclude. “Mommy, you wanna see what I drawed?”

“Of course, baby.” She easily feigned excitement as Izzy presented her with a series of scribbles that were meant to be various flowers, people, and farm animals. “Wow! I think you’re gonna be an artist one day.”

The little girl continued chatting, blissfully unaware of the panic she’d inadvertently caused. Her mom allowed herself to look away for just a moment to glance at you, mouthing a tiny “thank you” and blinking her tear-filled eyes.

“And…I don’t know,” you lamely supplied as you wrapped up the story. “I guess I realized that I had all of these assumptions, this sort of preconceived notion that this woman was a deadbeat parent, but she obviously loved Izzy more than anything.” You picked at your thumbnail nervously. “No one should have to sell their body for money just to survive. She deserved better than that.”

Eddie stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing everything you’d thrown at him. “And you wanted to help her,” he finally said.

“Yeah.” You thought back to the way her gaze simultaneously held gratitude and guilt. Her daughter was safe, but she knew that this was not the final time she’d be in this predicament.

The experience had awakened a realization in you: working at the motel was never your dream, but it kept a roof over your head and food in your belly. You weren’t left to navigate the world on your own. Independence was a privilege, not a mandate.

“For what it’s worth,” Eddie broke in, “I think you’ll be a great social worker someday.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk twice and slipped back to the awaiting task; despite insisting that you talked to him while he worked, he hadn’t touched any of the tools while you spoke.

Your smile was a thank you, and you tuned the radio back to the metal station Eddie had chosen earlier. He didn’t say anything else, but you noted the subtle tap of his toe against the drop cloth.

Eddie worked for a few more hours until he’d stripped the wall of all paper and glue. “All right,” he said, balancing the step stool on two fingers. Sleepiness softened his own smile, all lips and no teeth. “Let me know when the new wallpaper comes in. You, uh, know where I live.”

“Will do.” Your thumb absently grazed against the words you’d just written, smudging them. You rubbed at the black ink seeping into your skin, silently chastising your own carelessness. “Good night, Eddie.”

He stretched and scratched at the U-neck of his collar, exposing a sliver of chest hair.

“Sweet dreams, Heiress.”

taglist:

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#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #lam

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 months

Text

Happy Thanksgiving! In celebration, have an awkward family dinner scene from my current WIP.

“You know,” Earwen said, taking a careful sip of her wine, “you could petition the Valar.”

This was not a new concept. It had not been tried recently, but Nerdanel still had to pause in her meal for a moment to poke at just why Earwen was presenting it so cautiously.

“On what grounds?” She had certainly tried everything she could think of.

“Precedence, mainly. It is not so different from the case of Finwe and Miriel.”

Arafinwe sat with his fork half frozen between his plate and his mouth. Nerdanel felt half frozen herself, trying to understand. How could the statute of Finwe and Miriel possibly be similar to her own case?

“I know you might not have anyone in mind now,” Earwen continued, “but it might help to already have your right established.”

Her right. Her right to -

To do what everyone had been so insistent she do.

Get up.

Smile.

Move on.

She could get up. She could smile. She could - move.

But to move on? To take someone else in his place?

She was furious with him. Incandescently so. She wanted to claw out those clever, unsatisfied eyes. She wanted to bite out his beautiful, poisonous tongue. She wanted to pour molten rock over him and let it settle around him until he could never move from its confines again.

But to move on? To take someone else?

She imagined someone coming to Feanaro after his vaults had been torn open and telling him it was alright, really, that the Silmarils were gone; look, they had all these pieces of lovely shattered glass, and he was welcome to take his pick between them.

“I could remarry, you mean,” she said, and Feanaro would have known that just because her voice was still, it did not mean she said it calmly. “Have children again, even.”

“If you liked,” Earwen said, though her own voice was careful now.

Nerdanel sipped her wine. “I do not know why you do not take your own advice. You would not even have to appeal to the Valar for it; no one would have the slightest right to object to you and Arafinwe having another child. Then it wouldn’t matter that Aegnor is never going to come out of the Halls.”

Earwen’s face went white.

“Excuse me,” Nerdanel said and left.

. . .

She was already packed by the time Arafinwe came to her room. She had steadied by then, though not calmed.

“She meant well, and I did not,” she conceded without looking up from securing the last of her things. “I won’t trouble you till I’ve thought up a proper apology.”

Everyone remembered that she had fought with Feanaro. No one ever seemed to remember that if it had just been Feanaro raging, it would not have been a fight.

“Please don’t leave,” Arafinwe said wearily, leaning against the door. “We’ve had quite enough of that.”

“It’s what I do,” she said shortly. Hear something horrible. Say something horrible. Leave.

Not come back until it was too late, and he had already sworn that stupid Oath.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. “As your apology to me,” he clarified, “please at least wait until morning.”

She paused.

He looked so very tired.

“Alright,” she conceded. She sank down on top of her bags. “Do you think I should move on?”

It was poking at a bruise for no good reason. Her answer wouldn’t change for him.

But she wanted to know just how long she should take to come up with an apology.

“I have no right to tell you how to handle your personal affairs,” he said, and for a moment, he sounded like her king, gracefully holding himself to the limits of his power.

She scowled at him.

“No right,” he repeated. “And if you want to - to never make another statue of him and run off to join the choir in Alqualonde, I will be the last to tell you otherwise.”

“But?”

“But if you came back and told me you wished to remarry, I think I would offer you the crown of the Noldor not to,” he admitted. “As much as he would laugh to hear one of my mother’s children speak against it. Right now it is only the verdict of the Valar that he may never return, and the Valar have changed their minds before. If we should lock that door forever . . . “

It was probably immaterial anyway. The Valar had needed Miriel’s permission to allow Finwe’s remarriage; Feanaro, surely, would not give it.

Surely. Surely she still meant more to him than that.

She did not wish to bare that corner of her soul tonight, not even to Arafinwe. Instead, she confessed to an easier thing.

“When I was pregnant with the twins,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “it was - difficult. More difficult than any of the other births had been. I had half lost myself by the end.”

“I remember,” he said softly.

That surprised her; she did not remember him from then at all, but she supposed that only supported her point. “I was convinced I was going to die, and I was in no state to think clearly about it. I swore to him over and over that I would come back, that the very moment Namo allowed it I would come back, that he would not need to be patient long.”

Some irrational part of her had been terrified that they would lie to him; that they would say she had refused the call of life while she was desperately pounding on Mandos’s walls.

When she had been saner, she had known the fearful fancies for what they were. But in the midst of them . . .

“He kept promising that I wasn’t going to die, of course.” And he had been right about that, though it was the only one of their arguments that she would concede now. “But when that didn’t settle me, he told me that he believed me, and that if it took me a hundred thousand years to return, he would believe me still and wait.”

She had never doubted that promise. Even when they had burned everything else between them, she had believed that promise. In their worst moments, it had been because she was sure he would never concede any ground whatsoever to Indis’s marriage, but she had still believed it.

She hadn’t returned the promise. She hadn’t thought she would need to.

But now here she was, still standing, and the Valar promising that he would never, ever return.

It was not yet a hundred thousand years.

And when it had been, she would keep his promise in his stead and still wait.

#silmarillion #fic #nerdanel #finarfin #earwen #nerdanel is not perfect #nerdanel is not happy with feanor #but she hasn't given up on him #part of a prequel to Memento Pugna but can stand alone

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 4 months

Note

Can we see Alfred and shop girl bonding in the Other Half?💕

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Warnings: Mostly fluffy, with a peppering of angst; Shop Girl has nightmares; this is an Alfred-centric chapter for obvious reasons

“I known Frank twenty years. I do that to him, can you imagine what I’ll do to you?”

The words are drowned by a gunshot, and a cruel laugh—

You’re sitting up and scrambling to turn the lamp on before you can stop yourself. You heave in tight, panicked breaths as your memory still crowds behind your eyes and rings through your ears. You look around the bedroom, and for once, you’re relieved to find Bruce’s side of the bed empty. Ever since you’ve returned to Gotham, he’s been hesitant around you. His worry hasn’t disappeared, but he’s been far more careful about voicing that concern.

You draw a deep breath in through your nose, forcing yourself to hold it for ten seconds before slowly blowing the air out again. You can feel the panicked pounding of your heart as you begin to adjust to your reality, away from your nightmare.

You look around the dim room, stomach churning in discomfort at the thought of laying back down and trying to fall back asleep with the memories of the kidnapping so close to the surface. You push the sheets aside, tucking your feet into your slippers and taking your bathrobe up from where you’d hung it over the footboard. You pull it open, yawning widely as you head for the door.

It’s a short trip to the kitchen, but you’re surprised to find the lights on, and Alfred puttering around.

“Alfred?” You speak up, voice thick from disuse. You smile a little as he turns to look at you. “Is everything okay?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You hum softly, walking over to the stove. “I wanted some tea,” You fib. “Would you like some?”

“I’d be happy to make it.”

“I don’t mind. You do these things for us all the time. What are you doing up, anyway?”

“I had trouble getting to sleep, myself.”

“Really?” You frown, turning to look at him once you’ve put the fire on under the kettle. “Are you alright?”

“Quite alright,” He reassures with a gentle smile. “I was trying to parse whether or not Master Wayne may want to do anything for Christmas.”

“Mm,” You nod. “A good question, consider the catastrophe that was Thanksgiving.”

You walk over to the shelf that Alfred keeps the tea chest.

“Would you like a biscuit with your tea?”

“Oh, yes please,” You smile.

“Has he said anything to you about Christmas?”

“Not a word. But communication’s been a little…Odd since I got back.”

“‘Odd’ how?”

“Mm, well,” You shrug, opening the lid of the tea chest. “I don’t know, I feel like we’ve been tip-toeing around one another.”

“That is to be expected, even if it’s uncomfortable.”

“As long as it doesn’t become our normal.”

��I’m certain you’ll find a way to work through it.”

You smile as Alfred joins you at the counter with two clean mugs.

“Thank you. Chamomile?”

“How you know me,” Alfred chuckles.

“Two tea bags?”

“Yes, please.”

You set the tea bags down in one mug before taking up a packet of sleepy time for yourself.

“...Alfred?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask…” You trail off, weighing your words as you put the tea chest away again. “When I asked Bruce about whether or not we were doing anything for Thanksgiving, you know—before the fiasco…He seemed to sort of…Glaze over.”

Alfred purses his lips, considering.

“The holidays have always been somewhat difficult for Mr. Wayne, but we haven't celebrated Thanksgiving since he was a very small boy.”

“Oh…” You slouches back against the counter, scrubbing your hand across your forehead. “I wish I had known that. I’m sure this year hasn't sent him scurrying back to the table for turkey.”

“You couldn’t have known unless one of us told you,” Alfred soothes. “And if you consider it another way: the holiday can only get better going forward.”

“...That’s certainly an optimistic way of looking at it. Though I may just hop on the bandwagon and never celebrate it again.”

“It would certainly cut down on the dishes.”

You snort a soft laugh, jokingly whacking his shoulder in admonishment before turning back to the stove, hearing the kettle scream. You fill each mug, glancing back as Alfred sits at the kitchen table with a plate of biscuits. You sit down across from him, passing him his tea before taking up a biscuit.

“...I take it he’s not back yet,” You hedge.

“No…But it’s early.”

Early. Your eyes stray to the clock. It’s nearly half past three. You shake your head a little, peering down into your tea and levering the bag in and out as you think.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” You insist, “I just, um…Every once in a while I have these flashes to when I met Bruce. It was a little over a year ago now.”

“I remember.”

“How are the gloves holding up, by the way?”

“They’re in excellent condition.”

“I better call my old manager. She’ll be so happy to hear it.”

The two of you share a chuckle before Alfred reaches out, resting his hand atop yours and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Drink your tea before it goes cold,” You nod toward it. “I know that drives you nuts.”

“There is nothing worse than a cold cup of tea.”

“So you keep telling me. What are your opinions on iced tea?”

“That is an entirely different matter. It’s alright if the tea is cold, so long as it did not start out hot.”

“Something tells me you’ve thought a lot about this. I’m starting to think this is what really keeps you up at night.”

“More than you could possibly imagine.”

Next Part

#Bruce Wayne x Reader #Bruce Wayne x You #Bruce Wayne/Reader #Bruce Wayne/You #Bruce Wayne imagine #The Other Half

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jtl-fics · 1 year

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Fluent Freshman - Part 09

Thanksgiving dinner really wasn’t that bad. It’d been years since FF had been to one as lively as this.

Kevin is loud and demanding when it comes to what needs to be on the TV and the exact perfect schedule to catch all of the Exy games being played. Wymack brought bourbon and has put it on the highest shelf in Abby’s kitchen right next to where Abby put the second pie for the exact same reason: Keep Andrew out of it. The Monsters and FF all get roped into helping Abby prep the meal.

He’s told that usually there are more people staying over Thanksgiving but this year more had gone home or gone to friend’s homes to celebrate. The only ones there are the Monsters, FF, and Jack.

Jack sits sullenly on the couch no matter what task Abby tries to give him.

Eventually, potatoes are mashed, turkeys are carved with appropriate knives, corn is creamed, macaroni is cheesed, canned cranberries have been de-canned, and the stuffing is…there on the table.

“Dig in!” Abby says not bothering with grace.

It’s good.

FF still misses his grandma’s cooking. It’s nice to have this loud Thanksgiving like he used to get but there’s something special about helping his grandma in the kitchen and the two of them sitting down to eat.

He definitely misses his grandma’s company when Jack starts to loudly complain about every last food item that Abby has so graciously laid out for them.

Wymack & Captain Neill both tell him to knock it off and threaten grueling exercises when practice starts back up while Andrew just threatens him with a knife multiple times to shut him up but FF can see Jack looking in the kitchen as he sits in silence after Andrew not so stealthily held a knife to his ribs.

Jack is looking at his grandma’s pie up on the top shelf.

Jack is going to complain about his grandma’s pie.

He looks at the Monsters and knows that there is only one person at this table who can POSSIBLY stop him is the person that FF fears the most.

Still….

He figures Andrew owes him a final request before he’s murdered in a basement, secondary location or (a new option he thought of on the way over to Abby’s in Andrew’s absurdly nice car), a secondary location’s basement.

“I want you to stop Jack from having any of my grandma’s pie.” He says in German drawing the attention of Aaron, Nicky, and Neil. Andrew blinks at him but says nothing so he continues. “If he says something mean about it then I’ll lose it.” He says.

FF means that if Jack insults his grandma’s pie that she had managed to get to him through some sort of grandmotherly wizardry then FF will burst into tears. He’s got what doctor’s call leaky eyes and there is no cure for these bad boys. He knows he’ll try to defend his grandma’s pie from whatever issue Jack will take with it but he also knows that he will be sobbing during that defense.

Andrew hears that and thinks that he might finally get to witness what FF looks like when he’s angry. From Kevin’s screaming, to Jack’s taunts, to Andrew’s own barbs, he has yet to see FF get mad. FF’s ability to stay in his own lane and regulate his emotions is one of the reasons that Andrew considers him a friend. He thinks about the bags under FF’s eyes and how desolate he had looked staring down at the ‘CANCELLED’ notification on his phone.

Andrew is getting into the art of doing something nice. For a friend.

He gives FF a singular nod and pulls one of his knives out of his arm bands and makes his way over to the pie. He ignores some various questions from the other, irrelevant.

“I want a slice at least!” Nicky demands and he nods as he cuts up the pie into seven normal sized slices. He puts each on a plate and Neil, every understanding of Andrew’s intentions, hands them out to the Monsters, FF, Wymack, and Abby.

“Good, finally get to try this stupid pie.” Jack says and Andrew levels a knife that has an apple slice slowly sliding off of it at Jack’s face.

“People who can’t appreciate the free dinner don’t get to have dessert.” He says and watches as Jack’s face goes through an entire range of emotions, “You saw what I could do to a turkey. I have no problem doing it to you if you try anything.” He says and Jack goes white before he trudges out of the dining area entirely.

Andrew watches him go before picking up the remainder of the pie (nearly a quarter) and making his way over to the fridge.

FF pipes up, “Try it without the ice cream first.” He says because even if he likes his pie à la mode the first bite has to be pure pie.

Andrew shrugs and eats the apple pie filling off of the knife.

It’s immaculate.

It’s the best pie that Andrew has ever tasted in his life and he has tasted some pies.

He has no idea what Jack would have complained about other than the fact that FF had an entire one of these all to himself. This pie had travelled across the continental United States and tasted like this. Andrew can only imagine what it is like when it is coming fresh out of the oven.

He grabs the ice cream from the fridge and watches everyone else try the first bite of FF’s grandma’s pie.

“I want to meet your grandma and shake her hand.” Wymack says eyes closed even as his hand reaches for some bourbon.

“I want to your grandma to adopt me.” Nicky says.

“She can adopt both of us if it means pies like this.” Aaron agrees.

“This is good.” Kevin says as he continues to eat it.

“Really good.” Neil agrees.

“Maybe she could share the recipe with me. I’d love to make this.” Abby says as she drinks a glass of milk.

“Thanks, she’ll be happy to hear it.” FF’s shoulders loosen as he puts away his own slice quickly.

There is some grumbling as Andrew hoards the rest of the pie himself and only gives bites to Neil. “I wonder if we should get the whipped cream out for it?” Neil asks him in Russian.

Andrew frowns and considers it for a long moment, “We have plans for that whipped cream tonight and the stores will be closed.” He says back in the same language. FF has paused in eating the last of his slice. “Problem?” He asks.

“Last bite.” FF responds back immediately and Andrew lets it go unaware that FF had spent 2 seconds wondering how whipped cream would play into whatever torture device Andrew was going to shove him into the second they arrived in Columbia before realizing that it was a sex thing.

He lets his hand go into his pocket and rub the paper of his grandma’s note to him.

It’s not a bad last meal.

Per your requests:

@i-have-three-feelings @blep-23 @dreamerking27 @andreilsmyreligion @belodensetdust @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world @obscureshipsandchips @booklover242 @whataboutmyfries @sahturnos @pluto-pepsi @dreamerthinker @passinhosdetartaruga @leftunknownheart @aro-manita-muscaria @hologramsaredead @Chaoticgremlinswishtheycouldbeme @tntwme @tayspots @nick-scar @crazy-fangirl2524 @blue-jos10 @stabbyfoxandrew

If you’re tagged, i spelled it right, and it’s not pulling you then you might have: Conversational notifications turned off in your settings.

#Fluent Freshman AU #Before Columbia is 2 ungodly hours in the car where Andrew and Neil do not know that FF knows russian #But Nicky does #Buckle up (literally)#The pie was good enough that even Kevin couldn't bitch about it #Does Kevin do squats in front of the TV for 20 minutes while the rest of the Foxes help clean up #Yes #It was good but his body is a machine and he just put sugar in the engine #AFTG #AFTG AU #AFTG OC #AFTG shitpost #Andreil #FF - Pt. 09

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intimidating-fettuccine · 5 months

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Thanksgiving in the mansion

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I almost took today off because I have a lot of cooking to do, but I got the idea for this and wanted to do this instead. Happy Thanksgiving to all my fellow people that celebrate it, and if you don't celebrate I hope you just have a great Thursday and eat something yummy.

Thanksgiving in the mansion is one of those holidays that almost always turns into absolute chaos. There's people trying to bake and cook things, there's people trying to steal all of the food while it's being baked, and then there are the people who intentionally try and annoy Slender while he's focused on all of his cooking and end up getting whacked with a wooden spoon because they pushed him too much and made him angry. Needless to say, it's your standard holiday in the mansion.

When it comes to food, Slender cooks a FEAST for Thanksgiving and it's one of his favorite holidays because of that. He makes a giant breakfast, he makes appetizers for people throughout the day, and when it comes time for Thanksgiving dinner, that giant, long ass table that everyone sits at is PACKED with yummy delicious foods and desserts, and Slender fucking loves it because cooking is his passion and he would do this every day if he could. There are also so many desserts??? Slender and Tim both make apple pies, Slender makes a pumpkin pie, Jane bakes a cheesecake, Jason bakes an actual cake, and LJ makes a bunch of candies for everyone, they're really lucky the mansion has so many people living there with how much food there is.

Toby is BANNED from the kitchen. Toby is not allowed in the kitchen because he will eat all of the ingredients and food before it's fully ready or on time, and Slender and Tim get tired of yelling at him to stop so he is simply not allowed in the kitchen, much to his disappointment. This leads to people trying to sneak out a few snacks for Toby to try and cheer him up, and then THEY get banned from the kitchen and eventually, everyone is just hungry and grumpy because they can smell all this yummy food and none of them can go in there unless they're part of the cooking team, which none of the people that were stealing food are.

Also, Slender does the white mom thing of making everyone say one thing they're thankful for before they're allowed to eat dinner. Everyone is sitting down, plates completely filled up, ready to finally gorge themselves on all of this food, and then Slender's like "Now, hold on. None of you have told me anything you're thankful for yet!" And he clasps his fucking hands over his knee as he sits down and waits for every single person to say something, and most of them end up speedrunning through it to get to the food, but he allows it so long as it's an honest answer.

I think after dinner they all probably get pretty comatose from how much food they all ate, and they'll go to the big living room and either take naps together or just watch shows and movies together as a group. I think when they aren't quite as tired, some of the creeps like Jeff, Tim, Toby, Brian, Liu, Natalie, and Pup will go outside and throw around a football or play some soccer or something to relax and have a good time. Sometimes the others will come out and watch or join in, and Slender usually tries to take pictures and videos of it to save it as a good memory for later to reminisce with.

Thanksgiving is one of those days when everyone is getting along and having a good time together, so everyone is usually much friendlier and happier to be in each other's company. It's a day when there's no sadness, or resentment, no inner turmoil. Everyone comes together and bonds as a family and it's a very relaxing, happy experience, and that's the actual main reason that Thanksgiving is Slender's favorite holiday. Not just for the cooking, but the fact that these people he's come to love as his family are all happy, loved, and cared for. If only Toby would keep his hands out of the cake, maybe then Slender could be at complete peace.

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 5 months

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AITA for making my mom’s boyfriend feel bad on purpose?

disclaimer: my parents have an open marriage

so i (20m, northern cheyenne) don’t have a problem with the modern celebration of thanksgiving.

really. i don’t.

the whole “pilgrims and indians” schtick is gross, but i find that generally, outside of elementary schools, nobody thinks about that part very much. people mostly just want to see their families and eat weird food. and i fucks w that.

the problem comes in with my mom’s boyfriend.

my mom (52f) is white, but she’s been married to my dad (53m) who is also northern cheyenne for 26 years. she’s the DEI coordinator for our county’s public school system and she’s one of my favorite most trusted shire people ever. so i never really have to censor myself around her. i can make jokes and complain and vent and etc etc etc. she’ll always listen.

her BOYFRIEND though.

i really do like my mom’s boyfriend (41m). he’s super cool, recommends good books, teaches me about plumbing, all sorts of other Manly Step Dad Shit (/hj).

but he is decidedly extremely caucasian. like so white.

he’s not /racist/ but he’s that in-between that a lot of white people are where they’re never mean, but you gotta watch what you say around them bc they bruise like a two week old apple.

there have been a few instances where i have in fact bruised his sensitive white man apple skin.

1) i was listening to a podcast with my mom about people indigenous to Hawai’i protecting Mauna Kea. we were listening to it out loud in our living room, and her boyfriend came in and listened for a few minutes before asking me to turn it off because it was “depressing”. fair enough. i figured he was having a rough day and i turned it off. (side note, it was All My Relations, “For the Love of the Mauna”.)

2) we were driving somewhere and trading off command of the AUX. i put on a song by Nahko and Medicine for the People, specifically their parody of “My Country Tis of Thee”. he again said he didn’t like it, it was depressing, and could I please turn it off. i did.

3) this is where i’m the asshole. we’re planning for thanksgiving, and i mentioned wanting to do a anticolonial thanksgiving. we’d watch some stuff about the wampanoag tribe (first contact tribe at plymouth rock), i’d make frybread and fried squash blossoms (along w my mom who would make the thanksgiving basics) we’d have a grand old time. her boyfriend asks why we can’t just enjoy thanksgiving without making it too political.

i’m like. that’s not political? it’s cultural?

and he says that to him it feels self flagellating and it would make him feel bad.

and i said honestly? the idea of thanksgiving’s history makes Me feel bad. and not to complain dude, but as an american indian, it’s always about you, and never, ever about me. so truly, i don’t care if you feel bad. we’re not doing a fucking colonized thanksgiving in this house. so if you’re just here for that sham bullshit, go and stay gone.

my mom says she agrees with me that an attempt at a decolonized thanksgiving is a good idea and a good compromise for our mixed family, but that i was way too harsh on her boyfriend and should’ve tried explaining in a kinder way first, since he’s really not educated on this stuff. i see where she’s coming from; i worry i might’ve scared him off of ever learning about cultural decolonization. ik it’s not my responsibility to make him care, but that doesn’t change the fact that plenty of white people are subconsciously looking for a reason not to care about natives, and by being a dick i might’ve just handed him that reason. so not only was i an asshole to him, but an asshole to my community at large by disservicing our reputation.

idk. i think i ruined thanksgiving :/

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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icycoldninja · 5 months

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1st Class SOLDIER boys spending Thanksgiving with their S/O

A/N: HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE!!! This year, the SOLDIER boys decide to spend Thanksgiving with their beloved Y/N; I wonder how it'll go...?

♡Sephiroth♡

-Shows up to your house bearing a large bottle of pumpkin pie flavored wine (Yes, that exists) and a jar of Cool Whip, thinking that's a suitable dessert.

-Due to having grown up in a lab, the man has no idea what you're supposed to eat for Thanksgiving. He thinks it's just a day where your entire family gets together and eats for no reason.

-This man cannot cook a turkey for the life of him. Don't even let him try, he'll find a way to burn the turkey and make the baking dish explode in the oven, regardless of what it was made of.

-Drinks the cranberry sauce, not understanding it's for the turkey, and tries to mash potatoes with the hilt of Masamune.

-Fortunately, this man is not entirely hopless; he's tall enough to hang all the decorations without a stepladder, so there's that.

-When the Thanksgiving dinner is finally ready, he'll find that he actually enjoys eating turkey, especially the crispy turkey skin, and soon becomes addicted to sweet potato casserole. Potatoes with marshmallows!? He had no idea such a combination could exist and taste this good!

-He had a great time at your place; it was a welcome change of pace, being around all your family members at once, experiencing the familial love he never had.

-He ended up eating way too much, just so he could continue hanging around you guys, and had to literally waddle out the door because of how stuffed he was. 🌝

♡Genesis♡

-Unlike Sephi dearest, Genesis actually knows what Thanksgiving is and how to celebrate properly. His cooking skills are pretty basic, so he ends up gifting you an apple pie cobbled together from store-bought dough and canned filling.

-Very talkative; gets along quite well with all your family members and gets on all their good sides by talking about memories with you.

-His favorite foods are mashed potatoes and gravy. He just cannot get over how creamy they are and how delightfully savory the gravy tastes.

-As mentioned earlier, his cooking skills are basic, so he can help out in the kitchen, but only to a certain extent. He can help mash potatoes, mix sauces, keep an eye on the turkey, etc., basically, he does the stuff an eager 10-year-old does.

-Unfortunately, with Genesis, not everything has a happy ending. Just when you think the night is progressing properly with everyone socializing jovially and having fun, Genesis decides to cause some drama over something as small and insignificant as a housefly that had the misfortune of buzzing over his head.

-The minute he caught sight of that fly, his mind snapped into Total Bitch Mode. He rises from the table with fury, knocking his drink over and sending silverware flying everywhere, shocking you and your entire family.

-He will scream like a banshee, then send a massive fireball hurtling past all your heads and crashing into the wall where that poor little fly once rested. Everyone is in shock as they try to comprehend what the actual fuck just happened.

-Despite this inconvenience, and the fact that there's now a smoldering hole in your wall, everything was quite fine. Genesis had a good time and so did everyone else.

♡Angeal♡

-Angeal is a man of dreams an honor. He knows how to cook. In fact, he knows so much, he takes over as head chef and magically turns into a dad overnight.

-According to him, it is now his solemn duty to cook the turkey, heat up the stuffing, and prep the dessert all at once, by himself. He adamantly rejects all assistance, claiming that a man with true honor can do all the cooking alone.

-Surprisingly, he pulls it off. The turkey was only a little bit burnt and the pie was only slightly too sweet.

-Angeal gets along well enough with most of your family and friends, and even ends up swapping recipes with several of them, though he very much preferred talking to you.

-His favorite foods are the deserts, believe it or not. He adores pie, especially pumpkin pie, and eats so much of it, he gets a massive sugar rush and a bloated belly. Poor guy.

-After everyone was done eating, his honor compelled him to tackle the mountain of dishes that everyone left behind, something you told him not to worry about. However, Angeal refused to listen to you, stating that it was his dream to do the dishes.

-Giving up due to his stubbornness, you left him to do his thing, only to come back an hour later to find an overflowing sink, wet dishes piled up literally everywhere, and a passed out angel on your kitchen floor. Turns out he'd eaten too much, and his food coma combined with over exertion from the daytime cooking caused him to fall asleep on the spot.

-All in all, everyone had a great time, and Angeal ended up sleeping in very late the next day.

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