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summer-oil · 1 year ago

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SOMETIMES I LONG TO EAT YOU UP ; RYŌMEN SUKUNA

synopsis; sukuna doesn’t tell you that he loves you. he cooks for you, instead.

word count; 6.0k

contents; ryōmen sukuna/reader, gn!reader, househusband!sukuna, no curses au, fluff fluff fluff!!, sukuna is Whipped bc i say so, (he bullies you a bit but he does so lovingly), lots of cooking and descriptions of food, implied reincarnation au if you reeaalllyyyyy squint (but feel free to ignore it if that’s not your thing!!), reader is a silly goose, sukuna vs human emotion (he loses), he’s ooc but he’s Free

a/n; >:3 is anyone shocked….. that’s right. ari is in fact capable of writing for characters who aren’t stsg….. this one has been in my wips for Many Months now but i finally finished it!! i just think being in a nice warm kitchen could fix him. (super cute dividers by @/enchanthings !!)

sukuna doesn’t tell you that he loves you.

throughout the years you've been together, it's something you've grown used to. words like love must feel foreign in his mouth — even more so when they slip into the air, voiced, manifested.

discomforting, if the crease between his brows is anything to go by.

he only says it under certain conditions, little moments here and there, all of them memorable; a particularly sentimental midnight drive, that time you broke down sobbing into his chest after a rough day, the night he proposed. and so on. little moments, precious moments, few and far between.

that’s just how sukuna is. unaccustomed to being loved, even more unaccustomed to being in love. swallowing the words down, afraid of what could happen if he spoke them aloud, through more than a mere whisper. as if they could burn you.

you don’t mind, because you know him. and you know that he loves you, even if he doesn’t say it nearly as often as you do.

sukuna shows his love for you in other ways. driving you wherever you need to be, holding you to his chest when you’re sleepy, watching reality shows with you even though he hates them; always watching over you, making sure you’re safe and happy, almost hunting for anything that could disturb your peace. you can feel that love, almost reach out and touch it — a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through large crowds, a bouquet of camellias waiting for you on the kitchen table as soon as you get home. it’s there. concrete.

but, above all else… sukuna translates his boundless love into food.

the sun rises outside the walls of your apartment, slow and steady, hazy sunlight flitting through the windows of your kitchen and dyeing the open space in a golden glow — like something out of a summery daydream. you rub the tender skin beneath your bleary eyes, as your feet move you forward. slowly, groggily.

stumbling towards your target.

sukuna doesn’t flinch when you wrap your arms around his waist, forehead bumping into his broad back, practically tackling him into a hug. he’s become attuned to the sound of your clumsy footsteps. he makes a tiny noise, acknowledging your presence, and that’s all.

the low purr of the espresso machine buzzes in the air, as he watches over the process, dutiful as ever. the same drawn out, thoughtful process he goes through every morning; picking out the beans himself, grinding them into grounds, and making a cup for you with his beloved, expensive coffee machine. making sure every setting is exactly as it should be. it gives him peace of mind.

and it needs to be perfect, in every possible way — so sukuna tries his best not to let you distract him.

(he never quite succeeds.)

a blissful little sigh slips from your lips, as you squeeze his waist. hands wandering, feeling him up, buzzing with the warmth the contact gives you. he’s always so cozy, like this. all you want is to smush your face into his plush chest. but sukuna clicks his tongue, and places a palm on your forearm. keeping it still.

his voice comes out raspy, excruciatingly deep. a gruff kind of tilt to it that makes you shiver.

”assaulting me first thing in the morning, are we?”

you’re a little too sleepy to respond, too out of it. still reeling with the hazy remnants of your deep sleep, stretching your limbs out groggily and making a little mrm sound that makes his lips twitch up. unwillingly, might he add.

the two of you do this every morning. it’s a ritual, of sorts, one that you need to function properly — he always makes you a morning cup of coffee, and you always cling to him through the process. he always huffs and puffs and clicks his tongue, but never actually pushes you off. all sukuna does is absently caress your arm, where it rests around his midsection, still watching over the slow brew of the coffee. attentive.

you try not to disturb him too much, you do. because you know he loves this, deep down; the morning sunlight kissing up his nape, the sense of peace sinking into his bones. the feeling of your chest against his back, your fingers fiddling with the strings of his apron. but eventually, you always give in to the temptation of speaking — of coaxing a response from that deep, raspy morning voice.

so you part your lips.

”did you have nice dreams?” is murmured into his back, your cheek smooshed against the soft, dark fabric of his tight turtleneck.

sukuna hums. listening, always, even when he pretends to tune you out. then comes his response.

”i never dream.”

a moment passes.

you bite down on your lip, struggling to withhold a giggle. it doesn’t really work — but you tactfully pretend not to hear his displeased grumble.

”right,” you smile. ”my bad.”

another soft silence washes over you. just for a couple of moments, as you drowsily blink, and sukuna puts two ceramic cups on the counter. blissful, until you break it again.

”i think i dreamt of you.”

sukuna stills. only barely, just for a second, a brief twitch of his fingers; waiting. for tiny crumbs of love, ones you give out like candy, almost absentminded. like you don’t even have to try. ones he never fails to pick up, tuck into his pockets, chew between his teeth.

(sometimes, he envies how freely affection seems to spill from your lips.)

it’s touching, in a way. the idea that he never quite leaves your mind. that he’s there, always, even in your dreams. it’s… sweet. he supposes.

a little yawn leaves your lips, as you stretch your limbs out, akin to a sleepy cat — and he strains his ears to hear what you’ll say next.

”you were a cashier at the mcdonalds i went to.”

…

a click of his tongue — his hand slipping from its position on your forearm. ”get out of my kitchen.”

and just like that, a burst of giggles bubble up inside your throat. muffled into the cotton of his sweater, a sound that makes his heart feel a little too big for his body. ”noooo…” you whine, nails digging into the fabric so he can’t shake you off. clinging to him tighter when he tries, no real intent behind it. ”’m sorry. don’t get mad!”

”i would never work there,” he scoffs. ”frankly, the thought is insulting.”

you quirk a brow. ”what kind of beef do you have with mcdonalds?”

”don't ask me stupid questions,” he huffs, clicking his tongue, a bitter lilt to his voice. ”they don’t make food. it’s practically contaminated — poisonous. i don’t want you eating that plastic.”

(why would you want to, when you have me to make you anything you want?)

you bite down on your lip, trying to hide a teasing smile. endeared, by how grumpy he’s getting. ”aw. i like it, though...”

sukuna sighs.

”alright, then.” his voice is controlled, hiding every single tinge of his carefully concealed frustration. he must have been an actor in a past life, to sound so effortlessly unbothered. ”go buy yourself one of those cheap, awful, bland cappuccinos you love so much. i’ll pay.”

your lips twitch upward. he’s just being snarky, you know he is, but you still bundle up his sweater with your fists. shaking your head. ”i’m just kidding,” you purr, biting back another yawn. ”only want yours.”

sukuna stills. silent, once more. trying not to acknowledge how your words tug at his heartstrings, chew at the bones of his ribcage. something like pride sprouts in his chest, and it’s enough to get him to smooth his thumb over your knuckle again. content. finally, the kitchen falls silent, only the low purring of the coffee machine to fill your ears — until that dwindles out too.

a kind of peace settles in the air. something holy, sukuna thinks.

something that makes him feel human.

he moves his hands delicately, tenderly. attentive, as he pours hot espresso into your cup, slowly and gracefully, a delicate rhythm to his steady hands. just thinking of how warm you feel, like this, how you touch him like he’s harmless, like he could do no wrong in your eyes. how your voice sounds so pretty in the wake of a new morning, when it’s just a little raspy, unguarded in a way that makes him feel like he’s cradling a wounded bird in his arms. something fragile and majestic. he pretends not to like the sound of it, the way it distracts him from his extensive brewing process; but sukuna thinks he’d do just about anything to hear it once more.

absolutely anything.

”what are you thinking about, sukuna?”

”nothing,” he’s quick to hum. maybe a little too quick, but before you can question it, he scoffs. ”are you gonna cling to me all day, you little brat?”

”… can i?”

sukuna clicks his tongue.

(he’s awfully lucky you don’t look up to see the cherry red tint of his pierced ears.)

three little words begin to crawl up his throat. he can feel them, ticklish, heavy, and gulps them down before they get too far. busying himself with the clinking of coffee cups and stirring of silver spoons. then he’s turning around, to face you properly. blowing on the cup, a fragrance of espresso spreading throughout the kitchen, blending with the blooming flowers by the windowsill.

he hands you a cup of coffee, made just the way you like it. glancing at your forehead; wondering if he should pair it with a kiss.

(maybe later.)

”careful. it’s hot,” he hums. then he’s turning around to prepare his own cup, while you murmur your thanks, squeezing affectionately at his waist. taking a sip of the bitter brew. a warm cup of coffee, thoughtfully crafted, only to be passed into your awaiting hands. the same transaction you repeat every single morning.

the same act, conveying the same sentiment; those three little unspoken words.

you take another sip, and a smile blooms on your lips.

your stomach is growling.

it’s been ten minutes since it started. ten minutes since you noticed the pit of hunger in your gut, growing more and more for every passing second; and you’re trying to ignore it, valiantly, sitting in your cubicle and mentally cursing yourself for being so scatterbrained.

how on earth could you forget your own lunch?

a pang of ache bubbles up in your stomach, and you curl into yourself. sitting on a not-so-comfy chair, doing your best to survive, staring at the clock on the wall and watching the minutes tick down. only twenty minutes left of your lunch break.

in hindsight, it was inevitable. inevitable that you’d burn yourself out, eventually, that it’d make you lose sleep, that your fatigued brain would forget something so important. so fundamental to your peace of mind. you need your lunch to focus properly — there’s no way in hell that you’ll make it through the work day otherwise.

you could accept your fate and go buy a sandwich and a can of coffee, but…

(dammit.)

sukuna always makes your lunches himself. tailored to suit your tastes, to give you the nutrients and energy you need not to lose your mind or set the building on fire, with all the hours you spend staring into your computer screen and writing until your brain turns to mush. they’re always delicious, always lovingly made, and you think you might break down and cry if you have to settle for a cheap sandwich instead. you’d rather swallow crushed glass.

a sigh slips from your lips.

your coworker shoots you a sympathetic glance, hearing yet another of your stomach’s agonized growls. she taps at your desk, to get your attention, and you look up to meet her kind eyes. ”my offer still stands, you know?”

you give her a smile. ”no, it’s fine,” you murmur, rubbing the back of your neck. ”eating someone else’s handmade food just wouldn’t feel right…”

”… he spoils you, huh?”

a huff. you pout a little, and she chuckles, going back to eating from her bento. it’s hard not to feel jealous. it’s even harder not to think of the bento still waiting for you in your fridge.

finally, you resign yourself to your tragic fate. putting both palms on your desk, ready to lift yourself up; doomed to survive on a cheaply made sandwich and a too-sweet can of coffee. it’s not ideal, not at all. but it is what it is.

(if only you hadn’t forgotten it…)

”you’re a klutz.”

something is placed directly in front of you. two boxes, stacked on top of each other, wrapped up in a pink cloth — neatly tied, smelling just slightly of food. tantalizing.

you raise your head.

sukuna has one eyebrow raised, a mild expression of disbelief painted on his face. unimpressed, as he gazes down at you, hair tousled and slicked back. wearing a leather jacket, black like the tattoos etched into his skin, on his face, a larger one running in streams of ink from his shoulder down to his forearm. you can see a tiny bit of it, crawling towards his collarbone. equally tantalizing.

a click of his tongue breaks you out of your stupor — stuck in place, staring at him silently. like he just fell out of the sky.

”sukuna,” you sputter, finally, glancing down at the bento and then back up at him. ”you —”

”you’re lucky i noticed,” he cuts you off. ”almost didn't make it in time.” one glance at the clock on the wall, and he’s placing a can of peach tea on your desk; it’s still covered in condensation, his fingers leaving prints on the aluminium. ”i should go. doubt your bosses will be very thrilled to have a motorcycle parked outside.”

”ah.” you fall silent. looking down at your lap, wearing a weak smile, a little too ashamed for his liking. ”… sorry, ’kuna. i know you’re busy.”

he gazes down at you, slumped in your chair, bags beneath your weary eyes. an apologetic smile on your lips, a little dejected. like you’re being scolded.

(his eyes soften.)

sukuna shakes his head. only slightly, by a hair, but enough to put you at ease — to let you know he isn’t upset, that grumpy is simply his default state. his voice shifts into a lower, softer tone. ”just don’t forget it next time.”

then he flicks your forehead. gently, not enough force behind it to even sting.

”klutz,” he says, again, and you know it’s a term of endearment. a smile sprouts on your lips.

you sit up straight, eyes crinkling as you look at him, before falling down on the bento in front of you — practically drooling as you think about the meal you’re about to have. ”thank you,” you coo, a sweet grin on your lips as you meet his gaze. voice tingling with barely contained fondness, expression and posture brightening as you tap your feet beneath your desk. ”i love you.”

something smooths over sukuna’s face; something you can’t quite put your finger on. his lips are pursed, and his amber eyes simmer with something awfully fond. swirling like the spots of sunlight on the wall just behind him. it’s brief, easy to miss — a single tug of his lips. the tiniest little smile.

his hand reaches out, fingertips ghosting over your skin as he brushes through your bangs; adjusting them. and you know it’s just an excuse to touch you, that he’d let himself be greedy and ruffle your hair if you weren’t in public. he doesn’t like having an audience, small as it may be. but he can’t really control himself, when it comes to you.

”make sure to eat all of it,” he hums, glancing out the window, towards the motorcycle parked outside. ”i’ll come pick you up later.”

you smile, and sukuna leaves. elegant, even in the way he moves, collected and confident. languid, long legs and a broad back. the warmth of his palm on your head remains, as you wave after him with a cheery see you soon!

and it’s finally time.

with an eager kind of giddiness, you unwrap your bento — ignoring your still growling stomach, the jealous mutters of your coworker, the ticking of the clock on the wall. from outside the window comes a ray of sunshine, a streak of gold falling across the floorboards. it illuminates the contents of your lunch, and you swallow down a gulp. the presentation is lovely, as always. the top layer carries a mouth-watering cutlet, a wide array of little vegetables, fresh and clean, while the bottom one has a couple perfectly formed onigiri; they’re awfully cute, shaped into little pandas, decorated with dried seaweed and sesame seeds.

you pick one up, holding it in the light of the glittering sun. it’s so cute you almost don’t want to eat it at all.

”did he really make that..?” your coworker mumbles, still chewing on her own food. you’re too hungry to respond.

you fish out a tiny note, tucked between the boxes. that’s where he usually puts them. you don’t remember when it started, but you know he enjoys it; writing down little reminders or words of encouragement. his handwriting is beautiful, clear and concise. your eyes trail over every little word, every letter, the little smudged scribble in the middle. it makes you smile.

you’ve been working hard lately. don’t overdo it. the company won’t fall apart if you slack off every once in a while. i lo we can watch that show you like when you get home.

a warmth spreads throughout your body, from the pit of your stomach down to the tips of your fingers; your heart constricting to make room for the love that blooms between your ribs. you barely even notice the wide smile on your lips, leaning forward to leave a little kiss on the paper. it’ll have to do, since he isn’t here to receive it himself.

and as you dig in, savouring every piece of food he made, you’re almost certain you can feel it. that burst of emotion he always tries to contain, the three little words that always sputter out on the tip of his tongue. the cutlet is perfectly crispy, juicy on the inside, practically melting on your tongue. seasoned thoroughly, cooked to completion, so tasty it makes your mouth water. the onigiri are stuffed with a wide array of fillings, fluffy rice blending nicely together with the contents, little grains sticking to the corners of your mouth. and the veggies are cut into cute little star shapes, light and refreshing, balancing the meal and making you wolf everything down with a bright smile.

there’s love, in this. in every meal he makes for you. there’s love in the way he’s picked out your favorite ingredients, all the seasonings you like, love in the way he’s put so much effort into the presentation alone. love, love, love. you can practically taste it on your tongue. the peach tea tastes sweet and fruity, and you gulp it down eagerly, bento left empty.

there are only five minutes left until you have to start working again, but you feel nowhere near as spent as before. you think of his hands, his eyes.

his love.

(god, you can’t wait to get home.)

a soft, orange glow simmers in the kitchen — an atmosphere too sweet not to savour.

your dining room table is covered in a white cloth, burdened by the weight of one burning candle and an expensive vase; stuffed with camellias in all hues, jasmine buds and pretty bluebells, floral scents mingling with the cinnamon-like one of the scented candle. every inhale fills your senses with pure bliss.

not to mention the food.

you’re drooling. you’re sure of it. eyes darting from plate to plate, dish to dish, overwhelmed by the delicacies; trays of sushi, perfect cuts of salmon and tuna cushioned by soft rice, maki rolls stuffed with all your favorite toppings, plenty of soy sauce in tiny cups. fried shrimp, a golden colour, fluffy and crispy, and miso soup topped with garlic and cubes of tofu, steam rising from the ceramic bowls.

and then, of course, his infamous dumplings, grilled on both sides — a perfect golden brown.

all your favorites.

sukuna takes hold of a teapot. made of glass, stuffed with a blooming chrysanthemum, petals stretching out like rays of sunlight in the golden water. he pours it into two ceramic cups, and then promptly drags a chair out for you; a silent beckoning.

but all you can do is stare.

”sukuna…”

he quirks a brow, meeting your astonished stare, eyes round and confused like a puppy’s; painfully cute. he could eat you up. ”what?”

you open your mouth, then close it again. silent, furrowing your brows as if in deep contemplation. ”our anniversary is in august, right?” something panicked smooths over your face. ”i didn’t forget?”

a sigh spills from his lips. ”don’t be dumb,” he clicks his tongue, glancing away for no more than a moment. ”we haven’t had much time to eat together, lately. that’s all.”

(he missed you. he wanted to spoil you, a bit.

he could say it out loud; but he chooses not to.)

either way, he knows you get the message. because suddenly your eyes glimmer, and a full smile blooms on your pretty lips. you waste no time in plopping down on the seat in front of you, right across from sukuna. ”hehe. thank you, baby.”

he huffs. tiny, more of a shy little breath. ”alright, already. eat. before it gets cold.”

”okay, okay!”

he watches as you grab your chopsticks, hungrily eyeing all the dishes on display. listening to his own heartbeat; thrumming, softly, just behind his ribs. pulsating like a fish gasping for air.

”gosh. when did you even do all this?” you ask, soaking in the intimate atmosphere, as he runs an absent hand through his hair. still smelling lightly of coconut oil from the shower he barely had time to take — but he’d rather die than soil this moment with the smell of his cooking-induced sweat.

”when you were away.” he reaches for the cup in front of him, tracing the tips of his fingers against the ceramic. ”jin helped. not with the cooking, obviously, thank god. but…” he raises it to his lips, before taking a sip. ”the ambience. i suppose.”

a hum. you raise your hand, reaching for the bouquet of flowers. ”did he bring these, too?” a curt nod is all you get; it’s enough to have your lips raising up into a smile, fingertips brushing against the petals, pink and yellow, cupping the flowers like they’re made of glass. ”no wonder. do you know what bluebells symbolize?”

sukuna stills. he meets your gaze, eyes trailing towards your knuckles, your fingers, how they blend together with the petals. how he could almost mistake them for stalks. he leans back in his chair, and mutters under his breath;

”… why else would i ask him to buy them?”

you blink. not in surprise, but realization. the sweet kind, like a splash of citrus blooming on your tongue, refreshing.

(he’s always been a bit of a sap, hasn’t he.)

”… that’s true,” your lips split into a sheepish smile, hoping he won’t feel the heat of your cheeks from this distance. ”they’re pretty. thank you.”

another little furrow of his brows. ”enough of that,” comes a sigh. ”if you really want to thank me, make sure the food doesn’t go to waste.”

you stifle a giggle, reaching for the bowl of miso soup. following his advice. sukuna watches you dig in with a certain look in his eyes, something alert and attentive, soft in the corners. resting his chin on the heel of his palm, waiting patiently for those little blissful sighs to start spilling from your lips. wallowing in the finely crafted atmosphere, pleasant scents and soft lighting, the air brimming with something tender and raw.

he spent all day preparing this. planning out every single meal, waiting for jin to arrive with the scented candles and flowers, cleaning the kitchen until not a single speck of dust remained. cathartic, to immerse himself into cooking for you, cutting tofu and vegetables into little cubes and slices, fiddling with the temperature settings and watching blue flames lick at the stove like hungry snakes. gutting the fish he bought fresh from the market, dipping large shrimps into boiling oil. there’s something powerful about it, something he can’t quite put his finger on. something that makes him feel at ease.

and it’s tender — the act of creation, of feeding someone you care for. he didn’t appreciate that part of the process until you came into his life. he didn’t truly love cooking, either.

(he doubts he’ll ever tell you, but he won’t ever stop being grateful for that.)

you continue to eat, sipping from the soup, dipping sushi into soy sauce, munching at the tempura, humming happily to yourself. you look so pleased, so content, like the cat that got the cream. sukuna watches. his eyes stay glued to your fingers, the way you hold your chopsticks, the grain of rice that sticks to the corner of your lip after a particularly big bite. his ears stay keen, intent on picking up on every little joyous hum behind your teeth. even while eating, he’s feeding off your reactions; every expression you bless him with.

he fell in love with the way you eat many years ago.

”so good,” you moan, closing your eyes in pure bliss, and he has to take a sip of his tea to cover the smug smile on his face.

”make sure to finish what’s on your plate,” is all he says, but the honeyed note in his voice gives his satisfaction away. awfully pleased by your approval. ”i made dessert, too.”

at that, your eyes light up even further, swirling with something excited and sweet, and he fails to hold back an amused little huff.

the evening continues. you eat your fill, warm soup and fried food and sugary ice cream, and promptly fall asleep on the couch in the middle of a romcom he only watches for your commentary. snoozing on his shoulder, all tuckered out. always so sleepy after eating. he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, the tips of his fingers gliding across your soft skin. he spares a moment to admire you, under the soft glow of the living room lights — unable to shake away that greedy vein beneath his skin. if it was possible, he’d admire you forever.

but there’s no way you’d ever manage to sit still for so long, so he carries you to bed instead. big, strong, tattooed arms, lifting you up with ease, like a baby bird in the maw of a rottweiler. handling you with the utmost care, tucking you in under the covers, leaning forward to press a single kiss between your brows —

and then you smile.

…

sukuna stills. he watches you, watches you, watches you, every single miniscule motion of your stiff facial features.

then he pinches your cheek.

”owww!”

your eyes flutter open, flashing with betrayal, and sukuna only gives you that signature click of his tongue. ”did you really think you could trick me so easily?”

”i did! you carried me here!” your lips fall into a petulant frown, as you scramble to sit up straight against the fluffy pillows. he only rolls his eyes.

”i wanted to appease you,” he says, and you almost fall for it because it’s not quite a lie. ”such a brat. can’t even walk on your own, huh?”

”well, pardon me for wanting my sweet fiancé to hold me.”

”i hold you all the time.”

”it’s not the same,” you sigh, two little shakes of your head. ”whatever. you wouldn't get it.”

sukuna quirks a brow, but doesn’t push it. instead, he releases the slightest exhale, eyes blooming with amusement, his palm finding its way to your tousled hair. smoothing down your skull.

”go back to sleep,” he beckons, softly, almost hypnotically. his voice is at its most tender when it’s late at night; a little too exhausted to sharpen his syllables properly. ”i’ll hold you later.”

”… you’re not joining me?” you ask, eyes filling with confusion, and he feels a slight tug at his heart — a little string that ties him to you.

”i need to plan next week’s meals,” he mutters, watching as you furrow your brows, meeting his gaze with a pair of disappointed puppy dog eyes.

you know he’s weak to them.

”don’t pout,” he scoffs, looking away for the briefest little moment. weak. ”i'll do it quickly.”

”you always say that,” comes a heavy sigh. you bundle up the covers with your fists, shooting him a bitter little glance. ”but it always takes forever.”

”don’t complain,” he tuts. tilting his head, pink locks falling across his forehead, his maroon eyes. ”haven’t i pampered you enough tonight?”

at that, you fall silent. still pouting.

he tries not to feel bad. he wants to sleep with you; but he can’t. sunday nights are for meal planning. they have been since you first moved in together, and he’s not planning to put a fork in the road of his carefully nurtured routine anytime soon. he needs to make sure you eat balanced meals, get all the vitamins you need — it’s practically life and death.

still, it itches at him. the way you gnaw at your bottom lip, curl in on yourself. you look sleepy and disappointed, and the bed looks empty, which only makes you look smaller in comparison. you look small and lonely and sad. it makes him wish he could unhinge his jaw and swallow you whole; keep you tucked between his ribs, where you'll be warm and safe.

(he brushes the thought away.)

for a moment, he’s entirely still. then his pinkie twitches, beckoning him to you. there it goes, again — that invisible string. he takes a step forward, crouching down to meet you at eye level.

”… sorry,” he breathes, barely above a whisper. the word feels foreign on his tongue, but he swallows the discomfort. ”i’ll hurry. you have my word.”

you blink.

then you’re smiling, again. flipping to your side, sluggishly, just to face him fully. ”’kay.” you reach out for his hand. ”don’t complain if i’m knocked out when you get back, though.”

he looks at your intertwined fingers, brushing his thumb across your skin, a hum buzzing in his throat. affectionate, despite his teasing. ”i wont have to listen to your nightly tangents, then.”

”you love my nightly tangents!”

a snort pushes past his lips. ”sure,” he smirks, ever so slightly, snarky enough to make it sound like a lie. because he does love them. he loves hearing your voice turn delirious, all sleepy and dreamy with fatigue, loves your stupid questions and even stupider answers. he loves being kept awake on nights when he feels too stiff to sleep, when he knows he’s going to have that dream again; a dream of crumbling buildings and burning flesh, of moonlight on asphalt and blood underneath a young boy’s fingernails. a dream where he looks at you and feels nothing but apathy.

(far more grueling than any of the bloodshed.)

sukuna does love your nightly tangents. they chase those ghosts away, ground him back to a sweetened life, one that smells of cinnamon and sunlight and ripe fruit. but you don’t need to know that. so he doesn’t say it — he keeps it locked behind his teeth, under his tongue.

he squeezes your palm.

and then he’s rising to his feet. you follow him with your eyes, blinking drowsily, cheek smooshed against the soft mattress. he resists an uncharacteristic coo.

you muster up a sweetened grin, teeth shining like stars. ”g’night, honey. don’t stay up too late, okay?”

he hums. a silent i won’t. there are some things he won’t speak aloud, because he knows you’ll hear them anyway. ”pleasant sleep,” he murmurs, raising a hand up to card through his hair. blinking away the fatigue — until a soft bout of laughter spills from out your throat.

”pleasant sleep?” you echo, grin teetering on something mischievous, a sleepy snort pushing past your lips. ”what are you, a fucking vampire?”

sukuna blinks.

then he’s clicking his tongue, that familiar sound, and pushing your face into the fluffy pillow on your bed — muffling your little giggles. gentle, his large palm on the back of your head. affectionate. ”behave,” he tuts, but he’s grinning. your giggles don’t fade away, even when he’s turning on his heel and walking out of your bedroom.

”sweet dreams, count dracula!”

”you’re not getting any breakfast tomorrow.”

ignoring your muffled, distressed whine, sukuna hides a fond smile behind his palm. biting down on his bottom lip to keep it at bay — absently deciding what to make for your breakfast tomorrow. pancakes or waffles? maybe he’ll skip the vanilla ice cream, this time. just to teach you a lesson.

when he returns, forty minutes later, you’re fast asleep. curled up under the covers, drool slipping down your bottom lip. he tucks you into his neck, and mouths them into your ear — three little words, always those same little words, never quite spoken in more than a whisper, as if he fears his voice would break under their pressure. but his breath fans against the shell of your ear, and you absently nuzzle into your arms. as if you understand. that silent language between you.

he wonders if you realize, if you’ll ever realize, just how much you mean to him.

sukuna doesn’t tell you that he loves you, but you know. you know, because it’s in everything he does.

you know that he loves you because he actually allows you into his kitchen, when anyone else would be chased out with a pitchfork. because he doesn’t push you away when you wrap your arms around his waist, over his cream-coloured apron, even though you know it distracts him while he’s cooking dinner — only ever clicking his tongue or making a noise of disapproval, placing a palm over your forearm. muttering little harmless grumbles of it’s like you want to get first degree oil burns.

you know that he loves you because you’re always the first to taste his food, without fail, the first person he goes to when he tries a new recipe. and you appreciate it, even when you joke about how honoured you are to test your king’s meals for poison. he quirks a brow and threatens to take the food away, sure, but then there’s always that one flicker of amusement in the amber of his eyes.

you know because he grills his dumplings extra on both sides, just how you like it, because he forms his onigiri into pandas just to see you smile. because he knows how to make your perfect cup of coffee by heart, and refuses to use anything less than an absurdly expensive coffee machine, beans he grinded into powder with his own two hands. because he believes you deserve nothing but the best, nothing less than the finest delicacies this world has to offer. wholeheartedly.

you know that he loves you because it’s there. you can feel it, in every stolen glance, every slight smile when you finally dig in. in the way the cutlet melts on your tongue, the way the bitter espresso runs down your throat, the warmth that blossoms in your chest when you catch him watching you with the faintest glimmer of a content smile.

a silent declaration, a hymn you can always hear if you strain your ears enough —

i love you, i love you, i love you.

#jjk x reader #jjk x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #jjk fluff #sukuna x y/n #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader

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buckets-and-trees · 7 months ago

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Red, White & True: Kansas City - Interview Broadcast Day [9/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 7.6k Summary: The campaign rolls through Kansas City to make a pitstop to watch with the rest of the country as your interview with Oprah airs on Sunday night primetime television.

Content/Warnings: marriage of political convenience, slow burn

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened. And in case you missed it, this is who I mentioned in a post that I cast to play the role of Jake, our fearless campaign manager.

Previous Chapter | Series ↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The savory aroma of slow-cooked meat and smoky spices envelops you as you step out of the campaign SUV and onto the sun-baked sidewalk in front of Arthur Bryant's Barbeque. The iconic Kansas City establishment stands before you, its red brick facade and neon sign a beacon for barbecue lovers from across the nation.

Steve emerges from the vehicle behind you, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the restaurant. "I've been looking forward to this all day," he admits, a boyish grin spreading across his face.

You can't help but smile back, feeling a flutter of excitement in your own stomach. You’re beginning to believe butterflies will never stop hitting you when he smiles at you like that.

After days of campaign events and press conferences, this small detour feels like a breath of fresh air. There will still be conversations, meeting strangers, taking questions, hearing from the people, and press capturing everything second of it, but part of these kinds of stops at least feel slightly more organic. You feel like the conversations, at least, are more real, and you get to know people for who they really are in the places they actually go on a regular kind of day. The fact that it involves world-famous barbecue is just a bonus.

It’s also one of the rare days you both get to be dressed down and casual. Steve even wears a dark blue baseball cap to help lower his profile of being recognized even more.

As you approach the entrance, you and Steve reach for each others hands, fingers locking, natural as anything now.

The moment you step inside Arthur Bryant's, you're hit with a wave of nostalgia. The no-frills interior, with its simple tables and chairs, feels like stepping back in time. The walls are adorned with photos of famous patrons and news clippings, a testament to the restaurant's rich history.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a warm smile approaches. "Captain Rogers, Mrs. Rogers, welcome to Arthur Bryant's," he says, extending his hand. "I'm Jerry, the manager. We're honored to have you here."

Steve shakes Jerry's hand firmly. "The honor is ours, Jerry. We've heard amazing things about your barbecue."

"Well, we hope to live up to the hype," Jerry chuckles. "Why don't I give you a quick tour before we get you set?"

As Jerry leads you through the restaurant, pointing out photos of past presidents and celebrities who have dined there, you can feel the eyes of other patrons on you. There are whispers and a few excited waves, but for the most part, people seem content to let you enjoy your visit.

Jerry brings you to the counter where the magic happens. The smell of smoked meat is even stronger here, making your mouth water and your stomach growl audibly. Steve glances at you with an amused smile.

"Now, what can I get for you folks?" Jerry asks.

Steve's eyes light up as he scans the menu board. "I think I'll have the burnt ends sandwich and some fries," he says.

“And you, Mrs. Rogers?”

“I want a brisket sandwich,” you reply.

“Only the half?” Jerry asks.

“With sides of the cheesy corn, baked beans, onion rings, and cole slaw,” you add.

“Atta girl!” the man grins. “This one knows how to order!” he calls out to the others around. “She’s got my vote!”

You laugh at Jerry's enthusiasm, feeling a warmth spread through you at the easy camaraderie. Steve grins and shakes his head. "I think I've been outdone," he says good-naturedly.

Jerry chuckles as he starts preparing your order. "Well, Captain, maybe I’ll swing my vote to you by the time we hit November. Now, what can I get you to drink?"

"Sweet tea for me," you say.

"Make that two," Steve adds with a smile.

As Jerry busies himself with your order, you and Steve take a moment to look around the restaurant. The dinner crowd is starting to filter in, and you can see a mix of curiosity and excitement on the faces of those who recognize you.

A young woman approaches hesitantly, her phone clutched in her hand. "Excuse me," she says, her voice slightly trembling. "I'm sorry to bother you, but would it be okay if I took a picture with you both?"

Steve responds with a warm smile. "Of course, we'd be happy to."

The young woman's face lights up. "Thank you so much! I'm Emily, by the way.” She hands her phone to a nearby friend.

You and Steve position yourselves on either side of Emily, smiling warmly as her friend snaps a few photos. As Emily checks the pictures, her excitement is palpable.

"Thank you again," she says, her eyes shining. "I've been following your campaign. It's really inspiring to see people I feel like I relate to running instead of just old white men."

“Well, technically Steve’s a very old white man,” you tease.

Steve gives you a mock glare, and Emily laughs.

“No, I guess what I mean is people who seem like people and not just politicians,” she clarifies. “I felt like that about Charlie Young before, too, and so I’m glad he’s your running mate.”

Steve's expression softens. "That means a lot, Emily. What issues are most important to you in your day to day life?"

Emily takes a deep breath, considering her answer. "I'm about to age out of my parents' insurance, and I'm worried about how I'll afford coverage on my own."

You nod sympathetically. "We'd love to hear more about your perspective if you’re willing to share."

Emily glances at her friend, who nods encouragingly. "Well," she begins, "I'm 25 and I work as a teacher's assistant. The pay isn't great, and the school district doesn't offer health insurance for part-time employees. I've been looking into private plans, but they're so expensive. I have a pre-existing condition, and I'm worried about how I'll manage my healthcare costs once I'm off my parents' plan."

Steve listens intently, his brow furrowed in concern. "We believe that access to quality, affordable healthcare is a right, not a privilege. No one should have to choose between their health and their financial stability."

You nod in agreement. "We've been hearing similar stories across the country. It's clear that our current healthcare system isn't working for many Americans, especially young people just starting their careers."

Emily smiles gratefully. "I’m not asking for hand outs - I’m working, but it needs to not feel like it’s impossible to afford to live.”

Steve nods, his expression serious. "Absolutely, Emily. You shouldn't have to struggle to afford basic necessities like healthcare while working hard and contributing to society. I want us to implement solutions that work for all Americans, not just those at the top. I think we start by simplifying the process and expand subsidies under the Affordable Care Act to make coverage more affordable for young adults and low-income workers, but next steps will involve looking to other countries who have better healthcare systems and adopting what we see is working. Detractors say that some of those other systems don’t work for everyone or they’re not perfect, but what we’ve got here isn’t much to write home about as it stands."

"And it's voices like yours that help shape our policies and remind us why this work is so important," you add.

Emily beams, clearly touched by your words. "Thank you for listening. It means a lot when I know it must be so busy for you both. Isn’t your Oprah interview airing tonight?” she asks.

“Yes, we’re just here to grab a bite and to pick up some food to take back to the campaign staff while we watch later.”

“Well, thanks again, and good luck tonight,” she says.

As Emily rejoins her friend, Jerry calls out that your order is ready. You and Steve thank him as he hands over your loaded trays.

"Enjoy your meal, folks," Jerry says with a wink. “We’ll work with your guys to load up your catering to-go boxes, y’all just enjoy.”

You and Steve thank him and then scan the bustling restaurant, looking for an open table. The dinner rush is in full swing, and most tables are already occupied. Your eyes land on a table in the corner where four men, all appearing to be in their seventies, are engaged in animated conversation over their half-eaten meals.

Steve catches your eye and nods towards the table. You both make your way over, trays in hand.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Steve says, his voice warm and friendly. "Would you mind if we joined you? Seems like all the other tables are taken."

The men look up, their eyes widening in recognition. There's a moment of stunned silence before one of them, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes, breaks into a wide grin.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says, his voice tinged with a hint of a Southern drawl. "Sure we’ve got a space for Captain America and his peach of a wife!”

As you and Steve take your seats at the table, you can feel the energy shift. The men are clearly excited, but there's also a hint of nervousness in the air.

"I'm Bill," says the man with the Southern drawl, extending his hand to Steve. "These are my buddies Tom, Frank, and Joe. We've been coming here every Sunday for the past 20 years."

Steve shakes each of their hands in turn, his smile warm and genuine. "It's a pleasure to meet you all. I'm Steve, and this is my wife," he says, introducing you by name.

You smile and greet each of the men, feeling a sense of ease settle over the table.

"So, what brings you folks to our neck of the woods?" Frank asks, leaning forward with interest. His weathered hands cradle a half-empty glass of iced tea.

"We're just looking for the best barbecue in the country," you explain, unwrapping your brisket sandwich.

The four men all laugh heartily, and you grin before you take your first bite. Your eyes widen in appreciation. “Oh, wow. This is incredible.” The meat is tender and flavorful, practically melting in your mouth.

"Best in Kansas City," Tom nods proudly. "Been coming here since I was knee-high to a grasshopper."

As you enjoy your brisket sandwich, Steve takes a bite of his burnt ends, his eyes closing it seems to fully savor that first mouthful. "This really is something special," he agrees, reaching for a napkin.

"You've got to try this," he says, holding his sandwich across to you. You smile and lean forward for a bite, letting him feed you, hoping that not all eyes are on you.

“Mmm, that’s good, too,” you hum. “But if you offered so you could try a bite of mine in return, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

This garners another round of laughter from the men along with some hoots and some ribbing, and Steve just smirks and shakes his head at you.

“I’ll share my sides, though,” you say with a teasing smile, pushing your tray closer to the middle.

Joe, who's been quietly observing until now, clears his throat. "If you don't mind me asking, Captain, what made you decide to run for office? I mean, you've already done so much for this country."

Steve sets down his sandwich, his expression thoughtful. "Well, Joe, I've always believed in serving my country, in whatever way I can. After everything that's happened in recent years, I felt like I could do more good by working within the system, trying to bring people together and address the issues that matter most to everyday Americans."

Bill nods, a wistful look in his eyes. "It's refreshing to hear, I'll tell you that. Feels like politicians these days are more concerned with having an office than serving the people and a lot of us old-timers are worried about the direction the country's headed."

Steve’s brow furrows. "I understand those concerns," he says thoughtfully. "The world is changing rapidly, and it can be unsettling. But I believe in the resilience and spirit of the American people. We've faced challenges before, and we've always come through stronger."

Bill nods slowly, a pensive look on his face. "That's true enough - and when you say it, we can believe it because we know you’ve got old experience in those bones, too. But it feels different now, doesn't it? Like we're more divided than ever."

Steve nods solemnly, wiping his hands on a napkin. "You're right, Bill. The divisions in our country are deep, and they're not going to be healed overnight. But I believe we have more in common than what separates us. We've been crisscrossing the country, meeting people and hearing their stories. We all want safe communities, good jobs, affordable healthcare, and a bright future for our children and grandchildren."

Frank leans forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That's all well and good, Captain, but how do you plan to actually bring people together? Seems like every politician says that, but nothing ever changes. It feels like people aren't even speaking the same language anymore when it comes to politics."

You take a sip of your sweet tea, watching Steve carefully as he considers his response. You can see the determination in his eyes.

Steve leans back in his chair, his eyes scanning the faces of the men around the table. The warm glow of the restaurant's lighting casts a soft hue on their weathered features, each line and wrinkle telling a story of years lived and experiences gained.

"You're right, Frank. It does feel like we're not speaking the same language anymore. But that's exactly why I'm running as an independent candidate," Steve begins, his voice calm but filled with conviction. "I'm not beholden to either the Democratic or Republican party. This isn't just about wearing a different color tie or having a different letter next to my name on the ballot. It's about fundamentally changing from a battle for political power between red and blue to calling for consensus to see action that matters to the three hundred and thirty-four million people who live in our country."

He pauses, reaching for his sweet tea. "I believe we need to start by listening to each other again," Steve continues, his eyes meeting each of the men's gazes in turn. "Really listening, not just waiting for our turn to speak. That's why we're here, sitting with you gentlemen, sharing a meal. It's why we make these stops at local businesses and community centers across the country."

You nod in agreement, swallowing a bite of your brisket sandwich before adding, "We've found that when you sit down with people, break bread together, and have real conversations, you often discover that we're not as different as the headlines make us out to be."

Tom, speaks up. "That's all well and good, but how does that translate to actual policy? How do you bridge the gap when it comes to the big issues?"

Steve leans forward, his elbows on the table. "It starts by voting for policies, not parties. When we focus on specific issues rather than partisan loyalties, we often find more common ground than we expect. For example, take healthcare. Most Americans, regardless of political affiliation, agree that healthcare costs are too high and that something needs to be done. The disagreement is usually about how to solve the problem, not whether it exists."

He pauses to take another bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "We just spoke with a young woman over there named Emily who's worried about affording health insurance. That's not a red or blue issue - that's an American issue."

Joe nods slowly. "I can relate to that. My grandson's in the same boat."

"Exactly," Steve continues. "So instead of getting bogged down in partisan debates, we need to look at what's actually working. What can we learn from other countries? What innovative solutions are individual states implementing? We need to be willing to try new approaches and admit when something isn't working."

Frank leans back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "That sounds good in theory, Captain, but how do you get Congress to go along with that? They seem pretty set in their ways."

Steve nods, acknowledging the challenge. "You're right, Frank. Changing the culture in Washington won't be easy. But I believe the American people are ready for a different approach. If we can build a broad coalition of voters who demand bipartisan solutions, we can put pressure on Congress to work together."

"And," you add, setting down your fork, "Steve isn't just talking about compromise for the sake of compromise. It's about finding common ground and building on it. For example, both parties agree that we need to improve our infrastructure. So let's start there and create jobs while we're at it."

Bill nods slowly, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "I like the sound of that.”

The conversation eases from there to the two of you learning more about the four men and the lives they’ve led in Kansas while you eat. Once you’re finished - Steve having cleared both your trays when you’d had your fill of the collection - you take a picture with these men as well, and with Jerry and some of the staff by the counter before you leave.

When you and Steve step out of Arthur Bryant's, the warm evening air envelops you. The sun is setting, casting a golden glow over the city streets. You can still taste the smoky flavor of the barbecue, and your stomach feels pleasantly full.

A small crowd has gathered, word having spread of your presence at the iconic barbecue joint. There's a mix of excitement and curiosity in their faces as they call out greetings and words of encouragement.

Steve pauses to shake a few hands and exchange brief words with some of the gathered people. You follow suit, touched by the warmth and genuine interest of the Kansas City residents.

"Thank you for coming to our city," an older woman says, her eyes shining. "It means a lot that you're taking the time to visit places like this."

"We're honored to be here," you reply sincerely. "Thank you for your hospitality."

As you walk towards the waiting SUV, the ever-present security detail for your public outings moves seamlessly around you, a constant reminder of the enormity of what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Steve opens the door for you. Just before you step in, you turn back to wave at the small crowd, and Steve waves at them, as well.

Inside the SUV with the door closed, the calm quiet is nice. Steve's hand finds yours again, and he gives it a gentle squeeze. "That was something, wasn’t it," he says, a contented smile on his face.

You nod in agreement. "The food was incredible, but the conversations... that's what makes these stops so special."

"It really is," Steve replies, his voice thoughtful. "Every time we do something like this, I'm reminded of why we're doing all of it. It's about the Emilys and the Bills and the Jerrys."

As the SUV pulls away from Arthur Bryant's, you both settle into a comfortable silence, processing the events of the evening. Steve's thumb traces gentle circles on the back of your hand, a now-familiar gesture that never fails to sooth you and make you feel more connected to him. "You know," he says softly, "I was thinking about what Bill said. About how things feel different now, more divided."

You turn to face him, seeing the thoughtful expression on his face. "What are you thinking?"

Steve's brow furrows slightly. "I've seen this country go through a lot of changes, faced a lot of challenges. But there's always been this... resilience, this underlying unity that pulled us through. I wonder sometimes if we've lost sight of that."

You squeeze his hand reassuringly. "I don't think we've lost it completely. It's still there, just buried under a lot of noise and frustration and fear. What we saw tonight - people coming together, sharing a meal, having real conversations - that's the spirit of America that's always been there."

Steve nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're right. And that’s the job now - uncover that spirit again, remind people of what we can accomplish when we work together."

You shift back to get more comfortable in your seat again, but keep holding hands as you look out the window.

"Are you nervous about the Oprah interview airing tonight?" you ask, breaking the quiet.

Steve chuckles softly. "A little," he admits. "It's one thing to have these intimate conversations with people like we just did, but knowing millions will be watching..." He trails off, shaking his head slightly. “And the revelation about our marriage…”

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "You were amazing during the interview. Honest, authentic, just like you always are. People will respond to that."

He turns to you, his blue eyes filled with warmth. "We were amazing together," he corrects gently. "You went with me when I climbed out on that limb of truth.”

“I was feeling the need to set the record straight, too,” you reassure him. “It felt like you were reading my mind.”

He lets out a breath that apparently he was holding. “I couldn't imagine doing any of this without you now."

You feel a flutter in your chest at his words. Even after all this time, he still has that effect on you. "Well, good thing you don't have to," you reply with a soft smile.

As the SUV winds its way through the Kansas City streets, you both fall into a comfortable silence, watching the city lights flicker to life as evening overtakes the afternoon.

The weight of the campaign, the responsibility you've taken on, settles over you like a familiar blanket. There’s the mantle of potential presidential job ahead, but then there’s things like the motorcade. To come on this very small outing to get food, there were three SUVs - the one the two of you are riding in, one ahead, and one behind - and eight Secret Security men and women, plus two campaign staffers who had come to make sure things went smoothly in and out, pick up the food, and pay for everything, and Steve is only a candidate.

If he becomes president, it will only grow - more security, bigger motorcade, four years of responsibilities and obligations and opportunities and being scheduled every waking hour of the day.

As you contemplate the enormity of it all, Steve's voice pulls you from your thoughts.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks softly, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on your hand.

You turn to him with a small smile. "Just thinking about how much our lives have changed. And how much more they would change if we win."

Steve nods, understanding in his eyes. "Sometimes I still can't believe we're here, doing this."

"Do you ever regret it?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "Deciding to run?"

Steve is quiet for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "No," he says finally, his voice firm. "It's not easy, and there are days when I feel the weight of it more than others. But then I think about the people we meet all day, every day.”

“Your big heart is a sucker for people,” you tease him good-naturedly. “If only you were more surly and selfish.”

Steve chuckles at your teasing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're right, I am a sucker for people. But you're no better, Mrs. Rogers."

As you continue to banter, the SUV turns onto a tree-lined street in a quiet suburban neighborhood. The sun has fully set now, and the warm glow of streetlights illuminates rows of well-maintained houses. Each home seems to tell its own story - some with Halloween decorations already adorning their porches, others with children's bicycles left haphazardly on front lawns.

The SUV slows to a stop in front of a charming two-story house with pale yellow siding and white trim. A wrap-around porch extends across the front, complete with a porch swing gently swaying in the evening breeze. The lawn is neatly manicured, with vibrant flower beds lining the walkway.

"Home sweet home, at least for tonight," Steve says with a smile as he opens the car door. “Tell me you’re just as eager as I am to meet Jake’s family.”

“I’ve been dying of curiosity ever since we found out!” You step out of the car, walking quickly up the front sidewalk.

No one knew Jake’s sister lived in Kansas with her husband and four kids until Elsa brought up whether the team should watch the interview together at the hotel or in groups in a few of the suites when Jake said that wouldn’t be necessary - that his baby sister had insisted she wanted to host the full traveling staff in her home for it.

As you approach the front door, it swings open before you can knock. A petite woman with Jake's same dark brown eyes and infectious smile emerges, her face beaming with excitement.

"Welcome! I'm Kathy, Jake's sister," she says, extending her hand. "It's such an honor to have you both here."

Steve shakes her hand warmly. "The honor is ours, Kathy. We can’t thank you for opening your home to us."

You follow suit, greeting Kathy with a smile. "It's wonderful to finally meet you."

Kathy ushers you inside, where the aroma of freshly baked cookies mingles with the scent of coffee, and the rest of your team begins to file in behind you. The living room is cozy and inviting, with overstuffed couches and chairs arranged to face a large flat-screen TV. Campaign staff members are already scattered around the room, chatting animatedly and nibbling on chips and cookies.

The house is alive with domestic energy, a stark contrast to the usual hotel suites and conference rooms you've grown accustomed to. Children's laughter echoes from somewhere upstairs, and you can hear the distant chatter of voices coming from what you assume is the kitchen.

Kathy's husband, a tall man with kind eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, emerges from the dining room. "I'm Tom," he introduces himself, shaking your hands. "We've set up a spot in the dining room for the barbecue spread.”

“Sorry for descending on you with all this chaos, Tom,” Steve apologizes.

“Oh, please, we’ve got four kids from four to sixteen, this is hardly new for us. Bring this kind of feast and you’re welcome any night of the week,” he insists.

Steve heads through to the dining room with Tom, but you make your way to the kitchen instead. Your eyes land on Bucky who’s in close conversation with campaign spokesperson Lisa and one of the new speechwriters.

They look up when they notice you.

“Where’s Sophia?” you ask. You don’t need her in this moment, but you’re so used to her finding you whenever you arrive at a new location if she isn’t already with you that it’s strange you haven’t seen her yet.

With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Bucky informs you, “She’s out on the back porch with Sam.”

You raise an eyebrow in surprise and ask, “Alone?”

Bucky just smiles slyly and confirms your suspicions - he's trying to play matchmaker. You had wondered if you were only being hopeful at seeing signs of a potential spark between them, and now you’re glad it wasn’t only you seeing things happening there.

“Hang on,” Lisa slams her water bottle down on the counter. “Sam and Sophia?”

Bucky nods, “Mhmm.”

“No! Not yet!” she blusters. “We’re still three weeks out from election day! This is your first campaign, Barnes, so believe me when I tell you we need to avoid as many campaign crushes coming together as we can for at least another week - two if we can manage it - if we want to keep this operation running like a well-oiled machine! We want people pining as long as we can, not working through the awkward is this crush lasting after the campaign phase in the final days.” And with that, Lisa’s already rushing out of the kitchen, no doubt on her way to need something from one of them.

You shake your head, amused by Lisa’s reaction. As much as you understand her perspective from a campaign management standpoint, you can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Sam and Sophia. After all, you know exactly how difficult it is to navigate feelings in the midst of such an intense, all-consuming experience.

But you wonder how Lisa’s timeline translates to you and Steve because this isn’t a campaign crush? You’re married to the someone you’re building a relationship with on the campaign trail.

Because you have developed strong, deep feelings for Steve. You know they’re real. You know he has feelings for you. You’ve said things to each other indicating you both know this isn’t only a marriage to have a President and potential First Lady campaigning for the White House any more. But what are the next steps, and is there a too soon to take them on the campaign trail? The past week has been wonderful, spending time so effortlessly together as you can, routinely sitting right next to each other without question, holding hands, Steve’s arms often around your shoulders. There hadn’t been more kissing like your night alone in Brooklyn, but there had been more chaste kisses exchanged, and easily.

In a matter of hours things would fundamentally shift given what the rest of the world was going to learn about your marriage from the interview, so it would probably be smart to maintain whatever you were now and ride out whatever the fallout might end up being, and not add any more complexity to the situation.

“She’s right,” the other woman in the room says, bringing your attention back to the moment with Bucky and the speechwriter. “I’ve seen so many campaign crushes peak too soon, and it’s painful to watch,” she laughs - but do you detect it’s a little nervously?

Jake enters the kitchen with a broad smile.

"You made it here!" he exclaims. "I see you've met the family. What do you think of my little sister's humble abode, Mrs. Rogers?"

You return his smile warmly. "It's lovely so far. Your sister and her husband really are so great to host all of us."

Jake chuckles. "Yeah, Kathy's always been like that. Heart of gold. You should see her at Thanksgiving - she insists on inviting every stray and lonely soul in the neighborhood."

You arch an eyebrow. “Jake, I have this suspicion there’s a big softie under your campaign manager persona to rival your sister.”

“Sure, of course,” he admits, “but people can’t know I have a marshmallow heart up front. When the staff are afraid and want to impress me, they set the bar high and only keep climbing from there.” He points at the Bucky and the speechwriter, “I will deny it if you spread that nasty rumor.”

You all laugh.

“Will you two make the rounds?” Jake looks at Bucky and the speechwriter. “Let people know dinner’s up and that I need to talk to everyone about five minutes before the interview starts to air? Living room.”

Jake's request sends the other two off, leaving you alone with him in the kitchen. He turns to you with a more serious expression.

"How are you holding up?" he asks, his voice lowered. "Big night."

You take a deep breath, considering your answer. "I'm okay. A little nervous, I guess. It's one thing to do the interview, but now that it’s done but finally going to be out there for better or worse..."

Jake nods understandingly. "It's natural to feel that way. But I want you to know, you and Steve both knocked it out of the park. The footage I've seen is powerful stuff."

You feel a flutter of anticipation in your stomach. "Thanks, Jake. That means a lot."

"And I do mean it," he continues, leaning against the counter. "You know I don’t get paid to bullshit anyone. The honesty, the vulnerability... it's exactly what people need to see right now.”

You smile gratefully at Jake's reassurance. "I just hope the public sees it that way."

Jake nods confidently. "They will. Look, I've been in this game a long time, and I've rarely seen candidates connect with people the way you and Steve do. This interview is just going to reinforce that."

As you're about to respond, Steve enters the kitchen, a plate of barbecue in hand. "There you are," he says, smiling warmly at you. "I was wondering where you'd gotten off to."

Jake straightens up, clapping Steve on the shoulder. "Just giving your wife a little pep talk before the big show," he says with a wink. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit. Don't forget, living room in about fifteen minutes."

As Jake exits, Steve moves closer to you, setting his plate down on the counter. You grin, familiar now with how much food the super soldier can pack away.

"You okay?" Steve asks softly, his blue eyes searching your face.

You nod, grin softening to a smaller smile. "Jake says we’ll be fine, but I can’t help a few nerves still."

Steve reaches out, gently taking your hand in his. "We're in this together. Whatever happens, we face it as a team."

His touch and words calm you, as they always do now. You squeeze his hand back. "You're right."

Steve smiles, then glances at his plate of barbecue. "Want to help me out with some of this?"

You laugh, eyeing the heaping plate. "No way. I’m saving the small bit of room I’ve got for one of Kathy’s cookies."

The two of you chat with campaign staffers as they filter in and out of the kitchen and Tom and Kathy - who comes through with a plate of her cookies - until it’s time to congregate in the living room.

Once everyone is packed in on all the furniture, extra chairs that have been brought in, and even some pillows and cushions on spots of the floor, its crowded but cozy, and it seems like it would be wrong to have any of the team in the other room for a night like this.

Jake stands in front of the tv - which is already on but muted until the interview goes live - and clears his throat. The room falls silent, all eyes turning to him. The excitement in the air is palpable, a mix of nervous energy and anticipation.

"Alright, team," Jake begins, his voice carrying across the crowded living room. "Before we dive into the interview, I've got some news to share." He pauses, building the suspense, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I just got off the phone with our polling team," he continues, his eyes scanning the room. "We have official data as of an hour ago, and I've got to say, the numbers are looking good. Really good."

A murmur of excitement ripples through the group. You feel Steve's hand tighten around yours, his body tensing slightly beside you.

Jake holds up his hands, calling for quiet. "Now, I don't want anyone getting ahead of themselves, but..." he pauses again before his face breaks into a wide smile. "Our latest poll shows that Steve has gained four points in the last week alone. This puts the Rogers-Young ticket just three points behind our closest competitor."

The room erupts in cheers and applause. You see Sam clap Bucky on the back, both men grinning ear to ear. Campaign staffers high-five each other, their faces beaming with excitement. You feel a surge of elation course through you, and you turn to Steve, who's wearing an expression of disbelief and joy.

“However,” Jake cuts into the celebrations, “no one can coast, especially after tonight. In tonight’s interview, Captain and Mrs. Rogers shared some information about their relationship that is going to dramatically shift public perception of their marriage. There are about a dozen people who already know, and I’m going to tell you now so that you have the next twenty minutes or so to wrap your head around how you’re own reaction.”

The nervous excitement in the room turned to trepidation within less than a second.

Jake continues, “There’s superstitions - or expectations - that there’s always some type of news that will break weeks or days before an election that has a significant impact on the narrative of the campaigns for public perception and tip the scales for who wins - it’s called the October Surprise. This might be it.”

You hold your breath and Steve holds tightly to your hand.

“Some of you have idly asked questions or made comments about the Rogers’ quick engagement and marriage and accepted the statement that they realized if they were going to get married, they needed to do it before the filing deadline to officially get Steve on the ballot. Others have noticed and wondered why we always book them separate rooms. I said the directive to our advance coordinator came from me, that it simplified things if one of them had an earlier departure time than the other.

“The truth is,” Jake explains, “that I said Captain Rogers needed a wife if we were going to have any chance of winning with him running as a third-party candidate without a prior political career. Theirs was a politically arranged marriage, and they met the day of their wedding.”

There are gasps and murmurs immediately around the room.

“I know you will have questions. Elsa is giving the same news to our team back at campaign HQ in DC,” Jake says. “I’d like everyone to watch the interview before you ask any questions or make any statements or decisions. If you’re in this room, I’m betting you’re giving your blood, sweat, and tears for more than the semantics around their marriage, and I think what you’ll learn from their conversation with Oprah will answer most of your questions. Deal?”

There’s still some tension in the air, but the consensus is there.

“Then, here we go,” Jake says. “Remember, as with everything else on this campaign, only Lisa makes statements on behalf of the campaign, and that includes texts from your family and friends who want an inside scoop from you tonight while they watch with the rest of America.”

The television is taken off mute, and within moments, the program begins.

Watching the interview is an out of body experience. You remember every moment, reliving it as it plays out on screen. The ninety minutes seem to stretch on forever, and yet when it’s all over and done, it feels like it can’t have been more than five minutes.

Everyone says it went well. You think it went well. Steve feels like it went well. The team has a few questions - mostly for Jake about strategy and messaging moving forward. Steve says he’s more than willing to answer questions, but Mike - one of the policy advisors - seems to speak for everyone when he says, "I think we're good, Cap. We all probably need some time to fully process this, but the interview spoke for itself. You two were honest and open. I'm still 100% behind this campaign and what you stand for.”

There are nods and murmurs of agreement from the rest of the team. The tension that had filled the room earlier has dissipated, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose and determination.

Jake claps his hands together. "Alright, team. Let's all get some rest and we'll regroup in the morning. Elsa and Peter have already been working on strategy ahead of tonight, and they and Lisa will already be working tonight and with the first wave of morning shows bright and early. Dump questions and thoughts into the Slack workspace to your directors as needed or straight to me. We’ll meet in the morning discuss our next phase and handling the positive and negative reactions we expect moving forward."

As the group begins to disperse, you and Steve make your way to Kathy and Tom to thank them for their hospitality.

"It was our pleasure," Kathy says warmly, pulling you both into a hug. "We're honored to have been a part of this night."

Tom nods in agreement. "You're welcome back anytime you’re in Kansas. And for what it's worth, I think you two make a great team, arranged marriage or not."

You feel a warmth spread through you at his words. "Thank you, Tom. That means a lot."

Behind them, there’s a smaller TV on behind them, muted, but showing pundits already discussing the interview.

Jake approaches. "The SUV is ready when you are," he says. "I've arranged for you to have a later start tomorrow morning. I figure you both could use some extra rest after tonight."

Steve nods gratefully. "Thanks, Jake. We appreciate it."

Sam, Bucky, and Sophia are all with you and Steve on the ride back to the hotel.

There are six or eight of your team who arrived ahead of you, and you cross paths with them on the way to the hotel bar. They invite the five of you to join them, when you meet Steve’s eyes, you can see he’s feeling as drained you, and so the two of you encourage everyone else to go and make your excuses to go upstairs.

In the elevator, Steve drapes an arm around your shoulders and pulls you to his side. You melt into him, wrapping both arms around his strong chest, and inhale his scent - smiling at the tinge of barbecue smoke that mingled in and still lingers from earlier in the day.

As the elevator rises, you feel the tension of the evening finish melting away. The warmth of Steve's body against yours is comforting, and you allow yourself to fully relax into his embrace.

"What a night," Steve murmurs, his voice rumbling in his chest.

You nod against him. "I still can't believe we actually did it. Told the whole world."

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

The elevator dings as it reaches your floor. Steve keeps his arm around you as you walk down the hallway to your rooms. When you reach your door, you both pause, and he moves away from you just enough to clearly look at you.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his blue eyes searching your face.

You take a moment to consider the question. "Relieved, I think. And a little scared. But mostly... hopeful?"

Steve nods, a soft smile playing on his lips. "I feel the same way. The weight has been lifted, but now we're stepping into uncharted territory."

You lean against the door frame, looking up at him. "No more hiding, no more pretending. It's all out there now."

"For better or worse," Steve agrees, his eyes never leaving yours.

Steve's hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. You move to close the gap between you, cup your hand around his neck, and press your lips to his. There’s heat in the kiss, but it’s soft, warm, promising.

The kiss deepens as Steve's arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. You sink into his embrace, fingers threading through his hair, falling further into the kiss.

When you finally part, you're both a little breathless. Steve rests his forehead against yours, a soft smile on his lips. "I've been wanting to do that all day," he murmurs.

You can't help but smile back. "Me too."

For a moment, you both just stand there, savoring the closeness. Then reality creeps back in - you're still in the hallway of a hotel, with your security details positioned nearby, trying to be as discreet as they can in a long hallway which translates to almost zero discreetness.

Steve seems to realize this too. He straightens up, though he keeps one arm around your waist. "We should both get some sleep," he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice.

You nod, but don't release your hold on him. "Probably," you agree.

For another moment, neither of you moves, but then you hear the elevator ding again at the end of the hallway and break apart as it opens, a few staffers stepping out.

As the staffers approach, you and Steve exchange a look that speaks volumes. The moment has passed, but the lingering warmth remains.

You exchange a few words and offer polite nods as they pass by. Once they're out of earshot, you turn back to Steve with a small, almost shy smile.

"Goodnight, Steve," you say softly, reaching for your room key.

He catches your hand gently before you can insert the key, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. "Goodnight," he murmurs against your skin.

With one last lingering look, Steve reluctantly lets go of your hand and steps back. You slip into your room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. Leaning against it, you take a deep breath, your heart still racing from the kiss and the intensity of Steve's gaze.

You move through your nightly routine on autopilot, your mind still buzzing. As you climb into bed, you can't help but wonder what tomorrow will bring. The world knows the truth now, and there's no telling how they'll react.

But as you drift off to sleep, it was such a good day that you find yourself feeling more excited than anxious.

Twelve hours later, you would not believe how wrong you were.

next part: Kansas to Tucson

I gave you a little calm before the storm.

Plus some seeds of Sam & Sophia! 🥰

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x yn #red white & true #aspen wrote something

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mactavishsgfandwife · 1 year ago

Note

Could you write a few headcannons or short fic about overprotective Simon and pregnant reader and simon refuses to let reader even move a muscle as he takes care of them lovingly it’s so cute 🥹

Overprotective Simon "Ghost" Riley x Pregnant Reader

this is so cute thank you!! 🫶🏻 female reader fluff <3

"No."

Your husband is sitting at the other end of your sofa, rubbing your feet as you lay down, holding them in his lap. He’s also refusing to let you make tea.

"Hush, love, I’ve got it," he grins, patting your head as he stands up. Smug bastard.

"You don’t even like the tea that you make!" you protest.

"’ll only make tea for you then."

It’s nice, it’s so sweet that Si cares about you like this, but it does your head in sometimes. He’s more thorough with the cleaning than you (his military history showing through) but the man is a danger to cuisine. When he cooks with your guidance, he’s fine, but when he’s alone he settles for Heinz sausages and beans on toast, and it’s maddening when he won’t let you pack his lunch for work.

"Here," he sits down at your side and pulls you into his lap. Passing you your tea, he leans his head against your shoulder and covers your growing stomach with his broad hands.

"Thanks, Si," you pout, entertained by how long he was in the kitchen. He always puts extra effort into what he makes for you. It’s what you deserve, looking after him and the baby in your stomach.

"Don’t even worry abou’ it," he smirks, kissing your head, "baby acting up?"

"Nah. Think she’s asleep. She’s a good girl today."

"Lucky girl, with’a mummy like you."

i hope this was okay for you!! :))) tysm for thé support my lovely <3

i’m so sorry for my inactivity recently, i’ve read the requests and they’re all amazing and i’m working through them! but i’m gonna be slow because i don’t wanna stress myself out over it lol

masterlist

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avcdgrdn · 10 months ago

Text

── .✦ [ FIC ]: coffee date with ford ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

stanford pines x reader fluff // based off of this headcanon post.

˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚

you could tell that something was off as soon as you walked into the house.

the mystery (s)hack has officially run out of coffee beans ... and there's a grumpy grunkle to show for it.

"uuugh..."

six rough fingers moved to wearily rub the forehead of their owner: a sleep-deprived scientist who'd stayed up late last night working on a project. of course, whether the project was actually worth losing sleep over or not wasn't entirely relevant ... ford just didn't want to go to bed and deal with his thought-filled brain. despite his troubles with bill being behind him, there often are nights where he just can't fight the paranoia.

trudging out into the kitchen, the broad-built man leaned against a countertop with one arm, heaving a low and rumbling sigh.

"well, well. good morning, sunshine." a gruff voice called out from across the room, accompanied by the sound of cereal pouring into a bowl. stanley was ' making breakfast ' for dipper and mabel, who waited eagerly at the table. "didja get enough beauty sleep?"

"i'll answer that question after i have my coffee." ford huffed, eyes still half-shut and darkened with exhaustion. upon hearing those words, stan trailed out an 'uhhhh' and glanced towards the coffee machine.

"about that, sixer ... it's all gone. i was gonna grab another bag the last time i was out, but i got distracted."

if, by being distracted, he meant attempting to shoplift a twelve-pack of pitt cola and getting caught, he was technically telling the truth.

"what."

the corner of ford's left eye twitched. no coffee? how could he have overlooked such a possibility? great ... just great.

after a moment longer of taking in the unfolding scene from the open front door, you decided to speak up.

"uh, everything okay?"

everyone's attention shifted to you. you'd only been staying with the pines family for a few days as a temporary fix for your living situation, but somehow, it was beginning to feel like home. mabel grinned brightly upon seeing you, waving her small hands in the air.

"hiya, cutie !! back from your morning walk? how'd it go?"

you met her honey brown eyes, and a smile crept onto your expression.

"it was lovely, thanks." you made your way into the house, closing the front door behind you and promptly taking a seat beside the smaller twins at the table. the grunkles observed you, following suit and each coming over to fill the remaining empty seats.

"i hope ya like cereal, cause i can't cook for my life!" stan grinned, gave everyone a bowl of cereal, and the feasting began.

mabel scarfed down her bowl, akin to how waddles might eat his own breakfast. dipper and stan both ate slowly, while you were somewhere in the middle. the only odd one out was ford, who hadn't touched his spoon at all. his head was rested against one hand, and his eyes were shut, as if he were deep in thought or (more likely) dozing off. still, he looked like he should at least eat something ...

"ford?" you called from across the table, spoon in hand.

"i- wh- ... huh?"

he stammered, a faint shade of crimson tinting his cheeks as he snapped awake and stared at you like a deer in headlights. stan snickered.

"what's wrong?" your voice was concerned, with an undertone of amusement. it seemed unnatural for him to act so disheveled, considering how your first impression of him was extremely put-together and educated. although, you couldn't say you disliked this side of him.

he cleared his throat. "well, you see, we've ... run out of coffee. during days like these, i rely on the caffeine to keep me awake."

"i see." you crunched on another mouthful of cereal, swallowing with a thoughtful hum. "isn't there a good café somewhere near here?"

at that, ford raised his bushy brows. a café? that's a good point.

"it must be relatively new, because i can't say that i've ever been to such an establishment in town." he mused, stroking his chin stubble as he attempted to recall the various changes that had occurred in gravity falls since he'd returned after being gone for thirty years.

"i could take you, if you like."

"...what?"

and now, all eyes were on you.

blinking innocently, you restated your offer.

"i said, i could take you, if you like. i've been there a few times myself, and they've got a lot of good options."

"gasp !! like a date ??" mabel squealed, only to be elbowed by her twin brother. her comment earned a darker blush from ford and a choke from stan.

"u-um ... i wouldn't necessarily say a da-"

"ahem! i accept your offer. it would be good for me to get out of the house, anyway." ford hurriedly interrupted you, averting his gaze as he straightened his trench coat and adjusted his turtleneck. a stifled squeal of joy could be heard from the kids' end of the table.

and just like that, you found yourself strolling down the sidewalk, side by side with the tired scientist. he had freshened up somewhat, having taken the time to tame his bedhead hair and clean his dusty glasses. even while sleep deprived, he looked handsome in the warmth of the sunlight. catching yourself staring, you quickly averted your gaze to in front of you, focusing on where you were walking. ford had most definitely seen you looking, but chose not to say anything about it.

the silence wasn't uncomfortable, per se, but it certainly was not commonplace for either of you. you've been living on your own for a while now, so you're acquainted with silence, but not the kind shared with another person. on the flip side, ford has slowly been learning to cherish peace and quiet again after getting rid of bill's voice in his head.

upon arriving at the café, the two of you took in the inviting atmosphere, inhaling the scent of brewing coffee and sweet pastries as the little bell hanging from the door jingled to signal your appearance. ford visibly relaxed, already pleased.

"you know what you want?" you questioned with a smile, glancing up to meet his eyes.

"mm, i think i'll have the cold brew with vanilla cream." he replied, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a somewhat shy grin. you swore you could feel butterflies in your stomach.

"alright." making your way up to the cashier, you put in your order for two drinks, pulling out your wallet and selecting the appropriate bills to pay for the both of you. ford was somewhat shocked that you had made the move to pay for his drink, and his bashful smile grew as you found a table to sit down at.

"thank you, that was very generous of you." he adjusted his glasses, sitting across from you and giving you a brief once-over. "i could have covered it, you know."

"ah, don't worry about it." now that you thought about it, this was the first time that you were spending one-on-one time with him, apart from the rest of the family ... was this really a date, like mabel had said? your face began to heat up at the notion, but you quickly distracted yourself by looking down to fidget with the edge of your sleeve.

feeling the need to break the silence, the silver-streaked man shifted in his seat. "so ... tell me about yourself."

he was clearly showing interest in getting to know you, which was flattering, and somewhat endearing. given his quiet demeanor, it was obvious that socialization was not his strong suit. still, you couldn't deny that he had a certain rugged charm about him.

staring out the window, you thought for a moment, then spoke. "for starters, you know that i'm working on moving into a house." there was another pause as you mulled over your next words. "i'm interested in the strange phenomenons here in gravity falls. i was raised in another state, but my family relocated here while i was in high school. that's what got me curious about certain ... abnormalities." you smiled softly, fixing your gaze onto him. "i think unusual things are wonderful."

stanford was practically slack-jawed, his dark brown eyes shining with the wonder of a child in love. any previous hesitation was completely abandoned.

"why, that's what i've dedicated my life purpose to for years!" his wide shoulders leaned over the table, bringing his face closer to your own. "i've been keeping journals-"

he was interrupted by a barista calling out your name across the café. regretfully, you had to tear your attention from his enthusiasm, standing to go collect your drinks from the counter. for some reason, the thudding of your heart was very loud.

returning to your seat, you put ford's cold brew in front of him before taking a swig of your own drink. he carefully picked up the cup, observing it from a few different angles before raising it to his lips. he took a long sip, then made a low, content hum. "yes ... this is exactly what i needed." you could already see the caffeine revitalizing him. "now, where was i? ah, yes! the journals."

the next hour and a half consisted of him infodumping about the journals and all of the wonderful things he's seen and done. he earned quite a few reactions from you, each of which inflated his ego even further. by the end of his rant, he was on an energetic and emotional high.

the two of you were laughing at some corny one-liner he'd thrown in, and ford leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his broad chest as it heaved with deep chuckles.

"you know, i haven't talked with anyone like this in a while, besides stanley and the kids, of course." a warm smile graced his features. "i'm glad that you invited me here. and ..." he trailed off, his eyes narrowing. "... i think you're an interesting person. clearly, we share the same passion."

oh, crap. why was he looking at you like that? why was it hot? you could feel yourself slowly losing your composure. why did your type have to be nerds?

"t-thanks. i think you're interesting, too." you blushed, smiling and feeling giddy.

"we should do this again, yes?"

"i would love to."

end (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

author's note:

expect more ford content from me (he's literally my pookie)

also if you give me feedback i love you

if you have any fic ideas, shoot me a request!

#gravity falls #stanford pines x reader #stanford pines x you #stanford pines #ford pines #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanfiction #fluff #he is literally my pookie wookie schmookie #avcdgrdn fic

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sonicfanthenightfury5099 · 1 year ago

Text

Surprising a Slasher with Soft Serve Ice Cream

I had some Soft Serve today, and I thought about how Horror boys would like Soft Serve, so I decided to write about it

Reader is GN

Characters: Michael Myers(OG, RZ, and Peepaw) Jason Voorhees, The Sinclairs, Thomas Hewitt, Bubba Saywer, Corey Cunningham, Brahms Heelshire, Hannibal Lecter (NBC), and John Kramer

CW: Cuteness Overload

Michael Myers

- Went on a Trip to the coast

- Michael was given a "No Killing During Vacation" rule (Michael must behave)

- You told him to wait at a table after eating

- Michael thinking about things to do when getting home

- "Surprise Honey." You said you have Sundae for Dessert

- Michael was definitely surprised

- You remember his favorite flavor, Cookies and Cream

- He definitely loved the surprises

Jason Voorhees

- A Beach trip

- Big guy definitely doesn't want to go swimming without a life jacket

- Walking on the Broad-walk you saw something

- You told him to wait at the spot you both stopped at

- He chilled at the spot while holding the plushie he won at a game

- You walked back with Ice Cream for the both of you.

- Cookie dough is his favorite

- A great treat for the heat

Michael Myers RZ

- A bit of a Trip to a big city with a mall

- No Kill rule is put in place

- Michael is behaving well during the trip

- At a Food court, you told him to wait at the table

- Michael wondered what your doing

- Is that Ice Cream you bringing to the table?

- "I asked for extra candy pieces for yours." You said as you sat down, handing the soft serve to him.

- "Thank you." He said, smiling

- Resse's pieces with cookie bits for your tall man

The Sinclairs

- The 4 of you decided to have a trip to a Mall a few hours away from Ambrose

- Definitely a new thing for Vincent and Lester to check out (Not new for Bo)

- You ask Lester to help you with something as the Twin sat at a table

- Bo tried to do his usual flirting with ladies passing by while Vincent was sketching in his little Sketchbook on the table

- Sweet Treat placed in front of both of them

- Soft Serve Sundaes

- Definitely a good treat

- Carmel on Vincent's while Bo's has mixed Berries and Lester having a simple vanilla cone

Thomas Hewitt

- A Trip to Houston just you and Tommy

- The Hot Texas heat is unbearable when entering the city

- You decide in something to help with the heat

- 2 Vanilla Cones, please

- Thomas loves the cold treat to beat the Texas Heat

Bubba Saywer

- Texas is Hot 24/7 in the Summer

- You decide to get something to beat the heat

- Ice and something Sweet

- Bubba Squealed when you showed him a Tub of Rocky Road Ice cream

- It's partly melted, but being creative. You mixed it with in the ice to make it like Soft Serve

- A Big cool down for the Summer heat

Peepaw Michael Myers

- A Road trip to the ocean

- Michael has never seen the Oceah in person (Figure you give him a chance before he get sick)

- He was Given the No Killing Rule (Insert Old Man Grunt)

- A Sight for the 61yo Michael to see the great Wide Blue Sea

- You told him to stay in the spot (he's not going to, his eyes are focused on the ocean)

- You came back with some Soft Serve for the both of you

- Enjoying ice cream and watching the waves

Corey Cunningham

- A well-deserved vacation out of Haddonfield

- You decide to surprise him when you get to your destination

- A Mall day

- You decide to get something for the both of them

- Surprise, I got you Ice cream my Dear

- Chocolate Soft Serve for Corey, his favorite

- Best Time Away from Haddonfield

Brahms Heelshire

- You decide to make something for Brahms

- Needing the ingredients to make

- Brahms wondered what your making

- Home-made Soft Serve Ice Cream

- Brahms never had Soft Serve before, so this is definitely a Treat for him to try

Hannibal Lecter

- You always told him that you love Soft Serve Ice Cream

- Him being a cook, he knows how to make something like that

- Hannibal Surprise you with homemade Vanilla Bean Ice cream

- It has the Soft Serve you love to have

John Kramer

Click here for Drawing

- Figured to cheer up him

- Going to his workplace with your surprise

- He definitely loved the surprise

- Strawberry sauce on Vanilla soft serve, you remembered so well

Click here for drawing

#michaelmyers #halloweenmovie #halloween1978 #jasonvoorhees #michael myers x reader #halloween #robzombieshalloween #hannibal #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #house of wax 2005 #john kramer #bubba sawyer #peepaw michael myers #thomashewitt #slashers x reader #slasher imagines #brahms heelshire

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diremoone · 2 years ago

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sweet dedication | g. satoru

a year after his fight with sukuna, satoru finally gets to enjoy his birthday in peace, with no one but his beloved wife.

w — fluff, post-canon, lots of food :3, i incorporated a doggo sue me, vv short but hopefully sweet 🥰

Happy Birthday, My Beloved Satoru ❤️❤️

[ line divider credit to @/saradika ]

The last thing Satoru expected to smell coming through the front door of his home was a mixture of cinnamon and cherries. He shrugged off the jacket from his shoulders and curiously stepped further into his home. Upon seeing the kitchen table and every counter, his eyes went wide and mouth fell open.

On the kitchen table was at least four boxes of pizza, chicken wings, fried chicken, and brisket. Towards the end of the table farther fell the front door were sides, like green bean casserole and corn. His mouth began to water, his inner food junkie rearing it’s hungry head.

Across the counters and clearly in the oven were desserts, desserts, and more desserts — apple and cherry pie, cheesecake, fruit kebabs, crepes, mochi, brownies, kikufuku from Sendai. Gosh, what was the occasion?

And then the man sees above the hallway entrance that leads to the other rooms: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Satoru gapes.

Was it really December 7th?

He checks his phone and his brows raise in surprise. How in the world did he forget?

But you didn’t. You would’ve been the only one available to have made such a feast for him (even if it was mostly sweets), since everyone else was out on missions, still trying to tidy up Japan after the Culling Games’ toll.

He feels his heart swell with love and happiness, happy that you’ve remembered a date that he’s thrown to the side for so many years. He’s happy that you’ve done so much here for him, a genuine showcase of how much you really loved him and knew him by cooking all of his favorites. This must’ve taken you hours and hours to do; this being a clear proclamation of how much you’ve dedicated yourself to him and to knowing him.

“Babe?” he calls out to open air. No response. He’s smart by checking the kitchen first; you’d never leave cooking food unattended.

Satoru’s mouth quirks up into a sweet smile at the sight of passed out, sitting on the kitchen floor with your inseparable corgi Maple snoozing away right next to you. Although he squints at the sight of your neck lolled to the side in the corner of the cabinets. That didn’t look comfortable at all.

He’s not sure if he should take you to bed or wake you up right now. After a moment, he decides the former. But as soon as you’re scooped up and secured against his broad chest, your eyes flutter open. Maple wakes up too, barking and wiggling her butt, happy to see her dad.

“Oh, my god. Satoru!”

He winks. “The one and only baby.”

Your brain has always been fast about remembering all of the events prior to any sort of sleep or nap you’ve had. This time was no different, and he chuckles when you begin to groan and complain about your surprise being ruined.

“God, I can’t believe I fell asleep! How does one even sleep on the kitchen floor. My ass hurts, Jesus,” you complain. You burrow your head into the crook of his neck in embarrassment as he carries you to the couch and sits down with you on his lap. Maple bounds up behind him and miraculously uses her little legs to hop up on the couch. Satoru chuckles and takes a moment to briefly give her belly rubs.

“Thank you for trying to make this day special for me,” your ‘Toru says. It’s sweet, the tone of his voice, filled with love and adoration. “Don’t feel bad. That looks like a lot of cooking you did, so it’s only natural you’d fall asleep at some point. So don’t beat yourself up over it, okay?”

You grumble but nod anyway. It was true. You’d been awake ever since he’d left earlier this morning, putting the pedal to the floor on your attempt to swamp the love of your life with all of his favorite foods made by hand.

“I love you, Satoru,” you mumble, still tired and sleepy from overextending yourself.

“I love you, too, baby.” His lips press a long kiss to the side of your temple. He pulls away to gaze down into your eyes, chuckles escaping him again at seeing the sleepy haze in them. “Thank you for trying to make my special day special.”

“But I still didn’t get to surprise you,” you complain.

“I wasn’t expecting it when I came home, especially now with everything going on. I think that’s a big enough surprise for me,” he argues. “So come on, cheer up! We have some delicious delicious food to eat made by my sweet, adorable, wonderful wifey-poo! Except the pizza of course!”

You deadpan. “Call me that again and I’ll smash the strawberry shortcake I made as your birthday cake in that expensive jacket you bought last week.”

Satoru gasps dramatically in horror.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

“Not if I eat it first!”

taglist:

@vagabond-umlaut @heresan @4sat0ruu and @/all my satoru lovers also i shouldn’t have taken that nap otherwise this taglist would be longer lmaoo

let’s raise a glass to this man who deserves the entire fucking world

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojou x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo fluff #jjk gojo #jjk fluff #Happy Birthday ‘Toru ❤️❤️

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ceo-of-sloppy-women · 7 months ago

Text

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her

chapter 6

Chapter 7

“Sevika, slow down!” you demand, your legs straining to keep up with her broad strides. She’s storming through the street towards the grocer, weaving through people and dragging you behind her.

She huffs, slowing her pace marginally, still practically stomping toward the grocer. You eye her with concern – she had been fine a moment ago when she found you, granted she had been grumpy then, too, but not this grumpy. If she notices the weird look you’re giving her, she doesn’t call you out – in fact, she doesn’t say anything at all. She just keeps on power-walking to the grocer, dragging you along behind her by a hand around your arm. If you were more fool-hearted, you would almost call her jealous. Not that you’d call her out on it; you’re fairly certain if you did, her anger would come to a head, and she’d tear a strip off you in public. Or make you sleep in the Last Drop.

You’re not quite sure which is worse.

There aren’t many people in the grocery store, which puts you at ease. The street is swarming with people, and the quiet relief of the store feels like an oasis in a desert. Taking your time, you pick out everything you can think of without Sevika’s help (the most input she gives is when you ask yes or no questions about her cooking implements). Various breakfast items, what you’ll need for dinners, and, of course, tonight’s dinner. You decided to cook with steak, baked potatoes, baked beans and roasted carrots. Much to your delight, the baked beans had been canned by a local resident! You were beginning to doubt if canned beans really lasted longer than nine years.

Sevika remains silent and stormy throughout the entire grocery trip. Even as you’re marvelling at various canned foods, jerky, farm-fresh raw meat and vegetables you thought you’d never see before. No matter how many potatoes you shove in her face, grinning from ear to ear, Sevika continues to grouch. At least she carries the shopping basket for you.

Then, you grab a jar of honey off the shelf… or at least try to. She snatches it out of your hand and places it back on the shelf.

“We have honey at home, darling,” she growls, glaring down at you.

“Oh, so she can speak!” you huff, not quite willing to cave and let her smooth the last twenty minutes over. She can’t just sulk in silence for as long as she wants and then tease you with the pet name Grayson used!

“Don’t need to waste my money on my own honey,” Sevika mutters, pushing you forward by nudging your back with the edge of the shopping basket.

You huff out a sigh and keep walking, picking up a few more things as you head to the till. Mostly, some spices and garlic to add a little flavour to tonight’s dinner. The silent treatment takes two, and if she wants to be a grouch, you can match her level.

The young woman working the till isn’t sure what to make of the two of you. She tries a friendly greeting, but when neither of you gives her a response more than a head nod, she fumbles, trying to make light conversation while awkwardly checking you out. When neither of you responds, she clams up and avoids making eye contact. The groceries are bagged and purchased in silence – a silence that follows you home.

Sevika puts away various groceries as you swipe back the ones you need for dinner. Her eyes sparkle at the steaks as if she’d expected you to keep them for another day or something foolish. Yet, when you don’t comment on her reaction, she storms off with a glass of whiskey as if she’d been waiting for you to bridge the gap. You, of all people! You weren’t the one throwing a hangry hissy-fit over nothing!

You place a chair in the entryway to the kitchen. It’s not much of a deterrent, but it gets your point across.

Luckily, cooking requires love and concentration. The Sevika’s grumpy attitude melts away from you like the butter in the carrot’s dish. Popping the window open, you let the chirping of birds and someone playing the guitar in the distance filter into the house. It lightens your mood considerably, giving you something to listen to instead of the tense silence of the house. Still playing the silent game, you resist the urge to hum along as you dance about the kitchen, grabbing spices, pots, pans and cooking utensils. A very generous spoonful of honey is added to the carrots and the baked beans, as well as the steak pan. Periodically, you hear banging as Sevika storms around the house restlessly. You shrug it off – if she really wanted back in the kitchen, she can come apologize.

It isn’t until you’re adding the steak to the pan, letting it devour the bubbling butter, salt, rosemary, honey and garlic, that you hear a cough at the entryway to the kitchen. You tilt your head slightly to find Sevika standing just behind the chair. She’s clutching her barely touched glass of whiskey to her chest, shoulders shrunk forward, head bowed, and wearing clean clothes. A button-up plaid shirt with red and black stripes, a white tank top, a purple carabiner and a pair of blue jeans with more than a few holes in them. She’s definitely playing dirty – the unbuttoned plaid shirt draws your attention to her white tank top tucked into her pants. The same white tank top that does nothing to hide the fact she’s not wearing a bra underneath it, her nipples pressing indents into the fabric. If she hadn’t pissed you off so thoroughly, you might have jumped her bones then and there, potential rejection be damned.

“Can I… come in?” she mumbles, as if it isn’t her kitchen, in her house, and you’re not cooking with food she bought with her money.

“Why should I let you?” you bristle, your defensive attitude from earlier rearing its ugly head. You refuse to let her win – even going so far as to purposely fix your glare on her face and nothing else.

“Because… I’m sorry,” she spits like the words taste foul on her tongue.

“For?” you push, minding the steaks so you don’t overcook them.

She sighs heavily, staring down at her drink and swirling it in her glass. There’s a long, silent moment filled only with the hiss of the steaks before she looks up at you, eyes wet around the edges and her lips pursed into a mournful frown.

“For giving you the silent treatment. I shouldn’t have done that – I know how you are with crowds and people and all that. I know better than that,” Sevika whispers, barely audible over the steaks as you flip them over. Your heart aches at her words despite your brain screaming at you to be upset with her. She’s extending an olive branch, are you really petty enough to cling to anger after an apology…?

You scrutinize her for a moment longer than you should, letting her squirm under your gaze until she ducks her head again. It satisfies the prickly thing in your chest that is still upset at her. Finally, you relent and ask: “How do you like your steak cooked?”

“Rare,” she grunts, moving the chair aside. When you make no move to stop her, she steps into the kitchen, sighing a little that she’d read between the lines correctly.

Her fingers cradle your hip as she looks over your shoulder, glass set off to the side. You can feel her press against your back, the lightest touch that consumes you like wildfire as she hums with approval.

“That looks perfect, sweetheart.”

“It better be, took me so long that it’s dark out now,” you say, nodding your head to the window where the stars are twinkling. “I’m sorry, Sev’, we might not be able to see your bees tonight.”

“Nah, I’ve got two headlamps, we’ll be alright. The bees won’t care much if we take a little peak at them when the sun’s not out… unless you’d prefer to wait until tomorrow? We could always go before my patrol – if you’re alright with getting up before my patrol, that is. It’s pretty early in the morning.”

“How about we smoke something tonight and see the bees tomorrow? I’ll have to get up with you anyway. Vander and Silco told me to partner up with you until my printing press is ready,” you inform her, plating the steaks. They don’t need that long, especially if Sevika wants hers rare.

You let the wording hang in the air, unintentional connotations lacing your poor choice of words.

“Printing press?” Sevika asks, skipping over the accidental bait entirely. You groan internally – she can press her boobs against the back of your neck, but she can’t take the hint that even your subconscious wants to eat her pussy?!

“I used to be an archivist before the apocalypse. I’m already trained in preserving old texts; it’s a fitting job to reprint old books and make new ones. Mostly survival guides and the like –“ you take the carrots out of the oven – “Grayson’s making me a printing press for free if I’ll reprint her romance novels.”

Sevika nearly chokes on the sip of the drink she had dared to take. “Yeah, uh, printing press is a good idea,” she chuckles awkwardly, face flushed red.

“I think so too – it will be nice to have something new to read! I miss books… though finding lesbian romance books was always way too difficult. The market was always oversaturated by straight romances, but finding a good lesbian one felt like a needle in a haystack,” you continue, plating the carrots, beans and baked potatoes.

“Right,” Sevika coughs, scratching the back of her neck. “Had better luck finding a book than a girlfriend, though. Lot of casual, not a lot of commitment back then.”

You nod your head in agreement as you pass her a plate. “Not like it’s much easier to find a girlfriend now,” you giggle, pilfering the silverware drawer for a spoon, fork and knife.

Sevika mumbles something too low to properly make out. You only catch ‘I’ and ‘change.’ The clatter of the silverware as she grabbed herself a set didn’t help either.

“What was that?” you ask innocently.

“Said we should eat outside, back porch’s got a table on it,” she says, face remaining impassive as she nods her head to the door.

“We’ve got to get you a dining table,” you sigh, shaking your head as you step outside.

“Didn’t need one before. Can’t cook,” Sevika grunts, following you outside.

You find an old table outside with a few chairs around it. They’re plastic lawn chairs – the kind that won’t break down for thousands of years. They look to have recently been hosed off, scrubbed down and “redecorated” with various spray-paint colours. You recognize Jinx’s handiwork from a mile away, giggling a little as you take a seat. At least the table is wooden, so it doesn’t buckle under your knife as you cut your steak. Far better than you would have fared trying to cut a steak on your lap in the living room.

Sevika sits down across from you, tucking into her steak. You don’t even notice you’re watching her with bated breath until she freezes, a spoonful of beans halfway to her mouth and furrows her brow at you.

“What? Something on my face?”

“Oh! Shit – sorry! It’s… been a while since I cooked for someone. I guess I wanted to make sure it didn’t taste like ass,” you confess, ducking your head a little to shove a carrot into your mouth. You have to bite your tongue to hold back a moan – your carrots really have been missing honey for the past few years.

Sevika is quiet for a moment, the only sound between the two of you is the clacking of silverware. You shove steak into your mouth to prevent yourself from devolving into a rambling mess of apologies pre-emptively in case she doesn’t like you’re cooking.

“Can you cook dinner every night?” Sevika practically moans, and you blink at her with wide eyes. “I, er, your cooking’s really good. Better than my shitty attempts. Way better. If you get your own place, I might just come over every night for dinner.”

“Well, Silco did say the printing shop will take priority over a house of my own… so I can cook dinner as long as you keep buying the groceries.”

“Careful making promises like that, or I might not let you leave,” Sevika jokes, chuckling to herself as she takes another bite of steak.

You try not to fixate on the fact she said, “if you get your own place,” or how she doesn’t even try to weasel her way out of sharing her house with you. You’re pretty sure if you do fixate on it, it will end with you stripping down to your birthday suit and crawling across the table… which would be super embarrassing and definitely get you kicked out of her house. In a desperate bid to distract your brain, you shove more steak and beans into your mouth, doing your damndest to focus on the taste of your delicious cooking and not the sight of Sevika’s nipples poking out from under her shirt.

Sevika does the dishes without even being asked. You try to help by drying them, but she shoes you away, instructing you to take a seat on the couch and relax. You find yourself fidgeting in your seat, wanting to do more. Dishes clatter in the sink as Sevika rinses them off, putting them away in their various homes. It comes to a head quickly – you bolt from your seat and dash upstairs. The least you can do is change out of your clothes into something more… comfortable (as a little payback for Sevika dressing down). You throw on a sundress that complements your skin and almost reaches your knees, paired with knee-high socks you usually wear under your long underwear in the colder months and a cute but nonchalant hairstyle that frames your face. Satisfied with your little ensemble, you head back downstairs and take a seat on the couch.

It's much easier to wait when you’re giddy with anticipation for when Sevika walks through the door rather than worrying if you should have insisted on helping. You fidget with the dress, adjusting it so that it rides up slightly on your thighs and that the sleeves hang off your shoulders. Maybe it’s a little much… maybe you’re still trying to get some payback after her silent treatment.

When Sevika finally does come to join you in the living room, she freezes in the doorway. For a long and tense moment, she doesn’t speak, and you’re worried you somehow crossed a line. Then her lips split in a smirk and she crosses over to behind the couch. The barest touch of her finger tilts your head back as she looms over you.

She opens her mouth to speak and then a nervous tremor passes through her. The smirk falters into a smile, and she asks: “Do you want to go out for a smoke? I’ve got some stronger stuff than you had last night.”

To say you’re disappointed would be an understatement. Yet, you try not to let her see it – the nervous tremor lingers in your mind, making your heart ache. If she feels more comfortable playing this game of cat and mouse, who are you to force her to move faster? Especially when the game is oh-so fun.

“Is that a promise? I haven’t been able to afford the stronger stuff in ages,” you giggle, resting your head against her inner arm as she continues to tilt your face back.

“’Course it is. Do you take me for a liar?” Sevika gruffs, and you giggle again, kissing her inner wrist gently before standing up. She swallows thickly, pulling her hand back to her side slowly.

“Well? What are you waiting for then?” you ask before flouncing your way to the back porch.

Sevika takes a minute before joining you, making you wait outside in the cool night air, watching the stars in civilization’s warm embrace. You get comfortable on the porch swing, letting it rock back and forth with a soft smile on your lips. The backdoor creeks open, and you barely lift your head as Sevika sits down next to you tentatively. Glancing to the side, you realize why; without thinking, you had only left enough space to your right, forcing her to sit with her most vulnerable side facing you. Her amputated arm doesn’t bother you at all. However, this is clearly bothering her. In an effort to reassure her, you squish closer, resting your head on her shoulder. She freezes for a moment, eyes flickering down to you with a pinched brow, dubbie held between her frozen fingers.

“You going to light that or what?” you grunt, hoping normalcy will smooth the tense moment over.

“Impatient, are we?” Sevika chuckles, placing the dubbie between her lips. The lighter flickers in the dark night, illuminating her face in a warm glow for the briefest moment.

She takes the first drag, blowing it out through her nose. You take it from her fingers as she passes it over to you, pulling a long drag that curls up into the sky upon your exhale. Sevika slowly starts to calm down, relaxing into the porch swing as you melt into her side. Eventually, her head slumps to the side and rests on top of yours as both your bodies become tingly and light. When the dubbie burns out, she squishes it into the ashtray and closes her eyes with a satisfied hum. You mimic her, swinging your legs over top of hers so you are partially sitting in her lap. She chuckles and rests her hand on your legs, thumb stroking your bare skin. Worming your arm along the back of the porch swing, you play with the hairs growing at the base of her skull, twisting them around your fingers.

The night chitters and stretches on, coyotes howling in the distance, horses braying in the stables, and crickets chirping. You sigh with relief, shutting your eyes and letting the safety of Zaun wrap around you. Sevika hums in agreement, kissing the top of your head absentmindedly. In your chest, your heart flutters at the gesture, wanting to push up and meld your lips against hers until your bodies become one. Instead, you remain cuddled up against her side, hand slowly snaking around her torso to hold her waist.

“Sevika,” you start, and she hums in acknowledgement. “I know this is a personal question – so you don’t have to answer if you don’t want. But… everyone keeps avoiding me about how you lost your arm –“ Sevika stiffens against you, her thumb ceasing – “You don’t owe me an explanation. Honestly, I won’t bring it up again if you don’t want me to. I’m here to listen if you do, though.”

“Jeez, you really know how to ruin a perfect high,” Sevika jokes, huffing out a forced chuckle.

“Sorry, you don’t –“

“Nah, it’s alright. Kinda one of those things I don’t like telling people, and I don’t like being asked, but you’re cute, so I’ll let you get away with it. So long as you promise not to tell Jinx.”

“Why?”

“Because she thinks I lost it in the explosion saving her and Vi’s asses, and that’s how she’s going to remember it until she’s old enough to not feel guilty about what actually happened. This is something her dads and Vi decided on – I’d tell the little shit if I didn’t think they were going to murder me for it,” Sevika explains soberly, squeezing your knee.

“I won’t tell her, I promise,” you murmur, continuing to play with the tiny strands of her hair.

“Good,” Sevika grunts, nodding her head. “I lost it back when the world went to shit. I was working at the bar when a few of the patrons turned into the gone. Back then, we didn’t know what an incubator or stumbler even was – people came in sick or ravenous all the time. They paid their tabs and tipped well, who were we to turn them away? But, then that ravenous hunger turned from any food to anything and all of a sudden, Silco was screaming because a patron just tried to eat his leg. Vander got his gun; I ran upstairs to get the kids. That message came through just moments after I’d gotten them from their beds. Powder saw it – er, Jinx used to go by Powder… it’s a long story – anyway, Powder saw the message and started freaking out. I was so focused on her breakdown that I didn’t notice Milo and Clagger were…” she trails of and reaches for another dubbie, her fingers shaking.

You help her light it, your heart aching in your chest. You hadn’t heard those names mentioned before. If this story is going where you think you aren’t sure, you want to know. The infection had two stages before it got bad: incubators and stumblers. Incubators are just sick – fighting off the infection but not yet succumbed. They can’t turn anyone. Stumblers are trapped in their own bodies, ravenous and eating anything (even garbage) with the exception of flesh. It wasn’t until they worsened into “the Gone” that they started eating flesh, with many widely speculating that the person they once were no longer existed.

After a beat, Sevika continues, passing you the dubbie: “Milo and Clagger had been sick for a while before then. We had thought they’d gotten better when their appetites returned. It wasn’t until… it wasn’t until I was up there, too distracted by comforting Powder, that one of them lunged at me, and I knew. Vi helped me fight them off, but I could see in her eyes that those were still her brothers – adopted be damned. We hadn’t even noticed that Powder had grabbed one of her experiments until she had lugged it at the ‘people’ attacking Vander downstairs. Then it all went to shit. I grabbed both of them, trying to shield them from the blast as the bar went up in flames. Vander and I barely got everyone out in a frenzy of adrenaline. Grayson showed up with a police van and shouted us to get in – we didn’t think twice; the bar was burning, and the world was ending. Thought it was a police evacuation at first, until she admitted she’d stolen the van to get people to safety when the police system crumbled. We drove all day and night to get out of that city, the car deathly silent until we were sure it was safe to breathe.”

Sevika’s voice starts to waver, and she breaks off, taking another heavy drag before continuing: “We stopped at an abandoned town for supplies. My arm was killing me, so I rolled up the sleeve and found a fucking bite mark sprouting purple veins. Silco caught me, and the two of us shared a horrified look – we used to watch old zombie movies together on the bar’s shitty little TV during slow days. He kept the kids distracted while Grayson and Vander cut my arm off. We didn’t want to worry them that I was going to turn and they were going to lose yet another family member. So, we told them my arm had been too damaged from the explosion to keep without putting me at risk. Over the years, Powder interpreted that as meaning she’d blown my arm off while saving everybody. We let her think that – it felt cruel to tell her that she’d gotten me infected. Especially when we caught it in time.”

“I’ve never heard of someone preventing infection through an amputation,” you mumble, unsure what to say to that. You know Sevika would not appreciate you saying, ‘I’m sorry that happened to you,’ but you didn’t want to seem like you were avoiding her story.

“Guess I’m just lucky,” Sevika shrugs, offering you the dubbie. You take it and inhale a small drag. “Thanks for listening, by the way. Not many people around I can tell that story to. Not many I want to tell. It feels good to tell someone who wasn’t there when it happened… I swear, sometimes Vander still looks at me as if I could have saved Milo and Clagger. It’s not as if I chose to leave them there! They were infected, and taking them with us would have meant endangering Jinx and Vi! It’s just…” she trails off with a frustrated sigh.

“You wish you could have done more for them? That you’d know before and helped them in some way?” you finish for her, passing her back the dubbie.

“Yeah. That.”

“I know how you feel… my parents were infected. They were – they would have had a better chance out here than me. Mom knew about plants, gardening and survival skills. Dad knew about building, camping and hunting. Some days, it feels like it should have been them instead of me. Some days, I wish I hadn’t circled back to their house and found them…”

Sevika squeezes your knee: “It isn’t either of our faults. Life just happens. Things go to shit and there’s not much we can do about it.”

“We can keep living, that’s a start,” you point out, resting your head on her shoulder again.

“Yeah… that’s all we can do,” Sevika murmurs, exhaling smoke. “You got enough ammunition for tomorrow’s patrol, or do we need to stop by the arms storage before heading out?”

You giggle at how she breaks the tension once more with a non sequitur. “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything I need for tomorrow. Thanks for checking.”

“Would be pretty fucked up if you got bit tomorrow after all that,” Sevika grunts with a light shrug.

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x oc #sevika #arcane #arcane fanfic #cw weed #fanfic: no grave...

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senka-mesecine · 1 month ago

Note

So there is a tradition in sweden that on midsummer, if you put 7 different flowers under your pillow you will dream of the person you will marry.So I wondered if you could write a reaction of the Platoon guys if she confessed that, that might have played a role in why she chose to marry them

(Also could you please add gator and Crawford🙏🏻)

Anyway happy midsummer❤️💐

---

― If you have 'peculiar' habits, hey ho, Chris Taylor has them too, in a way --- and while you were here collecting flowers under your pillow and calculating who you'll marry through the manifesting dreams that would come about from it all, Taylor, in the same vein, might've been personally and privately contemplating the same thing about you in the shape of journaling, memoirs and letter writing (suffice to say, his grandma was made aware of you long before you and him shared more than a decent word between each other) making you less dissimilar than you might've thought, albeit in a very roundabout away. In fact, Chris himself would've had confessions to make; sure; he might've written about you extensively, embroidering you in his figurative future in the literary sense before you ever became a thing or before you ever became properly acquainted. And yes, he might've hallucinated or had the odd vivid dream about you once or twice after a hitting the substance of a particular strong reefer, but suffice to say he bizarrely knew you'd play an important part in his life in a sense that mirrors your own certainties, almost like you two called out to each other through your own abstract invocations of each other.

― What? Are you a fucking hippie or something? You gonna start trying to sell him magic powder next? That's the first thing O'Neill might ask with a big, smarmy, chewy smile on his lips like he just verbally cornered you with a jab like no other. Yeah, you're one of those hippie-dippie flower children broads reading palms and beans or whatever and the streets everywhere from Saigon to San Francisco are full of people like you and sure, he might initially tease and mock your habits and tendencies because he is an asshole, but in the same vein O'Neill is no less willing to become a husband. In fact, it is hilarious how fast he graduates from being somewhat mean to you to being into the fact that you effectively picked him to be yours because some supernatural force told you to. Maybe it is the fact that there's something assertive about you singling him out and claiming him that does it for him, a natural suck up to authority that he is. Maybe he is something of a starved, beaten dog weirdly eager to be picked. Maybe it's a mix of both factors. In either case, the boys of Barnes's barracks might have to start listening to the Sergeant's occasional cryptic anecdotes about how some things are meant to be, uh-oh.

― It is hot that you dreamed you and him would be hitched and Bunny wonders what other witchy bullshit (as he gleefully refers to it) you get up to in your spare time. Could you, like, brew a potion to make sure someone's dick stands up for 48 hours straight or something? Cook up some natural Viagra? Wait, no, actually, scratch that! You ain't like the hophead assholes from Elias's camp, right? Or those gooks putting chemicals in the grass to mind control people? 'Cos he ain't want none of that. He doesn't want anyone tempering with the freedom and the agency of his brain matter. Anything sex, dick and pussy related? Sure thing. So, you wanna get together with him because some flowers told you. Fair game. Bunny strikes me as impulsively juvenile, to the degree that if he's in the right mindset in that one particular moment you confess to all of this, he might actually make it official with you the very same day. As in go and tie the knot, as I envision as one of those immature youths who would go as far as marry a virtual stranger if said virtual stranger strikes his fancy, making your flower divinations a self fulfilling prophecy of sorts. You tell Bunny something? It is likely to become a reality ought because that boy is unhinged.

― You're exactly the type of person (or rather Woman™) Rhah possibly keeps warning everyone about in his fevered ramblings; Shady, prone to dabbling in the strange and unusual, inherently untrustworthy and something worse than a day-to-day trickster Jezebel --- you're like the Queen of Sheba tempting Kings with her heathen, pagan ways. Reading flowers, huh? Bah! What's next!? Brewing love potions and entrapping these sad sacks of shit with your viles? See, when you tell him it is solely he who's showed up in your readings, Vermucci might just be repulsed, defensive and undeniably turned on, labored breathing, intensive staring and all, something he hides with a barrage of passive aggression and arguing. How you two end up in the sack soon afterwards is anyone's guess, including Rhah's own, but if anyone asks he is stand offish and openly grumpy, to once again conceal the fact he very much wanted it and is possibly pissed off at himself to accept it. How you two end up doing the unthinkable of becoming Mr. and Mrs. Vermucci is anyone's guess as well, but he might just be there wearing a vial of dried flowers around his neck, along with an assortment of other jewelry, he refuses to ever elaborate on.

― Lt. Wolfe thinks you're yanking his chain or that you're, in some shape way or form, making idle banter for idle banter's sake, meaning that your confession might just elicit a reaction out of him not unlike an awkward snort or a small, tense chuckle; see, the man's not the most popular or well liked person within his infantry despite having an undeniably high rank, so to be hit with such a nuclear bomb of a statement like 'I divinated and dreamed you'll marry me' inherently sounds like a joke to Mark's ears. Furthermore, like a joke at his particular expense --- something he is used to be now, stemming from the odd bit of mockery or taunting he has the tendency to professionally brush off, pretending he isn't bothered. But, the fact that you're dead serious, well, it might just intimidate him a bit. Frighten him. Put him on edge because the notion he's desired to that degree is, undeniably, a bit crazy. Realistically, he could very well just avoid the topic for quite a while and avoid you too, if he can, outside the scope of duty, or act a bit more mean and macho in front of you to hopefully drive you away, but in the same vein, try and impression upon you. Truth is, Wolfe doesn't know how to act. He is entirely discombobulated.

― It's the 60's, so our boy King must've heard of chicks getting up to strange things to pass the time. Shoot, they don't shave they armpits nowadays. Or they's legs, and King doesn't mind that one bit either. In fact, their midriffs are often bare with belly button rings dangling back and worth when they bounce up on that thing with their big, sprayed up hair bouncing right along with them, and that's fine by him as well. It's all gravy. Fact he is, he is pleasantly amenable and accepting towards a great many things. How's he gonna judge a woman bein' a woman and doin' woman things? Fact he is, he can't. No more than he can judge a parrot up in that tree for having colorful feathers. So, you dreamed that he'd be your man, huh? That's cool, that's cool. King just might shoot you the widest, brightest smile when you tell him and say that you're crazy with the sweetest, most affectionate, teasing tone possible because hey, it is a little crazy, no denying that, but he likes that, and yeah, he's seen some bullshit in his time. Some pretty dark, ratchet shit. Some pretty evil stuff. So, someone believing in love? He can't mind that all that much in the grand scale of things.

― Elias is likely to believe in soul mates, soul bonds, reincarnation, twin flames, visions as premonitions, the red string of fate and some people simply being, you know, for lack of a better descriptor, meant for each other. And when he says 'meant' that doesn't always have to be in the romantic, amorous connotation either. Some people are meant to be rivals. Some are meant to be friends, situationally or otherwise. Meant to do right by each other in certain intervals of their lives and never meet again, some are bound to merely temporarily help one another, some are meant to be foils to overcome, some are meant to kill the other. And yes, some are fated to be together and love each other, in this life and all the lives that came before and after, so when you tell him that you dreamed you and him would be important to each other in that capacity, Elias could, initially, anyhow, smile and accept that, somewhat playing into his enlightened, easygoing persona...then getting strangely contemplative and melancholic in the days and weeks to come, feeling there is no life to be had between you and him because your parts connected too late in his own journey and possibly too soon in your own. He almost grieves for you, correctly assessing, that once he dies, all he'll leave you with is sadness.

― Barnes comes from a backwards, isolated part of Appalachia, in the Deep South, so there is no doubt in mind he's heard his share of superstition, make belief and old wives kitchen tales --- the horned one roamin' the mountains in the night stealin' hikers off their trail --- but where he is personally concerned he almost strikes me as coldly logical and grounded. Fiercely realistic and proud of it. Sure. Go ahead. Believe in your flowers and the toothfairy leavin' the name of your man underneath your pillow no differently from them zipperhead villagers and their village elders --- much like weed for the hopheads or liquor for the men of his barracks, everyone needs a coping mechanism to get them through hell, regardless how much he scoffs and disagrees with said method of copin'. That is not to say he isn't intrigued, even though he makes no outright effort to show it, seeing your confession as you directly coming unto him. Givin' him signals that you want a man and that you're husband huntin' for yourself, specifically husband huntin' him, something he might initially try and talk you out of, as he views it, for you own good. That is not to say he wouldn't do right by your proposal, oddly practical and cooly strategic as he might be, man just might walk your ass to a marriage notary and actually do it. Be careful what you go 'round wishin' for.

Bonus:

― Crawford's a Californian, hailing from the West Coast's epicenter of all things subculture, and yes, you guessed it, all things hippie. Rockers, surfers, cultists, starlets, wannabe actors, failed screenwriters, drifters, beachgoers, seashell collectors, homeless folk, party animals, weed dealers, girls looking to be invited to sail in someone's boat or yacht; kid has probably, at least by osmosis, been exposed to it all, more or less --- so someone reading the language of flowers and practicing divination, well, all things considered, might not be too unusual for him, especially considering the diverse and subversive-to-norms company he keeps down in the Underworld in the form of the likes of Elias, Rhah, Chris, King and so on. In layman terns, Crawford thinks it's amazing and it is a safe transition to a friendship, to a crush, to you two going steady. Now, it is admittedly somewhat debatable how deeply he actually believes what you believe seeing as how he is by no means as innately spiritual as, someone like, say, Elias might be, but Crawford regaling everyone with a story how his now fiancé predicted him and her would get together as a cute anecdote is a teller how self fulfilling this all came out to be.

― We don't know that much about Gator Lerner, admittedly, but from what we do know, from reading between the lines, we can somewhat conclude that his reaction is anything from a mixture of boyish surprise, him being fairly nice and even flirty when it comes to your confession, and then, for a while anyway, not thinking you're exactly right in the head even while being responsive to your come-on towards him. Like, there's a lot of people here that ain't right in the head in their own particular way, so why should you be any different, admittedly, endearing as you are? Barnes, after all, has a plate in his skull. Maybe you yourself are one of those crazy chicks Rhah's always on about or the type of woman they say ruined Elias's life, namely, his ex wife. See, Gator likes you. He likes you by virtue of being young and his emotional baggage not dragging him down in the way it might the older, more jaded Lifers within the platoon and once you tell him the flowers told you you and him are going to get hitched the other people within the infantry might see you two somewhere in some military place, giggling away together, sitting on a fallen log, hip to hip, like a pair of lovebirds. Seems like the flowers weren't wrong after all.

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themeraldee · 10 months ago

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I was thinking about how what Homelander clearly considers part of Madelyn's betrayal, alongside the lying about him having a son, was her being afraid of him. And that fear being why she appeased him the way she did, *just like everyone else does*, when he'd hoped she was different. That she actually cared. But no, like everyone else who actually SEES him, she was scared of him. This made me think, what if he figured the only way a person could truly love him on a personal level would be if they'd had no exposure to who he is. Someone who doesn't know about the violence, who he can just be the charming hero in the sunlight for (I guess this would be pre his S3 revelation that certain people still like him even when he kills in broad daylight lol). Or so he hopes. He is desperate to please, after all. So then I thought, what if he somehow cultivated a relationship like this, away from Vought, and then this person was presented with the dark truth about him. Maybe from someone aligned with Butcher, maybe just accidentally, but for the first time he sees that familiar fear flickering in them too. This person who was supposed to be uncorrupted. Who was supposed to love him. Who he'd been so good for. I can see multiple endings to that scenario, some much darker than others. I guess a lot would depend on how this person reacted, if they could still accept him, how deep that fear goes. Anyway sorry for the very long ask! No pressure to do anything with this, I just wanted someone equally obsessed with this hot mess of a man to bounce it off of.

anon I AM OBSESSEDDDDDD. I feel a series brewing.... I honestly ADORE this idea. I love how heartbreaking it was to him that even though Madelyn has known him for so long and has been a part of like everything he's ever done she was still scared of him. How crushing must that feel that the person who's been by your side and at your beck and call for decades is afraid of you???

Him whisking you away to live this peaceful apple pie life with America's true hero you can't believe just happened to fall for you just to have the curtain pulled right in front of your eyes.

afagfhjdfadjlhf

I'm such a sucker for giving Homie all he wants and needs so like I totally want reader to go low-key darkside. Like. You realise noone will ever love you the way he does. Isn't a little grey morality worth this all-consuming eternal love you'd otherwise never feel again. Forever chasing this feeling the rest of your life.

After he finds out that someone spilled the beans to you he comes home crushed. You're nowhere to be seen. Again, another attempt at love ruined. Does he not deserve to have that? He undresses leaving his bloodied suit (after whatever carnage he came back from) in pieces on the floor frustrated, not bothering to clean up before you come home.

Except he wakes up to you being there in the morning cooking breakfast for him. You greet him with a, "good morning. I did my best to wash your suit. I didn't wanna ruin the fabric and throw it in the wash so I hope that's good enough. I really need you to find out for me how they usually wash it for you." You're being so nonchalant, talking about his bloody, viscera covered suit that you painstakingly scrubbed in the morning right as you're making some eggs and bacon for breakfast.

And he's kinda just staring at you shocked, waiting for you to meet his gaze. And when instead of fear he sees love and acceptance it's like his heart could burst from the relief.

ORRR it could go dark and sad - which I won't get into buutttt much to ponder.

#i totally have 0 capacity to start something new BUT I WANTTTTT #I NEEEEEEEEEED #ugh #can't I have infinite time to write??#thank u for this anon #this fed my brain worms very well #homelander x reader #asks #fic inspo

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mari-positas · 10 months ago

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wip wednesday

tysm for the tags loves! @alltheirdamn @sawymredfox @milla-frenchy @almostfoxglove @penvisions @cavillscurls @arcanefox207 @strang3lov3 @evolnoomym @mermaidgirl30 <33

i said i wasn't going to participate, but i sorta have something to share? it is a super lengthy jackson! joel one shot i thought of last year that i want to write for the holidays. it is not holiday themed per say, but does take place during fall and winter seasons and if i do write it, it will be shared in december. most of it will remain top secret for now. okay i'll stop babbling and share a snippet.

You shouldn’t be alone, Maria had told you. Not at a time like this. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps you shouldn’t be alone. Not when the grief is so heavy. Too heavy. But being surrounded by people who felt sorry for you—that’s not what you need, either. You could hardly stand the way the entire town looked at you during the service, the pity in everyone’s eyes as they each came up to you, one by one, to express their condolences with tired clichés accompanied by unwanted hugs and pathetic pats on your shoulder. Poor girl lost her momma, and now her daddy, too. She’s all alone. There’s a loud knock at the door and it startles you out of your thoughts. Wiping at your damp, swollen eyes with the back of your hand, you bite back a sigh and stand up from the couch, hoping it’s not another member of the community showing up with another home-cooked meal for you. You had a refrigerator crammed full of food, most of it which you know will go bad—even when you do eventually get your appetite back, one human being can only eat so much damn green bean casserole. When you pull open the door, you’re already prepared to thank whoever is standing there on your porch with a sympathetic smile on their face, a dish of something or other—green bean casserole, you’re willing to bet—in their hands. Instead, you’re taken by complete surprise when you see the older man you’re all too familiar with standing there, his broad, hulking frame nearly taking up the entire doorway. “Joel?” “Hey, darlin’,” he says softly, his hands tucked in the pockets of his brown jacket. No casserole to offer—thank god. “What are you doing here?” you question, as if isn’t obvious. “Came over to check on you.” Joel clears his throat. “I, uh—I didn’t get the chance to talk to you after the service with all those people goin’ up to you.” He can barely look at you, and you know why. He feels guilty. After all, he’d been the last person to see your father alive. Joel had been with him when he took his last breath—showed up at your front door in the middle of the night, shirt covered in his blood to deliver the news to you. His only child, his young daughter who had nobody left. He shuffles apprehensively from boot to boot. “Y’okay?” “No,” you answer, simply. “Are you?” Joel exhales a shaky breath, responds with a barely audible, “No.” You step aside and gesture for him to come inside. “Well then,” you say, swallowing the thick lump climbing its way up your throat. “How about you come in? I’ll make a pot of coffee and we can be not okay together?”

tagging anyone who wants to participate! and please tag me so i can read about your wips!

#wip wednesday #IF this is written #we are looking at well over 10k #lmao we shall see

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lowspoonsgourmet · 9 months ago

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The easiest best two to three days of food for one person I know of. A flexible modular recipe. This is going to sound high work at times due to how broadly I am writing this, it is not as bad as the vagueness and intentional broadness makes it sound signed a person who has frequently accidentally had sleep for dinner after being unable to make it too damn much.

Rice cooker needed.

Ingredients:

Rice (any), lentils or beans optional (one or two cans), frozen vegetable mix (any and in as much quantity as you want, I like potato, carrot, peas, and corn you like what you like)

Sauces (teriyaki sauce and kewpie mayonnaise is what I swear by because of how easy they are to manage and pour and how well they compliment the food and each other but use whatever you own and can stomach or nothing at all, extra points for one having some fat), seasonings (curry powder and salt is my standard, really the salt is enough) Oil

Additional protein (tuna, cheese, ham, chicken tendies, shredded chicken, tofu, more beans, egg, mushroom, setian, nutritional yeast, you do you, two seperate sources for the different days useful)

In to the rice cooker, put two cups rice with water in proportion, one or two cans lentils or beans if using (strain and quickly rinse them if you can, if not just pour out as much of the liquid as possible and dump), and a lot of frozen vegetable mix in whatever variety you have on hand/like. It's going to look like a lot. That's because it is. This is good. Add more vegetables. Two cups of rice makes more than you think so it's very hard to add too many vegetables to this if you're at least neutral on vegetables. Let the rice cooker cook. It's going to take a while so do whatever.

This is now a mostly complete meal if you add fat and salt, so the teriyaki and kewpie in my version. The additional protein will make it more filling and better in general, so adding a low effort one

Turn off the keep warm on the rice cooker and dump out the leftovers on a plate or something. Or not and just put the whole pot away. Leave in fridge overnight.

If you're ambitious/need variety reheat by frying with a different seasoning and secondary protein source #2 for best results. It's all already cooked so you just need to add the extras and to have it be warm. If you want to then use the fried rice in multiple meals, it reheats in the microwave better than the unfried. If you're not, reheat in the microwave with extras and enjoy that yesterday you making food for today you really helped out today you.

This provides two days of main meal food that are both very presentable and flavoursome, and are sufficiently different to each other it takes a long time to get sick of/makes it easier to feel like you're "doing well". I have had friends compliment me on how nice I am eating despite being in states that would usually leave me struggling to make myself food that mildly disgusts or concerns them. It dirties the rice cooker bowl and paddle, one eating bowl and utensils, one plate (optional), and a frying pan (optional). Most of those I just rinse out or soak not wash properly tbh, it's not like it has cheese to scrub off if you don't use it. This whole process takes about five minutes of active prep and clean up both days. The worst pitfalls I have found with it are getting too ambitious on the secondary protein for day 1 and eventually just having nothing, which I fixed for me by switching to canned tuna or shredded chicken, forgetting or otherwise failing to empty or turn off the heating of the rice cooker, and getting overwhelmed having to use the stove at all day 2 and avoiding the nice but optional upgrade.

I hope this is helpful for someone out there, I know how often most of these from around the place sound "oh my god you think that's simple??" But, and I say this as one of you, the backbone of this is having the machine that boils carbs boil a bunch of carbs for you and cramming as much of a "complete" or "fancy" meal's prep in to that process as possible then finishing with stuff you just pour, drop, or slice in.

Sounds helpful

#low spoons cooking #rice

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strangesthirdeye · 1 month ago

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CHAPTHER 9 : Echoes of a Name Unspoken

The Cipher Between Us

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first light of dawn stretched across the clearing, soft and golden, brushing against the treetops and bleeding into the canvas of tents like a warm sigh. The fire from the night before had burned down to embers, still glowing faintly beneath the ashes. Smoke curled lazily into the cool morning air, mixing with the scent of damp earth, coffee, and old leather.

Some of the gang had already started to stir.

Pearson, grumbling under his breath, stood near the campfire with a steaming tin pot in his hand, muttering about breakfast and how nobody helped him with the chores. The clang of metal on the cooking pan echoed as he stirred the beans.

The clatter of hooves came from the edge of camp - someone leading their horse back from an early ride. That might've been Charles, silent as usual, brushing down the animal with slow, practiced hands.

Tilly and Mary-Beth sat on a log nearby, blankets still wrapped around their shoulders, sharing a quiet conversation as they watched the sun peek through the pines. Karen, hair still wild from sleep, lit a cigarette and stretched like a cat, yawning audibly.

Miss Grimshaw was already barking orders with a coffee cup in hand, trying to get the girls to start on the laundry. Her sharp voice carried across the camp like a whip crack, cutting through the calm.

Somewhere to the side, Jack Marston giggled - Abigail chasing after him with a half-buttoned coat and a wooden spoon in hand. John, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, looked on with a scowl and a cigarette hanging from his lips.

And then, Arthur emerged from his tent. Silent, broad-shouldered, shadowed by thought. He scratched his beard, grabbed his journal from the table, and found a quiet place to sit. The smell of brewing coffee lured him in the direction of the pot Pearson had cursed over.

Dhani was already up, as usual. She crouched near her tent, wiping down her revolvers with a worn rag, fingers moving with quiet precision. She always started the morning by cleaning her gear - she said it gave her head a kind of clarity, like sweeping the dust from her thoughts before the day began. Her twin brother, Arthur, was often up early too, but today Dhani had beaten him to it.

The air was filled with little sounds - boots on dry grass, the crackle of the fire, the low hum of waking life. It was slow, familiar, and for a brief moment, the world outside the camp didn't exist.

A few steps away, you sat on an overturned crate with a small, dog-eared notebook in your lap, the pages full of spidery handwriting and diagrams. You had a pencil tucked behind one ear, and another in yours and as you scribbled something quickly - maybe a theory, a name, a memory. Your brows furrowed in thought, lips pursed as if the answer to a riddle danced just out of reach.

"Up early again?" Dhani asked, her tone casual but kind.

You didn't look up at first, still focused on what you were writing. "Couldn't sleep. Too much in my head," you murmured, flipping a page. Sherrinford's name appeared written on the book.

Dhani smiled faintly and leaned back, stretching her arms until her joints popped. "You and me both."

You both shared the quiet. No need to fill it. Two women, hardened by their own kinds of battles, existing in the same moment of peace before the chaos of outlaw life resumed.

Then, Dhani broke the silence again - softly, like one friend to another.

"You figure out anything new? About your brother?"

You hesitated before nodding. "Maybe. I'm not sure yet. But something about the way the law keeps brushing me off - it doesn't sit right. I just... feel it."

Dhani nodded, not pressing. "Well. If you need a second set of eyes, you know where to find me."

You finally looked at her then, and a grateful smile touched your lips. "Thank you."

Just beyond them, the clatter of a coffee pot starting to boil broke the stillness. The camp was waking up. But for now, in the early hush, two women sat with their thoughts and the soft rhythm of survival.

The faint clang of Pearson's ladle hitting the coffee pot had just broken the early calm when Dutch Van der Linde came striding through the camp. His coat flared slightly behind him, boots thudding with purpose across the dirt. His eyes scanned the clearing until they landed on Dhani Morgan, still seated near the tent, oiling the last of her pistols.

She looked up the moment she felt his presence, her instincts razor-sharp.

"Morning, Dutch," she greeted carefully, sensing something in his stride. Something off.

"Dhani," his voice rang clear across the space. Not too loud, but just enough to cut through all the ambient life of camp like a blade through canvas.

She turned, brow arched. "What now?"

Dutch approached with his usual calm swagger, hands folded behind his back, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. "Did Micah say anything?"

Dhani sighed. "he said he wants to give you a peace offering because he has been naughty" Dhani murmured.

Dutch frowned. "where is he?"

"His camp near Strawberry"

Dutch nodded. "I need you and Arthur to go get him."

Dhani paused, the strap she was buckling pulled taut between her fingers. "What the hell for?"

Dutch offered her a smile - not warm, not cold. Convincing. "He's one of us. We leave no man behind, remember?"

Dhani let out a breath through her nose, straightening fully. "He's a loose cannon, Dutch. A liability. Hell, last time I rode with him, he tried to shoot an unarmed man for looking at him. That was before he ended up in a cell. Why're we risking our necks for him?"

Dutch's eyes glinted. "Because he's loyal."

She scoffed. "Loyal? Micah is loyal to chaos. Not the gang. Not you. Just blood and fire and whatever helps him survive the longest. Hell, he's just been with us for six months"

"He's dangerous, sure. But useful," Dutch said, voice low now, leaning closer. "You know as well as I do - it's men like Micah who do what others won't. And we need that edge."

Dhani stared at him for a beat, her jaw tight. "You're dragging Arthur into this too?"

Dutch nodded. "He'll listen to you. He's rattled, sure, but you're the only one who can keep him steady. And you're sharp, Dhani. I need someone sharp watching Micah's back - and ours."

"Or you just need someone to clean up the mess when Micah starts it," she snapped, folding her arms.

Dutch's jaw twitched. "This gang needs strength. Micah's got it. He's a snake, maybe - but he's our snake."

"Until he bites us," Dhani muttered.

Dutch exhaled, straightening his shoulders. "I trust you, Dhani. This isn't up for debate."

That silenced her. Only for a moment. She could feel your quiet gaze nearby, and Arthur's shadow just beyond the tree where he was sitting, his gaze seemed to know what was happening.

Finally, Dhani nodded - once, sharply. "Fine. But when he burns this place down from the inside out, don't you dare pretend you didn't light the match."

Dutch smiled, like a man who had already decided the ending. "I trust you will tell this to Arthur."

Dhani nodded slowly. "yes" she muttered before getting up. She looked at you for the last time before going to Arthur.

You stared at her for a while. Dutch glanced at you.

"I must say, Miss Holmes. I heard you and Arthur managed to steal that wagon without a scratch on you." His grin widened, eyes sharp like a hawk sizing a kill. "That's quite the feat, Miss Holmes. First real outlaw work, and already making the rest of us look bad."

You looked at Dutch, looking right through his eyes. Eyes become cold. "I just observed the guards' patterns," You replied flatly. "The patrol wasn't random - it was methodical. That made it easy to predict when the wagon would be least watched."

Dutch gave a hearty chuckle. "And that is exactly what I've been telling Hosea, Dhani and Arthur. You've got the kind of mind that turns chaos into strategy. Hell, you saw a pattern in the smoke and turned it into gold." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "That kind of brilliance - it's rare in this line of work. Most of us go in guns blazing. You? You go in thinking two steps ahead."

You glanced down for a second, uncomfortable at the praise. "I just didn't want anyone getting hurt. That's all."

Dutch's tone softened, although the calculating look in his eyes remained. "That's noble. But understand, my dear... nobility and survival don't always walk hand in hand. You're clever, and you're useful. Which means you're part of this now - really part of it."

You tilted your head. "So it wasn't just about trust, then? Bringing me in?"

Dutch smiled like a cat. "Trust is earned. But contribution? That cements you." He took a step back and gave you a small, almost performative nod of approval. "You're earning your keep. That's all I ever ask."

As Dutch turned to walk back towards his tent, Hosea caught the tail end of the conversation from across the way. His expression was unreadable, but he slowly rose from his chair and made his way over.

"Are you okay?" Hosea asked gently.

You nodded slowly, eyes still on Dutch's retreating figure. "I don't know. But I think I just passed a test I didn't know I was taking."

Hosea sighed, offering you a small, understanding smile. "With Dutch? You're always taking a test."

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The sun was burning high in the sky by the time Dhani and Arthur reached the ridge overlooking the small, rocky bluff. Below them, perched lazily beside a dying fire, was a familiar figure. Micah Bell, legs kicked out, hat tilted low, a cigarette burning between his fingers like he had all the time in the world.

Arthur scoffed. "There's the sonuvabitch."

Dhani's jaw was tight. Her hand hovered just a little too close to the butt of her revolver.

"I still don't get why we're doing this," she muttered.

"You think I do?" Arthur replied, sliding off his horse. "Dutch said go, so here we are."

"Dutch needs to stop thinking loyalty means dragging rabid dogs back to camp," she muttered under her breath.

They rode down the slope slowly, cautiously. As they approached, Micah grinned like he hadn't just nearly been hanged or left behind.

"Well, well, well... Ain't this a sight." He stood, arms open like he was expecting a hug. "Arthur Morgan and Miss Morgan herself - come to rescue poor ol' me?"

"No one's here to rescue you," Dhani snapped, dismounting. "We're here 'cause Dutch made it an order."

Micah chuckled. "Still full of fire, huh? Dutch knows what's best. That's why he's the one in charge."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Let's just get to it. You said you had a tip."

Micah laughed. "I got a plan to make it up to you."

"I don't even know what that means." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"I thought you were a tough boy... not one of those gentlemen... trying to protect his riding clothes." Micah sneered.

"I just know whenever things get real... you turn yellow, and lose your head. Sure seems that way." Arthur snapped.

"can we just... go back to your grand plan, Micah" Dhani cut off the verbal fight between the two men.

Micah chuckled. "straight to business. I like you, Miss Morgan." Micah took a breath and exhaled. "I guess you won't be riding with me to rob the banking coach... comes about this time into Strawberry? I heard one of the O'Driscoll boys... I heard one of the Driscoll boys yapping about it while I was inside."

Arthur's ears perked up at this. "come again?"

Micah chuckled. "you heard me, Morgan. You, me and the lady rob a coach"

"will it be ugly after that?" Dhani sharpened her gaze at Micah.

Micah shrugged. "we'll see" he said as he mounted his horse. "Come on, you two. We'd better not waste our time, wouldn't we?

Arthur and Dhani exchanged looks at each other before Arthur mounted his horse and Dhani mounted hers.

"There's a spot up this way with a good view of the trail." Micah pointed out.

The three of them lay low along the trail.

"What are you doing anyway, camping out here like some crazy hermit?" Arthur questioned.

"Can't exactly stay in town now, can I? And like I told you, I ain't going back to Dutch without a peace offering." Micah replied, simply.

"So what's the deal with this coach?" Dhani asked.

"What do you mean? Comes through about this time every day, like I said. The end." Micah replied.

"I mean... how many men? Guns? Riders?" Dhani added, questioningly.

"Nothing serious. It'll be fine." Micah replied, reassuring. Although it doesn't sound reassuring.

Arthur gently kicked his horse's side to increase speed. Now he is next to Micah. "I heard the banks have been hiring every trigger man they can get of late. The meaner the better."

Micah glanced at Arthur briefly. "You worry too much."

Arthur studied Micah's face for a moment. He then scoffed. "Forgive me if I ain't wholly faithful in something an O'Driscoll told you, when you were half-drunk in a jail cell."

"He kept yapping about it, saying how they've been hitting it on the regular. That's a good lead in my book." Micah replied, hands tightly gripping the reins.

"Damn O'Driscolls are everywhere now." Arthur muttered.

Dhani increased the speed of her horse just to ride next to Arthur. "Heard that, mostly they're in Valentine. Remember when you helped me settle the O'Driscolls at the doctor's office last time? yeah, everywhere"

"Bastards got a hold of most of Big Valley. Heard they took over some big ranch, north of here." Micah interjected.

"How the hell did you and Lenny end up down here anyway?" Arthur glanced at Micah curiously.

"You know how it is. A few loose ends, drink here, drink there." Micah said with sarcasm.

"What loose ends?" Dhani butted in.

"Nothing that needs to concern you. I always pay my share." Micah spoke with lazy confidence.

"It concerns me, when you put us in danger and we don't realize until it's too late. Like that move you pulled in Strawberry, making us kill half the town just for your precious guns." Arthur said through gritted teeth.

"Precious, they are... you need to roll a little looser, Morgans." Micah mocked.

Dhani scoffed. "Looser? I've seen you come full undone more than once now. And you've only been running with us a few months. Not to mention, what you bring is mostly troubles"

"Are we gonna rob this coach or bicker about it? What's done is done." Micah tried to change the topic.

"This doesn't end here" Dhani said.

"let's just get this done now" Micah said before he stopped, making the twins stop as well. "Alright, this is the spot. Hold up on this ridge." he looked at his watch. "They should be here, in a little bit. Hold tight."

"Which way will they be coming in?" Arthur inquired.

"Should be from over there. We'll need to hit them fast, before they get into town." Micah pointed out where the banking coach should come.

"Just don't lose your head this time." Arthur warned.

"Course, tough guy." Micah grinned. "They should be here any minute."

Moments later, a horse-drawn wagon with horse guards rides out of the woods. The banking coach rolled in. Arthur adjusted his bandana. Dhani loaded her repeater and eyed the treeline. Micah had two pistols and a smile that didn't belong to a man under orders.

"Look, there they are... right on time. Get covered up." Micah flicked the reins and started moving. "Come on... ride!" Micah laughed as he quickly descended the cliff.

Arthur and Dhani without wasting time sped up behind Micah.

The horses screamed, the driver shouted - Dhani took a clean shot and hit the lead horse's bridle strap, snapping it. The coach lurched. Micah whooped and fired wildly, dropping one guard before Arthur could shout for restraint.

"Goddammit, Micah!" Arthur cursed, as he shot several guards.

The coach did not stop. Micah laughed wildly.

"Stop that coach right now! It's just the driver left! Come on! So you wanna do this the hard way, do ya? See, I told you this'd be fun, Morgans!" Micah yelled.

"Is this fun for you?" Arthur yelled back as he shot at the upcoming guards who came from nowhere.

"Let's show these bastards! They ain't stopping! We need to take out the driver!" Micah said.

Arthur chased the coach, Hands took aim at the driver before he shot clean to the driver's head. The driver slumped forward and fell to the side. The coach started to slow down and then stopped completely. Arthur stopped behind the coach.

Instantly, Dhani and Micah stopped next to Arthur. Micah dismounted his horse and walked over the coach driver's seat.

"Hurry, get on. I'll drive. No need to keep your face covered now. It's just you and me, sweethearts. I'll give it to them, they put up half a fight at least." Micah holds the reins.

Arthur looked at Dhani. "you watch our back, okay?"

Dhani nodded before reloading her repeater. She then held the reins tightly.

Arthur climbed into the driver's seat - sitting next to Micah.

"Baylock! Come on boy." he called his beloved horse then his eyes catching the side of the driver's rifle. "Lookie here, a fine new rifle too. Here you go Arthur, from me to you. That's more your style than mine." he gave Arthur the rifle." What did I tell ya? Like licking butter off a knife." he added.

"Something like that." Arthur murmured - he gestured to the back where the valuables were kept." You don't want to just break it open here, be done with it?"

"Could be more than we can carry. And... there might be a second crew of riders tailing." Micah responded as he flicked the reins.

"Hell of a haul," he continued, leaning back with an arm over the backrest, grinning ear to ear. "Dutch is gonna have a damn parade for us."

Arthur didn't look at him. "This wasn't your parade, Micah. This was a job. And you were damn close to screwin' it with that stunt."

Micah shrugged. "C'mon, Morgan. A little blood keeps 'em afraid. Keeps 'em in line. You know how this works."

"I know how Dutch works," Arthur snapped. "And Dutch didn't say kill unless you had to."

Behind them, Dhani muttered under her breath, "You didn't have to. That guard was goin' for his rifle slow as molasses."

Micah's smile faded just slightly. "Funny. I don't recall you being in charge."

"No. But I remember being the one who pulled your ass outta that Strawberry jail. Don't tempt me to regret it."

The road narrowed as the hills rolled past, pine needles brushing the wagon wheels and the hush of the forest swallowing their words for a beat.

Arthur sighed and shifted in his seat. "This wasn't a clean job. Not like it should've been."

Micah gave a humorless chuckle. "Ain't nothin' clean in our line of work."

"Maybe not," Arthur grunted, "but it don't gotta be dirty for the sake of it."

They rode on in heavy silence, save for the rattle of the strongbox in the back and the occasional snort of Dhani's horse behind them. The shadows stretched long across the trail, and Arthur's jaw tightened with every jolt in the wagon.

Out of a sudden, a tree falls in front of the wagon, blocking the path. There stood a lone O'Drisscoll with a gun in his hand.

"Shit, now we're being robbed! Get across the river!" Arthur yelled.

But then-

BOOM

The coach they get on explodes soon they want to go to the side. The dynamite placed by O'Drisscoll exploded next to them making the coach overturned into the river. Micah and Arthur are thrown into the river while Dhani's horse bucks her off to the ground and runs away, making Dhani fall to the ground hard.

Micah stood up and took cover behind the stone, hands pointing his gun towards the upcoming O'Driscolls. "What the hell? Come on, Morgans. Get out of there! You dumb bastards! You guys okay?"

Arthur groaned in pain as he began to move behind the stone. His clothes and skins wet with river water not to mention the bruises he got. Dhani took cover behind the banking coach - already shooting several O'Driscolls.

"I think so, just keep your head down." Arthur fired his revolver.

"Let's finish 'em. Here come more of them!" Micah yelled soon he saw a wagon full with O'Driscolls and the horses they were riding. Everyone covered their faces with some sort of cloth.

"Look out, Morgans. Wagon coming down the track. Let's get across!" Micah instructed as he pushed forward with guns firing towards them quickly.

Arthur and Dhani pushed forward. Aiming their guns and shooting at the O'Driscolls, some of them headshots. Moments later, some of the surviving O'Driscolls began to flee.

'Look at the cowards! They're running away! That'll show 'em! That should do it!" Micah laughed in victory.

Arthur stood up, hsi heart beating after a series of shooting that he experienced. Dhani put down her rifle. Her hands were shaking but she ignored it due to the adrenaline that was still there.

Arthur re-holsters his revolver. "Come on. Let's see if all this was worth it."

Micah walked towards the banking coach. "All I see is you, the lady, me, a river full of dead O'Driscolls and a lockbox."

"why is it every job I do with you ends in a pile of dead bodies" Arthur grumbled as he tails Micah from behind.

Dhani is already behind the overturned banking coach. She kneeled, looking at the still intact lockbox behind the coach.

"Since when did you have a problem killing O'Driscolls?" Micah taunted.

"you've got a point" Arthur muttered.

"let's strip this coach then. It clearly ain't going nowhere now" Micah said. "shoot the lock, Miss Morgan"

Dhani took out her own revolver and stood up - taking a little stepped back and aimed her revolver towards the lock on the coach.

BANG

The lock is broken.

"that should do it" Micah nodded with satisfaction then walked towards the lockbox and opened it.

There, Arthur saw another box. Micah motioned for Arthur to help him take the box to another place. Dhani holsters her revolver.

Both Arthur and Micah carried the box ashore. Micah took out his revolver and slammed a few times on the lock of the box then the box opened.

There, they saw a thousand piles of money in a box. Micah laughed with satisfaction, Arthur whistled while Dhani made an amazed face.

"Look at that. What's the cut here?" Micah asked as he saw Arthur kneeled and started dividing the money.

Half to Micah, Half to Dhani and Half to himself.

"Just make sure the gang gets its piece." Arthur said firmly.

Micah snickered. "Yeah, yeah. Like I said... big shadow, tiny tree."

Dhani glared at him. "just shut up, Micah. Keep pokin' him, and you'll be spittin' blood"

Micah raised his hand as if surrendered. "Always got that sharp tongue, huh? Gotta be exhausting bein' angry all the damn time. Maybe you just need a drink... or someone to keep you warm." Micah teased.

This disguised Dhani. Arthur stepped in front of Dhani, protectively.

Arthur sharpened his eyes at Micah. His voice is low. "like I said... that still don't mean nothing. Now, get out of here. Go see Dutch... but make sure you ain't followed." Arthur warned.

Micah mounted his horse. "I know, boss. I know. It's been fun!" he said for the last time before he takes his leave, leaving the twins there.

Dhani stared where Micah went. "He's going to burn us from the inside out." she muttered.

Arthur nodded once. "I know."

"Then why the hell did we just save him?"

Arthur didn't have an answer. Only the sound of hooves and the rising wind.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Camp was unusually quiet when the trio returned, the rising dust from the hooves of their horses stirring people out of their midday stupor. Dutch stood from his chair, cigar smoldering between his fingers as he strode forward with that wide, theatrical grin.

"Well, look who came crawling back from the edge of hell!" Dutch spread his arms like a preacher welcoming home a prodigal son. "Micah Bell, as wild and free as ever."

Micah swung off his horse like he owned the ground he landed on. "Good to be back, Dutch."

Dutch clapped him on the shoulder. "You did good. I always knew you'd find a way out."

Arthur dismounted in silence, face tight, jaw clenched. Dhani came down next, slower, her eyes trailing Dutch's hand on Micah's shoulder like she wanted to rip it off.

Dutch turned to Arthur, his grin still wide. "And you. My boy. I knew I could count on you. Even if you had your doubts."

Arthur grunted. "I still got 'em."

Dhani added sharply, "Don't forget who risked the most just to bring him back."

Dutch waved her off like a buzzing fly. "All part of the plan, sweetheart. All part of the plan."

Majority of the gang looked at Micah as if he was a parasite (which he is). Charles gave a nod, nothing more. Hosea, from across the fire, only frowned. You, who had been sorting books near the supply wagon with Jack earlier, stood up slowly, sensing the tension as soon as you spotted Arthur's expression and Dhani's tone of voice.

You then excused yourself from Jack which Jack just nodded. You walked slowly towards Arthur. Dhani was already walking towards her tent. Lately, after Strawberry, Dhani's mood seemed to be not good. Which was a bit worrying to you because you slept in the same tent and you observed her. Almost every night she would have nightmares that ended up you and her having a quiet conversation with tea every night just to ease her racing heart.

Arthur stood by the edge of the clearing, hat low over his brow.

You approached slowly, your voice soft. "That bad, huh?"

Arthur gave a tight shrug. "Bad enough."

You glanced towards where Micah was holding court. "Dutch looked... smug."

Arthur snorted. "Like a damn fox with blood on its muzzle."

You didn't press. You just stood beside him for a moment, watching the firelight flicker.

Then you asked gently, "Is this what Hosea meant? About Dutch not listening anymore?"

Arthur's silence was all the answer you needed.

You nodded. "i should see what Luna needs. We'll talk more later, okay Arthur?"

Arthur stared at you before he nodded. "sure... sure" he muttered.

You patted his arm before excuses yourself to go to the horses hitching post where Luna was munching on hay. Your face turned scowling.

"look at you,lady. Always eating." you scolded but then you picked up the brush to brush her silver body.

Luna nickered but kept on munching her food. Hands caressed her body softly, you hummed while brushing her coat.

Your childhood song was hummed by you. Your eyes focused on Luna's body.

Meanwhile, Micah's eyes casually scan the camp - and for the briefest moment, land on you.

Now this is quite new. Another new member he didn't know. Micah smirked as he walked towards you. Boots crunching on dirt.

"Well now... you're a face I ain't seen before." Micah said smoothly - hands tucked into his gun belt. Face grinned.

You don't flinch. You brushed Luna's mane before glancing at him.

"I could say the same. You're Micah Bell, I presume?" you muttered flatly.

Micah raised an eyebrow. Clearly he doesn't expect you to know his name. He chuckled. "And here I thought I was famous only in the right circles."

"Your reputation arrived before you did." You responded coldly.

Micah gives a low chuckle. "and you are?"

You looked at his face with emotionless eyes. "Y/n Holmes" you muttered, clearly you want him to stay away from you.

A pause. Micah's eyes narrowed just slightly. "Holmes, huh?" he chuckled. "Don't reckon we've crossed paths before," he added, voice coiled with suspicion and that usual sneer he wore like a second skin.

"I've never been here before last year," you responded calmly, your hand brushing along Luna's neck, the horse nuzzling gently under your fingers.

Micah hummed, his eyes falling to your hands, noting how delicate they looked compared to the grime under his own fingernails.

"Where are you from then?"

"London," you said, simple and unbothered, though you caught the twitch in his brow. His focus sharpened immediately.

Micah gave a long, low whistle. "London." He snorted, stepping a half-step closer with an amused scoff.

"Well, ain't that somethin'. A proper lady from across the pond, out here roughin' it with us dirty, no-good outlaws."

You raised a brow but said nothing, letting him talk.

"Let me guess..." Micah continued, smirk growing, "You used to sip tea at noon sharp, didn't ya? Pinky up, silver tray, all that pomp. Probably wore them fancy gloves too - tellin' folks how cold the weather was but never touched dirt in your life till now."

You didn't react, still running your hand along Luna's mane, calm as still water. That only seemed to goad him further.

"'Scuse me, m'lady," he mocked with an exaggerated bow and the worst fake British accent you'd ever heard. "Mind if I borrow your monocle and ask what in God's name you're doin' ridin' with us savages?"

You glanced at him finally, one brow arched, unimpressed.

He grinned widely. "Just sayin'. London's a long way from here. Ain't no palace or marble steps out here in the mud. You don't exactly... fit the look, if you get me."

Still, you said nothing.

Micah tilted his head. "What's the matter? Lost your tongue along with your title?" He chuckled low under his breath. "Bet you used to have folks stand when you walked in a room. Now you're sharin' campfires with men who've stabbed each other over stew."

"Maybe I've learned something you haven't," you said evenly.

Micah blinked, and the grin faltered just slightly.

"That the world's full of rats wearing gold rings," you continued. "And I'd rather stand in the mud with outlaws who speak the truth than in parlors with men who lie behind lace curtains."

Micah's mouth curved again, this time slower. His eyes narrowed.

"Well now..." he muttered. "Didn't expect teeth."

You gave him a tight smile. "Then you really don't know much about Londoners."

Micah chuckled again but didn't press further, retreating with a slight nod. "Gonna be fun watchin' you try to keep your boots clean 'round here, London."

Micah turned with a mocking grin and sauntered off, clearly satisfied with himself - or at least thinking he'd gotten under your skin. But before you could return to brushing Luna, you felt it.

A shift in the water.

You glanced up, and there he was - Arthur, standing just a few feet away near a hitching post, arms crossed, gaze sharp under the brim of his hat. He'd been there a moment, you realized - long enough to hear enough.

He stepped closer, boots crunching softly on the dry grass.

"Don't pay him no mind," Arthur muttered gruffly, his eyes following Micah's retreating back like a hawk tracking a fox. "He talks like that 'cause he ain't got nothin' else worth listenin' to."

You smirked faintly. "I gathered as much."

Arthur glanced back at you, eyes softening just slightly. "Still. Man's got a real talent for runnin' his mouth where it ain't wanted."

"He wanted a reaction," you said, calm and composed, brushing Luna's mane again. "Which is why I gave him something he didn't expect - silence."

Arthur gave a quiet grunt of approval, then looked away towards the treeline. His voice dropped just a bit, quieter. "You handled him better than most of us do. Hell, better than me sometimes."

You tilted your head. "Have you two always been like that?"

Arthur didn't answer at first. He reached into his satchel and lit a cigarette with a flick of his match, the flame catching against the morning light.

"I don't trust him," Arthur said finally. "Never have. Dutch does, for now. But Micah... he ain't the kind that stands with folks. He stands behind 'em - just far enough to stick a knife in when it suits him."

You looked up at him. "You think I should stay away?"

Arthur exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it drift upwards. "I think you already know how to take care of yourself," he said quietly. "But I'm sayin'... if he ever crosses a line, I'll know about it."

You stared at him, the weight of his words not lost on you. There was steel in Arthur's voice - not anger, but something more solid. A warning. A promise.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely.

Arthur gave a small nod, then looked back towards Luna. "Spoiled little thing, ain't she? Kieran's been treatin' her like royalty."

You laughed under your breath. "She's taken to him. Might as well call her Kieran's horse now."

Arthur gave a rare chuckle. "Well, if she gets too soft, I can introduce her to my horse. See how she likes the workin' life."

A quiet moment passed between you, easy and steady. Then Arthur tipped his hat and started to walk off.

"Oh," he added over his shoulder, "if Micah bothers you again, you come find me."

You smiled. "I will."

And with that, he was gone - his long stride disappearing between the wagons, leaving behind the warmth of quiet loyalty and the faint scent of tobacco.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Sorry if it's short. I'm busy playing Detroit Become Human these past few days😞

- Dhani

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weird-dere-writes · 2 months ago

Note

OMEGAVERSE MYDIRA?!?!?!?! HELLOOOOOOO tell me more about that please. i love a modern au too this sounds amazing already

Post that inspired this ask~

Okay so when you first sent this ask a few days ago, I really had no lore whatsoever for it. Was just imagining modern au alpha Mydei n omega Sadira gettin' freaky ngl LMAO.

BUT, since that day I have been thinking and building and plotting >:3. So thank you for inspiring this!! 💋💋💋

This is still not a completely put together thing, but just me stringing together some ideas uwu <33333. Prepare for SO MUCH YAPPING. Some a/b/o related, some world building for the modern au part lol.

Warnings: mentions of death (mydei parental lore) and death in childbirth (sadira parental lore)

**Note: scent matrix = The base/bulk of one's scent. The undertones that are always there. Though scent matrices can fall into similar categories, everyone's is unique.

So first, let's talk about Mydei.

Secondary sex: Alpha (Α)

Scent matrix: the hearth - a broad range of warm and earthy scents including wood smoke, vanilla bean, stone, and evergreen trees

Secondary notes: pomegranate, honey, and bready scents

Interesting fact: In general, Mydei's scent tends to be very muted. But there's this weird thing about it, where once you get to know him it behaves differently. But like strictly with people he is familiar. (i.e. if you are a friend of his in a crowd of strangers, others will not pay much attention to his scent, but you alone will be able to notice this interesting quality amongst them.) For the people close to him, his scent doesn't become super strong/overbearing or anything, but moreso very permeating to the senses. Like you will smell him coming from a good ways away. But not in a way where the scent is so strong you know it's him from whatever distance away. It's almost like a second sight, where even if he's coming from behind, his scent meanders it's way to you in the air, slowly becoming more and more potent as he gets closer. Like you can almost tell just how close he's getting and how fast he's moving via his scent alone. You can tell if he starts taking a different direction or if he stops, etc.

Y'know that art of biker Mydei? Yeah, that's him in this AU.

He is the son of a rich CEO/chef (his father, Eurypon) that runs a chain of fine dining establishments. His mother, Gorgo, was simply a gardener that loved food. She grew fruits, veggies, herbs, you name it, and did a little down to earth catering on the side. She often challenged her husband in his views on food and cooking etc. It was something healthy and beautiful that Mydei saw when he was very young, that sprouted his love and interest for food.

When Mydei was a kid, his mother died of a sudden illness. That death changed his father for the worst. It ended up with Mydei being pigeonholed by his father into following in his footsteps in the restaurant industry. Eurypon would lose the whimsy, the warmth, and the experimentation in his relationship with cooking that ultimately made his stewarding of Mydei both ruthless and soulless. The classic tale of "you will succeed me and take over this business I've built, but simultaneously, everything you do or try, despite your talents and creativity, will never be good enough because it is not my cooking or to my standard."

Mydei does genuinely have a fondness and a gift for the cullinary arts, but as you can imagine, this years long contention between him and his dad makes him rather jaded to the "upper echelons" of cooking and all it entails. He craves something less formal, with more personality, that is just fun and delicious. So to seek that out for himself, he tries to distance himself from his father and that sphere of cooking as much as possible. Basically ghosts the restaurant location he works at, ditches his next formal evaluation with his father, cuts off all contact, and moves to another city with nothing but the fund his mom left him and his bike.

One of his father's restaurant locations does still happen to be in this city he moved to, unfortunately, but it is on the far opposite end from where he will be looking at staying. So he's not super worried about it.

He ends up choosing a luxury apartment building that has a few vacancies on the 10th floor. He had hoped to get the room right next to the elevator with a stunning view, but it was taken by another soon-to-be tenant an hour or so before he got there. So he would end up with one of the rooms all the way down the hall with a very comparably beautiful view.

Over the next few months he settles into his new home, gathering furnishings, figuring out places to do his shopping in the city, places to visit etc. He did go looking for jobs in the industry that would challenge him, but despite his skills and experience he finds nowhere will accept him. Even places that said they would be moving him forward in the process of employment. They suddenly have a change of heart. He has a feeling his father had probably gotten him blacklisted for the stunt he's pulled. But he keeps looking.

In the mean time, he kinda just exists. Some stuff that just starts as little things to do become hobbies, and those hobbies in turn kinda become lucrative for him in the end. To where he doesn't really need an employer anymore.

He starts a blog writing about food trucks he visits in the city. He talks about their food, their menu concepts, quality of the trucks themselves and their cooking setups, and recommends improvements in different areas regarding it all. It kinda stirs up a buzz in the city with that particular market, and people really come to value his opinion.

He also starts making little videos on what started as a throwaway account of him just cooking stuff. He never shows his face. Always has on the same (1) getup (2) for his videos. Just makes stuff and ends the video. He quickly finds though, that these videos get traction too. Separate from the attention he gets on his blog, as he does not insinuate any connection between the two online (as of yet). Gets him sponsors n such that help him fund his cost of living fr. He does desire to keep what's left of his mother's fund for him for something more meaningful, after all.

He often wonders if the person that managed to get the apartment he originally wanted had a similar hobby but was more inclined to do baking? He swore every time he passed by their door it smelled like apple pie.

Anyways about his BIKE. That thang is his BABY. A passion project outside of his time cooking that he put his heart and soul into modifying himself. It is his only means of transportation and he monitors it with the same precision he uses in cooking fr. He will be able to tell if the slightest thing is off about it or needs attention and will act accordingly.

He always parks in the same spot in the apartment garage, between a wall near the elevator and a dark gray minivan that, similarly, always parks in the same spot. When it's not there, he lowkey feels like a layer of protection is gone. He always hopes for it to return soon if it isn't there when he returns from somewhere.

Also also, despite all the cooking he does, he mostly eats out/keeps his fridge empty 🧍🏾‍♀️. The nature of his bike makes it so he can only really shop for a few days at a time at most, and he isn't a big fan of having groceries delivered to him. Wants to use his eyes to get the best quality of stuff he can, minimize the possibility of mistakes or nasty mishaps in transit on the part of the person delivering and all that.

Now for Sadira:

Secondary sex: Omega (Ω)

Scent matrix: seasonings - a broad range of herbs and spices including cinnamon, lavender, pepper, and mint

Secondary notes: apple, rose, and parchment

Interesting fact: Sadira never leaves her abode without a scent blocking band around her neck. Even if it is for but a few minutes to go downstairs and get her mail. Sometimes she even wears it in her own home when she has company over. For events where she needs to dress up a little more, she wears one with a little pearl on it. Really, she likes to keep it simple. Why she does this, you ask? A few reasons. One: she is just an omega girl in a scary world. Two: lowers chances of discrimination if people have to guess what her secondary sex is. The third and most substantial reason, is that it has always seemed people find her scent... offensive. People have crinkled their noses, glared at her, straight up asked her to leave certain areas, or even had genuine like pseudoallergic reactions to her scent before. It's not that the scent itself is bad, but that it's so complex and can often be a little much for others to process. It registers to them as this muddled amalgam of notes that clouds their senses in a rather unpleasant way. Very few people know what she smells like these days. No one in this new city she's moving to will know. It does makes her a little sad that such a major part of her existence as an omega is her biggest insecurity, but c'est la vie...

Sadira comes from a long line of titans of the book industry. Authors, publishers, editors, booksellers, researchers, etc. Her dad is one such publisher, with connections and reach far and wide. That being such, he is going everywhere, all the time, all across the country. He does reach out every once in a while, but ultimately remains rather distant. It's been that way since the death of her mother, who lost her life in childbirth when Sadira was younger. Her mother, Maelani, was a beloved children's storybook author/artist before she passed. Touched the hearts of many and taught many children valuable things through her works.

It has always inspired Sadira, but she doesn't know if that is what she's meant to do. She doesn't really know what she is meant to do. She does want to stay in the same field her parents have for generations, but wants to do something new, something special, something of her own. So she's moved from her home in which her father no longer resides and into this new city to explore herself. She'd managed to snag a position consulting different public libraries in the area before moving, so she was pretty set for income once she'd arrived.

This was a big city, and it was more convenient for her job that she don't live on the outskirts in a neighborhood somewhere. That, and a house is a rather big commitment for her to just be finding her bearings. So she figured a luxury apartment was the closest thing she could get that would fit for what she needed it for. She was able to find a nice building surrounded by some useful places with some open spots on it's 10th floor. Lucky her, her apartment was right by the elevator. Oh the sweet relief of being able to slip inside her abode as soon as she put the world behind her with the close of the elevator doors. She imagined that'd be so lovely after a long day. Could rip off her scent blocking band as soon as possible and just vibe.

She'd managed to claim a pretty good spot near the elevator for the garage too, thank goodness. Would be a little spooky to have to walk around that place at night. Though she supposed if she didn't have this spot and was a little too scared to leave her car, she could just put the seats down and sleep there. She's got spare pillows and blankets in there and everything stashed away. How, you ask? Or why? Well, her choice of vehicle happens to be a dark dray minivan with stowaway seats. People always asked why she would choose such a thing if she doesn't have kids or a big family to drive around. And the simple answer is that it's practical. Could carry a lot of people, could carry a lot of groceries, could transport large things like furniture, tools, tvs. It just made sense. And it definitely came in handy with her move. She found with her new job, she was transporting a lot of stuff for the libraries too, so life was made easy peasy with her ride!!

Though, the longer she lives there, she does wonder what it must feel like to kind of do the complete opposite? To simply want to carry yourself and not worry about extra factors? To truly feel the speed of what you ride in a different way? The clearly well cared for motorcycle always parked next to her, that always smelled faintly of pomegranate, made her wonder... She had never managed to see its rider.

Anyways, the longer she was in the city, the more she began to see a path that she found interesting that she could focus on in her work. She found that integrating more spheres of online niches in with physical libraries might be an interesting venture! Something that would maybe bring more people into libraries. Possibly in the future she could arrange events inviting different writers and creators with an online presence to these places?

One of the blogs she had been enjoying visiting often lately, was this one where someone provided commentary on their experiences with food trucks in the city. And it's CRAZY but lowkey silly because it feels like somehow this person is always reading her mind. She swears every time she goes to read a new entry about a different food truck, it JUST so happens to be one that's selling food she was craving recently. So obviously, she has to make a visit to them herself, and compare her experiences and thoughts to what she read from the blogger once she eats.

HEHE and I have even more ideas, but I do believe I will have to be saving them for future posts 🤭. To expand them more and connect them to these thoughts mmm. Besides, this post is plenty long enough LMAO. But I hope you enjoyed reading, lovely!! 🥰

#mydira #pastelle rabbit 🌸#twy inbox 💌

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