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delphi-shield · 7 months ago

Text

— 「 FAKE IT TIL YOU MAKE IT 」

fake dating/christmas party/hurt/comfort ❄️ leon secret santa ❄️ gift for @mydarlingclaudia

MERRY CHRISTMAS MISS CLAUDIA i'm your secret santa! i've wanted to write og4 leon for this blog for a while and when i got you for secret santa i was like IT'S TIME lmao. i hope you enjoy and i hope you have the best christmas!

wc: 5k

summary: leon's in a bind. he thought he would have a love life by christmas, but the holidays have rolled around and he's still single. you'll pretend to be his date for just one night, right?

content: fake dating, real dating, coworkers, christmas parties, mistletoe, lots of late night conversations, lots of self-doubt, secret loser leon, technically post-re4. divider from @/strangergraphics

Over the past year, you've discovered that Leon's really good at pitching a fit when he doesn't want to do something - or, at least, when he thinks he doesn't want to do something. He'll bitch and moan about being tired, about how he just wants to stay in and have a 'chill date' with some old movie. No amount of assuring him that he would have fun once he got there would make him stop dragging his feet. That very night, you’d been waiting for him at the door with arms crossed, already decked out in your Christmas sweater, cheap reindeer antler headband affixed to your head.

Leon lets out a quiet puff of laughter when he slouches into the room, looking considerably less festive than you. He takes in your appearance - your tacky sweater, your headband, the way you pout and tap your foot impatiently. How, exactly, was he supposed to take this seriously?

“What, no one let you play any reindeer games?” Leon quips, taking his sweet time putting his shoes on.

You roll your eyes. When you finally manage to get him out the door, he has a blast. You know it, he knows it - this part is just mandatory torture, a bonding experience he loves to put you through.

"We go, we say hello, we leave." You assure him. “We don’t have to stay long.”

Leon might buy that at this moment, but you know the second you step through the door, you won't be leaving that Christmas party until the very end. Two hours in, you would be ready to go and Leon would be having the time of his life. You would be tugging at his sleeve, checking on him:

Ready to go? No, sorry, hun. Let me finish my beer and we can go.

Like clockwork. You weren't even sure he knew that he did that.

The Christmas music on the radio doesn’t do much to assuage his mood. He’s pouting the whole drive over. As soon as he pulls up to the house, he repeats the same mantra:

"We get in, we say hello, we leave." His hand smacks against the steering wheel to emphasize each point in the plan. You already have your door open, swinging out the side and marching up the freshly shoveled sidewalk.

"The decorations are so cute," you coo, crouching down to examine a particularly adorable light up gingerbread house - and to give him time to catch up.

Leon guides you up from the ground with a hand hovering behind your back. He herds you further down the sidewalk, still eager to get this over with. By the end of the night, you would be the one begging him to leave, but for now, you let him grouchily jam the doorbell.

Warmth floods out to greet you when Claire opens the door, the scent of cider and cinnamon rushing up to usher you in. Claire coos over your outfit, clicking her tongue and shaking her head.

"I should have put more effort in," she says, the pom of her Santa hat bouncing against her cheek. She's otherwise under dressed for the occasion, choosing comfort over festivity.

"What? No. Look at this place. You did all the decorations. That's way more effort," you counter, toeing off your shoes and stripping off your heavy coat.

Claire laughs. "I made my brother do most of it."

"Good to see you, too, Claire," Leon says, bristling over being ignored. She waves her hand, half hello, half dismissing him, and guides you further into the house, pointing you to the refreshments and giving a quick tour of the decorations.

Wherever Leon slinks off to, you're unconcerned. You have catching up to do just as much as he does.

Claire pops her hip up against the drink table. You twist the cap off your beer. Claire fishes one up for herself and pops the lid off against the table in one fluid motion. You huff a quick laugh - her party, her rules.

"So," Claire starts, leaning back against her elbows and surveying the crowd. She tracks your eyes for a moment, watches you watching Leon across the room. "I’ve been wondering. How did you guys actually meet?"

"What?" You laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. You take a drink, buy yourself some time to feel out Claire's intention.

"Well, obviously, the first story you told me was a crock of shit," she laughs.

You can't argue with that. The first time you had met Claire, you had been masquerading as Leon’s partner, sparing him the embarrassment of turning up to her Christmas party alone. You hadn’t exactly announced to his friends that your first time meeting them had been a lie.

"I didn't lie," you point out. "Not totally."

"A lie by omission is still a lie."

"We actually did meet at work."

Claire rolls her eyes. She won't put up with this for long. “I mean, I buy that. But he absolutely did not charm you over the comms on some classified mission.”

There’s no part of you that wants to argue in Leon’s defense. He was a nightmare to work with, knew just how to get under your skin, and you were more than happy to have Hunnigan continue to babysit him.

“If you really want to know…”

It was the Wednesday before Christmas Eve when Leon's coiffed head popped up above your cubicle. Never a good sign. Where he went, trouble (and acclaim) followed. You filled in for Hunnigan once when she was out with bronchitis, and now you can't get rid of her puppy. He keeps coming back, a particularly malignant tumor that metastasizes over the walls of your cubicle, spills onto your desk and messes with your letter trays.

“You busy?” His arm slings over the top, hand drumming against the wall of your cubicle.

Stay strong, you think. Try not to move. Play dead. Maybe he'll get bored and move on. You try to type faster and only wind up jamming the keys down harder. Leon drums his hand quicker, rhythm irregular.

“What does it look like?” You bite out.

Mission failed. You weren't trained to resist torture like he was. In fact, you specialized in answering stupid questions and pointing out the obvious. It was a key component of your job.

Leon’s job, apparently, entailed blatantly ignoring hints. He swings into your cubicle, brushes aside a stack of documents to sit on your desk. His forearms balance on his thighs, hands held together between his knees.

“I need a favor.”

It just gets worse. What kind of favor could Special Agent Kennedy possibly want from you, and why did you have a feeling that it was going to be off the books?

"If I'm doing favors, I'm staying clocked in," you drone.

"Not possible for this one," he shrugs. "Sorry. I'll make it up to you."

You roll your eyes. Silence stretches between the two of you, filled only with the intermittent clicks of your mouse as you try to track down the most up to date geospatial information for your assigned agent - you know, the one you're actually supposed to be dealing with.

Leon's both annoying and persistent. He shakes his fringe from his face, stretches out 'so...' into an elongated, cowish sound that sets your teeth on edge. You roll your hand, gesturing for him to continue.

"I need a date," he blurts out. He's smart enough to continue speaking quickly, hand already raised - palm outward, begging for peace. "Not a real date. Just for a couple of hours, for a party. We go, we say hello, we leave."

A beat. You give him time to throw in a ‘just kidding’. God knows you aren’t throwing him a life preserver. When he twiddles his thumbs, content to sink instead of bail himself out, you scoff. You don’t even look up from your computer.

"That is, by far, your worst line."

"I’m serious. Please. Just a couple of hours. That's all I'm asking. You don’t have to talk to me ever again."

Your eyes cut over to him. Not a single smug smirk in sight. You're almost surprised by the pleading hiding behind his eyes. You take it all in, try to assess him for any hint of deceit. You only find the bags under his eyes, darker than you'd seen before.

“Go alone,” you shrug.

“I can’t. I’ve been –” Leon stops. He sits up tall, peers over the top of your cubicle to see who’s around. Meerkat is a good look on him, his nose sharp in profile, brow furrowed and focused. You avert your eyes back to your computer. He lowers his voice, his eyes still flitting around for eavesdroppers. “I’ve… exaggerated the truth about my love life to a few friends. I promised I would introduce them to someone at this party.”

You note the desperation, try to stay impartial. You're good at that part, too. Trained for it. He’s in a bind of his own making. Some humility would do him good. You’d be doing him a favor by making him own up to his lie.

Your gut flips when you consider his proposal. What was this, high school? Why could he possibly need a fake date? It was so immature, you almost couldn't believe it.

Another thought burns at the back of your mind, keeps you wary. You can't help but feel used. What, he was fine pretending to take you out but couldn't conceive of actually asking you to go to his stupid party? It had to be fake, a preservation of his ego. You weren't even a part of this equation.

You should say no. You should leave him high and dry, make him look like an idiot in front of his friends - because that's what he is. An idiot. An idiot who can't get an actual date to save his life.

"Match my salary, then we'll talk."

Leon groans, head flopping back against your cabinets. He’s considering it, you can tell.

What’s the harm in it, you wonder, casting him a sidelong glance. It would be nice to have something to do on Christmas Eve.

"You owe me for this. You're gonna pick me up."

Leon's eyes light up. He hops off your desk, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. You hold up a finger to stop him before he can talk himself out of this.

"And you're gonna buy me dinner."

"There's food at the party."

"Good food?"

"If you don't like it, I'll get you something on the way home."

That's more like it. You spin back to face your computer, pulling your report back up.

"Deal. What's the dress code?"

Leon's silence speaks volumes. He's completely helpless when it comes to the details. You had figured someone with his looks had a social life that was bursting at the seams, that he was taking the fat field agent paycheck and he was hopping from party to party.

It's at his friend's house, he explains. You note the hesitation before he says 'friend'. Maybe it is all a front. Kennedy can't really go home to an empty apartment and a silent phone, can he? Everyone made him sound like such a big shot. You didn't expect the snapshots of your lives to be matching photographs, a wide shot when you held them next to each other. You try to picture his living room and all you can envision is a beige box.

You wring what little information he has out of him with a series of direct, probing questions. You're both comfortable in this routine. The quick, perfunct back and forth, an exchange not unlike one you might have over comms. He scribbles his number onto a sticky note and slides it over to you. You’ll work out the details of your story later, make it bulletproof.

The idea has been ghosting around the crevices of your mind for the entire day. You force yourself to wait a little longer before calling him, give him time to get home and get settled in. Trying to do the same is fruitless. Your appetite has mysteriously vanished, your Wednesday night show not catching your attention. You choke down half a bowl of cereal before you drum up the courage to call him.

"So, how did we meet?" You start, skipping past hello.

"Work."

"Going with the truth on that one?" You toss a piece of popcorn into your mouth, eyes fixed on your show.

"Helps to sprinkle the truth in with the lie, right?"

You can practically hear the grin on his face. You roll your eyes and bite back a sharp response. No need spoiling the mood immediately. You already agreed to do this. You won't make it harder than it needs to be.

"When did you ask me out?"

“Does that seriously matter?”

Of course it matters. Leon’s completely useless at this kind of thing, it turns out. You had expected more. He seemed the type to have experience. Maybe your own naivety had caught up to you. His confidence had you fully convinced that this would be a cake walk.

Was this seriously the guy who had single-handedly rescued the president’s daughter a few months back? Because he was floundering when you asked him if he had met your parents yet.

“Do you want me to meet them?”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, “No. They would eat you alive.”

That one stays in the story. It’s too believable not to. You bet Leon makes a real fool of himself in front of parents.

That’s where you went wrong. As soon as you started to rationalize what a relationship with him might look like, to add that touch of realism that would sell this story, you were fucked. He indulges all your questions and your musings.

Thursday night, you call him to ask what shows you watch together. He doesn’t see the point, doesn’t get that TV is such an important, ritualistic component of a relationship - or, at least, one that you want. He lets you pick, snorting in surprise when you name a dating show on VH1. You assign him homework. Watch the newest episode the Sunday before the party, and you’d fill him in on the details on the ride to the party.

Friday, you ask him what pet names he wants to use. He flounders again, acting dismissive in a way that you’ve now identified as embarrassment. You bite back the urge to tease him and offer up some suggestions instead.

“‘Babe’ is fine, I guess,” he says, “but I’m probably just going to call you by your name.”

When you hang up that night, you wonder if he meant it. Babe fits your perception of him from a week ago, but now you aren’t so sure. You turn the question over and over in your head for the next day, trying out different names in his voice. Something simple and classic, maybe. ‘Honey’, or ‘sweetie’.

The question is still turning in your mind when he calls you on Saturday. You don’t have a chance to get your question out. He blindsides you with his own.

“Have we said ‘I love you’ yet?”

Your mind races to catch up. Had he? No way. He mumbled when he got off the phone sometime, but there was no way that was an ‘I love you’. There was no way. It hadn’t even been a full week yet.

Then it clicks for you. Right. This is fake, all of it. Every phone call was for his benefit. You had initiated all of this. You should be happy that he’s finally contributing to the planning. You feel sick to your stomach instead.

“I don’t care,” you say, entirely nonchalant, none of it forced. The silence hangs over the line. You pray for Leon to let it go, to give you the grace that you haven’t given him.

He’s smooth with it - doesn’t point out the strain in your voice, blames it on a bad connection. For once, he takes the reins. No ‘I love you’ yet. He’s working up the courage, he says, and your heart clenches, breath catches, head spins.

You make an excuse to leave early. He reminds you to tune in for your show tomorrow. You hang up without saying goodbye.

He picks you up just like he promised. As much as you’d wanted to wear the silly, light-up Christmas sweater at the back of your closet, you couldn’t. You couldn’t show up as his date looking like that. No one would buy it. You already look out of place on his arm.

You’d expected the car ride to be awkward. The last time you’d seen him in person had been when you struck this whole deal. Instead of rehashing your story, though, Leon asks you question after question about the dating show you told him to watch.

To your surprise, he’d actually watched it. You go over the contestants, the washed up rock star they were all attempting to date, even recap the most notable drama. He’s hooked. The veneer of disinterest he tries to keep up is so thin it’s see through. You almost want to tell him to turn the car around so you can catch the reruns instead of suffering through this party.

You don't know what kind of party you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. Every corner of the place was saturated in Christmas, inside and out. Garlands of popcorn and dried orange slices, a tree decorated so heavily with strands of lights and garish ornaments that it's branches sagged. The warm lights bathed everything in a smooth glow. The chill that had stung your face on the walk in melted away, leaving only the pulsing afterburn across your cheeks.

Plenty of people had already arrived - thank god. If you'd had to make awkward small talk with the host until people arrived to take the heat off of you, you might have just said fuck it and marched back to the car. You keep a firm grip on Leon's arm, eyes flitting across each and every face. You didn't recognize a single one of these people.

That's precisely why Leon chose you. It makes your stomach lurch to think about. You're convenient. A face to put to a title, to apply to the vague stories that Leon has fabricated. Anyone could be on his arm right now, and it wouldn't make a difference. No one would know.

You stay glued to his side for the first hour. It works well enough, a handful of people overjoyed to meet you after all the stories that Leon’s told. You do your best to keep the sparkle in your eye, to look at him like he makes the sun shine. It’s hard when it feels like the floor could open up and swallow you at any given moment, when each affectionate touch is just a tool.

You excuse yourself for a drink. That will help your nerves. It can’t make them any worse, that’s for sure. You have a clear window, the drink table empty. In and out, then back to Leon’s side.

Fishing up a beer from the ice chest, you scavenge around for a bottle opener. Christ - all these preparations and no bottle opener? You’re tunnel-visioned into your search, don’t even notice the woman joining you at the table

“Want some help with that?” A redhead chirps, sidling up to you. She holds her hand out for your drink.

What’s the harm? You pass it over with a ‘thanks’ that quickly turns to a sharp inhale. She pops the lid off the beer with the edge of the table, tears a jagged crescent through the plastic tablecloth - cut one of Santa’s reindeer clean in two.

“My party, my rules,” she laughs. “I’m Claire. You’re with Leon, right?”

Your stomach drops. You can practically peer down at yourself, your soul leaving your body for a brief moment. Shit– Leon had warned you about her. Said she wasn't malicious, per se, but she could sniff out bullshit quicker than most. You run the facts back in your mind. If you could get past her, you'd be golden.

Claire's finger bounces between you and Leon. She leans her hip against the table, folds her arms across her chest.

“I don't get that at all,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head. “What's the story?”

Holy shit, that was quicker than you expected. Stay cool. Remember your lines.

“We actually met at work,” you start. Easy enough. It’s not even a lie. You unravel the rest of the details for her one by one, plodding through the steps of your imagined romance with deliberate care.

Claire’s eyes stayed fixed on you. She smiles and laughs where appropriate, but she tracks you with the cold eyes of a wolf on the hunt. A chill pulses down your spine. Is it really so hard to believe that you’re with Leon? Do you look so out of place?

“Good for him,” she finally says. She takes a long drink, still watching you.

“He’s great.”

“He’s okay.”

Maybe she meant it as a joke, but you have to force your laugh out from around the lump in your throat. Did she buy it? You can’t tell. She claps you on the shoulder, harder than you expected.

“It was really great to meet you,” Claire says. She slips back into the crowd with a smile, flowing naturally into a group of guests. Your eyes linger on her, but she doesn’t look back. She doesn’t slip into hushed whispers, no one turns to stare in your direction.

You wind back through the crowd, glue yourself back to Leon’s side. He lifts his arm instinctively, curls it around your hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even pause his conversation.

How is this the same clueless man that you had spent half a week planning out every minute detail of your imagined relationship? How can he be so relaxed and in control now?

That’s the difference between the two of you, you realize. There was planning, and there was doing. Clearly, Leon could see his commitments through. You were botching this. Everyone knew you were a fake. They had to.

“You okay?” Leon asks, head inclined closer to your ear. You swallow thickly, force a smile.

“Are you about ready to go?” You ask, keeping your voice low.

He’s not - you can tell - but he tosses his snack plate in the trash and says a round of goodbyes anyway, urging you out the door.

The car is silent. Leon flips through radio stations, never staying on one for long. Christmas music, rock ballad, regular ballad, Christmas music again - repeat. He fidgets with the vents, turns the heat up, then down, one degree at a time.

"Seriously, you good?" he asks.You keep your face turned to the window, watching the decorations roll by.

Leon glances at you - or that's what he thinks, at least. His eyes linger for too long. He corrects his course sharply, swerving away from the curb at the last possible moment.

"Yeah. Fine."

Neither of you believe that. You’ve spent the whole night lying - he knows what it looks like, and he lets you get away with it.

Leon turns the music up a tick. You spend the rest of the drive in silence. He pulls up in front of your place and cuts the engine, and that has to be the record for world’s most awkward drive.

Bundling your things in your arms, you hurry out of his car with a quick ‘thanks for inviting me’ that feels misplaced given the circumstances - but what the hell else were you going to say? You needed to sleep this whole thing off.

"Hey."

You stop in your tracks. You're almost positive you've left a drag tail in the snow, stopped so fast you nearly slipped on the sidewalk. Leon's window is rolled down, his body nearly halfway out of it.

"I appreciate what you did for me tonight," he says.

Your heart deflates, a balloon released in your chest, bouncing off your ribs and drumming against your lungs before it floats pitifully to a rest in the pit of your stomach.

"No problem," you say, shoulders back, head held high. "To be honest, I didn't think anyone would buy it."

His head tips to the side. His eyes narrow, studying you, trying to figure out your meaning.

"Why? You did great."

"I don't know. I didn't think we would look like a very believable couple."

He sticks his head back into his car, fumbles with his seatbelt overlong, and finally pops the door open. His feet find traction on the icy sidewalk much easier than yours. You chalk it up to his boots, his training, anything to keep your mind on the little details instead of the big picture.

“I thought it was pretty believable.”

Don’t read into it, you tell yourself again and again. It’s just going to hurt if you try to interpret greater meaning from that.

“Yeah? Glad I could help.” You hook your thumb over your shoulder, fishing clumsily for your keys. “Guess I’ll see you at work, then.”

Leon’s eyes cut back to your door. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, balanced perfectly on the ice. For a moment, you think you see his hand twitch towards yours. You linger, waiting for the touch of his hand around your wrist, willing the warmth that you imagine to be real.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and nods.

“Yeah. See you.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Claire interjects. “He didn’t even ask you out that night? He walked you to the door and bailed?”

You shake your head. “I asked him out like a week later. We were working late on New Years. He said he knew a great spot for coffee if I wanted to go on break. I said we could only go on our day off.”

Her eyes sharpen, casting her hunt out into the crowd of party-goers. You find Leon first - hunched over a snack platter across the room, contributing minimally to conversation with some people from Claire’s work. Claire, experienced hunter that she is, tracks your sight to find her quarry.

“He is so stupid. So dumb. Look at you,” she declares, waving you up and down - presenting you. “He made you ask? Ooh, I’m gonna – Leon!”

Leon’s head pops up from the cheese tray - meerkat chic, swiveling in the direction of the woman on the hunt. Claire points to the ground in front of her sharply, doesn’t even have to bark out ‘c’mere’ before his training kicks in and he’s marching himself over.

“What’s up?” He pops a palmful of cashews into his mouth, then slides the same hand against the small of your back.

His casual attitude earns him no favors. Claire thwacks his shoulder, berates him for making you ask first. He shrinks away - play dead. You taught him that one.

“You ready to go?” You ask once Claire’s done ragdolling him and marches off to tell the others how spineless Leon is.

Leon surveys the party - that’s what you think he’s doing, at least. His gaze is focused higher, examining the doorways carefully. His eyes sharpen, lock on their target. He nods, his thumb rubbing gentle arcs against your back.

“Yeah. Let’s head out. Wait for me in the hall, okay? I’ll get our stuff.”

You follow his directions thoughtlessly, planting yourself in the hallway he had pointed to. Leon flits about, saying goodbyes as he weaves through the crowd. Your coat is slung over his arm when he winds his way back to you.

Before you can protest, tell him he forgot your bag and your scarf, he smacks a hand dramatically against his forehead. He holds up a finger - hang on, here, take this, I’ll be right back – kisses your forehead, and floats back into the crowd.

He comes out only holding your scarf. You huff. Leon’s not a forgetful man. This is clearly on purpose, for his own entertainment. He loops your scarf around your necks for you, settling it into place and tying a clumsy knot.

“Your bag. I forgot, I’m sorry.” He kisses your cheek as he turns.

There was a twinkle in his eye when he turned. You’d caught it. It wasn’t just the shine of the lights. He was up to something. You scan your surroundings, look for cameras hidden, for guests watching a little too intently. Nothing immediately jumps out at you. You glance up - and there’s the culprit. A little branch bound with twine, berries dotting the little branches, suspended over the doorway.

Schooling your face back into mild annoyance, you go so far as to tap your foot. If he wants to put on a show, so will you.

“Here you go,” he says, handing over your bag. You wait for his next move. No way this was the end of his plan - and you’re right. As soon as your bag is slung over your shoulder, he’s patting himself down. Front left, front right, back pockets at the same time, chest at the same time. “Shit. My keys. One second–”

You kiss his cheek before he can strike first.

“On the key rack,” you point out, hooking your thumb over your shoulder. “It’s bad karma to abuse the mistletoe, you know.”

Leon huffs. He spares the mistletoe above your heads a glance.

“You made that up.”

Absolutely, you did. He crosses through the doorway and snags his keys. Before you can head out the door, he dangles them over his head. You roll your eyes and kiss him square on the lips before he can justify his poor man’s mistletoe.

You’ll risk bad karma for a kiss.

#leonsecretsanta2024 #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fluff #leon s. kennedy x reader #resident evil fluff #x reader #merry christmas hehe #sorry i made the banner as a joke initially and then it didnt look right without it lmaooo

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moonstruckme · 11 months ago

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omg mae bae happy bday and congrats on 7k wowie! would you do apple pie, ¹⁰⁾ a six pack of beer and an apology, with steve harrington? <3

Thank you lovely <3

cw: alcohol, spin the bottle

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Steve finds you in the kitchen. You’ve procured a pair of scissors from somewhere, and you’re snipping apart those plastic rings that hold together six-packs. You glance up as he comes in but look away quickly, picking another up off the counter.

“Turtles strangle themselves on these things,” you say. You snip a corner, the sound short and crisp. “I don’t know why we still use them.”

Steve honestly doesn’t think much about sea animals when he’s drinking a beer, but he wants to agree with you. “Me neither.”

“It’s like, we’re supposed to be this advanced society. Can’t we come up with something that doesn’t kill turtles?”

“Mhm. Probably.”

“I just think it’s dumb.” You push out a breath. It sounds frustrated, but Steve knows you well. You’re more stressed than angry. He’s not patient enough to wait for you to get around to telling him that yourself.

“What’re you doing in here?” he asks.

You look up at him again. Shrug. “I was sick of being out there.”

“You wanna go home?”

“Do you?”

It’s a fair thing to ask. Steve’s your ride, so leaving these things is usually a joint decision. But he feels like the question is pointed. “Do you think I wanna go home?”

“I don’t know.” Some of the stress is seeping into your voice now, your terseness taking on a new hue. “You seemed mad.”

He was mad (is mad?). He just hasn’t figured out if it’s fair for him to be, yet, so he wasn’t planning on making it your business. He thought that would be the nice thing to do, but you don’t seem to appreciate being left out of the loop.

“Do I seem mad now?” he asks.

You cut through the last plastic ring with a harsh snap. “Christ, Steve, I don’t know. Why are you asking me all this?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and though it’s automatic he does mean it. “I’m not trying to be mad at you.”

Your eyes meet his, crushed before you can hide it. “But you are.”

“Not—” He sighs, jamming his thumb against his brow bone. It’s an anxious habit, a preventative measure against potential headaches. “Not really. Not in a way that’s important.”

“I think it’s important anytime you’re mad at me,” you say. Your voice has softened and smalled. Steve feels like his guts are in knots. He wants to make an excuse, to explain—It’s not that I’m actually mad at you. I haven’t decided if I should be. So we’re all good, right? For now, I mean. At least until I decide.—but before he get the chance to further fuck things up you ask, “Can you tell me what you’re mad about?”

Steve drops his hand to look at you. “You really don’t know?”

You wince, and he thinks you do know. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m sorry.”

He feels his brows furrow. “For what to happen?”

“For it to land on you.”

“That’s not…it’s spin the bottle. You can’t control who it lands on. That’s the point.”

You shake your head, almost to yourself. Your fingers are fiddling with the ends of your sleeves. “I shouldn’t have even played. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have if I’d known that was gonna happen.”

“What do you keep apologizing for?” Some accidental anger makes its way into Steve’s tone. “Who did you want to kiss?”

You blink. “No one.”

“Nobody plays spin the bottle unless they want to kiss someone.”

“Well, I guess I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because!” Your voice rises, and you lower it just as quickly. You both glance to the kitchen entryway like the calvary is going to come force you back to that stupid party just because you almost yelled. “Because,” you say, quieter, “it was weird.”

Steve forgets to even try to keep his face in check. He feels it twist with hurt. “It was?”

“Yes! Everyone was looking at us, and it was like a game—it was a game.” You pull your sleeves over your hands, shoulders winding up tight. “I guess I just feel like that sort of thing should be private.”

Awareness dawns upon him like a slow sunrise. Steve has never been known for his book smarts, but he’s not stupid. He knows what it feels like to be liked. He’s just never known what it felt like to be liked by you.

A little laugh of disbelief stumbles out of him. “You said ‘ew.’”

You’d been tipsier and fizzy with excitement when the game had started. Smiling and laughing at everything, your giddiness palpable. When your turn had come, Steve had watched you carefully to see if your eyes did that hopeful flit to someone in the circle, but all your concentration had been on the bottle, your smile slipping just a little as it spun. And landed on him.

Ew, you laughed. No, c’mon, you can’t make us.

That’s the game, Marcy had reminded you gleefully. As a resister, you now had the attention of most of the circle. It wasn’t Steve’s first time playing. He knew how it went.

Relax. He’d forced a smile, getting onto his hands and knees to meet you in the middle. It’ll be quick. Not too disgusting.

You’d made a face of humorous unwillingness, your eyes darting around the group as if seeking rescue. Fine, you relented. If it’s not a big deal to you, it’s not to me.

Steve had done this more than once, but it felt especially awkward with you. Crawling into the middle of a circle of spectators, your hand knocking the bottle so that it clinked and rolled. True to his promise, he kept it brief, a short, painless press of his lips. Hardly enough to feel the impression of yours before you were both pulling away, Steve silent and you spewing a string of nervous giggles.

You’d left before it was Steve’s turn to spin.

Now you seem near to ripping the sleeves of your shirt, the material stretched over your curled fingers as you worry your lip. You’re back to not looking at him. “I didn’t mean ‘ew’ at you.”

It had sure sounded like it. “Then what did you mean?”

“I meant it, like, I didn’t like how things were going.” You laugh at yourself, the sound stymied. “Like ew, we have to kiss in front of everyone, or ew, Chris is watching us way too intently.”

Steve makes a face. “He was?”

“Is that what you’re mad about?” Something seems to dawn upon you now, too, your expression clearing. “That I said that?”

He looks at you for a second. “Well, it sounds stupid when you say it out loud.”

“No it doesn’t,” you say, but you look to be fighting a grin. “I’m sorry, it’s not stupid. I didn’t mean to be mean.”

“It’s okay,” he says genuinely.

You shake your head. “I wasn’t thinking. But that’s not what I meant.”

Steve knows this now, but he teases you anyway. “Are you sure about that?”

You hesitate only half a second before you catch onto what he’s doing. Your smile starts to win. “I’m sure.”

“Kissing me doesn’t disgust you?”

“No.” Your voice is bashful now, but your eyes are steady on his as you take a step toward him.

The knots in Steve’s guts aren’t getting any looser, though there’s a different kind of commotion going on there now. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

You reach for each other at the same time, his hands on your ribs and yours on either side of his face, and this time there’s no glass bottles to knock or rules to adhere to or spectators to appease. This kiss isn’t short.

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 2 years ago

Note

Hii you dont have to do this but can i request a part 3 to ethan x camgirl where they start talking and meet up. Thanks🫶

The ending kind of sucks, but it's already 1.8k and I'm tired of writing this fic so I'm posting anyway

Warnings: 18+, smut, p + v, virgin!Ethan

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

What were the odds that you and Ethan both lived in New York? You didn’t attend the same college — he was at Blackmore and you at NYU —, but it was still a damn good coincidence. It was also almost unbelievable that you never bumped into each other when you visited friends at Blackmore.

After weeks of messaging back and forth — a few late night sexting sessions —, you decided to finally meet in person. It was nerve-wracking and exciting at the same time. You couldn’t wait to see those sweet dimples and bambi eyes…and kiss the hell out of him.

When Ethan got to the party, he felt dumb for asking you to meet him there because these frat houses were always jam-packed with people, but you were already on your way. It was too late to change the plans.

He stood in the room, deep brown eyes glancing around at the sea of faces, trying to spot someone who matched the beautiful girl he saw through his screen. What he hadn’t thought of was that looking for someone at a part could be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

‘’Ethan!’’ Chad called out, walking up to his roommate with a red rub in his left hand. ‘’We’re missing a player for beer-pong, you in?’’

Chad must be truly desperate to ask him to be his beer-pong partner because he knew how terrible he was at the game.

‘’Sorry, but I have to decline,’’ Ethan said. ‘’I’m waiting for someone.’’

A teasing smirk curled at Chad’s mouth. ‘’Someone, uh? You mean a girl.’’

Ethan rolled his eyes, fighting the blush on his face. ‘’Shut up.’’

The night went on, the frat party roaring with energy, and he finally spotted you in the midst of the crowd. You had on more clothes than he was used to seeing on you, but you still looked gorgeous — you always did.

He made his way over to you, a shy smile drawing on his face as he got closer.

You pulled Ethan into a greeting hug, feeling like you were past formal greetings. He saw you stuff your fingers in your cunt as you moaned his name, shaking his hand would feel strange.

‘’You smell good,’’ Ethan said, your sweet perfume enveloping him, a nice change from the strong weed odor that filled the living area.

You chuckled. ‘’Thanks.’’ You pulled back and raised your eyes. ‘’I didn’t expect you to be this tall,’’ you remarked in turn, surprised by Ethan’s height.

Being around you felt surreal to Ethan. He had to pinch himself a few times to make sure he wasn’t in one of his wet dreams. But you were really there, sitting beside him on the couch, your knee brushing his leg every time you laughed.

‘’You okay?’’ you asked, noticing Ethan shifting in his seat.

‘’All is good,’’ he lied, his face forcing a smile.

‘’You sure? We can go and get some air if you want.’’

‘’I don’t need air, it’s just— I don’t want you to think I wanted us to meet so I could use you for sex, but my dick has been rock hard since that hug and it’s getting really uncomfortable.’’

You looked down to see the tent in his pants and laughed softly. ‘’Why didn’t you say so?’’

‘’Because it’s embarrassing...’’ he mumbled, wishing the couch would swallow him.

Leaning closer, you said quietly. ‘’Would it be less embarrassing if I said I’ve been dying to leave and have you to myself?’’

No other words were spoken. Ethan just stood and you grabbed his arm as he guided you through the bodies of partygoers. He kept his head down and smiled at the ground, the feeling of your hand curling around his bicep sending butterflies in his stomach. If a simple touch ignited this kind of reaction from him, what would happen when your hands will be touching lower on his body?

The walk to Ethan’s dorm felt like a thousand miles away. The chilly night air nipped at your bare legs as you strolled through the dimly lit campus pathways, holding on to his arm the whole way. You couldn't wait to be inside and finally kiss him.

You barely made it inside the building lobby that you had pulled Ethan down by the front of his polo shirt and captured his lips with your own. He gasped against your mouth in surprise, not expecting that kiss, but quickly recovered and kissed back until he was out of breath.

Grabbing his hand again, you hurriedly took the stairs to the third floor — as instructed —, and watched with amusement Ethan unlocking and shutting the door with a clumsy eagerness.

‘’Come here, pretty boy,’’ you said, pulling Ethan down and kissing him again, gentle but deep.

You could kiss him all night and never get tired, but the elephant in the room was nudging at your thigh and you just had to give it some attention. Without disconnecting the kiss, your hand wandered south down Ethan’s body, pausing right over the lump in his jeans. He let out a strangled moan at the contact, and it made you smile into the kiss.

‘’Should we take care of that?’’ you asked, dragging your mouth to his jaw while you rubbed him over his jeans, touching him where nobody's ever touched him before, where he'd only dreamed of you touching him.

Ethan’s head tilted back and you only saw it as an opportunity to kiss a line down the side of the neck, adding to the new sensations. You kept on stroking him slow and long until he couldn’t take it anymore, pleading once again.

He peeled off his jacket, leaving it in a lump on the floor while you did the same with your sweater, leaving you in your lacy bra. You had picked it meticulously, hoping Ethan would be the one to take it off you tonight.

‘’Fuck, you're gorgeous,’’ he murmured to himself, watching you closely.

You pulled at his polo shirt, and when he raised his arms to discard it, you looked at him appreciatively. He was hiding so many good things underneath those preppy clothes. You ran your hands along his chest, the smooth muscles that spread across his stomach and his chest and his arms.

‘’You’re not bad either,’’ you replied, triggering a light blush on his cheeks.

The rest of your clothes came off in a disordered fashion, trying to get naked as fast as possible. Once the goal was reached and everything was on the floor on the chair, you glanced down and smirked, admiring what you had only ever seen through a screen. Big enough to make you feel full, and pink and leaking at the tip.

‘’Looks even better in person than on camera.’’ You wanted to kiss it, but instead wrapped your fist around his cock, slowly going in up and down motions. Moans and pleas fell from his plush lips, causing more pre-cum to leak from the tip. ‘’Please what, baby?’’ you asked, gently caressing the line of his happy trail with your other hand. ‘’Just tell me what you want.’’

‘’I want you.’’

You leaned in to kiss him again, and this time the kiss was hungry as you guided him back to what you assumed was his bed — the letterman jacket on the other bed gave it away. You moved back and brought Ethan down with you as you lied on the typical college boy dark blue sheets. Some curls were falling in his face, reminding you of the shy boy you met months ago during a private session.

You tucked his hair behind his ear, smiling softly at him. ‘’How do you want me?’’

On top.

Connecting your lips for a quick kiss, you then grabbed a condom — which he had bought for the occasion — and switched positions so you were straddling him. Pushing up on your knees, you gripped the base of his cock and lined him up with your entrance. You could tell that Ethan was nervous, his breathing pattern faster than a few minutes ago.

‘’It's okay. I got you.’’

You pressed gently, the tip barely sliding in, making Ethan grab the sheets and throw his head back from the overwhelming rush of new sensations. Slowly, you sank down onto him, inch by inch until he was all the way inside of you, and sighed. He felt so much better than you imagined.

Ethan’s grip on the sheets tightened as a long moan drew from his mouth. ‘’Fuck, that feels good,’’ he whispered, his eyes still shut, scared that if he open them and see you sitting on his cock he’ll burst.

Taking a small pause to adjust, you tilted his face down to yours and leaned down, capturing his lips with your own as your breasts pressed against his chest. His eyes snapped open, only to close again and release the sheets to run his hands everywhere he could reach on your body.

Once it was comfortable enough, you started moving your hips the same way you often did in your videos. Except this time, it wasn’t a dildo.

Ethan groaned, squeezing your thigh and moving his other hand to your chest as you moved on top of him. He cupped your breast, and then tentatively squeezed your nipple. It sent a bolt of need through your core, settling right between your legs.

‘’Do that again, baby,’’ you encouraged, and moved your hips again, a long languid movement. ‘’You can be rougher.’’ You gasped, pressing your fingers over his, pinching and twisting your nipple the way you liked. It hurt in the best way.

You continued moving your hips as Ethan played with your body, his mouth soon replacing his hands on your nipple, causing more mewls to ripple through.

It wasn't long until Ethan began getting sloppy and whiny, silently letting you know he was close. Virgin men didn't last long — you knew —, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t use your own hand to speed your orgasm instead of making Ethan feel bad for finishing fast.

You rubbed at your clit until you started to feel that coil tightening in your belly, getting close to the edge and, by some miracle, successfully reached your high closely together, echoes of your pleasure mixing as you clenched around Ethan’s spurting cock and milked him.

When you were finished, you rolled off him, falling back on the mattress. You should get up and go pee, but Ethan curled up next to you after disposing of the condom, wrapping an arm around your middle and you didn't want to get up yet. He pressed his face against your soft breasts, a beaming smile on his lips as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him close.

‘’I’m really happy I spent my dad’s money on that private session.’’

—

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All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron @Caxddce @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade @hi-bored-as-fcuk-rn @lovelyy-moonlight @mellabella101 @vxnity713 @marzipaanz @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @Heartsforneteyamsully @aerangi @hallecarey1 @bxbyyyjocelyn @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs @grxnde-dwt @lexasaurs634 @teeeree13 @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry imagine #ethan landry x you #scream 6 #scream #scream imagine

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chronically-ghosted · 2 years ago

Text

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled.

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.”

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder.

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.”

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.”

Partner.

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself.

And then he met you and the definition changed again.

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why.

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days.

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions.

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts.

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed.

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here.

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all.

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime.

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath.

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee.

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold.

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.”

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee.

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets.

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.”

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night.

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids.

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it.

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since.

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks.

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair.

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation.

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay.

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold.

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love.

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants.

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare.

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him.

“Baby–,”

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall.

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer.

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in.

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut.

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars.

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day.

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is.

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head.

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful.

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you.

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you.

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees.

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now.

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it.

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch.

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart.

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips.

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs.

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes.

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it.

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford.

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair.

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.”

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole.

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair.

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh.

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty.

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible.

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean.

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face.

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine.

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point.

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now.

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level.

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls.

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest.

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table.

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock.

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?”

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich.

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.”

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.”

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork.

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist.

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain.

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.”

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.”

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it.

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done.

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.”

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him.

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow.

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy.

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire.

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust.

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again.

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm.

“B-baby, please–,”

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer.

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.”

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.”

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him.

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name.

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep.

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again.

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more.

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst.

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs.

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet.

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling.

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor.

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull.

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face.

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.”

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest.

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.”

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips.

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all.

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed.

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you.

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.”

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach.

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.”

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

#frankie morales #fransisco morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales smut #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #frankie morales x f!reader

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rebo-chan · 1 year ago

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IMPORTANT CHARACTER ANALYSIS UNDER THE CUT. DO NOT IGNORE, YOU DO NOT WANT TO MISS THIS.

OKAY SO WE ALL KNOW THAT TSUNA LIKES SALISBURY STEAK FROM THE DATABOOKS AND ANIME, AND WE KNOW THAT REBORN LIKES ESPRESSO.. BUT IS THAT THE TRUTH? Is that what these young lads consumed throughout the series? What do they like to eat? What do we BEAR WITNESS TO THEM SHOVING INTO THEIR MOUTHS? With this question in mind, I embarked on a quest with my good friend @ketchup-chup TO DOCUMENT WHAT TSUNA AND REBORN ACTUALLY EAT. Have you been deceived to believe that Reborn doesn't like sweets? If so, you're in for a FUCKING treat. Some things we discovered during this is that Tsuna just is SO bad with eating. HE EATS SO LITTLE. I WOULD GO CHAPTERS UPON CHAPTERS WITH HIM NOT EATING ANYTHING. All while REBORN SHOVED HIS FUCKING FACE WITH FOOD TO THE POINT WHERE WE HAD TO ADD IN RULES FOR HIM.

You see the frame on the left? You see the difference in plates between Tsuna and Reborn? This is the best way I can symbolize what this was like before we begin.

Okay, before I begin, here are some ground rules:

We only did the daily life MANGA chapters, chapter 1-61 because nobody has any real time to calculate the distance of Byakuran's ash to see if any landed in Tsuna's mouth. That being said, I am sure that if we did Reborn would continue to be a fucking menace. We did not include any anime scenes, because we just could not realistically watch the entire daily life anime. This also does not include any 'food' we see in openings like the strawberry jam toast from Boys and Girls, or the soda he is drinking in Dive to World. Same goes for endings.

Reborn ate so much that for @ketchup-chup's sanity, we included only the things that he was actually shoving in his mouth. So, the list you're about to see, there WAS more and we cut it for our sanity's sake. Tsuna was eating so LITTLE, we did the exact opposite where everytime a food was even SPOTTED NEAR HIM, I snatched up into my list.

The foods will be listed in order as they were spotted in the series as we went through, but as sometimes they are doubled up on later. (As in a character for example had coffee once, then coffee again in a later chapter will be written as Coffee x2)

That's all! So, let's get started!

Sawada Tsunayoshi: Pocky Milk Italian Pasta Water x8 Chips x2 Lollipop x2 Poison Cooking x3 Rice balls x2 (the second time he had this, he fucking spit it out..) Soda x5 (his third soda was in one of harus pictures at the end of the chapter<3) Soumen noodles Sushi x2 (Two separate pieces of Sushi within two frames of each other that looked different lol...) Rice x3 (Rice in a bowl!) One bite of cake (This agitated me because there was a separate frame of Reborn with his own cake, that looked demolished in comparison to Tsunas measly one bite... OTL) Ramen Coffee x2 Instant Ramen 2 WATERMELON RINDS (IN THE SAME SCENE!! HE ATE TWO!!) Juice It should be said before I move onto Reborn, that the "ramen" entry was this:

That's 61 chapters worth of Tsuna's food. :) As you can see he really likes water. Water and one bite of cake :)<3

Reborn:

Fish Coffee x7 Italian Pasta Tea x3 (Second entry of this was him having his own tea ceremony of this) Watermelon x2 Cold Soba noodles Popsicle x7 Hot pot Kimchi Soumen Juice x2 Beer Sushi x2 Tuna Water x3 Cake x2 (First was the one he devoured that I mentioned further above, second was his wedding cake with Bianchi) Rice Mochi (For the mochi making competition, he was taste testing) Soup (Probably miso judging by it, but he sure was slurping it) Cookie Barbeque Soda

An honorable mention that the lovely ketchup didn't include because he didn't actually eat it, but I spotted in digging through chapters of Tsuna starving himself: a smoothie/milkshake(?) and a icecream sundae. Here you can look at it yourself~

Also, yes the popsicle was included in the count of FUCKING popsicles he's CONSUMED.

To do a recap:

Tsuna ate 39 things by the start of kokuyo, subtracting the RAMEN gokudera dropped on him and the spit out rice ball and i wish i coULD HALF HIS FUCKING ONE BITE CAKE THATS NOT REAL FOOD TSUNA. Tsuna really consumed 36.5 items (37 if you count the one bite of cake but whatever..) Also, if you subtract the poison cooking, he's sitting at 33.5 (34 *grumbles*).

Reborn ate 39 items, including the honorable mention he had 41 items. Bearing in mind, we cut out so much of Reborn just showing up near food or holding onto it. Tsuna, meanwhile was counted for existing near food. Gathering nutrients through photo-fucking-synthesis. The anime feeds Tsuna SO much more, I can name 5 items off the top of my memory that he ate in daily life that just aren't counted from the manga. Please don't be fooled by the fact they start out with the same number till we started subtracting, MOST OF TSUNAS IS HIS WATER COUNT. If you IGNORE ALL THE DRINKS HE HAS, MANS IS SITTING AT 17, WHILE IF YOU REMOVE REBORNS DRINKS HE GOES DOWN TO 25. (Its mostly his love for espresso bringing down his number, MEANWHILE FOR TSUNA ITS HIS FUCKING WATER COUNT??)

Now that our statistical analysis that NO one told us to do has been completed. What can we learn from it about our characters favorite food preferences? Well, Tsuna is SO well hydrated. We love a water-stanning king. Besides that, he's mostly eating snacks with his lollipops, chips, and his enjoyment of drinking soda. (He drinks fast food soda the most, with 3 of those submissions being him sipping from a container with a straw. The last two are from a can and a bottle specifically.) Meanwhile, we can believe Reborn when he says he likes coffee, but ALSO he fucking?? loves?? popiscles?? it's unreal??? there were so many popsicles??? He LOVES SWEETS.. sad to say but he just fucking lied to Luce in the fillers about not liking sweets. It's Tsuna, if anyone, that doesn't like sweets with his one bite of cake. HOLD ON ACTUALLY FUCK THIS IM SHOWING YOU GUYS THE CAKE DILEMMA ME AND KETCHCUP WERE STARING AT.

YOU SEE THAT LITTLE CAKE THATS BEING CUT OUT OF FRAME? THATS IT. THATS THE EXTENT OT TSUNAS BITE. MEANWHILE, HERES REBORNS.

THAT THING IS ALMOST GONE. YALL ARE SEEING THIS RIGHT??

REKSHNS anyway! Reborn's more of a curious soul with his food, trying a bunch of stuff that he wouldn't normally eat. Meanwhile Tsuna plays it mostly safe with snacks and mostly Japanese food. AGAIN, no one asked us to do this and while we are absolutely hysterical as I type this up, if you have any questions about specifics please feel free to ask SDKJGN this is IMPORANT!! CHARACTER ANALYSIS!!! CLEARLY!!!

Thanks for reading this far HELP ME. This was funny as hell to dig through and perhaps we may look through the last arcs if we feel like it, or do other characters. (I've noticed Gokudera is a good eater!)

See you next post~

#katekyo hitman reborn #khr #sawada tsunayoshi #khr reborn #This was really important guys #so so so important #i better not be seeing any 'reborn doesn't like sweets' hcs ever again/j #he fucking loves them so much

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whatsaninterestingplacethisis · 2 years ago

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Hot Stuff

Imagine

Nico Hischier x Latina!Reader

Synop: y/n and friends go out to a 80s theme night club because why not.

cw: drinking

a/n: this is very “cheesy”, very movie magic, does not happen in real life

+++

You were dressed in boot cut jeans with black booties and a satin button up blouse, with the top buttons unbuttoned.

“Do I or do I not look hot?” Your friend walks into your room posing in her 80s themed skimpy outfit.

“You look hot.” You say with lack of emotion as you zipped up your boots.

“Wow thanks I really believed you there.” She nudges your shoulder and looks at both of your reflections in the mirror.

“I look hot. You look hot. So cheer up and let’s go to the kitchen, everyone is taking pre gamers!” She hugs your shoulders tightly before joining the rest outside.

“I’m not drinking tonight!” she was long gone to hear. You weren’t much the drinker, other nights you would participate but tonight seemed better sober.

You walk out to the kitchen to see everyone in their get up and truth be told everyone did look hot.

“Cmon y/n/n! Take at least one shot!”

“Yeah how do you expect to dance tonight without being intoxicated?”

One of your friends was right, to dance to 80s jams without any alcohol in your system seemed futile.

“Alright,” You swished the drink down and the Uber was ready to pick you guys up.

+++

To your surprise the club had a lot more people than first to be expected. There were many madona blondes and Michael Jackson thrillers. It was the month of October, so in a way tonight was kind of a Halloween celebration.

As soon as you and your friends walked in, one dragged all of you to the bar, swiftly ordering tonight’s meal.

So much for not drinking, because before you knew it you’re three beers in, starting to feel inebriated, dancing your heart out with friends to Hot Stuff by Donna Summers.

“I need some hot stuff baby tonight!” Your friend screams.

“I need some hot stuff baby this evening!” You scream.

Screaming horribly pitched singing and dancing but having the time of your life in this moment. You and your friend laugh at your guy’s antics.

“I’m gonna get a beer! You want something?” You yell

“I’m good!”

As much fun and liberating dancing is, it’s a goddam workout. Surely alcohol will keep you hydrated.

+++

“I’ve never seen Top Gun.” Nico stares at Jack whose holding a green aviator jumpsuit for him. An exact replica of what’s he’s wearing with a white t-shirt under and sunglasses propped on his head.

“I know but we will look cool together, like maverick and goose.”

“What the hell is a maverick?”

“Just put the suit on.” Jack throws the suit towards Nico and pushes him to change.

Nico walks out twining like his teammate, with his sunglasses on.

“Hell yeah, I’m maverick and your goose.” Jack says all excited.

“Okay.” Nico states blandly.

“We’ll watch the movie after tonight so you can understand. Now let’s go and boogie.”

“Should’ve watched it before tonight” Nico murmured.

+++

Nico wasn’t one to go out and dance, especially not a decades theme dance. But here he is standing in the corner of the club because his friend dragged him to dress up as pilots. When he first walked in he admired everyone’s costumes and understood most 80s references, the music on the other hand was interesting to say the least

It’s 80s music, it’s hard to not stomp to the beat. Jack was somewhere else, probably talking to one of the madonas in the building, and Nico just people watching while sipping his drink.

Then the beat of the music started to kick up and his eyes caught on two girls dancing and singing the lyrics of the song. He couldn’t help but laugh at the site, not in a bad way but in awe as he saw people having fun. Maybe he should have fun tonight too.

+++

As the bartender brings you another beer, Donna’s melody comes to an end and the classic slow song of the 80s begins.

“…my foolish lover's game,” you mouth to sing along right before you take a swig.

You turn to see couple gathered at the floor swaying to the music and you couldn’t help to sway as well, it really is something about 80s music!

Watching in slow motion as you turn around and say

You decide to people watch as you cater your glass bottle and your eyes land a pair of brown eyes across the room as the chorus lands.

Take my breath away

You and this annoyingly handsome man who is ironically dressed in an aviator outfit, hold eye contact as the chorus ends.

You being the first to break eye contact, turn to the bar and talk to yourself, “what the hell was that.”

+++

That was weird, Nico thinks to himself. He didn’t notice as he was people watching, his eyes followed on one of the girls that were dancing to the bar.

They held eye contact what seemed like forever with the slow song blasting through the room. Nico hiccups his beverage and looks to find Jack.

+++

One of your friends finds you at the bar,

“All these couples make me gross and sad for being single.” She leans her head on your shoulder.

“I think I fell in love with an aviator.” You yell calmly.

“Huh?” You’re drunken friend asks

“Like from Top Gun, I don’t know if he was maverick or goose but what just happened was too real to ignore.” You say looking forward replaying the moment back and forth in your head.

“We’ll where is he!?”

You quickly turn around to see if he’s still there but he’s gone now. You scan the dark room for his green jumpsuit but to no avail.

“He’s gone now.” You thought to yourself maybe you imagined things.

“Wait I see him!” Your petite friend points out an aviator but it’s not him.

“That’s not him, he was taller.” You sulk

Then the other half pops into view, the maverick you held eyes with taps on goose’s shoulder to talk with and again makes eye contact with you and they both look in your direction.

“They’re looking at you.” You’re friend whispers as if they could heard across the loud room.

“I know.” You grit and make a gesture to the boys to follow you off side the dance floor.

“Follow me,” you demand as you drag your short friend to meet the men.

+++

“Hi ladies” the shorter aviator says as he styles his sunglasses on top his hair.

You and your maverick still continue this unofficial game of holding eye contact and observing one another’s style and presence.

“Yours guy’s costumes are so cute.” You drunken-tired friend says, making you lose this round of the game.

“Yeah let me guess, are you goose and he’s maverick?” You ask the dark blonde

He’s taken back as he stutters to correct you, “actually I’m mav and he’s goose, it’s not oficial or anything.” He mutters the last part.

Your mouth makes an O shape to understand but kept to yourself that the man directly in front of you looked more like a maverick than a goose.

“Y/n Im gonna find the girls, I think the night is coming to an end, at least for me.” She covers up her yawn

“Okay I’ll be there in a bit.” She leaves you with the duo

“I’m y/n by the way” you extend your hand to your maverick, curious of his name.

“I’m Nico” he shook your hand softly but noticed your strong grip.

Both of you stand in awe in one another, rethinking of the eye contact and the tension across the busy room.

A forced cough could be heard, “yeah I’m Jack.” A quick second passed before you turned to acknowledge the blonde, “hi” you swiftly say before locking eyes again with Nico.

Jack stands beside you two with googling eyes, “Okay then, I’m gonna go back to the dance floor.”

No one heard Jack’s dismissal.

“That song, the song we made eye contact with, a bit ironic isn’t it?” You ask looking up at the gorgeous man.

“Why is it ironic?”

You started to slightly panic, “because you’re dressed as a pilot from Top Gun, are you not?”

“Oh yeah I guess I am. Is the song in the movie?” Nico tilted his head in curiosity

“The song is the movie. You never seen Top Gun?” You ask in bewilderment

“No, jack made me dress like this to match him. I still don’t know what a maverick is.” He laughs nervously

“Maverick is the nickname for the main character, essentially. You should watch the movie, it’s good.”

“Maybe we could watch it together” Nico shyly but boldly says as he scratches the back of his neck

You were stunned at his boldness but didn’t let it show. A smile crept up on your face and you nod your head, “I would love to see it with you.”

a/n: lazy ending but I tried.

#nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine #latina!reader #jells🪼imagines #nhl imagine

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boldlyvoid · 2 years ago

Text

December 16th, 1986

Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson

Summary: It took 8 months, but Steve's parents finally sold their house... and Steve has no idea where he's going to live now.

Warnings: drug use, mutual pining, first kisses, getting together, moving in together, Wayne and Mr. Clark are dating in this

Word Count: 2.5k

For the past 8 months, Steve has been getting ready for this moment.

His parents announced pretty soon after the earthquake that they would be moving. They put the house up for sale, they packed their things and they left… they said he could stay there till it sold, make sure that the Realtor showed the house off right and answer any questions that the potential buyers have. He answered things that he shouldn’t have, he told lies, he made the house seem haunted and he prolonged living there as long as he could until another rich family decided they’d take it no matter what.

His last day to live in his childhood home is December 16th. He has 2 weeks to pack, find an apartment and start living life on his own terms. His parents “helped” the best way they knew how. With a check for $1000 as a thank you for looking after the place until now and words of support… those words being “We know you can do it, and if not, here’s our new address.”

Robin offered to let him stay with her but without her mom knowing because she already thinks they’re dating in secret and that wouldn’t help. He can’t ask Nancy for help cause she’s in Boston— Jonathan might be willing to help but since their breakup… he’s not really hanging out with anyone much. Dustin's mom has made it clear he can stay over whenever he wants but he’d have to sleep on the couch in the living room and there wouldn't be much privacy.

The 4 apartments downtown are taken currently, they won’t be available for god-knows how long and he can’t afford to buy a house of his own… his job sucks, and he’s worried he won’t even be there much longer once Robin goes off to college cause Keith hates him, so he should be looking for both a new job and a place to live.

It all comes tumbling out of him after a joint and a beer while lying on the carpet in Eddie’s room.

“Dude,” Eddie stops him mid-ramble. “You can stay here.”

“Where?”

“Here,” Eddie waves around. “In my room, with me, for as long as you need.”

He laughs as he sits up, “Yeah I can see it now, my race car poster can go there. My trophies will sit in a box over there on the floor and after I organize your closet for the first time like, ever, I’ll put my clothes in there.”

“I mean, I think the race car would look better over there,” Eddie points to the one blank spot on his wall with a smirk. “I’m completely serious, Stevie, you can stay here. Wayne won’t mind.”

He just sighs, “I mean, I think I can store all my things in Dustin's weird bomb shelter storage thing—

“Wait, what?” Eddie cuts him off. “He has a bomb shelter?”

“I don’t know it’s like not connected to his house and it’s in the backyard and it’s underground and all concrete,” Steve explains. “But they just keep his mom's homemade stuff down there like she pickles shit and makes jam, so... I could keep some boxes down there and just bring the important things here.”

“See, that sounds like a great plan,” Eddie cheers him on.

“But…” he doesn’t know how to ask.

“What?”

He sighs, “where am I going to sleep?”

“Here,” Eddie says like it’s no big deal, pointing down at his bed. “It’s not like you haven’t slept here before.”

“Yeah, but, every night, for-for I don’t know how long?” Steve worries, “You’d seriously be okay with that?”

Eddie nods, “I mean, we sleep pretty good when we’re together…”

Steve sighs, he’s right. No nightmares, no night sweats, no morning headaches, notate night anxiety attacks— and that’s just all the stuff on his end. Eddie hasn’t been on a regular sleep schedule like this since he was a toddler, sleeping from midnight to 9am every time they’re together, he’s more productive and he’s happier and they really love sleeping together... It just feels right.

“Don’t-don’t take this the wrong way, but-but—

“Oh no,” Eddie worries right away.

“No, no, it’s a good thing I promise,” Steve assures. “I just wanted to say I… I love you, man. You’re a wonderful person and you take such good care of all your friends and-and don’t tell Robin but you’re one of the best people in my life and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Eddie tries to make a joke response but his mouth just opens and closes and he shakes his head in disbelief, “You do?”

Steve nods, “I really do. Thank you… for everything.”

Eddie gets off his bed and crowds Steve on the floor, wrapping him up in such a powerful hug they end up lying down with Eddie on top of him, “I love you too, Stevie.”

They’re like that for well over a minute, but with the weed in their system, it might’ve been even longer than that. They end up cuddled on the floor, Eddie’s face in Steve’s neck, Steve’s fingers tracing shapes on Eddie's back, the two of them silent and content and oddly comfortable.

They cuddle often. This is how they fall asleep. After long chats about all sorts of things: work, bad dads, evil teachers, stupid ex-friends, relationships that went south... You name it, they’ve talked about it. It started one night after he drove Robin home from work, she had a headache and just wanted to sleep and he needed someone to talk to— somehow he ended up parked in front of Eddie’s trailer before he could even register how he got there and Eddie was coming outside to make sure he was okay. He wasn’t. But he’s been okay since then, since knowing he has another safe space with someone who cares about him.

Now he knows that someone loves him… and Steve loves him right back. Maybe more than how he loves Robin or Dustin. Maybe he loves him more like he loved Nancy? This did feel an awfully lot like when he cuddled with her, only, they did this after sex… completely naked, cuddled up for 10-20 minutes before he had to get her home for her curfew, but he soaked it all in. It was his favourite part of the whole thing.

And now he has it again, just in a different form. In a different shape… an Eddie shape that’s even warmer and heavier and smells like home and doesn’t have to leave after a few minutes. And when Eddie said he loved him back, it was real. It was sincere. It was everything he wanted.

He rests his cheek against the top of Eddie’s head for a moment, lets out a sigh from all his thoughts and then he does it. He kisses the top of Eddie's head and squeezes him tighter. And to his surprise, Eddie kisses him right back. His lips touch Steve’s neck and they stay there, again and again, he kisses him until he’s straddling Steve’s hips and his lips meet his jaw and Steve stops breathing.

His eyes blown wide, his hands fallen to his sides, he’s frozen. Eddie notices and pulls back, he cups Steve’s jaw and stares at him, “hey… I’m sorry, I can—

Steve doesn’t let him finish, he simply grips his t-shirt and pulls him down into a real kiss. Lips pressed firmly together, eyes squeezed shut— on his end, at least. It’s not Eddie's turn to be shocked still. Steve holds him there for a moment and then releases, noticing Eddie’s now frozen as he opens his eyes. He laughs, finding him so un-godly cute, “Sorry…”

“No, no, don’t apologize,” Eddie says in a mere whisper, still dumbfounded that that really happened. But he comes back to reality, he stares at Steve’s lips and then back up to his eyes, “Kiss me whenever you'd like, pretty boy.”

Steve sits up with Eddie still in his lap, chest to chest now, he cups Eddie’s face, “same goes for you, handsome.”

So, Eddie kisses him this time, sweet and gentile and everything Steve’s ever wanted. It’s slow and sweet, and his lips are soft, Eddie wraps his arms around him and holds him close. Steves is the first one to initiate more, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip, Eddie almost moans as he lets him in.

Steve's hand slips from his cheek, down his neck and rests on his chest before he wraps his arms around Eddie’s middle and tugs him in even closer. He’s never had a kiss that feels like this: there’s love and passion and a familiarity that feels like they’ve kissed a million times before.

He’s not sure how long they kiss, but it feels like hours.

Glorious, fantastic, and magical hours that he never wants to end.

When Eddie finally pulls away he doesn’t look too happy— which worries Steve. “I love this, but I’ve gotta piss so goddamn bad, dude.”

Steve laughs, “Go, go pee and then we can continue this in the bed, my ass is going numb.”

Eddie steals one last kiss, “Okay, I’ll be right back. Might get some snacks too… the munchies are kicking in.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Steve alone in his room… he reaches over for the walkie-talkie on Eddie’s bedside table, pulls out the antenna and changes the frequency to the one he and Robin use. It’s late, she’s probably asleep, but he’s allowed to wake her up when he needs her.

“Rob? Robin? Are you up?”

He waits a moment and then he hears it, she groans, “What?”

“It happened.”

“You’re gonna have to be more descriptive, dingus,” she bullies him. “And speak up, where are you?”

“I’m at Eddie's, he’s gonna be back in a second but… but we kissed. It happened, Rob.”

“Do you want a parade? Some gay confetti cake?” She teases, tired and not in the mood but he can hear her slight smile.

“No, I just wanted to tell you,” he smiles like an idiot on his end. “And I told him I love him, so there’s that…”

“Congrats, you kissed the same sex before I did— can I please go back to bed now?” She begs.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ll see yo tomorrow,” he lets her go. “Night, rob.”

“Night, dingus,” he says back and then the line goes dead. She’s turned it off completely.

He flops back to the bed with the walkie pressed to his chest and the most shit-eating grin plastered to his face. He’s never felt so happy in his life. And Eddie sees it. He leans against the doorway, bag of chips in hand, just smiling back at him.

“You know, I always wondered what my dad meant when he said I was more like Wayne than anyone else in their family, that I had to be a Munson like my mom said because I’m his twin…” Eddie explains and Steve sits right up, nervous that he was caught.

“What?”

“Wayne’s had the same boyfriend since I was like 14,” he explains. “They see each other in the mornings when he’s coming home and his lovers getting ready for work. He brings him coffee, they get a few minutes to just chat and then he'd come back here to make sure I was ready for the bus… and I didn’t know he was his boyfriend for a long time. I actually didn’t know for sure until we were in the hospital, and Scott was there, holding Wayne’s hand.”

“Wait, that’s why Mr. Clarke was always around?” Steve can’t believe it. “I knew they were friends but… oh my god?”

Eddie makes his way to the bed and nods, “They’ve been together for a while. And happily. If it wouldn’t fuck with his job, they’d be living together… he has a second room in his house so they’ve been thinking about pretending to be roommates but, I don’t know who’d buy that.”

“I would’ve,” Steve assures him. “Believe me, that is not the first thing I think of when I see two older dudes hanging out.”

“And if Wayne moves in with him… then I get the trailer,” Eddie explains. “And there’d be more room for your things… and you’d never have to leave…”

“Oh,” Steve’s heart swells. “You’d want that?”

Eddie nods again, “I want you for as long as I can have you.”

“How does forever sound?” Steve teases, wanting that too.

“Perfect,” he agrees before lunging at him for another kiss.

—

When December 16th rolls around, Steve has all his things packed, they load it all into Eddie’s van and keep the non-essential things at Dustins in his cellar. It’s a relatively easy move, the hardest part was organizing Eddie’s closet so Steve’s things could fit in there. He convinces Eddie to donate some things, but by “donate” he meant put shit in a box and give it to Mike.

And Wayne’s home that day too, he doesn’t go back to work until 8pm which means that he can make them dinner. He’s s happy to have Steve around, slightly because he’s loved Steve ever since he dragged Eddie out of hell and to a hospital— but mostly because Eddie loves him. They’re a little family.

And, speaking of family: Scott comes over too.

The 4 men sit around a little table and chat and laugh and celebrate the start of something new. Something beautiful. New love, but more specifically, Gay love.

“Um,” Steve starts to speak when the conversation starts to lull. “Do you guys know any other lesbians in the area?”

They nod, “Yeah, we do, why?” Wayne asks.

“My best friend thinks she’s the only lesbian in the whole town and I thought maybe we could have like a gay New Year's party or something so she would feel less alone?”

“Does she have a fake ID?” Eddie asks and Scott glares at him. “What? Candace and Sharon literally run a gay bar in Indy, we could just go there all together.”

“You guys can go,” Scott waves his hands. “I am not going to a club at my big age. I am long past finding that fun.”

“Robin would love to go,” Steve announces for her. “We’ll find her something to use.”

“Candy isn’t above sneaking someone in,” Wayne teases. “You guys will have a blast.”

“Can I just say thanks again for letting me stay here?” Steve asks, feeling a little emotional with how amazing this is all turning out to be.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Wayne waves it off.

“You could’ve even moved in with me, or just kept your things at my place,” Scott offers. “Any kid of Waynes is a kid of mine.”

He gets a little choked up, unsure of what to say, he just smiles. “Thank you,” is all he can muster.

Going from having 1 dad who didn’t even care to call him on his birthday to having Eddie’s 2 dads who’d do anything for him, thanks to Eddie is just too much to handle right away. But he’ll get used to it.

This is his family now.

They’ll have to do this every year now; a big dinner on the 16th of December every year to celebrate coming home.

General Taglist

@ncsls0515 @stevesmunsons @reidsbookclub @sweetyyhippyy @manuosorioh @mrs-dr-reid @k-k0129 @squishyturtle @katsukis1wife @buckleyhans @mrs-ssa-hotch @ssavanessa22

Steddie

@nosaladallowed-ao3 @wifeyreid @girl-with-an-orange-cat @sunshinemunchkin @luna-munson83 @manda-panda-monium @steve-thehair-mamabear

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington fanfiction #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #steddie fanfiction #clarkson

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hexbimbo · 1 year ago

Text

DBD Favorite Food HC:

Survivors

Dwight Fairfield

Cheese Pizza.

No more no less.

Thinks pepperoni is “too spicy.”

Pizza What! Had 25% lifetime employee discount.

Meg Thomas

Doesn’t particularly care about her diet as much due to her active lifestyle.

Probably needs more calories than the average person because she’s always on the move.

A good hearty veggie burger is enough for Meg.

Claudette Morel

Ham and Cheese Sandwich.

No crust, untoasted, on white bread.

Toasted bread makes her teeth hurt.

Cut into triangles for maximum efficiency.

Jake Park

In the ~lore~ he is shown to have affinity for Korean Barbecue Ribs.

Really enjoys smoked meats and canned veggies

Canned Artichokes. Boom.

Nea Karlson

Energy drinks.

Probably consumed with some rock candy for extra ✨sizzle✨.

Has attempted to down a can and crush it with her forehead (failed)

Laurie Stroade

Apple pie.

Something all American and sweet.

A nice dollop of vanilla ice cream too please!

Ace Visconti

Would probably tell you some fancy name that makes you feel broke.

More likely a home cooked meal by his Mom

Thinks that high rollers shouldn’t be associated with low class dishes of a foreign country.

I’ll go with Alfajores. Especially the ones dipped with a little chocolate.

William “Bill” Overbeck

Tv dinner with a cold beer

Preferably a Salisbury steak one 🔥🔥🔥

Over boiled canned peas with a slice of buttered bread ain’t bad either.

Feng Min

Candy and chips seems too obvious yknow?

~Lore~ also mentions her being an alcoholic but that’s not really a “favorite” is it?

Probably sponsored a limited edition soft drink that she really liked.

David King

Toad in the hole.

“Classic British “cuisine””

Surprisingly not a fan of a good chippy

Too much oil for his diet

Quentin Smith

Yknow those hard candies in strawberry wrapping old people give on Halloween?

Those

Those 💯

Especially ones with little soft center

David Tapp

Chinese food.

Crab Rangoons was always his go too.

Especially slathered in duck sauce. (Sweet and sour)

Kate Denson

Sun flower seeds.

Perfect snack for wildness jam seshs.

Would be trail mix if she didn’t only eat the chocolate.

Adam Francis

Connivence store meals

Have you see the pre-made meal game in Japan?

~Lore~ mentions that he enjoyed spending his weekends at high end restaurants too.

Big fan of Japanese food.

Jeffery “Jeff” Johansen

Pancakes. Maybe with some blueberry if he’s feeling fancy.

Nice slab of butter in between each layer.

Likes the syrup to soak into a the pancakes for a bit.

Beard definitely catches the sticky crumbs.

Jane Romero

Grilled Chicken and Beet Salad.

Sprinkle some walnuts and goat cheese for extra yummy flavor.

Probably enjoyed with a tasty raspberry or apple vinaigrette.

Ashley J. Williams

Edibles.

Relax kid! He’s just joshing ya’!

Cow tails are pretty groovy.

But he wouldn’t say no to a few special brownies.

Nancy Wheeler

She looks boring as hell

Vanilla ice cream with cherry shell.

Not that flavorful but sweet enough it’s a treat.

Steve Harrington

Root beer float.

Mid tbh.

Enjoys the idea of sharing it with someone via two straws at a sleepy diner.

Yui Kimura

Street food.

Takoyaki to be specific.

Her gang spent a lot of time muscling about in the narrow streets of Tokyo. Easy access to cheap and piping hot food.

Likes eating with her hands.

Zarina Kassir

Felt like she wasn’t as appreciative of her “foreign” lunches as she could’ve been as a kid.

Makes an effort to recreate her childhood meals but lacks the “mom touch.”

Always on the move for the next big story, this film maker enjoys celery and carrots.

Cheryl Mason

Dry Cereal.

Just something to pick at through out the day.

Not too sweet either. Something whole grain works for her.

Felix Richter

Heavily salted potato salad.

Boil some proses till tender, throw in some mayo, lemon juice, parsley, dash of sugar, salt ‘n pepper and you, my friend, have got it ON 🔥🔥🔥

The side dish you’re forced to try but end up digging.

Élodie Rakoto

Hachis Parmentier. Served with a cucumber salad.

“Classic French “cuisine.””

About as tasty as you would expect.

Easy to prepare and easy to eat. (Kinda)

Yun- Jin Lee

Fancy foods for the fancy lady.

Western food has a soft spot in her cold, unfeeling heart.

Mushroom risotto and seared scallops.

Jill Valentine

BLT hold the mayo.

Wavy chips make a good side.

Maintains a firm diet.

Leon S. Kennedy

I raise you one: Ham, Cheese, Egg croissant.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner all in one.

And available at many fast food places.

Had one with a runny egg yoke and - lord.

Mikaela Reid

Lavender Matcha Boba.

Her tastes buds soared.

Too bad it was a limited time promotional item.

Jonah Vasquez

Caesar Salad Wrap with Ranch.

Maybe with a small lil fruit cup.

Overall very healthy 👍.

Yoichi Asakawa

Hamburg with cheese.

I don’t really know a lot about him tbh.

Seems like he has a well balanced diet.

Probably eats it with a cabbage garnish.

Haddie Kaur

Eggs.

Fried eggs served over spiced watermelon rinds are 👌.

Can’t go wrong with an eggs and cheese.

Ada Wong

I can’t really imagine her eating??

My mind says she probably collects antique wine but I can’t really picture her drinking either.

I’ll go with mussoli.

Rebecca Chambers

Macarons!

Expensive? Yes. Shareable? Also yes!

“Oh! Those look just like a smiling hamburger!”

Vittorio Toscano

Cheese and bread.

Maybe- MAYBE a little watered down wine.

Not like a charcuterie board. More Skyrim “going ham on a wheel of cheese and bread”.

Thalita Lyra

Grilled Pineapple.

Dusted with some brown sugar and grilled on an open flame is 🤤.

Likes it tender. Undercooked, firm pineapple makes her sad.

Renato Lyra

Rice. Rice never changes.

Goes well with cheesy stroganoff.

Wash it down with a fizzy drink.

Probably doesn’t eat much else tbh. Classic ‘Tism 😎

Gabriel Soma

Due to his memories being fake it’s hard to tell if he actually likes the food or just THINKS he likes it.

Probably likes hotdogs.

His Mom would always get him some to nom on during baseball game.

Hates pork hotdogs.

Nic Cage

Apparently is irl favorites are KFC and champagne.

Sounds about right.

Seems like a memer and would get a baja blast if his kids suggested it.

Ellen Ripely

Freeze dried ice cream sandwiches.

Or crackers.

Likes the crunch and long shelf life both can provide.

Alan Wake

Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and black coffee.

You ever such a rough morning you gotta process what’s on your plate for 10 minutes?

Likes his eggs salty.

Sable Ward

DIY spooky treats!

“Mummy Dogs” are croissant wrapped hotdogs and “candied eyeballs” are tangulu grapes.

Probably had an edgy phase of “only liking black coffee.”

“How can you even enjoy the natural taste of coffee with all that sugar and milk??”

Killers:

Evan McMillian

Boiled Dinner.

Throw some cabbage, pastrami, and bacon in bag with some seasonings.

(Read: salt and pepper).

Delicious for 1800 palettes.

Phillip Ojomo

Canned beans.

Eating them straight from the can hit different after a long day of crushing cars.

Knows how to open any can with a spoon alone.

Max Thompson Jr

Biscuits and Gravy.

Was usually served the slop version as a kid.

Tries to re-create it a bit more “not bad”.

Sally Smithson

Johnny cakes.

Probably also likes food with not okay names.

Like “Injun Bread” 🫤.

Micheal Myers

Chips and Cola.

Eats more to survive than for comfort.

A lot of victims tend to be teenagers relaxing on Halloween with an assortment of junk food goodies.

Chips in bowl and a half empty cup of cola are very tasty snacks when he’s on the move.

Lisa Sherwood

I’m not sure if it’s ever explicitly said but I head-cannon her as being from New Orleans.

Craw fish is tried and true banger.

Even in her “Hag” form, she enjoys slurping them up raw.

Herman Carter

Black Coffee.

Wakes up early to enjoy some time alone with his mug.

Maybe dips a crostini in.

Anna

Bear.

Anna likes her food in a very particular way, almost OCD with her eating habits.

Refuses to eat until she “earns” the right to eat.

Bear is the perfect challenge.

Bubba Sawyer

Chili.

Add a dollop of cheddar jack cheese on top for a pop of color.

Likes dipping bread into it.

No spoon required.

Freddy Krueger

Apple slices.

A nice juicy apple was refreshing on a hot summers day working in the garden.

Now, the juices sting his skin.

Amanda Young

Fast food.

If you ever worked the morning shift at a fast food place yknow the crack heads be jonesing out in the corner booth.

Post Recovery, I think greasy fast food helps settle her stomach.

Jeffery Hawk

Corn dogs if he’s mad, cotton candy if he’s sad.

Or both if you wanna meet an early grave.

Either way, eats way too much for his body to properly digest and often is constipated.

Rin Yamaoka

Natto.

Sticky fermented beans beloved by Japan.

Kinda icky but it’s a staple there.

Frank, Julie, Susie, Joey

Frank likes hot chocolate.

Julie likes loaded fries.

Susie likes sprinkles.

Joey likes red slushies.

Adris

Mutton and dates.

A holy meal for a holy woman.

Not too sure if the Babylonians had honey ( I think they did) she’d probably slather it on.

Danny Johnson

French fries.

Perfect finger food while typing up the next big story.

Tries dipping it in the blood of his victims to be “edgy.”

Decided against it as it could implement him to the crimes (credit card, receipts, DNA etc).

Demogorgan

Enjoys nibbling on plants.

More of a sensory thing than taste.

They tickle all the right places in its mouth.

Kazan Yamaoka

Pickled Veggies

Great for traveling and very nutritious .

Probably would be a meat dish but I’d imagine he was very disciplined with his diet.

Caleb Quinn

Lambs Fry.

Also likes snacking on bar peanuts.

His favorite part is the eye ball.

Pyramid Head

I don’t think he can eat.

Doesn’t he have a tongue??

Likes flicking it over the inside of his helmet.

Likes the metallic taste of rust.

Talbot Grimes

Haggis.

“Classic Scottish “cuisine””.

Would cry eating it as child.

Also likes hibiscus tea for the anti oxidants ☝️.

Charlotte and Victor Deshayes

Food was hard to come by growing up.

Survived off of scraps.

One time they were lucky to come across very tasty meat.

Their mom said it was “honeyed” whatever that meant.

Ji-woon Hak

Champagne.

Definitely pours it over himself to watch it stream through his abs.

Enjoys dropping a fruit in to dive after.

Nemesis T-Type

Nemesis is technically a meat suit being piloted by a parasite (that’s what his tentacle thing is.)

Kinda feeds off the body it’s piloting.

Like a fungi to a tree (which is bananas, look it up.)

Elliot Spencer

Scabs.

Especially likes the thicker variety that peel clean off.

Bonus points if it’s has that soft, goey white stuff in it.

Carmina Mora

Caldino de congrio.

Hot as fuck.

Eel hits different.

Sadako Yamamura

Rice.

Nothing special.

A plain bowl of rice lightly salted is a good meal in itself.

Maybe a peice of unseasoned fish.

Dredge

Fingernails.

Enjoys chewing on its “hands” and hearing that sweet, sweet crunch.

Sometimes chews on the fingernails of deceased survivors to see if it can taste what they’ve previously eaten.

Albert Wesker

Sultans Delight.

A creamy eggplant mixture topped with some braised lamb.

Doesn’t really take the time to enjoy it.

Give him 7 minutes tops.

Tarhos Kovács

Preserved fish.

The extremely salted filets cook up real quick for a tasty dish.

Was always a treat when he found a barrel of them in his raids.

Adrianna Imai

Guarana.

Enjoys it especially as a mixer.

Her mini fridge is always stocked with some.

HUX-A7-13

“Eating” is an organic thing.

No thanks.

Does have a favorite type of electricity.

Enjoys the smell of carbon.

Xenomorph

Human.

As an apex predators, Aliens enjoy killing everything that catches their eye.

I imagine our Alien in particular developed a taste for human flesh.

Charles Lee Ray

Swedish Meatballs.

Some meatballs are better than others.

But they like, gotta be seasoned super well. Not like a dash of Italian herbs and you call it day.

Unknown

Bone marrow.

Likes to suck them out of chicken bones.

Or human bones.

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thedramasummer · 1 year ago

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Tagged by the lovely @msmarvelouswinchester for WIP Wednesday! This one is from my fic of Witness Protection AU. Basic summary is Alex ends up in WitSec after being a whistleblower after finding out creepy behavior from a senator by using is charm and dealing with all that follows after

Tagging the wonderful @anincompletelist @firenati0n @emmalostinwonderland @cactusdragon517 @jackzimmermemes @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @cheesecurdsgravyandfries

Putting the snippet under the cut because it contains some gross behavior from said senator that involves inappropriate flirting if that is not your jam. Also brief mention of emeto

Senator Pollack has said some things to Alex that make him take a step back. It started off weird, but benign. You look young for your age, sport or if you’re not careful, I’ll steal you away from Luna. Alex should probably tell someone, but he isn’t going to snitch if it isn’t relevant.

So he decides he’ll figure out if it is something that’s a significant concern. He plays the game, leans into the shoulder rubs, laughs at creepy jokes that make him vomit in the toilet in his dorm when he’s alone.

Unfortunately it isn’t enough. He’ll have to raise the stakes. He won’t go too far, but he needs to prove this bastard is doing something.

Pollack brings him to the bar. He might be 21 in a few months, but he’s still technically underage. But Pollack talks his way into making sure the bouncer avoids looking too closely.

He offers to buy Alex a beer. Strike two. Alex politely declines, blinking his eyelashes. “I don’t drink on school nights, Senator.”

Pollack puts a hand on his knee, moving up his thigh. “You’re a good boy, Alex. You’ll make a fine senator one day.”

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you.” He prays the mic under his collar is picking this drivel up.

“You know, I’ve been able to help ambitious young people like you out. I like teaching them how to walk the walk and talk the talk. I like seeing them grow.”

Alex blinks owlishly. “And what would I have to do to learn from you? I’m learning so much from Senator Luna already.”

Pollack laughs. “That upstart? He’s young, Alex. You need someone with experience. You need someone who really understands how the political circles work. What people really want.” His hand creeps up again, and Alex twitches. This is bad. So fucking bad.

“Thank you for the offer, Senator. I really appreciate your insight, but I’m fine with my current position. And thank you for offering me a drink, but I should really go.” He’s trying to play it cool, but his brain is on overdrive.

“You should stay, sweetheart.”

#wip wednesday #rwrb fanfiction #rwrb #alex claremont diaz #firstprince #henry fox mountchristen windsor

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sjsmith56 · 2 years ago

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Complicated - Day 1

Summary: Bucky is on his way to Louisiana on his motorcycle when a woman in a wedding dress asks for a ride out of town.

Length: 4.2K

Characters: Bucky Barnes, named OFC (not described except for long hair), Sam Wilson (via phone call)

Warnings: Talk of forced marriage, woman offered as collateral for gambling debt, bad mobsters, guilt.

Author notes: This started out as something lighthearted but got dark real fast. Two more parts.

🏍️👰

After receiving the bill for his lunch at the diner in the small Alabama town he stopped in, Bucky Barnes took the slip of paper with him to the cash register. Pulling his bank card out he smiled at the server.

“How was your meal, sir?” she asked.

“Excellent, thank you.”

He followed the prompts on the readout and entered a good tip before tapping the card on the portable terminal. A beep signified its acceptance, and he took the receipt, folding it into his wallet. He knew he could have waited until he got to Delacroix to eat but this diner had great burgers and pie, and the best way to end a good meal like that was with a slice of homemade apple pie. With a polite nod he stepped out into the hot afternoon and took the few steps to his motorcycle. In a couple of hours, he’d be sitting on Sam’s porch, a cold beer in his hand, and a quiet evening to look forward to with his adopted family. Pulling his helmet on, he straddled his motorcycle, turned it on and headed towards the main road, looking for the signs leading him back to the highway towards Louisiana. Suddenly, a woman in a wedding dress ran onto the middle of the road, waving her arms to get him to stop.

“Are you going out of town?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Yes,” he replied, puzzled.

“Take me with you, please,” she pleaded. “I have to get out of here before they realize I’m gone.”

Her face was flushed from the heat making her glow, but her eyes were desperate, that is when they weren’t looking in the direction she came from. By the way she was breathing and the signs of fear she was giving off, Bucky knew this woman was afraid for her life.

“Okay, but you’ll have to wear my helmet,” he said, undoing it.

“Deal.”

She yanked her veil off and jammed the helmet on, doing up the buckle. Gathering up the skirt of her wedding dress she climbed on behind Bucky and pulled herself close to his back. Tapping his belly as she wrapped her arms around him, she told him to go. With a grim smile he applied the gas and pulled away, listening to her cry in relief. An hour later he pulled into a rest stop.

“Park where they won’t see you,” she suggested.

Slowly, he drove around to the back where there was a small park with picnic tables. Turning his motorcycle off he waited for her to dismount before he did the same. She took the helmet off, giving him the first extended look at her in her wedding dress, which she had bunched up and was holding in one of her arms.

“Bucky,” he said, offering her his hand.

“Just call me Rita,” she replied, shaking his hand in return. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“Cold feet?” he asked, knowing there was much more to this story.

“No, forced marriage. I was put up as collateral for a debt by my prick of a boyfriend … ex-boyfriend.”

He really didn’t know what to say to that and she didn’t offer more information, so he decided to play it neutrally.

“Well, you’re not exactly dressed for travelling. You’ll be pretty obvious in that dress.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, looking at the thick bundle of wedding dress in her arm. “Where you headed?”

“Delacroix, near New Orleans,” said Bucky. “You could hide out there.”

She considered his words, looking around, then let out a breath.

“Alright,” she said. “First, I need to cut some of this dress away. You have a knife?”

A sly smile passed across Bucky’s face, and he slid a knife out of his boot. Her eyes widened but she kept her smile at the sight of it, recognizing it as an actual weapon and not a penknife like she thought she was asking about. She took it and started hacking away at the hem, but he stayed her hand and took the knife back.

“Stand still,” he ordered, studying how the dress was constructed.

Locating one of the side seams he ripped through it up to her knees, then used the knife to make a small horizontal cut in the layers of fabric. Handing the knife back to her he pulled the rip apart through all of the layers at one time, tearing it across her knees to the other side, where he resumed ripping the seam back down to the hem. He repeated the process on the back part of the dress, ending up with an almost even hem that would pass a quick look. Opening one of his saddle bags he looked through it and pulled out a hoodie.

“This should cover you more effectively and disguise that you’re wearing a wedding dress,” he said, looking critically at his handiwork. “I’ll have to stop somewhere and get another helmet. A pair of pants for you would probably be a good idea because you’ll freeze your legs quickly on the highway.”

“I have no money,” she said. “They have it all … my money, my ID, my clothes.”

“Not a problem. If there is anyone who knows how to hide, it’s me. Let me help you.”

Rita, frowned, looking at Bucky again. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for her to say something.

“You look familiar,” she said. “Are you wanted?”

A slight grin formed on his face. “I was a number of years ago but I’m legit now,” he said.

She was still frowning so he took his gloves off and showed his left hand to her. Instantly, she flashed her eyes up at him.

“You’re that Bucky?” she asked.

“I’m that Bucky,” he confirmed.

“They’ll come looking for me,” said Rita. “They’re Russian loan sharks and they were marrying me off to the son of one of them, a real bastard as well.”

“Russian mobsters can be like that,” he replied, looking back out at the highway. “Since you know who I am, you know I can handle myself with guys like that although Delacroix might not be such a good idea.” She looked at him questioningly. “Too many innocent people there that I care about. I can probably get you to wherever else you want to go, although your ID might be an issue. Might be able to set you up with some false ID.”

“Alright. I guess I don’t have much choice.”

He got back on the motorcycle, while Rita got on behind him, tightening the helmet strap. Checking his phone, Bucky located a place to buy another motorcycle helmet and some clothes for Rita. It wasn’t far, maybe 10 miles away. As he started up his ride, he smiled when he felt Rita clutch him tight. Without the bulk of the dress between them he could feel more of her body against his. Putting his motorcycle into gear he headed back onto the highway.

Less than 15 minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the motorcycle shop. Bucky walked in and asked to see the helmets, picking one out for Rita. Satisfied with the fit he asked about women’s clothing and was directed to several racks. She flipped through them, finding some T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and a jacket. When she saw the price on the jacket, she put it back and Bucky checked the tag.

“Take it, I can afford it,” he said.

“But we don’t even know each other,” she replied. “I can’t pay you back.”

He looked at the clerk. “Can you give us a moment?” The clerk moved away. “Did I ask for repayment?”

“No, but no one gives anyone anything for free,” she said. She clamped her mouth shut for a moment trying not to cry. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “I can only pay you one way and ….”

Bucky took a deep breath then patiently looked her in the eyes. “I’m not asking you to pay me back, especially not that way. That’s not the kind of man I am. When I was on the run, I was terrified of everyone that came near me but there were kind people who helped me with food, money, clothes, and even a place to sleep. It was hard, really hard to accept that help, but I did, and although a few took advantage of me, most of them were just being kind. Let me help you, please.”

She sniffed, wiping some tears from her face. Reaching into his jeans he pulled out a neatly folded cloth handkerchief and handed it to her. Accepting it, she wiped her eyes then nodded her head and took the clothes to the change room. When she came out wearing the jeans and one of the T-shirts, Bucky asked what else she needed.

“Underwear, socks, and footwear,” she replied. “We can go to a Walmart for those.”

“We’ll take these,” he said to the clerk, putting the other items on the counter.

The clerk gave Bucky a pair of scissors so he could cut the tags from the clothes she was wearing. While he waited Bucky noted a pair of security cameras. Leaning towards the man Bucky pointed at them.

“I’m helping the lady leave a domestic abuse situation,” he said. “I’m worried her ex will come in here looking for her. How much to remove her presence from the record if they do?”

The man glanced at Rita, still trying to calm herself down. “No charge,” he said. “My sister had a bastard of a husband who beat her. It took a while to get her to a safe place, but he hasn’t found her yet and if he does, I’ll kill him.”

She looked at the clerk, giving him a grateful smile which he returned. With the purchase complete they stepped outside the store. Bucky packed her new clothes into a saddle bag, then waited for her to put the jacket and new helmet on. When they were both on, he started it up and pulled away, heading towards the highway. As they approached the on ramp, he noticed a police car waiting in a strange spot just past where the road merged with the highway. Instead of going on it he kept going on the local road, keeping his speed steady. Watching his rear-view mirrors for any signs of the police car he drove towards the next town. No one seemed to be following them but that single police car kept bothering him as they got closer. When he saw the sign for the local Walmart, he pulled into the parking lot and found a spot that was surrounded by bigger trucks. Rita dismounted, took off her helmet and stood facing him.

“Why didn’t you go on the highway?”

“There was a police car on the on ramp and it wasn’t in a normal position,” he said. “It didn’t feel right, and I’ve learned to trust my instincts.” He opened the one set of saddle bags again and dug through it, finding a black baseball cap and handing it to her. “Put this on. Keep your head down and don’t draw attention to yourself. We go in, get what you need and come out.”

Doing as he asked, Rita gathered her hair together and threaded it through the back of the cap, pulling the brim down low on her face. Bucky stood in front of her, looking critically at the placement of it, nodded and took her by the hand.

“We’re just boyfriend and girlfriend picking up some things,” he said. “Excessive public displays of affection bother people but if you look like you’re afraid they’ll notice as well.” Rita gave him some side-eye. “I’m not saying be all over me but if we hold hands or touch each other casually, it’s more believable. We just want to blend in, okay?”

“Okay.”

She put her hand in his and they walked towards the entrance. The greeter welcomed them, and they both smiled pleasantly at him in response. Going to the ladies’ wear, Rita picked out some cotton panties, finding some on sale. She went to the bra section where Bucky turned around, letting her find what she needed. Fortunately, one of the brands she was familiar with was in stock, and she picked up a couple in her size.

“I better grab something to sleep in,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m a T-shirt and shorts girl.”

From sleepwear they went to the socks and grabbed a couple of pairs. Shoes were next and she chose a pair of slip-on sneakers.

“What about toiletries?” he asked. “I have a few things but probably not what you need. We should get a backpack for you as well, so it’s all together in one bag.”

With a nod she went to the personal care items, picking out a cleanser, moisturizer and sunscreen, as well as some deodorant, toothbrush, hairbrush and hair bands. On the way to the cashier, they stopped off to get a backpack, choosing a neutral colour with no markings. At the cash register Bucky paid cash then they used the backpack to put everything in. Before they came out Bucky looked out over the parking lot, checking for any vehicles that looked like they didn’t belong there. Nothing jumped out at him, so they quickly walked to the motorcycle, where Rita switched out her fancy sandals for socks and the sneakers. She threaded her arms through the backpack straps.

“I’m going to make a call while we’re on the road,” said Bucky, pointing to his helmet. “Bluetooth, so don’t mind that I’m talking to someone.”

“Who are you calling?” asked Rita.

“Help,” he said. “We need somewhere safe for you to go.”

Handing the ball cap back to Bucky she put the helmet on, mounting the bike behind him. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he voice-called Sam.

“Hey, where are you?” asked his partner. “I was expecting you a couple of hours ago.”

“Yeah, about that,” replied Bucky.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” declared the super soldier. “Well, I gave someone a ride and it’s becoming more complicated.” He could feel Sam’s eye roll through the speaker in his helmet. “She was in trouble, and I think we have the Russian mob looking for us.”

“She… she’s a woman?”

“Well, the term does generally indicate a woman,” answered Bucky. “She doesn’t seem to be trans, not that it would matter. I was going to bring her to Delacroix but when she told me about the mob connection, I figured it would be better if I could get her to a safe house, so I changed directions. I can’t exactly look up safe houses while I’m driving.”

“Why do you always seem to find someone who needs help?” asked Sam. “I mean, I know that’s what we do but seriously, do you have a sign on you that says superhero for rent?”

“She’s not paying me. In fact, she has nothing … no money, no ID, no clothes. I had to buy her something to wear because what she had on was too distinctive. Don’t worry, I paid cash for the most recent purchase but I’m running low on that and will need to find one of my bank’s branches to make a withdrawal.”

“Have you made any purchases using your bank card?” asked Sam.

“Yeah ….” Bucky winced. “I bought lunch in the town I picked her up in and then I had to buy another motorcycle helmet and some clothes at a place 30 miles from there. Do you think you can get someone to get rid of the tracking on those two purchases?”

There was a heavy sigh at the other end. “You know that Fury is not going to be happy about you going rogue. What if a mission comes up?”

“Well, remind him that sometimes the mission is one ordinary person,” snapped Bucky, immediately regretting his tone with his friend. “I couldn’t say no to a woman in a wedding dress asking me to help her get away from a forced marriage to a mobster, could I?”

“No, I wouldn’t either,” admitted Sam. “Give me your location and I’ll try to find the closest safe house. Just don’t leave a trail of bodies in your wake.”

Bucky gave Sam his current position, along with the location where he found Rita, and the name of the store where he bought the helmet. With a promise not to stop until Sam got back to him, he ended the call. For another hour he drove without hearing anything, then Rita suddenly squeezed on his middle, and he leaned his head back to hear her yell as loud as she could.

“Stop!”

He pulled over onto a country road, travelling a little down it until he saw a place that was obscured from the highway. Before he stopped completely, Rita had scrambled off, running into the bushes. At first, he started following her, but she called out.

“I had to go to the bathroom,” she yelled. “I was trying to hold it, but it got too hard.”

With a slight grin he returned to his motorcycle and leaned against it. Several moments later she came out, looking relieved. At that moment his cell phone rang, and he answered it, leaving it off speaker.

“Alright, I have the location of a safe house, but you’ll have to stay in a motel tonight,” he said. “The safe house is in Memphis.” Bucky grunted. “Hey, it’s the best we can do on short notice. I already booked you a place to stay tonight in Jackson and prepaid it with an untraceable credit card. Do you have your alias ID with you?”

“Yeah,” replied Bucky.

“The reservation is under that name.” Sam hesitated. “Fury had me check the police chatter for any APBs on a woman in your area. So far, they haven’t associated her with a mode of transport so you should be okay. They’re looking for a Rita Harmon, age 29, on suspicion of murder. Her boyfriend, Jason Tierney was found dead in Mobile. Shot in the head execution style. She has no priors, nothing even suspicious, but the boyfriend was known in illegal gambling circles, Russian operated ones. Looks like her story checks out.”

Bucky looked at Rita, not saying anything. Once they got to the motel, he would break it to her that her former boyfriend paid for her escape with his life.

“One more thing,” said Sam. “With the involvement of the Russian mafia, Fury is interested in making this an official case. Preliminary investigation into those gambling circles has also uncovered a link to human trafficking and arms dealing, some of it out of Mobile, so they’re using the port. He’s working on burying the APBs on her but if the cops in certain jurisdictions are compromised ….”

“Understood,” said Bucky. “Like I said, complicated.”

“Yeah,” sighed Sam. “Be careful.”

Bucky hung up and mounted his motorcycle. “Come on, we have a place to stay tonight but we need to get there as soon as we can.”

She wanted to ask what he had learned but the tone of his voice was serious, so she got on behind him and wrapped her arms around him. Before he pulled away, he patted her hand sympathetically, leading her to think something had happened. It wasn’t until an hour later, when he pulled into the motel and checked in under a different name that she knew for certain.

Unlocking the door, Bucky stood in the doorway, watching the parking lot and highway carefully for any signs of being watched or followed. When he was satisfied, he stepped into the motel room and locked the door behind him, then dropped his helmet on the bed closest to the door. Rita was already sitting on the other bed, her hand on top of the backpack beside her. Sitting across from her, Bucky took a deep breath, deciding to figuratively rip the bandaid off.

“The authorities found your boyfriend, Jason Tierney,” he said sombrely. “I’m sorry but they killed him.”

Her mouth twitched slightly, then she pressed her lips together as if trying to stifle what was coming but a deep sob erupted from her anyways, and she buried her face in her hands. For several moments he watched her cry, then sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. Desperately, Rita clutched his leather jacket as she pressed her face into his chest, her tears seeping through both the Henley shirt and the T-shirt he wore. Bucky knew no words would comfort her, so he just stroked her back allowing her to bare her pain, until the sobs lessened and were replaced by slight hiccups as she began to breathe properly again.

“Why?” she asked, still pressed into his chest. “Why would they kill him?”

“There’s a connection to arms dealing and human trafficking,” said Bucky. “Even with the little I told them about you there was enough evidence for my boss to decide to get involved officially. I guess you’re a material witness now.”

Pulling away slightly Rita dug into the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out Bucky’s handkerchief, wiping her eyes. She was about to blow her nose on it then reached over to the tissue box on the nightstand, pulling a couple of them out instead. Nodding her head to show she understood, Rita stood up to throw the used tissue in a wastebasket, then leaned against the dresser, taking some more breaths as she tried to center herself.

“There’s one more thing,” said Bucky, from where he still sat. “Mobsters like these guys tend to have law enforcement in their pockets. They’re looking for you, on suspicion of murdering your boyfriend. My boss is trying to bury the bulletins that are out for you, but corrupt cops are probably being offered big money under the table to find you.”

“Fuck,” she groaned, ready to start crying again.

“Hey,” said Bucky, standing up to come closer to her. He bent over to make eye contact with her. “This isn’t your fault.”

“He’s dead because I ran out of the wedding,” she said, her lips trembling again.

“No.” Bucky shook his head emphatically. “He’s dead because he got involved with some very bad people, and he pulled you into it without your knowledge or consent. A gambling debt to these guys is like a contract and your boyfriend signed that contract when he offered you as collateral. You had no choice in this, none. Do you think he even considered what they would do to you if you went through with the wedding? You would have been property, probably branded or tattooed to show that you belonged to that family. Then they would have kept you prisoner in who knows what kind of conditions, expected to be available to your husband or others at all hours of the day or night. That’s slavery, Rita.”

The way his gaze was locked on hers hammered home the truth of what he was telling her. It also proved how easily she had believed Jason’s lies, as she told Bucky her story. Even though they had only been together for a year she had given up a good job for him, as he pursued his dream of being a professional poker player. She spoke of all the times he promised her how she would live like a queen when he hit the big-time poker circuit. Instead, they had stayed in fleabag motels, eating takeout dinners from greasy spoon outlets.

Then Jason heard of a big poker game near Mobile, Alabama. He sold her car to get enough money to stake a spot at the table, promising her that if he won this game, he could buy her a new car. As she sat watching him play, she realized well before him that it was a rigged game. The subtle signals the other players were giving each other became more and more obvious, indicating that they were working together. When she tried to warn him, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand, as one of the other players asked if he was pussy whipped. Then that man had said something to another man standing inside the door, speaking in what sounded like Russian. A firm grip on her arm and the sight of those cold dark eyes on her told her that she was no longer welcome in the room. Jason didn’t even bat an eye at it, as he was deep into his own lie of winning the pot. When he came out just minutes later, he couldn’t even make eye contact with her, just walked past as if she no longer mattered.

She looked at Bucky, swallowed then sighed. Something told her that he would go all out to protect her. Would it be enough?

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybarnes original female character #runaway bride #mob debt #on the run #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes fanfiction

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htchnr · 1 year ago

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ミ★ 03 crows and wild flowers ꜜ SAM AXE.

𖦹 masterlist. 𖦹 buy me a coffee!

「 ꜜsummary,, Michael sends Sam to help you out, and ends up helping in more ways than just baking. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, paramedic!Sam x tattooed!sunshine!reader ⋆ drinking ⋆ smut ⋆ piv ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ Sam's THICK ⋆ choking ⋆ rough sex ⋆ overstimulation ⋆ soft aftercare. ꜜwc,, 3,2k. 」

the sun was slowly setting by the time you got back from Michael's. you unlock your door, tiredly pushing through with your helmet in hand. you drop your helmet on the side table, closing the door as you hang your keys on their designated hook before shimmying out of your protective gear.

the moment you turn on some low lounge music, a knock on your doors rings through your home loud and clear. your brows furrow, could that be Michael? he did say he'd make it up for taking up your time.

you walk to the door, adjusting your dress a little. you open it expecting Michael, only to find Sam standing behind it. " Sam? what are you doing here? " a small smile finding it's way onto your lips, it was nice to see him.

he nods, grinning. " Mike said you uh, needed some help with baking, " he laughs, recalling how Michael said that he would make it up to you. Sam should've expected Mike's call.

you laugh, shaking your head. " of course, Michael doesn't do that kinda thing himself does he? " you let out a breathy laugh, stepping out if his way. " come in, " he nods, stepping inside.

while he took his shoes off you took a moment to take in his figure, no longer wearing the paramedic uniform he was dressed in baggy jeans and greyish blue t-shirt. he looked down right delicious.

you let out a breath, walking to the kitchen. " want anything to drink? " you call out, grabbing two glasses.

Sam joins you, sitting on one of your bar stools. " what do you have to offer? " your breath hitches at his tone, if he continues talking like that, you've got plenty to offer him.

" lemonade, beer, water, " you open your fridge, " and if it's your jam, i was about to make some mojitos? " you offer, head still in the fridge.

Sam's heart skips a beat, he'd never say no to a good mojito. " wouldn't mind a mojito, if you're making? "

you close your fridge, grinning. " absolutely, " Sam watches you move around your kitchen, grabbing the things you need. it felt so intimate, your figure moving through the space under the soft lighting. the soft flow of your dress, the thought of the lacy blue underwear still fresh on his mind.

it takes you a minute or two, Sam's dark eyes intensely watching as you squeeze the lime juice with a small grunt — a sound he could never let go again.

you stick thin straws into the glasses, turning around with a big grin, " hope you like em, " you set the drink down before Sam as you sit down in the stool across from him, your knees knocking against each other.

Sam grins, leaning down to take a long pull through the straw and he blinks wide for a split second as the drink hits his tongue. he quickly recovers, looking up with a hint of blush on his cheeks, " that's really good, wow, "

you grin, watching him happily drink. you tuck the small falter away in the back of your mind — mojitos, a clear way to his heart.

you nod, taking a big pull yourself. " cocktails and baking are my big passions, " you smile, nodding around the big, spacious kitchen. " else my place would've been a lot cheaper, " you laugh.

Sam laughs along, nodding. you lean in, chin resting on two palms. " so, Sam, " you trail, knees pressed to his, his eyes meet yours again. " what are your passions? " and with the look on your face, and the mojito on his tongue, he could never lie to you.

✮ꜜ : ❛

the air is lively, gentle 70s soft rock playing through the kitchen as you both start to knead your own bowls of dough. conversation flows so easy between the two of you, you really wonder where he's been all your life.

a few drinks in and both your cheeks are flushed, huge goofy smiles stretching across them as you set down your bowl on the counter. " in the uh, left cupboard there, " you point with your free hand as the other takes his bowl. " is a jar of flour, could you grab it? "

Sam's in motion from the moment you pointed to the cupboard, door already swung open as he looks for the jar. he grabs it, closing the cupboard and setting it down beside you. " thanks, " you grin, sticking a small measuring cup into the jar and set the full cup on the counter as you move the jar to the side.

you take a pinch of flour, dusting a small part of the counter. " so you sprinkle a little flour down, then grab the dough, " you scoop out the dough onto the counter, " and stretch it out like so, and then fold it in half, aaand repeat, " you look up at him, " easy peasy, " you grin.

Sam nods, it didn't seem so difficult. he sprinkled some flour across the counter, copying your movements. " see? in my opinion, anyone can learn to bake, " your voice full of sunshine, Sam was melting.

the kneading went well, Sam getting the hang of it quickly. the two of you talking about anything that came to mind. you fold down the last fold, and the moment you do, a large puff of flour shoots out the side, sprinkling onto Sam's shirt. " oh- i'm so sorry! " you laugh, moving over to brush it off, only for it to just spread around.

Sam joins in on the laughter, watching you rest your hands against his firm chest as you laugh. " oh no worries, oh hey you've got a little, " he trails off, one thumb lifting your face by your chin, before spreading some flour across your nose.

" hey! " you laugh, Sam's cheeks throbbing from smiling as he watches you try to wipe it off. you fully turn to him, tilting your head with a smile. you pause your smile, squinting in concern as you lean in, " what's this bruise? " you ask, hand resting on his chest as the other moves to his jaw.

" huh? what bruise- " he tries to ask, but you beat him by smearing a handful of flour across his face. " oh you sneaky little- " he laughs, his hands rushing down to grab your waist as he moves you away from the dough and down the counter a little.

the air felt heavy between the two of you, Sam's big hands holding yours beside you before you could rub more flour into him, your chests heaving as you're trapped against the counter. his heavy eyes watching yours. your eyes flit down to his lips, slightly parted, before flitting down to the gold chain around his neck that was more visible now thanks to the t-shirt.

an awful smirk stretches its way across his lips, knowing where your eyes are. " you really like the chain, huh? " his voice is low, leaning in a little. you nod, your tipsy brain finding it impossible to tear your eyes away from the piece of jewellery. he leans down a little more, his face inching closer to yours, and the chain slips free of his shirt, dangling closer to you.

you instinctively lean into him, tilting your face up as you feel his breath fan across the lower half of your face. the tip of his nose just barely brushes against yours, and you find yourself desperately tipping your head up. " please.. " you whisper.

his eyes flit between your pink cheeks and your parted lips. " what, 'please', sweetheart? " and your breath hitches at his tone.

you wriggle against his grip, thighs slightly rubbing together at his strength. " please, kiss me. " your voice merely a low whine as you press your nose against his.

he grins, " anything you want, baby. " before pressing his lips firmly against yours. you let out a moan, melting against his lips as you return the kiss. your heavy breaths mix as he drops your hands, one of his huge hands coming up to hold your face as the other grips your hip.

both of your arms shoot up around his neck, pulling yourself up into the kiss. Sam grunts, both his hands dragging down to cup the underside of your thighs, easily picking you up and lifting you onto the counter as he pushes himself between your legs.

you moan at the change of position, your finger dragging through his hair and across his scalp as he deepens the kiss. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in impossibly close, dragging your tongue against his lower lip.

he happily obliges, parting his lips to dart his own tongue out, meeting yours in a sinful dance. his hands grip up and down your waist, settling on holding your hips as close to him as possible. you let out a lewd moan as you feel him press against your core, pulling away from the kiss to pant.

he gently knocks his forehead against yours, chest heaving as well. " normally you'd have to by me a real good dinner before this, " you pant, rubbing your nose against his.

he nods, " oh, honey, i'll take you out for anything you want after this, " his raged voice sending shocks throughout your whole body.

you grin, shaking your head, " you're lucky you're so good looking, mister. " pressing your lips against his.

he grins into the kiss, pulling away again. " oh yeah? " he taunts, experimentally rolling your hips against his with his hold on them.

you nod, biting your lip. you lean in, pressing open mouthed kisses to his stubbled jaw, trailing them down his throat until you reach the chain. Sam lets out a guttural groan as your trace where the chain sits against his skin with your tongue, sucking occasional gentle bruises into the skin.

he grunts, gently wrapping his hand around your hair and pulling your head up to press his lips against yours hungrily. your moans are swallowed by his lips the moment they leave yours. one of your shaky hands reaches behind you to pull on his hand, Sam lets go of your hair, allowing you to guide his hand where ever you need it.

a low groan leaves him as you guide his thick fingers to your throat, gently squeezing around his. " you sure? " he manages to get out between kisses. you bite his lower lip, squeezing his hand tighter to get your point across. " fuuck, yes ma'am. " he grunts, his rough fingers wrapping around your throat.

the moment they do you let out a lewd moan, rolling your aching core against his hardening cock. his hips buck against yours, his tongue swirling around yours, desperate sounds leaving you.

your hands fumble with his belt, unbuckling it before unzipping his jeans. he grunts against your lips, his hips bucking into your hand as you slip your hand down his jeans, stroking him over his boxers. oh lord, he feels good.

he pulls away from the kiss, pressing urgent kisses to your jaw, trailing them down to your tatted collarbones, down between your tatted breasts. you moan, dragging your fingers through his hair as he sucks bruises into the supple skin.

his hands eagerly pull at the straps of your dress, shoving them off your shoulders. his huge hands immediately sliding up to cup both of your breasts, pulling a nipple between his teeth. a high pitched gasp leaves you, pressing your chest against his lips as he swirls his tongue around the bud. " shit, Sam, just like that, " it was music to his ears.

he lets go of the one nipple, hot mouth eagerly finding the other as he drags his teeth across your skin. he's fascinated, entranced, by your tattoos. by the inked skin beneath his fingers and lips, he can't get enough of it.

your hands push at his face, Sam reluctantly releasing the hard bud as you smash your lips against his again, holding both sides of his face. you whine as you press your chest against his, perked up nipples dragging sensitively against his shirt. " fuck me, Sam. please. " you beg, trying to pull him closer by his belt loops.

he grunts against your lips, huge hands sliding you closer to the edge of the counter by your hips. you drop your head back and moan as he grinds up against you. " come on, you can do better than that, baby, " he taunts, connecting his lips to your chest again.

the pleasure has your tipsy brain almost crying. you hike your legs up higher, his hips immediately pressing even closer as one of his big hands takes ahold of your thigh to hold it in place. " please, Sam. " you've nearly got tears in your eyes from desperation. " please, i need you, "

his hips buck hard up into you at the sound of your teary eyed begging. " that's it, honey, " he praises, nipping at your jaw. " you need me that bad, huh? " his free hand holding your face, thumbing at the tear that slipped down. " i could never say no when you look so pretty like this, " he groans, kissing the trail that the tear left. " you want it here? " he asks, shimmying your dress up your hips.

your shaky hands help him, sliding your lacy blue thong down and pulling one leg out to leave it hanging on the other. " i don't care, i just need you now. " you pant, hands pulling at his jeans.

he grunts, shoving his jeans down enough to pull himself out. you lean back on your elbows on the counter, shaking in anticipation as you watching him pull himself out, lazily stroking himself. oh god this is gonna be good.

you drop your head back as you feel him press his weeping tip against your sopping core, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he feels how wet you are. " god baby, s'this all for me? fuuck, " your hips stutter as he slips his tip up and down your cunt, trying to press them closer to him.

you feel him take ahold of your jaw, pulling your face up a little. you open your eyes, looking at him through your lashes. his hand remains by your chin, a wicked look in his eyes. " c'mon baby, spit. " 'yes sir' is all you can think when you gather the spit in your mouth, before pursing your lips and spitting into his palm. he moans at the sight, his length now pressed flat against your core. " atta girl. "

you watch him stroke his aching cock with your spit, and it gets you so ridiculously close to the edge already, and he hasn't even fucked you yet. you drop your head back again, moaning as you feel him slide up and down your awaiting cunt.

you heard rummage in his pocket for something, his strong arm around your knee to hold it in place as he looks. " i'm on birth control, " you pant quickly, trying to pull him in with your legs wrapped around his hips. " please, " you beg desperately.

he groans, and you watch him through hooded eyes as he debates it. you press closer to him, his slippery cock sliding against your core. his hold on your thighs is bruising as he leans down over you, his head pressing in. you drop your head back in pleasure, your walls trying to suck in what little is pressed in.

his eyes meet your flushed, teary face and he loses it, pushing in with one hard thrust. a cry is pulled from your throat, your nails clawing at his arms as he stills, fully seated. " oh- shit- " you struggle, you feel so damn full with how thick he is, the stretch painful but deliciously so.

he leans forward, forehead pressing against your as he tries to remain still to let you adjust, but with how your walls are hugging him make it damn near impossible. " so damn good, baby, you feel so good, " he moans, leaning down to press sloppy kisses across your chest.

you let a high pitched moan as his tongue swirls around your nipple, clenching around him in an instant. he groans, hips bucking into yours, causing you to cry out. " shit, stay- oh fuck- still, " you pant, chest heaving and nails digging into his strong arms.

he groans, resting his head against your chest. " 'm trying, honey, god i'm trying, " he breathes. your hair drapes off the other side of the counter, head dropped back as you adjust around him. god he was so thick.

your hips arch as he presses gentle kisses to your chest, tongue absentmindedly tracing your tattoos. after a few moments, snake a hand into his hair, panting. " move, " you moan lowly, walls almost suffocating him as he starts to slowly pull out. he leaves just the tip in, before slowly pushing back in again. you moan loudly, back arching off the counter. " fuck, just like that, just like that, Sam, "

he groans, his name sounds so good spilling from your lips, his hips setting a slow pace. he watches you closely, picks up on every little twitch, every time your nails dig a little deeper into his arms.

he gives you a few minutes with this pace, slowly but deeply fucking into you so you can adjust. his hands trail from your hips, dragging his blunt nails across your back before pulling you up. you cry out at the slight change of position, hands grasping his shoulders. he presses feverish kisses to your jaw and throat, slowly picking up his pace. " god, you feel so good, " he breathes.

you hold his head against your chest, rolling your hips into his to match his pace. " Sam, " you beg, your voice nothing but a low whine now.

he looks up from your chest, pupils blown and a sparkle in his eyes. " yeah? " the look makes your walls tighten around him, his brows scrunching together.

you pull his lips against yours, a sloppy kiss that's all tongue and teeth. " faster, " you moan, nudging your nose against his. you were almost embarrassed to feel yourself getting closer just by kissing and this slow pace.

his hips stutter a little at your word, but eagerly picking up their pace. you drop your head against his shoulder as he picks up the pace, speeding up bit by bit, till he hits a pace that has you almost crashing over the edge. " shit- 'm so close, " you whine, holding onto him as he slams in and out.

his hips stutter as he feels you clench around him. " yeah? c'mon pretty girl, cum for me, " he pants, that filthy grin on his lips. " cum all over my cock, baby, "

you feel him slip a large hand between you two, your hips shaking as his rough fingers find your clit. " oh fuck- " you cry out, digging your head against shoulder as you shake against him. you couldn't last more than another second with his rough fingers working your clit, the pressure sending you over the edge as white hot pleasure consumes you.

Sam groans, hips stuttering against yours as your walls spasm around him. " that's it- oh that's it, baby, " he coaxes, fingers retracting as he fucks you through your orgasm. god he was hitting all the right places, it feels like you could explode.

his pace quickens, hips roughly slamming into yours as he revels in your sounds, the choked moans and desperate pleas, your nails scratching up his back and down his arms.

he stretched you out so good, you felt so full. he was reaching all the right spots, you could almost feel him in your stomach. you knew you were going to be sore tomorrow morning from the moment you felt him in your hand.

" i'm close, doll, " he groans, nudging his nose against yours before painfully pressing his lips to yours. " where do you want it? "

you spasm around him at the question, " don't care, jus' need it- god i need it, " you beg, tears dripping down your face from the overwhelming pleasure.

he moans, his pace sporadic as he thinks. each drag against your walls sending him closer and closer. as much as he wants to fill you up, another idea has occupied his mind since he first saw the tattoos on your chest.

you watch him through teary and hooded eyes, his furrowed brows, the slope of his sharp nose, the chain bouncing around his neck. " please, baby, " you plea, your voice cracking a little. " please cum for me, "

and your words send him over the edge, hips stuttering as he moans, quickening his pace before pulling out. he pants heavily as he jerks his cock, before a guttural groan reverberates through him as he cums, shooting his load up onto your chest and stomach, watching with a pleasure contorted face how his cum covers your tattoos and drips down them.

his chest heaves as he squeezes every drop out, before you lay yourself down against the counter, Sam resting above you with his palms flat against the counter on either side of your waist. he takes deep breaths, trying to catch his breath as his are glued to the cum covering your most intimate tattoos. something strangely possessive stirs inside of him at the sight.

he watches your chest heavy, breasts rising and falling and your stomach flexing occasionally, the cum slowly dripping down your waist and onto the counter. he sighs deeply, " goddamn, honey, " his voice ragged.

you let out a breathy laugh, breasts jiggling before him with the laugh. " yeah, " you breathe.

he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. you sigh into the kiss, a soft hand holding his stubbled jaw. he pulls away, eyes darting across your tear stained face. you smile tiredly, " 'm fine, jus' tired, " you sigh, stroking his cheek.

he nods, placing another kiss to your lips before standing up to his full height, admiring the sight before him for a few more seconds. " lets get you cleaned up, " he breathes, holding his jeans up at the waist as he walks to the bathroom.

his heart's squeezed as he steps into the space where he first met you, the image of you teary eyed with a bloody leg on the edge of the tub flitting through his mind as he looks for a washcloth. he finds one, wetting it with warm water before cleaning himself off and pulling up his boxers, sliding his jeans down and pulling his shirt off as well.

he makes his way back to you, sliding the warm washcloth across your inked skin as he cleans you up. satisfied, he reaches an arm under you, pulling you up against him so he can wipe the remaining cum off of the counter. you drape your arms over his strong muscly shoulders, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

he holds you, setting the washcloth down so he can wrap both thick arms around you securely. his rough, but gentle hands running up and down your bare back. " let's get some rest, yeah? " he offers, and you nodded eagerly against him.

he grunts as he picks you up, thick fingers digging into the plush skin of the underside of your thighs. he nudges his pointed nose against the top of your head, " what room? "

you sigh, hugging him closer. " the last door on the right in the hall with the bathroom, " he hums, slowly making his way down the hall. he presses the door open, finding your bedroom. tired legs carrying both him and you to your very comfortable looking bed.

he sets you down, your body bouncing a little against the plush mattress. his eyes can't leave the sight of your tattooed skin against the dark grey sheets, everything looked so perfect together.

you move aside, sliding under the soft covers as you pull the blanket aside for him to get in. " c'mon, big bear, " you mumble with a tired smile, looking up at him through those pretty lashes.

his heart skips a beat, kneeling down as he moves around to settle. fuck, your bed was even more comfortable than it looked. you pull the blanket over him, sliding closer to him as you rest your head against his shoulder and drape an arm across his firm, hairy chest, lazily combing your fingers through the salt and pepper hair. they occasionally drift to trace the gold chain you were strangely attracted to.

he sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, a strong arm wrapping around your waist as the other drapes your leg over his thigh.

that night, Sam had some of the best sleep he's had in a long while.

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